Now that disaster had been averted, Ulric Einar, rookie adventurer in a strange world, got down to the business of yard selling. Not to toot his own horn too loudly, but he had unloaded the entire stock of [Azure Cedar] within the round of the Twins. A pair of men, hands roughened, leather aprons covered in wood dust, still carrying their tools on belts and in pockets on the heavy aprons, arrived at a near dead run, pulling up while panting heavily.
“Lad! You the one with the Elf Blue Wood?! Hurry!” Demanded the first man, in a breathless tenor, while his comrade sucked wind.
Ulric nodded, “Aye, I’ve samples here, the rest sits dry in my wagon bed.” He replied.
“All of it.” Gasped the second man, still bent over.
“What he said, lad, we’ll have all of it. Name yer weight.” Requested the carpenter.
Ulric had thought long on this. He knew what typical rates were, thanks to Gother’s children’s lessons, but those had not accounted for a markup to cover transport and delivery to so far flung a market. Most Iriel’en goods went through mercantile companies operating in Iriel, Celestin, or Zelussin, that sat along the Zelas, which would trade hands a good few times before they ever left Orlethrem territory. What Ulric was sitting on was valued far grander than its normal price. Momma Einar had not raised a fool.
“My cargo is milled, not rough timber, as these pieces exemplify. No surfacing, no leveling, straight, true, and grained for anything from furniture to the craft of shingles.” Ulric told the pair of professionals.
He gave them a moment to stew on that. By describing the most important qualities of lumber to finish carpentry, he had succinctly conveyed that he knew what it was he had to offer them. Now they knew that he knew that they knew, negotiation could be done with less outright attempts at wholesale robbery.
“Eighty Sil Squires, each board.” Ulric made the opening offer, suitably high.
It was too much, but not so much that he came off ignorant. Twenty percent overage on his desired rate would convince the pair, if they had any wisdom at all in the game of trade, that it was best to deal fairly.
“Seventy. And I’ll have even the chips in the bottom of ye’re wagon.” Retorted the Barbarian, ready to make done with the horseshit.
“Done.” Ulric said, simply, holding his arm up toward the man to seal the bargain.
“Done, by my Eyes and Honor.” The bent over craftsman said, reaching over to snag his arm and shake it, once, with vigor.
Just as they finished the count of coin, deposited into Ulric’s purse and adding substantial weight to it, another Barbarian clambered out from the throng in the trade yard. She was swarthy, with strong looking arms, and she glared at the two men before turning her attention to him.
“Ye’re the one what’s selling Blue Elf-“ She started.
Crowing victoriously, the first of the carpenters declared, “Too late! We just bought the whole stock, ye sluggard. Maybe ye were a little less finicky dusting yer hands ye’d have made it!”
Disappointment and anger warred, but the woman took her loss graciously. She only cursed the men’s lines to bear nothing but eunuchs and cross-eyed slatterns before she left.
Ulric looked to the men and said drily, “Guessing the competition’s a trimmer, while you two lads do furniture.”
They swapped looks and regarded him with a touch of suspicion. The second of the pair, said with no little accusation in his tone, “Thought ye were new to Umberholdt.”
The Reforged pointed to their aprons, as if that answered the not quite question. He went ahead and clarified for them, “You’ve still got your tools on you, and her apron had finer dust in it, without the big chips like the one tangled in your beard.”
“Only thing is, what’s a trimmer want with [Azure Cedar]?” Ulric asked, genuinely confused.
Gother hadn’t ever mentioned it being particularly desirable for such small tasks, it was tough stuff, and highly water resistant. Much better in use for framing, joisting, and roofing. Even these two furniture makers, with their assortment of files and chisels still jutting from holsters and special pockets, were a little unusual. Why the need for waterproof furniture?
The pair halted a moment, not sure if they were giving away valuable information but decided that he didn’t look like competition in the field of woodworking.
“Umberholdt was carved by water, an’ it’s water that still wants to keep on a carving to this day, only that’s making for a soggy bed. Helg makes edgings to seal dwellings, pavilions, an’ whatnot against the runoff that gets through the drainages. The Blue Wood lasts damn near forever, even damp. Besides, it caulks itself.”
Oh yeah, good point, Ulric had to admit, he hadn’t thought of that. Heat the stuff and you could coax the sap hidden inside the grains to weep out from it, forming a sappy resin that dried impermeable to water. A man could get a hair dryer or something and virtually seal every crack of a place if they were a skilled enough shaper of the wood to ajoin it cleanly to the surface. Neat.
“That’s a shame then, can’t think of anything better than [Azure Cedar] for that, if you can’t seal the gaps in stone with Terra. Why not just pull the stone closed with a small bit of earth magic?” Ulric asked.
Both of them grinned at him.
“Aye, he’s new alright.” Said the second to the first, who nodded.
“Umberholdt’s built on the Darkstone. It drinks in a mage’s workings like a man lost in a desert drinks dew water. Ye can shape it, if ye got the talent an’ the strength both. Ain’t none in the M’rakur got that kind of talent, even if they got the power in their Heartstone. Not many of the sorcerer types ever live long enough to get that far, awakening a core near Darkstone causes odd things to happen. Bad odd things, in case I weren’t clear.” Expounded the first of the carpenters.
Huh. Well, you learn something just about every day.
“At least you’ve got less to worry about from Prosper’s jackboots and mage assassins.” Ulric observed, to the approval of the other two.
“Aye, and that’s the truth.” Chimed in the Weaver woman, “Part of why anybody would bother to live this deep in the Jaggeds. Prosper’s Mages and thugs don’t like to come here. We give them reason to like it less, the monsters.”
Eager to take ownership of the mostly dearly paid-for goods, Ulric told the men where to find his wagon and they departed to secure transport of the lumber.
“Those two were too excited to look a gift horse in its wide open mouth, but how did one of the tribesmen come across that much of the Deep Woods Elves’ prized timber? They never trade for it outside their own kind.” Observed the sharp old lady.
“Remember my wife?” Ulric asked, looking forward to her expression.
“Aye, and how does this wife of yours come into it?” She set her feet in the trap.
“She’s a daughter of a high house of Iriel. The wood was something of a wedding gift.” Ulric said, enjoying greatly the gaping mouth and wide-eyed stare of the companionable Weaver.
He did enjoy getting a rise out of people.
The rest of his afternoon was far, far less exciting, for which he was immensely grateful. This day amongst the Barbarians of the Outer Reaches had been as much as he could handle.
From there, Ulric gave the old Weaver woman with the soul taking voice a fond farewell and packed his gear. Instead of risking trouble by staying in a dwelling, inn, or trade hall or some such, he decided he would just bed down in his wagon.
As it was, he had to fight two more men on his way back to the top of the sinkhole which held Umberholdt.
One of the men thought he was trying to court Efreet and wanted to curry favor with her by beating the man who rumors were saying had laid a rare defeat at her feet. Why a man thought he was going to challenge a man to appeal to a woman he couldn’t beat himself, a man that proved more capable than the woman he couldn’t vanquish himself, Ulric could not say. What he could and did say was to offer the bleeding form on the floor the advice that he’d want to work on not dropping his head when he went for a tackle, because it was a good way to get kneed in the face. A good scuffle that had been, the would-be suitor had a damned good jab, until he got scared about eating counter hooks and did something silly.
Efreet would pummel the goober, but Ulric wished him luck anyway.
The second man was just drunk and mean. That was the only real casualty, the moron drew a knife when he realized, dropped to his back for the third time, that he wasn’t going to set this “outsider trash” in his proper place before a “real man”. Ulric broke his arm in three places and pinned his hand to the stone floor with the knife for bringing a weapon into what was supposed to be a “friendly” contest. The witnessing tribesmen cheered the lesson in decorum. Barbarians they were, but there were strict rules amongst the M’rakur.
Laying in the back of his wagon, starless black-violet stone overhead, the stranger in a strange land was almost instantly asleep, the trials of the hectic day proving draining.
He awoke suddenly, jerking upright to a booted foot kicking gently at the wheel of his wagon, the dull thuds of leather on wood rousing him instantly.
Adrenaline clearing away the last of the sleep, ready for trouble, the Reforged man climbed over the edge to find Harlan standing there, dressed for travel. His horse was saddled and loaded down with a huge supply pack.
“Good Morning, Harlan, what brings you out this early?” Ulric asked, for early it was, the Twins had not yet risen high enough to throw light into the cavernous sinkhole.
The tingle of fight juice faded and he took a good stretch. The older tribesman rolled his eyes, but not towards Ulric.
“Getting what I deserve for opening my fat mouth.” He said with resignation, looking back towards where Chief Orin resided.
“I’m to see ye back on yer way safely, then I got to travel to the lands of the other tribes, carrying Orin’s word of alliance.” Explained the grizzled veteran of his tribe, perking up as he considered the goal of his coming labor, “Thanks to the tidings ye brought, now is as good a chance as we ever had to kick those gold web weaving spiders right in their balls. The Outer Reaches might be able to reclaim land lost for generations to the Magisters and their pet Barons.”
Ulric frowned when he realized that there weren’t any of the other M’rakur that had come in on their first trip.
“You going alone? Sure you don’t need someone to watch your back?” Ulric asked, not because he wanted to be that person, but because it seemed like a bad idea to cross these lands alone.
He would know.
The old warrior snorted at the younger man, “Ye can tend yer own knitting, I got mine in hand.”
After a moment the man softened his tone, “But I thank ye for the concern. I ain’t going anywhere that I ain’t been a hundred times afore. It’s just a long damned way to ride is all, an’ my bones mind the rain more than they used to.”
The rain. Damn. Ulric had almost forgotten, he hadn’t been rained on in two days.
“Well, I see Chief Orin was good as his word, I have supplies for a good many leagues. Bartala was my goal and is again, now this business is settled. Let’s be on with it, what say you?” Ulric declared, stretching and gathering up the leather tack for his asshole oxen.
“Aye, lets. Best I get you outta here anyway, Efreet was telling her fellow hellcats to come and give you a hard time, on account of they figured if any one of them could hand ye a loss they’d get to maul ye in the sack.” Harlan told him, clearly taking the piss.
It was a threatening enough scenario that Ulric got his ass in gear, nevertheless.
They traveled, mostly in companionable silence back the way they came through the Jaggeds, that improbable, rocky, disorienting maze of a land proving just as unnavigable the second time as the first. He’d never have gotten out of there without a guide. Camp was made late, the pair able to make good time, in spite of TMF1 and TMF2 plotting Ulric’s murder throughout and, occasionally trying to jar him off his seat into a razor-sharp bed of obsidian fragments. They rose as early as the day before and made it well out of the Jaggeds before midsunsrise.
At last, standing very near to where Ulric had initially met the M’rakur thief-takers, Ulric looked again upon the distant shape that was Bartala. Too late to get there today, but he’d easily find himself within tomorrow.
Wagon now far lighter for the lack of Taipan’s prank, he could make time. The sell of the lumber, coupled with a good bit of attention for the harvest of vicious predators from the M'rakur merchants had got him an unexpected windfall. Especially the rapid healing goblins, their cores had a Wise man, or physician or whatever title they held amongst the Barbarians, a healer whatever his name, near frothing at the mouth to obtain them.
They would, if their energies were harnessed correctly, lend a fraction of their original host’s incredible vitality to another, permitting the healing of wounds that would be certainly lethal without. Useless to Ulric, who did not know how to correctly guide the energies, but a tremendous boon for a Sano Mage.
In this case, the desperation of the Wiseman came from the results of a recent raid that had left the man’s sister crippled, her legs dead from the waist down and the goblin cores would save both her life and her future. Ulric gave the one freely. When the Wiseman wanted the rest he charged dearly, an Aur Drake for the bunch, an absolute fortune. What was the price of a lives of your kin? For the healer, it was everything his clan could pool together, every favor they’d held, and, hurriedly delivered promises to Chief Orin that the deal was better than could be asked, because it was unheard of to actually manage to kill more than one of the little freaks at a time, hard as they were to kill, and hard as they were to find, without being found first.
Ulric didn’t feel badly about raking them over the coals, he’d made the offer to ask no price for a single core, for the sake of preserving a life. The Healer would take coin for repairing wounds, and, now, he could do so at volume and to completion beyond his own abilities. He’d double the fortunes of his clan within a year. Besides, he’d come all this long way for almost no good of his own, he’d earned some good for his good deed. The rest of the odds and ends he collected went for a fraction of the goblinoid monster nexi.
At the end of the day, Ulric Einar found himself sort of stinking rich. His old warhorse of a grandmother would have said that he was now a man of means, and, just maybe, even worth marrying. She’d been old fashioned like that.
Feet planted in soft soil, recently watered by the storm that missed them at last night’s camp, the Reforged man traded grips one last time, hand to forearm of the older warrior, and they wished one another luck on the road and victory in battle. Tough nuts, the M’rakur, but good people, was his assessment, as he watched Harlan ride off up the coast. And they would make these lands pure hell for Prosper to control, which, when Chief Orin’s plot got rolling, would take pressure off the Aesir.
“Hot damn, I do love it when things go my way, for once.” Ulric told the sweeping coast.
He should have quit when he was ahead, his optimism summoned one of the meanest storms he’d ever traveled through just a couple of hours later and no one would ever tell him otherwise.
Night came cold, torrential, and just about as absolutely fucking miserable as he could have ever imagined. He slept little, woke early, and used magic to get a big heap of ox shit burning while he tried vainly to dry off under the wagon. The oxen lowed and bawled hatefully at his attempts to find comfort and he flipped them both off out of habit. The Twins rose, even their dance seemingly sullen. Spirits improved when the whipping sea breeze carried away the oppressive storm clouds. Ulric breakfasted on replenished supplies, happy to taste something besides foraged pickings.
Sated, nearly dry, and ready to get this journey onward, Ulric readied his own animals to depart. Just over the crest of the rise, in whose shadow he'd camped to break the wind, he saw stone walls rearing up and the squared off architecture of the city who he hoped was called Bartala, long awaited and desperately behind schedule. He'd come just half a kilometer short of the settlement and hadn't even seen it through the downpour and the dark.
What a sight awaited him.
The sea. Great Vatyn, technically an inland sea, stretched across the horizon, white caps on waves visible. Winds carried clouds along the East to West Vardan air streams, the cumulonimbus clouds that had pelted him drifted low and foreboding in the distance as another front closed in. Ships of every style made way to and from the extensive port, at least a hundred piers, mostly full.
Ulric saw three to five masted galleons wallowing high on the water, their upper decks being two and three stories above the waves. Billowing white and massive even from as far away as he stood, their deployed sails would have needed a whole flax farm dedicated solely to support the repair and manufacture of which.
More numerous were two and three-masted schooners, gaff-rigged fore and aft with sails and the style varied between heights of the tall masts, sometimes a mainmast and foremast were of different heights, sometimes the same. These cut through the water with far more grace than the behemoths, though Ulric had a feeling that in a good wind the massive ships would be unmatched for speed with all that sale power. A panoply of other small boats, with designs that spanned nautical history as Ulric knew it, skipped here and there from port to ship to port but Ulric couldn't make out enough of the details to know their purpose.
Every boat had oars in the water to accompany their sails, however. That was unusual, Ulric knew from his historical investigations. Plying oars meant crews to work them, in addition to the sailors on the deck, and more complex designs to seat the oarsmen. These ships were effectively running double crews, each one that he could discern.
How the fuck many supplies had to come into this place to feed them all? Pulling oar was hungry work and nobody underfed the crews that wanted to get value out of having the extra weight on board. To say nothing of the sheer size of the city itself. It was bigger than Trachn'ir, maybe once and half again the size.
Sitting with its back to the coast, cliffs and tumbled rocky shores stretched out to the distance curving North-West and followed that arcing curve to the South-East, in a massive crescent that would be hard to notice if you didn't have the height of this ridge to see it, stood the metropolis.
It reminded him a little of old-world middle Europe, beam and block construction, curved tile rooves, and steepled peaks proud over the structures below. Flags flew from many of the taller spires, their blazons declaring things that flew over Ulric's head. Common to what he could see from the rise were balconies, stonework, a penchant for buttresses, and arches characterized what not small number of buildings rose above the battlements some twenty meters high. What with the lack of cover, a sea at its back, and sitting on an artificial raised foundation, this sprawling city would be a right sonofabitch to attack. Unless you could also blockade it from the marine angle, you'd never be able to take it, not without hideous losses or magic unlike anything Ulric had ever seen.
Interesting to note the similarities between this Prespang City State and the equivalent Celestin trade hub Trachn'ir. Ulric led his wagon down from the ridge along the somewhat steep grade that led to the plain cut by the hard boundaries of the port city. Both had high, thick walls, almost gratuitous fortifications. Both leaned heavily into stone as a building material. All the structures Ulric surveyed looked over-engineered and the same had been true of the Lowlands Forest Elves. Unlike the Celestin though, this place didn't just segregate the noble district, at least four distinct precincts were visible from the ridge using a kind of modified Mot and Bailey arrangement to put the city into tiers, each walled separately with heavy gates regulating traffic between. Wider than three of his wagons side by side, the outermost gate had inset a heavy darkened metal grate, currently raised, into which some steady traffic flowed. The scale of the earthworks were not limited to the terraced structure of the city, outside the main walls, the sea had been canaled to form a wide moat.
Sonofabitch, that was some dedication to moving dirt Ulric remarked to himself.
A wave of déjà vu rolled through him looking at it, as if he was back in a hololibrary looking at Agincourt from its walls, from the perspective of the GauloFrench knights. Fields were cultivated in neat squared fashion with even rows. Interestingly enough, the fields were polycultured, with at least three different species of plant just breaking up through the dark rich soil. Agriculture on Earth had employed almost exclusively monocultures of one crop, to disastrous effect on the quality of the supporting soil, depleting it of key nutrients. Creating a balanced crop profile that preserved the nutritional composition wasn't adopted until after the collapse, for reasons that defied logic. Architecture was incredibly similar to depictions of Swiss and Melan mid fourteenth century.
Damned if there wasn't another sample of cross-world familiarity in this place, parallels in building style. Ulric would have sworn he was looking at side-eyed at Oberhofen Castle sitting inside the walls of Castlegrande. It was almost certainly a case of convergent architectural evolution, necessity being the mother of invention. Still, it gave him the willies to see such familiar sights in this bombastic Vardan environment.
He realized then that the obsession with stone was an artifact of the confounding factor to his analysis: magic. When one dude with a mastery of Incendere, like Captain Firecracker, or the infernal Tephras mana such as Werona Autumnclaw could do terrible terrible damage to anything flammable in short order, wooden structures were sort of a bad idea. Terra could still be employed but at least the destruction was localized, instead of spreading rampant through the entire borough.
Turning aside from his observations of the form of the city Ulric returned to contemplation of the M'rakur and the implications of the barbarian tribes not being culturally integrated with the metropolitan areas.
Not so surprising really, the rural and urban had ever separated into distinct subcultures. Vardan societies just mirrored that and amplified it, thanks to the restrictions of difficult travel.
Hmm…so the barbarians of the plains and northern wastes weren't part of Prosper's little club. How very interesting. Ulric had been afraid that Prespang would be a monolith, dominated by the rulers of the citadel city and sharing a strong identity. Perhaps the City States would not be as apt to share cultures then. Even better, they wouldn't necessarily share military and policing infrastructure either. That limited the exposure he would experience traveling from one city to the next. He'd have to be more careful when he spoke. Harlan and his men, for all the rustic accents and earthy habits, had recognized that not everything was on the up and up with regards to Ulric's stated intentions. They weren't rude enough to intrude, but they'd noticed.
Another lesson learned. He wasn't used to trying to be subtle. Even when he was keeping his thoughts and emotions screened, he ended up giving away some part of his intentions. From now on, if he had to interact with the locals and didn't have a good bead on their allegiances just say little and ask fewer questions, no matter how curiosity burns your guts.
This shit was going to get old. Ulric much preferred the relative openness of the Deep Woods.
Bald'rt might have liked to fuck with him but he could at least be pretty open with the Elf King. And he did have his moments where he'd legitimately enjoyed prodding the Lord of Iriel. When he'd once suggested that the Bald'rt Iriel might have to ask his mother before he could come and play, in reference to watching a training session with Idra, the Elf had laughed openly before inquiring if Ulric would not mind asking for him, for he was simply too afraid. There were few instances where Ulric would volunteer Vedyr's temper, risk slighting Shor, or suffer Bathe's disappointment. Each, in their own way, could find the shortest path to making a man miserable. That Bald'rt Iriel had managed to juggle the three of them with some success spoke volumes about the crafty Elf, if nothing else did. It helped that they all loved him, for some reason, and he them, and all in the lands under the Aegis of Iriel knew it for truth.
Remembering the Greatest House of the Orlethrem, at least in Ulric's book, instilled in him a somber mood. Most of why it was necessary that he even take the proactive steps of aiming for Prosper's head was that Bald'rt had very nearly been killed by the absurd magical toxicity of the Aes'r Bane and his wives had utilized a great part of their own strength to preserve his life.
None of those great powers would be what they were before in the near future and absent their flagrant might, his allies the Deep Wood Elves needed an ace in the hole. Ulric had volunteered himself for that role. It seemed like the right thing to do, at the time. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that he was knocking boots with Bald'rt's daughter, his Shadow turned Wife, Taipan. Not at all. Other than she'd remember his cowardice long, long after he died of old age and probably write something spiteful on his headstone to be his epitaph if he let her people go unavenged. Honor carried with it obligation. Being a good person fucking sucked sometimes.
Shake it off Old Man, he warned himself. The gates of the city drew close.
It was somewhat transformative to be alone again. Absent the, sometimes barbed, whispers of Taipan in his ear guiding him along, Ulric was forced to rely on his intuition and what little he knew of the peoples of Varda. It was with good reason that his Shadow had decided that he would be best served pretending to be a barbarian heathen from the back of beyond. At least then his blatant ignorance might not be remembered, even if it was noted.
The queue of travelers looking to enter the city was not over long, it didn't even extend past the wide timbers of the wooden bridge. Spring was still arriving in the farther Northern latitudes and travel more or less boiled down to a measurement of centimeters of rainfall in the last two weeks. Ulric's weathering of a constant drizzle had been problem enough. Traveling through a monsoon, with the snow pack melts only just finished in places, was untenable. Unless you could float your cargo, it would just bog down. If and when Ulric took seriously his role as a kind of leader of a territory, his first official act would be to make roads, in the Roman style if he couldn't beg, steal, or borrow enough Terramancers. He'd long since abandoned hope that his trail would be difficult to follow from the Legranel's Moot, anybody that knew the date he left need only follow the deep ruts left by sturdy wagon wheels to figure out where he'd gone.
A guard waved him forward. The man looked to be of an older, mature age and grizzled in feature, though more due to neglect than nature's touch. The bandits had been remarkably ugly, compared to the rest of humanity he saw milling about. That he even noticed was perhaps due to his overexposure to Elves, which would have driven the celebrity cults of the mid two thousands into frothy madness with their worship of such beautific form. Ulric led his wagon forward slowly, calling TMF1 and TMF2 to a stop as he'd been instructed. They only paced four meters farther than he wanted and the guards took it as a matter of course when he jumped down from the wagon seat to snatch their ears in an iron grip and whisper oaths of cruel tortures into them.
"Bastards." Ulric summarized presenting himself to the gate guard.
The guard couldn't help some amount of schadenfreude at Ulric's trials. His clothes, the packs secured to the wagon frame, and the beasts themselves bespoke an individual of means. Besides, anybody that had ever driven [Direhorn Oxen] had also concluded that they were bastards. It was a congenital defect of the species.
"State your name, and your business Traveler." Requested the guard in a bored monotone.
"Name of Einar, Tribe Fuk'yu." Replied Ulric without particular inflection, "I visit these lands to trade goods within the city, and to rest before pressing on to the Northern Wastes. Trade season is well underway, but the Wastes still have it's still tough going before Spring yet breaks the snow in the high passes."
It was the story concocted with Taipan and he saw no reason to change it, other than the months-long delay for his being an utter goober. He had decided to avoid using his real name, whoever had hired those murderers had known who they were looking for. More and more, Ulric was of a mind to think that they'd come courtesy of Lord Sav'ris Morion.
The last Prosper knew, an Adept Pyromancer had targeted him for ashing, and come damned close to succeeding, he might add. None of the mages had escaped the assault but that would almost certainly be credited to the action of the Aes'r Iriel'en's fearsome Hunters, to say nothing of the Royal Guard. In truth, Bald'rt had killed some three-quarters of the mages sent to attack Irielhos and the Hunters and Royal Guard had covered the rest, if not before the unthinkable attack on their home had produced heavy casualties amongst the Hunters and Crafters residing in the fortress.
His name and business were written neatly into a ledger, and Ulric was not beyond a petty notice that he could not read what was written. Apparently, the Akashic species language only pertained to spoken language. It was shameful. Ulric Einar, once engineer, masters candidate of metallurgical and material sciences, Ph.D. in Solid State Electrochemistry, was an illiterate baboon.
"Welcome to Bartala, Traveler Einar. Follow the law and respect the guards." The guard replied with so little change of tone that Ulric would have been tempted to look for the circuit board if he weren't trying to stay low key.
Bartala. That meant that Ulric had, as long more than suspected, fucked up royal by getting lost, but had managed to recover. He and Taipan had planned to zig East to the border town Kilok and then zag West to the port city, headed North all along. The Moot had been a wrinkle they hadn't planned on, a conspiracy of circumstance.
The Legranel Herd Riders first, and subsequent [Amberfang] pride attack forced a change of plans, they'd been taken in by Prenya, Joclyn, and the rest of the Plainsfolk for helping to repel an atypically committed strike from beasts led by a Greater variant.
Due to the location of the Moot and Ulric having drifted West, attributable to the sheer lack of landmarks by which to navigate and his own subtle dominant eye bias towards his left as he'd taken Northern bearings, Ulric had missed the border town of Kilok completely. No fucking wonder he'd spent so long in the rolling plains without meeting anybody. He'd cut across the plains and completely bypassed the usual routes. Fuck.
Shoving down the irritation at his navigational failure, he had to make some lemonade out of this lemon. Ulric returned to his wagon seat and ushered the recalcitrant team into the wide paved boulevards. First things first, there had to be a place to park these cocksucker oxen and a room to rent. Ulric had once greatly enjoyed hiking and sleeping under the stars. After several months of subsistence living and more months of traveling through some couple of thousands of kilometers of wilderness, Ulric was starting to appreciate greatly a nice reinforced stone or multi-tiered hardwood roof. And walls. And a big hearth fire. And a motherfucking bed.
The clatter of wagon wheels across paving stones was washed out in the passive tides of sound that peaked and troughed against his senses.
It had been so long since he'd come to this world and he'd been away from Mega-populations so long that he'd forgotten how the weight of that sound presses against you. He'd had a taste of it in Trachn'ir. Bartala made Trachn'ir look like a peasant village. The Elves simply did not exist in the densities of Humans.
In addition to the rows of shops, along the main drag, stone foundations supported clusters of structures, arranged in squares with a single access point from the main avenues. These self-contained blocks were frequently not less than three stories and some loomed as high as six, making them the tallest man-made objects Ulric had ever seen in this world. Many of the buildings sported scaffolding, clambering like ivy up their sides to add another vertical layer to the city. Those huge miniature cities aside, Bartala featured great rectangular stone towers, three rising up in different locations throughout the vast City state, all of them at least ten or fifteen stories. He couldn't even guess as to their role within the metropolis
As Ulric passed by the entrance to one of the self-contained miniature districts, he saw the square filled with peoples going about the lives described in histories. Farriers shoeing the not-quite horses in small paddocks, a group of weavers at looms they'd brought outdoors to enjoy the break in the weather, hawking vendors, knife sharpeners, cobblers tap tapping their little hammers, the full spectrum of civilization was on display.
A robust system of gutters guided waste-water to sewers that ran below the streets, to final destinations unknown. Ulric watched a butcher expertly cut the throat of a smaller variation of his oxen and drain the blood down into the gutter, the animal standing there bleeding to death none the wiser as to its imminent fate. Ye gods that sewer had to smell vile, if it was not efficiently outflowed. It must not have been terminated into the nearby sea, such things always caused plagues and the people here had all the appearance of a humming vibrancy.
He didn't see any beggars, not to say there were not any, merely that he did not see them. That had also been true of the M’rakur. Maybe homelessness and begging wasn’t a thing on Varda.
Ulric turned his team down another main causeway and continued to drink in the swarm of humanity. Cultures revealed much by their dress. Thicknesses of cloth, types of fabric, colors, sigils, accouterments, all of these symbols told a tale.
Fashion was a language all of its own, and one that could lead him towards waiting knives if he did not speak it correctly. Where the M'rakur had dressed in thick kilts and high socked boots the attire of the city certainly skewed more along the coat and trouser trend. Most of the men went in low boots and their pants terminated at the calf. Ulric had stumbled into the land of capris. Hair was cut to varying lengths but trended shoulder length and free amongst the males, with the finer sex being more commonly worn to the lower back, although he noted a high percentage, of both genders, with hair put up into complex buns pinned or tied with metal wire of different alloy.
Definitely a sign of wealth or status. Women mostly wore ankle length dresses with varying patterns and styles. Most were generous with the skin, being low cut, armless, and backless.
It was gonna be hot come summer, Ulric realized. Those pants and dresses weren't cut like that out of vanity. Not entirely.
Speaking which, a comely husband-wife pair sauntered down the street in the opposite bearing Ulric took, leading a trio of cute children like goslings, their tidy vests and shorts neat as little figurines, and teeny shoes clicking along in double time to their youthful parent's stately tread. It was a strangely pleasant sight. Vardan supergenes at work, these Valin weren't Elves but they had a higher average symmetry and beauty than did old Earth. And that was after his civilization was learning the fine art of gene optimization. The Watcher cultivated its world well.
Symmetry did not mean sameness, Ulric noted, scanning the sidewalks. At least fifteen discernable ethnicities were in view, each with their own version of beauty. Skin darker than the Iriel'en, olive-hued, porcelain pale, there was massive variety, which made sense given the nature of port cities. People coming and going from all over would, inevitably, land to stay and share their genetic profile. The predominant phenotype was paler than Ulric, with blond to red hair and blue and green eyes. He'd seen little of the recessive alleles for eye color so far in humanity and he had no fucking clue what was going on with the Aes'r's more vivid irises. He had to admit that the average folk bore a slightly more refined bone structure, less harshly angled than his own, or that of the tribesmen he'd seen earlier or even the Valin he'd come across passing through Celestin and Legranel lands. Sign of a sexual selection? Unknown.
An inn he found after not so much looking and too much money he probably paid for his stay, but he wasn't willing to try to haggle without having any remote idea the value of a hostel and boarding for his wagon team. He'd sort of relied on Taipan to handle those things. Odd how minor inconveniences magnified the absence of that lovely, thorny, much missed Elf. It was a little like losing your actual Shadow. A man turns around, expecting to see it and the lack is jarring. Expensive as well, it was turning out. Nevertheless, better he be viewed as a rube than a potential infiltrator. Taipan's presence would have rang alarm bells far and wide here.
Ulric hadn't seen a single Aes'r since entering the city. Aside from the slaves.
That put his hackles up, to be sure. Here and there, frequently moving in tow behind individuals escorted by sword-toting muscle and bejeweled in exorbitant finery, were collared Elves. The fey folk weren't the only ones, of course. Injustice was inflicted without prejudice upon all the races of the land, and in sizable number. Runes carved in silver or gold metal radiated a mana signature to Ulric's senses when he drew within a meter or two and that signature turned his stomach. It was foul. Oppressive. He could feel the magic inside the collar stamping on the bearer's will, forcing their obedience to every suggestion and whim of their owner. It was an abomination in his eyes.
Men had once imprisoned other men for crimes, putting their labor to use for the good of the society they had wronged and that was close enough to what amounted to a sin in Ulric's eyes. Even more distantly in the past was the practice of making one's fellow man into property. Anathema. Sin was a wild word to just be throwing around, but if any act earned that label, depriving a sentient creature of its fundamental agency was right the fuck up there on the list. Not against any particular god, of course, but against the entire notion of sentience. There was only one adequate response Ulric could think of to slavery. Kill all of the slavers. Every. Last. One of them.
It took some deep breaths and a reminder that he wasn't responsible for every last evil to put the sight of the obviously miserable souls being led by their chains out of his mind. Maybe later. Or if he could think of a way to attach a self-sustaining lightning bolt to the owner of a slaver's spell and turn it loose to become part of Varda's natural manasphere. Yeah, that would be a worthy contribution to this world.
Dark thoughts, but then making property out of people was a dark practice and like drew like, sometimes.
The innkeeper, a thin matronly woman who appraised him positively, doubtless thanks to the extra weight in her purse, led him to his room. The sturdy carved stones of the stairway were textured for traction and clean, not a speck of clay clogging the carved treads. Somebody had excellent housekeepers.
"Yours for two days, as agreed Honor." Said the auburn-haired Innkeep, her unblemished skin pale compared to his own tan.
Her voice lowered and she twitched a smile "I would not mind if your business keeps you a might longer, business booms as the Reaches send their traders to port."
Right. Sure. It would appear Harlan had not been joking around, he was getting the Barbarian discount.
"Tell me Good Woman, what says I hail from the Tribes?" He asked, content to try to milk some information from the highwayman disguised as an honest business owner.
She giggled lightly, and he was tempted to find offense. Ulric was a refined, well-mannered product of thousands of years of Human civilization damnit! Okay, that wasn't necessarily accurate. But he was a product of thousands of years of human civilization.
"My pardon, Honor, but all of you. Your color, eyes, height, and those shoulders are straight from the Tribes that reside in the distant northwest reaches. They don't often dress and speak as finely as you do, but I've seen enough come through to know better. Besides, you all look at people the same way, with your hungering wolf amongst sheep stares." The Innkeep said, holding his gaze, as if to prove her point.
Damn it, he'd been staring again, taking in her form her tones her gesture, assessing. He'd almost always had the habit of focusing too hard on whoever held his attention and now that pattern was coming back to haunt him. It didn't help matters that Ulric was the proud owner of a resting bitch face. It usually worked marvelously at discouraging morons from spreading their affliction but here the combination was marking him out. He averted his eyes, too late.
Too late and a dollar short, Dumbass, Ulric scolded himself. So much to remember, to keep in mind.
Another light titter from the slim lady accompanied her next sally. Clearly, she enjoyed playing with her food.
"You're not a Princeling come hiding his name to find a fortune are you? Because I might find a royalty tax to add to your bill." The Innkeep flashed dimples at him before turning to leave without awaiting his reply.
Aaaand now he was totally lost. There was a lot going on in that brief conversation and he was nowhere near to having a solid grip on the half of it.
Ulric stood holding the simple key, iron by the look and heft of it, and watched the receding back of the matron of the house while he tried to figure out how to categorize that interaction. Again, with that Honor business. He was going to have to slum it up a little if he wanted to avoid attention. Taipan's tastes were too good. Or maybe, no, a well to do appearing trader could open more doors than a poor one. The transdimensional law that money talks was still in effect. Hell with it, he would play the part of Honor Einar of Clan Fuk'yu. If he had any luck at all, being a rich Barbarian would behoove him compared to being thought a poor one. Absent the benefit of being raised steeped in the customs and norms of these lands, an outsider was the best he was going to achieve. Even his high, midcalf boots marked him as a foreigner. Better, he supposed, than alien.
The key entered the brass lock smoothly and turned with a clean click, the mechanism well crafted, better, in fact, than had been that of the quality of devices in Trachn'ir. Taipan had picked those locks about as fast as Ulric had used this here key. Ulric was no hand for lock picking so it didn't much matter to him, but he'd have to keep in mind when he reunited with his Shadow. Spotting the bed as he entered the room he frowned.
Shadow. And wife. Damn if the nights didn't get lonely without the now familiar presence. He instantly turned aside from that and reviewed the room.
A simple dresser, wooden frame bed, nightstand, and lampstands, their workmanship far inferior compared to Iriel'en craftsmen. Plain walls, absent flourish, or decoration. A light grey plaster was laid over top of timbers as he confirmed with a few gentle raps of his knuckles. He could hear the wood beneath thumping and feel the softness of the plaster compared to the stone of the floor. Rugs covered most of the fishbone pattern of square floor blocks. Now that was kind of fancy. Clearly, Bartala employed a wider array of masons than did Trachn'ir. He didn't necessarily know how any of this information was going to be useful but a guy can never tell. Things had a way of going sideways and, at the least, he needed to catalogue where everything was to more easily tell if someone had entered the room in his absence.
Ulric ran his fingers across the dresser, feeling its grain. The wood was straight-grained, with none of the whirling interlacing of the Iriel'en lumber. Easier to work, far easier. But softer and weaker, the carpenters here paled in comparison to their Aes'r rivals. He supposed that was only common sense. Elves lived longer had greater time to master and apply their craft. They also had something the furniture here lacked: a love for the material. Elven woodworkers treated their substrate with reverence, it was once part of the forest they cherished. They would not disrespect that origin through neglect or inattention. The only feeling Ulric got from woodwork here was summarized by the word "adequate".
Inspecting the carpentry only occupied him a few more moments. His backpack he unshouldered, its contents much reduced to only what he might need to cut his losses and escape into the wilderness if needs be. Hopefully, that would not prove necessary. Pulling Xef'tocht's back sheath off to lay on the bed, Ulric sat next to the enchanted blade and lay back to stare at the ceiling.
Now what?
Now that disaster had been averted, Ulric Einar, rookie adventurer in a strange world, got down to the business of yard selling. Not to toot his own horn too loudly, but he had unloaded the entire stock of [Azure Cedar] within the round of the Twins. A pair of men, hands roughened, leather aprons covered in wood dust, still carrying their tools on belts and in pockets on the heavy aprons, arrived at a near dead run, pulling up while panting heavily.
“Lad! You the one with the Elf Blue Wood?! Hurry!” Demanded the first man, in a breathless tenor, while his comrade sucked wind.
Ulric nodded, “Aye, I’ve samples here, the rest sits dry in my wagon bed.” He replied.
“All of it.” Gasped the second man, still bent over.
“What he said, lad, we’ll have all of it. Name yer weight.” Requested the carpenter.
Ulric had thought long on this. He knew what typical rates were, thanks to Gother’s children’s lessons, but those had not accounted for a markup to cover transport and delivery to so far flung a market. Most Iriel’en goods went through mercantile companies operating in Iriel, Celestin, or Zelussin, that sat along the Zelas, which would trade hands a good few times before they ever left Orlethrem territory. What Ulric was sitting on was valued far grander than its normal price. Momma Einar had not raised a fool.
“My cargo is milled, not rough timber, as these pieces exemplify. No surfacing, no leveling, straight, true, and grained for anything from furniture to the craft of shingles.” Ulric told the pair of professionals.
He gave them a moment to stew on that. By describing the most important qualities of lumber to finish carpentry, he had succinctly conveyed that he knew what it was he had to offer them. Now they knew that he knew that they knew, negotiation could be done with less outright attempts at wholesale robbery.
“Eighty Sil Squires, each board.” Ulric made the opening offer, suitably high.
It was too much, but not so much that he came off ignorant. Twenty percent overage on his desired rate would convince the pair, if they had any wisdom at all in the game of trade, that it was best to deal fairly.
“Seventy. And I’ll have even the chips in the bottom of ye’re wagon.” Retorted the Barbarian, ready to make done with the horseshit.
“Done.” Ulric said, simply, holding his arm up toward the man to seal the bargain.
“Done, by my Eyes and Honor.” The bent over craftsman said, reaching over to snag his arm and shake it, once, with vigor.
Just as they finished the count of coin, deposited into Ulric’s purse and adding substantial weight to it, another Barbarian clambered out from the throng in the trade yard. She was swarthy, with strong looking arms, and she glared at the two men before turning her attention to him.
“Ye’re the one what’s selling Blue Elf-“ She started.
Crowing victoriously, the first of the carpenters declared, “Too late! We just bought the whole stock, ye sluggard. Maybe ye were a little less finicky dusting yer hands ye’d have made it!”
Disappointment and anger warred, but the woman took her loss graciously. She only cursed the men’s lines to bear nothing but eunuchs and cross-eyed slatterns before she left.
Ulric looked to the men and said drily, “Guessing the competition’s a trimmer, while you two lads do furniture.”
They swapped looks and regarded him with a touch of suspicion. The second of the pair, said with no little accusation in his tone, “Thought ye were new to Umberholdt.”
The Reforged pointed to their aprons, as if that answered the not quite question. He went ahead and clarified for them, “You’ve still got your tools on you, and her apron had finer dust in it, without the big chips like the one tangled in your beard.”
“Only thing is, what’s a trimmer want with [Azure Cedar]?” Ulric asked, genuinely confused.
Gother hadn’t ever mentioned it being particularly desirable for such small tasks, it was tough stuff, and highly water resistant. Much better in use for framing, joisting, and roofing. Even these two furniture makers, with their assortment of files and chisels still jutting from holsters and special pockets, were a little unusual. Why the need for waterproof furniture?
The pair halted a moment, not sure if they were giving away valuable information but decided that he didn’t look like competition in the field of woodworking.
“Umberholdt was carved by water, an’ it’s water that still wants to keep on a carving to this day, only that’s making for a soggy bed. Helg makes edgings to seal dwellings, pavilions, an’ whatnot against the runoff that gets through the drainages. The Blue Wood lasts damn near forever, even damp. Besides, it caulks itself.”
Oh yeah, good point, Ulric had to admit, he hadn’t thought of that. Heat the stuff and you could coax the sap hidden inside the grains to weep out from it, forming a sappy resin that dried impermeable to water. A man could get a hair dryer or something and virtually seal every crack of a place if they were a skilled enough shaper of the wood to ajoin it cleanly to the surface. Neat.
“That’s a shame then, can’t think of anything better than [Azure Cedar] for that, if you can’t seal the gaps in stone with Terra. Why not just pull the stone closed with a small bit of earth magic?” Ulric asked.
Both of them grinned at him.
“Aye, he’s new alright.” Said the second to the first, who nodded.
“Umberholdt’s built on the Darkstone. It drinks in a mage’s workings like a man lost in a desert drinks dew water. Ye can shape it, if ye got the talent an’ the strength both. Ain’t none in the M’rakur got that kind of talent, even if they got the power in their Heartstone. Not many of the sorcerer types ever live long enough to get that far, awakening a core near Darkstone causes odd things to happen. Bad odd things, in case I weren’t clear.” Expounded the first of the carpenters.
Huh. Well, you learn something just about every day.
“At least you’ve got less to worry about from Prosper’s jackboots and mage assassins.” Ulric observed, to the approval of the other two.
“Aye, and that’s the truth.” Chimed in the Weaver woman, “Part of why anybody would bother to live this deep in the Jaggeds. Prosper’s Mages and thugs don’t like to come here. We give them reason to like it less, the monsters.”
Eager to take ownership of the mostly dearly paid-for goods, Ulric told the men where to find his wagon and they departed to secure transport of the lumber.
“Those two were too excited to look a gift horse in its wide open mouth, but how did one of the tribesmen come across that much of the Deep Woods Elves’ prized timber? They never trade for it outside their own kind.” Observed the sharp old lady.
“Remember my wife?” Ulric asked, looking forward to her expression.
“Aye, and how does this wife of yours come into it?” She set her feet in the trap.
“She’s a daughter of a high house of Iriel. The wood was something of a wedding gift.” Ulric said, enjoying greatly the gaping mouth and wide-eyed stare of the companionable Weaver.
He did enjoy getting a rise out of people.
The rest of his afternoon was far, far less exciting, for which he was immensely grateful. This day amongst the Barbarians of the Outer Reaches had been as much as he could handle.
From there, Ulric gave the old Weaver woman with the soul taking voice a fond farewell and packed his gear. Instead of risking trouble by staying in a dwelling, inn, or trade hall or some such, he decided he would just bed down in his wagon.
As it was, he had to fight two more men on his way back to the top of the sinkhole which held Umberholdt.
One of the men thought he was trying to court Efreet and wanted to curry favor with her by beating the man who rumors were saying had laid a rare defeat at her feet. Why a man thought he was going to challenge a man to appeal to a woman he couldn’t beat himself, a man that proved more capable than the woman he couldn’t vanquish himself, Ulric could not say. What he could and did say was to offer the bleeding form on the floor the advice that he’d want to work on not dropping his head when he went for a tackle, because it was a good way to get kneed in the face. A good scuffle that had been, the would-be suitor had a damned good jab, until he got scared about eating counter hooks and did something silly.
Efreet would pummel the goober, but Ulric wished him luck anyway.
The second man was just drunk and mean. That was the only real casualty, the moron drew a knife when he realized, dropped to his back for the third time, that he wasn’t going to set this “outsider trash” in his proper place before a “real man”. Ulric broke his arm in three places and pinned his hand to the stone floor with the knife for bringing a weapon into what was supposed to be a “friendly” contest. The witnessing tribesmen cheered the lesson in decorum. Barbarians they were, but there were strict rules amongst the M’rakur.
Laying in the back of his wagon, starless black-violet stone overhead, the stranger in a strange land was almost instantly asleep, the trials of the hectic day proving draining.
He awoke suddenly, jerking upright to a booted foot kicking gently at the wheel of his wagon, the dull thuds of leather on wood rousing him instantly.
Adrenaline clearing away the last of the sleep, ready for trouble, the Reforged man climbed over the edge to find Harlan standing there, dressed for travel. His horse was saddled and loaded down with a huge supply pack.
“Good Morning, Harlan, what brings you out this early?” Ulric asked, for early it was, the Twins had not yet risen high enough to throw light into the cavernous sinkhole.
The tingle of fight juice faded and he took a good stretch. The older tribesman rolled his eyes, but not towards Ulric.
“Getting what I deserve for opening my fat mouth.” He said with resignation, looking back towards where Chief Orin resided.
“I’m to see ye back on yer way safely, then I got to travel to the lands of the other tribes, carrying Orin’s word of alliance.” Explained the grizzled veteran of his tribe, perking up as he considered the goal of his coming labor, “Thanks to the tidings ye brought, now is as good a chance as we ever had to kick those gold web weaving spiders right in their balls. The Outer Reaches might be able to reclaim land lost for generations to the Magisters and their pet Barons.”
Ulric frowned when he realized that there weren’t any of the other M’rakur that had come in on their first trip.
“You going alone? Sure you don’t need someone to watch your back?” Ulric asked, not because he wanted to be that person, but because it seemed like a bad idea to cross these lands alone.
He would know.
The old warrior snorted at the younger man, “Ye can tend yer own knitting, I got mine in hand.”
After a moment the man softened his tone, “But I thank ye for the concern. I ain’t going anywhere that I ain’t been a hundred times afore. It’s just a long damned way to ride is all, an’ my bones mind the rain more than they used to.”
The rain. Damn. Ulric had almost forgotten, he hadn’t been rained on in two days.
“Well, I see Chief Orin was good as his word, I have supplies for a good many leagues. Bartala was my goal and is again, now this business is settled. Let’s be on with it, what say you?” Ulric declared, stretching and gathering up the leather tack for his asshole oxen.
“Aye, lets. Best I get you outta here anyway, Efreet was telling her fellow hellcats to come and give you a hard time, on account of they figured if any one of them could hand ye a loss they’d get to maul ye in the sack.” Harlan told him, clearly taking the piss.
It was a threatening enough scenario that Ulric got his ass in gear, nevertheless.
They traveled, mostly in companionable silence back the way they came through the Jaggeds, that improbable, rocky, disorienting maze of a land proving just as unnavigable the second time as the first. He’d never have gotten out of there without a guide. Camp was made late, the pair able to make good time, in spite of TMF1 and TMF2 plotting Ulric’s murder throughout and, occasionally trying to jar him off his seat into a razor-sharp bed of obsidian fragments. They rose as early as the day before and made it well out of the Jaggeds before midsunsrise.
At last, standing very near to where Ulric had initially met the M’rakur thief-takers, Ulric looked again upon the distant shape that was Bartala. Too late to get there today, but he’d easily find himself within tomorrow.
Wagon now far lighter for the lack of Taipan’s prank, he could make time. The sell of the lumber, coupled with a good bit of attention for the harvest of vicious predators from the M'rakur merchants had got him an unexpected windfall. Especially the rapid healing goblins, their cores had a Wise man, or physician or whatever title they held amongst the Barbarians, a healer whatever his name, near frothing at the mouth to obtain them.
They would, if their energies were harnessed correctly, lend a fraction of their original host’s incredible vitality to another, permitting the healing of wounds that would be certainly lethal without. Useless to Ulric, who did not know how to correctly guide the energies, but a tremendous boon for a Sano Mage.
In this case, the desperation of the Wiseman came from the results of a recent raid that had left the man’s sister crippled, her legs dead from the waist down and the goblin cores would save both her life and her future. Ulric gave the one freely. When the Wiseman wanted the rest he charged dearly, an Aur Drake for the bunch, an absolute fortune. What was the price of a lives of your kin? For the healer, it was everything his clan could pool together, every favor they’d held, and, hurriedly delivered promises to Chief Orin that the deal was better than could be asked, because it was unheard of to actually manage to kill more than one of the little freaks at a time, hard as they were to kill, and hard as they were to find, without being found first.
Ulric didn’t feel badly about raking them over the coals, he’d made the offer to ask no price for a single core, for the sake of preserving a life. The Healer would take coin for repairing wounds, and, now, he could do so at volume and to completion beyond his own abilities. He’d double the fortunes of his clan within a year. Besides, he’d come all this long way for almost no good of his own, he’d earned some good for his good deed. The rest of the odds and ends he collected went for a fraction of the goblinoid monster nexi.
At the end of the day, Ulric Einar found himself sort of stinking rich. His old warhorse of a grandmother would have said that he was now a man of means, and, just maybe, even worth marrying. She’d been old fashioned like that.
Feet planted in soft soil, recently watered by the storm that missed them at last night’s camp, the Reforged man traded grips one last time, hand to forearm of the older warrior, and they wished one another luck on the road and victory in battle. Tough nuts, the M’rakur, but good people, was his assessment, as he watched Harlan ride off up the coast. And they would make these lands pure hell for Prosper to control, which, when Chief Orin’s plot got rolling, would take pressure off the Aesir.
“Hot damn, I do love it when things go my way, for once.” Ulric told the sweeping coast.
He should have quit when he was ahead, his optimism summoned one of the meanest storms he’d ever traveled through just a couple of hours later and no one would ever tell him otherwise.
Night came cold, torrential, and just about as absolutely fucking miserable as he could have ever imagined. He slept little, woke early, and used magic to get a big heap of ox shit burning while he tried vainly to dry off under the wagon. The oxen lowed and bawled hatefully at his attempts to find comfort and he flipped them both off out of habit. The Twins rose, even their dance seemingly sullen. Spirits improved when the whipping sea breeze carried away the oppressive storm clouds. Ulric breakfasted on replenished supplies, happy to taste something besides foraged pickings.
Sated, nearly dry, and ready to get this journey onward, Ulric readied his own animals to depart. Just over the crest of the rise, in whose shadow he'd camped to break the wind, he saw stone walls rearing up and the squared off architecture of the city who he hoped was called Bartala, long awaited and desperately behind schedule. He'd come just half a kilometer short of the settlement and hadn't even seen it through the downpour and the dark.
What a sight awaited him.
The sea. Great Vatyn, technically an inland sea, stretched across the horizon, white caps on waves visible. Winds carried clouds along the East to West Vardan air streams, the cumulonimbus clouds that had pelted him drifted low and foreboding in the distance as another front closed in. Ships of every style made way to and from the extensive port, at least a hundred piers, mostly full.
Ulric saw three to five masted galleons wallowing high on the water, their upper decks being two and three stories above the waves. Billowing white and massive even from as far away as he stood, their deployed sails would have needed a whole flax farm dedicated solely to support the repair and manufacture of which.
More numerous were two and three-masted schooners, gaff-rigged fore and aft with sails and the style varied between heights of the tall masts, sometimes a mainmast and foremast were of different heights, sometimes the same. These cut through the water with far more grace than the behemoths, though Ulric had a feeling that in a good wind the massive ships would be unmatched for speed with all that sale power. A panoply of other small boats, with designs that spanned nautical history as Ulric knew it, skipped here and there from port to ship to port but Ulric couldn't make out enough of the details to know their purpose.
Every boat had oars in the water to accompany their sails, however. That was unusual, Ulric knew from his historical investigations. Plying oars meant crews to work them, in addition to the sailors on the deck, and more complex designs to seat the oarsmen. These ships were effectively running double crews, each one that he could discern.
How the fuck many supplies had to come into this place to feed them all? Pulling oar was hungry work and nobody underfed the crews that wanted to get value out of having the extra weight on board. To say nothing of the sheer size of the city itself. It was bigger than Trachn'ir, maybe once and half again the size.
Sitting with its back to the coast, cliffs and tumbled rocky shores stretched out to the distance curving North-West and followed that arcing curve to the South-East, in a massive crescent that would be hard to notice if you didn't have the height of this ridge to see it, stood the metropolis.
It reminded him a little of old-world middle Europe, beam and block construction, curved tile rooves, and steepled peaks proud over the structures below. Flags flew from many of the taller spires, their blazons declaring things that flew over Ulric's head. Common to what he could see from the rise were balconies, stonework, a penchant for buttresses, and arches characterized what not small number of buildings rose above the battlements some twenty meters high. What with the lack of cover, a sea at its back, and sitting on an artificial raised foundation, this sprawling city would be a right sonofabitch to attack. Unless you could also blockade it from the marine angle, you'd never be able to take it, not without hideous losses or magic unlike anything Ulric had ever seen.
Interesting to note the similarities between this Prespang City State and the equivalent Celestin trade hub Trachn'ir. Ulric led his wagon down from the ridge along the somewhat steep grade that led to the plain cut by the hard boundaries of the port city. Both had high, thick walls, almost gratuitous fortifications. Both leaned heavily into stone as a building material. All the structures Ulric surveyed looked over-engineered and the same had been true of the Lowlands Forest Elves. Unlike the Celestin though, this place didn't just segregate the noble district, at least four distinct precincts were visible from the ridge using a kind of modified Mot and Bailey arrangement to put the city into tiers, each walled separately with heavy gates regulating traffic between. Wider than three of his wagons side by side, the outermost gate had inset a heavy darkened metal grate, currently raised, into which some steady traffic flowed. The scale of the earthworks were not limited to the terraced structure of the city, outside the main walls, the sea had been canaled to form a wide moat.
Sonofabitch, that was some dedication to moving dirt Ulric remarked to himself.
A wave of déjà vu rolled through him looking at it, as if he was back in a hololibrary looking at Agincourt from its walls, from the perspective of the GauloFrench knights. Fields were cultivated in neat squared fashion with even rows. Interestingly enough, the fields were polycultured, with at least three different species of plant just breaking up through the dark rich soil. Agriculture on Earth had employed almost exclusively monocultures of one crop, to disastrous effect on the quality of the supporting soil, depleting it of key nutrients. Creating a balanced crop profile that preserved the nutritional composition wasn't adopted until after the collapse, for reasons that defied logic. Architecture was incredibly similar to depictions of Swiss and Melan mid fourteenth century.
Damned if there wasn't another sample of cross-world familiarity in this place, parallels in building style. Ulric would have sworn he was looking at side-eyed at Oberhofen Castle sitting inside the walls of Castlegrande. It was almost certainly a case of convergent architectural evolution, necessity being the mother of invention. Still, it gave him the willies to see such familiar sights in this bombastic Vardan environment.
He realized then that the obsession with stone was an artifact of the confounding factor to his analysis: magic. When one dude with a mastery of Incendere, like Captain Firecracker, or the infernal Tephras mana such as Werona Autumnclaw could do terrible terrible damage to anything flammable in short order, wooden structures were sort of a bad idea. Terra could still be employed but at least the destruction was localized, instead of spreading rampant through the entire borough.
Turning aside from his observations of the form of the city Ulric returned to contemplation of the M'rakur and the implications of the barbarian tribes not being culturally integrated with the metropolitan areas.
Not so surprising really, the rural and urban had ever separated into distinct subcultures. Vardan societies just mirrored that and amplified it, thanks to the restrictions of difficult travel.
Hmm…so the barbarians of the plains and northern wastes weren't part of Prosper's little club. How very interesting. Ulric had been afraid that Prespang would be a monolith, dominated by the rulers of the citadel city and sharing a strong identity. Perhaps the City States would not be as apt to share cultures then. Even better, they wouldn't necessarily share military and policing infrastructure either. That limited the exposure he would experience traveling from one city to the next. He'd have to be more careful when he spoke. Harlan and his men, for all the rustic accents and earthy habits, had recognized that not everything was on the up and up with regards to Ulric's stated intentions. They weren't rude enough to intrude, but they'd noticed.
Another lesson learned. He wasn't used to trying to be subtle. Even when he was keeping his thoughts and emotions screened, he ended up giving away some part of his intentions. From now on, if he had to interact with the locals and didn't have a good bead on their allegiances just say little and ask fewer questions, no matter how curiosity burns your guts.
This shit was going to get old. Ulric much preferred the relative openness of the Deep Woods.
Bald'rt might have liked to fuck with him but he could at least be pretty open with the Elf King. And he did have his moments where he'd legitimately enjoyed prodding the Lord of Iriel. When he'd once suggested that the Bald'rt Iriel might have to ask his mother before he could come and play, in reference to watching a training session with Idra, the Elf had laughed openly before inquiring if Ulric would not mind asking for him, for he was simply too afraid. There were few instances where Ulric would volunteer Vedyr's temper, risk slighting Shor, or suffer Bathe's disappointment. Each, in their own way, could find the shortest path to making a man miserable. That Bald'rt Iriel had managed to juggle the three of them with some success spoke volumes about the crafty Elf, if nothing else did. It helped that they all loved him, for some reason, and he them, and all in the lands under the Aegis of Iriel knew it for truth.
Remembering the Greatest House of the Orlethrem, at least in Ulric's book, instilled in him a somber mood. Most of why it was necessary that he even take the proactive steps of aiming for Prosper's head was that Bald'rt had very nearly been killed by the absurd magical toxicity of the Aes'r Bane and his wives had utilized a great part of their own strength to preserve his life.
None of those great powers would be what they were before in the near future and absent their flagrant might, his allies the Deep Wood Elves needed an ace in the hole. Ulric had volunteered himself for that role. It seemed like the right thing to do, at the time. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that he was knocking boots with Bald'rt's daughter, his Shadow turned Wife, Taipan. Not at all. Other than she'd remember his cowardice long, long after he died of old age and probably write something spiteful on his headstone to be his epitaph if he let her people go unavenged. Honor carried with it obligation. Being a good person fucking sucked sometimes.
Shake it off Old Man, he warned himself. The gates of the city drew close.
It was somewhat transformative to be alone again. Absent the, sometimes barbed, whispers of Taipan in his ear guiding him along, Ulric was forced to rely on his intuition and what little he knew of the peoples of Varda. It was with good reason that his Shadow had decided that he would be best served pretending to be a barbarian heathen from the back of beyond. At least then his blatant ignorance might not be remembered, even if it was noted.
The queue of travelers looking to enter the city was not over long, it didn't even extend past the wide timbers of the wooden bridge. Spring was still arriving in the farther Northern latitudes and travel more or less boiled down to a measurement of centimeters of rainfall in the last two weeks. Ulric's weathering of a constant drizzle had been problem enough. Traveling through a monsoon, with the snow pack melts only just finished in places, was untenable. Unless you could float your cargo, it would just bog down. If and when Ulric took seriously his role as a kind of leader of a territory, his first official act would be to make roads, in the Roman style if he couldn't beg, steal, or borrow enough Terramancers. He'd long since abandoned hope that his trail would be difficult to follow from the Legranel's Moot, anybody that knew the date he left need only follow the deep ruts left by sturdy wagon wheels to figure out where he'd gone.
A guard waved him forward. The man looked to be of an older, mature age and grizzled in feature, though more due to neglect than nature's touch. The bandits had been remarkably ugly, compared to the rest of humanity he saw milling about. That he even noticed was perhaps due to his overexposure to Elves, which would have driven the celebrity cults of the mid two thousands into frothy madness with their worship of such beautific form. Ulric led his wagon forward slowly, calling TMF1 and TMF2 to a stop as he'd been instructed. They only paced four meters farther than he wanted and the guards took it as a matter of course when he jumped down from the wagon seat to snatch their ears in an iron grip and whisper oaths of cruel tortures into them.
"Bastards." Ulric summarized presenting himself to the gate guard.
The guard couldn't help some amount of schadenfreude at Ulric's trials. His clothes, the packs secured to the wagon frame, and the beasts themselves bespoke an individual of means. Besides, anybody that had ever driven [Direhorn Oxen] had also concluded that they were bastards. It was a congenital defect of the species.
"State your name, and your business Traveler." Requested the guard in a bored monotone.
"Name of Einar, Tribe Fuk'yu." Replied Ulric without particular inflection, "I visit these lands to trade goods within the city, and to rest before pressing on to the Northern Wastes. Trade season is well underway, but the Wastes still have it's still tough going before Spring yet breaks the snow in the high passes."
It was the story concocted with Taipan and he saw no reason to change it, other than the months-long delay for his being an utter goober. He had decided to avoid using his real name, whoever had hired those murderers had known who they were looking for. More and more, Ulric was of a mind to think that they'd come courtesy of Lord Sav'ris Morion.
The last Prosper knew, an Adept Pyromancer had targeted him for ashing, and come damned close to succeeding, he might add. None of the mages had escaped the assault but that would almost certainly be credited to the action of the Aes'r Iriel'en's fearsome Hunters, to say nothing of the Royal Guard. In truth, Bald'rt had killed some three-quarters of the mages sent to attack Irielhos and the Hunters and Royal Guard had covered the rest, if not before the unthinkable attack on their home had produced heavy casualties amongst the Hunters and Crafters residing in the fortress.
His name and business were written neatly into a ledger, and Ulric was not beyond a petty notice that he could not read what was written. Apparently, the Akashic species language only pertained to spoken language. It was shameful. Ulric Einar, once engineer, masters candidate of metallurgical and material sciences, Ph.D. in Solid State Electrochemistry, was an illiterate baboon.
"Welcome to Bartala, Traveler Einar. Follow the law and respect the guards." The guard replied with so little change of tone that Ulric would have been tempted to look for the circuit board if he weren't trying to stay low key.
Bartala. That meant that Ulric had, as long more than suspected, fucked up royal by getting lost, but had managed to recover. He and Taipan had planned to zig East to the border town Kilok and then zag West to the port city, headed North all along. The Moot had been a wrinkle they hadn't planned on, a conspiracy of circumstance.
The Legranel Herd Riders first, and subsequent [Amberfang] pride attack forced a change of plans, they'd been taken in by Prenya, Joclyn, and the rest of the Plainsfolk for helping to repel an atypically committed strike from beasts led by a Greater variant.
Due to the location of the Moot and Ulric having drifted West, attributable to the sheer lack of landmarks by which to navigate and his own subtle dominant eye bias towards his left as he'd taken Northern bearings, Ulric had missed the border town of Kilok completely. No fucking wonder he'd spent so long in the rolling plains without meeting anybody. He'd cut across the plains and completely bypassed the usual routes. Fuck.
Shoving down the irritation at his navigational failure, he had to make some lemonade out of this lemon. Ulric returned to his wagon seat and ushered the recalcitrant team into the wide paved boulevards. First things first, there had to be a place to park these cocksucker oxen and a room to rent. Ulric had once greatly enjoyed hiking and sleeping under the stars. After several months of subsistence living and more months of traveling through some couple of thousands of kilometers of wilderness, Ulric was starting to appreciate greatly a nice reinforced stone or multi-tiered hardwood roof. And walls. And a big hearth fire. And a motherfucking bed.
The clatter of wagon wheels across paving stones was washed out in the passive tides of sound that peaked and troughed against his senses.
It had been so long since he'd come to this world and he'd been away from Mega-populations so long that he'd forgotten how the weight of that sound presses against you. He'd had a taste of it in Trachn'ir. Bartala made Trachn'ir look like a peasant village. The Elves simply did not exist in the densities of Humans.
In addition to the rows of shops, along the main drag, stone foundations supported clusters of structures, arranged in squares with a single access point from the main avenues. These self-contained blocks were frequently not less than three stories and some loomed as high as six, making them the tallest man-made objects Ulric had ever seen in this world. Many of the buildings sported scaffolding, clambering like ivy up their sides to add another vertical layer to the city. Those huge miniature cities aside, Bartala featured great rectangular stone towers, three rising up in different locations throughout the vast City state, all of them at least ten or fifteen stories. He couldn't even guess as to their role within the metropolis
As Ulric passed by the entrance to one of the self-contained miniature districts, he saw the square filled with peoples going about the lives described in histories. Farriers shoeing the not-quite horses in small paddocks, a group of weavers at looms they'd brought outdoors to enjoy the break in the weather, hawking vendors, knife sharpeners, cobblers tap tapping their little hammers, the full spectrum of civilization was on display.
A robust system of gutters guided waste-water to sewers that ran below the streets, to final destinations unknown. Ulric watched a butcher expertly cut the throat of a smaller variation of his oxen and drain the blood down into the gutter, the animal standing there bleeding to death none the wiser as to its imminent fate. Ye gods that sewer had to smell vile, if it was not efficiently outflowed. It must not have been terminated into the nearby sea, such things always caused plagues and the people here had all the appearance of a humming vibrancy.
He didn't see any beggars, not to say there were not any, merely that he did not see them. That had also been true of the M’rakur. Maybe homelessness and begging wasn’t a thing on Varda.
Ulric turned his team down another main causeway and continued to drink in the swarm of humanity. Cultures revealed much by their dress. Thicknesses of cloth, types of fabric, colors, sigils, accouterments, all of these symbols told a tale.
Fashion was a language all of its own, and one that could lead him towards waiting knives if he did not speak it correctly. Where the M'rakur had dressed in thick kilts and high socked boots the attire of the city certainly skewed more along the coat and trouser trend. Most of the men went in low boots and their pants terminated at the calf. Ulric had stumbled into the land of capris. Hair was cut to varying lengths but trended shoulder length and free amongst the males, with the finer sex being more commonly worn to the lower back, although he noted a high percentage, of both genders, with hair put up into complex buns pinned or tied with metal wire of different alloy.
Definitely a sign of wealth or status. Women mostly wore ankle length dresses with varying patterns and styles. Most were generous with the skin, being low cut, armless, and backless.
It was gonna be hot come summer, Ulric realized. Those pants and dresses weren't cut like that out of vanity. Not entirely.
Speaking which, a comely husband-wife pair sauntered down the street in the opposite bearing Ulric took, leading a trio of cute children like goslings, their tidy vests and shorts neat as little figurines, and teeny shoes clicking along in double time to their youthful parent's stately tread. It was a strangely pleasant sight. Vardan supergenes at work, these Valin weren't Elves but they had a higher average symmetry and beauty than did old Earth. And that was after his civilization was learning the fine art of gene optimization. The Watcher cultivated its world well.
Symmetry did not mean sameness, Ulric noted, scanning the sidewalks. At least fifteen discernable ethnicities were in view, each with their own version of beauty. Skin darker than the Iriel'en, olive-hued, porcelain pale, there was massive variety, which made sense given the nature of port cities. People coming and going from all over would, inevitably, land to stay and share their genetic profile. The predominant phenotype was paler than Ulric, with blond to red hair and blue and green eyes. He'd seen little of the recessive alleles for eye color so far in humanity and he had no fucking clue what was going on with the Aes'r's more vivid irises. He had to admit that the average folk bore a slightly more refined bone structure, less harshly angled than his own, or that of the tribesmen he'd seen earlier or even the Valin he'd come across passing through Celestin and Legranel lands. Sign of a sexual selection? Unknown.
An inn he found after not so much looking and too much money he probably paid for his stay, but he wasn't willing to try to haggle without having any remote idea the value of a hostel and boarding for his wagon team. He'd sort of relied on Taipan to handle those things. Odd how minor inconveniences magnified the absence of that lovely, thorny, much missed Elf. It was a little like losing your actual Shadow. A man turns around, expecting to see it and the lack is jarring. Expensive as well, it was turning out. Nevertheless, better he be viewed as a rube than a potential infiltrator. Taipan's presence would have rang alarm bells far and wide here.
Ulric hadn't seen a single Aes'r since entering the city. Aside from the slaves.
That put his hackles up, to be sure. Here and there, frequently moving in tow behind individuals escorted by sword-toting muscle and bejeweled in exorbitant finery, were collared Elves. The fey folk weren't the only ones, of course. Injustice was inflicted without prejudice upon all the races of the land, and in sizable number. Runes carved in silver or gold metal radiated a mana signature to Ulric's senses when he drew within a meter or two and that signature turned his stomach. It was foul. Oppressive. He could feel the magic inside the collar stamping on the bearer's will, forcing their obedience to every suggestion and whim of their owner. It was an abomination in his eyes.
Men had once imprisoned other men for crimes, putting their labor to use for the good of the society they had wronged and that was close enough to what amounted to a sin in Ulric's eyes. Even more distantly in the past was the practice of making one's fellow man into property. Anathema. Sin was a wild word to just be throwing around, but if any act earned that label, depriving a sentient creature of its fundamental agency was right the fuck up there on the list. Not against any particular god, of course, but against the entire notion of sentience. There was only one adequate response Ulric could think of to slavery. Kill all of the slavers. Every. Last. One of them.
It took some deep breaths and a reminder that he wasn't responsible for every last evil to put the sight of the obviously miserable souls being led by their chains out of his mind. Maybe later. Or if he could think of a way to attach a self-sustaining lightning bolt to the owner of a slaver's spell and turn it loose to become part of Varda's natural manasphere. Yeah, that would be a worthy contribution to this world.
Dark thoughts, but then making property out of people was a dark practice and like drew like, sometimes.
The innkeeper, a thin matronly woman who appraised him positively, doubtless thanks to the extra weight in her purse, led him to his room. The sturdy carved stones of the stairway were textured for traction and clean, not a speck of clay clogging the carved treads. Somebody had excellent housekeepers.
"Yours for two days, as agreed Honor." Said the auburn-haired Innkeep, her unblemished skin pale compared to his own tan.
Her voice lowered and she twitched a smile "I would not mind if your business keeps you a might longer, business booms as the Reaches send their traders to port."
Right. Sure. It would appear Harlan had not been joking around, he was getting the Barbarian discount.
"Tell me Good Woman, what says I hail from the Tribes?" He asked, content to try to milk some information from the highwayman disguised as an honest business owner.
She giggled lightly, and he was tempted to find offense. Ulric was a refined, well-mannered product of thousands of years of Human civilization damnit! Okay, that wasn't necessarily accurate. But he was a product of thousands of years of human civilization.
"My pardon, Honor, but all of you. Your color, eyes, height, and those shoulders are straight from the Tribes that reside in the distant northwest reaches. They don't often dress and speak as finely as you do, but I've seen enough come through to know better. Besides, you all look at people the same way, with your hungering wolf amongst sheep stares." The Innkeep said, holding his gaze, as if to prove her point.
Damn it, he'd been staring again, taking in her form her tones her gesture, assessing. He'd almost always had the habit of focusing too hard on whoever held his attention and now that pattern was coming back to haunt him. It didn't help matters that Ulric was the proud owner of a resting bitch face. It usually worked marvelously at discouraging morons from spreading their affliction but here the combination was marking him out. He averted his eyes, too late.
Too late and a dollar short, Dumbass, Ulric scolded himself. So much to remember, to keep in mind.
Another light titter from the slim lady accompanied her next sally. Clearly, she enjoyed playing with her food.
"You're not a Princeling come hiding his name to find a fortune are you? Because I might find a royalty tax to add to your bill." The Innkeep flashed dimples at him before turning to leave without awaiting his reply.
Aaaand now he was totally lost. There was a lot going on in that brief conversation and he was nowhere near to having a solid grip on the half of it.
Ulric stood holding the simple key, iron by the look and heft of it, and watched the receding back of the matron of the house while he tried to figure out how to categorize that interaction. Again, with that Honor business. He was going to have to slum it up a little if he wanted to avoid attention. Taipan's tastes were too good. Or maybe, no, a well to do appearing trader could open more doors than a poor one. The transdimensional law that money talks was still in effect. Hell with it, he would play the part of Honor Einar of Clan Fuk'yu. If he had any luck at all, being a rich Barbarian would behoove him compared to being thought a poor one. Absent the benefit of being raised steeped in the customs and norms of these lands, an outsider was the best he was going to achieve. Even his high, midcalf boots marked him as a foreigner. Better, he supposed, than alien.
The key entered the brass lock smoothly and turned with a clean click, the mechanism well crafted, better, in fact, than had been that of the quality of devices in Trachn'ir. Taipan had picked those locks about as fast as Ulric had used this here key. Ulric was no hand for lock picking so it didn't much matter to him, but he'd have to keep in mind when he reunited with his Shadow. Spotting the bed as he entered the room he frowned.
Shadow. And wife. Damn if the nights didn't get lonely without the now familiar presence. He instantly turned aside from that and reviewed the room.
A simple dresser, wooden frame bed, nightstand, and lampstands, their workmanship far inferior compared to Iriel'en craftsmen. Plain walls, absent flourish, or decoration. A light grey plaster was laid over top of timbers as he confirmed with a few gentle raps of his knuckles. He could hear the wood beneath thumping and feel the softness of the plaster compared to the stone of the floor. Rugs covered most of the fishbone pattern of square floor blocks. Now that was kind of fancy. Clearly, Bartala employed a wider array of masons than did Trachn'ir. He didn't necessarily know how any of this information was going to be useful but a guy can never tell. Things had a way of going sideways and, at the least, he needed to catalogue where everything was to more easily tell if someone had entered the room in his absence.
Ulric ran his fingers across the dresser, feeling its grain. The wood was straight-grained, with none of the whirling interlacing of the Iriel'en lumber. Easier to work, far easier. But softer and weaker, the carpenters here paled in comparison to their Aes'r rivals. He supposed that was only common sense. Elves lived longer had greater time to master and apply their craft. They also had something the furniture here lacked: a love for the material. Elven woodworkers treated their substrate with reverence, it was once part of the forest they cherished. They would not disrespect that origin through neglect or inattention. The only feeling Ulric got from woodwork here was summarized by the word "adequate".
Inspecting the carpentry only occupied him a few more moments. His backpack he unshouldered, its contents much reduced to only what he might need to cut his losses and escape into the wilderness if needs be. Hopefully, that would not prove necessary. Pulling Xef'tocht's back sheath off to lay on the bed, Ulric sat next to the enchanted blade and lay back to stare at the ceiling.
Now what?
