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[img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/240416/0b800ddfc01ca2849a7c0ba18c3608ff.png[/img]

[b][color=FFD700]Time:[/color][/b] Late Morning
[b][color=FFD700]Location:[/color][/b] The sea >> Sorian Harbour
[b][color=FFD700]Interactions:[/color][/b]
[b][color=FFD700]Mentions:[/color][/b]
[b][color=FFD700]Attire:[/color][/b]
[hider]Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][i]'Beautiful, resplendent, and a wonder of the world, the city of Sorian is truly the capital which a Kingdom as grand as Caesonia deserves. From here, His Majesty King Edin Danrose, first of his name, rules his lands with both a just hand and wisdom worthy of a sage. Is it thus any wonder that Sorian attracts peoples from across the known world, and of every stock and every creed? Indeed, there exists such a vast selection of cultures within the city that it is often said that a saunter through Sorian’s welcoming streets would suffice as a cure for even the most itching wanderlust. 

As befits the seat of power of a family blessed by the Gods, Sorian is nestled close to the end of a narrow, long fjord. Her gleaming spires and glittering buildings…'[/i][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]
[color=DC143C]“‘Er gleamin’ spires an’ glitterin’ buildings?”[/color] Cynwaer repeated, his tone dripping with mocking amusement and voice laced with a failed attempt to suppress a guffaw. He couldn’t quite believe what he was reading, partially because none of it sounded like the Sorian he knew, and mostly because he could scarcely think of anyone who could write such tripe and still expect to be taken seriously. A childish snicker played on his lips as he turned the page. He had to admit, when he had pilfered this ‘Nobleman’s Guide to Sorian’ from a careless patron at a coffeehouse, he had expected to flick through perhaps a dozen or so pages before tossing the thing into the ocean. Sorian was, put kindly, a city Cynwaer wouldn’t even piss on if it were on fire, after all. 

But as it turned out, this book proved to be far too entertaining – even if unintentionally so – to be so easily discarded. And it was for that reason that, even as the [i]Remembrance[/i] approached the city not-too-far off in the distance, Cynwaer continued to thumb through the guide’s pages. He stood near the beak of his ship, leaning over the gunwale and loosely cradling the book over the rolling surf far below. 

He laughed derisively as he read another page. [color=DC143C]“Listen ta’ this, Neirynn,”[/color] he called out. [color=DC143C]“‘Truly, Sorian is a city ‘at deserves all ta’ awe it inspires in e’ry creature ‘at passes through its gates’.”[/color] He snapped the guide shut and looked to his left. Waving the book at Neirynn, he said, [color=DC143C]“Can yer feckin’ believe some fecker got paid ta’ write this shite? Even yer could dae a bet’er job than this feckin’ idiot.”[/color]

A pair of beady eyes looked back at Cynwaer. Neirynn froze in the midst of pulling the last scraps of meat from the skeleton of her latest prey, an unfortunate seabird of some sort. Fresh blood, bright and crimson, stained the earthen-brown feathers of her slender face. Stringy slivers of flesh swayed from her dark beak as she tilted her head. For a moment, she merely regarded her owner with silence. Then, she squawked.

[color=DC143C]“Aye, yer right. Comparin’ yer ta’ this shite-scribbler’s an insult ta’ yer. Sorry.”[/color] Cynwaer chuckled, reaching over to scratch her head. The swamp harrier let out another, quieter squawk and pushed her head into his hand. Sharp talons dug into the wooden guardrail, and she half-spread her wings to balance herself. 

Cynwaer smiled as he watched her. For a bird-of-prey and a predator, she was surprisingly docile. But he supposed that rescuing her when she had just been a fledgling chick may have gone a long way in making her friendly towards him and his crew. [color=DC143C]“Aw’righ’,”[/color] he said and pulled his hand back. [color=DC143C]“Finish up yer brekkie, lunch, whate’er yer want ta’ call it, then yer can go ‘ave yersel’ some rest. Gae’n ta’ be a busy time fer yer an’ I both, aye.”[/color] 

She tilted her head, squawked once more, then went back to eating.

Cynwaer looked away from her and towards the city. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what the writer of the guide was talking about. He saw no glittering spires, no glimmering buildings that inspired awe. Well, that wasn’t quite true; he did see a number of mansions, estates, and other expensive-looking structures that shone in brilliant hues of white, gold, and silver under the light of the late morning sun. But he didn’t feel any sense of wonderment looking at them. Rather, he felt nothing but disgust. Each and every last one of them were emblematic of the problems he had with Sorian and Caesonia as a whole. 

“Captain, we’re passing the breakwaters,” a dour voice called from behind him.

[color=DC143C]“Aye, I’ve eyes ta’ see that,”[/color] Cynwaer replied. [color=DC143C]“Anythin’ that catches yer eye?”[/color]

“There’s a few Alidashti ships in harbour, Captain.”

Cynwaer shrugged. [color=DC143C]“Nae bother, ‘tis the partyin’ season fae nobles. I’m nae surprised they’re here.”[/color]

“And there are ships none of us recognise, Captain.”

That got Cynwaer’s attention. He immediately dropped whatever levity he had, pulled out a spyglass from his coat pocket, and scanned the harbour. [color=DC143C]“Which ones?”[/color] He asked, but found his answer almost as soon as those words left his mouth. The first was almost impossible to miss; it was a behemoth of a ship, easily twice the size of the largest Caesonian freighter. Her flat – almost vertical – sides, and snub-nose told him that she hadn’t been built for speed. Even with six masts of fully-battened sails, Cynwaer doubted that she was capable of anything beyond a gentle cruise. Essentially walking pace for a ship. [color=DC143C]“That one’s probably no trouble,”[/color] he muttered, then shifted to the other unknown vessel.

This other ship was lashed to its moorings, and the angle made it difficult for Cynwaer to pick out anything aside from the obvious. [color=DC143C]“That’s a fightin’ ship, aw’righ’,”[/color] he murmured. There weren’t many uses for a ship with a hull that narrow; it was definitely not useful as a transport. And the blackened muzzles peeking from her sides were almost certainly cannons, and she carried plenty of them. Far more than what an average vessel needed for self-defence. Cynwaer looked up, and saw flags which he didn’t recognise. 

He collapsed the spyglass. [color=DC143C]“Well, if they’re nae Caesonian, nae Alidahsti, an’ nae Varian, then we I dae’n think we’ve ta’ worry about them fae now. We’re nae ‘ere ta’ start a fight, at least nae fer now. Still, I’ll ‘ave the lads keep an ear out fae news about ‘em. Cheers fae lettin’ me know.”[/color]

“It’s my duty, Captain.” There was a pause. “Captain, some of the–”

[color=DC143C]“I know,”[/color] Cynwaer interrupted with a sigh. [color=DC143C]“Yer can gae tell ta’ magebloods ta’ get below, an’ tell ‘em ta’ be feckin’ quiet than a feckin’ graveyard if they’re nay wantin’ ta’ be put in one. ‘Tis nae’ our first time’ dae’n somethin’ like this. We’ll be grand.”[/color]

Another pause, then a begrudging, “Aye, Captain.”

Cynwaer grimaced. He didn’t like it when his quartermaster was upset, because that was usually a sign of greater discontent on his ship. But it couldn’t be helped. Transporting magebloods was risky business, and to transport them here, to the capital of Caesonia? That was just insane. Cynwaer, however, was confident that insanity was exactly what they needed. No sane person would imagine that a fugitive mage would be smuggled into Sorian. Furthermore, one could get anywhere from Sorian. Both of those factors made the city the perfect place for a fugitive mage to go to ground for a time. 

Similarly, Cynwaer was confident that [i]Remembrance[/i] would be able to slip into Sorian harbour with almost no trouble. For one, she wasn’t [i]Remembrance[/i] anymore, at least not on paper and on her hull. A snow of two-and-a-half masts, [i]Remembrance[/i] was, for a ship, incredibly plain and common. Almost every privateer or merchantman, and even some Caesonian navy vessels, were close to identical to her. And so, a quick re-painting of her hull and an even quicker renaming was all it took to transform [i]Remembrance[/i], a wanted corsair, into [i]Recompense[/i], an innocent privateer. There simply wasn’t a harbourmaster alive who had the time and patience to scrutinise each and every one of the hundreds of ships that passed their eye to such a degree that they could see through a disguise that wasn’t done half-heartedly. 

Cynwaer’s crew had done this many, many times before, but their – not his – nervousness was something that never truly went away.

And as usual, it was a nervousness that proved to be unnecessary. [i]Remembrance[/i] – or [i]Recompense[/i], as it was now known to the authorities – pulled into her berth not long after passing the breakwaters. Soon, she would also have a letter of marque bearing her assumed identity, courtesy of Cynwaer and his ways with a harbour official known for having flexible morals. But that would have to wait. For now, Cynwaer had other things to do.

He stepped off the gangplank and onto the pier, his first taste of Sorian land in years. It tasted as bad as he thought it would. [color=DC143C]“Aw’right’,”[/color] he muttered to no one but himself. [color=DC143C]“Time fae trouble.”[/color]