Swift midnight call out the fog be coming
Take heed of the tunes behind words
Veiled are the Old Realms creature’s songs,
Locked rudder’s chains ‘n unfurled sails, sinister dark outlines…
Ever crackling
Oh, ye children of the brines
Unseen are black Oras signs
Est Ravn preached, ‘em stay the course,
Which Van Oord elected not to endorse
Aest wit De Weer dreamed of distant shores
Beyond Calith’s or Cazan’s vile death’s confines
Calcar kept on until his wife’s limbs turned to mud,
frozen solid
ships wit old rottin’ beams ‘n hanging masts’ lines,
sprouting stone walls ‘n citadels, wher’ gory gold still shines,
far and away from the land of emerald pines…
Malice skulking
Oh, ye children of the brines
Unseen are black Oras signs
Swift midnight call out the fog be coming
Take heed of the tunes behind words
Veiled are the Old Realms creature’s songs,
Inside grief’s ‘n pleasure’s elaborate designs…
Be lurking
Oh, ye children of the brines
Unseen are black Oras signs
-
Midnight Call (also known as Children of the brines)
Famed traditional (Pre-Jelin) funeral song of the Issirs
Circa unknown (before the new calendar)
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Lord Ton Van Calcar
‘The Wolf-fish’
The Maiden’s Wedding
Part II
-Oh, ye children of the brines-
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[https://i.postimg.cc/MHm78Yhk/PARCOR-CITY-PLAN-v2.jpg]
There is that bloody creepy feeling again, Ton Van Calcar thought, twisting about nervously. Sam Gong the tailor paused and stared at him strictly, long curving needles in mouth, seam ripper in one hand, measuring tape in the other.
“It’s tight in the chest,” Ton grunted.
“Milord, it’s a blue tartan cashmere slim redingote as base. All the rage at the moment. Fine blue velvet for the fish at the front, the details on the elbows and lapels,” Gong explained again keeping his professional tone. An ascetic man, with extremely clean hands and a small trimmed mustache to go along with equally well-shaped elongated sideburns, Sam Gong had learned his craft in Asturia, afore returning to Pascor to make his living among the ‘uncultured’, with clients all over the Canlita Sea as far as Badum.
A rich living given what he’s paid for two weeks of work and three rolls of fabric, Ton thought sourly, who had no option but to employ the known tailor to replenish his and Aafke’s frugal wardrobe. The young noblewoman had just given birth to a healthy girl and needed all the help she could get to appear ‘presentable’. He’d named her Rena. His daughter. Eh… Ton thought with a grimace. Ye get whatever the tide carries ashore.
Luthos willing.
“They favor wool in Asturia this time of year?” Ton murmured, sweat gathered on his forehead and Aafke groaning in her room, the assistants trying to get her into a similar material slim dress. You don’t go for small sort when ye don’t have the hips for it, his father’s words talking about saddles, but fitting sort of.
“Not in the summer, but we have a chill on this side of the pond Milord,” Gong said, navigating the long needles in his mouth.
“Can’t feel it… the chill,” Ton grunted. “Only occasionally. What do ye think that means?”
“Wedding jitters milord,” Gong assured him. “Two people coming close together for the first time. Don’t worry about it.”
Ton’s stared him blankly for a moment, afore adding warningly. “It’s still too tight.”
“I’ll see to loosen it milord.”
“Anyway I can wear a bit of armor over it?”
“For the wedding milord?” Gong asked unsure if he was jesting.
Ton had never been more serious in his life.
That would be a hall full of people he didn’t trust to spit on.
“We’ll have the doors open,” Ton grunted, breathing with difficulty. “Whilst chilly, it’s the summer and the Fenlands are mostly dried up. You never know what might walk in through them doors.”
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The wagons kept bringing material from the old stone quarries. A hundred meter flat area had been created outside the side of the citadel facing the Fenlands and crushed stone was poured over it. The winter rains and rising waters would probably bring the mud close to the gates again in a couple of months, but Ton wanted the area around the citadel building to be presentable. A dour, ugly square building with sturdy thick walls, the three storied Grime Citadel had been built not a kilometer from the land bridge heading into Hag’s Fenlands, but with the passage of time the bogs had crept up closer to the old structure and its walls had collapsed on that side.
Pascor had grown away from it, the outer walls touching the citadel on the north side and ending at the elevated cliffs, the rest of its walls running parallel to Serene River starting at ten kilometers from the delta and as close as five hundred meters at the far north corner, before the river docks. A misshapen, or asymmetrical city according to the locals, Pascor’s center was sort of triangular with its best building being the Mayor’s estate and dungeon with its stone scaffolds decorating the approach.
There was a market in the gloomy inner city district and most of stores and businesses, but Pascor’s better houses were in the inner north quarter (noble district) and the large port (town-sized) district, about seven kilometers to the east, where the narrow bogs ended. A natural lake harbor, the Port District faced almost directly towards Wolffish Port town, located on the biggest of the tiny isles spreading out from the mud mired fenlands.
“This is ruinous,” the Baron of Woffish Isles Jos Hagel complained, also the ‘Lord of Clay’ and ‘Master of the Purse’ in a foul mood. He was talking to Sir Emil Blenk, his Shield’s adopted son. The boy’s mother a distant cousin that had perished due to bogs fever, a common illness plaguing this side of the lake.
You either learned to withstand the foul disease carrying insects feasting on yer blood, or ye didn’t.
Ton had lost plenty of his own family members to the fever.
A good number to the lake and its Hag.
Like his bigger brother.
Eh.
“What was that?” Ton asked and the Baron grimaced as he hadn’t seen him approaching.
It’s the new garbs perhaps, he thought.
“It would be better to use the material to repair the walls milord,” Hagel said quickly.
Ton stabbed his boot down to test the repaired ground. “See this Hagel?” he grunted. “No mud splashing up my fancy garbs! Which is what we want. What we don’t want are drunk lofty people stumbling in the dark and landing arse first, if they are lucky, in the plaguing mire!”
“It’s barely worth it for a hundred meters milord,” Hagel insisted thinking Ton was open to discuss the matter further. Which he wasn’t.
“It’s enough to avoid the worst Hagel! Witch’s tits, if someone wants to stroll about, then it’s on them and not me!”
“The path is partially repaired,” Emil noted. “Not that difficult to navigate.”
“My lad,” Ton said patiently. “There will be no sightseeing whatsoever. Them fools have no idea how to walk on paved road and you want to let them loose in the bogs?”
“The Wolffish isle is nice this time of year,” Emil insisted. Again thinking Ton was open to discuss the matter.
He wasn’t.
“See right there is where yer mistake is,” Ton counselled him. “Ye say that and you mean it is a good time to fish and then visit a tavern for some serious drinking, but these idiots understand it’s alike Valeria’s beaches, or Asturia’s, all fancy pebbles, imported sand from Aegium and public umbrellas with restrooms. It isn’t. No naked tits are sunbathing behind the bushes and if ye dip yer cock in them waters, you’ll lose it afore I snap my fingers.”
And he snapped them to make his point.
Hagel shivered at the thought, but young Sir Emil frowned and stared at the misty Fenlands longingly.
“I was thinking, after this is over to visit—”
“We don’t do that. Valeria is not for us,” Ton cut him off before he could finish.
“I was thinking more about Asturia,” Emil argued.
“We don’t do that either. They are crooks and yer father’s coin is whatever my sister gave him, bless his poor soul. In a sense,” Ton continued looking at him sternly. “It is my coin yer thinking to spend on them harlots.”
“I wasn’t—”
Ton stopped him raising his arm, his new clothes too tight still.
“Enough. You were caught, just take it like a man. Are the ships here?” He asked changing the subject.
“They arrived at the port. Your brother as well,” Emil reported.
“You get the guards ready. See we don’t have problems during the event,” Ton said.
“I’ll double the patrols at the slums.”
“Fuck the slums, nobody will go there,” Ton cut him off. “Keep them around the citadel, clean up the streets and somebody do something about the wilderness that is my fucking garden! We’re almost cut off from the city!”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“We have most of the crews paving your yard milord,” Hagel reminded him. “It will be ruinous to hire more.”
“Umm,” Lord Ton grunted irate and walked away stabbing his boots hard down to test the quality of the work.
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Dolf gave him the scroll while the crews brought the three very large and elongated wedding tables inside. Two long narrow benches fitted to each table for a total of six. The table in front of his throne inside his emptied out main hall was reserved for himself, Aafke and Pascor. The honored right side was for the Van Durren, then the Hoffs and their entourage. The Legatus, the Nords and the Lorian guests would take the other table, leaving the side near the double doors free for the servants to quickly come and go. Ton wanted the doors kept open, the white gravel covered yard illuminated for the guards remaining outside due to lack of space and to also allow ventilation for the old and windowless at its first floor main building of his Citadel.
The rented band he would place behind him on a newly constructed stand and they had moved his bronze throne further back for this. Four lutes, two Flutes, a baritone Lyre and a tambourine. The latter he had to pay as well since it was part of the band out of Asturia. Lord Ton had to finish with the wedding afore the last week of summer, since the band of musicians was fully booked in Asturia for the festival. Pascor like most Issir cities didn’t celebrate it, their much more sober ‘Anchorage Day’ coming much later each year in the fall and had usually no dances in it.
Usually because there’s always that occasional drunken fool that will find joy even in the gloomy tunes of ‘Midnight Call’, or a funeral.
Old witch’s swollen tits, Ton thought with a grimace reading at the scroll. You had to think that in yer wedding day? What the actual fuck? He admonished himself. Crunching his mouth at what he was reading, just as alarm bells rang in his city.
“Ah, that’s the fire alarm probably,” Ton murmured and glanced at Sir Roger Blenk’s squire bringing him another small scroll to read. “Mayor Sequer, the marines have been loaded to the ships. The fleet is at Wolffish Port.”
“We could have used them milord,” Vance Sequer, the sturdy Mayor of Pascor said. A wealthy man with absolutely no sense of humor.
“Hoff’s son brought five ships with him,” Ton explained. “The rest he kept beyond the turn at the Watchtower, so I have to keep the fleet on alert.”
“It’s the legion Lord Ton,” Blenk his Shield reported. “It spooked the guards at the gates.”
Thank god the hide market’s stands are safe!
“They are coming inside?”
“Good grief no, they are building a camp near the Fish Market. But they’ll probably send a lot of men here with the Legatus,” Blenk retorted and blinked in shock when a worker testing the benches toppled backwards and cracked his skull on the stone tiles. His brains splashing everywhere, the man dead within seconds.
Fuck’s sake! Ton thought nervously watching them carrying the diseased man out and then loading him on an open wagon to transport in the bogs via the planks-lined passage. Pascor had a graveyard, but it was costly to use and any waterhole in the Fenlands could do the same job in a couple of days’ tops.
Feed the fishes.
Keeps yer nets full, his late father used to say.
“We’ll clean it up milord,” the foreman assured him with a toothy smile and Ton nodded numbly. “Nothing a good ole scrubbing won’t fix.”
“Stefan Carus reports the First Foot is at Hoff’s Tower,” he finally said some time later, the crews washing the blood off the floor and a couple of carpenters brought in to repair the dangerous bench. The ruckus inside his hall brutal to his eardrums.
“Less than two weeks march,” Roger Blenk commented.
“Uhm,” Ton agreed. “Let’s hope the presence of the Legion will give them pause. They won’t fight us with them around hopefully. Then again, fuck I know? People are right stupid. Keep yer blade at the near Sir Blenk,” Lord Ton sighed deeply and glanced at the gloomy face of his old Shield. “No sign of Thea?”
A troubled Blenk shook his head negatively.
“There’s some hope still,” he said hoarsely and Ton nodded with a grimace. He wanted to say something more, but the Lord of Pascor had a ton of problems more important than his lost sister. He loved her, but in about half an hour some motherfuckers that sort of hated his guts will appear and he just couldn’t spare any energy on her.
For a clairvoyant, he thought soberly. Thea is blind as fuck to danger.
“She has a good soul,” Ton reminded him. “Gods shall protect her.”
Not that gods gave a shite about what happened in Pascor.
A herald entered his wide open doors at this time, hesitated in bewilderment seeing the chaos, hammers banging on the benches, workers sweeping pieces of brain off the floor and the hall dark for the time of day, since Lord Ton economized on the candles.
The bills for the event had gone through the roof and feeding the Legion will probably ruin him for a couple of years.
Oh, what the decent folk have to endure to preserve their wife’s honor.
Had he be given the opportunity to go back in time, Ton would have taken Blenk’s advice and tossed Aafke overboard on his return from Riverdor.
He liked the girl a lot yes, but he had to put the country first.
And his purse.
“Sir Dolf Van Calcar,” the Herald announced. A white spearfish on his linen dark blue tunic nigh prominent. “Escorting his grace Albert Van Durren, Grand Duke of Riverdor and the foremost King’s Shield.”
Eh, the king was more plant than human now, or straight up dead, since they were rumors about that as well, with some conspiracies suggesting he’d faked the murder attempt in order to sail to Yalca, or even Wetull for some reason.
Ton could only describe the timing as unfortunate.
Allgods fucking damnit!
“Keep them in the yard!” he grunted and marched there himself, tip-toeing around the dark stain on the floor.
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“Why,” Baron Janos of Badum told him, his young wife –the Hoff girl- all swollen up, her skin like light chocolate. “I must say Lord Ton, yer place is rather gloomy and the ‘view’ leaves much to be desired.”
Bastard even made air quotes at the word.
“It’s the summer,” Ton retorted dejectedly, glancing at the lords gathered in his yard whilst the crews finished up inside. A couple of tables and stools brought outside hastily, but the guests were too many to accommodate. The spot reserved for the guards had to be appropriated and the many armed men, Hoff and Van Durren soldiers bunched up outside the yard. “When the rains come the water comes up to the doors, so it gives another perspective.”
“Do you use boats, or just close this side of the Citadel?” Lord Albert Van Durren queried ogling his eyes to peek through the afternoon mist. It was far less than the morning fog covering the Fenlands, but the old goat had poor eyes on top of his other ailments.
“It not even a foot of water,” mostly mud, Ton replied. “We create walkways with planks. Very idyllic.”
“It must be nice,” Lady Lauke said, probably uncomfortable in her austere summer dress.
“You need to drain the swamp,” Lord Morit, Hoff’s cousin advised him soberly. “We have the same problem in Tollor.”
“How did it go?” Ton asked mockingly.
“Well, it’s a struggle. Each season we go at it anew.”
There you go. Ye have your answer.
“Am I to see my niece?” Lord Albert asked, a large hornet buzzing over his head.
“She’s resting my Lord,” Ton replied and caught out the side of his eye a large group of armed men approaching from the stables road, the legion banners bouncing up and down.
“I bet it’s the nerves,” Janos said creepily glancing at his blushing wife. “The first time is always tricky hehe.”
“Uhm,” Ton murmured not wanting to expound on the reason. Aafke had just given birth and was still recovering. In a sense this is a first time as well, he thought feeling a little better about it.
“Allgods,” Sir Daan Hoff the second grunted seeing the Legionnaires approaching. “What are they doing here?”
“They are camped outside the port,” Lord Ton explained. “They caught me unawares. Let us keep it civil my lords. It’s my wedding day. I have to invite them per the custom.”
“They murdered Lord Vanzon, laid waste to the Crulls Lord Ton!” Lord Morit admonished him angrily.
“Not this legion,” Ton retorted blinking. “This is Sula of Demames. A friendly man. Let us keep politics out of this my lords.”
“Why, I’m afraid we cannot,” Sir Daan grunted. “Seeing as we have grievances with you Lord Ton.”
“Let’s be polite,” Lord Albert cautioned him. “No need for this tone young man.”
“Naossis Skirt Forest belongs to Tollor,” Sir Daan hissed. “The tone is justified your grace.”
“I wish no conflict,” Ton told them with a sigh. “We can work around this detail Sir Daan.”
The young knight stood back. “When will this be?”
“Let the man get married first,” Baron Mikel Van Durren of Riverdor Castle, the old Shield’s stepbrother guffawed, just as the legionnaires reached them. Lord Ton’s yard packed with soldiers despite the efforts to keep the men apart.
The Legatus of the Fourth, a sturdy man of medium height, but wide at the chest and with thick muscular legs, stepped forward his legion helm in hand.
“Legatus Nonus Sula,” Sula grunted sounding thoroughly unfriendly. “Fourth Legion. Lord Ton, I presume?” he boomed looking in their general direction.
“That would be me,” Ton said stepping forward to greet them. “Apologies for the tumult Legatus. We are under a hectic timetable.”
“No need for it,” Sula retorted brusquely. “Lord Ton,” he repeated. “I recovered your sister.”
Blenk gasped in shock.
“Is she dead?” Ton asked casually, since he had all but given up on her and Sula frowned heavily, his square-jawed Lorian face and thick blond brows meeting right in the middle of his forehead.
“She’s fine!”
Fuck off dude, I ain’t deaf!
“Allgods,” Blenk said relieved. “Where is she?”
“Prefect!” Sula barked at his large entourage, another pregnant woman amongst them. A striking redhead wearing fancy clothes with tits the size of watermelons.
Lords have mercy, she’s bountiful, Ton thought impressed at the size. What is she carrying in that belly, a fucking Maniple?
His sister popped out of the crowd of armoured legionnaires looking worn out but very much breathing.
“Thea, praised be the Five you’re safe,” the much older Blenk gasped emotionally and rushed to hug her tight. Might as well have hugged a fat wooden plank.
“Crabs, Spearfish, Lobsters and Wolf-fishes. Even Legionnaires. Quite the feast,” Thea chuckled, her brains still scrabbled, the trip in the Fenlands unsuccessful.
“Right,” Ton said to get everyone’s attention away from his crazy sister. “Lords and Ladies, I believe we can move away from the heat and into my hall,” he grinned, a painful feat to accomplish as his heart wasn’t in it. He glanced at his sister, Thea having the hint of a smile on her comely face and then waved for his brother to get everyone inside and to their prearranged spots.
Lord Ton needed a quiet evening to rest his weary body, along a good cup of wine, but he only got one of his wishes come true.
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Three hours later the band started playing a mellow marriage tune, the narrow hall illuminated by almost a hundred torches and oil lamps. The smoke thick in it, the air irritating to the throat, despite the open doors that let some of the night chill in. The mist hanging away from the flattened and enlarged yard, almost two hundred soldiers packed in it, many sitting down with a bottle in hand and almost all tasting the many plates the servants were bringing from the overworked Grime Citadel’s kitchen.
Aafke had entered in her lovely, though quite roomy dress, under the sound of the happy music, the sour face of priest Laris following her along with all the other lords present. The devout priest of Uher wouldn’t consent for the ceremony to be performed in his temple, since Aafke was ‘unchaste’, but Lord Ton who wasn’t as devout, wanted the legitimacy of the church and had ‘forced’ him to agree to do it during the feast. Laris rushed through the words as fast as he could, never cracking a smile and glaring daggers at the nervous Lord Ton.
At least the band was great.
“What gods and lords witness, no one shall dare question,” Laris hissed eyeing those present, his creamy yellow robes dirty at the edges. Everyone agreed with enthusiasm, the highlight of the evening and Aafke even shed a tear, bless her heart. Baron Mikel Van Durren -who was a boastful man when in his cups- decided to showcase his dancing skills, just after Lord Ton finished his toast to his lofty guests. Most welcomed the challenge and Mikel swiftly asked Lady Lauke to stand with him for the Issir dance. Baron Janos agreed to it, as he was too old for ‘dancing like a fool around young girls’, though not old enough to fuck said young girl, and allowed his young pregnant wife to follow Mikel to the space between the three large tables.
Baron Darvot, visiting without Ton’s wayward cousin, stood up next and asked Thea to do him the honor. Sir Blenk agreed, despite their strained relationship, since Darvot had courted his sister in the past, before Lord Ton had rewarded the loyal Shield with her hand for his longtime service to both him and his father. A couple of more ladies stood up to clap for the prancing lords and the band started playing a quicker tune much to everyone’s delight.
Ten minutes into it, wine, music and Lord Ton’s good food had repaired the originally tensed climate inside his lit up hall and the Lord of Pascor breathed out relieved he’d gotten that part out of the way. All he wanted really was to buy himself some time. A year, six months. By then a new High King might rule in Kaltha, Lucius could have won the crown back, or lost it. Pascor could survive outliving its opponents much as it always had, or if it came to be fight them when it was ready.
Boots firmly planted in the mud.
His sister twirled around leaving her spot in the middle of the room, several lords standing and talking to each other, the band playing behind him one catchy tune after the other and the roar of the soldiers’ songs outside livening up the summer night.
Almost midnight, he mused with a shiver recalling his earlier thoughts and shifted uneasily on his bench, hoping it wasn’t the faulty one.
“They shall rule the whites,” Thea told a tired-looking Lady Martha Redmond standing over her red head, the Duke of Kadrek’s daughter of all fucking things, a thin long finger touching her shoulder afore she twirled away with an excited giggle, her words heard clearly. “The ports of salt and ice.”
The Legatus furrowed his brow, the only man not drinking probably thinking of his wife, although Lord Janos had had plenty himself apparently not of the same opinion and was now using a fork to dig out any leftover carameled onions amidst his potatoes.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” a sweaty Lord Ton said nervously over the table to the hard-faced Lorian. His sister returning to the center of the packed hall, amidst the clapping ladies and the cavorting inebriated knights.
Several things happened in quick succession just as the bells rang midnight over the dark coastal city.
A gush of wind came from the open doors. Humid air smelling of rot and thick fog crept inside the loud hall. His sister turned her white head around and stared through him, pale-green eyes gleaming alike pure silver in the light of the torches, towards the fast-playing band, her left arm raising slowly and the right grabbing Lord Mikel’s elbow.
Uh?
The band stopped abruptly and a moment later switched to a different, much slower tune. Ton recognized it immediately since he had it in his head all morning. The thick-stringed Lyre starting it with the tambourine chipping once, afore leaving the lutes to take over, one after the other.
Oh, ye children of the brines, the melancholic song went. The less inebriated Issir Lords hearing it pausing unsure as one didn’t expect to hear it at a wedding, or a jubilant feast.
“What is this?” Sir Daan grunted angry perking up.
Ton pushed himself up spooked and made to turn around to order the band to stop that nonsense, but Thea beat him to it, her graceful arm dropping and Lord Janos across from her still sitting at the table ducked his head sharply forward and impaled himself on his fork through the left eye. Suddenly only the sounds of ‘Midnight Call’ could be heard inside the foggy hall, along the dying Lord Janos body shuddering on the clattering table, the stunned guests unable to fathom what had just happened.
“Thea,” Ton gasped deeply disturbed breaking the silence. “What have you done?”
Thea looked at him with alien eyes, her right hand letting go of Lord Mikel Van Durren, the latter collapsing on his face like a sack laden with rocks, right where that worker had died earlier. His crazy sister closed her fist leaving only her index finger extended, thin finger unnaturally long and the nail on it sharp as a blade. She slashed down with it opening the stunned Lauke’s whole front, disemboweling her from jugular to groin, cutting easily through fabric and skin. Blood, guts and a still attached gory fetus splashing down the stone tiles between the gawking horrified young woman’s legs.
“Thea,” the Hag of the Fenlands informed him, mouth split in a gnarly smile, while the stupefied hall erupted in a livid pandemonium of cries and curses. “Is with your brother. She is in pain no more.”
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