Jalim Mandren
07-16-10, 04:52 PM
((Thread is now closed - I'm currently reworking through my posts, after having had some feedback, before I submit quest for judging))
Thunder rolled overhead, lightning cracked at regular intervals and Jalim muttered a curse as he tried to light the fire. He had thought the small flat clearing inside the copse of trees would provide sufficient cover, at least to have a cup of tea and a bit of warmth against the storm. The smell of damp leaves beneath his feet irked the Warder, but there had been little time or opportunity to scout a more suitable place to rest for the night.
"Water will do, Jalim." Mathwain spoke calmly as Jalim continued striking the flint, but the irritation was plain in her voice for the Warder. Their bond offered some level of empathy; Jalim could feel an impression of Mathwain's current mood. It had proved over the years to be both a blessing and a bane - sometimes, he simply did not want to know how she felt. The pair had never been romantically involved, she was too old for starters, and neither were celibate. He nodded and wrapped the cloak around himself, it did little good against the rain that seemed lie it would never stop. It was unusual for Jalim to feel like brooding but recent events had raised his hackles: The Aes Sedai had been taking unnecessary risks and it was a Warder's duty to protect the woman to whom he was bonded. It was unlike her, and while he understood that finding the unknown artefact was vitally important, she seemed not to realise that it would never be found if she was dead.
Only two days ago had they narrowly escaped a flood of Mathwain's creation and unfortunately left the villagers to fend for themselves. The quest to find the artefact was something known by the enemy, and their journey towards the northern continent had been fraught with danger. Almost on a daily basis Aes Sedai and Warder had been attacked; sometimes in the middle of the day, other times while they slept. At the last village, Mathwain said she sensed the presence of an enemy too strong. In an act of defence, the storm they now sat in had erupted from the heavens. The river that ran through the small village, Herle, began to swell in a matter of minutes, and the two companions had left with horses wading knee-deep in water. Enough gold had been left to ensure the poor folk of Helre would be able to rebuild. Jalim's free hand cupped the small pouch at his waist; too much money had been spent already on this journey - Mathwain was far too generous and the green eyed warrior had been brought up in a small town, his family poor. He doubted that there'd ever be a time when he became adjusted to such a lavish lifestyle.
"Would you rather I had left them nothing?" It was a chastising comment carried with a voice all ice and calm. Sometimes Jalim was sure that the bond offered her more than simple empathy - so often it felt like the woman could read his mind.
"We'll have no steady supply where we're going, Aes Sedai." As stony as his features, the Warder's voice showed no emotion but the use of such formality showed annoyance. She had a habit of gentle prodding taunts, needless considering their situation. Another attribute of the bond meant that he would obey Mathwain's every command if she so wished. Only on a couple of occasions had she ever done that, for which Jalim was grateful.
Silently they let the night pass them by and Jalim moved from the unlit fire after a few minutes to keep guard on the camp. Wrapped in his cloak, the steely fellow seemed to disappear, only his face visible, the colour-shifting cloak being more than a little disconcerting for those unused to such garb. As he peered into the blackness with keen green eyes, a quick shake of the head did little to fight off the fatigue of straining ears to listen for noises over the rain, thunder and lightning. Despite his training in the Tower, Jalim was still a young Warder, and the hardness of other, more experienced protectors was yet to form on him; his home town had been in a very warm part of Althanas' southern continent, and he still hated the rain.
The night remained still - except for the unrelenting storm - until an hour before dawn, when the black sky was just starting to lighten. Despite his shivers, right then Jalim thanked the storm and its lightning; not a hundred yards away a tall figure was moving through the trees, and though Jalim would have heard the approach from at least double that distance on any other night, the storm had drowned out the footfalls of the clumsy hunter. The thing was broader than any man, taller, and had a monstrous visage - a human face distorted with an unnatural merging of man and beast. Instead of a nose and mouth, a bear's snout exhaled steamy hot breath that was quickly lost to the rain. An unnatural creature of human creation, the man-beast hybrid was a hairy thing, clothed in black armour and chain-mail, spikes rising from shoulders and elbows, knees and boots. In the flash of light, dull metal could be seen: a long, strangely curved sword that would cleave a man in two behind the force of the thing's massive arms.
The instant the monster was seen, Jalim rose smoothly from his heels and had his sword in hand. "Wake, Mathwain! Kael Ork!"
She wasn't asleep, but habit had forced words from his mouth, and he ran the short distance back to the camp, standing over the surprised woman, sword in front of him held in both hands, legs apart, ready to defend the Aes Sedai with his life.
"If there's one, more are here. We should move, the risk is too much." Mathwain was stood, holding an unlit ivory tabac pipe in her left hand. She was right but there was no time to do anything about it.
Suddenly, from all sides, Kael Orks rushed the pair. Jalim danced the sword forms he had learned in the tower smoothly, cutting a swath through the beasts. Heron On The Lake took the arm of one Ork, disarming it, only for the Warder to turn, lowering himself to rise into Thrush Takes Flight, cutting half-way through the torso of another terrible Ork. On and on he moved from form to form, smooth precision and grace delivering death without prejudice.
Mathwain stood where she was, cool serenity personified, and where she looked, Orks burst into flame. One hand kept the skirt of her grey silk dress out of the mud as well as was possible, and she simply turned to face each monster she intended to incinerate. The Aes Sedai held the pipe tightly, and occasionally pointed it towards her next victim as though directing the flame with the small trinket.
The battle lasted only a few moments but both man and woman were panting - with no warning and such a strong raid, the battle was a constant fight to stay alive. Throughout the camp, dead bodies of Orks oozed black blood that stained the ground below. Not all were like the first Jalim had seen, some were almost human in appearance, but with hooves instead of feet, some with too-human eyes above a beak where nose and mouth should have been. Stalking through the camp, Jalim looked each Kael Ork over in turn, making sure they all were dead. He wiped the blade of his sword on the cloak that belonged to a hulking figure that stared with the eyes of a hawk and snout of a boar; the black blood would act like acid if kept on metal for too long.
The sweet, sickening stench of burned flesh was partly washed away by the rain, but Jalim had to wipe soot from his face - there had been no escaping the thick smoke of burning unnatural beasts and the rain made it stick to human flesh like tar. It would be a while before the small left his nose, and as he looked at Mathwain, Jalim knew she was in much the same state. Her face was still black but the grey dress was smeared where she had wiped her hands clean of the filth.
There was no time to rest, though: From east and west great horns bellowed their cry, deep and piercing through the storm. A moment later, two more horns were heard from the shouth. More were approaching, at least five Hands of Kael Orks - two hundred of the creatures - were quickly surrounding the two. Perhaps half a mile away. "We'll not survive this much longer." It was a simple statement of fact, but one that carried worry in the Warder's voice. He had supported Mathwain for five years, helped her as she sought to battle the forces of the Shadow; he could not see that go to waste now. He had heard, hoped, that the same forces weren't present in the northern continent where they were headed. It was there, so rumour said, that a malign artefact could be found which would give the Shadow what it needed for victory. They could not allow such a thing to be found by the wrong people.
"Then go. I'm hardly defenceless, Jalim. Reach Underwood! Go!" Mathwain spoke with command, using the bond between them to force the Warder's actions. Though she hated doing it, Mathwain knew there was no other choice: Her life was not as important as the mission, and Jalim stood a better chance of escape being a much better rider than she.
"Damn you, Aes Sedai!" Jalim roared his protestation even while he sheathed his sword and jumped onto the black war horse against his will. He tried in vain to resist his movements, there was nothing he could do to fight the Aes Sedai's order. He looked back as he galloped to the north, towards the ocean. The roars of battle could be heard as fire lit the sky where he had camped. It seemed as though each bolt of lightning was focused on the area surrounding Mathwain. Despite his worry over the life of his companion, Jalim was totally focused on reaching the ocean before he reached the next hill. He kicked the horse to a dead gallop, seething with anger.
Three weeks had passed since the Kael Orks had attacked, and Jalim sat aboard The Ten Sails. The ship's name was nothing more than a boast. The wide, broad bowed boat had only three sails, though bigger than any Jalim had ever seen. The ship did seem to make good time across the waves of the ocean, though Jalim was not certain - he was no sailor, and he didn't mean to ask when such a question could offend. The night he left Mathwain to battle the small army of Orks, the Warder was both full of fury and racked with worry. He rested much easier now, though; the bond allowed him to sense Mathwain even at this distance. She was alive, at least, and somewhere to the south. He couldn't tell her state, though, so was still a little worried - had she been injured? Captured? He had no way of knowing. At least he rested more easily knowing she was alive, not a weak woman he had confidence in her.
The journey aboard the ship had been pleasant so far, though far from perfect. Jalim had never been one to socialise and always preferred the company of a good book and a pipe. Unless he stayed in the ever-growing heat of the stuffy, windowless cabin he had hired, there'd be no chance of solitude. The further north the ship travelled, the hotter the weather and sitting on the deck gave a welcome breeze. The freshness of the ocean carried a salty scent, and the occasional spray that drifted like a fine mist over the deck was refreshing and cooling.
Throughout each day, Jalim would spend his time sat at the stern of the ship with his legs crossed, sword resting on his knees as the oiled whetstone made even, rhythmic whisk-whisks. Sword care had been one of the first lessons taught in the Tower, and now it was a habit to keep the blade razor sharp and oiled to a sheen. Occasionally, in the early morning or evening when the heat was not so intense, Jalim would stand on deck in just his breeches to practice the sword forms. He would spend an hour or more going through each movement, keeping his skills honed and gaining a small audience of sailors unused to seeing such activities.
Despite wanting to be left alone, the fat ship's captain - Terik Ylter - would often approach the Warder, asking if he could offer any service, if Jalim wanted a drink bringing up from the galley. A cold, blank stare was usually enough to send the balding man back to whatever it was a ship's captain did. Barking orders for things to be done that were already half-completed by the much slimmer, bare-footed crewmen of the Ten Sails, from what Jalim had seen.
Each time the captain left, though, it was not before more boasting about the speed of the ship accompanied with reassurances that Jalim's money had been well-spent.
"Fastest ship ye'll find, this, m'lord. Halfway there now, m'lord, the sun tells us. Ye can be sure the journey shan't be any much longer." The fat captain spoke with a drawl that made his speech difficult to understand but Jalim mostly ignored him. It had been a surprise on the first day at sea proper when Terik walked away with a perfect balance along the deck. The man's large body sway with the back-and-forth motions of the vessel while feet remained steady on wood that had once been polished.
Jalim maintained a mostly docile impression, but his eyes constantly scanned the length and breadth of the ship. Even though he was put at ease knowing Mathwain was still alive, and her insistence that there would be few, if any, enemies on the northern continent, the Warder remained cautious; he could not take any risks, especially in a foreign land he had never visited. Any of the crew could be Shadowfriends, or from the land he intended to reach soon. Danger could very well be around the next corner or on the ship itself.
Another month went by and Jalim's days were spent on deck sat alone or practising the sword forms. Nights had been spent in the small cabin that had been hired. The narrow, hard bed was built into the wall, and Jalim had no choice but to sleep on his side. If he had laid flat, his shoulder would hang from the edge, something that was never comfortable. The cabin had just enough room for a chipped clay washstand, striped blue and red, and a mirror for shaving that was not much bigger than the man's head. In Jalim's mind, there was no need for more and while he wasn't entirely comfortable in the cabin the cheap price had meant money could be saved. Mathwain, of course, would have ousted the captain from his own quarters, set herself in there and enjoyed Terik's own stock of food. Quite possibly for triple the price. She was certainly one for luxury.
The Warder ate with the crew silently. He had no reason to befriend them and was always wary of sailors - some men would choose the sea over the hangman's noose. One afternoon, eating a bowl of thin broth that was as tasteless as it was pale, Jalim looked each man over with piercing green eyes, weighing the crew in his mind. Some looked honest enough, their hiding nothing. Others scowled at him or even snarled; his eating with the crew meant their rations had been reduced. However slightly, some men were far from appreciative of it.
Whenever he received one of the acidic snarls and scowls, Jalim made special effort while practising the sword forms. It was sufficient to calm any wild thoughts of murder. Despite that, the journey had proved to be uneventful. Days came and went, time started to have less meaning, and the smell of salt air was hardly noticed and he could still sense that Mathwain was alive. Jalim almost allowed himself to relax. Almost.
Suddenly one morning, about two months after the journey began, a cry was heard from high above the deck, from a young man atop the tallest mast. "Ahoy! Scara Brae ahoy!"
Jalim sheathed his sword as he stood, put the whetstone in his pocket and headed below deck to collect his belongings. He travelled light and had a single large saddlebag that held essentials for travel; a razor for shaving, a steel pan for cooking, a couple of changes of clothes and his Warder's cloak. He did not want to draw more attention to himself here than necessary, and the colour-shifting cloak would certainly do that. Before boarding Ten Sails, Jalim had bought a well-made green cloak of rough. He donned it as he came on deck and pulled the hood up to hide his face before the docks came into view.
Men scurried around the ship, sails were folded somehow, barrels were brought up from the hold, and Terik bawled snapping orders to the crew who clearly new what they were doing. Sweeps were used to guide the large ship against its designated pier. As the gangplank was lowered, Jalim had to wait as barrels were taken ashore, none of the crew waiting for their passenger to alight before getting to work. Just an under hour later, the Warder was back on solid ground in Scara Brae docks.
Seagulls circled overhead, and people bustled around various ships, or waited for others. Merchants were waiting a little further inland, their wagons lacquered in a variety of colours, guards holding cudgels as if they intended to use them. The silk-clad merchants were all talking loudly, assuring the sailors that they would offer the best money, or that ordinary folk would be given the best prices. Hawkers wandered, calling their wares above the din: fruits, pins and needles, knives, even one man offering the greatest shoe shine you'd ever receive. It was a noisy, busy and lively centre of activity that surrounded Jalim.
It took a little while to find the pier where the ferry would take Jalim to the island of Corone, and as he walked his way through the crowd, the Warder reached out to sense Mathwain. At this distance, her presence was no longer in the back of his mind, though he was still aware she was alive. As he lit the long stemmed pipe and began to puff on it steadily, Jalim realised that Mathwain was not getting any closer. Either she was having difficulty finding a ship - they were not a common thing, ships that came this far - or she was in some kind of trouble. Regaining his outward was an effort as the Warder frowned, but once attained, it did not leave.
Thunder rolled overhead, lightning cracked at regular intervals and Jalim muttered a curse as he tried to light the fire. He had thought the small flat clearing inside the copse of trees would provide sufficient cover, at least to have a cup of tea and a bit of warmth against the storm. The smell of damp leaves beneath his feet irked the Warder, but there had been little time or opportunity to scout a more suitable place to rest for the night.
"Water will do, Jalim." Mathwain spoke calmly as Jalim continued striking the flint, but the irritation was plain in her voice for the Warder. Their bond offered some level of empathy; Jalim could feel an impression of Mathwain's current mood. It had proved over the years to be both a blessing and a bane - sometimes, he simply did not want to know how she felt. The pair had never been romantically involved, she was too old for starters, and neither were celibate. He nodded and wrapped the cloak around himself, it did little good against the rain that seemed lie it would never stop. It was unusual for Jalim to feel like brooding but recent events had raised his hackles: The Aes Sedai had been taking unnecessary risks and it was a Warder's duty to protect the woman to whom he was bonded. It was unlike her, and while he understood that finding the unknown artefact was vitally important, she seemed not to realise that it would never be found if she was dead.
Only two days ago had they narrowly escaped a flood of Mathwain's creation and unfortunately left the villagers to fend for themselves. The quest to find the artefact was something known by the enemy, and their journey towards the northern continent had been fraught with danger. Almost on a daily basis Aes Sedai and Warder had been attacked; sometimes in the middle of the day, other times while they slept. At the last village, Mathwain said she sensed the presence of an enemy too strong. In an act of defence, the storm they now sat in had erupted from the heavens. The river that ran through the small village, Herle, began to swell in a matter of minutes, and the two companions had left with horses wading knee-deep in water. Enough gold had been left to ensure the poor folk of Helre would be able to rebuild. Jalim's free hand cupped the small pouch at his waist; too much money had been spent already on this journey - Mathwain was far too generous and the green eyed warrior had been brought up in a small town, his family poor. He doubted that there'd ever be a time when he became adjusted to such a lavish lifestyle.
"Would you rather I had left them nothing?" It was a chastising comment carried with a voice all ice and calm. Sometimes Jalim was sure that the bond offered her more than simple empathy - so often it felt like the woman could read his mind.
"We'll have no steady supply where we're going, Aes Sedai." As stony as his features, the Warder's voice showed no emotion but the use of such formality showed annoyance. She had a habit of gentle prodding taunts, needless considering their situation. Another attribute of the bond meant that he would obey Mathwain's every command if she so wished. Only on a couple of occasions had she ever done that, for which Jalim was grateful.
Silently they let the night pass them by and Jalim moved from the unlit fire after a few minutes to keep guard on the camp. Wrapped in his cloak, the steely fellow seemed to disappear, only his face visible, the colour-shifting cloak being more than a little disconcerting for those unused to such garb. As he peered into the blackness with keen green eyes, a quick shake of the head did little to fight off the fatigue of straining ears to listen for noises over the rain, thunder and lightning. Despite his training in the Tower, Jalim was still a young Warder, and the hardness of other, more experienced protectors was yet to form on him; his home town had been in a very warm part of Althanas' southern continent, and he still hated the rain.
The night remained still - except for the unrelenting storm - until an hour before dawn, when the black sky was just starting to lighten. Despite his shivers, right then Jalim thanked the storm and its lightning; not a hundred yards away a tall figure was moving through the trees, and though Jalim would have heard the approach from at least double that distance on any other night, the storm had drowned out the footfalls of the clumsy hunter. The thing was broader than any man, taller, and had a monstrous visage - a human face distorted with an unnatural merging of man and beast. Instead of a nose and mouth, a bear's snout exhaled steamy hot breath that was quickly lost to the rain. An unnatural creature of human creation, the man-beast hybrid was a hairy thing, clothed in black armour and chain-mail, spikes rising from shoulders and elbows, knees and boots. In the flash of light, dull metal could be seen: a long, strangely curved sword that would cleave a man in two behind the force of the thing's massive arms.
The instant the monster was seen, Jalim rose smoothly from his heels and had his sword in hand. "Wake, Mathwain! Kael Ork!"
She wasn't asleep, but habit had forced words from his mouth, and he ran the short distance back to the camp, standing over the surprised woman, sword in front of him held in both hands, legs apart, ready to defend the Aes Sedai with his life.
"If there's one, more are here. We should move, the risk is too much." Mathwain was stood, holding an unlit ivory tabac pipe in her left hand. She was right but there was no time to do anything about it.
Suddenly, from all sides, Kael Orks rushed the pair. Jalim danced the sword forms he had learned in the tower smoothly, cutting a swath through the beasts. Heron On The Lake took the arm of one Ork, disarming it, only for the Warder to turn, lowering himself to rise into Thrush Takes Flight, cutting half-way through the torso of another terrible Ork. On and on he moved from form to form, smooth precision and grace delivering death without prejudice.
Mathwain stood where she was, cool serenity personified, and where she looked, Orks burst into flame. One hand kept the skirt of her grey silk dress out of the mud as well as was possible, and she simply turned to face each monster she intended to incinerate. The Aes Sedai held the pipe tightly, and occasionally pointed it towards her next victim as though directing the flame with the small trinket.
The battle lasted only a few moments but both man and woman were panting - with no warning and such a strong raid, the battle was a constant fight to stay alive. Throughout the camp, dead bodies of Orks oozed black blood that stained the ground below. Not all were like the first Jalim had seen, some were almost human in appearance, but with hooves instead of feet, some with too-human eyes above a beak where nose and mouth should have been. Stalking through the camp, Jalim looked each Kael Ork over in turn, making sure they all were dead. He wiped the blade of his sword on the cloak that belonged to a hulking figure that stared with the eyes of a hawk and snout of a boar; the black blood would act like acid if kept on metal for too long.
The sweet, sickening stench of burned flesh was partly washed away by the rain, but Jalim had to wipe soot from his face - there had been no escaping the thick smoke of burning unnatural beasts and the rain made it stick to human flesh like tar. It would be a while before the small left his nose, and as he looked at Mathwain, Jalim knew she was in much the same state. Her face was still black but the grey dress was smeared where she had wiped her hands clean of the filth.
There was no time to rest, though: From east and west great horns bellowed their cry, deep and piercing through the storm. A moment later, two more horns were heard from the shouth. More were approaching, at least five Hands of Kael Orks - two hundred of the creatures - were quickly surrounding the two. Perhaps half a mile away. "We'll not survive this much longer." It was a simple statement of fact, but one that carried worry in the Warder's voice. He had supported Mathwain for five years, helped her as she sought to battle the forces of the Shadow; he could not see that go to waste now. He had heard, hoped, that the same forces weren't present in the northern continent where they were headed. It was there, so rumour said, that a malign artefact could be found which would give the Shadow what it needed for victory. They could not allow such a thing to be found by the wrong people.
"Then go. I'm hardly defenceless, Jalim. Reach Underwood! Go!" Mathwain spoke with command, using the bond between them to force the Warder's actions. Though she hated doing it, Mathwain knew there was no other choice: Her life was not as important as the mission, and Jalim stood a better chance of escape being a much better rider than she.
"Damn you, Aes Sedai!" Jalim roared his protestation even while he sheathed his sword and jumped onto the black war horse against his will. He tried in vain to resist his movements, there was nothing he could do to fight the Aes Sedai's order. He looked back as he galloped to the north, towards the ocean. The roars of battle could be heard as fire lit the sky where he had camped. It seemed as though each bolt of lightning was focused on the area surrounding Mathwain. Despite his worry over the life of his companion, Jalim was totally focused on reaching the ocean before he reached the next hill. He kicked the horse to a dead gallop, seething with anger.
Three weeks had passed since the Kael Orks had attacked, and Jalim sat aboard The Ten Sails. The ship's name was nothing more than a boast. The wide, broad bowed boat had only three sails, though bigger than any Jalim had ever seen. The ship did seem to make good time across the waves of the ocean, though Jalim was not certain - he was no sailor, and he didn't mean to ask when such a question could offend. The night he left Mathwain to battle the small army of Orks, the Warder was both full of fury and racked with worry. He rested much easier now, though; the bond allowed him to sense Mathwain even at this distance. She was alive, at least, and somewhere to the south. He couldn't tell her state, though, so was still a little worried - had she been injured? Captured? He had no way of knowing. At least he rested more easily knowing she was alive, not a weak woman he had confidence in her.
The journey aboard the ship had been pleasant so far, though far from perfect. Jalim had never been one to socialise and always preferred the company of a good book and a pipe. Unless he stayed in the ever-growing heat of the stuffy, windowless cabin he had hired, there'd be no chance of solitude. The further north the ship travelled, the hotter the weather and sitting on the deck gave a welcome breeze. The freshness of the ocean carried a salty scent, and the occasional spray that drifted like a fine mist over the deck was refreshing and cooling.
Throughout each day, Jalim would spend his time sat at the stern of the ship with his legs crossed, sword resting on his knees as the oiled whetstone made even, rhythmic whisk-whisks. Sword care had been one of the first lessons taught in the Tower, and now it was a habit to keep the blade razor sharp and oiled to a sheen. Occasionally, in the early morning or evening when the heat was not so intense, Jalim would stand on deck in just his breeches to practice the sword forms. He would spend an hour or more going through each movement, keeping his skills honed and gaining a small audience of sailors unused to seeing such activities.
Despite wanting to be left alone, the fat ship's captain - Terik Ylter - would often approach the Warder, asking if he could offer any service, if Jalim wanted a drink bringing up from the galley. A cold, blank stare was usually enough to send the balding man back to whatever it was a ship's captain did. Barking orders for things to be done that were already half-completed by the much slimmer, bare-footed crewmen of the Ten Sails, from what Jalim had seen.
Each time the captain left, though, it was not before more boasting about the speed of the ship accompanied with reassurances that Jalim's money had been well-spent.
"Fastest ship ye'll find, this, m'lord. Halfway there now, m'lord, the sun tells us. Ye can be sure the journey shan't be any much longer." The fat captain spoke with a drawl that made his speech difficult to understand but Jalim mostly ignored him. It had been a surprise on the first day at sea proper when Terik walked away with a perfect balance along the deck. The man's large body sway with the back-and-forth motions of the vessel while feet remained steady on wood that had once been polished.
Jalim maintained a mostly docile impression, but his eyes constantly scanned the length and breadth of the ship. Even though he was put at ease knowing Mathwain was still alive, and her insistence that there would be few, if any, enemies on the northern continent, the Warder remained cautious; he could not take any risks, especially in a foreign land he had never visited. Any of the crew could be Shadowfriends, or from the land he intended to reach soon. Danger could very well be around the next corner or on the ship itself.
Another month went by and Jalim's days were spent on deck sat alone or practising the sword forms. Nights had been spent in the small cabin that had been hired. The narrow, hard bed was built into the wall, and Jalim had no choice but to sleep on his side. If he had laid flat, his shoulder would hang from the edge, something that was never comfortable. The cabin had just enough room for a chipped clay washstand, striped blue and red, and a mirror for shaving that was not much bigger than the man's head. In Jalim's mind, there was no need for more and while he wasn't entirely comfortable in the cabin the cheap price had meant money could be saved. Mathwain, of course, would have ousted the captain from his own quarters, set herself in there and enjoyed Terik's own stock of food. Quite possibly for triple the price. She was certainly one for luxury.
The Warder ate with the crew silently. He had no reason to befriend them and was always wary of sailors - some men would choose the sea over the hangman's noose. One afternoon, eating a bowl of thin broth that was as tasteless as it was pale, Jalim looked each man over with piercing green eyes, weighing the crew in his mind. Some looked honest enough, their hiding nothing. Others scowled at him or even snarled; his eating with the crew meant their rations had been reduced. However slightly, some men were far from appreciative of it.
Whenever he received one of the acidic snarls and scowls, Jalim made special effort while practising the sword forms. It was sufficient to calm any wild thoughts of murder. Despite that, the journey had proved to be uneventful. Days came and went, time started to have less meaning, and the smell of salt air was hardly noticed and he could still sense that Mathwain was alive. Jalim almost allowed himself to relax. Almost.
Suddenly one morning, about two months after the journey began, a cry was heard from high above the deck, from a young man atop the tallest mast. "Ahoy! Scara Brae ahoy!"
Jalim sheathed his sword as he stood, put the whetstone in his pocket and headed below deck to collect his belongings. He travelled light and had a single large saddlebag that held essentials for travel; a razor for shaving, a steel pan for cooking, a couple of changes of clothes and his Warder's cloak. He did not want to draw more attention to himself here than necessary, and the colour-shifting cloak would certainly do that. Before boarding Ten Sails, Jalim had bought a well-made green cloak of rough. He donned it as he came on deck and pulled the hood up to hide his face before the docks came into view.
Men scurried around the ship, sails were folded somehow, barrels were brought up from the hold, and Terik bawled snapping orders to the crew who clearly new what they were doing. Sweeps were used to guide the large ship against its designated pier. As the gangplank was lowered, Jalim had to wait as barrels were taken ashore, none of the crew waiting for their passenger to alight before getting to work. Just an under hour later, the Warder was back on solid ground in Scara Brae docks.
Seagulls circled overhead, and people bustled around various ships, or waited for others. Merchants were waiting a little further inland, their wagons lacquered in a variety of colours, guards holding cudgels as if they intended to use them. The silk-clad merchants were all talking loudly, assuring the sailors that they would offer the best money, or that ordinary folk would be given the best prices. Hawkers wandered, calling their wares above the din: fruits, pins and needles, knives, even one man offering the greatest shoe shine you'd ever receive. It was a noisy, busy and lively centre of activity that surrounded Jalim.
It took a little while to find the pier where the ferry would take Jalim to the island of Corone, and as he walked his way through the crowd, the Warder reached out to sense Mathwain. At this distance, her presence was no longer in the back of his mind, though he was still aware she was alive. As he lit the long stemmed pipe and began to puff on it steadily, Jalim realised that Mathwain was not getting any closer. Either she was having difficulty finding a ship - they were not a common thing, ships that came this far - or she was in some kind of trouble. Regaining his outward was an effort as the Warder frowned, but once attained, it did not leave.