With the creak of oars and the sound of sails buffeting overhead, upon a dreary vessel; the lightest of sibilant huffs escapes a room. At a small desk, seated perfectly adjacent the door, a figure cladden in blackened armor lifts a quill – pausing, gazing over it for the smallest moment; eyeing each inch of damask gilding with a pensive eye. Pursed lips regard a single maker’s mark, parting to mouth a name to that hammer-bearing kobold emboss. Her fingers stroke the gull-quill a time, gazing back sharp at the sound of a knock – her green eyes focusing, only to hear the words “We’re delayed out of port, ma’am. Storm’s up ahead, so we’re routing around the North”
The burly man simply awaited acknowledgement. His arms folded, but his countenance and composure clear. It was obvious he was no manner of attendant as much as a laborer, dressed in the garb of Calimshan – expected, since the particular passenger would ‘never’ have settled for a localized vessel; and certainly didn’t mind the creak of this barely-passable hole-in-the-wall on a cargo vessel. With fingers – no, claws - rapping at the desk before her, and the candle-light flickering in the vessel’s steady wake as it churns; she focused. Her occupied hand soon dropped the quilltip for an inkpot without breaking attention, as she spoke simply; in a thick, Illuskan accent, shaped by an ‘exotic’ grate. “Whate’er works – ‘slong as I’m not so much as a ‘week’ late getting ‘in’ to port, nobody stops us, and y’don’t have to make any stops alongsst th’Coast near Icewind.” Utterly specific, but equally serious. Her brows sat furrowed upon emerald eyes with narrow lids – no, not just that; but pupils as well - like a serpent against the dark of the room. Clearly, a nighttime sail, it was. The man doesn’t do much more than a gruff grunt in reply, shoving off his wrapped-and-booted feet; stopping only at her continued words “-and I believe it goes without ssaying that with ‘this’ vessel’s reputation, those sortss of risks with customs are ‘jusst’~ as bad for you.” -only to grimace and bring the door to behind. With a muffled shout in his native tongue to the crewfolk, the vessel rocked firm and rapid; before settling again – and so as it settled, did that quill to the top of a parchment, beginning in a slow scrawl. Steady, it was, in some sketchy form of the commonscript or the next…
~~~~Log 01 ~ The Long Sail~~~~
A bit smudged, these pages. Likely from travel - but perhaps deliberate.
18, Tarsakh; AR 1__
It’s been about three hours out of port, and the evening has given to midnight. We’re departing under a clouded sky, so there shouldn’t be much sight drawn to this vessel at all; since - its crew aside - the nature of it is rather bland. Maiden’s blessings for that, as I don’t believe I desire The Avora tailing our sails, with an ill-armed crew.
I’m still not sure when I’ll return, entirely. I’m briefed to expect no more than a year – and most likely a month, but I know better; and I’m leaning quite toward the skeptics’ estimations: Far longer.
Though perhaps this is presumptuous of me - to find doubt, and even the likelihood of perishing instead, in the face of the most solemn promises they could give on 'preparedness'. Vows from the Mother’s Holy Land, no less; made in good faith for how fortified Luthcheq is. After all - naught is it graced by Saint Tchzaar’s presence as some temporary nesting to gather shedding scales - and certainly, not so, having held his rulership supreme so long. She is a fortress worthy of her mortal vassals.
'Worthy' of it, though; hardly 'ready' in full - and this insurrection proves it. Her will has proven, and shall continue to prove, not to coexist with imperfection; and all it takes is one gap or crack left unchecked. There were multiple - assuming I believe what I’m told; some unnoticed cell of the Harpers or band of terrorists from over the border saw supplies over to an opposing City of the Greater Dominion - and not everyone has chosen the right side within either. Such a gross breach of security, and negligence, is exactly the reason the First Age of Dragons collapsed.
Though given their desire to cull this revolt like swatting a distracting fly, I assume the real worry is Damara – the war effort with those sniveling excuses for northerners. Disgraces – every one, a glorified vassal to that Silver maltworm; and why one didn’t expect war ‘sooner’ between these nations than the time an ambassador took to dissapear, simply put, eludes me – almost as much as those that see it not for the blessing it is. It’s their very ‘lack’ of a preemptive war-plan with them that let such civil uproar pass under their noses until it was dangerous.
Perhaps I rant, however. The Dark Scales of the region have reported a navy of no less than six command vessels and battalions of none shy than twenty legions massing under the Banner of Tchzaar, with personal command of three of those extended to me - alongside any support I have in tow; and with the war-hardened culture of the area, I can both hold no higher confidence and no higher honor against a few rag-tag armed peasants – surely any Bahamuti scum as well, if they show. I don’t believe they would, however; a land press would be detected from miles off, sailing to the nearest ocean port would be a laughable concept – even I’ll be needing to take a rather high profile caravan in, and assault from The Inner Sea would surely be suicide.
Yet, I remain skeptical.
We’ve a large force for defense alone, of faithful and ignorant alike – but with even the threat of a two front attack, it had ought to be. If I’ve my way, and the Mother’s Vengeance would be sated with it, I’d say we took the initiative and ‘got rid’ of the problem; but perhaps patience is best, for now.
Perhaps – but only if she may grant her child of blood and of prayer forbearance; even enough for this journey. Nine be certain I don’t have it: there’s two weeks, five days and fourteen hours expected to Innarlith – and that’s being optimistic. With this bloody storm…
The writing simply stops, a bit of ink pools – and nothing…
