Argethafen gleamed in the sun, shining a silver light that brightened the central sea. The whitewalls reflected the rippling sea and all of the sun's smattering of light along its surface. The dockmaster, Hernan, held his wide brimmed hat defensively over his dock listings, his quill scratching across the paper, etching the day's docking over his logbook. Across his feet, a grey-haired wolfhound lay at his feet, panting under the heat with a smile worth half a doubloon, the dockboy would say. The dock itself held seventy five ships daily, two hundred at its peak. Every week, eight hundred thousand tons of cargo was shipped to and from the city. Glass, food, leather, textiles, spices, stone, timber, clay, alcohol, and some even rumored slaves were transported, though if any contraband like forced labor or illicit substances were transported, Hernan didn't know about it. 

Officially. 

The swarthy skinned Dwemorlock cursed in his wicked tongue and walked away after reporting his shipment, leaving Hernan with his flesh crawling. Strange folk they were, with their long legs and gold rings pierced across their flesh. They were tolerated for their coin and their seafaring ability, but never was there a more cursed people, their sculpted forms a rosebud above the thorns. As long as they paid their dues and gave Hernan some coin on the side, they could 'buy' what they wanted and take it back to their blighted land. 

'Tck tck' he called with a click of his tongue, his hound hoisting itself to its feet and happily gazing up at him as it paced back and forth. Hernan ripped the three pieces of paper with today's report off the clipboard and folded it up with a neatness that came with years of repitition, walking away from the dock and giving a salute to one of the laborer's he knew named Gorgio, wishing him a fine day. All shipping halted mid-afternoon, the weather a dozen leagues out was growing volatile. Any newcomers were not only unlikely, but as good as dead if they were not desperate brigands. Pirates could be good for business, but not the desperate kind. 

Chickens scattered off the road as he strode into the marketplace. The buildings of Argethafen were like most late 5th age cities on northwestern Torek, in the Drauffan style. Stone buildings with large blocks and the expanse of the stone walls broken up by overlaid tracery. Pointed arches and columns held up the more expensive and esoteric buildings, which included the guild house and the accompanying yards. The first slip was for the Tratta, and he stepped passed a few apprentices and journeymen speaking about their late nights before initiations. He pushed past them and they moved aside, mumbling excuses like the chickens clucked. He held his head high, straightening his mustache and plumed hat, entering the double doors under the archway into the central guild hall, passing up the stairs into the grandmaster's office. 

He opened the door into a meeting, freezing in his tracks and wondering if he should strongarm through or offer apologies. There was a young man in the room along with an older, scraggly gent sitting across from Grandmaster Montelle. All three turned to regard him, though the younger fellow was lost in thought even as he looked directly into Hernan's eyes.

"Oh, right. The logs." Montelle said with an aristocratic air, waving Hernan to come forward. He smiled when the dockmaster did as he was bade, thanking him like the old friends they were. "Very good, Hernan. Punctual as always. Oh, I am glad you're here! I was just speaking to our newest Tradesfarer, and giving Cogman a much needed rest." He indicated the gruff looking man at that, who looked none-too-pleased at this development. In fact, he was so distraught he stood up without the grandmaster's permission, which was against guild etiquette and stormed out of the room, pushing past Hernan without due respect. He would receive a letter of condemnation and would be fined or be given a set of tasks to complete for forgiveness, if he was interested in keeping what status he had at least.  

"Ah, the new tradesfarer," Hernan said, giving a nod with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. [i]Damn it all to the thirteen hells[/i], he thought to himself. Cogman was in his pocket, but he didn't even know who this young fellow was! He didn't even have time to make connections with this young one, not for a week. Would he be gone by then? He kept his face cheery in front of old Montelle. "He's uh, a bit young, isn't he?" 

"He's right sir," the youth replied humbly. He seemed to have gathered his wits a bit. His white shirt was crossed by a red and gold sash that wound across one shoulder down to his belt, where he no doubt kept measuring devices, his coin, and parchment. At his hip was a satchel, and leaning against the chair was an oaken staff, the head was carved into the visage of a seadragon. "There are many more worthy members who deserve this. I still have four more years before I can vote in the Tratta's assembly." 

"Well, seems he's got a good head on his shoulders." Hernan agreed, wholeheartedly. By Orilon, the lad could be a singer! He had the voice for deal making, Hernan would give him that. He seemed trimp, with the haleness of youth, though he likely wasn't fit for hard labor. Those green eyes looked like they could see far. Maybe one day he would be shrewd enough to worry Hernan, but now he was just concerned with the lads naivety and ignorance. "Tradesfarer is a dangerous job, Montelle. You won't even let them have league enlisted guards, because they're too valuable to lose. Do you not value this boy? Let him finish his schooling, aye?" 

"He's 23, he's no boy." Montelle replied, a surety on his face, set as hard as the oaken desk he rested his elbows on. His shock of white hair was almost invisible with the overcast, whitened sky blanketing the window behind him. The only real color in the room was the boy's strawberry blonde locks and outfit, and the burgundy carpet. "And I trust him more than Cogman, between you and I. Now, go help him gather what he needs for tomorrow's book keeping, and make it quick. He leaves as soon as the storm abates, and my astronomer's have assured me that would be in two days." 

Hernan and the lad sighed, and the youth got out of the cushioned chair and gave the sign of the Tratta to Montelle, before giving a polite bow to Hernan, extending his hand. Hernan took it reluctantly. "So, what's your name, lad?" 

"Aldrik Maynard, sir. Journeyman in the League of Tratta."