Dec 18
Interlude Torel -
Hammer and Fist
[Note I'm going with spacing to denote paragraphs rather a more typical indention due to the web's in ability to make that easy to do]
He found it odd that after only a couple of days back in town he’d gotten used to the pervasive smell of fish all over again. The smells that blanketed the town in the warm months were decidedly…pungent. When he’d first come to this town last fall before the snows made travel out impossible the smells had been faint, just a minor tickle of scent overlaid and almost overpowered by the smell of humanity living in a small space.
The advent of spring and swiftly approaching summer heat though had the fish smell ramping up. Nothing like what it would be, he’d been told, once the fishing harvests were in full swing under the heat of summer. Then it was all the casters working among the fishing fleets could do to keep the catch cold enough to keep from spoiling before it went into the barrels of brine, were packed in salt or smoked over slow fires or for the best specimens packed into the arcanic shipping crates that locked the catches freshness in a moment of time such that when they were unpacked at their destinations it would be as if they were fresh caught that very day. All at an exorbient price of course.
The street was mostly deserted now, even when the fleet wasn’t out it had never been crowded, leading as it did to the small cul-de-sac that hosted altars to those gods of few followers. Only Eris had an extravagant temple inside of town although the air temples of Merta and Troe outside of town were quite spectacular. But for the rest there were only home altars or these few spots of holy power.
As he expected from past visits, the square courtyard was empty. The small altar of his own god, Kord was in the left corner. He went to one knee in front of the slab of black stone and saluted, fist slapping into his chest. Edging forward he turned and sat, back against the stone; against the hammer and fist symbol of his faith on the front of the cube of hard granite inlaid with simple steel, kept free of blemish by the faith of its followers.
He stayed there for awhile, the warmth of fire and forge radiating through him from the stone. The majroity of the devout followers left in Larkson were blacksmiths and laborers with an occasional guard he found. Dwarves didn’t like the sea air or the sandy soil although they certainly seemed to enjoy the fish. But then he wasn’t much surprised, a town founded by archivists that was kept alive by fishing harvests would see most of the citizens worshiping either Troe, god of the seas, or Eris, god of knowledge.
At loose ends with life he wondered what he should do next and hoped for a sign from Kord although his god was notoriously bad at giving signs, respecting instead followers with the strength of mind to make their own decisions.
He’d come downriver from Craghome in pursuit of an visitor of the church that had stolen several items of minor value from the temple only to find the man reported lost at sea, the ship he’d gone out on never returning. His mission was meant more as a get out and see the world than anything punitive or because the items had any real value. With the unusually harsh winter sealing the way back he’d remained in town, living off his allowance, taking odd jobs about town to make the money last. And then he’d met Cora, a girl with flashing green eyes and an evil swivel to her hips and and had delayed his departure back upriver once and then twice to enjoy her company longer.
And then the slavers had disrupted the spring festival and now he feared he’d never see her again, she was reported lost along with so many others to the slavers’ chains.
The shadows grew longer, drawing closer to where the avenger sat, lost in thought. The evening was approaching and the sinking sun was dropping behind the buildings that surrounded the courtyard. It was almost time to go meet the others and let them know what he’d found out about the ship raids that they were considering doing something about.
He pushed himself up to his feet, taking a moment to readjust the heavy flail at his side. He hated the sound the chain made and the thin leather strap he used to secure the links tended to come undone letting it rattle. He rewove the strapping then ducked as something flew at his head. It was a bird, a large one with shiny black feathers, standing atop the altar of his god.
It cocked its head one way, then another as if sizing him up then with a curious jerk of its head it launched into the air and circled him before flapping away away.
“A fearful man might take that as an omen the Raven Queen had plans for oneself.” a voice spoke from behind him.
Torel turned to see a burly man with the large densely packed forearms and shoulders of a smith entering the courtyard. He’d seen the man before, a smith by the name of Jarid.
He grinned at the smith, “A fearful man would be a mighty poor follower of Kord, brother.”
Jarid smiled, “Fear doesn’t make one weak, nor strength make one brave. But then your still young, some things are better experienced than told.”
“You make a good point and remind me of something I did indeed already know. But as I travel with a follower of the Raven, I see the bird as an omen that our quest together is approved by both.”
The smith nodded, “Aye, that could be what it was. Or, ” he chuckled, “it could simply be the one of the thousands of the damn things flying about crapping on everything needing to rest its lice ridden feathers for a bit.”
Torel shook his head in amusement, “Perhaps, perhaps it was. I don’t wish to be rude but I must be off to meet said friend and others. Perhaps I shall see you again. If not, then I wish you well. Be strong brother.”
“Aye, and you as well.”
Torel, follower of Kord, avenging priest of the god of strength walked away with sure strides to toward the inn where he and his friends shared a room, thinking they’d be interested in what his research had found out.
Recent Comments