A Land Far Away

"Git up, runt!"

For the last three years, Tocaer had been awoken the same way. The man's heavy bass voice, the slight stench of alcohol from his breath from the previous evening, the sun piercing through the small window like daggers, illuminating straw and stone alike. And of coarse...the obligatory slam of the man's boot against his cot, as if all of the previous weren't enough to wake the dead.

"Up Captain!"

His same reply. Three years, the same exchange. There were no talks of family, or dreams, or stories of the town. No...Gren was a man of simplicity, he was. Routine...that was his gift and livlihood. You could tell the time of day or year by the mans actions. Granted, Gren had laid a backhand to him the first couple of days when he had greeted the man with the title...Tocaer supposed Gren thought that he was having fun...at his expense. But, Gren settled into the new title. By the end of the first ride, he no longer even gave a kick to Tocaer's stomach.

Tocaer slowly sat up and stretched. The chains rattled as he did so, the hard wooden bench/cot giving a bold creak. He rubbed his face a moment as Gren busied himself with the chains. Perhaps another day of breaking rock, or cutting trees. Cutting trees was better. Well...to be sure, anything was better than breaking stone, save maybe mucking out the stalls in town. That's where it paid to be nice to Gren and listen to him...if you weren't he'd set you back in the evening without bathing, so you'd have to smell it all night as well. Tocaer learned that one fast enough. Please, Tymora, let it be trees.

Gren hovered over him for a moment....peculiar, as he had never done so before. It was usually a tug, and a walk out to the main chain, and a hook up with ten others to go about the work for the day.

"Yer time is done, runt. Yer free ta leave." Gren hocked once, and spat into the straw, turned and went about his day. And that, was probably the best good-bye he'd ever given any under his charge.

Tocaer rubbed his wrists and ankles a long moment, then got to his feet, slowly making for the cell door. He had to stop in fear a moment....fear it was a dream, some wonderful dream turned nightmare he had every so often. Those were the worst...the feeling of leaving...and waking up in the cold, dark dank cell with only a sliver of moonlight shining through the bars to greet you.

But, fortune favor, the winds were strong and favored the tide. His pace quickened as he strode down the long hall, to the interior guardpost.

Winkson looked at him a long moment with that half crooked smile of his....he'd lost half his teeth in a barfight when he was younger and was more than a little self-conscious about it....that meant he was happy.

"Good on you, Nort. A good day to catch the winds, eh? What you going to be doing, now? Back on the ships again?"

"Not sure, Wink. One thing I do know I'm not going to be doing...coming back here."

Winkson laughed with a nod. "That's what they all say. But I believe it from you. Let's see here....one boning knife, one filet knife...one set clothes and boiled leathers...one finely crafted bow...quiver of arrows. And fifty gold." Winkson pushed his meager belongings under the bars. "Ye can get dressed next room, leave your issues on the table."

Tocaer give a grin back with a nod. "Thanks Winks. Remind me to buy you a round next we're sitting in the tavern, eh?"

Tocaer proceeded on, exchanging his bug ridden clothes for his own. The fit wasn't too well, he had lost a bit of weight, in the place. But that didn't matter now.

He passed beyond the gate, and out into the sun...with nary a chain on him. Thank the Gods, his Pa would never have to see him working in those damn chains ever again.

Tocaer knelt beside the grave, placing a single winter rose. Unmarked. A small peice of slate. It seemed ill-fitting, but when one died with no coin or family...that's what you got. In a manner of speaking, Tocaer was likely the only thing the old man had had close enough to call family when he passed on. Old Kenly.

When Tocaer was first put away, he had had the good fortune to share the cell of Old Kenly. Not a usual thing, sharing cells...but Old Kenly was half blind, half deaf, and half dead when Tocaer arrived. He supposed it was a small comfort to the old man, after living the last five years in a cell alone...and a kindness to the guard as well. Old Kenly had been kind to Tocaer, letting him know what to do, what not to do. Like his first rule...never trust the other inmates, with nothing. Never spill a name, or a place, or a job. There was nothing better the others liked than steak, and no better way to get steak than to tell the guard what you had "overheard".

Tocaer had fun with that his first year. A good laugh. Of coarse, Gren took it out on him usually, but still. He'd let drop a name of someone that he barely even knew and was ten years dead, and next thing you know...the guard would be waisting five rides tracking down some name that ended in a gravestone. They stopped paying attention to anything Tocaer said after a while. Hell, another ten years someone might be talking of a job they pulled with Old Kenly himself.

He had died about halfway during Tocaer's time in. It was again, an unusual practice...the guard usually handled the burial. But Old Kenly had no one to come and stand by his grave...all his folks had died off years before. So they let Tocaer bury him one spring day, when the sun was shining and the breeze was coming off the waters just right. Tocaer hoped his burial would be the same, and not on some frozen day in Hammer with the winds howling and the rain freezing.

A small, unmarked stone. A whole lifetime...and that is the end. It didn't seem right, nor fair. Tocaer stood a long moment, and made up his mind. He'd get the man a better stone, one he deserved. He owed Old Kenly...and debts never go unpaid for the Norts.

"Easy coin.."

"Ain't so easy." Tocaer easily finished his fathers sentence. Upton's sayings may be overused, but they were true as bone. Tocaer had forgotten that lesson in his own greif, and paid three years of his life for it.

"Anyway, pa, I told that captain to go talk to some elven lass what stepped in out of the cold, braggin of savin orphans or some such. Saw her a bit later in the market with that statue he be askin ore. Pretty thing, fer sure, jade an pearl. Could have bought us plenty with that coin, but like as not I'd a wound up bled to death by them lizard things."

"Well, ain't no cause in dwellin on it, boy." Twenty and eight summers Tocaer had seen, and his father still called him boy. He'd gotten over the usual insulting feeling one gets in their younger years of it, and it had become once again a term of comfort and fondness for him. "We get by as we always have, hard work. I ain't raise you from a babe for you to bleed out for no lordlins peice a art. Asides, yer a thousand times what that statue be worth, ta me." Upton clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. Tocaer handed him a few gold coins.

"Worked the night through unloadin some Northern Captains ship. Weren't much to it, lot a heavy liftin. Only had a few crates for the winches. Most just smaller things, casks an crates an sacks an the like. Should see us through the week, sfar as our own eatin."

Upton nodded with a serious face, taking the gold and putting it in their box and locking it up. "We'll get back on track, boy, neveryoumind that. A Nort.."

"Always pays his debts." They both grinned as Tocaer finished the saying with a nod. "I'll get to cuttin up them cod and take it ore to the stalls."

"Them young ones ain't been back to bother Betsy or Runt, have they?"

"Ain't seen em since Pa, but I think thems got the message to leave the pigs alone."

"Good."

Tocaer stepped outside, unsheathing the knife on his belt, and began to butcher the small catch of cod in the freezing winds.

I allways forget how well you write.
Nice work.

+1 to that, I like it.

The crow's feat around his eyes tightened together as if to form one line, as he got a long look at Tocaer.

"That's yer ole suit....you planin on shippin soon? An why it be havin blood on it?"

It was then that his father's eyes widened, in catching a full veiw of Tocaer in the light. His face was covered in char, blackened soot that reeked to the salts of fire. His eyes had the far away look, that look you get after you've seen one to many shipwrecks, and get to thinking why they died while you lived. His old uniform...or what he got to calling his old uniform in his younger days...was laying on the small table under one of the two windows of the house.

House. Now, take that word loosely. It's more of a shack big enough for two to live in...uncomfortably. But neither ever complained. Even with the wind blowing off the ocean, and the shack being behind the stables. They never had a life of luxery. Home was a place you warmed your bones, rested your head, and filled your belly in between work. Sometimes you didn't have enough time for the three, and you had to pick from them.

There it sat, the uniform. Bonebleached white, with orange trimming. Orange as the damn sun, to match Tocaer's hair. He bought it...must have been nine winters gone now. When he first served on the Eagle's Talon, making wind for Waterdeep and back. The Uniform. His pa remembered the day he first wore it...how proud he was. The both of them, proud. His boy serving on a Merchanter. No, no fisherboat for his boy. He'd get to see the world!

Full of hopes, then. Dreams. All empty, like the Uniform that now lay upon the table. Covered in soot, in blood...half mended from cuts. Time has a way of doing that to a man's dreams...and to a mans insides.

Tocaer looked up, for the first time in perhaps many years, with tears in his eyes and lip quivering.

"They's all dead, Pa. And thems that ain't were taken an will be..an worse. An there weren't a damn thin I could do on it."

He stared long and hard at the Banner. The Scales of Justice. He hadn't slept...not since the Guard Serg had knocked him under. Justice.

He had half a mind to tear the banner down and take a piss on it. Justice. What Justice? Tomarr had been a good man. Not a singularly bright one...but all the same...a good one. The Black Sails had seen to his Justice...cut him down and took his body. Like as not they'd make him walk in undeath. Like as not with Tocaer's luck, the bastards would raid Corwell and he'd have to spin his blades against that metal wall of death. His eyes stared at the Banner, keeping vigil. Justice. Where was the Justice for the druid that had been with them?

Piss on it all. He knew they should have gone north. But they all had to go south, to that accursed and damned castle. They'd convinced the druid, and he paid with his life. Those at Koart weren't any better. Let them bash in their helmets on that stone wall. He'd seen enough, going head to head. Fireballs and icebolts and dead rising from the ground. There was always a backdoor....there had to be.

He thumbed the pommels of his knives. Justice. He'd see to Justice...writ in blood.

The place lived up to it's name, smellwise at least. The tavern did reek like a barrel of apples that had spent too long in the sun, gone south and started rotting. Brown apples the shade of the customers teeth.

Tocaer looked about. Salt dogs and cut-throats, each one with a tale taller than the last. A chair scraped on floorboards nearby, as a sailor of some distinguishment, like as not a First Mate, excused himself with a gutteral curse from the table, tossing his cards down. At least here, there'd be no drawn blades and accusations of cheating. Thrice in as many days he had seen it in the lesser taverns of the port.

Skaug. A den of pick pockets, theives, pirates, and villainous snaketongues all with an eye for commerce. Which is to say you were lucky to leave port with what you came with. Tocaer had yet to get rid of the feeling he was being watched...constantly. Not that he had much that could be taken, to be sure. A couple pearls perhaps, his blades and uniform. He'd learned quick to stear clear of the darker allies. Move about in day. Stash your purse. And keep your fingers close to the hilt. For perhaps not in this establishment...but a card game could go south fast, and you could find yourself on the wrong end of the blade for no other reason than you were present in the room as a place erupted in violence. Not to say the guard here didn't keep order....but......

Solatri was shut up in the room again, writing some arcane scriptures. Tocaer understood none of it, but it was like as not going to get them out of a few scrapes. They'd taken a walk of the island....a few notable things, but most of the island was a festering hot jungle with roots that would trip and snakes that would bite. They'd already done battle with the biggest beatle he had over laid eyes on....a giant as long, though not as tall, as a horse. Nevermind the map they'd found on some lizardwalker scavengers that Sol was adamant on following. As if people actually drew maps to treasures. But, Tocaer was willing to play along, for curiosities sake alone.

Still...he hated this place. Always having to be alert. The only persons they'd run into halfway decent were the fisherman's employee, who was likely a dunce, and a Chauntean earthwalker whom was a hin. The port was as pretty as one of the dockside whores faces, or one of the tavern patrons teeth. He was not going to regret seeing Skaug shrink in the distance, when the time came to leave.

"Do not ask the price I pay
I must live with my quiet rage
Tame the ghosts within my head
That run wild and wish me dead
Spread my ashes to the wind
And forget all of my sins
Let me die where I lie
Neath the curse of my lovers Eyes"