T Lain - Treachery's Wake

…Howling winds whipped through the rigging of the merchant ship. Boiling swells tossed the vessel from side to side as each new wave threatened to send it hurtling into the rocks. The mast groaned against the force of the gale. The edges of the sails snapped in the wind.

It was a large ship by most standards, a cargo runner, one of many that sailed the coast. In the depths of the hull, an ornate box broke from its bindings and slid across the hold. It was long and slender with spidery silver script covering it on all sides—the type of container usually reserved for magical goods.

“Step to,” Captain Jabarra bellowed to his men as they wrestled with whipping lines to pull down the mainsheet. “Look alive, or ye won’t be much longer!”

Jabarra’s name was known all up and down the Fell Coast. Stern but fair treatment ensured that he employed only the finest sailors. A reputation for generous pay rewarded him with a fiercely loyal crew. An uncanny knack for finding the most lucrative cargo made him a wealthy man. His habit of not asking questions didn’t hurt.

Jabarra wasn’t nearly as interested in where the box came from as in where he needed to take it. The gold he was paid to get it to Newcoast was as good as any in the captain’s eyes.

“Steady, damn it!” he screamed at the helmsman.

The pilot’s knuckles were white against the wheel as he fought to keep the ship away from the shore. Jabarra threw the man aside and grabbed the tiller. This stretch of shoreline had claimed countless lives. Known for its rough seas and unpredictable storms, many an admiral lost his life and that of his crew to its jagged labyrinth of stone. Skeletons of uncounted men, some Jabarra once listed among his friends, lay buried beneath the sand. The entire ship shuddered with the tremendous force of the gale.

“It’ll take more than that to drag me down!” Jabarra screamed into the storm.

On a bluff above the drama, Yauktul watched Gretsch and Murgle lovingly heft a boulder. Gretsch cradled the stone in his right arm as Murgle patted its granite surface. Wind lashed the creature’s hide clothing, cutting the stench of its crusted and flaky flesh. Yauktul, his own skin covered with mottled and matted fur, was thankful for the respite from the ettin’s putrid smell.

The sudden storm made the gnoll commander’s job easier. The boulder would be a delicious flourish to the ship’s already savory demise. Yauktul toyed with the idea of letting nature do his work for him, but he thought better of it. It never paid to anger an ettin. He nodded to the foul giant.

With a howl, the ettin hurled the huge rock. It hurtled toward the ship below, growing smaller and smaller before striking with a deep thud, barely audible above the howling storm.

The next morning, as the tide rolled out it uncovered a clutter of smashed timber and broken bodies on the beach. Across the back of the hull, the ship’s name was still legible. The letters stood as tall as a man and were painted in flowing script by a skilled hand: Treachery .

Red light from the fading sun brought a tinge of pink to the blanket of snow covering the streets of Newcoast. Shopkeepers throughout the market district fastened doors and shutters against the threatening sky, darkening as it was with the hint of strong evening winds and another heavy snow.

Winter hit the Fell Coast with a vengeance, its storms wheeling in on the heels of shortening days. Temperatures began dropping shortly after the season’s harvest was reaped and the snows came shortly after. Throughout the region, farmers drug out their brightly colored tents and dusted them off in preparation for a lively harvest festival, yet even the cheer of the midwinter solstice celebration brought only temporary respite from the bitter cold. There was barely enough time to collect the harvest and hastily celebrate its richness by the time the first flakes fell. Soon the entire region sat under a coverlet of white.

In the city’s market square, hermits and merchants alike bundled their wares for the trip back to hovel or home. Carts piled high with goods trundled down the narrow city streets, led by mule teams all too eager to escape the chill air. Young aristocrats wrapped in thick fur cloaks hustled off to the warmth and comfort of well-appointed homes, or to indulge themselves in the illicit pleasures of the wharf district. All of the city’s inhabitants moved as though with a singular purpose—shelter.

All, that is, save one.

A slight figure slid unnoticed amidst the bustling denizens of Newcoast. Dressed in a modest leather tunic and shrouded in a cloak of dull gray, the halfling woman passed unseen through the tides of humanity washing back and forth across the lively streets. She padded softly through powdery snow, deft feet leaving hardly a print to signal her passing. Habit led the woman along lesser-traveled streets and alleyways.

Standing a few feet shorter than the other major races of the land, the halfling woman was a lean and muscled creature. The hood of her cloak was pulled up over her head, hiding fine features and curled, flowing hair. Supple leather boots clad her small feet, their soles thick enough to keep out the cold and damp of the snowy ground but thin enough to act almost as a second skin and to ensure footing on any terrain. A small crossbow was slung over her shoulder on a leather strap. The weapon’s stock rested firmly on the center of her back. A number of small daggers and knives were strapped to her thigh and down the front of her leather armor, safely hidden from prying eyes.

The woman paused beside a cluster of barrels stacked in the alley. She ran a hand along the rough-cut boards of the building’s siding, crouching down to rest her legs and catch her breath, taking a minute to watch the people go by and to gauge the crowd.

The city of Newcoast was a bustling metropolis by Fell Coast standards. It profited well from its location as a major hub for ships from the continent of Auralis to the north. Its nobles laid a complex code of taxes and tariffs on every good that passed through the region on its way to kingdoms beyond. Swords and armor from dwarven lands to the south lay crated and waiting along with rare herbs and spices from the barbarian tribes to the west. Candles and soaps, furs and fine linens, dried foodstuffs and rare meats frozen in states of magically induced stasis, all passed through its port.

The seaport’s human cargo was no less diverse and interesting. Merchants of all make and description filled the streets of the wharf district by day, haggling and cajoling over prices or attempting to track down lost shipments. Throngs of young boys ran about the docks looking for dropped coins or harassing swarthy captains for work. Drunken sailors reeled down the streets by day and kept the city guard busy with their antics by night. Fist fights erupted as a matter of routine and more than a few enterprising souls made comfortable livings taking bets on the altercations, both spontaneous and planned.

Crouched in the alleyway, the halfling, Lidda, took it all in, reveling in the sights and sounds. She felt quite at home among the seafaring scum.

An elaborately dressed man caught Lidda’s eye. He was wrapped in a fur-lined, scarlet cloak, and his boots appeared to be made of fine leather. His stomach hung over the belt at his waist in thick folds of skin in a way that set him apart from the gaunt beggars that he waved aside as he trundled down the street. A few wisps of gray hair fluttered atop his otherwise bald skull. People scattered before him, but the man still used his ledger book like a shield to clear a path for himself.