“Boats are bullshit,” Kaz bitterly murmurs as she steps from the gangplank, her boots impacting the thankfully stationary, solid wood of the dock. Unlike most ports she’s been through, this one is surprisingly quiet: There are no sounds of gulls or other waterfowl, no sounds of rowdy sailors and shouting merchants, no thrum of waves upon the shore. The water around the dock is eerily still, like that of a lake instead of the sea, and it seems few animals are willing to approach the shore, even at the prospect of free scavenging off the ships and the detritus from the docks.
Birds must know something that everyone else doesn’t, Kaz thinks.
The port town of Tarn’s Rest stretches out in front of her eyes, blanketed in a layer of snow on this frigid evening. The Spring Festival is just around the corner, but the winter refuses to release its grip upon the land just yet. The bleak conditions do little to buoy the spirits of those out in it, but Kaz feels that even on a pleasantly warm, sunny day, there would be a dour chill hanging over the town and everyone within.
“Is it really the boat that upset you?” Wren asks with a hint of humor in their voice.
Kaz glances over–and down–at her Dwarven companion, a slight frown creasing around the small tusks protruding from her lower jaw. Said tusks along with her green-tinged skin, and tall, muscular stature are clear indications of her Orcish heritage; her spotless gambeson and scarf, along with her short cut and well-kept hair, speak of a military background. The shining triangular pendant hanging from her neck, showing a stylized sovereign’s crown, tells others of her faith.
Wren, in contrast, is short and stout, the nature of their Dwarven blood. Rusty red hair braided and held by tanned leather strips and the sturdy, fur-adorned leather cloak, clearly hand-made, speak of a life spent in the northern regions. They have a smug look on their face presently, with a twinkle in their emerald eyes.
“Yeah, that’s why I said it,” Kaz snips back.
It’s the same at every port. And every day aboard a ship. And occasionally when on dry land. Kaz’s distaste of the water certainly doesn’t stop her from traveling, but by the Nine above it also doesn’t stop her from bitching about having to interact with it.
Wren gives her hell for it whenever it’s reasonable to do so. Which, for Wren, is often. It makes the unending complaints more tolerable.
“You don’t have to hate boats just because you hate the ocean,” they say wryly, careful not to show their amusement.
“I actually do, because–” Kaz begins.
“And the sea, too,” Wren adds.
“–designed specifically to exist–”
“And lakes.”
“–rock back and forth like some kind of–”
“Rivers, as well.”
“–I mean who even knows what’s down there–”
“Streams.”
“–no good comes from–”
“...Puddles?”
“Can I help you ladies?” interrupts an elderly man, bundled up against the cold, as he steps from the much more comfortable interior of a nearby shack.
Kaz and Wren stop bickering, their attention turning to the old Human. But not before one last exchange:
“You don’t know how deep a puddle is gonna be,” Kaz warns under her breath.
“It’s a wonder you don’t hate baths,” Wren mutters back quickly.
“Because I know how much water is in a damn bath–Good afternoon! My companion and I are here looking for work,” Kaz says, straightening her posture a bit.
“Oh, companion,” the old man mutters as he straightens his glasses, getting a better look at Wren. “My mistake.”
“You’re the dockmaster?” Wren asks.
“That’s right. Name’s Walter,” the old man says with a smile. “Don’t mean to harass you, uh, two none. Just trying to keep tabs on who comes and goes and you folk are definitely new.”
Wren offers their hand, adding, “Wren Eklund. We heard there’s a lot of work, er, protecting people here.”
“Ah!” Walter lets out, taking Wren’s hand and shaking it. They note that his grip is a lot stronger than his frail appearance would imply–someone who has seen some action in their time. He adds, “Sellswords, eh?”
“Not exactly,” Kaz says with a grunt. She offers her hand as well. “Captain Kazimiera Gwózdek. We’re just looking for a place to apply ourselves.”
“Oh,” Walter says, glancing back and forth between the two. “Strange seeing a Zhev and a Crowny traveling about together,” he muses, making both Kaz and Wren bristle.
Kaz clears her throat before moving the conversation forward with, “We heard there is an official expedition of some kind supposed to take place soon?”
“‘Zat so? You’ll be looking for those academic-y folks, then,” Walter says, nodding to himself as if understanding. “They’re staying up at the Moonpeak. Only tavern here, across the bridge, up the hill by the river. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, Walter,” Wren says. They hesitate for a second before adding, “Is it always this, you know, quiet here?”
“Mm,” Walter hums. “Place is a might bit spooky, isn’t it? Sea’s always still, no fish nearby, no wild game that anyone can tell. Leaves and plants won’t sprout even in the spring. Gotta ship in most food an’ everything.”
“Sounds great,” Kaz mutters.
“There are monsters, though?” Wren asks.
Kaz closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, able to ascertain the acrid, harsh smell of something dangerous and dark lurking past the carefully constructed palisade walls of the town. Even from here on the docks, it’s noticeable. Mere animals who would defend their territory or kill for food do not give off the same scent of ill intent.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Monsters” would be an apt enough term for whatever lurks among the scraggly, dead trees just out of sight, watching the town carefully.
Waiting.
No wonder the people here act like they’re in the middle of a funeral procession, Kaz thinks to herself.
“Some real nasty things, that’s for sure,” Walter answers, nodding for emphasis. “It’s bad enough that only those with permission from the warden are allowed out the gates. S’one of the reasons we check who comes through: Far too dangerous to let just any looky-loo or troublemaker wander around.”
“Permission, yes,” Kaz says to herself. It means that someone is taking all of this very seriously, at least. That’s reassuring. She continues, “So, who is the warden?”
“Young woman, name of Bernadette. She’s one of them devil-looking folk, but don’t let that put you off. Got a good head on her shoulders,” Walter says approvingly. “Pretty sure the expedition folks already have permission to leave town, if you get in with 'em. Heard they came from the University of Halcyon itself.”
Kaz feels a small chill run up her spine, which she hopes is just due to the temperature.
“Thank you for the information, Walter,” she says.
“Yeah, thanks!” Wren adds cheerfully. “Do we, you know..." They trail off, miming the act of giving something to the old man. "Is it proper to give a tip? With the info and all–”
“Walter here is a proud employee of the government of Kattelox. I’m sure that, just like any proud citizen, he is more than happy to simply make a difference,” Kaz interrupts, locking eyes with the elderly man.
Walter stares back, sharing a brief moment of silent understanding. A respectful lull of the conversation.
Then the facade cracks and the old Human snickers. Kaz, unable to hold it in, laughs alongside him.
“Yes’m, just simple civil servants are we,” Walter chuckles out. He holds his hand out and gently takes the fistful of silver coins that Wren offers. “You two have a nice stay in Tarn’s Rest, y’hear? And please be careful.” Despite his mirth, the last sentence comes across as serious and, more importantly, sincere.
“We’ll try. You keep your head down as well, old-timer,” Kaz says, hefting up a large knapsack off the snowy dock and onto her shoulder. From within, the muffled sound of metal shifting can be heard. Wren adjusts their leather shoulder bag, fixing the tangled strap which they have been absently fidgeting with while talking to Walter.
“Oh, don’t you worry about me none. I didn’t live this long by poking my head up, after all,” Walter says with a cackle. He watches the two start treading through the freshly fallen snow, heading from the docks into the town proper. Turning the collar of his jacket up against the chill wind, he shuffles back to the warmth of his dockside shack.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tarn’s Rest, despite the unique location of it, is not unlike other towns. The lower district is made up of residences and merchants, including a market near the town square, where a statue of the King of Kattelox, Frederik Thorburn, watches over the townsfolk in dutiful fashion. All the buildings are likewise of Loxian make, even down to the materials–it seems that the wood from the strange, dead trees of this land are unfit for construction purposes, so wood from mainland Kattelox has been brought in for such purposes.
Or, perhaps, nobody wants to actually attempt the process of cutting down the leafless, gnarled trees that dot the landscape, rather than them being unfit. That’s assuming anyone would be willing to even lay hands on the wood to work with it. Even the wooden palisade walls have been constructed entirely out of timber shipped in.
Much as Walter said, a bridge at the end of the lower district stretches across a thin river, which obviously flows yet has the same eerily placid surface as the sea beyond the docks. The upper district sits atop a rise in the land overlooking the lower district; the river actually cascades down not far from the bridge from above in a surprisingly beautiful waterfall, one of the few indications of its actual movement.
Conversation with some of the few locals braving the cold winter day results in Kaz and Wren learning that the river has been named the Moonbow River, as when Corvega and Tryden, the large and small moons respectively, reach their zenith in the night sky, a rainbow appears in the mists that float up from the base of the falls.
It makes sense, then, why the Moonpeak Inn is named as such: It sits directly on the edge of the river, at the very top of the falls.
The rest of the upper district seems to contain the mayoral manor, the guard barracks, and a few high-end establishments and shops: A local bank and moneylender, a few artisan crafts shops, a shop specializing in magical artifacts and other oddities.
As the two climb the wooden steps that serve as a path leading to the inn that sits atop the hill, Wren lets out a low whistle as they look at the nearby businesses and buildings.
“Can you imagine the amount of coin that’s been spent building this town?” They ask.
Kaz snorts as she responds, “Loxians aren’t the type to do anything half-way. Besides, they have the funds for it. They made out pretty well from the war, overall.”
An uneasy silence lingers between the two for a moment before Wren speaks up, “Yeah, well. Someone had to.”
Kaz says nothing, her silence alone enough of an agreement.
The sound of music, of laughter and life, floats out from the tavern as the two get closer--muffled, but obvious in its mirth. Wren seems to cheer up at the noise, glad to finally encounter some kind of joy in this drab place.
“Hear that?” They ask, looking over at Kaz with a smile.
“Finally found the party. It tracks that it’d be in the local tavern,” Kaz says.
“They sound happy,” Wren affirms, feeling a sense of ease for the first time since arriving.
“Probably because it’s warm inside,” Kaz says sharply.
“Oh Gods here we go–” Wren mutters.
“Look, it being this cold is just miserable. Do you see happy people outside right now? No. Did you ever see any happy people back home?” Kaz asks, tone full of the same frustration as it had during the boat “discussion.”
“There were plenty of happy people back home. People that were outside,” Wren says, going through the motions of an argument that has been had many, many times before.
“Nah. The cold is bullshit,” Kaz says matter-of-factly. “It’s impossible to be happy when you’re cold.”
Wren chuckles a little, unable to help themselves, as they say, “You just can’t dislike something a normal amount, can you?”
“I dislike things in an amount that is perfectly acceptable in relation to how bullshit said things are,” Kaz argues.
“See, I don’t think so,” Wren says as they climb the steps to the Moonpeak Inn. They pull the door open, feeling a rush of warm air that comes from within as the sound of happy tavern-goers and jovial minstrels gets louder, no longer muffled by the heavy wooden door.
“This is your problem. You’re afraid to let yourself really love the things that you love. And, by extension, hate the things that you hate. It’s no way to live,” Kaz explains, letting out a relieved sigh as they step up into the warmth flowing out of the open doorway.
“That sounds like a dangerous way to live,” Wren says, motioning for Kaz to go ahead and enter.
“You are not police of me,” Kaz says with a smirk, stepping through into the well-lit interior of the inn.
“No and I pity whoever would try to be,” Wren mutters, getting in the last word before they, too, step inside, letting the door close securely behind them.
From the base of the hill, far enough away to avoid being conspicuous, a pair of figures that have been following the other two ever since they disembarked from the ship linger.
“You sure they’re worth all this?” The taller one, a scruffy Human male with disheveled hair, asks with a voice that barely rises above a tired grumble.
“Did you see them bribe that old guy? They’re loaded, fam,” the smaller one, barely half the size of the other, features obscured by a layer of robes, replies.
The tall man lets out a long sigh, before ambling up the hill. He mutters, “Fine. I could use an ale, anyway.”
His small companion trots along after him, humming excitedly.