These events take place succeeding Dyv5-06 Matters of the Heart.
Without looking at the sun, Verisham knows what time of day it is. The minstrel strums lazily on his lute, humming a tune. The tin cup in front of him is filled with copper and silver coins. Typically, he would have called it a day by now. The majority of ships have already made port in Safeton’s harbor, and there is little likelihood that he’ll make any more profit than he already has. But Verisham has a specific purpose beyond entertaining liberty sailors. There is a specific ship he was told would arrive today, one that carries information for him and his family. Given the name of the vessel, the Hungry Drake, there is only one piece of news it could be, and he is unwilling to leave the docks until that news is received. He continues to strum on his lute, watching the sun play along the waters of
The melody rolls like the tide, pushing time away. The world around him disappears, leaving only the shimmering water. His intonations, the rising and falling pitch, bring back memories from a different life, a life that existed on the high seas, where his songs could not only raise the crew’s ability to meet any challenge but affect the very winds themselves. He was young then, foolish, as were the people he sailed with. Cocksure and carefree, he and the other marines that crewed the Honor Bound were sure they could best anyone or anything. Krakens and pirates alike, they had yet to be bested.
His humming falters a bit as other memories surface. His tone becomes noticeably low, and he sees past the shimmering water into the dark depths of
As the sun begins setting, blocked by Safeton’s taller buildings, the bard’s song begins to sound like a dirge. The water he had found so entrancing now darkens to match his mood. With one hand grasped firmly to the line, he had stood on the rigging, watching the rapid advancement of the enemy ship. His voice had boomed across the waters, filling their sails with the captured wind. It did little, though, to increase the distance between the two ships. As his voice roared, the Dane came up alongside; her crew was ready for battle. He paid the pirates no attention. It was their captain that drew all eyes to her. That flowing red hair, that broad crimson hat with its audacious feather. Her poise oozed an unnatural presence; her confidence in the matter unmistakable. Nothing could best them…so they had thought.
Verisham snaps back to reality as a ship enters the harbor. He has no knowledge of how long he had been lost in thought, but the sun is gone beneath the horizon and only the full moon gives light to the area. He pauses hopefully, waiting for the ship to make berth. He would swear it is the Hungry Drake but worries that the low light and his anxiousness might be playing tricks on his eyes. His fears are put to rest, though, when Captain Marken stands on the rail and waves his hat at the minstrel. Not waiting for the ship to complete its arduous docking process, the captain and a few sailors man a longboat and row to shore. Verisham is quick to meet them, leaving his tin cup on the pier without giving it a second thought.
“Welcome to Safeton, captain,” he says anxiously. He clenches the neck of his lute so tightly in his left hand that the impressions of the strings will remain on his fingers for the rest of the night.
“Aye lad, it’s nice to see a friendly face again,” Marken says, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders. He looks him up and down, inspecting his former crewman. “Life on land seems to be treating you well enough.”
“Captain!” Verisham cries, the anguish obvious in his voice.
“All right lad! All right,” the captain laughs. “As captain of the Hungry Drake, tis my privilege to inform you that your brother and fellow marine, Rashaman, was recovered during the siege of Admundfort. He be resting in Dyvers and reacquainting himself with the missus, if you know what I mean.” The seamen give a good chuckle, but Verisham does not even hear the jest.
“Thank you Marken, may the Sea Dragon bless your journey,” the bard cries over his shoulder. He falls into a dead sprint back toward the city.
“Aye lad,” the captain replies softly, knowing the minstrel cannot hear him. “May the gods bless us all. We be family once more.” Marken takes off his hat and scratches his balding head. “Back to the ship, boys,” he barks. “There still be work to do.”
The Hungry Drake has made little progress in its docking by the time Verisham has left the city. Galloping on horseback, he bolts to his family farm south of the city. His mother often chided him his stubborn nature. As the years passed, he refused to give up hope. He knew his brother was out there somewhere. And with the testament of Captain Marken, a sailor he had entrusted his life to on numerous occasions, his hope has proven true. If it were true, his joy would grow as wings on his back and he would fly back to his home. As it is, he simply spurred his horse ever faster, coming dangerously close to killing the beast.
The horse has yet to stop moving when the man’s feet hit the ground. It’s late now, with the full moon emblazoned in the heavens above. Shadows play everywhere, but Verisham pays them little attention. His senses are piqued, and he sees as if he were half-elven. He leaps to the porch shouting, “Hey! Everyone, hey!” He slows only momentarily when he rounds the corner of the house and reaches the front door. There are horses outside. Their size would belie their war-time use if they were not barded with spiked armor. Verisham hesitates momentarily and curses under his breath. It seems that word spread more quickly of Rashaman’s rescue than he thought. Obviously some former crewmates-turned-adventurers have come to wish the family well. He hopes that they have not spoiled the surprise yet. He wants to be the one to tell his mother.
“Mother!” he shouts, running in the front door. “Mother, I have great news!” He’s not sure why he stops in the front hall. He has yet to stop moving since he left Captain Marken at the docks. But here, between the dining room and the reading room, he stops. The house is dark. There is no sound, even though he has caused a mighty ruckus upon his arrival. The hairs stand on the back of his neck and, although not used for years, those skills he honed as a marine and adventurer awaken. Something is wrong. He is not alone.
He looks down at his left hand, feeling for the first time the pain he inflicted on himself by squeezing his lute so tightly. Thinking for only a split second, he turns the weapon upside down, holding the make-shift club in front of him defensively. He steps forward silently, like a cat silently prowling the night. Where before he ignored the shadows caused by the full moon, now his eyes dart from corner to corner, piercing the black. For no discernable reason, he moves to his left, heading toward the kitchen. He pushes the swinging door ajar slowly. The opening releases a barrage of trapped odors and sounds. Some type of stew simmers on the fire. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he has not eaten since lunch. His mind wanders briefly as he remembers that he left his tin cup on the pier.
Movement in the kitchen draws his attention back to the present. “Mother?” he asks cautiously. He takes another step forward, opening the door fully. As he does, the light from the cook fire embers illuminates the rest of the kitchen. He sees what remains of his mother lying on the floor. Rats crawl across her chest. Her body has been torn asunder, legs split like a wishbone and throne onto the table. He gags as he realizes they’ve been gnawed upon.
Grief overwhelms the minstrel, and he drops his lute, making a large clattering on the kitchen stones. He hears the thundering of massive boots charging through the house long before he sees the heavily armored orcs turn the corner, but he cannot move. He stares at his mother, the look of horror burned onto her face. He smells the stew he craved only a few moments ago. The thought of what might be in that stew now causes him to leave what little he had in his stomach on the floor. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, hoping to regain his composure, but it’s too late.
“Mother, I have good news,” he whispers. “Rashaman has been rescued.” The massive axe cuts through the darkness in slow motion; the blade shimmers in the ember light. The last thing Verisham sees is the giant orc standing in front of him. Its face is smeared with war paint. The bard’s eyes grow wide as he recognizes where that paint comes from. He’s struck by how unnatural the green skin looks beneath the paint. Black.