Dungeons and Dragons, "Locations and Dungeons"

Standard Introduction

            I have been writing about Dungeons and Dragons semi-regularly this year and in the course of writing those I found a 30-day blog challenge.  As I have done those a couple times before it seemed remiss not to jump on this one.

            If you want here is a link to my 30-day challenge on Disney Movies, here is a link to my 30-day challenge on Video Games, and here is a comically out of date 30-day challenge on Movies (it is old and the writing is rubbish).

Day 22- Favorite Locations and Dungeons

            Dungeons and Dragons is both a game and a story telling tool.  The fictional “When” and “Where” the narrative takes place changes how the rules are utilized and in an effort to keep things tonally consistent the game provides many different tools to help Players and GG’s know what to expect.

            While monsters are by a wide margin the most versatile tool the GG has to change the challenge and feel of the game, as one fighting devils feels and plays vastly different from one spent fighting animals or elementals, there are other factors that have impact.

 

Can you guess what sort of setting a Sand Golem would be most at home in?

My Favorite Type of Location

            In 3^rd edition, 4 books were released as a mini-series exploring campaigns that dealt with specific environments.  These were “Frostburn” (Frozen North, Viking-ish), “Sandstorm” (Burning Desert, Egypt-ish), “Stormwrack” (High Seas, Kind of lacked a cultural core, I consider it the weakest of the series), and “Cityscape” (Urban Spaces, Victorian-ish).  Each emphasized environmental factors, monsters, cultures (with a European style bend), and encounters that could be used to make the game feel more like its chosen environment.

            Of these books, I got the most use out of “Sand Storm” and I thought the Egyptian and Desert inspired stuff was cool enough to buy on release.  I wanted my players to fight a giant mummy octopus who swam thru sand and whose touch drained targets of moisture turning them into dust.  It did, and still does, sound awesome.

It is called "The Crawling Apocalypse" and it is amazing.

            You might then think the desert is my favorites location, but no.  Having looked over the 4 books, “Sandstorm” is the best written and I got the most use out of it, but it is not my favorite type of setting because deserts by their very nature are desolate and I take almost the opposite position, I much prefer Urban adventures.

            Setting the game in an urban environment allows me to have numerous diverse NPC’s all within walking distance of one another with an emphasis on politics and wealth.  The players have contact with the world around them, they have a base of operations that might need defending, their enemies have headquarters that can be located and attacked.

Ravnica, an entire world that is a fantasy city, is my favorite Magic the Gathering setting.

            In an Urban setting when things go bad there are repercussions for actions, one of my favorite little moments from a game is a player saying the words, “We could rip them off, but they’ll sue us.”  You don’t get those kinds of scenarios if all the adventures take place in the woods.

My Favorite Type of Dungeon

            Ruins make for the best sorts of dungeons.  I enjoy civilization, and as I have mentioned before, ruins are sort of the skeletal undead remains of civilization.  Venturing into a broken-down city half submerged from the earthquake, flood, or avalanche that killed it and trying to find the few good bits that are left behind, all the while fighting other scavengers (monsters and evil NPC’s) and the bad bits left behind (Undead and Traps).  This is adventuring.

More art from Ravnica.

            I try not to make things too insanely sprawling (there are levels in “Skyrim” that I find to be a hassle rather than fun because of their girth) but the idea that a whole dead city is the “dungeon” and that different buildings are the “rooms” there in is pretty cool.  You can logically camp in such a massive dungeon and not have to worry about monsters literally in the next room trying to get in and kill you in your sleep.

My Own Setting: The City of Bone

            I know the name is derivative, but you can’t imagine how miffed I was to learn there was a book series whose first entry was “Mortal Instruments: The City of Bone”.  Now if I ever want to publish anything I will have to shake up the names just to not pull aggro and confusion from the YA market.

            Anyway, here is the general setup of the city’s politics that the players start pushing around.

            Ten years ago... following the execution of the prophet Necess, there was a rebellion.

            The Dictatorial Lord of Bone, Prince Constantine was met with an ultimatum by a collection of civic leaders.  Guild Master Wilhelm threatened a strike throughout the city, High Priestess Andrea promised a religious demonstration, the Father proposed a halt on all theater and sporting events, Captain Red claimed he would have his guards stand down, and Lady Mist said she would personally kill Prince Constantine unless a formal apology for the death of Necess was issued and reparations made to the community.

            Needless to say, the Prince was dissatisfied.  Constantine ordered all of these community leaders to be arrested and supplanted by members of his court and the royal family.  Rebellion came like a bolt of lightning.

            Captain Red (Now calling himself Governor General Red the Infamous) killed or held captive the entire North East Burroughs and all of the aristocratic members within.  Father ordered hundreds of gladiators worked into a makeshift army and began tearing their way through Big Town at the head of an angry mob (a mob that carefully avoided foreign embassies).  Wilhelm called out all his guild houses, with masons and farmers using their tools as improvised weapons beside a religious militia that had been orchestrated in secret by the Church.

            All of these events overwhelmed the Prince's law enforcement and took control of the agricultural stores in the city.  Lady Mist went on a killing spree of government VIP’s looking for the Prince but he had managed to flee the city.

            In the unrest that followed, numerous parties jockeyed for the position of sovereign, civil war and pandemonium seemed inevitable.  But a new player took the center of the action.

            This previously unknown party taking the initiative was Ezekiel the Necromancer.  He had been an archeologist leading a group called “The Readers of Braille” in secret operations all over the city and had a powerful legion of undead he had been using as a labor force, now used to impose peace.

"Ezekiel cried dem dry Bones."

            Rather than make himself king, he proposed a joint government called the Oligarchy.  “I prefer my studies,” was the only explanation Ezekiel gave.  Each group controlling bits and pieces of the city with Ezekiel’s new Bleak Academy and Militant Mourners taking seats at the table along with Infamous Red, Mayor Wilhelm, Father of the Cabal, and others.

            The Militant Mourners would be a police force made of the undead from the rebellion, and the Bleak Academy would be taking over the heavy lifting of public education.  3 years later Ezekiel disappeared leaving his young friend and protégé, Claudius the Grim as head of the Militant Mourners, and Lady Mist, Claudius' wife, as head of the Academy.  There are currently 9 seats on the Oligarchy each with their own domains and responsibilities.

 

Again, the resemblance to the Guilds of Ravnica and their designated responsibilities via the Guildpact.

            I wanted to create numerous groups with their own goals and worldviews so that when the players start doing things to shake up the balance of power I could have repercussions happen.  What is more, the city itself is still in ruin in many parts because of the rebellion and its ancient status to begin with, there is an under city, necropolis, and Detroit style abandoned sections, all of which can serve as dungeons within the city.

            When I create a place, it is with the intention of it being uniquely broken and shook up.  I have run multiple campaigns with it and each has been quite different.

Coming Tomorrow

            Tomorrow I am going to talk about a key aspect of dungeons, Traps and Puzzles.  This things have actually grown on me lately.

______________________________

            If you like or hate this please take the time to comment, +1, share on Twitter (click that link to follow me), Tumblr, or Facebook, and otherwise distribute my opinion to the world.  I would appreciate it.

Roads of Bone, Chapter 12: The Greatest Victory

(This is my 250th blog entry, I did nothing to commemorate this, and just continued with my random fantasy story.  Mostly because I have written 100+ blogs on my facebook before moving to this one so the idea of numerical milestones is a bit lost already.  Enjoy.)

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 12: The Greatest Victory

            "Apple," said Malachite.  "The first thing you must learn about being a soldier for hire, and I cannot emphasize this point enough: you never want to get into a fight."

            "What?" asked the girl.

            The day was hot, and aside from the flashes of the occasional fish the water was clear.  The Color Line was perfect for the sort of lazy lecturing every pontificating jackass never tires of.  As such Malachite was sitting in a wooden folding chair under a parasol drinking a bottle with a foreign label that looked beautiful with a fading wax seal and a shimmering, cloudy, and sweet smelling liquid in it.  Apple was sitting cross legged next to him in a big floppy hat that afforded her relatively the same level of cover, but she was drinking orange juice.

            "Fighting is an abhorrent activity," said Malachite.  "It is full of confusion, pain, loss, and death, far more death than anyone has any right to wish on anyone.  The key to being a successful warrior is to live a long time, collect a lot of pay, and tell great stories, none of which involves getting stabbed, burned, crushed, or having your foot cut off because you had the poor luck to step on something dirty while running thru a field."

            "But if you don't fight, what are you getting paid to do?"

            "The greatest victory is the battle not fought," said Malachite to the confused towheaded girl.  "So you have to do some calculation.  Which side is the one willing to fight the most?  Which side has the most troops?  Which side has the best fortifications?  The best weapons?  The best leader?  Or offers the most amicable peace?

            "If a group will fight no matter what, you want to avoid them, whether for or against, they will drag you into conflict that could be side stepped.  If a side has lots of other troops, then that means you are less likely to even be in the fight, you are insulated; same with fortifications.  You have to look at each situation and think of which side is going to win, and then just be there with a helpful little push, a rousing speech, that sort of thing.  Also helps if they have drab uniforms, allows you to make yourself look busy and everyone notices."

            "Isn't that cowardly?"

            "Sadly, yes," said Malachite.  "We live in a world in which physical conflict is glorified and lauded, so rational self interest is seen as a weakness of character.  I have been told more than once that the worst parts of hell are reserved for those who maintain their flexibility during times of great conflict.  Luckily, I have concocted the ultimate escape plan from such punishments, I have chosen not to believe in hell."

            "So are you going to teach me how to fight with a sword?" asked Apple.

            "I was getting to that part," said Malachite turning to frown at her a bit.  "But I needed to teach you the first best lesson: you never want to get into a fight, but if the other person is set, then you had better win."

            He let that hang in the air.  She was a little girl.  Surely she had had a hard life and understood the necessity of things, but fighting is a gruesome business, she should know that in the abstract before the immediate.  "And also, no you can't learn to fight with a sword yet.  You are too short for the one I have."

            Apple's mouth fell open in disappointment.

            "No," said Malachite.  "We'll have to start you out on a gun."

            He stood and walked over to a big long box.  Apple's mouth opened even wider in excitement and her eyes lit with delight.

            "Any damn fool can use a gun," said Malachite.

            The box was 4 feet long, 2 wide, and a foot deep, it had a gold name plate with the words "Blow Horn" written in the same swirling letters used on Malachite's "The Wonderful" codpiece.  Black with dings and scrapes the crate had two locks on it, each looked like they could weather raining blows from pick axes and not give up the treasure within.  "It is incredibly inconvenient but necessary for me to keep this secure to such a degree, so I am not going to teach you the numbers that unlock these, understood?" Malachite asked Apple.

            "Yes Uncle."

            As he popped each lock open Malachite took a second, strumming his fingers on the box looking across the water to shore.  This can't be a good decision.  But it isn't uncommon, I would have a squire already were I at home and this would be part of the training.  But I'm not at home, is this something I should just let be left there?

            "Uncle?"

            "What?" asked Malachite coming out of his hesitation.  "Yes, let's get this show started."

            The box opened to reveal an abus gun.  Abus guns were first used by the Caliphate as tiny siege weapons, larger catapults would just get lost moving thru the desert and anything smaller wouldn't be able to knock down a door thru repeated or concentrated firing.  The gun Malachite had was made with some upgrades to style.  The barrel was gold plated and had flowing red lines swirling across is eliciting the gun smoke, or the spray of a hit artery it was also slightly smaller than most, firing a stone or led shot that was only 3 inches across rather than most that were in the range of 4 to 9.

            "Apple," said Malachite.  "this is the smallest gun they make that qualifies as a siege weapon, any smaller and it would be a rifle, since it is intended to be shot at walls and door, known for being stationary and huge, this thing is maddeningly inaccurate and should only be firing at something equally large.  Like a formation of troops.  At least when you are using a normal shot, I have made some modifications."

            The barrel was affixed to the wooden stock by silver rings and the butt of the stock had golden engravings of the Hasenburg two headed bull.  This was also one of only a handful of breech loading weapons in existence, allowing fresh ammunition and charge of explosive powder to be loaded via a trap door near the handle, rather than thru the muzzle like most guns.  "Let me show you how to load it."

            The rest of the case had gun powder that was black, different than any Apple had ever seen before.  "Why are you carrying soot?"

            "That is black powder," explained Malachite.  "It fires with less smoke and more power than the typical stuff, it was only invented in the last decade by the court wizard of the Shah of White Sand, a city in the Caliphate.  Getting that stuff and the formula to it was the week I ate nothing besides soup and harem girls.... Forget that last part."

            "You ate people?" Apple was aghast.

            "I misspoke," said Malachite backpedaling.  "I meant... You know what I can't think of anything to cover that.  When I said I ate them I meant that I kissed them.  Don't tell anybody that, I am confident there is some kind of death penalty in place for them and me if anybody finds out she met the Wonderful Malachite."

            The next thing Malachite removed from the box was a tripod covered in the same gold engravings.  "This thing is always a bitch to keep clean.  Every grove ends up with mud in it, but if I didn't take my fancy one into battle I couldn't bill whoever hired me for its use and clean up."

            "Also makes for a better story to have the best looking weapon," said Apple.

            "You're learning," said Malachite affixing the gun to the tripod and pointing it out to the river.  "An abus is a small cannon and should only be fired with a tripod to anchor it in place, the kickback of firing this one is less than most, which means you can aim, fire, and load quickly, but unanchored the kick will damage your shoulder and make the thing so inaccurate you might as well just throw the gun in anger.  More likely to hit something that way."

            "So never fire without the tripod?" asked Apple.

            "Never say never," said Malachite attaching a set of metal pieces and a lens to the top length of the barrel.  "If someone is standing as close to you as I am now, and he intends to hurt you, fire the fun, hope it hits, and expect a lot of blood to get on you."  Malachite paused a bit while aligning the lens.  "Also, if you are sprayed with blood remember to clean the gun soon after.  Blood is corrosive."

            "Corrosive?" asked Apple.

            "Between you and the wizard its like I am teaching letters," said Malachite.  "Corrosive means that it damages metal that it is left on.  So you clean it off before that happens, it is important to keep stuff clean."

            "Like boots," said Apple.

            "Precisely," said Malachite.  "Now let's continue," pointing to the lens and the metal bits he had attached to the silver rings along the barrel.  "These are sights.  Using them is said to improve accuracy.  Most people without sights just point the gun in the general direction of what they want to hit and fire the gun, but if you look down the barrel, so that the front sight sits between the tines of the back sight, and you make sure that a target is just behind those then you will almost certainly hit what you are aiming at.  Unless they move, there is too much wind, the bullet is misshapen, something gets in the way, the gun fails to fire, or any number of other stupid things that invariably happens just when you don't want it to."

            At this point Apple was salivating at the thought of getting to fire the Horn Blower.

            "Alright little one," said Malachite.  Good or ill, here we go.  "Try and hit that tree on the bank."

            Apple stood behind the gun, looked down the sight and listened as Malachite told her a hundred little things, "Move your foot here, no here" "Hold it tight to your shoulder" "Now look at the lines on the lens, if those cross over what you want to hit that is good, now look at the front and back sights..." and after what seemed an eternity of anticipation he said as softly as possible, "Remember every part of this, we're going to do it a hundred times before we are off this boat, but ultimately it needs to start here, because one day this will mean life and death... Now, FIRE!"

Roads of Bone, Chapter 11: Grandfather

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 11: Grandfather

            Apple found Pasgard at his own table in the common area of the ships hold, with what appeared to be 3 human sized troughs filled with heavy stew and half a pitcher of sparkling juice.

            "Master," said Apple.  "How should I address you?"

            "Good question," said Pasgard, taking a minute to roll his shoulders and straighten his back.  "When I took my first apprentice I was still working as Caliphate, and was worried for rank and title, I had they call me Master.  My number two did the same because of habit.  Then I became a Vizier so I used that for the next three, keep it simple.  When I left being a Vizier they call me Pasgard, like everyone else, but some just calling me Master anyway."

            Pasgard paused for a while and looked at no particular thing on the table.

            "You might be my last apprentice," said Pasgard.  "What did you call, Lord Malachite?"

            "He had me call him, Uncle," replied Apple, still unsure what to call the wizard, and having a hard time following his broken speech, it seemed to be getting worse since she had first heard him talk to Uncle Malachite.

            "Hmm," hmm'd Pasgard.  "Don't think I could be 'Uncle' at my age.  How about grandfather?"

            "I would like that," said Apple.

            "I am glad," said Pasgard.  "Now let me start your first lesson."

            Apple beamed and took the seat opposite Pasgard as he gestured her to sit.  He slid the food aside for a moment, a reprieve not a pardon.  And then in his hand was a roll of paper.  He splayed it out across the table and pinned it down with little tacks that again appeared from nowhere.

            The paper was a series of circles and connections with words written in the Caliphate language.  "Do not worry little one, today will not require too much reading," his open hands then began to wave in circle gestures over the paper and all of the circles began to turn like gears in a clock.

            "This is what magic is," said Pasgard.  "Each circle is a part of the world, and each touches the next and pushes it and feel's its own movement slowed by the push.  This push can be followed back thru all of time to the first mover, a being we call Primal, the light of creation that shines into each of us.  It is what animates us, just as water causes a ship to float, the Primal light of creation makes us all live.  Do you understand?"

            "We are light?" asked Apple, more just mesmerized by the turning of the circles.

            "Yes and no," said Pasgard.  "We are the matter that the light animates, and we are the light which animates the matter, and the light within us is the same as the light in all others, just as the matter is all the same matter, only different because of how it is put together."

            Apple realized Pasgard no longer sounded like he had.  His words flowed like he had been a native speaker his whole life.  "Grandfather, how..." How do you ask without sounding rude?  "Why do you sound so differently?"

            "Apple," said Pasgard.  "We are speaking on a deeper level, you will learn this soon.  It is the Primal language, it is closer to the Primal Light, and thus understood more deeply than the languages of man.  It is as if we are souls speaking to one another.  If you look closely at my lips, you will see, they are saying something just a bit differently."

            They were.  His lips moved out of sync with the sounds he spoke.  "Uh," was all Apple could say, it confused her deeply to notice the break between the speaker and the spoken.

            "Relax little one," said Pasgard.  "It is just the fastest way to learn about this, and it will be how I teach you to read.  You will be able to read the light below the words on a page, you will grasp a deeper meaning.  I keep a little book filled with words I have learned, trying to keep them and understand the finer glow of them and the meanings of those who spoke them.

            "On the deepest levels, true understanding of the whole of creation is to be found, and the ability to awaken briefly in others the ability to see the rich light of creation."

            "Like the fish," said Apple.  "Back at the cafe you made everyone see their light."

            "And much more," Pasgard leaned back and began gesturing to the paper like coaxing mist from a censer, and the words began to float from the page turning in the air, glowing, and Apple could read some of them.  "Give me time, and you will understand."

Roads of Bone, Chapter 10: Uncle

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 10: Uncle

            Apple took to her role like an arrow takes to a quiver.  Fit, ready, and when used by a master devastatingly effective.  She had two instructors, the flashy uncle and the somber dark skinned grandfather and they taught in entirely different directions.

            On the first day of the ship ride West she was shown how to clean and polish shoes, so she shined every shoe on the ship.  In return she was told stories the whole time by Malachite, and then by each member of the crew in turn while their boots were polished.

            Malachite always stood by, greeting each member of the crew, analyzing them, and addressing them by name two or three times each while they told their stories, asking for little bits of information or details.  Each time asking Apple if she had any questions for the story teller, and suggesting what question she might ask when she couldn't think of any.  "Apple, ask Sid here what he was smelling when he walked under the peer looking for the lost dog."  "Apple, ask Jonus what his favorite song he heard that night was."  "Apple you should ask Lance if he has ever eaten a finer meal while in a dress."

            By the end of the evening there was not one blemished boot on the whole boat.  And as Malachite said to the last sailor, "Have a goodnight Chester, that was a fine story, you tell that one at every little town?"

            "No sir," said Chester.  "You're the first to hear it in years."

            "That is a crime," said Malachite.  "You should be using that bit of heart wreck to win the sympathies of every lady on the Color Line."

            "I prefer men sir," said Chester.

            "There are many young men that would find you tasty as peach nectar after hearing that  little tale."

            "Thank you sir."

            "Call me, Mal" said Malachite, shutting the door.

            "Did I do good, Mal?" asked Apple.

            "You can call me sir," said Malachite to the girl.  "Uncle if you prefer."

            "Yes, Uncle," said Apple.  "Did I do good?"

            "Yes," said Malachite.  "Let me ask you, Apple.  How many of the men on this boat do you think you could name?"

            "I don't know," said Apple.

            "Well," said Malachite.  "Close your eyes and try to remember each story, who told it, what their boots looked like, anything you can remember and pretend you have to tell all the stories to someone one after another."

            "That would take all day."

            "Yes it would," said Malachite.  "But just try to remember each story, and the name of the person who told it, then say the names as titles for the stories."

            "What?"

            "When you are trying to remember someone, think of what you know about them, who they think they are and what they told you about themselves.  Make their story, your memory of them.  Then when you see them, you will be able to greet them by name and remember what they want you to know about them," said Malachite.  "They could have told you any story they wanted, but they chose the one they did because they thought you would like it, or maybe they wanted to impress me, or maybe it was the only story they knew that would last while you polished, but they chose it for a reason, it is the impression they chose to make."

            "Uncle," said Apple.  "You want me to remember everyone on the ship.  That is so many."

            "I can name every person who came thru here," said Malachite.  "I could tell you what their story was, or close to it.  And I am sure I could ask anyone of them for a favor and they would help me, and I would pay them back big later.  This is how you make friends, and friends are important.  People want you to hear their story, but they really want you to remember it, to feel for them.  Think about that okay."

            "Okay," said Apple.

            "Now you should go eat with Pasgard," said Malachite.  "I think he will want you to call him Master or Wizard, ask which he prefers when you see him.  This is important, you make sure his plate is never bear, and his glass is never empty... That would be a task difficult for any man, a legendary chore for a squire or apprentice, you might barely get any chance to eat at all, but he is your teacher, you serve him, and listen closely."

            "Yes, Uncle."

Roads of Bone, Chapter 9: Apprenticing

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 9: Apprenticing

            Pasgard sat at a table with three plates and a basket of pita in front of him.  One plate covered in tomato slices and cream cheese, the second a shrinking pile of toasted strips of sheep meat drizzled with white sauce, the third was empty and had been sponged clean by pita bread.  There was a gourd that had been hollowed out and filled with water, a cup of steaming tea, a pitcher of juice, and as Malachite approached the table he could see Pasgard signaling the waiter with his eyes to bring more of whatever had been on the empty plate.

            The restaurant itself was filled with people, shipwrights, milkmaids, pickers, planters, shearers, tanners, and a little girl hiding by the door looking over at Pasgard.  Though everyone seemed to notice Pasgard shoveling food into his mouth, at least they did until Malachite drew their eyes in his direction, and the whispering started to be about him a bit too.

            "Nice of you to order some food for me," said Malachite approaching the table, now the entire restaurant was glancing and murmuring about the two of them.  "How did you know I would find you here?"

            "I didn't, and I didn't," said Pasgard.

            "Oh," said Malachite sitting and gesturing for a pumpkin beer to the waiter who was bringing a plate of trout with the head still on (had Pasgard eaten the last one's head and bones too?)  "I managed to find us travel to the next town down the Color Line, we should find easier passage from there to Bone, then catch a free rafter from there."

            "Good," Pasgard was eating mouthfuls of meat, but stopped to reply and then took a moment to breath heavily.  "Excuse me, I am eating too fast and I need time to digest a bit.  I can feel it piled almost to the top of my throat."

            "Take your time," Malachite could see the man sweating.  "You want a beer?  It seems like the only thing you haven't ordered."

            "No," said Pasgard.  "Never got a flavor for it."

            "You mean 'never got a taste for it,'" said Malachite correcting Pasgard's words.

            "Taste for it, taste for it," repeated the wizard as he slowed his breathing and adjusted his sash with his thumbs.  "I never got a taste for it."

            "You'll forgive me," said Malachite.  "But that is akin to you telling me that you have been to the moon.  I have been drinking beer since I was twelve.  You could float a castle in the beer I have drank.  I love beer almost as much as I love women." saying this as he looked around the restaurant he got the eye of a woman who had been whispering while looking at he and Pasgard.  Malachite smiled and she looked plainly disinterested.

            "Or perhaps I like beer a bit more," Malachite continued.  "Wine then?"

            "I do not drink alcohol," said Pasgard

            "Saying that definitely would mark you as a foreigner on the Southern Fork," said Malachite.  "Everyone drinks there, most LLC's insist on a daily ration of alcohol be considered part of their pay.  Farmers and Brewers have professional rivalries and sponsor groups of lancers in jousts, hunting competitions, sword fights.  Like rich people controlling their own private armies trained under the guise of sport."

            "The Caliph sponsors that," said Pasgard.  "It is expensive, why would a drink maker do that?"

            "Mostly they just hold matches because they get to sell stuff on the day of the game: sandwiches, beer, slices of fruit, dips, and anything else.  Brewers are a part of life here, and that helps them to be.  Makes for a culture of drinking."

            "I understand, and had I been born in Orchard Town to a widow and my older brother had left to fight for Maunder, perhaps we would all drink but I was drafted and..." Pasgard gestured to Malachite to finish.

            "The state faith of the Caliphate prohibits alcohol," said Malachite.  "I am sorry, I was trying to relax you. and beer helps me do that."

            "I am sorry," said Pasgard. " I know I am clouded."

            "I think you mean 'gloomy' when you say 'clouded,'" said Malachite picking up a tomato slice and holding it till Pasgard nodded.  "Do you still follow the faith of the Oases?"

            "I have tried alcohol many times when I was in the lands beyond the desert, and it was like drinking... I don't even know, something bad.  Never got a taste for it," Pasgard started gulping juice until he drained half the pitcher and then again sat back a bit loosening his belly sash with his thumbs.  "That drink is very good, what is it?" asked the wizard noticing the bubbles in the juice and burping into his fist.

            "Sparkling fruit juice," said Malachite looking at the remaining food.  "You are going to eat all this?  This is a meal for a small family."

            "Yes, the restaurant is going to rename the dish to the "foreign wizard", though I would settle for just having the drink named after me."  Pasgard sighed.  "Malachite, am I just some crazy old man?"

            "I had assumed that you were," said Malachite.  "But that isn't all you are.  Though it is a little crazy to be going where we are going at your age."

            "Thank you for that honesty," said Pasgard dryly.  "I was disappointed with myself and wanted to fill my guts to feel a bit better."

            "Why?"

            "Because, I never got a," Pasgard paused remembering. "Taste for alcohol.  So drinking myself to good feelings is not something I can do."

            "I meant, why did you feel disappointed?"

            "I was putting on a little show at that tea house and met a little child," said Pasgard.  "She asked me how the show was done."

            "Did you tell her?"

            Pasgard looked at Malachite incredulously.  "It takes years to teach it properly.  It is not something that can just be answered over a cup of tea."

            "You probably could have just said: Magic," Said Malachite.  "And that would have satisfied her, she is just a child after all."

            "It is not about giving the easy answer," said Pasgard.  "Very few people ask 'how'.  When you find someone who does, it is like finding a good gold mine.  There is a great wealth there, but you must spend money on tools, work, time to get to that wealth.  With a child you have to teach them.  Those who are curious are too few, and make the best wizards."

            "Did you tell the parents?" said Malachite.  "They could do something in the future to help him learn."

            "The child was a girl," said Pasgard.  "But she didn't have parents it seemed, and that is not the important thing, why I am eating is because when I was younger I would just make her an apprentice.  I have had a dozen, but now I am too old."

            "A little girl?" asked Malachite.

            "Yes."

            "Like the one who has been spying on you?"

            "What?"

            "I noticed her when I came in," she is hiding over by the door," said Malachite gesturing with his eyes and smiling.  "She must be waiting for another show."

            "She should have one," said Pasgard.  "Though now that I have been followed by an unnoticed child I tried to vanish away from I feel older.  I used to be a man of shadows and fear."

            "You are the only man wearing a gold turban in the town," said Malachite.  "You are not going to be hard to find in a crowd.  Disappearing mysteriously is not going to be your strong suit in this part of the world."

            "That makes me feel a little better," said Pasgard.

            "You're welcome," said Malachite.  "Wait here a minute."

            "You keep telling me to wait," said Pasgard as Malachite got up and headed for the door.  "I don't know why you can only do things while out of my sight."

            Malachite walked to the hiding spot of the little spy.  "Excuse me young lady," he said to her as she hide behind an empty table.  He loomed over her, and her simple clothing contrasted greatly, he felt almost like a bully confronting her.

            "Hi," she said.

            "Why are you spying on my friend?" he asked, taking a knee so as to look her eye to eye.

            "I don't know," she said.  "Waiting for something amazing I guess."

            "Can I ask where your parents are?"

            "You may," she said.

            Malachite waited before realizing she was waiting for him to ask.  "Alright, where are your parents?"

            "You probably know as well as I do," she said.  "Not at all."

            He couldn't tell if she was teasing him or not.  "What is your name?"

            "Apple."

            "That is adorable," said Malachite.

            "Thank you."

            "Is there anyone who takes care of you?"

            "Me."

            "I can see why he liked you," said Malachite looking at her quizzically.  She had said it so flatly that it had to be true, but at the same time it was so sad it was almost funny.  "Come with me."

            They walked back over to Pasgard, who had emptied the plate of toasted meat.

            "This is Pasgard," said Malachite to Apple.  "Pasgard, this is Apple.  She is coming with us."

            "Is that wise?" asked the wizard.

            "She's homeless and you said yourself you wanted her as a student," said Malachite.  "Seems like a good idea in my eyes."

            "She's homeless in one of the most well fed cities in this part of the world," said Pasgard.  "We are going to a dangerous part of the world."

            "That is a fair point," said Malachite.  She probably did manage to eat well in a city that had such a surplus of food, or she could be the only one not eating.  "Let me ask her.  Apple?"

            "Yes?"

            "Do you want to leave your life of being homeless but surrounded by food to go on a secret adventure with a mysterious wizard and a flashy knight, learning magic and sword fighting along the way."

            The girl seemed to tremor with excitement for a half second and smiled.  "That maybe sounds fun."

            Malachite looked right at Pasgard.  "Adorable.  She's coming with us."

Roads of Bone, Chapter 8: Exile

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 8: Exile

            As Pasgard walked off toward the tea house, Malachite rubbed the sides of his head.  He knew that there was a way to secure passage out of Orchard Town, but he was going to have to mention how important his family was, rather than relying on how amazing he was.  His frustration mounting, he found resolve, "Yeah, I'm doing this now."

            A random man walking by glanced over thinking Malachite was addressing him and then kept walking after grunting dismissively.

            Malachite went to the holding house he had been keeping his armaments, cloths, and coin, and changed.  Holding houses were common for those who moved along the river with any frequency, keeping an account of coin allowed access to a secure room to keep a chest of valuables.  This also meant not having to carry physical currency everywhere, instead relying on paper notes that could stand in for the money, if the holding house burnt down it would be impossible to claim your money, or they could be robbed and you possessions taken, but overall it allowed hard currency that might otherwise sit in a pocket to instead sit in a secure building, also allowed the holding house to make investments in shipments or even parts of LLC's, or farms to draw earnings from.  Most holding houses were part of a larger guild that could connect and insure the validity of the bonds in multiple cities, using numerous books and messages to help everyone keep track.  Since Malachite's family had coin and goods in every city on the Southern fork of the Color Line he could store his things safely in nearly any city on the continent.

            Malachite striped off his flashy doublet, mismatched pant legs, gold codpiece, and giant black velvet hat.  Donning in place his dark green doublet emblazoned with the dark red two headed bull, brown slacks, and a bronze circlet with the little bronze bull horns which never looked properly symmetrical.  The circlet being the only clothing that was more preposterous than what he had worn before.  Then ruffling thru a box of rings and jewelry, finally locating his own signet ring, the rest having been plundered from some raid in the Confederate Kingdoms or the Caliphate.

            The seal of Viscount Malachite Johansson the IV of the County of Hasenburg, (future) Warden of Southern Color, and Emissary to the Painted People.  A leather binder of parchments holding his title to office and a credit slip.  In the six years he had not been home he had avoided using his father's credit to buy one scrap of clothing, now he was using it to ship some old fat man who had yet to pay him anything.

            Perhaps I am under spell, he wondered.  Perhaps I just pity him.

            Leaving the holding house he started walking the docks.  Pass, pass, pass, yes.  It was the first LLC mercenary sailor he could see with an important looking hat standing next to a ship that looked too gorgeous to have ever been in a real fight.  "Hello, I am from Hasenburg," he said in introduction, tightening his posture and adding a slightly posh accent to his voice.  "Have you perhaps done business with my County in the past?"

            The sailor turned, black leather breast plate, polished bronze shoulder pauldrons, a bicorn hat with a bronze broach of two fish, and a face so bearded there were little whiskers that connected the eyebrows to the sideburns.  Sun brown, taller than Malachite, a golden tooth filled smile, and a bottom lip packed with slop (a weed that was treated with flavors to be sucked on thru the day to freshen breath or get its user euphoric dependent on the strength).  "Aye," he said, extending a hand.  "I am Captain Quintus of the Freshwater Shark.  You a baron who needs a ride home?"

            "Not a baron, and no," said Malachite, shaking hands and looking over the ship.  "I am trying to get to Bone and would like passage."

            "I never head to Bone," said Quintus.  "Their navy doesn't hire sell sails."

            Liar on both counts, thought Malachite, pacing and looking the ship up and down.  "That is a shame, because I notice that your ship looks fantastic, if they did pay you would earn top dollar."

            "It is," said Quintus.  "And it does with others."

            "How many Bloody river pirates have you fended off?"

            "Never need to," said Quintus.  "They run when they know what is coming."

            Another lie.  Why lie?  Especially when he's clearly bad at it.  Mercenaries are not pristine, and a pristine ship would not stay pristine.  A ship would take arrow hits, burns from dropped lanterns, something needed to be broken having shown some kind of combat.  "So you are just in Orchard to fill up on oarsmen who can swing swords?  And heading where after that?"

            "We are taking on men and headed south to your fiefdom," replied Quintus.  "I really would help you if you were going our way or if we ever went the other.  You seem well to do and I wouldn't leave you hanging if it weren't any trouble.  I'm somewhat part of the informal Navy of Hasenburg."

            "Watch that language Captain," said Malachite.  "Bit potentially treasonous there, Hasenburg has no Navy that they would wish to challenge any power that wishes to regulate the Color Line.  We are cowboys and free rafters, not a military," and Malachite winked.  The Maunder Empire despised the idea of other militaries having any presence near them.  They knew about them and did nothing about them so long as they were not called a formal military.

            Quintus returned the wink.  And they both took a pause.  "I think you should come aboard," said Quintus.

            "The Freshwater Shark looks more beautiful even from the deck," said Malachite to his host.  "The sort of place that makes one's hair blow majestically, caught in the winds of adventure even when only following the current."
            "Showing off that reading we royalty are so known for?" said the Captain.

            "It is rare that I run into someone else who had to suffer it," said Malachite.  "Which cousin of mine are you."

            "Who even knows at this point," said Quintus smirking.  "My father named me after his captain from when he served in the Maunder Legion.  My mother is from the romantic kingdoms way in the south.  And I work for a living."

            "The silver fish are freshwater sharks, that means you are the distant ones, past Red Clay near Port Padre," said Malachite.

            "No," said Captain Quintus.  "You got it.  Red Clay.  We're the Brickers, the ones with the fort."

            "When did you get a fort?" asked Malachite.  "And for that matter, when did this ship get built?  A week ago?"

            "We started building the fort the first time one of us took a trip to Orchard Town and noticed Maunder Troops taking accounting," said Quintus.  "Counting the buildings, counting people, counting ships, counting orchards, they were or are looking to project out and so we started turning the red clay into red bricks."

            "At least it isn't expensive," said Malachite.  "Hasenburg had to ship stone from the Mountains when building its bridges."

            "It's expensive in Man power but has had the unexpected benefit of making the river run faster and deeper in our area, so we are making good money as the place people can lighten their loads before the river gets steadily shallower.  I am rambling aren't I?"

            "Don't be embarrassed I do it all the time," said the Viscount.

            "I am guessing you are the Run Off Bull?" said the Captain.

            "The what?"

            "Malachite?" said the captain leaning against a mast.  "My Lord?  Is that the proper address?"

            "You know we don't do that," said Malachite, waving off the title as he took a seat on a short rum barrel, Quintus opened his mouth and raised a hand to object, but then waved it off.  "And yes, that is me.  Though that is a nickname I hadn't heard yet.  Sounds alright.  Bit cowardly for my taste."

            "Malachite," said the Captain pausing to gather his questions, while still looking at the barrel Malachite was sitting on.  "What do you need?  Really?  I can take you home, you've got to have enough glory by now."

            "Slaughtering mountain tribes that had been harassing people isn't very noble."

            "Sounds alright to me."

            "They were hungry."

            "Less alright."

            "They owned the route and were gathering a reasonable tithe," said Malachite glowering.  "The kind I've had paid a hundred times just as part of trading."

            "Okay, now you sound more like a bandit," said Quintus, walking toward the head of the ship face toward the docks and Malachite got up to follow.  "Trade is complicated, and more and more of it is getting controlled by fewer and fewer people.  Men like you and I have lots of good starting positions to be one of the people holding one of the leashes of trade.  But there is that one things standing in the way."

            "A stupid sense of right and wrong," said Malachite.

            "It is the damnedest thing."

            For a while they stood quietly, looking over the people moving around the piers, and out over the crowd Malachite saw Pasgard lumbering from the tea house shielding his eyes from the sun and headed over to a shop selling heavily seasoned and lightly charred lamb meat with cucumbers and probably 3 types of gourd.

            "I am helping out someone who has a sort of legend about him," said Malachite.  "He's shady in his own way, mostly that he is foreign and dark skinned even by the standard of where he comes from."

            "Skin color important to you?" asked Quintus.

            "No," said Malachite, embarrassed to have phrased it that way. "But I know that even here in Orchard, a place that sees people from the Oases all the time, the people here still act like he is going to take their children back to the Caliph to be transformed into some kind of fire warrior.  He's not some kind of djinn, just an old guy who wants one last adventure before he finally feels he did his last adventure."

            "What's in Bone?"

            "I have some friends that will be helpful, after that I will..." he stopped and looked back over the ship.  "It occurs to me, you never told me when this ship was built."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Why is this brand new ship here?" asked Malachite.  "You're building a fort.  This boat is new.  Is something happening?"

            "Just like you can't say out loud where you are headed," said Quintus.  "I can't tell you everything that is going on."

            "I am a Viscount.  I out rank you.  Don't you have to tell me?"

            "You are the Run Off Bull," said Quintus.  "When you go home you can ask."

            "Wonderful," said Malachite.

            "That's why I know you," said the Captain.  "You're the fool in the codpiece."

            "That was an expensive codpiece."

            "I'm sure," said the Captain.  "You should go home, you can't be in too deep with this desert man yet.  Just go home."

            "Home for scolding, for admonishments, for answers to why you have a new boat," said Malachite, slightly sneering.  "I'll put it off."

            "Well," said Quintus.  "I won't tell anyone I saw you."

            "That's a relief actually."

            "I will also take you to the River's Fork if you want," said the Captain.  "I tend to stop there for food anyway, they have really fresh everything."

            "Maybe I could catch a ride there once a cargo lets off some of the load from here to there."

            "It's your best option," said Quintus.  "There is a reason you can't find passage all that easy."

            "Which I will discover at home?"

            "Yes, another answer you'll find at your father's house," said the Captain, who then paused.  "Where is the codpiece?  It's like meeting Achilles without his shield.  Why are you dressed like that if you aren't going home?"

            "I thought I might use my father's credit with the shipping people to secure a ride," stupid plan.  "Or I missed dressing plainly."

            "Maybe you should go home and find out."

            "No, but that you for comparing my penis to a demi-god," said Malachite.

            "Complement?" asked the Captain in a tone.  "I compared him to a warrior that died because of hubris."

            "The fate of all great penises."

            "HA!"

            "I will go find my friend," said Malachite, standing.  "We have a cart, horse, two big chests.  Lot of your space we'll be taking up."

            "I can make room," said the Captain.

            "I owe you," said Malachite.  "One of these days I will show up and offer you a job that will too good to resist, and you will become a great friend."

            "Good to know."

            "You have a nickname by chance?"

            "Not that I know of," said Quintus.

            "How about I call you Captain Quintus the Shark," said Malachite.

            "Seems an excessively fearsome name considering I am taking you one port and kicking you off."

            "It will help me remember you," said Malachite.  "Better than Captain Quentin the Ferry."

            "I can see how that name might confuse people," said the Captain.

            "I am otherwise awful with names," said Malachite.

            "What's your black friend's nickname?"

            "He has been given more names by more foes, than people I have yet to meet."

            And so Malachite headed back to the holding house, and changed again, circlet, doublet and trousers away.  Slashed sleeves shirt, mismatched tights, and golden codpiece on.  I am wonderful.  And then he left orders for his things to be ready to ship in an hour, and headed to get Pasgard... And some delicious over seasoned goat meat with various gourds as a side.

Roads of Bone, Chapter 7: Show Off

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 7: Show Off

            Malakite watched as Pasgard lumbered over to the parasols the tea house had laid out over part of the dock.  The cafe had opened a section of the dock so that the patrons could dip their feet into the flowing water of the Color Line.  Tiny river fish would nibble off the callous of feet, making them smooth and tender.

            All around the tottering black man people became aware of him, we was from a very distant place and that made some of them prickly.  Pasgard had seen worse starting attitudes, "Come young ones to see the wonders of an old fool who wishes to show you the little bits of fun I learned when I was not much older then you."

            Pasgard's finger moved like he was signally hidden instrumentalists and distant haunting music began to play, like a distant fair ground.  "This is spooky," said someone getting up to leave.

            "Fear not young man," said Pasgard, pointing to the little fish.  "I seek only to pass on a little something that was passed on to me."  The instruments that previously seemed distant grew closer.  While adults all around felt nervous, the children looked amazed.

            "See the little fish," said Pasgard, with a wave of his hand the nibbling fish started to emanate blues and yellows.  Swimming in big sweeping patterns, a ring, a figure 8, 3 wavy lines, then a spiral.  Each change prompted by the wave of Pasgard's hand.

            From under the parasols the light of the midday sun seemed very distant.  The little fish glowed and sparkled, moving faster thru the water like shooting stars.

            "When I was just a young man," said Pasgard.  "A wizard did this show, though he used a flock of humming birds.  I like the little fish.  They move in patterns good."

            By then even the previously nervous parents were taken in, as this little area of the tea house was turning into a surreal bubble of night sky in the middle of the day, but with an eerie hum of invisible strings, a beat of distant drums, and some deep feeling of having been made free.

            Bit by bit the lights and sounds faded, the fish stopped glowing and swimming in patterns, and all of the children were smiling ear to ear.  The parents and other adults were dazzled.  There was one left over, a little girl with ragged hair, freckled face, a smile missing many baby teeth, simple clots, and no parent.  "How?" she asked.

            "Little one," said Pasgard, his eyes tearing up.  "Oh that I could be young enough to teach you such things.  I have done this show before, and seen so many smiles, and always there is one left who asks how."

            "Why are you crying?" the little girl asked, suddenly so nervous for the wizard.

            "I'm sorry little one," said Pasgard.  "My time as a teacher is passed," there was a coin in his hand that he was making spin.  "I have taught so many before you, and this would be all I needed for me to try again, but I just don't have the time left.  I'm sorry because I can already tell, you be a great wizard." He then fumbled the coin.  She tried to catch it, missed, and chased it to the edge of the water, she smiled, turned, and frowned.  The old wizard was gone.

Roads of Bone, Chapter 6: Passage

I am doing a little experiment.  I am going to write a series of chapters in a fantasy world of my creation and see if it goes anywhere.  Since I have not prewritten this story and have no outline, it will probably end up a convoluted mess.  I do not know how often I will be able to update this or if it will ever finish.  This is the link to CHAPTER 1.  (I have also found that I have to go back and clean up very broken sentences in previous chapters.  This is why I need an editor.  I understand what I am writing, but I need to make sure other people do too.)

Chapter 6: Passage

            The Color Line River was frequented by three types of sailing craft.  The first group were called free rafters, those who owned there own boat delivering small amounts of materials, salvaging, fishing, and piracy (the last one was mostly limited to the Black Marsh as the river made escape from various law enforcement agents nearly impossible without the cover of foliage, and the southern fork which was more lawless).

            Small companies were the next group, these were groups of ships own by LLC's, or limited liability companies.  Essentially these were two or more boats that were owned by men and women who worked on land and had crews that were paid wages plus a share of the profits from whatever job the company committed to.  The advantage to being part of the collective owners was owning a small share in each boat.  Meaning if one boat sank they all lost a small amount, and whenever one did a job they all profited a small amount, rather than the Free rafters who would lose or gain everything on the gamble of a single ship.  The Maunder Empire is responsible for the protection of these craft and the trade interests they control, which brings up the last group.

            Group three is the Maunder Imperial Freshwater Navy.  Very fast boats whose tactics were to pull along side ships, lash on, and deploy numerous marines to take control of the ship.  Small fleets, or flotillas of these were deployed to the Black Marsh area to combat piracy, but were almost never seen on the Southern fork.  LLC's whose job it is to employ seasoned marines for security on those ships who are not in the regularly patrolled areas of the river exist, but are not expected to protect anyone who is not flying their standard.  Unless a free rafter or shipping LLC was flying a banner that meant they were already under contract with a particular marine company, if a pirate were to attack a shipment the marines would more often allow the pirates to simply pay them a cut of the looted vessel (or turn over living sailors to be impressed into mercenary service) rather than act to protect the victimized ship.

            There is a colloquial joke that the Red Clay portion of the river is caused by all the blood spilled just up stream by Bloody Field's raiders who have managed to capture a small ship run aground by passing too close to the shore.

            Orchard Town is up stream from most everything except the scantly populated mountains, and they shipped boatloads of excess harvest everywhere else.  It never seemed like the town was poor for passage elsewhere, at least to those who could pay as much as the number of apple bushels they took the place of.  Coming back was always odd though.  Going against the current required people to row, sails to be full, and the hold to not be stuffed with goods, so the only trade coming back was usually very high craft items from the larger city of Bone, which was home to far more craftsmen, who could make clockwork, lock work, musical instruments, books, softer clothing, bedding, art, lots and lots of shovels (the tool makers guild was subsidized because of a law too old to contextualize and too ingrained to ever repeal), and exotic animals or spices from the rest of the empire (very expensive and rarely fresh because it is always the material that didn't manage to sell in Bone itself and since the trade of it was controlled by the Empire you couldn't get it anywhere else without paying a smugglers' price).

            Malachite knew all of this, having traded with Orchard Town small but regular amounts in the past (coming back from Solace, his parties would stop off in Orchard Town for the last leg of the trip to be made down the river, shipping materials the south route with escort and the sending them back with pepper and beef for the trouble as payment, Hasenburg's ancient credit was taken as sacrosanct).  But since Malachite did not want to go home he found a much harder time negotiating, carrying two extra people instead of food was seen as more and more costly with each free rafter he talked to.  LLC's under contract to deliver quotas of material were already laying off extra rowers they had used to get to Orchard, and the mercenaries were small in number and only looking to head south to guard a bigger shipment.

            Malachite was already failing the first task he had been given by the wizard... But was keeping that fact from Pasgard as best he could.  "They are loading nothing but Cider, but it isn't spiced yet and the sweet air will make us sick in a day."  "I have worked with them, they charge too much to move cows, I can only imagine what they would milk us for."  "The crew was very rude to me."  "Boat has a worm eaten stern and the captain would not listen to my warning about it.  I wouldn't set foot on deck."  "The only women on board have brown teeth."  "No pillows in the bunks."  The man had more excuses than any lay about could dream up.

            Adding to this was shipping their equipment.  Pasgard had a cart loaded with bits'n bobs, and presumably a lot of physical money, paper slips and promises from the Caliphate would not have been the wise currency to bring on a trip like this.  Malachite would need his armor, greatsword, abus gun (which he never got enough chances to use, but relished those times he did, always a good opening to any battle), and while he had no attachment to the horse he owned he hated shopping for them when he needed one, forget the cost of boats, horses were damn expensive.  "I never got a squire."

            "What?" asked Pasgard.

            "A young man to help me with my equipment and clothing," he said.  "I was one for a while.  That was part of the trade missions I did."

            "I was something similar when I was young," said Pasgard.  "The Caliphate used to recruit or force young men into civil service, as sort of high ranking slave.  One of my brothers was taken when I was very little after my father had disappeared in the waste one day.  They told my mother that part of the money they gave her each week to help us live without my father meant that they needed her sons to serve the Caliph."

            "When did you get taken?" asked Malachite

            "I was still to young to know my age," said Pasgard, wistfully.  "They came to take my other brother, and they would have, but my mother cut off one of his fingers so he couldn't hold a sword properly."

            "Gods," said Malachite wincing.  "She could bear to see you go?  Was it so bad?"

            "From this side of it," said Pasgard.  "Looking back thru time.  No, it was not so bad.  My mother did not know what the service really was."

            "She just couldn't bear to see you go?" asked Malachite, feeling genuinely sorry for the old man, but also very curious.

            "She did not fear for us that way," said Pasgard.  "She had taken our father's disappearance well, always hoping he would one day walk out of the desert with palms filled with jewels, and a wagon full of silk.  She even pictured my brother coming back.

            "No, she was afraid of not knowing us if we came back.  They would force you to learn and practice the state religion," said Pasgard.  "Normally they just charged a tax on those who followed some other faith, it was to fund the upkeep of their temples, my family worshiped a number of gods and paid the tax.  But when taken you were made to follow the state's faith and then sent to fight for it.  My first brother died fighting beyond the desert."

            "You have all your fingers," said Malachite.  "Did they take your brother's lost finger as a protest and just not bother you again?"

            "They beheaded my mother for trying to stop the recruiters from doing their work," said Pasgard, as Malachite drew breath thru his teeth, his heart feeling heavy.  "They took me and the rest of my brothers to a training camp for boys destined to be soldiers, my brother with the missing finger was made... manager?  Not sure the equal word in your words.

            "My sisters were betrothed to a number of family's, and are house sold to pay their dowries,"  He paused.  "I don't remember the name of the goddess my mother wanted us to worship.

            "For the next few years I cleaned the guard houses, sharpened swords, and learned my prayers," Pasgard frowned.  "When I was old enough they sent me to the Eastern most Oasis and told me my job, I was to guard the pass.  That is what I use as my name when traveling.  Pass.  Guard.  Pasgard."

            "That is not your real name?"

            "I have never met someone out of the Caliphate that could say my real name," said Pasgard smirking.  "There is no letter for one of the sounds in it."

            Malachite was boggled from the sad story, and was just grasping to make the subject lighter somehow.  "How?  That is so odd to me."

            "Are you named after a gem?"

            "Yes," said Malachite, talking faster.  "But, West of the Caliphate people name their children after objects all of the time.  Why not just use the literal translation of your real name if you are going to go by something else."

            "My name means 'Messenger of God'," said the wizard.

            "Okay, I can see how that would sound pretentious," said Malachite.

            "Pray?  Ten?  What?" Pasgard looked confused, and his little book was out again.

            Malachite took a second to discern his question.  "Oh, 'pretentious'.  It means acting better or more important than who you are."

            Pasgard started chuckling, "I can imagine you hearing that word a lot."

            Malachite started laughing to too.  "Yeah, sometimes people I meet have to ask me for a good word to call me.  That one I go to a lot," said the swordsman.  "Go to that tea house to relax while waiting," he pointed to a corner restaurant.  "Read thru your little book a bit.  I will find us a ship eventually," even if I have to do something I loath.