POOHEAD189

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Black Fire Pass has ever been a double edged sword because of this scarcity of accessible routes through the Mountains. It is at once a chink in the armor of the Empire, a sure path for invading armies, and also a vital trade route connecting the Empire with the remaining Dwarf Karaks, Tilea, Estalia, and the wild Border Princes. Black Fire Pass stands at the centre of a triangle, its points roughly signified by three great Dwarf Karaks, though men of any kingdom weren't pirvvy to their exact whereabouts. Even the traders met with their Dwarfen contacts at proxy locations.

The pass itself was a strange mixture of life and death. Jagged rocks marked the lanscape, some became sharpened peaks that touched the clouds, stacked atop burnt stones the color of singed flesh. Tufts of grass sprang forth on the ground, a few areas were almost fields in a small way, trampled and ruined but still alive and breathing to live another year. Areas of the pass were actually charred and rent from mortar shells and dangerous magics from previous battles fought in the bottleneck. Large groups of merchants and dwarfs, and even greenskins traveled through Blackfire every week, and Sigmar himself here fought the decisive battle so very long ago to forge the Empire of Man into the Juggernaut it was today.

Amal knew none of this, and even if he had, he would not be very impressed. After one saw the things he had, this was par for the course. Even before he shacked up with his bountiful woman Emmaline, the deserts of Araby were places of dread legend and harsh realities. His penetrating gaze watched the peaks around them, treating them like dunes that could hide all manner of bandits or monsters. At his side was Emmaline, sitting her rump on one of the wagons after coercing Heisenbach the merchant to let her make a bit of room. Amal did not mind walking. It helped him keep an eye on their surroundings, particularly the hard eyed caravan guards, the three dwarf slayers, and the two ogre mercenaries that rumbled along with them. None were likely going to the same principality, but all were trying to find fortune in the Border Kingdoms. A land of competition, Emmaline had told him. It sounded fun to the bandit.

As they moved towards the mouth of the southern portion of Black Fire Pass, they passed by a huge monument. A shrine to Sigmar, made in the form of an obelisk five stories high, framed by everflame braziers that would continue even under seasonal typhoons. Before the obelisk was a statue of Sigmar as the barbarian king he was, holding aloft Ghal Maraz. His face stern and resolute, and the trees beside it the shrine were littered with greenskin skeletons to serve as a warning to any future invasion. Of course the warnings didn't work with a race as insane as the greenskins, but it was a nice touch.

"I like your people." Amal said to Emmaline, admiring the statue in his own way. "They do not fuck around."

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Alrik was a dangerous man, one of the most dangerous in the league. Not with his fists or the sword, but in every area a scholar and merchant was. His mind and keen eye moved in unison, plotting the most judicious and expedient route to get the best job done as quickly as possible, even with the uncountable variables they were likely to face. Moving out of Argethafen, there was around 200 miles north until they made it into the frigid sea, which did not give much promise of wealth. They needed to focus southwards and along the eastern coast, which they needed to get to going through a circuitous route around the islands to the east that was said to be the den of vikings, and at all costs they needed to avoid the Island Nation of Noxtuga and the Isle of Sencoshima to the south, which meant they needed to continually travel south until they reached safer waters, or go between the islands through some of the traveled but risky routes more intrepid sailors braved. Going north and around was also an option, but it wasted a week of their time, and in those waters were large serpents. Not that there weren't any south, he thought to himself.

His intense gaze was as broken as his thought process when Inez entered his quarters. He briefly thought about making some boundaries between them to help him think, but it wouldn't do to be rude to the only sword that was sworn to his service beyond indirect service to the captain under his command. He made sure to convince himself of that justification, and it wasn't her pleasing dark features that made his tongue seem too unruly to speak for a moment.

To his credit, he didn't let it show beyond a mere moment, and he was also a bit too tired and worried to let it get to him. "Well, when every route I have can lead to death, hard to say," He replied, even his dry tone buttered up by how smooth his voice carried. He didn't know how worldly Inez was, but he wasn't about to give a lecture that she didn't need. Better if she had questions and asked them herself. Not everyone enjoyed long orations like he did, and he still got tired of them when it wasn't an interesting or prudent subject. "We, meaning the League, have over half the cities on the western coast, so it would be best to go east, and if the routes are deadly, I guess I need to think on what is the best first stop, instead."

With two dozen independent city states, he couldn't even begin to choose. Itacestor City, Takahn, Yhesra, the Alesean Peninsula? He gave a small laugh when the city of Basileos entered his mind, dismissing that as foolhardy even for him. He supposed the ship's defenses and speed were good enough to handle more humanoid dangers than beast, and he couldn't afford to be slow moving at the start of the race. He spoke his thoughts aloud. "Yhesra, I think. It has three royal houses that work in a council, and if I can convince one of the dukes, the other two will follow to stay in competition with them. I hear it's also beautiful there," He looked in her direction and gave her a smile, and winked. "Baby steps for our first stop, yes?"

Once he firmly stamped the pin onto Yhesra and began to peruse the sea routes with his eyes, he realized her question had set his mind into action. He was glad he hadn't pushed her out, out of hand. He cleared his throat and brushed some of his hair with a flick of his hand, turning back to her. "Would you like a drink? I need one." He said with a staunch recourse. "I've got whiskey or brandy." Alrik had the distinct feeling if Inez were a proper lady she might think it forward, but he guessed she wasn't as prim as that.

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Later that night...

They had gotten acquainted, though mostly through small talk. Tortuccio gave her and Alrik assurances of one another, which was slightly off putting, but he did take the liberty of taking Alrik to the crew. Inez hadn't been invited by the elderman but she came anyway, which Alrik thought was prudent so he didn't complain. The rain poured down around them, but they had an invention the league called 'umbrellas' that kept the rain off of them. Such a simple design, it was hard to think they were new. The streets themselves still had some walkers and citizens, but the majority were inside to hide from the storm. It felt like forever before they made it to the ship, but once they did, Alrik caught his breath, and he whistled appreciatively.

The Arxregnum was huge; a veritable castle of the waves. Four masted, the main mast carrying a square sail while the mizzenmast carried a lateen sail. The square sail was used for speed and the lateen rig allowed for maneuverability. There were iron fittings on its upper hull, giving it a sheen of fading sunlight far above them as they drew closer. Tortuccio gave a call twice, impatient to be let aboard.

"Let's hope they respond with more gusto you to, Alrik," he said, though Alrik soon found it was useless griping. Once the plank was dropped, Alrik found the crew very amiable, albeit a bit rough around the edges. The Captain was a bearded man of tall stature, wrapped in a cloak of white and grey. By the crucifix style hilt of his sword and the way he walked, Alrik theorized he was an ex-crusader. He introduced himself as Captain Ingvald, and gave a sign with his hands Alrik didn't recognize. His men did not introduce themselves, at least not formerly. Each man gave a wave or some sort of acknowledgement, all coming from different walks of life. They were all older than Alrik, but younger than the Captain, who's beard greyed at its edges.

Alrik and Inez were then shown to their rooms, across the hall from one another, both of equal size to the Captain's cabin. Ingvald had even offered to let him use his quarters, but Alrik declined, satisfied with comfortable quarters and a map of the known world hammered upon his wall so he could plot their next course. Inez and the new tradesfarer now had the night to peruse or speak, or go to the mess hall and eat. Alrik decided to make the most of it, pouring over the map and other books with his door half cracked open, musing to himself and fretting over their first heading. If he had this responsibility, he needed to have a destination plotted as soon as able.

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

"Death would be too good for you," Mala-Shim said with blood flecked lips, hatred in his eyes. Amal had to give him credit, he faced his own mortality with defiance. Too bad he couldn't risk him staying alive. The thief held his curved knife to the merchant's throat, having killed his bodyguard and descended upon the tradesman before he knew what was happening, and after Amal bloodied him, he had told him the truth. It would have been better had he not.

"Well then I guess that means I will live forever, yes?" Amal replied, slicing the merchant's throat before Mala-Shim could respond. It was a quick cut, but Amal's strong arms made the knife slice very deep. The crimson liquid gushed out with every beat of his greedy heart, like the lapping of the waves against a dry beach. Amal only gave him one derisive look as he crumpled before turning, sliding a cloth over his jambiya blade. He had already nabbed the dead man's coin purse at knife point.

A servant, likely a debt-slave, cowered in the corner, unfortunately chained to the cart Mala-Shim had been taking to Arilqas. The ass neighed in annoyance, its ears flickering as the flies that gathered about its head began to migrate over to the fresh corpse. Amal took a moment to contemplate, then decided he really didn't care to take much from the now ownerless cart. The slave man flinched when Amal approached him, his skinny body shivering in obvious fear. When the thief's hand flashed, the slave cried out and ducked, only to be hit in the face with the key to his chains.

"What is your name?" Amal asked, counting the coins he had taken from Mala-Shim even as the slave looked at him, astonished he was alive and even more surprised he had been given the keys to unlock his chains. He swallowed to wet his throat, thinking Amal was playing some sick game with him.

"Ekara," the man responded, sun-baked hands slowly fidgeting with the keys."And...you are Amal, yes?" The thief's amused smile showed him he was correct. "Master spoke of you often."

"What did he say about me?" Amal laughed.

"Many nasty things." Ekara said, his manacles 'clicking' open, taking them off and not sure on if to toss the keys back to Amal or keep them. The Esaad thief did not seem concerned with them, now placing the coins back into the small sack, pleased.

"Well it makes sense, seeing as he is now dead. Perhaps I deserved them?"

Now Ekara was certain this was a game. There would be no reason to free him other than the kindness of one's own heart, and this man killed with no hesitation. Ekara even suspected he had enjoyed it for its own sake. Now he bandied words in a way that kept Ekara on his toes, not knowing how to respond. As he contemplated running, Amal strode over to the cart and leaned in, glancing at the goods Mala-Shim had been transporting. The slave was not very familiar all of his master's business going south, but he knew he had been transporting iron and textiles for an order of armorer materials to Arilqas.

"Well Ekara, it seems you have now been freed! And with your own business, as well. You are far luckier than I was when I freed myself, I will not lie to you." Amal confided, and stepped over to Ekara, though he seemed to be more interested in the weather above and their surroundings, for some reason.

Ekara's jaw dropped, blinking over and over until the servant, well... former servant, shook his head. "You will give me his things? Why!? Why not just steal it all?"

Amal shrugged. "I was a debt-slave once. Call it nostalgia. Though I am also letting you live so you could bury the body." Amal rested his hand on his sheathed knife, and the other on the hilt of his scimitar. He looked so casual, it was difficult to say whether he did so to look threatening, or if it was mere habit. Likely the latter to achieve the former. The thief looked at him with eyes so dark under his wave of black hair, they looked abyssal. "Men do not look kindly on slaves killing their masters."

"But-"

"Also, because I let you live, I would like discounts on whatever business you find yourself in, in the future. If you manage to bury your master before someone arrives to find you. Sound good?"

Ekara's mouth worked, but no noise came from his throat. So he merely nodded. Amal took his hand and shook it. "Friends, then! It is nice to meet you, Ekara. I will see you later! Mala-Shim had a shovel in the back, by the way."

The thief tossed his bag of coins into the air and caught it, walking southward toward Arilqas. He felt a bit liberated himself, if he was being honest. Mala-Shim had him thrown into prison and had killed a woman Amal had fancied, and it was providence his vengeance took him out of Esaas where no one looked for him. Perhaps he would find where his fortunate lay, ahead?

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Aldrik wasn't a warrior. Far from it, in fact. His diet and youth kept him trim, and many an older man envied him his lack of a pot belly. He sometimes wished he was a far older gentleman, already. Their wizened faces spoke of decades of experience and wisdom, and loyal service. They always told him to be thankful for his youth, and he tried to be, though they did a hell of a job convincing him of that. They kept him busy from sun up to sun down, and even after. Not to mention his dues, oaths, studies, and his logbooks he kept secured.

Well, he supposed that was about to change.

He straightened his garb and cleared his throat, waiting for the knock that would signify he enter. Tortuccio was out escorting his new guard into the foyer. Apparently she had been late, through no fault of her own it seemed. Outside of the door, he heard another door open and Tortuccio's voice over the din of the deep creaking, followed by a bold but very feminine voice in an accent he couldn't quite catch this far removed. He imagined they would speak for awhile, long waits being a staple of the League. But there was a loud two-hit strike on the door, and he opened it up with just a moment's pause to gather his wits.

The foyer was as large as most living areas, with an entry table by the door that held two bottles, one with whiskey and the other with mead. Beside them was a bust of Alchimedes III, one of the six founders. A lotus flower from Shi'Ran bloomed from a pot beside the bust, the petals looking almost like a hat. Pictures adorned the room, and even in the foyer, there was a bookshelf of novels and nonfictional studies. It was a very good looking room, but the woman that stood at the center was the most attractive thing in the chamber, even though he had no doubt she could cut him into ribbons.

Her fingernails trimmed in the swordsman's style, she wore a stylish jerkin over a doublet, her swordbelt tied tight at her slim waist, and brown breeches that hugged her legs. She was a strange mixture of dangerous and good looking, with dark features and a confident look to her. Aldrik wasn't going to ask if this was the one, knowing just by how she held herself that she had experience in some sort of martial pursuit, be it militarily, mercenary, or guard.

"Aldrik, may I introduce you to your bodyguard, Inez of...where was it again?" Tortuccio inquired blithely.

Aldrik knew it was rude to wait, and so he stepped over to her and brushed his rich locks of hair out of his eyes, extending a hand to shake hers.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, fraulien. Aldrik Maynard."

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Neil looked at his girlfriend with raised brows, then looked at Taya and shrugged, nodding. "Sure, yeah."

Junebug cocked the hammer on her semi-auto and held it up at the ready while Taya wiggled behind her, still half drugged and confused at what exactly was happening. Neil took the moment to look around at their surroundings, up, to the side, and then at the ground. He found a few rocks to the left of the door, likely made of the rockcrete they used to make the archway. One was roughly the size of his fist. He shoot his hand out and grabbed it quickly, and only one man cried out at his exposed flesh, firing at where his hand had been, far too slowly. The others followed suit, firing at the empty entryway, causing the three to pull back as bullets ricocheted off the false granite and steel of the ship's hull. Neil started whistling, idly tossing the rock up and catching it while the fail of gunfire rained around them.

Soon the gunfire abated, loud clicking accompanying uneasy claims of needing to reload. Neil almost felt bad for them, but the fun he was having usually outstripped his guilt, particularly when they were trying to kill him. He cleared his throat, puffing his chest out.

"Grenade!"

The plain rock was openly tossed out of the entryway, sailing through the air. Before it even hit the ground, the brainwashed zealots scattered like mice, devoid of dignity and any hopes of ever getting laid. Neil shook his head, clearly enjoying the spectacle. Junebug didn't hesitate, raising her gun and stepping out like a maiden of war, her 10mm bloodied and pierced any men that looked like there was any hope of resistance. Villagers near where the party was being taken down became utterly scattered, screeching and clutching babies and small children.

Past some of the structures, something lurked. One of the transit vehicles was suddenly pushed on its side by something with immeasurable strength, and suddenly one of the fleeing men was lifted off the ground, impaled by a spike that sent his body in shudders. A saurian thing stepped out into view, and Neil sighed when he realized it was Saxon. A few slugs struck him, most bouncing off his ridged plates, one or two striking flesh but only doing superficial damage. He ignored them and began to devour the man he had on a spit, swallowing him whole. Even as the man's form was washed down his gullet, Saxon was on the move again. He snatched up one of the fleeing children next, his mandibles flexing as he marveled at the morsel.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Neil called, holding his hand out and pointing his gun Saxon's way. The xeno's predatory head switched to Neil, growling at the interruption. Neil glared at him like a dog, and judging by the looks of the crew behind him, he felt like he was vindicated when Saxon gave another growl and idly tossed the child away, causing the boy to roll across the ground relatively unharmed. "You humans are so picky! Adult, babe, they'll all be foes soon."

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

The League of Tratta was not kin to your average guild or artisan community. It's members were not counted in individuals, but in cities. 'Sovereign Members' they were deemed, where the local government or lord cooperated with their conglomerate in a relationship that was generally mutually beneficial. The League brought trade, protected trade, to the markets and ensured the money flowed without restraint. Pirates grew scarcer, and information of foreign markets reached the ears of the Masters of the City. Aldrik knew these reasons well, but still some cities were stubborn. Some wanted to control their own guilds within their borders, tax the merchants and charge them annual duties, and believed the League brought foreign spies and unwanted northwestern influences. Some even believed them puppets of the Kings of the North.

Aldrik had to keep all of these in mind and reacquaint himself with the subtleties of the political sphere if he was even going to gain one charter in four years, much less all of them. He sighed and etched his name on the final document, sealing his fate for the next part of his life. He almost wished he had become an associate of the League, with looser obligations and his own trade to ply. But he had wanted full membership as an agent, with all of the benefits that accompanied it.

The room he sat in was the yard library, a 'yard' meaning a block of the guild property cordoned off for apprentices and agents from a particular area of the continent, like a loose fraternity organization. Shelves and books and firelight surrounded him, shadows undulating to the pitter patter of the hard rain that coated the city buildings from without. There was a low rumble in the distance, followed by a flicker of light from the window. He hoped it wasn't a portent for things to come as he finalized the agreement. Slowly but neatly and without standing up, he handed the documents to his yardhead, Tortuccio, who stood just before him in the manner befitting one who was about to prime him on his oaths. He wore the floofy, stylish chaperone hat most of the well-to-do men of influence in Argethafen enjoyed. Which meant by now it was worn by ever more common folk and so soon would be out of fashioned.

"Very good, these all seem to be in order, Aldrik." He said, flipping through the pages with an adroit hand. "You'll be missed, I'll tell you that. Rogier and I, especially. But we'll see you down the way, as they say. You still remember your oaths, do you not?"

"Of course." Aldrik assured him.

"They'll be tested here like never before, boy. You'll have men try to bribe you, skim deals, you'll see women more beautiful than you can imagine. But keep your wits in your head and your cock in your pants. No bribes, no falsifications, no taking advantage of guild assets, and no romantic attachments until you have completed your scholarship with the guild. Understand?"

"I think I can handle it," Aldrik chuckled, giving his winning smile. He always seemed amused when dealing with older gentlemen. They took things far too gravely and always assumed the worst. Though Aldrik was far more anxious about other matters. Tortuccio looked at him intensely, though what he wished to ascertain was a mystery. "It's the miles at sea, the threat of violence, disease, and a halting of my studies that I'm more worried about."

Tortuccio waved it away, finally smiling back. "The Captain of your ship has been employed with the League for fourteen years, and he'll be under your command in all matters except in the unlikely event your ship is attacked, and in that event, you'll be in Carrack, with the latest swivel mounted cannons and ballista, and a well seasoned crew who have spent many years as privateers. And not only that, but you'll have your own personal bodyguard, under your command as the captain is."

Aldrik blinked, eyes wide as the implications ran through his head. The descriptions now made it all seem very real. He shook his head. "Sir, I... I don't know if I'm worthy of all of this."

"Well, too bad." Tortuccio said. "You've already signed the papers." He closed the ledger with the documents he signed with the finality of a guillotine. Somehow even past the storm outside, the book closing was loud. Aldrik got to his feet, knowing this was just the next step in graduating to a level beyond associate. He pulled at his tunic and straightened his garb, beginning to say something clever before his elder cut him off. "Would you like to meet her? She's in the foyer."

"Ye-Wh-... S-She, sir?"

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

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. Damn it all to the thirteen hells, 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."

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