Nathaniel and his crew sailed back to the mainland with ease. Their ship had been built by Nathaniel’s father. Or perhaps it had been his father’s father - history had never been Nathaniel's strong suit. He was more concerned with glory; he always had been. His crew were indispensable - until they were killed, of course. Then, he simply hired a few more reckless youths with even greater wishes of heroism. They were the best to employ. At the end of the crusade, he’d have fewer hands to pay.

Now, however, a month into the journey home and a half a day on shore, he was starting to question things. He’d been having doubts for a while, but those fruits had truly sparked something in him. His joints ached, his beard needed a good trim, and his legs still swayed with the lingering motion of the ship, as if they were still creaking in the wind. He stared into a bucket of water, inspecting his reflection.

‘Ugly fucker,’ he said, growling.

Nathaniel was nearing his fortieth name day. He had fathered no sons, taken no wives, and squandered most of the gold he’d collected over the years. He trusted no one, consulting only himself for all important decisions. His internal monologue had never been particularly extensive, but today, the gears were turning. His mind was on the yellow fruits. Nathaniel didn’t know whether oranges had been named before the colour or vice versa, but he figured he’d name the new fruits in the same fashion. They were sitting in a chest in his cabin, the men of the ship absolutely uninterested.

A hand tugged on his tattered and ruined cloak. He turned softly. A tug from that height would mean a child, and Nathaniel had discovered long ago that his appearance was one that scared, not comforted.

‘Aye, child?’ Nathaniel asked. Then, he swore again. ‘For fucks sake, Tinton. I thought you were a wee lass.’

Tinton looked up at him, his forehead wrinkled in fury. ‘A wee lass, Natty? A wee lass, you say? Well, screw you and yer father and yer mother, filthy throwout.’

The dwarf turned to walk away, then paused. He looked back, lips upturned behind his large, red beard. Nathaniel chuckled, punching his companion with affection.

‘How have you been, you little fucker?’ Nathaniel asked him.

Tinton grinned toothlessly.

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The ship had been boarded at its usual location; Nathaniel was never one for much change. More than once, bandits had lain in wait for him in Shorepoint, desperate for his collected treasures. However, the fury of his wrath had never allowed for defeat. Not yet. Until that day came, Nathaniel would likely never change his plans. Not that it mattered much anymore. It was time for him to leave his lady behind. His father wouldn’t be happy, but his father was dead. And you can’t complain when you’re dead.

Shorepoint was a fishing village, hidden on the eastern coast of Curnwell. The kingdom was one of the largest in the world, a luscious place filled with green shrubbery and magnificent castles. The city of Falhight governed the land from east to west and north to south. That was Nathaniel’s next stop. He had some ideas.

Tinton sat opposite him, the two of them enjoying a comfortable ale in a private corner of a private tavern. Tinton’s mouth was wide open, gaping at the man in disbelief, every wrinkle on his face stretched with shock.

‘Yer - yer sure want to sell her to me?’ Tinton asked again.

Nathaniel nodded. ‘Sure. I’ve no need for the lass now.’

Tinton glanced towards the docks, staring at the large ship. The crew had dissipated, most travelling on to the city with their goods. After selling the spoils of their journey, Nathaniel doubted he’d ever cross paths with any of them again. The ship had served him well, but now she needed a new owner.

‘You helped fix her,’ Nathaniel reminded him, ‘and you charged me little for it. I’m returning the favour. Sell her on or keep her and use her. It’s up to you.’

Tinton was never one to turn down a deal, and as a shipwright, he knew the worth of Nathaniel's lady. Nathaniel could see the gold glistening in the dwarf's eyes, bouncing like firelight. Nathaniel had offered a good price, and Tinton could sell her for twice as much to the right buyer. Tinton sipped for a long while, his ale almost finished.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

‘You’re leaving to grow yellows?’ Tinton asked once more, just to make sure he’d heard correctly. He took care to pronounce the colour properly. ‘Like oranges, but yellow?’

Nathaniel shrugged. ‘Might just be. My bones need a break and I’m sure I can find some use for them. Look at how popular oranges are.’

Tinton rolled his eyes. ‘Well, if yer keen on the idea, I’ll buy yer ship. I know a fella in the west who’d take her on.’

Nathaniel considered this. ‘I’m off to Falhight tomorrow. Once we’ve sold our plunder, I’ll have the gold I need to set up somewhere. I know you, Tinton - you’re a fucker, but you’re a fair fucker. You’ll get my money to me. Take the ship, sell her, and pass along what you owe me when you’ve got it.’

Tinton looked at him. ‘That’s a mighty request.’

Nathaniel shrugged, stretching. ‘Don’t fucking do it, then.’

Tinton barked a laugh and raised his mug. ‘To yer future then, old man.’

Nathaniel clinked his mug against Tinton’s.

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Nathaniel left early in the morning, following his crew to the big city. He’d paid a young master to ferry him there in his cart. Well, paid was a strong word. He’d given a promise to protect him from any bandits - one that couldn’t be refused. The lad might get a tip at the end.

Falhight had been built close to Shorepoint. The route between the two was neither long nor particularly dangerous, though one could never be too careful. In the past, Nathaniel had made the journey in just a few short hours, riding in a horse-drawn cart like this one. As one travelled further inland, the environment became harsher. Centuries ago, a large perimeter was established to keep towns and people from venturing too close to the kingdom’s centre, where danger lurked in the forests and mountains. Although the inland landscape was lush and beautiful, the magic grew denser the farther one moved from the coast. No one knew what lay at the kingdom’s centre - nor did many care to find out. Those who tried were never heard from again.

Regardless, Nathaniel was awoken by the disgruntled master near dusk, apparently having missed the entirety of the journey.

‘Excellent trip,’ Nathaniel said. He grabbed his small storage chest and picked a silver coin from his purse, throwing it to the man. ‘I barely felt the potholes in your cart.’

The master thanked him, slightly less frustrated than before. Nathaniel didn’t bother to ask why he was annoyed. He didn’t really care. Instead, he looked at the great entrance to the city - two tall towers separated by an enormous drawbridge, currently lowered. Travellers moved steadily in and out of Falhight. Nathaniel sniffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. A trail of snot remained.

‘Fucking allergies,’ he muttered, making his way into the city toward his favorite tavern. A woman overheard his language and scoffed at him. Nathaniel tipped his head in apology, sniffing again.

Moving through the city was never a pleasant experience for a man of Nathaniel's size. Even if he had been an anonymous figure, unknown to the people, they still would have stared. Now, they watched with wide eyes. Nathaniel had always been indifferent to his success.

‘Gods be good,’ a gentleman said, removing his hat.

Another man stepped aside as Nathaniel pushed through the crowd. He swore, squinting and tapping the shoulder of a woman to his right. 'Look, sweetheart.'

‘Is that Cap’n Nathaniel, Mother?’ a child asked in awe. Nathaniel glanced in their direction, but saw no child.

His exploits were fairly famous, especially in his early days. The city smelled less like shit then and more like the fruits of the land around them. Falhight had been colourful, excelling in the trade of luxurious fruits and vegetables, silks and cloth, and, most of all, perfumes. The surrounding hills housed farms, monks, magical folk, and orchards, all contributing to the big city. Nathaniel had to plug his nose it had been so intense. Now, he plugged it for entirely different reasons.

Back then, he had travelled for months on end, reaching new lands and bringing home goods for his country. The popularity of sugar was all because of him. Purple banners spread across the city due to his efforts to bring the silks back to Falhight. The story of the butchery of Edrak and his bandits had been retold again and again - because of him. He was a legend. Now, he wanted peace. He didn’t expect it to last long, but he wanted it. He’d seen what the farmers had done with oranges. He could do it with the yellows. He knew it.

He stopped halfway down a cobbled street, with tall buildings on either side of him. Most had large signs extending into the street, alight with the glow of lanterns beside them. A few were taverns, removing their tables and chairs from the street as it grew dark and cool. No one would be sitting out now.

There was a bakery named Mystic Mugs, with an ogre locking the front doors. Nathaniel had watched the city grow over time, accommodating people of a hundred different species. Before, it had been dull, filled with men and women like him. It was better now. He was entirely unsure as to why the city was worse off. There were so many more trades and businesses than before. The ogre caught him looking, and nodded slightly before walking in the opposite direction. He nodded back, facing his favourite tavern, The Laughing Hog.

Tomorrow, Nathaniel thought to himself. He’d gather his gold, purchase some gear, and head to the mountains far behind the city. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he needed. Faith, trust, and a little bit of undefined, powerful, and forbidden mountain magic. Nathaniel smiled.