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Shadows - Beginnings

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One month ago…

The boundaries of Port Escar had been staked along the natural divides of the countryside. But the human inhabitants saw no need to follow such a restrictive course, overflowing the banks in impulsive surges to the north and west, rising here, retreating there, until the cartographic landscape was obliterated under their feet and cobbled housing.

Pier 17 had the distinction of isolation. It also possessed the distinction of being on one of those many shoals at the high-water mark on the periphery of Port Escar; a point so far into the margins of the map that its official existence had long been blurred into a collective amnesia. 

While forgotten by the assayers and town Council, this distinction was not lost to others; particularly, those who wished to share in its tenuous position in the minds of Escar.

To Garin, who’d spent the last 6 months at sea, at close quarters with 30 others, fused into an unlikely organism of wood, flesh, and blood, Pier 17 was a chance at some peace and quiet.  As he had for the last several days, Garin lay on the far end of 17 at early morning, his arm draped over its edge, lost in thought and entirely alone.

Old Grey, as Master Jarif used to call it, was a ravenous thing; so deep and unquenchable was its hunger that it swallowed without care and lapped at the shores as with an eye to future meals.  For those things that lived within it, Old Grey suffered their existence with the benevolence and indifference of a jailor, secure in the knowledge that there was no chance at parole. As for the rest, the sea held them all, jumbled memories in its depths.  After having witnessed the silty runoff from the monsoonal rains, watched the land drain its life in wide rivers to the sea, Garin became certain that Old Grey’s appetite was far greater than anyone imagined; everything found its way to it in time, no matter how far distant or well-concealed.

And to the whispers of the sea, the murmurs of far-off provinces, Garin listened… and dreamed.

Three weeks ago…

It wasn’t until a week after he’d left the Tristan that he actually tasted his first breath of freedom; when the realization that his severance from the trader had finally sunk in.  Half drunk with this knowledge, he turned his back on Farin’s Hollar and kept walking to the north and west until he could no longer smell the sea.  By the western market quarter, the air had traded a briny tang for the uncertain mix of wares and waste. The main thoroughfares were wider and better stoned, but the air was held dank and still by the press of buildings that crowded the market edges like wolves.  Merchants and buyers haunted the squares, slightly stooped by the lingering shadow and Garin passed among them as if unseen.  It was well into the day before he passed into the foothills of Port Escar that lay in the northern outskirts, the smaller buildings gently rolling hummocks compared to the jagged passes of the previous quarter.  The warmth of the summer sun crossed Garin’s face and he lifted his chin with a smile of relief, for his own head had fallen into a similar contemplation of his footsteps. 

It wasn’t for another hour that he realized that he had been unconsciously heading in the direction of a small tower, the lone distinguishable landmark visible above the roofs of the houses.  A sudden curiosity compelled him to get a better look, sending him down side streets and connecting alleys, their meanderings constantly stealing the spire from his view.  Finally, he passed into a small courtyard, the buildings parting to the north enough for him to get a better view.   The tower was joined by another, lower structure and the ruins of a third. An unknown standard fluttered on its rampart, caught in the faltering onshore breeze of late afternoon.  The formation held no outward grandeur visible at this distance at least, but still captured Garin’s attention with disproportionate fascination.  The dreams from the Illian tugged at him, adding an air of familiarity to the scene. Still, it was not the same one that he had seen in the weeks prior to his rescue.  With a deep breath, he shook the lingering thoughts from his head and took a good look at his more immediate surroundings.  He had left the commercial and warehouse district behind him, somehow finding his way into the residential section that huddled at its hem.  The arms of the courtyard were a nearly continuous stretch of two-story buildings, broken by several narrow alleys like the one through which he had entered.  At the southern leg stood a wide door, a shingle beside it announcing the availability of rooms for rent. Garin, whose remembered life thus far had seemed to pivot on chance, took this as a sign.  As it turned out, visitors were thin this time of year and he had his pick of the boarding house.  Settling into his room, Garin opened the northward-facing window and stood for a long moment regarding the tower.

16 days ago…

Garin gasped for breath, eyes wide in the darkness. A weight pressed against his chest, briefly holding him beneath the surface of sleep.  His mind grasped at the fleeting images, hands clenched damp bedsheets. But his consciousness had grown porous; soaking thought back into itself, water splashed across sand. The residue of memory hung about him like a shroud, damp and suffocating, clinging to his skin, filling his nostrils.   The air was thick with it as he woke, a vaporous patina painting objects with secret meaning.  His hand found the wall beside his bed, skin seeking the welcome coolness of the surface. Tracing the rough veins of the plaster he found a route back, his eyes slowly resolving his room in the thin light. A distant roll of thunder muttered in the distance. A shudder of wind rattled the window.  He swung his legs over the side of the cot, leaden weights anchoring into the darkness beneath it. The heat of his body drained through the soles of his feet, drawing him even further back into consciousness, steadying him. 

Through the window, the immediate section of Barrotown was quiet. The lights still burned in the upper stories of the Hobbled Horse, though muted in the faint mist. The tinny sounds of the kayli were the first to reach his ears as he swung the window open to the night air, a breath of wind bringing the tumbled flotsam of revelry with it next.

His thoughts were caught on the edge of the wind, buoyed for a moment, and scattered like Fall leaves, brittle and wrung of life. Caught for a moment, eddying in shadow, the music swelled in his ears; the wind whispered words, the leaves echoed the brush of fabric. A woman’s hand lay clasped in his as the world wheeled about, each caught in the other’s mutual orbit. A smile lay in the brush of fingers, though his eyes could not find hers.  He felt his heart race in that instant, desperately clinging to the memory. But as he drew it tighter it slipped still further away, unraveling in his grasp. Awareness slowly stitched itself together, bringing both breath and discomfort – he glanced with some distraction at the hands on the window’s ledge, clenched tight, white like bone in the wan light.

7 days ago…

Mahster Garin.” 

His name rang suddenly in his ears, punctuated with a sharp thwap to his ribs.

“Barnon is the capital of Ithion!” 

The words jumped from Garin’s mouth, scared out like a small rodent. Garin shook his head, blinking furiously in the dusty dimness of the room.  Places and features scurried just out of the reaches of his sight, tantalizing in their indistinctness.

A few of these broke from their game and resolved in the pool of light that now isolated Garin in the semi-darkness – first an eye, then another; finally, a warm smile lost in a wild, almost foamy sea of beard as all the parts agreed together to join into a familiar face:  Master Vesha-Keth.

A congenial laugh brought Garin back to the present

“Ah, good. I see you’ve finally mastered that singularly difficult peace of lore…” 

Garin leaned back in his chair, combing his fingers through his hair. 

“Thaht I huhv…” 

Garin grinned, accentuating the “seaman’s taint” that Master Vesh’ despised so much. This had been a good-natured point of contention between the two since his informal apprenticeship began almost a week prior. And now, as had each time in the past, Master Vesh’ responded with another thwap to his ribs.

“Did you say something?”

“That I have….” 

Garin replied, bringing his hand down to shield his ribs.

“Good.”  

Vesh’ smiled, satisfied that he once again had the upper hand. 

“Now…” 

His features smoothed as he once again became Master Vesha-Keth, clearly separating teacher and pupil.

“…instruction is over for the moment,” he continued, closing the book at Garin’s hand with the edge of his cane.

 “I have an important task for you to perform,”  his voice was cool and level. 

Garin knew from experience not to interrupt while Master Vesh’ was speaking and waited for the explanation. A worn hand extended for an equally threadbare robe, delivering a sealed envelope to the table’s surface. Garin glanced quickly between it and his Master’s eyes, looking for an explanation, though none was revealed.

Master Vesh’s hand retreated, leaving the envelope in isolation, offering no further word.

“I need this delivered to Thaygin.”

From what Garin had gleaned from the old monk’s few candid words over the past week, he knew that such a request did not come lightly nor without significant risk. His Order had existed for generations, sparse, tenacious, clinging to existence on the peripheries of the world.  This is what had initially inspired Garin to stay at the ruined monastery – the fierceness with which they held onto life, the steadfastness in their purpose, was identical to his own – they wished to bring that which has been forgotten to light again and so did he.

Master Vesh’ said little else, but Garin could sense from his growing unease that the contents of the letter held some grave significance.  He found soon enough that his Master had already begun preparations and by nightfall, he was on the road to Thaygin.