Dawn’s light soaked the landscape, gray stripes laying horizontal and manifesting into waves off the lake gently sloshing against pebbled shore. Zahn stood just inside the treeline with one foot in the previous night’s fire pit. He’d learned through a night of trial and error he could not only stand freely in fires, but the red fire mana he pulled back into his body carried some of the heat with it. Pushing his magic into an active fire felt like dripping oil from his fingertips, and he enjoyed the dancing tongues of heat that gently rubbed against his hands. After infusing even a small flame, the bright gasses grew denser and brighter, showing his mana sight how the magic fuel burned clean and quick even compared to solid wood. Taking back actively burning mana carried the heat like a comforting hug all over his body.
After his argument with the Chaos Lord Iengoris, or at least its avatar, the Player had spent another entire day travelling south. The morning and evening had given him the dubious gift of migraines instead of competing for his body again. The little imp hadn’t re-formed, and he had yet to hear its voice groaning in his mind’s ear. At eight in the morning sharp he had been woken by a blistering headache, and after it faded at nine he’d headed off to scrounge for breakfast.
The same treat awaited him at eight at night on the dot, leaving him irritable and angsty as he eyed the morning clock easing towards his next adventure with demons. The dawn inched its way up as the clock passed a quarter to six, leaving him just over two hours to get things done before being held up by another migraine.
Another full day of travel after leaving the Collisae, and Zahn felt like he was making progress on his own. He’d stopped the night before after seeing lights through the remaining trees and verifying he wasn’t trying to camp next to some bandit campsite. Seeing the docks and buildings with bustling people, the Custom had opted to bed down and greet them with the dawn.
Zahn could feel a faint buzz, like murmurs of a distant conversation, inviting him down towards the water. He hadn’t noticed until leaving the Collisae that the same near-silent rumble had been a comfort nearby, but in his two nights out camping the comparative silence pressed in. A lack of noise ringing somewhere past his hearing, like tinnitus just at the edge of perception, was finally withdrawing as he neared civilization once more. Racking his brain for why only brought back a memory of waking up in that nameless village what felt like forever ago, and hearing people talking nearby without being able to see them.
With the coming dawn, fishermen and ship workers were already moving and working, some sparse calls and haggling at the little dockside market were already filling the gray sky with noise and smells. He could see at least three boats at the docks, one covered in still-lit lanterns while another was slowly unfurling its sails. A small collection of houses and shops blocked the wharf from view, almost two dozen huts scattering the lakeshore looking like a travel camp that had grown roots.
Zahn leaned against the nearest tree as his gaze drifted closer towards the building he’d seen the night before. He’d thought it was some sort of warehouse from the boxes and netting he’d observed being moved around when he approached the treeline last night, but in the morning sun he could make out a yard attached filled with cloth draped and drying over lines and crates stacked as walls around. A small group of men were moving cloth material off of one line and gathering up what seemed to be a triangular sail from the yard.
Other hanging entries included cloaks and blankets, and what looked like a station dedicated to repairing fishing nets. The smell of the shore town carried fish and rot but also smoked meat and the distinct waft of gunpowder. Zahn’s knowledge of boats was limited, but the docks didn’t have any sort of obvious storefront for their goods nor was there some other connecting road to lead from this small northern lake port to anywhere else.
Smugglers.
He’d gotten along well with similar shady folk back home, when his life and those of his brothers had depended on ammunition and blankets that had been carefully concealed from the Reichers and their dogs. He still scowled each time he saw a little black Affenpinscher even if the civilian-owned versions had never been trained to sniff out hiding men.
A shout disturbed Zahn’s daydream and pulled his attention back to the windowless building. An old man stood in the yard, staring at him in the trees. The Player offered a quick wave before ambling off, walking slowly towards the home.
The elder was joined by two burly men from inside the building, the trio bearing yellow names and both helpers with skull-levels. The old man bore the identifier ‘smuggler’ and was level nineteen, watching Zahn approach with his mouth set in a firm line.
“You ent bringin’ bugs are ye?”
Nodding at him, Zahn gestured behind him. “Not on purpose, at least. Nature could have infested my rags, but I wasn’t out there too long.” Nearing the wall of crates, he stopped a few steps away and kept his hands visible and open. A thought occurred to him, that he could still cast fire magic without needing to draw a weapon. Dismissing the impulse, he continued. “On the note of rags, I see you have some cloaks available. I’d like to do some shopping, if I may.”
The thug duo exchanged raised eyebrows and side-eye glances, as the smuggler snorted in reply. “This ain’t no store.”
With a half-smile, Zahn gestured down at himself, “I recognize that good sir, it’s just that a Player isn’t exactly welcome everywhere.”
At the mention of his player status, both assistants summoned their weapons and braced their stances. A longsword and a heavy maul were aimed at the Custom, while the smuggler stared at him. After a long breath and obvious tension between the trio, Zahn saw a faint glimmer of purple light dance between their heads before the elder broke out into a grin.
“Hah!” He slapped the crates, and the two assistants dismissed their weapons. “Not many bold or stupid enough to claim that. But, if true,” he held his chin and looked Zahn up and down again, “Fair ‘nuff. Come ‘round the front, and keep your money in hand. No Player shit here.”
Nodding, the Custom stepped around the wall of boxes and netting to arrive at the building’s entrance, where the hammer-thug stared him down as he entered, ducking under the low doorway. Inside the wooden structure, a few candles in wall sockets outlined the large room with a counter, shelves, and a variety of boat implements around. The back wall had a closed door, and near the far wall was the doorway into the yard to the right. Stepping around coils of rope and nearly tripping over a stack of cannonballs, Zahn could feel the heat coming from each candle as he navigated the poorly organized storage. The candles didn’t call out to him as much as he knew the location and intensity of each individual flame, acting as beacons he could detect relative to himself with each step. The fires weren’t pulling or pushing on the magic he’d infused into his body, but the warmth was reflected as if he were holding them inches away from his skin.
Emerging into the closed yard, the Custom found the other thug’s weapon summoned and drawn again as the old smuggler ignored his assistant. With a grunt, the elder wafted a hand in front of his face, “You certainly smell like the wild. Show me the money.”
Moving slowly, Zahn plucked a single gold fat coin from his pouch and held it out in his left hand.
“I don’t give change,” the smuggler didn’t reach for it.
Pressing his fingers against the metal faces, Zahn pushed a point of Willpower towards it and felt something cool down around the top of his neck just below the skull as energy traveled down his arm and left his body. The coin shifted, and in the moment he had the impression that he could divide the cash three ways. Opting to not either split into thin gold pieces or small gold buttons, he pushed towards the third option as he split the single coin into a double handful of fat silvers.
As the surge of money sprang forth, the pile jumped and scattered off his palm to dump half the money into the dirt. The old man stared at him deadpan, his eyes never leaving Zahn’s face.
“First time splitting money?”
“Whoops.” With a shameful half-smile, Zahn looked down at the mess of silver where a single gold coin once sat. “Not exactly, but I can’t claim to have planned that.”
Slapping his guard’s chest with the back of his hand, the smuggler sighed. “May as well forget it Steve, if he’s a Mage and a Player you’d just get your family killed.” As he was identified, Zahn watched the yellow name shift from Smuggler to Steve, and the burly swordsman dismissed his sword before leaning against the building and crossing his arms.
“Forgive him,” the elder continued as he waved Zahn forward into the yard proper. “He’s never faced such a lethal threat before, he doesn’t understand Master Player.”
“I’m nobody’s master,” Zahn tried to deescalate. “Just here for some clothes, and shoes if you have them.”
The smuggler chuckled. “Sure, sure, and no Player has ever bothered to de-level themselves back down to civilian power, jus’ to grow even stronger ‘gyen. Won’t ask,” his gaze found Zahn’s again as he led him towards a hanging line of clothes, “which is the standard ‘round here. Less talking, better.”
Nodding and choosing not to address the misunderstanding, Zahn followed the man around to the clothes line he saw from up at the treeline. Plain gray or brown robes hung over the line pinned with wood, and he saw several sad sacks making up footwear sorted roughly by size on top of smaller crates. Reaching up and selecting a simple brown drape, he pulled it over his rags and found the ensemble both warm and concealing.
Poking through the boot-sack selection he opted to start at the large end and found something that looked like it would fit before long. He sat and laced up the crude footwear, finding the straps wound around his legs halfway up to his shin.
Thus assembled, Zahn followed the elder back to his pile of money on the ground. From what he could tell, Steve the assistant hadn’t moved a muscle and remained watching him with a beady glare. Smiling pleasantly at the burly man, Zahn bent and gathered the spilled cash before turning back the smuggler. “How much?”
“Two silver.” The old man’s eyes never left his face, as if he expected some savage trickery at the end of their deal.
Trying not to let his smile twist into a smirk or sneer, the Player pawed through his newly dirty money. He deposited most of it back into its pouch before handing over two fat silver coins. “It’d be robbery in a city, but I recognize we’re not in one.”
Finally the smuggler’s composure broke, looking down at the pair of coins as if lost. After a long moment when Zahn thought he’d somehow failed to do something as simple as pay for things, he looked back up. “I meant smalls.”
Blinking at his own stupidity, the Custom made another thoughtless choice that would leave echoes behind him. “Nah, keep it. My mistake is your gain, right?”
Steve’s expression had dropped from suspicious to dumbfounded, and the smuggler’s name shifted from yellow to green before Zahn’s eyes.
“Of course, good master!” The old man nearly rubbed his hands together in excitement as he stuffed the money away and held out an arm to gesture towards the rest of the yard. “And anything else? Anything catch your eye, good sir?”
Looking around the yard again, Zahn found the items looked different. Piles of rope and cloth resolved into block-and-tackle kits, fishing nets, and sets of small pouches. A tangled mess of rope became neat coiled piles of line, and stacks of stained metal squares were suddenly neatly stacked oil lanterns with glass lenses. Trying not to blink too much at the changes wrought by personal relationships, he took a stroll around the things immediately nearby.
“A question, before I spend the morning shopping?” He looked to his right to find the smuggler setting a stand of curved swords upright. “The ships docked, are any of them leaving this morning?”
“Yes, oh yes!” The shopkeep scurried close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The cap’ns don’ much like bein’ talked about, see. I can point you to a good man, rare ‘nuff on these waters, and give ya th’ ref’rence.”
Nodding along, Zahn pretended to already know what he was talking about. “And I’d have a little while before needing to go chat with him? I don’t want to miss my ride because I’m busy poking through nets.”
With a smirk the smuggler looked to Steve, who bobbed his head and entered the building. “My lads will tell the good cap’n you want to talk, ser. Fear not.”
Giving his thanks, Zahn turned back to the closest pile. He saw it was the arrangement of pouches, each just big enough to hold a fistful of sand. A dozen were strung together at once, and poking fingers in one he found the cloth tough and smooth under his fingers.
“Waterproof, them.” The old man hovered near, looking over the Player’s shoulder. “Two layers so ya can stitch the outer, and jus’ big enough for the - ah,” he faltered and looked Zahn up and down again. “Our normal folk use ‘em for samples, if you gather.”
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Zahn did not, yet played along. “Of course. One set and some fishing gear, if you can. Oh, do you carry anything around spices?”
Gathering what looked like a mess of net and cable, the smuggler gently took the pouch set from him and wrapped both into a canvas square. “Nay ser, that’ll be o’er in the city for spice. We do have mudust, but if ye were a snorter I’d smell ye already. No offense ‘ntended, ser. One silver. Small,” he spoke up again before Zahn’s hand even reached his pouch.
With a small smile Zahn broke up a fat silver coin and let the swarm of minis fall into the new moneypouch at his hip. Dropping five coins in his hand, he jerked his head towards the building. “And a tip for your lads, they seem like they could use cheering up.”
The old man’s gaze turned shrewd. “I have a total of six assistants.”
Smiling wider, Zahn spread his arms. “Sounds like they should have been here, assisting you. Shame for them.”
With a forced laugh, the smuggler patted him on his back and pushed the canvas package into his arms. “Oh course, ser! Now,” steering the Player by his back, he led him through the storage building. “You want to find Mosher, his ship leaves soonest.”
As they neared the exit Steve returned, breathing hard but nodding at the old man’s gaze.
“And he’s waiting. Here.” Giving Zahn a small wooden coin, he gestured towards the water. “Travel in peace, master mage, and you were never here.”
“Never even heard of ya.” Zahn thanked him again and left, turning past the next house-shaped building and finding a dirt path that wound between hovels to end at the docks. He tucked his purchases away into his bag, making a mental note to see how they sort compared to the canvas wrap around them later. The official market was butting against the wooden planks, with fishmongers and homemakers competing over who would cheat who. A handful of stalls carried minutiae from lamp oil to meat hooks, boxes of nails and - if his eye saw correctly - a neat array of pre-tied nooses.
The wharf barely qualified for the name, saved only by the deep harbor that let the great big boats tie up to the dock directly. Glancing down into the water he saw it was pitch black and shifting, swirling around like a creature waiting beneath the surface to snatch him. Shuddering and deliberately looking up and away, he tried to tell which ship was most ready to travel.
The biggest ship looked like drawings out of history books, with grand white sails partway down and little colorful banners flying from ropes. Three great big masts stood down the middle of the boat, with what looked like two layers of trapdoors hanging on the sides. Four cannons sat visible up on the deck from beneath, with a half-dozen rope ladders climbing up the masts and lanterns hanging from every angle. Great big rope nets hanging heavy with cargo were slowly swinging up and around on deck, with bodies milling around. The middle deck where the gangplank connected was the lowest, with a short stair up to a small forward deck and a larger stair leading up to the back level. He saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the front, and heard shouts of men getting in each other’s way. The other two ships were smaller, two-masters each, though their sails were tightly curled up to their wooden supports with no sign of men running about.
Opting for simple, he strode up to the boat with half-furled sails and a dozen men carrying boxes and bags up a gangplank. A man with an actual clipboard monitored them, his stern gaze falling on Zahn as he neared.
The sailor wore an open leather vest and loose pants, his head covered in a cloth wrap and mouth in a scowl. “You’re not one of mine, beggar.”
Tucking his hands in opposite sleeves like a monk, Zahn smiled again. “Correct. I’m looking for a good man named Mosher.” He’d seen from walking up that the coordinator was labeled ‘pirate’ and each of the workers was either ‘pirate’ or ‘slave’ with similar outfits. “Would this be his vessel?”
The pirate stayed silent a long moment, eyes crawling up and down before one of the men crossing the plank yelled out and prompted him to check something on his board before shouting back at him. Turning back to Zahn, he huffed at the Player. “Captain’s busy, so leave.”
His name remained yellow, and from general disposition Zahn picked up the idea that he was simply busy, and some random ratty-robed stranger had no business in his day. Reaching into his pouch again, he held a fat silver coin and split it into ten thins, letting most tumble into the pouch while holding one out to the pirate. “Please.”
His eye on the money, the organizational pirate half-turned his head as he yelled up at the ship. “Fetch th’ cap’n!”
The coin had vanished into someone’s vest pocket by the time they were joined by a third member of the crew, his loose pants tied by a thick adventurer’s belt and bearing a spyglass and pistol looped into it. The captain wore an eyepatch over his left eye and a thin beard that looked like he’d been interrupted while shaving. With a scowl he leaned over the ship’s railing to stare down at them.
“You can handle the new sailors, quartermaster.”
The bribed crewman held a fist up to the newcomer without looking up, and the Player took his cue to interrupt their bickering before it could start.
Squinting against the sun, Zahn shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked the dozen feet up to the newcomer. “I was told to speak to a good man named Mosher.”
Squinting at the quartermaster again, the man grunted and waved for the Player to come aboard. As Zahn followed the line of workers up the gangplank, he saw they were storing their goods in great nets that would swing over cargo holes in the deck to be lowered to their storages safely. Admiring the operation, his gaze followed the nets’ rigging up to the main mast and back down to a winch operated by a half-dozen men turning a horizontal wheel by wooden posts. The captain was waiting for him against the railing, supervising the loading operation.
“Permission granted,” he started the conversation. At Zahn’s blank look, the captain continued with a gesture at the Player. “When boarding a vessel, it is customary to ask permission to board.”
“I understood permission already,” Zahn replied, stepping closer to continue their conversation in private. “After all, you invited me up.”
“Sure,” Mosher replied easily as he rested a hand on his pistol. “Who sent ye?”
It didn’t take a detective to spot the three burly men dedicated to looking busy while not moving any cargo, and loitering a few steps in each direction and keeping their hands free. With another attempt at a disarming smile, Zahn dipped his fingers back into his own belt and held out the wooden token. “I didn’t ask his name, I only asked for who I could barter passage with.”
Looking at the chit, the captain held out his hand for inspection. As the Custom handed it over, he held the little coin to the morning sun as if looking through it. “This is Lund’s mark. So, you overpaid.” He tucked the object away into his belt, and smirked. “Ye only get this from him if you paid too much, he hands out a glass one if ye bribed him.”
The trio of helpers dispersed, and Mosher waved Zahn closer. As he neared the captain turned, leading him up a short staircase at the back to the steering wheel. Another pirate with an adventurer’s belt manned the wheel, with his own spyglass on his hip. The pilot ignored them, his eyes on the man way up in the crow’s nest.
“Tell me what made Lund suggest my lovely ship,” Mosher leaned against the back rail, his back to the little smuggler town.
Zahn gestured towards the man, keeping his hands visible and stance neutral. “He didn’t, not per se. I asked about finding passage, and he told me to find the good man Mosher. I’d hoped to find the captain, negotiate for a trip across the water.”
“Why are you here, mage?”
Zahn smiled, a helpless laugh at himself. “I’m not big on swimming.”
Mosher smirked back, his gaze drifting between the robed man and the sky behind him. He hummed and sighed, his mouth twitching as he continued looking between two points. To their side, the helmsman seemed to be ignoring them until Mosher’s third sigh, and he finally lost patience.
“This is the part where you list a price, cap’n.”
“Ah know it, Ernie!” The pirate barked back, throwing a rude hand gesture at the third man. “You ain’t here, this is private!” Turning back to Zahn and clearing his throat, it was obvious the captain was getting back into character. “What I mean to say, master mage, is a man of your… means… wouldn’t have any problem securing passage at the main port, some three day’s ride back East. Why are you here, at the smuggler’s port?”
Nodding along, Zahn noted there was a better chance at not getting robbed just a few days away. He took a breath to thank Mosher for his knowledge and depart, when a whisper of wind raced past his cheek and the urge to sprint southward returned. “I don’t want to ride three days East, captain. I found your port, and intend to cross the water. I’m bound for Twin Towns, though I understand if that’s not your first stop.”
His eyes flicking between his now-silent helmsman and the Custom, the tanned man hummed his consideration. Finally, he straightened up and Zahn picked up on a change in the man. His casual, devil-may-care attitude vanished, his easy banter with his men and quick smile faded into his tanned face like wreckage sinking beneath waves. Zahn was quite suddenly very aware that he was on board a ship filled with dangerous pirates, and negotiating with their leader.
“Are you running from anyone, Master Mage?”
The question was delivered low and quiet, pitched deep enough to sound like a whole new person. Captain Mosher’s gaze was steady, fixed, and tolerating nothing.
Trying to remember not to make eye contact for ten whole seconds, the Custom thought back to each party who wanted him dead. Morask would probably love to kill me again, but I haven’t heard from him in months. Herald and his party would probably like seconds too, but no sign of them. His mind’s eye held Sasha briefly, but he shook his head in dismissal. “Nobody I can think of,” Zahn replied easily. “If I have enemies chasing me, they haven’t told me so.”
Staring him down for another breath, Mosher eventually relaxed and leaned back against the railing again. “Fair ‘nuff, good ser. Your passage is one gold. Fat. You should know this isn’t a passenger vessel. Everyone here is expected to work.”
Zahn chuckled and held his hand out to the side. He pushed on fire mana in his arm, the energy reacting like jelly being poured out of a bottle. The orange-red cloud coalesced into curls of flame dripping off his fingers to dissipate before hitting the decking. “I’m not sure what work you could get out of fire magic, but I’m happy to earn my keep if I can help.”
The helmsman stomped over to the display and scowled at the deck, his hand clenched in a fist to wallop the Player if he’d burned their ship. Inspecting the decking, he straightened up with “No fuckery,” before the burly man growled and returned to his post.
With a chuckle in return, Mosher pushed off the railing to stroll up to Zahn. “I’m certain we can think of a need for your mighty powers, oh Mage. Welcome aboard the Gorger, if you burn us down we’ll make sure you drown first.”
Smiling at the jest, the Player turned to take in the sight of the dockworkers toiling away. “I’ll do my best to fight fires, you have a lovely ship.”
“Nay,” Mosher clapped him on the shoulder. “She ain’t mine, she belongs to the whole crew. That’s part of what makes us free men, see, we share the ownership. Them real sailors,” he spat over the side of the railing, almost hitting a box being carried. “Pah. They bend the knee and pray for their wages, slavin’ away to their masters and ship owners, we’re free men here.”
Eyeing the line of men labeled ‘slave’ as the captain spoke, Zahn nodded quietly. “About when do you think we’ll be heading out? I don’t know the tides and such, sorry to say.”
Squinting up at the sky, the captain hawed before answering. “Soon enough. This is a journey at our pace, ser, so you’ll be spending your sweet mage time on our schedule. I suggest you make nice in the galley, it’s just under your bunk.” He pointed across the ship to the raised deck at the front, where Zahn could see a stream of white smoke playing with the breeze just behind the figurehead.
The Custom nodded at the captain and helmsman, leaving their company to navigate the middle deck towards the front and try to ‘make nice’ with the crew’s chef.
* * * * *
Mosher covered his mouth and swore, his eye boring a hole into the stranger’s back.
“What do y’make of him?” Ernie looked down from his quiet negotiation with the crow’s nest, his hand resting on the great steering wheel. “I’m sure he’s on the run. A Mage? A proper Mage? Nah.”
Nodding, the captain brought his hand back down to his gun and fondled the handle thoughtfully. “He sure looks like it. But he didn’ lie, when I asked. If someone’s chasin’ him, ‘e don’t know it.” He walked for a minute, pacing a wide circle around the deck as pirates hauled on lines and made ready to sail. He dodged a pair as they wound a steerage rope up past his head, then back down to its mount.
Captain Mosher was still pacing lost in thought when the ship’s mate landed on the top stair. “Ready with the tide, cap’n!”
Nodding at the man’s salute, Mosher turned back to Ernie as the mate left. “You went to big city school. Tell me.” At the other man’s nod, he leaned close to whisper. “Dripping magic from yer fingers, no chantin’ around, is that not normal mage play?”
The helmsman tilted his head thoughtfully, his eyes landing on the robed stranger. Tall, broad, dressed in filthy rags and canvas footwraps, the mystery mage had demonstrated fire magic but the floor didn’t even have soot stains showing it. The dirty stranger’s belt was basic tier, showing he was either new to adventuring or not an adventurer at all, and his clothing could have easily been purchased at the port. “Either he’s on the run, lying, hiding, and we’re in mortal danger just havin’ him, or,” Ernie squinted up at the sun, watching the birds wheel around and call. “Or he’s on the far end of a run of bad luck, and we need to not anger him so close to home. That said, he didn’t even barter. Rich, with bad luck?”
“Yew twat.” Mosher aimed a slap at the back of the helmsman’s head, causing his friend to duck him with a laugh. “I can figure that! I meant -” he caught himself shouting, glancing to the front of the ship before stepping closer to talk again. He bent in a whisper, “I meant, what are the chances this fella is some magic amateur versus the chance he could burn down the Gorger if’n we piss him off?”
Ernie straightened up, “Oh, that’s easy Mosh. Watch.” Saying so, he pointed his right index finger off the side of the ship, towards the bleary sunrise. “Inskedali Owntiferrus.” At his chant, a small blue arrow formed alongside his hand and shot itself forward. The little arrow was translucent and bright, clearly showing even in the morning sun. Before the missile dissipated, it turned its arrow point to show North and fizzled away into steam. “See? Every spell has words, unless it’s built into an item. That guy,” he turned his pointing finger to the front of the ship where the robed figure had plunged his head into the smoke stream like a curious cat. “That guy didn’t even open his mouth. Do not anger the Mage who can most certainly kill us all. Pretty sure he’s regular crazy.”
Mosher blew out his cheeks, following the finger. “Damn. Crazy here, crazy out there, why’d the cap’n have to retire last voyage?”
Ernie let out a full laugh. “That’s what you get, cap’n, you’re in charge now. At least if the wallows do find us, we have an answer they won’t see coming.”
Looking around the ship almost ready to sail, the good captain huffed out another sigh. “At least we’re not in more danger, we just can’t get caught. The usual. Fugitives and pirates, who knew we’d make good friends?”
Walking away with a smile, Mosher made his way down the stairs as Ernie continued watching Zahn play with smoke. “Yeah, friends.”
