The not-immortal Blacksmith

Lostcairn, Snows Province, Kingdom of Garthia;

3rd of Arah, Second month of Snow;

2125 years since the new gods came.

I have completed my second day on the road to Dragon. 40 miles left to Whitlemeay, and another 40 from there to Dragon. The road has been pleasantly bandit free. Good wolves. Hilda, my horse, seems to be in good condition. She's only...28 years old? She should be fine.

*-*-*

“Alright young man,” the scar faced and weary older man said from the back of his horse, “I will give you to the count of three to get down from the wagon, otherwise old Willie over there is going to shoot you with his crossbow.”

Maxwell let out a deep sigh, “How about I give you a gold piece or two, and you let me go?” They never take it. Idiots.

“Can't do that. The boss has us on a quota, now that we can't get near Lostcairn.” The bandit replied. “I wish I could, but that boss of mine is a real stickler. We need to score a wagon load a week.”

“Well, that is indeed to bad,” Max exhaled, a frown playing across his lips. “I guess this is the end.”

“Sorry about that. I can give you---” the bandit was interrupted by exploding. The remaining members of the band started to flee. Unfortunately for them, one by one, they also started to explode.

“I really hate having to do that.” Max heaved a sigh, “Maybe the next batch will take the gold and run.”

*-*-*

4th of Arah,

Bandits. I hate bandits. If they just robbed people a little bit, it wouldn't be so bad, but no, they always want more than is reasonable. 20 more miles to Whitlemeay.

5th of Arah,

I arrived in Whitlemeay this evening. It is now a walled city of 4500 people with a large trade center. It has grown a bit since the last time I was here, a couple hundred years ago? I'm spending the night at the “Hook and Anchor” a pirate themed inn. Off to the port city of Dragon in the morning, 43 miles, no more than two and a half days, if the weather holds.

6th of Arah,

Rain and snow today. Barely made it 10 miles. Going to sleep in the wagon.

7th of Arah,

The bad weather has held. Going was slow today. 8 miles traveled.

8th of Arah,

I woke up this morning to Hilda lying on the ground. She was frozen. Fuck. I should have put her out to pasture years ago. I keep forgetting that horses have a shorter lifespan than the rest of the people. Damn it all. I cast a few spells on myself, and was able to pull the wagon three miles down the road to a farmstead that was willing to sell me an Ox. Spent the night in the stable.

9th of Arah,

Oxen are slow. Oxen don't stop. The blasted beast. 12 miles today. 10 miles left, and I can sell this damnable beast. And my wagon.

10th of Arah,

I have arrived. The beast and wagon have been sold. My trunk and I are waiting for the next ship (not boat, ship). I will have to find my own amusement for the next few days.

*-*-*

11th of Arah, the docks,

Looking around the docks, Max saw a D'Kin sailor who happened to be lounging on a haphazard pile of crates on the shore, near one of the three smaller piers.

“So what passes for amusement around here?” Max asked using the norther Draconian trade pidgin he had picked up during his time with the tinkers.

“Oi. Not much. Drinking and whoring, for the most part. Sometimes a bit of gambling.” The sailor replied in standard Draconian, his green scaly tail swinging gently off to one side.

“So, about the same as every other sea port I've been to.” Max said.

“Pretty much.” The D'Kin finally looked over at Max, and raised his eye ridges, “Oi! You aren't D'Kin! What the hells?”

“True.” Max said, a toothy grin on his face.

“Well, I'll be a cracked egg. Where did you learn the father tongue?” The D'Kin asked.

“Up north, while I was traveling with a tinker band. It came in very handy.” Max said.

“That explains the bad accent. That and the wrong sort of mouth.” The D'Kin replied. “I'm Goran, by the way. Now what brings you to Dragon?”

“I'm Maxwell, but you can call me Max.” Max said, “I'm actually looking for passage to Clifrontle. Your 'Fatherland', as it were.”

“Why would you want to go to that volcanic hell hole?” Goran asked. “Nothing there but D'Kin, and crafters. And the Smoking Cone... Actually it is kinda nice this time of year...” Goran's eyes unfocused for a moment, then continued, “The ship I'm on, the Mercy of the Waves, will be leaving in 4 days. I don't know if there are any passenger berths available, but if you know how to sail, there are a couple of crew spots open”

“I will indeed check it out. Where is it berthed?” Max said.

“Second pier from the left, all the way to the end, and on the right. Look for the D'Kin yelling horrible things, that will be the ship.” Goran replied. “Good luck to ya! And don't tell him that I sent you!”

Max nodded his thanks, and walked off to find the ship.

- -

The heavy stones of the pier had been assembled in such a way that there was hardly a crack to be seen that would prove it was constructed as opposed to grown. As Max walked along it, he marveled at the ages old construction, to the point that he reached the end of it without realizing it. He stopped at the end, and turned to the right to inspect the ship. It was a large, long cargo hauler. Deep of draft, and fitted with three masts, all set up for square rigging. Much larger that the fore and aft rigged fishing vessels he had crewed before becoming a Butcher.

He walked to the boarding ramp, and called up to the bored looking guard at the top, “Permission to come aboard?”

“Yeah, come on up.” The guard replied.

At the top of the ramp, he was met with the sounds of sailing business being attended to, ropes being coiled, provisions and cargo being moved, sailors of all races and sexes running between jobs. In other words, organized chaos. In the middle of it all was a haggard looking D'Kin, yelling orders and cussing at the top of his voice. Max looked over at the guard, “That the Captain?” He pointed at the D'Kin.

“No. That's First Mate Tildee. The Captain in on shore dealing with customs and the other idiots.” The guard replied, eyes now sweeping the pier for anything unusual.

“Do you think he would mind an interruption?” Max asked.

“He will mind, but the crew would love you for it.” replied the guard.

Nodding his head, Max wandered through the chaos of the deck, and approached the first mate, then affecting a sailors accent said, “Excuse me, Sir?” He stood at the military at-ease position.

“What do you want, sailor?” Tildee didn't turn, but did lower his volume a bit.

“I'm looking for a bunk. Either crew, or civilian.” Max said.

Tildee stopped yelling and turned to look at him, “You what?”

“I am looking for passage to Clifrontle. I would like a passenger cabin, or failing that, a crew bunk.” Max replied, then continued, “I have some experience working fishing rigs on the north west coast, and made it to third mate, in charge of nets. I have no doubt that a full sail ship is different, but my skills should match with those of an able seamen.”

“Are you serious?” Tildee asked.

“Yes. Yes I am.” He stepped over a loop of rope that was approaching him, “I am fairly confident that I can do the job.”

“It will be four or five weeks until we make port in Clifrontle, and we are booked up for the whole trip.” Tildee said.

“That's fine.” Replied Max. “I'm no stranger to discomfort. I would take a hammock on the storage deck over the privy pot, as long as it gets me where I'm going.”

“If you can handle it, I suppose we can throw up a hammock in the hold near the crew.” Tildee said, hand scratching his chin.

“That would be fine.” Max replied, a half smile on his face. “When do we leave port?”

“Four days, at midnight,” Tildee started to say, and Max joined in, “When the tide turns.”

Tildee cocked an eye ridge at Max, “You may actually know something after all.” Then said, “The chandler will collect your payment when you show up to board. Be here at eight bells, or you will be left behind.”

“You don't run the six clock?” Max asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Good catch. You might be a sailor after all.” Tildee said, “But no, we run twelve bells so the landers can actually tell what time it is.”

“Makes sense, in a way. We always thought it was funny to see them flail at the time difference.” Max gave an actual smile.

“We used to, but the captain got too much grief for it, and we had to change.” Tildee said, returning the smile. “First Mate Tildee, by the way.” He offered his hand.

“Maxwell Smithson.” Max said shaking the proffered hand. “See you at four bell, Chief.” Then he mock saluted, and walked back to the pier.

As he walked past, the guard said, “Nice job with the Chief.”

Max nodded, “Thanks. See you in four, at four.”

*-*-*

11th of Arah,

Passage to Clifrontle has been obtained. Nice ship, named the Mercy of the Waves. We leave the 15th at midnight. Need to be there by four bells.

TTFN