The Docks of Estasea

 

The waterfront of Estasea never truly slept. From the first glow in the dawn sky, the massive wooden piers creaked under the weight of cargo and crew, as vessels from other shores — broad-beamed merchant craft, sleek coastal boats, and tall warships — eased into port. Sailors came down the gangplanks onto the docks, their voices a mosaic of tongues, their quartermasters negotiating docking fees and cargo manifests with the hard-faced harbor clerks. Dockers, their faces gleaming with sweat, rolled barrels of wine, olive oil and spices onto waiting carts or into the vast warehouses. Customs officials, robed in deep blue, covered the landings, inspecting goods with a mixture of diligence and opportunism. Every now and again, a discreet exchange of coins between those in the know would smooth an official’s frown, and a suspiciously heavy crate would pass through unexamined.

Down in the dockside markets, the coarse voices of the  traders cut through the salty air proclaiming the quality of their wares - everything from smoked cheese to salted fish and fresh pineapples to exotic silks and alchemical elixirs of doubtful effectiveness. Fishmongers cleaned the day’s catch with the swiftness that comes from long practice and threw the guts to the harbour cats and the screeching gulls. Waterfront hawkers displayed glittering baubles they swore were found in long-drowned chests salvaged from shipwrecks. Semi-feral children in rags darted between the stalls, snatching apples and flatbreads, vanishing into the tangle of alleys between the warehouses before the stallholders could catch them. Beneath it all was the undercurrent of smuggling—the false-bottomed chests and barrels, the hollowed-out ship beams where contraband was stowed, and the coded phrases exchanged in the darkest corners over mugs of ale.

 

At the edges of the docks, where reflected lanterns glimmered upon brackish water, the taverns were loud with conversation, music, and the occasional brawl. The Quarterdeck, a favorite haunt of river captains and smugglers, smelled of fried fish, strong beer and salt air, while the more refined Sea Witch catered to merchants striking deals over rich meals and glasses of warm honeyed brandy. At the Broken Oar And Rowlock, notorious for smugglers and off-duty pirates, fortunes were lost and won at dice and cards, and sometimes knives flashed beneath tables. Here, deals were made in quiet voices, pirate captains met their Estasean backers, and stolen goods found new owners. Most favoured by local sailors and dockers was the Gurnard And Megrim, which brewed its own ale and had the best old rum in the harbour, of which the cellar was said to hold many hogsheads. There was often music and singing in the evenings and the food was basic, but plentiful and good. Any docker or deckhand worth his salt could sit in the Gurnard with a pint of ale in front of him and find work within the hour. Much was tolerated in the Gurnard but it was a foolish person who overstepped the mark. Talk of politics, abuse of any kind towards the barmaids and playing dice for money were all likely to get anyone who didn’t know the rules thrown out into the gutter with a seaboot to his backside. Discussing smuggling enterprises was, of course, perfectly acceptable.

 

Indifferent to all of this, the tide rose and fell, as the sea was oblivious to the human struggles playing out upon its shores. By night, the harbor lights stretched out over the black waters, guiding vessels in from the open sea. The watchmen with their halberds and their lanterns patrolled in pairs, their eyes peeled for thieves and troublemakers, but they were only the official half of the law here. The true legislators of the Estasean waterfront were those who lived by its rhythms and rules —the sailors, the merchants, the thieves, and the smugglers who understood the currents and tides of the sea, of the river, and of fortune.

There were the ladies of the waterfront who stood in the narrow alleys leading from the quayside and the young sailors on their first tour of duty away from home who fell helplessly in love with them, the cardsharps, the conmen, the older stevedores who had a slang no-one else could follow, a fortune-teller or two, and the spies, both Estasean and also Gitcni’s men from Danfelgard. And there were the tavern barmaids, loyal to one person or to none, and woe betide anyone who mistook them for one of the alley girls. Tough as any docker, a couple of them could throw any sailor who made that mistake into the dock and walk off laughing.

 

The tall, red brick warehouses of the great merchants of Estasea dominated the docks, with their stepped gables and their banners rippling in the sea breeze. The house of Padrinos, dominant in the spice trade, dispatched three-masted carracks to distant islands, bringing back cinnamon, cloves, cummin, pepper, and saffron that would sell in the markets of Estasea, Danfelgor and beyond. The house of Tenahis, leaders of the wine and olive trade, operated a fleet of deep-drafted merchantmen, and traded inland as far as the markets of Danfelgor and the halls of the steppe lords. The house of Kaledorial pursued all manner of trade—legal and otherwise—running cargoes of fine silks, rare metals, artworks, carpets, alchemical tinctures, and fine gems.

The merchant houses did not just send their ships to sea - they waged undeclared wars upon it. Captains loyal to the banner of their merchant house were always trying to undercut rivals with cunning deals or, if that failed, sharp steel. Privateer crews, bearing letters of marque and reprisal from the Merchant Council, patrolled the trade lanes, harying competitors’ vessels and preying upon the ships of foreign and less well-protected merchants. In the numerous harbourside counting houses, clerks bent over ledgers, calculating risk and rewards, ensuring that no cargo passed through the docks without enriching their masters. It was common knowledge in the waterfront taverns that the master of the house of Tenahis could make a man, or even a ship, disappear if his monopoly was at risk, while the house of Kaledorial had agents in every port from Danfelgard to the northern fjords.

 

Standing apart from the journeys and enterprises of the great merchant houses and their seagoing trade, the river harbour and its ships was a world of its own. The shallower-draft vessels that sailed along the Danfel River—wide-hulled traders and narrower, faster sailing barges—were the main artery of commerce between Estasea and Danfelgard. These smaller ships, whose captains were well acquainted with the river’s constantly moving sandbanks and currents, carried casks of Estasean wine, timber, bolts of fine cloth, and barrels of olive oil upstream, returning with Danfelgorian iron, manufactured metalware, household goods and mechanical devices crafted by the city’s alchemists. The river trade could be risky - river pirates were ever present and bandits lurked along the banks, and at the same time, unpredictable shallows and eddies could turn a ship into driftwood.

 Bearded captains, in their heavy woollen jackets, wide trousers and wooden clogs, walked along the quays, with their barges moored side by side, swapping news and jokes, sitting in the taverns with mugs of ale and wine. The pulse of commerce here was as constant as the flow of the river - contracts sealed with a handshake, cargoes sold before they ever touched dry land, and wagers made on which boat would reach Danfelgard first. The river captains, though not as wealthy as their seafaring counterparts, were probably even shrewder. They knew the moods of the Danfel, the safest creeks to enter and find mooring during a storm, and which customs officers could be bribed with a keg of fine red or a bag of gold coins. And which ones could not.

 

Above it all, in their marble-clad mansions the merchant lords watched, sipping their wines, weighing profit and loss. To them, the docks and the sea were a game played with fleets of ships and the lives of those who sailed them. Down on the waterfront, life held a constant rhythm of work and rest, good times and bad, drunk and sober, friendship and enmity, trust and betrayal. To a great trading house, a spy or a lone river captain, the only certainty was the ebb and flow of fortune.

The Vineyard Worker’s Rest

In  Estasea, where the streets were filled with the cries of gulls and traders and the aroma of salt water and spices from the docks, lived two men who stood out in their differing ways. One was a famous artist named Feterino, who captured life on canvas in a way that drew many admirers. The other was a prosperous wine merchant named Pergaali, a man of sound business sense and unrivalled connections with the winemakers of the region - his wines were popular in both Estasea’s taverns and its grandest houses.

Feterino's studio sat at the edge of the artists' quarter - a chamber where sunlight entered through wide arched windows and cast warm tints across half-finished canvases. He was famed for painting scenes from Estasean life - fishermen hauling their nets, women sipping wine under the amber glow of lamplight, and the bustle of local markets. But deep within himself, Feterino was unfulfilled, feeling that he had never been able to capture an elusive truth that he long sought.

Pergaali's shop stood prominently in the central square of the merchants' district - which was itself a mark of his success - the long oak shelves inside were weighed down with vintage bottles of deep red and honeyed gold. He had succeeded through hard work, excellent taste, and a sound eye for commerce, but it felt hollow - each transaction was a repetition, each shipment just another tally in his ledger. No matter how fine the wine he poured and how full his coffers, he felt a need for something that had always eluded him.

The two men first met one evening when the city was alive with one of its many celebrations. The Festival of Lamps transformed Estasea into a mass of lights that glimmered in the canals, streets and in windows. The balconies were filled with people toasting each other with the best wine they could afford. Feterino, meandering through the city in search of inspiration, stopped by Pergaali's shop - in the window, glowing in the evening sunlight, was a display of wines that mirrored the colours of the sunset.

Feterino stepped inside and introduced himself to Pergaali, who was arranging a tasting for some wealthy patrons. The artist couldn’t help feeling that the wines were stories bottled up, just waiting to be told. Pergaali, in turn, was curious about Feterino as they discussed the wine but also the symbolism of colours and of the art that the painter insisted was hidden in daily life.

 Months passed and Feterino and Pergaali developed a friendship that was, if perhaps somewhat unlikely, genuine nevertheless. Feterino created a series of drawings and watercolour sketches inspired by the wine merchant’s tales of vineyards and how they reflected the work, hope, and spirit that made up each harvest. Pergaali became more and more interested in Feterino’s pursuit of meaning. He began to see his wines as vessels that carried rural tales and urban dreams, from the grape harvesters in the fields to the nobles who bought the best vintages.

Their conversations usually took place on Feterino’s terrace, where Pergaali brought his finest wines and Feterino showed him sketches and paintings that he was working on. They spoke of worldly success, the weight of expectation and how, in their differing ways, they had chased real satisfaction without ever truly succeeding. Feterino admitted that - despite the acclaim he had received - he never felt that he had quite managed to paint a scene that resonated deeply with his soul. Pergaali confessed that he had become wealthy beyond his expectations but had only seldom felt real fulfilment.

On Feterino's birthday,  Pergaali arrived with a rare bottle from an ancient vineyard, known only to a few connoisseurs. As Feterino tasted it, the deep, complex flavours awoke something in him that he could not express in words. That night - perhaps due to the wine - he had a particularly vivid dream. 

As soon as he woke the next morning, he hurried to his easel, brushes flying as he painted a simple moment - a vineyard worker resting after a long day’s harvesting, a jug of wine by his side, eyes closed against the low evening sun. Feterino worked more swiftly than usual with short quick stabs of paint straight from the tube, and with an intensity that he had never experienced before. 

The painting captured something that Feterino had sought for years—the quiet victory of small moments, the joy in simple things, the honest satisfaction at the end of a day’s labour. 

Pergaali, seeing the completed work, felt that it was as if Feterino had taken the essence of his own life’s journey and laid it bare. For Feterino it proved to be the beginning of a new period in his work - more intense and direct than anything he had done before.

 

The two men remained friends for the rest of their lives. One Summer evening, sharing stories with a glass of wine in hand, one or other of them remarked upon the truth of the Estasean proverb that says "whoever owns the day is richer than any king".

A Monk of Danfelgard Visits Estasea

 

Sheltering from the winter wind in a busy tavern called The Compass Rose, on a quiet street just back from Estasea’s busy docks, a stranger sat alone at a corner table, quietly watching the crowd. He wore the drab clothes of a monk, and his calm manner made him stand out from the animated people around him. His gaze was steady, almost meditative, his gestures restrained. His name was Cassian, and he was a follower of the teaching of Kentumirto and Mirana.

Before long, the tavern owner, a broad-bearded Estasean named Marlo, noticed him sitting alone and approached his table, two glasses of red wine in hand.

“Could you do with a bit of company, my friend?” Marlo said, placing one of the glasses in front of Vassian. “Have a glass with me.”

The monk looked up, smiling as he accepted the glass. “Thank you, that’s very kind. I’m Vassian, from Danfelgard.”

“Aha!” Marlo’s eyes lit up as he sat down. “A monk and a man of philosophy, no doubt. I hear it’s how you Danfelgorians are —balance, restraint, all that. Me? I’m a simple man. Born and raised here in Estasea, where we know how to live. We work hard, but we make the best of it! Food, family, and a glass of good wine.”

Vassian raised his glass slightly. “Yes, I’ve noticed that people here seem, I don't know - full of life, engaged with the world. There’s a warmth, but also an urgency.”

Marlo laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Well yes, but life is short, isn’t it? Why would you sit in silence when you can laugh, or take only what you need when you can enjoy what you want?”

Vassian chuckled softly, swirling the wine in his glass. “But isn’t there peace in needing less? In simply observing, without wanting?”

Marlo raised an eyebrow, thinking it over. “Well, I suppose there may be, but let me ask you this—when you’ve had a long, hard day, don’t you enjoy a glass of wine and a good meal? A place to sit down and rest? Maybe a friend to laugh with?”

Vassian nodded, conceding the point. “Of course, there’s joy in those things. But they  flow past, like the river. Enjoyable, but not the source of real contentment.”

“That’s where we differ, my friend,” Marlo said, sipping his wine. “For us, the point of life is in those moments - what makes us feel alive. Take this wine for instance — it was crafted with care, aged properly, and shared with a friend. What else could you need?”

Vassian thought about it - perhaps Marlo’s viewpoint held a wisdom of its own. “Maybe you’re right. In the monastery, we look inward to find contentment. We avoid attachment to worldly things, thinking it brings pain. But perhaps there is a value in such attachments, in a love of transient things.”

Marlo grinned, raising his glass to Vassian. “What a philosopher - finding wisdom so that even a simple tavern owner like me feels like he's grasped something profound. Well, you know, maybe we’ve both learned something. Anyway, do you know what people round here say? How can you tell whether you’re in Estasea or Danfelgard.”

“Don't know - how do you tell?” asked Vassian.

“In Estasea the buildings are made of honey-coloured stone, but in Danfelgard the stones are grey," said Marlo, laughing.

The monk and the tavern keeper sat together, sharing stories and discussing life - although they saw life differently, they shared a need to connect and understand.

As the tavern emptied and Marlo began to close up, he clapped Vassian on the shoulder. “Come round again, any time. You may be a man of few needs, but there’ll always be a glass of wine waiting for you.”

Vassian stood up to leave, but he had started to feel at home in the tavern. “Thank you, Marlo. I’ll take you up on that.”

Walking down the streets of Estasea, Vassian experienced something he had not always felt in his own city - the quiet joy of belonging, and a realisation that wisdom could be found anywhere, even in a noisy Estasean tavern.

The Leatherworker, the Poet and the Thief 

 

In Estasea's central square, where scents of spice, leather, and grilled fish drifted through the air, the Grand Market was alive with the constant hum of commerce. The market was a place where trade was as lively by day as the stories and songs of the city’s taverns were by night.

Gerrin, a leatherworker known for beautifully crafted belts and satchels, laid out his goods with care, hoping to attract the customers that filled the marketplace. His tools were small and sharp, tucked neatly into a leather apron, and his hands were always dark with dye. A life of craftsmanship had enabled him to keep a workshop on the corner of Willow Street, a small house nearby in the Artisans' quarter and a decent enough way of life. But it was the friendship of other traders, together with his reputation for fine work and creativity that kept him returning to the market each dawn. Estasea’s commerce was as much a part of life’s rhythm to him as the rising and setting of the sun.

 

One morning, a young thief named Marlis slipped through the crowds. Hardly an expert in his craft, he was just about clever enough to stay ahead of the city guards. His eyes were always looking for anything of value left unattended, and he had an air of anxiety about him. Whilst Gerrin worked hard for every coin he made, and Marlis preferred a quicker way to get cash, each of them saw the market as his work place.

Before long, Marlis’s gaze settled on Gerrin’s stand. The leatherworker was busy showing a customer the intricate detailing on a belt that she had commissioned with tooling representing her family crest. Seeing his chance, Marlis sidled up to the stand and reached for a heavy coin pouch resting beside a stack of goods, but just as his fingers brushed the pouch, a voice beside him froze him in place.

“Planning to buy something, young man, or just admiring?”

The voice belonged to Elira, a well-known poet of middle age, with unruly curls and an open smile, who was given to frequenting the market, observing Estasea’s characters for inspiration. She lived frugally, spending her earnings from book sales and live performances on cheap wine and simple food in the taverns, and she was known for her verses celebrating life in Estasea. With a lively artistic curiosity, she watched everyone and everything, weaving their stories into her poems.

Marlis tried to be calm, with a quick, nervous grin.

"Yeah - I was just looking at that bracelet actually..."

 

Gerrin had already realised what was going on.

“Ah, Marlis,” Gerrin said, weary humour in his voice, “you know, you’d be better off working than stealing.”

Instead of getting angry or calling the guards, Gerrin held out the small, intricately designed leather bracelet.

“There you go then,” he offered. “For a fair price. It’s better than risking your neck over a few coins.”

Marlis looked at him and begrudgingly counted out a handful of stolen coins and paid for the bracelet, pocketing it with a mumble of thanks.

Elira, watching this play out, couldn’t help but laugh. “You two are so opposite in nature! Gerrin, a patient craftsman. Marlis, an impulsive spirit. And yet here you are, sharing a piece of life in the market. Both of you, come to the Golden Barrel at five bells. Let’s have a drink together.”

 

The winter sun went down over Estasea, and Gerrin, Marlis, and Elira met in the Golden Barrel, enjoying some inexpensive wine amongst the crowd of merchants, traders, and market customers. The tavern’s solid wooden tablestops, polished by countless elbows, glowed under the candlelight like the barrels stacked along the walls. Conversation and laughter echoed from every corner. Gerrin insisted on paying for the first bottle, and Marlis awkwardly offered to cover the second, a small but telling gesture.

As the evening wore on, they talked about life, with Gerrin sharing stories of crafting leather as a young boy, his hands stained but his spirit excited by what he was learning. Marlis reluctantly told them about his childhood, explaining that he was born to a family whose grandfather had lost everything in a risky venture. Elira listened, finally commenting.

“You know, Marlis,” she said, “there’s something almost poetic in you. You’re a thief and a scavenger, true enough, but the way you navigate this city’s heart, you’re a reminder that there’s always a little mischief in the spirit of Estasea.”

Marlis blinked, not sure whether he’d just been insulted or praised.

 

“What I wanted to say is this,” Gerrin said, joining in. “There's a story in every belt or bag I craft - every coin I earn, apart from buying  food and wine, shows that my skill is appreciated, and that, Marlis, is worth a lot to me. So when you grow up and decide that you’re ready to go straight, come and see me”

As the evening passed, Marlis experienced an unfamiliar feeling — it wasn't just the open fire, but the wine, music, and, most of all, the camaraderie that had warmed him in a way he hadn’t expected.

A week later, Marlis showed up at Gerrin’s shop—not to steal, but to learn. He was clumsy at first, but Gerrin could see that he was honestly trying, and taught him patiently. Meanwhile, Elira took inspiration from their unlikely friendship, writing a new poem that began with:

"The old leatherworker, and the younger thief,

Between them the poet, who stands and sees -

Each one of us a tiny part

Of old Estasea’s dirty heart..."

She opened her reading in the Golden Barrel with it that night - the regulars listened and nodded. They understood.

Estasea, with its untidy, forgiving spirit, hectic nature and all its imperfections, embraced them all.

A Stranger in Valtura

 

In the fishing village of Valtura, on the coast half a day’s journey from Estasea, the sea dictated life’s rhythms - fishing in the early morning, mending nets in the afternoon, and huddling around the fireplace when a gale of wind swept in. It was a simple life, with a strong sense of community. The fishermen knew every tide, wave, and current, and they were used to extending kindness to strangers who arrived by land or sea.

Such a stranger arrived one evening. His name was Marek, a tall man in his late thirties with the look of someone who had spent years at sea. Marek came from Estasea with a trader’s satchel brimming with rare goods—exotic spices, amber nuggets and a pearl the size of a small egg. The villagers were impressed with his charm and his knowledge of the wider world, but he said very little about himself. He took a room at the Sailing Gull, the village’s only inn, whose owner, Ina, took to the stranger with the generous nature.

 

One evening, as the tide pulled out and everything was wrapped in a salty night fog, Marek told the villagers at the inn a story. He told of a hidden cove not far from Valtura where, he said, ancient sailors had buried a king’s ransom in silver. He described the cove’s high cliffs and treacherous  rocks and waves, a place where few dared to sail. The story stirred something in the younger men of Valtura -for generations, they had lived by fishing and just about surviving.

None of them was more taken than Rurik, Ina’s son, a strong lad who was known to be calm and brave on the rough seas. His mind filled with dreams of finding the hidden treasure and changing the future for his mother and himself. After hearing Marek’s story, Rurik started preparing his small fishing boat, The Wild Wind, and convincing two of his friends to join him in the search.

 

They set off at dawn the next morning, the wind whipping against their faces as they sailed out to the cove Marek had described. As they rounded the point, the seas began to get even rougher, the boat pitched and swayed, and a thick fog rolled in, concealing the rocky coast. Rurik could see that these were treacherous waters, yet he pushed onward, convinced by Marek’s vivid description.

Back in Valtura, Ina grew worried as days passed without any sign of her son. She looked for Marek, but he had slipped away quietly, leaving his room at the Sailing Gull empty except for some money to cover his bill. In the village, some people said that he used his charisma to trick honest men into disaster, and that he had sent Rurik into the unknown with dark intentions.

 

Rurik and his friends finally emerged from the fog, having discovered no treasure, only the harshness of the sea and the very limit of their endurance. As they rowed back to shore, exhausted and empty-handed, Rurik thought about his place in the world and in the village that had always been home.

Ina welcomed him back and the villagers gathered at the inn, glad to see him safely home. The village elders said that nothing good could have come from the search - Rurik listened, but he saw it differently. His adventure had taught him something about himself and a life he had taken for granted.

And Marek? He was never seen in Valtura again, though some claimed he’d been spotted in other coastal towns.

 

Years later, a visitor was sitting in the Sailing Gull having a quiet glass of wine. The only other customer that afternoon was a very old man, who had lived in Valtura all his life. They got talking, and the old man told the visitor the story of Rurik and his fruitless quest.

"I'm a bit confused", the visitor said, "what was Marek's dark intention then? What on earth did he have to gain by sending Rurik to the cove?"

"Nothin'," said the old man, "'e didn't 'ave no 'dark motivation' - 'e were a nice feller, and 'e just told a tall tale to pass away a cold winter evening and 'e was 'orrified when 'e 'eard that Rurik and his friends 'ad actually taken 'im at his word.

That's why 'e left Valtura in a 'urry - 'e were just embarassed, thas all."

The Market Trader and the Connoisseur

 

 In the hectic atmosphere of the Grand Market of Estasea, an over-dressed man named Ardelio strode through the stalls, chest puffed out, as if his very presence was a gift to those around him. He thought of himself a true expert in anything valuable, from rare spices , wines and jewels to fine fabrics, and he was very free with his opinions. For years, Ardelio had been a collector of valuable and unique goods, though some privately thought him a dilettante  with more money than sense.

At one of the stalls, he saw an assortment of brilliant gemstones—amber, amethysts, sapphires, and a few glistening pieces of lapis lazuli. The stall was owned by a young woman named Calina, with a soft-spoken manner that belied her cleverness. She was no stranger to customers who thought they knew everything, but she would play them along whenever it served her purpose.

Ardelio’s eyes alighted upon one of the items on Calina’s table. It was an unusual shade of azure, with flecks of silver through it, as if it held a miniature night sky.

“Ah, the famed Celestial Sapphire,” he declared, using a name he had just made up. “A rare stone, indeed! I doubt if you have any idea of its true worth.”

“Well no, probably not,” Calina said, allowing herself a little smile. “Please, sir, tell me all about it.”

Ardelio launched into an elaborate description of the gemstone’s imaginary properties, while Calina listened with an attentive nod, even though she knew that the 'stone' was, in fact, just a type of glass produced many years ago by a long-closed glasswork atelier. She humoured him just enough to keep him talking and inch up his own sense of connoisseurship .

When Ardelio finally declared that the stone was worth a king’s ransom, Calina sighed with admiration. “Then I suppose I’ve misjudged it terribly, sir. However, as you have the knowledge to appreciate it fully, perhaps I could part with it. What would you say to a hundred silver pieces - would that be a fair price?”

Ardelio smirked, feigning shock. “A hundred? That would be tantamount to theft. In the interests of fairness, I’d have to give you more than that for it - as a collector of integrity I'd be bound to.”

Calina inclined her head gracefully, saying, “Well, in that case, I’m not sure that I could part with it for less than five hundred, if it’s all you say it is.”

And in this way, the transaction escalated, with Ardelio, managing to outbid himself in his eagerness to see off any other potential collector and show off his supposed acumen. He finally persuaded her to accept four hundred silver pieces, and he left the market bragging to anyone within earshot about his rare find.

Later that day, Calina returned home with a very good bottle of wine, counted the silver, and smiled to herself. 

As for Ardelio, his ‘gemstone’ became the centrepiece and pride of his collection, and he never knew, or cared, that to anyone else it would be worth little more than a few silver pieces. 

The Pirate and the River Nymph

 

The brisk river trade between Estasea and Danfelgard connected the two cities, and the riverboats - with names like Swift Current, Gull’s Wing, and Grey Otter - were mastered by captains who had seen storms, drunken fights ashore, and close calls with river pirates. Their boats carried everything from expensive furs and wine to ironwork and pottery, and each journey began and ended at the docks, where there were always eyes to observe and ears to hear.

Captain Jarek of Low Tide was well-known on the Danfel - a bear of a man, with a greying beard and a scar across his eyebrow, the result of a dockside tavern brawl. His crew was a mixture of seasoned sailors, young deckhands, and some who had occasionally been on the wrong side of the law. The ship was their domain, and they handled it with skill, navigating currents, the weather, and sandbars, as well as flotsam and jetsam floating downriver.

This trip was expected to be routine - a heavy load of barrels of fine wine from Estasea, bound for the markets of Danfelgor. But as dusk started to settle and they neared the midpoint of the route, dense fog came down over the water, covering the boat like a shroud. The crew shivered, feeling the chill of the damp air.

 

Through the fog, they heard the sound of another vessel approaching. Lanterns on the smaller boat revealed it to be a swift craft with shadowy figures aboard.  Jarek’s first mate, Larne, recognized them from past encounters. “Cuthar’s crew,” he muttered. Cuthar was a ruthless river pirate - any cargo he seized would never be seen again in any honest market.

“Hold steady there now boys!” Jarek called out, signalling his crew to prepare themselves for a fight. With cutlasses, wooden clubs, and old rusty axes, they stood ready as the pirate boat came alongside. Every one of the crew knew that the river was a rough place.

 

But just as Cuthar’s men were about to come alongside and board, the water shimmered. A  figure, white and glowing like the moon, broke the surface of the river, long yellow hair draped in the flowing water, with pearl-like skin veiled in mist. It was a river maiden, Ziana, the water nymph of the Danfel, daughter of the River God, Linadafur. Her radiant form was pale, almost translucent. The pirates froze, unsure of what they were seeing, as the nymph spoke, her voice strong as the river’s flow and rippling like the current, 

“This river is mine and certainly not yours to command, Cuthar. I suffer the riverboats that respect the peace of the river to pass along here safely - who are you to defy me, and what I ordain?” 

Her eyes, deep green like the water, turned to the pirate captain, who stood watching her in shocked  silence. With graceful movements, Ziana raised her hand and turned her head. The water around Cuthar’s boat began to churn - the powerful current turned its hull, pulling it away from Low Tide. The pirates cried out in panic as their vessel spun in circles, helpless against the force of the water. 

“The next time you seek to disrupt the peaceful course of this river, it will not be Ziana who confronts you but my father Linadafur and I warn you that I am most mild and gentle compared to him, whose vengeance is mighty. Take heed.”

The pirates were swiftly carried downstream, their boat completely beyond their control, their cries echoing in the foggy night. They were swept out to sea, and neither Cuthar nor any of his crew were ever heard of again. As they disappeared the nymph turned to Jarek and his crew, and without speaking, slightly inclined her head, her eyes briefly meeting Jarek’s. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she plunged back into the river, leaving only ripples in her wake.

 

The crew was shaken from the encounter, but Jarek ordered them to stand to and resume their course - they continued up the river without further incident, docking in at Danfelgard to unload their cargo safely. The crew received their pay and rapidly proceeded to the dockside taverns to spend a good part of it on ale and rum.

Captain Jarek saw to the mooring of the boat, and then leaving the unloading to Larne and some deckhands as usual, headed to the Rusty Anchor, his normal destination at the end of a journey. He sat on his usual barstool and ordered a large glass of rum.

“You have no idea what happened to us this evening…”