Setting Out

[Rashnu Vallar]

The snow stopped falling as Rashnu topped the crest that marked the final half mile to Tirel from Knife's Edge, and as the Witch Hunter gazed down upon the white-topped buildings, his face twisted in disdain. It had been over five years since he had last visited the port town, in what was one of the turning points in the war against the King; the white-clad Hunter had razed the town with his team. They had been on a rightful mission of cleansing the town of its nearly two dozen identified heretics - Witches, naysayers, supporters of the King - when soldiers of the army decided the work of the Church wasn't holy enough. Rashnu passed judgement on countless souls that day, but he believed the town was once more infested with those who deserved his judgement.

When the snow stopped, so did Rashnu, and his brown mare shifted a little at feeling its rider's change in mood. It was shocking the horse was so calm, for the Witch Hunter had been in the foulest of moods since morning, when he left Knife's Edge. He had been given a thorough dressing down by the Chief Commander of the Witch Hunters. It was a foolish notion, really; all Rashnu wanted was to follow the wishes of the Sway and eradicate non-believers and those who broke sacred laws. The Chief Commander, however, had grown as soft as the Church since the war and did not want the Superintendent General to "so fervently pursue sacred practices that might cast this Church in a negative light."

Rashnu was then ordered to take some time away for contemplation and prayer. Away from Salvar. Away from the Church. He growled and kicked the horse's flanks to start down the hill. He watched every passing person with closest attention, looking for signs of heresy. He had been trained since childhood to hunt those who were unworthy in the eyes of the Sway, and he spotted at least two in the stream of fifteen or so people he trotted by as he made his way to the town's gates. Of the few who risked looking at Rashnu, they did so with fear and hesitation: Most Tirel natives still remembered the white-clad hunter who had brought their home nearly to the ground. He glared at them all with a light in his azure eyes that told he would do it again if given the chance.

As he crossed the threshold into the town, he flashed the leather patch to the guards. The insignia of the All-Seeing-Eye was plain to see and they bowed their heads with just sufficient deference to be respectful, but Rashnu ignored them and raised the leather cowl over his head, hiding his face completely but for faint spots of azure light that moved constantly left and right. Still, the Superintendent General surveyed the streets hoping to find a heathen practising their evil. He had been ordered against actively seeking those who required judgement but if anyone had the tenacity to need judgement in plain daylight, he would not hesitate to punish them.

It was unfortunate that he found none as he made his way through the town's cobbled streets. The closer he got to the harbour, the more the pleasant aroma of the sea was overpowered by the foulness of the tanneries. It soured his mood even more, and he wished for nothing more than to strike a heretic down.

He slowed his breathing, taking deep, sickening breaths through his nose and long, slow exhales from his mouth. Anger was a step away from the Holy Teachings of the Sway, and Rashnu spoke a silent prayer to his deities in forgiveness. He started to calm instantly and began to stroke the mount's mane, "Time to see where we're going, Blade."

He turned the horse from the main streets and headed for the harbour through back alleys and side streets. Scaffolding still surrounded many buildings, and there was an arrhythmic beating of hammers on stone throughout the lower part of the town that provided a slow, sad soundtrack to ordinary citizens trying to rebuild their lives. It saddened the Witch Hunter that good, law-abiding, Sway-fearing people had to suffer for the iniquities of the few, but it served only to further stoke the fires of his desire to remove all sinners from the world. Rashnu lowered his head as he passed each worker, each child watching their mother re-apply plaster, each aged grandmother carrying teas for her sons and grandsons. It took another silent prayer for inner peace to stop the rider from erupting in rage.

"Let those who toil remember it is in the light of the Sway that honest labour yields blessings innumerable." The Witch Hunter took solace in the verse that had suddenly entered his mind. The words of wisdom held within the Holy Teaching always comforted the man, but his favourite was perhaps, "And when those who commit gravest of sins find their way to Our presence, light will forever be banished to them and the gnashing of teeth at their souls will be their only companion."

Rashnu imagined all those he had passed judgement on; condemned to a hell of darkness and torture that they surely deserved. He listed the names in his head of each and every soul he had sent to the Sway. As he pictured the face of each name, his mood lifted a little more until he was rather jolly upon reaching the harbour.

The docks were a swarm of all manner of people, young and old, rich and poor, natives and foreigners, and Rashnu was given no choice but to dismount and leave Blade with his reins tied to a post outside a dirty-looking tavern. He pushed his way through the crowd easily; most stepped back for the Witch Hunter, and those who didn't were smoothly pushed out of the way by the white-hooded man whose trenchcoat swayed in the brisk sea wind. Finally, boots hit wood and Rashnu looked at the ships up and down the harbour. He chose the third he came across, a large storage vessel with blue sails rolled up and a busy crew. The Witch Hunter thought the activity meant the ship would be leaving soon, despite sails not yet being unfurled.

The captain was stood at the end of a narrow ramp connecting the deck and dock and shouted commands to the crew above. Rashnu approached him and threw the cowl back, revealing a handsome face framed with hair of purest white. The captain was visibly taken aback when he noticed the glow in the Witch Hunter's eyes. "What can I do for ye, kind... Um, sir?"

The man's accent was foreign. Rashnu heard a hint of Alerar but was sure the bearded captain looked more Fallieni with his tanned skin and dark eyes - strange to find one of the desert-folk a captain of a ship. Rashnu showed the leather patch once more: even foreigners knew the All-Seeing-Eye, the Sway's influence would always be felt beyond just Salvar. "I require passage on your ship, by order of the Church of Ethereal Sway and our blessed guides - may they one day return - it matters not where you are headed."

"Ye may find the Eternal Spray little to ye liking, sir. We no be a passenger vessel, ye see?" The captain seemed nervous as it dawned on him that Rashnu was a Witch Hunter. "Only holds do be for cargo and crew, and I no want to displace them for fear of mutiny."

"Cargo holds will be sufficient. What will charge for passage, good Captain?"

"I do no charge the Church, ye can travel for no more than ye blessing on my ship."

Rashnu nodded, and started up the ramp onto the ship. "May the Sway watch over this vessel through calm and storm, bring it safely home in your light and guidance."

He stopped halfway up the ramp and turned back to the captain, "My horse is left outside The Dockside Wench. I trust one of your men will bring it aboard? A brown mare with a saddle baring the All-Seeing-Eye."

Rashnu then made his way on deck, neither hearing nor caring for the captain's response.

[Otto]

Sullen eyes tracked the dour Hunter's movements across deck, from a rag-tag team of sailors who stood sweating amidst a pile of crates and casks. They huddled in their coats against the wind, and quickly wiped the perspiration from their brows before it had a chance to freeze. The group appeared a strange and mixed one, some members obviously Falleni, others Coronian or Salvaran, and a few more yet boasting elfin heritage. But their true origins were confounded by each one's accumulation of outlandish fashions, picked up during their incessant voyages across the realms.

A swarthy, bearded northerner narrowed his eyes at the alabaster figure's back, and spat a discoloured gobbet over the railing.

"Just what we need," he muttered. "One of them aboard for the journey."

"How long d'you reckon he'll be with us?" asked a dusky-skinned Aleran.

The big fellow just shrugged. "No idea. But if'n he makes any trouble, I'd wager we'll be rid of him sooner rather than later." Then he grinned, suddenly. "Much sooner than he'd be wanting."

Some of the sailors turned their heads at the approaching sound of lumbering footsteps. The rest followed suit when this new arrival stopped just behind them and lowered a stout barrel to the deck with a loud thud and a slosh. The figure's shadow fell over the group as he loomed above them, larger even than the northerner, his shaggy-maned head following their former quarry just as the man disappeared into the hold.

"Who's that?" Otto asked.

The men gave each other a wary look. They didn't quite know what to make of the orc, especially given the race's reputation in these parts. But it had been clear from the get go that their passenger was a mite atypical, being more inclined to drink and game with the men than... well, whatever it is that the creatures normally did. Pillaging and looting was, by all accounts, what orcs were famous for, but Otto had volunteered to pull his weight and help the crew load up the supplies. So far, he had displayed a complete disinterest in torching the ship and making off with the cargo. In fact, his help in carrying up the massive barrels of fresh water was something of which the crew were thankful for each and every working hour.

It was the Aleran who deigned to reply. "Swayist of some sort," he murmured upwards. "One of the keener ones, if that sharp little get-up is anything to go by."

Otto frowned slightly, while the others began to shift uneasily with the disappearance of their subject of conversation.

"We'd best be getting back to it," remarked the Berevaran. "Plenty of cargo yet to load up, and I'm keen to be out at sea." The man gazed across the rolling, iron crests, as far out into the numb horizon as his blue eyes could pierce.

"Seems like it's the only safe place to be these days," he finished, lowly.

[Rashnu Vallar]

Rashnu had quickly made his way below-deck and into one of several cargo holds. The smell of spices strong in the air revealed the secrets of tightly sealed barrels that filled the expanse of the otherwise empty space Rashnu had taken for his cabin. He sat cross-legged atop one of the barrels with the small book in his hands. He absorbed the holy teachings of the Sway like a sponge, every word driving his desire to give out judgement to sinners and heretics alike. He maintained a quiet calm while reading the verses of his Church, and even started to accept his fate of exile.

Occasionally a member of the ship's crew entered the hold to ensure the cargo was secure and ready for travel, but they all made conscious effort to avoid the white-clad Witch Hunter. Rashnu heard occasional mutterings about trouble and passengers, but was never able to fully comprehend what the men said in their thick accents. His eyes rose from scripture once, after hearing something about a horse. "You had better treat that animal with kindness and respect. Be sure to give it oats and water; your captain will receive appropriate recompense for the expense."

The two tan-skinned crew members spoke in what Rashnu assumed was a confirmation of their obedience and he offered them a curt nod in acknowledgement before lowering his head again to read.

It was maybe an hour later that the ship lurched suddenly, prompting Rashnu to make his way back to the deck. Though in no way a sea-faring fellow, the Witch Hunter knew the lurch of a ship almost ready to leave harbour, it's anchor raised and ties to the harbour undone. As he finally reached the deck, he noticed that winds had picked up just enough to offer light, refreshing spray over the ship. He looked up and down the deck for his horse and quickly saw the brown mare a little further towards the stern.

He rubbed Blade's neck and spoke soft words of comfort to the steed. Being at sea was even less familiar to the warhorse than it was for Rashnu, and he did not want the animal working itself into a panic at the sudden change of footing a moving ship would provide. As the sails unfurled and the sound of rowing below signified the ship was starting its departure from harbour, Blade's eyes widened as though it knew what was coming. Rashnu masterly handled the horse, however, and worked at removing the saddle, all the while soothing the horse with his voice.

Rashnu kept a hand on Blade's rump as he watched the paddles work the sea into a froth, lost in the rhythmic sounds of the back-and-forth of the workers as the ship made its way toward sea.

[Otto]

They rowed out under the assurance of an oncoming, favourable wind, which was fulfilled half an hour after their oars first dipped the swell. The captain roused most of the crew to the deck, whereupon they tackled the mess of lines and mechanisms so as to catch the steady gusts and speed the Eternal Spray upon her way. Sails were hoisted and unfurled, lines slacking and turning taut as the great canvas sheets made best use of the wind, each closely tended to by the crew. The helmsman stood at the wheel, taking in a steady flow of directions from the officer of the watch, while sending out reports to the bridge in turn. Otto watched it all unfold from the relative quiet of the stern. The crew had made clear that, while his help in moving cargo had been appreciated, he'd be out of his depth when it came to operating anything to do with the actual sailing of the ship.

So he observed the bustle for a time, then when even that became onerous, turned to gaze out over the rolling sea. Salvar was still a looming white bulk along the western horizon, and Otto fancied he could even make out the dark splotch of Tirel. It was impossible to tell the damage done the the port city this far out, though, especially with a fine haze of sea spray between them and it. The landmass was the only thing of interest around; the rest of the sea was a gently undulating grey mass, mirrored by the bland expanse of clouds stretching above them. It was night-impossible to tell the time, as the sun's light refracted through the cloud layer and ended up as a sort of mild, whole-sky glare. The effect was like that of two boundless, dull steel plates pressed together, capturing this little ship in its moment of flight across the waves.

Otto could only take so much, so he made his way below deck. It was a decision he instantly regretted, as the ingrained smells from past voyages swooped in on him. He guessed the ship had had its share of spoiled food in the past, and its regular cargo of unwashed sailors hadn't helped matters much. Even so, he found himself drawn towards the tiny galley, where a fat, be-vested fellow was toiling over a couple of pots. The orc could see that they were in fact gimballed above the stove, while pretty much everything else around them had been simply bolted down. The cook glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of the approaching orc, and Otto was treated to a view of two beady eyes above a peppery walrus moustache.

"Tack'll be up in an hour," the man expounded. He had a strong, cheerful voice, and delivered the words in sharp bursts. "Fresh pork, mash and beans, plus soft bread and butter. Small beer's already been tapped, though, so help yourself right now if you like."

Otto unslung a tankard from an overhead rack and filled it with a draught from a cask in the corner. "Smells pretty good," he admitted, as the smell of the food swelled in his nostrils.

The cook gave a little chuckle in return. "Enjoy it while it lasts, that's my advice. Captain reckons good food's important on a ship, but we have to eat it while it lasts. Give it a week and we'll be on salted beef and ship's biscuit."

"I carried a few crates of the stuff on board, actually," Otto remarked. "I'm surprised it didn't sink us."

"Hah!" The beady eyes alighted on Otto again. "You look Berevar born, but don't sound at all like it. You from Corone?"

"Aye. Radasanth. Just came over to visit the family."

"Awful long way to come, even so," mused the cook.

Otto grinned. "I'd have sent them a letter, but I think they'd just eat the messenger."

The cook laughed again, heartier and longer this time. The Eternal Spray chose that moment to lurch, but the cook seemed unfazed while his gimbals did their thing; the pots swayed gently in the brackets, remaining largely inert. The cook scraped a touch of overflow off the side of one copper tub with his spoon, before he resumed his careful stirring of the contents.

"Name's Branfeld. Cook on the Eternal Spray for nigh on ten years, now."

"Otto. Radasanth city watch."

"Well then, Otto. You're looking a little bored there."

"Could say that," the orc replied slowly. "Sea's flatter than a witch's tit and the crew seem busy enough without me getting underfoot."

"Alright. Grab us a dram of our own, then, and I'll see if I can't find a couple of things to keep you busy."