[center][color=green]The Kingdom of Brightland, Brightwater[/color][/center]

[i]"Admiral!"[/i] [i]Forthwine turned. The sky was dark, the waves grey with ash. Occasionally a burst of solar sorcery or the flash of a ship's battery illuminated the wasted hellscape. Dozens of vessels were locked in grim, desperate combat. It was difficult to tell who belonged to which side, or indeed, if any sides were to be had. Armored warriors and otherworldly creatures swarmed the decks and rigging. Behind this bleak tapestry, Thronehold [b]burned[/b].[/i] [i][b]"Admiral!"[/b][/i] [i]He kept turning. He felt drunk. In one fist was a saber drenched in blood. In the other was the standard of Empire, somewhat diminished as its holdings rose up in open defiance of the Crown. Standing at the bow of his flagship was his wife. What? That was impossible. Beatan should be safe at home in their country estate, far from the fighting. Flag and blade dropped to the deck. He reached out his hand...[/i] [b]"ADMIRAL!!!"[/b] His eyes opened.

Forthwine Bannammar listened to the sounds of Brightwater. The river rushed past, ropes creaked, cookfires crackled. With the ease of long practice, he rolled out of his hammock, bare feet landing on dry rushes. The hammocks were one of the few things they'd been able to salvage from their ships. Most of the settlers had taken to regular sleeping bags or bedrolls. But Forthwine had practically grown up being swayed to sleep in a hammock. Even if there was no gently moving deck beneath him. Standing nearby was Thatlas, his first mate. Former first mate? A spare man, lean, bald and bony, his face a gruesome map of pockmarks, burns, and other old scars. Normally stoic, he looked concerned.

"You spoke in your sleep, sir," he said, blunt as always. Forthwine moved slowly over to a basin of water and began his morning toilet, saying nothing. Thatlas hesitated, watching his captain. His Lord-Protector. Forthwine washed, shaved, and brushed his hair and beard with the meager supplies available, and then dressed in hose, tunic, and jerkin. After a moment, Thatlas moved to help him pull on and lace his knee-length boots and buckle on his sword belt. The sword was unfamiliar to Forthwine, awkward in his hand. A heavy cutlass, taken off some corsair on the Sorrows. His own saber had been lost at Crown Bay. His eyes were distant, remembering...

"The rest of the council has been waiting. Your overslept." Short, to the point of being a trifle rude. Forthwine glanced over with some concern. He was no longer a young man, his auburn beard and shaggy mane of hair going grey at the ends. His face was worn and tanned, lines of worry and doubt creasing his broad forehead and square jaw. Grey-blue eyes surveyed their surroundings with calm determination. "Have a care, Thatlas," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "It will not do for the people to hear you address me thus." Thatlas rolled his eyes in response, leading the way. They wove through the muddy lanes and alleys of Brightwater. The buildings were for the most part assembled from the broken down ships of the refugee fleet, though by time and necessity, local timber and stone had been slowly added to the construction. Canvas served as awning, ship's rigging for clotheslines, windows from captains' quarters decorating their one chapel. Children ran past or squatted in the mud. Mothers quickly pulled them aside, curtsying as the Lord-Protector strode past, their eyes turned down. In fear. Shame. Guilt. Hope.

Forthwine and Thatlas entered a pavilion sewn from canvas and old battle-standards, a confusing fusion of vivid iconography and drab practicality. Inside was the rest of Forthwine's "council." Loegaire slumped by the entrance, sweating through his heavy yellow and red robes. He mopped a ragged kerchief against his gleaming pate, watery eyes flicking across the tent's occupants. Old Sir Chann de Stroy stood rigidly to attention opposite from him, torn surcoat over rusty mail. His long mustaches drooped over a face as solemn as a basset hound's. Seated at the camp table were a man and woman, as opposite as night and day. One had once been immensely fat, but the long voyage had been particularly hard on him. Now his skin hung from his frame in loose folds, his eyes were great yellowed disks above black bags, and his hands never seemed to stop shaking slightly. But he was kind, and wise, always with a smile and a treat or a toy for the children. Opposite him was a woman shaped like a steel cord, her hair cropped short like a boy's. She was all hard edges and sharp looks, her one eye dark and untrusting; the other was covered by a simple leather patch.

"Denys. Mallory." They began to rise, Denys with stiff jerks and quiet grunts, Mallory almost before Forthwine had finished speaking. "Be seated, I bid you," he said gruffly. Denys relaxed with a relieved sigh, Mallory eased back in to the camp chair in a stiff, awkward position. The Lord-Protector stood at the head of the table, arms folded before him. "My wise councilors and trusted companions. I have assembled you, the best that Brightland has to offer--" (There was a muffled snort from Thatlas) "--in this, our most dire hour. Few of us yet remain, here, on the edge of the world. But Aureth provides." "Aureth provides," the assemble echoed, to varying degrees of enthusiasm and piety. "By the Grace of the Goddess, much work is ahead of us." He gestured to Thatlas, who reluctantly stepped forward. He spread out a crude blueprint on the table.

"Here, and here, is where we'll begin the digging..." Thatlas muttered, pointing at various points up and down the river. "The dam'll go down upstream, above the bend. This local wood's not as sturdy as what we're used to, but it's more flexible. We've not found anything close to yew, but..." Mallory nodded, her face guarded. "Those curious deer might provide useful material for recurve bows. In time. And those horses are some of the finest stock I've ever seen. We'll have knights in a generation, Goddess willing." Chann shook his head, slowly, sadly. "Fine horses do nay make knights. Courage, loyalty, a noble heart..." [i]That, and mail, swords, and lances. Which we are low on as well, to be sure.[/i] Forthwine turned his head, eyeing Loegaire and Denys. "Something troubles you, my lords?" The priest wrung his hands. "Are food stores are critical, your grace. Many will starve if these plans are not completed before the harvest..." Forthwine nodded, his mouth set in a sad line, but his words were harsh. "There are berries, birds, and rodents. Let them bring slings and snares to the fields. If the work is not complete, we will [i]all[/i] starve come the next few years."

Denys and Loegaire shared a look, but did not argue. Thatlas nodded, as if that settled the matter, and rolled up the charts. "I'll assign a work detail, yer lordship," he said, with begrudging courtesy, and then hurried away. Mallory followed like a shadow, not meeting the Lord-Protector's gaze. Forthwine watched them go, wondering if he was making the right decision. Only the Goddess could tell him, and she wasn't talking. Had Aureth finally forsaken her chosen people?

Thatlas, who was the council's "Steward", set about his assignment swiftly. He gathered as many able-bodied workers as the settlement could spare and set them to the task of digging irrigation ditches and channels from the river in to the fields, where a vast network of farms would be plowed and tilled for the generations to come. Upstream, the river would be partially dammed, to begin creating a reservoir for fish and a floodplain to further nourish the farmland. The dam would also serve as a mighty bridge, in time, but such a construction could take years to fully complete; the irrigation ditches were the primary concern. To feed the workers and the rest of the works in the meantime, foraging parties were sent out with sacks, slings, and crude traps. They avoided the savanna for the most part, sticking to the more gentle plains in search of berries, rabbits, and the like.

[hider=Actions]
[b]A[/b]: In the short term, forage the local area for food, and irrigate the delta.
[b]C[/b]: In the log term, begin construction of a series of canals and dykes to create a fertile floodplain, complete with dam overlooking the settlement.
[/hider]