PBEM Orlantia

The Story So Far
Chapter 002

PBEM Orlantia: Lefty's Demise

A cave - a cold cave - a dark and cold cave - a dark and cold and smelly cave. It wasn't much of a home these past few pholars, but he was lucky to have it.

Of course its former occupant, a black bear he had posthumously named Lefty, had vehemently objected to sharing it. There was simply no reasoning with him, though he had actually tried at first. Yet it eventually required his Golodhrim to convince the bear of the error of steadfast selfishness in these dire times of need, and Sefarlain's need had been dire.

Still, he sort of mourned the bear's passing; he regretted more the fact his Golodhrim's persuasion had been so violent he couldn't even boast a fine bear pelt later. Better Lefty's pelt had ended up that way than his own, he knew. Poorly cured, replete with large slashes and holes, the bear fur wouldn't win any prizes at the market. Mind you, he might had died without its warmth, for the cave was shallow enough to let the cold encroach so far inwards that Sefarlain wondered about the bear's instincts at home selection. Perhaps he has also been caught unprepared. No matter.

And the meat, too, had sustained him. He had little else to eat. Luckily he could keep most of it frozen and hanging in several distant trees over the passing scepters, lest the smell of blood would attract other desperate scavengers. All in all, much of Lefty had either become Sefarlain, or at least had sustained him. He still mourned Lefty's passing, nevertheless.

The winter had come hard this year, and probably caught more than a few totally off guard. The ranger had little doubt many would succumb to its deadly grip before actual heat accompanied the sun's light once again. It wasn't the coldest winter Sefarlain could remember, but he had been around since the days of Rosewell Edgewood, the longest reigning emperor of the Alodarian Empire. Yet if pressed on the matter, he also doubted he could recall more than one or two other winters that had been as cold during his lifetime. And still as elves go, he was barely an adult.

Sefarlain quietly lay there pondering the short span of years most humans lived, marveling at their brief existence. Was it any wonder why humans rushed all over the place like there was no tomorrow? Elves and humans could scarcely understand one another's motives, almost entirely based upon this one difference alone.

A warm breeze invaded the cave. Well, a few degrees warmer than freezing, at any rate. Suffice it to say, it was the first hint Sefarlain might soon say farewell to the cave he had come to know so well.

"Thank Larethian," he murmured, since he knew Lefty's remnants had given up the ghost these past few days and had left him without further means. He had to find food, and maybe now he could do so without freezing to death.

Gathering his equipment, and yes, even Lefty's hide and a few odds and ends for what it was all still worth, he emerged into the sunlight. There was a hint of spring in the air, but just a hint. You'd have missed it if your senses were not as keen as Sef's. But there was something else in the air as well. A smell of smoke, very faint, barely perceptible, carried on the wind many miles from its source. A town, he guessed. 30 miles or more. He had never been in this area before. He didn't even have a map of the region, and he was far, far from home.

Last year he had made his way along the northern coast of the Imperial Continent, traveling from port to port on first this ship, then that ship. Coasters, mostly, they had been, local fishing vessels that might travel a few hundred miles from home, always to return before they strayed too far a field. He had been leapfrogging his way north and east most of the year until he had had enough of the sea and the land once again beckoned to him. The fact his funds were currently an embarrassment also may have had something to do with it, but he chose to believe it was the land's natural allure that called to him.

Now a town to the east was there. He'd bet his life on it. In this weather, in fact, he would be. But something else bothered him. Turning around, he looked west and perceived something odd. Maybe it was odd. It was hard to tell. Nine times out of ten it was pure imagination. And the wind did not hail from that direction, so how could he discern anything that lay west of the cave? And how far was it, anyway? A day? Two? More? There was no way to tell. Surely, it was not so warm yet he could go exploring blindly like that. But it was . . . something. Well, one time out of ten it might be something.

But the town to the east WAS there, and he was hungry.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia:

It had been a long time since Sefarlain had thought of his fellow man - or elf.

He was never one to be overly reliant on the company of others, and this winter had occupied most of his waking thoughts. As he left the cave, he allowed his mind to wander - something he relished after the hard discipline of the past few months. He could picture warm bread suffused with some of the wild herbs he had seen growing nearby. Images of fruits and spices, imported from the barbarian tropics, swam through his mind. He had spent too long sitting on cargoes of such things to ignore their allure.

And then the call of the Mystery - the use of Arcana - called to him from deep within. It had been a long winter indeed, but not without some use. His feeble attempts at 'minor tricks' - as his uncle called them - had improved, and now he was desperate to try and extend his knowledge. Yes, he needed company, for many reasons, and east was where it lay.

He struck out early in the morning with Lefty's pelt wrapped over what it could cover, and began the long walk east, following his nose and instinct, to the call of the unknown.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: And No One Else Did Mourn Him.

Sefarlain had been walking all day, and even with his training, the bitter cold was getting the better of him. Hours before dusk he had decided to take to any serviceable spot that might accommodate him for the evening. Judging from the smell of smoke, the village, or whatever it was, was at least another day's travel. He had to find shelter soon or he'd freeze.

He could now see the Imperial Gulf from the ridge he walked along. It began to curve north, and so did he since he didn't want to follow the shore too closely where the winds might be twice as fierce out in the open like that and away from the trees.

*What's that?* he wondered when he spotted a dark lump up ahead. Pausing, he just watched it for a time. It didn't move. It didn't seem to breathe since he could detect no water vapor coming from some hot, moist breath. *It might just be some dark rock," he finally concluded to himself, yet when he approached it he discovered he had drawn his kin-sword almost instinctively in the face of the unknown.

It was no rock. It was a man. Or, rather, it had been a man.

The snow around the body was gone and it lay upon a patch of sandy earth strewn with the dead leaves and fallen twigs of last autumn. Looking around, he saw no immediate signs of danger, so he opted for a closer look. Examining the area, Sefarlain discerned the snow must have been melted since the ground was thinly covered in clear ice. He surmised that melted snow turned to water, soaked the ground, and had turned back to ice. Something hot had done this. But what?

The body itself didn't seem burned. But it had been abused - horribly. Half his face had been smashed to a pulp, while the remaining half was grinning upwards; eyes wide open in apparent frozen terror. Sef looked further. The ribcage was thoroughly broken up, splintered bones protruding from the dead man's shirt, now frozen stiff with reddish gore. His arms lay on top of his chest, both broken in multiple places with one of the jagged ulna actually impaling the man's own chest. He looked like he had been trampled to death by a stampede, thoroughly stomped into the ground, and then left to freeze into one massive bloody corpsicle.

Sef had seen death many times before, but this turned his stomach. Luckily, he managed to 'contain' himself. Of course it helped he had had nothing to eat for some time. Still, he wasn't THAT hungry. Not yet.

What was even more disturbing, however, was the lack of apparent tracks, save Sefarlain's own tracks, to or away from the scene, and on snow covered ground, that seemed all the more chillingly impossible. It all made the elf uneasy.

'Never leave anything behind that you can use to win,' his commander had always told his men. Sef recalled the lesson well.

Distasteful as some might think it, Sefarlain searched the corpse for anything and everything salvageable. Fifteen minutes later, he was hurriedly walking away and to the east once again, having memorized the man's build and features after he finished rummaging through the man's pockets. An ordinary looking dagger, an excellent pair of winter boots, 13 silver pieces, and 2 gold pieces went with him. A silent prayer was left behind in their stead, imploring Corellon Larethian to do what he could for the poor soul, for whatever good it would do the human.

With an armful of dead wood he had been gathering against the eventuality he could not find shelter before dark, Sefarlain finally spotted some fallen trees on a hill. There was a large enough gap under the snow covered mossy trunks where the logs did not bend to meet to hill's curve, and the nook was filled with rotting leaves that generated warmth from their decay. Against the hillside just outside the gap, he could build a small fire, too, and cover it from above with Lefty's pelt that could hang on the trunk's remaining branches. The makeshift tent and fire were finished just after the first stars began to shine.

*What was that poor man doing out here?* he wondered. *And why was he traveling without any provisions?* He silently cursed the empty night that held no such answers to his inquiries. With nothing to eat, Sefarlain decided to conserve his strength and get some sleep. Soon, that's precisely what happened.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a miserable night. The inclement conditions, if sustained, could be as deadly, if not deadlier, than any beast. As the eastern sky began to grow brighter, Sef set off again without delay. Four hours later, almost as tired at the end of those few hours as yesterday's entire journey had made him, Sef thanked the gods above when he saw a large city in the distance along the coast. A harbor town, it seemed. And curiously enough, a two-masted ship could be seen sailing into the bay. This surprised Sefarlain somewhat since ocean traffic along the coast was rare in such bitterly cold weather. Yet there it was.

By the time he entered the town he could see the ship had anchored and six longboats were approaching the docks. Also by his estimation, if he kept his pace, they would both arrive at the docks about the same time. On the other hand, he could avoid the area and instead take a more direct route into the heart of the city.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia:

The night had passed slowly and the cold seemed to penetrate his every bone. Sefarlain was glad to see the sun appear, as feeble as its rays might be, as it meant he could at last complete his journey towards the settlement. As morbid as the thought would have been to an ordinary man, Sefarlain had had few qualms about trying the dead man's boots for a fit last night. Indeed, he would be grateful for their fine quality in the long walk ahead. The wild was no place for sympathy and gentility, especially in these conditions. And Sefarlain was nothing, if not an elf of the wild.

The town stretched out in front of him, and a passerby would have noticed a little extra spring in his step as Sefarlain approached the city. He had spent the past few hours endlessly ruminating on the horrible scene the day before, and he fully intended to study the dagger and boots at a more convenient time - and with a full stomach as well. But for now he was grateful for the distraction that the city provided.

The ship surprised him. Sefarlain felt fairly well versed in the trade routes of the coast, having plied their routes for a good while - though this was technically a different coast. He could not recall a ship so late in the season and did not recognize the ship. Despite a protesting stomach, he delayed the delights of the city for a while and hurried to the docks to greet the longboats and satisfy his curiosity.

Sefarlain had given little thought to his appearance over the past few months, but he soon realized that might have to change soon. Draped in bear fur, with snow and ice covering his hair, cloak and swords, Corellon only knew what people at the docks would make of this strange looking elf. But they seemed more interested in the longboats, and that gave Sefarlain the chance to pass unnoticed among them to get a good view of the approaching boats.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia:

Tyrulf recalled that BlithenOre had fallen behind him as he marched southward along the western periphery of the ringed mountain range of the Dwarven Dominion. He did not know why he went south. He only knew he sought answers. General answers to life's questions, to be sure, but a few rather specific ones as well. Like where did he come from? He never knew.

The first 20 years of his life - he guessed about 20 - were a mystery. His best clues were two facts. He was a dwarf, probably born in or around the year 665 A.E., and he sported a tattoo. It was blind hope, really, that had made him go south.

The gate of the Dominion lay south. It was the easiest, or at least, the cheapest route, for the other would require some money and a small sea voyage. Something about the sea from his dreams still disturbed him, however, so he had gone south.

Tyrulf remembered that mountain after mountain had risen before him with nooks and crags too numerous to explore in any space of time measured in less than months, and winter was coming. It had become apparent to Tyrulf winter would be harsh this year, and early, so he had quickened his pace along the ringed range.

Days later, he recalled, a faint shimmering in the distance had spoken of a virtually flat bed of clear water where the sunlight reflected off tiny wind-driven ripples. He had checked his rough map at that time, a crude, hand-drawn copy he had obtained for free from a friend. It was nearly useless as far as helping one find out where to go, but it did have some names on them. Those helped.

According to the map, the lake ahead was named Dugar. It connected with another lake further east named Fogar. A bridge was indicated at the narrow connection between them. But Tyrulf would not be using it at that time, though he now contemplated its crossing. Back then, however, he planned to remain north of those lakes and skirt them as he headed east toward the southern gate of the Dominion. Then not very long after that, he had passed the gate of the Dwarven Dominion and entered within.

He recalled this trip, months past, while he worked in the mines of the Dominion. He hadn't gotten very far in his life's journey before he was forced to shelter and wait out the winter. It was a brutal winter. No one with any sense was moving about. The mines, at least, were warm, and he was making some money for a change. Not much, but more than his upkeep, so that was something. But it didn't really alleviate his disappointment at having discovered so little about his past.

No one was missing a relative of his age that he could find as he made inquires from village to village. The tattoo meant nothing to anyone he asked, though one day toward the onset of spring, someone finally mentioned something about it he found somewhat promising.

"Nice work, that."

"What is?" he asked, for he hadn't even really begun to dig into the new vein of ore yet and was a bit perplexed at what 'work' the man meant.

"The tattoo. I've always loved that shade of blue, too. You can tell it was done by a master. Get it in Larns, did you?" the man asked as he began to swing his pick into the vein.

"Um, I'm not sure what you mean. I've had this longer than I can remember. Where's 'Larns'?" Tyrulf asked.

"Really? That's a bit unusual, not knowing where you got inked. Ah, bet you were drunk, eh? Couldn't have picked a better place to get painted, though. Exotic colors, best artists. They're famous the world over."

"What does it mean, though? What is this symbol?" Tyrulf asked hopefully.

"Mean? I've no idea what it means. Sorry. I just can see the unique blue dye and indigo shades, and it's well done, that much is certain. It has to have come from the Archipelago. But mean? Sorry," he explained, shaking his head before returning to his work.

Now Tyrulf had something new to think about. Larns. The Archipelago. He even found out roughly where this was, but it meant a sea voyage too. He frowned.

"Tellsomro! Come here," shouted the foreman.

*What now,* he wondered, but he went on over to see, thinking it best not to keep the foreman waiting.

"I hear you're pretty good with an axe. You signed up for just a few months and those are ending now. Spring is here, so we need to be shippin' a consignment of ore south to the Tarren Kingdom. No biggie, really, but the occasional problem arises that are best dealt with by one of your . . . skill, yeah. Skill. You interested? Short trip. Good pay. 10 gold pieces. You ride the whole way, too. What do you say?"

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia:

Seeing the hesitation in Tyrulf's face, the foreman continued.

"Well, the shipment leaves in a few days," he said. As he walked away he said over his shoulder, "Don't take too long to decide. I have to fill the guard positions soon," he murmured, leaving Tyrulf to his own thoughts.

After just having been told about the possibility of his tattoo being done in the Larns Archipelago, he desperately wanted to head west right away.

Thinking about it that night, though, Tyrulf decided to take the job. It would cost a lot of money to get to the Larns Archipelago, and there was always a chance that new information could found in the Tarren Kingdom.

The next day Tyrulf sought out the foreman. With a smile and a wink the foreman started talking before Tyrulf had a chance to speak.

"Well Tyrulf, I can see in your face that you have had a change of heart."

"I thought it over and decided that it would be in my best interest to seek information anywhere I can," replied the dwarf with an equally wide smile.

With a slap on Tyrulf's shoulder, the foreman added, "Perhaps some of them will be a little more open to your nattering about Boccob as well."

Over the next days Tyrulf busily readied himself for the trip, feeling good about finally moving again, even if it really wasn't in the 'right' direction.

Tyrulf packed everything he owned, hoping his path laid in a different direction rather than returning here. While working in the mines for his final days, he said his goodbyes. Avidly looking for the man who had mentioned his tattoo proved fruitless. *Where did he go?* he wonder, but no one even knew his name or could recall the man since he had briefly passed through the mines.

He didn't catch his name and no one else seemed to recognize him after Tyrulf described him. Thinking that a little strange, but too busy to give it much thought, he made sure to say his farewells to all the people he had spent time with in the last months, making sure to include any last bits of information about Boccob and magic he could squeeze in.

The day finally arrived and Tyrulf was packed and eager to leave by then.

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia: A Valuable Signature.

"OK fellahs, you two are in charge of the consignment. You tell the drivers what to do, and by Moradin, they had better do it. Here's the paper," the foreman said shoving it at Tyrulf. That meant of the two guards, Tyrulf was in charge. He didn't know the other guard.

"And how do I return their payment?" Tyrulf asked as it first dawned upon him he didn't understand how this arrangement would work.

"No no no, you don't return any payment. It's credit, and they'll pay off with trade goods and supplies we need later in the year. You just deliver the shipment to Tortmeyer's, get HIS signature, and then drop off the paperwork at Grumbletrenches'."

Tyrulf had heard these names before during his brief stay in the Dominion. Tortmeyer's held a virtual monopoly on iron works in the Tarren Kingdom. If you wanted more than a little iron there, you had to talk to the Tortmeyer. Grumbletrench was that mine's office in the Tarren Kingdom. Grumbletrench was dwarven owned and they handled a lot of financial matters for the Dominion. Tyrulf's instructions were clear enough.

"Just make sure nothing happens to these three wagons. Once you deliver the signed paperwork, they'll pay you each 10 gold. Then you and Spellore are done. After that, well, if you want more work, you can always look us up again."

Tyrulf nodded. If bandits did rob them, the bandits could sell the iron in several places - maybe even in the Tarren Kingdom itself and behind Tortmeyer's back. That would lower iron prices in Tarren, and Tortmeyer wouldn't like the competition. Iron goods cost more in Tarren because of this, but little could be done about it. Many took heart in the fact that Tortmeyer was human, already old, and didn't have any children.

The consignment was not raw iron ore. It had been partially refined in the mine, though it was due for further refinement once it reached its final destination where larger facilities were available. Yet the wagonloads were still pretty dense and heavy. Luckily, assuming no bandits, since the road was reasonably level and safe there would be few difficulties.

Two hours later Tyrulf and Spellore were on the road south, and after rounding the only appreciable curve in the road before the bridge, it happened.

"Then the bandits approach from over that hill and we split up. I'd shoot my heavy crossbow at them once I got a good bead on 'em, and you'd circle 'round the back of the wagons and get into position. With the drivers shooting bolts too, we'd have time to close ranks on 'em. Yeah. Then they'd know they made the last mistake of their lives," droned Spellore with yet his forth scenario for impending attacks.

*Ugghh! Another speculation,* Tyrulf silently groaned to himself. Tyrulf was already sick of listening to them and he glared at Spellore, suggesting as much. He also frowned at scenario number three, but Spellore didn't seem to get it then. This time, however, a hint of recognition finally shown in the other guard's eyes and Tyrulf figured he'd heard the last battle scenario, and considering they were from someone who had, admittedly, never seen battle, Tyrulf was glad of that.

Spellore was younger than Tyrulf, and he seemed a little too eager to mix it up for Tyrulf's taste. Bothvar would have set him straight and imparted the wisdom of avoiding trouble when you could, and in not anxiously seeking it out. But Spellore hadn't had that advantage. No matter.

When all was said and done, the entire trip was bandit free. Delivery was uneventful. It was somewhat disappointing, in fact, since he had been looking forward to seeing Tortmeyer's operation, but they weren't even allowed inside. Old man Tortmeyer, a man in his 70's, simply signed for delivery once he inspected it and that was that. And Grumbletrenches' was just a large, plain stone building. The only rewards came from getting paid 10 gold pieces, and, yes, saying goodbye to Spellore before he left to stay with some relative. That was mildly enjoyable at least.

*Now what?* he wondered. Though bright and sunny, the day was very cold and he had been freezing most of the trip. *That's why no bandits showed up,* he figured. Not because of fierce dwarven warrior protection, but simply because no bandit wanted to freeze his arse off for such a low paying mark. That's also probably why only two guards went when, he had heard, four guards was more customary.

The most business like street he had seen earlier while on his way to Grumbletrench was lined with shops and taverns running along a frozen lake. Whatever he'd do later, first he wanted to get something to eat, something to drink, and warm his bones.

Returning to that shop-lined street, he looked over the business facades until he found one that pleased him. "The Copper Keg," he mumbled to himself, looking at the sign swinging in the biting wind. Entering, he was immediately welcomed with a blast of measurable warmth and delicious odors speaking of good cooking and fine ale, and also of a rather light and aromatic tobacco someone was smoking that just seemed to enhance it all.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: The Lake Street Shops

*Hermes' 'Messenger's Temple' in Alodar is a nice place to receive training,* Valin thought, *but I grow restless.*

It had been months since he and his family had escaped from Ahlalandia and arrived on Orlantia. After locating his family safely in Handor - for he felt it wise not to have them stay in the first city anyone who followed might look - he almost had to laugh when the temple's priests sent him back to Alodar for instruction. The life of a priest was frequently not his own. You go where they tell you, or at least you do while still learning the ropes, so it's certain you have far less autonomy when just staring out. But he didn't mind as long as his family was safe. Besides, he could watch the city for any signs of 'home.' None came.

Valin was quite thankful, then, when he was selected to deliver a packet of letters to the Tarren Kingdom. Queen Bethany of Tarren, he learned, was a devotee of Hermes. As a minor representative of Hermes, he was expected to put their best foot forward, and he welcomed the chance to walk amongst the upper elite of another culture. The job was quite an honor, and quite a responsibility. He never asked why they chose him, however. He simply accepted it.

'These letters are vitally important for our continued relations and presence in the Tarren Kingdom. In fact, it's so important, you'll be going on an Imperial Galleon to assure your arrival,' he had been told.

Valin loved the trip. It was exciting. It was new. It was different. All the while he couldn't help but be impressed at the majesty of the Alodarian Empire. Nothing back home compared to it, and he looked forward to the return voyage. That's why he was disappointed to discover, after she had read the letters he had delivered, the queen wanted him to stay for a time, in case she might need to later send some reply. And that's how he found himself stuck in the Tarren Kingdom during what was rapidly being proclaimed the worst winter in a century.

The comfort of his cell in the palace's chapel dedicated to Hermes was not in question, but he found the stay boring. When the queen saw this, she actually apologized. Then it dawned on Valin he might not be putting their best foot forward if his displeasure was so obvious that one of royal standing felt the need to apologize to a priest.

"Oh, it's not that, your majesty," he tried to contrive of an excuse. "It's just, well, spring fever, I guess. Seeing how I'm more or less confined to stay close at hand should you need me, I was hoping to see more of the countryside," he said. As soon as he said it, he realized it was more or less true as well.

"Oh, I see," said the queen. "That is no problem. I'm sure you could do both if you wished, now that spring is here. You have Our leave to wander about, but you should report back to the temple here at least, oh, let us say... once a scepter. That should serve us," she smiled.

Valin smiled back, thankful the queen understood the restlessness of youth. Many woman in their 60's grew bitter at youth's impatience, particularly when their lofty station did not need to cater to the needs of others. Here Bethany was a queen, and still she cared for those of lower station. Valin liked her. He silently wondered if the king was her match, but he had never seen the king, let alone met him.

The air still had the bitter bite of winter's fangs, but its crispness felt refreshing for a time. After an hour, though, Valin wanted to get warm. He found himself along a street of shops. Pottery, cloth, suits and dresses, tobacconists, parchments and books, taverns, and much more lined the street. It was probably one of the busier streets in the kingdom, he guessed, or would be if the chill would subside for a time. Right now, few people adorned the avenue. Still, each of the shops promised temporary relief from the cold.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia:

*I could use a new suit to wear at the palace,* Valin mused to himself. *I'm sure they are tired of seeing me in the same thing time and again, although it is very nice.* He hurried across the street toward 'Fel's Finery,' the shop that caught his eye, and quickly stepped inside the door.

Glad to finally be out of the cold, Valin removed the heavy wool scarf and hat and paused a moment to enjoy the heat in the shop that radiated from hearth toward the back of the shop. The nearby shopkeeper, a fetching dark-haired woman in her mid 20's, looked up from behind a large oaken counter with carvings along its edge depicting a gallant ballroom scene with the participants dressed in finery made within the shop.

"May I help you, sir?" she requested from behind the counter, remaining seated as if disinterested in actually helping. Even in disinterest her voice sounded warm and friendly, a welcome change from the majority of those in the palace who seemed to be polite to Valin only out of courtesy. The light of the fire illuminated her pale skin giving it a rosy appearance that he found almost hypnotic.

Valin felt himself staring and then spoke quickly to cut through the awkwardness. "I should be fine, milady. I'm simply looking for something new to wear." Valin admonished himself mentally at the silliness of his reply. *Why else would I be in a clothing shop?*

The woman simply smiled, realizing that she must've had some effect on him and decided not to pay attention to it. "Well, if you find anything you like, or need some help, feel free to ask." She returned to reading whatever had her interest under the counter before he entered.

Valin sighed and started to browse through the suits along the back wall. Most of the suits were plain, of a single color, and he quickly moved each aside to view the next. Then suddenly he stopped and felt a cold chill run up his spine. The dark green and burgundy suit resembled the same one that he'd seen his father wear on many occasions when his parents went out to social events. *How could this be here, worlds away from Ahlalandia?* He removed the suit from the wall rack and took a moment to calm himself, trying to think of what questions to ask. Then, slowly, he crossed the room and laid the suit on the counter in front of the shopkeeper.

She looked up at him and again he felt himself staring at her. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes... I mean, no," he managed to stutter out, losing his line of thought.

"Which is it then? Yes or no?" She appeared to be amused by his indecisiveness as she smiled at him.

The smile warmed Valin more than the heat of the hearth and he paused to collect his thoughts again. After a moment, he regained his composure. "This suit. I've seen it before, but not on Orlantia. Is this common or do you take on consignments as well?"

Her face wrinkled and she spoke with restrained ire. "That suit, sir, is my father's premier design piece, and it is neither common nor a consignment. We only make one per year and, since my father's death 6 months ago, this is the first time that his hands have not been the ones to make it. I made it. I suppose that's why it hasn't sold since I'm not the tailor my father was."

Valin immediately felt sympathy for the woman and tried to make reparations. "I'm very sorry about your loss, milady. I only asked because my father, who passed away years ago, wore a suit exactly like this one. I don't think anything is wrong with it, milady. The suit is exactly as I remember it. You do expert work and I'm sure you make your father proud."

She blushed slightly at the compliment and felt a bit ashamed of herself for assuming the worst about his intent. "I'm sorry for lashing out at you, sir. I'm still not truly over my father's death."

"You've no need to apologize, milady. I can't say that I'm over my father's death either, and that was over 7 years ago." He paused a moment as she relaxed a bit more. "And, please, call me Valin. 'Sir' is for knights and older gentlemen, and I hope that I don't fall into either category."

She let out a small snicker. "Okay, Valin it is then." She smiled up at him again with the same smile that warmed his heart earlier. "My name is Felina. My parents were expecting a son and hadn't chosen a girl's name before I was born, so they named me after my father."

"A pleasure to meet you, Felina." Valin lifted her hand in his and gently kissed the backside of it and released it with a bow.

"Nice to meet you as well, Valin." Felina's smile was infectious. He couldn't help but smile in return.

"Well, now that we're acquainted, perhaps I could call on you sometime to show me around the town or just to have dinner?" Valin felt each beat of his heart as he waited for her reply.

"I'd like that very much, Valin. I usually close shop just at dusk if you want to come back then for dinner. I often eat alone, so some company would be a welcome change."

"Great! I'll return at dusk," he replied in excitement. "Oh, and I'd like to buy this suit, too. I always admired the way my father looked when he wore his."

"I can't accept your money for this. Take the suit as a gift to someone who admires my work and wear it to dinner tonight."

"Thank you, Felina, but I can't let effort that went into making this go unrewarded." Valin reached into his right front pouch and placed a platinum piece on the counter. "I look forward to dinner, this evening."

Felina picked up the suit and placed a canvas bag around it to protect it from the weather and handed it to Valin. "As do I, Valin."

Valin took her hand and kissed it again before heading toward the door, trying to capture the warmth of her smile in his mind's eye until he would see her again. He waved to her as he exited the door. "Farewell, Felina."

Felina returned the wave, staring after him as he disappeared through the door. "Farewell, Valin."

Valin walked back out into the street. The cold no longer seemed to bother him. Feeling a little thirsty after meeting Felina, Valin headed toward the tavern two shops down for a drink.

- Frank (Valin)

PBEM Orlantia: The Copper Keg

A four-foot dwarf with long, braided brown hair walked along Lake Street. It was the only person Valin could see on the street, other than himself. It was a cold morning, after all, so this was not at all surprising.

They approached one another, both from opposite directions on the street. The dwarf looked heavily armed and Valin began to feel a bit uncertain. There was something in the dwarf's cadence. Then suddenly the dwarf looked up at a sign swinging in the icy breeze. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he turned from the walkway and disappeared behind a thick, heavy door.

Valin arrived at the vacated spot seconds later and also looked up at the sign. *Ah, the very thing,* he thought.

Dismissing his groundless fears at the unknown dwarf, Valin entered the Copper Keg, a large tavern with a commanding view of one of Lake Street's busier intersections as well as the SunSet Lake to the west. From there, with a little effort, one could watch a fair amount of Lake Street's traffic and keep an eye on the lake itself. It was a fairly large lake, after all, and when it wasn't frozen, Valin guessed it would have more than a few fishing boats in it. He had also been told the rivers feeding the lake brought traffic down from the north and west, so it was no doubt a busy place. All of this would make the 'Keg' one of the livelier places in town. It would be lively now, or it would have been, if the vast majority of all people with common sense weren't currently holed up at home in front of their own warm fire. Right now there were few patrons inside the Keg.

Nearest the hearth was a lone halfelf. Average looking, brown hair, his clothing was quite common so he appeared to be a pilgrim, perhaps. Seated nearby at a long, oaken bar with brass trim was a huge man and, it looked, his companion halfling friend. They were quietly talking and swapping stories and drinks, and the hobbit's pipe filled the room with a light, aromatic blend of delicious tobacco smoke that didn't overpower anything and seemed to invite others into its embrace.

The dwarf he had followed in was standing by the hearth opposite the pilgrim, his outstretched dwarven hands absorbing the welcome warmth of burning wood, most of its smoke curling up the stove pipe that disappeared somewhere above. But the smell of burning wood and - what - a fruity smell to the tobacco, all made it a pleasant atmosphere that seemed to enhance the delicious aromas of cooking food and the subtle smell of strong ale.

Behind the bar stood the barkeep busily wiping water stains from his glassware when he wasn't filling orders.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: The Frozen Zephyr

Only six months had passed since he had said farewell to both his parents and his mentor, leaving the peaceful hamlet of Kioset far behind, but Mystir had found nothing exciting in all that time.

Quietly he gazed into the tavern's hearth as he wondered if all the stories tossed his way over the years had merely been so much hype, the product of trumped up bardic imaginations, well crafted to solicit loose change. Even his mentor, Hearche, might not be above 'embellishment.' He did, after all, take almost as much pride in his abilities and accomplishments as Mystir felt his own would one day be worth. Yet there was evidence it had been real. All those body parts and bits and pieces of exotic anatomies could not be denied. They had to come from somewhere, didn't they? But so far Mystir hadn't seen or heard of so much as a clue. Not a hide, nor hair, as they said. Then winter closed in - HARD!

Trapped far from home, the assurances he had been given that the Imperial Gulf would always be free of ice evaporated when Zephyr Bay froze closed. The fact all who knew of nautical matters would tell him such a thing hadn't happened in over 70 years did not comfort him much. Now he had to eek out a miserable existence in a strange port and in a foreign kingdom, all while the coins rapidly dwindled in his pockets. He hadn't planned on 'working' for room and board, but if the icy grip of winter didn't lessen its deathlike hold over the land and sea soon, he might have to do just that.

The Tarren Kingdom was not unpleasant, mind you. What bothered Mystir most was the fact his parents would have been expecting him to winter at home. He had planned on returning there, but then this atypical season befell them all. It was deathly cold outside. A man could die from exposure in scant minutes when the wind was howling. But the spring approached, finally, or so a calendar would lead one to believe. Soon, very soon, all would say, spring would be here.

Mystir looked out the window as Gimarian, the sun - though few called it by its proper name, let alone knew it as anything other than 'the sun' - beamed its illumination across the frozen plane of SunSet Lake. The view was almost blinding now, the purest white glare confirming Mystir's knowledge of the true color of the star - white. He knew most people would claim it was yellow, but they would be wrong. It only looked that way due to atmospheric considerations and at those times of day when they could more comfortably look at it for longer periods of time, like during mid-afternoon or toward evening when it would appear yellow, then orange, then finally red. Snow, polar bear fur, and drow hair, he had been told, were all clear, but the air trapped between those filaments or icy particles accurately reflected a light source's true color. In this case, it was white, though few had opportunity to see drow hair in full sunlight as he had done. Of course there was no drow under it at the time. His mentor had seen to that. Mystir wondered if he'd ever see a drow for himself.

A smile played about Mystir's lips as he realized, for the first time amid his churning thoughts, such a solar showing heralded the spring. Then the door, which had been sealed tight against the winds of the frozen outer hell, burst forth and chilled the interior of Jasper's tavern with uncomfortable currents that did battle with the fire's own radiating efforts. It was a draw, at best.

"By the gods, we're lucky to have made it to Tarren if what they say about Fecklar is true," a burly looking man in frost-covered furs boomed forth as he entered the tavern. His companion - a short, stocky hobbit, plump from numerous and generous years - simply nodded in agreement before quickly making his way to the bar in the common room. The mountain of a man hung his outer fur cape on a coat rack near the hearth and followed the hobbit's lead.

Travelers were rare this time of year, and Mystir had never seen those two before in the two months he had been stuck there.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia:

As the chilled air encircled the common room, Mystir gripped his clothing tighter. *When will this horrific weather end?* he asked himself.

*Six months,* he thought. "Six months," he muttered. "Six months!" he said in a most despicable tone.

Mystir looked around to see if anyone had paid attention to him. Satisfied that he was left to his own troubles, Mystir stood and began to pace the room. A habit that he only recently acquired, the young halfelf slowly walked from wall to wall.

*Six months, six months and my ADVENTURING brought me absolutely nothing but numb limbs,* he continued to himself.

As he continued his tried and true path, something caught his eye. It was a familiar sight; however it was now shown in a different context.

*My, it is rather white,* he thought, as he quickly looked away from the blinding star, but not before he recalled some of what his master had told him about Orlantia's sun.

'Gimarian is OUR sun, but Gimarian is not the only sun. Gimarian is simply a rather ordinary, small white star,' his master had told him on several occasions. He never knew why his master felt that was important to know.

It was a spectacular sight indeed; however, it was not one that he could document, and it wasn't something he could catalog. That was what he was after. That is what he wanted. That is what he needed.

Noticing the new strangers, and the source of the chilled air that was then dissipating from the room, Mystir walked back over to his table near the hearth and sat down. Taking a sip from his tea he watched the plump halfling sit at the bar and order.

*It's been a while since anyone new has come into town,* he realized, placing his lukewarm cup back on the table. *I wonder what their story is about.*

Sitting, watching, and observing, Mystir began to take in the details of the two strangers.

- Kevin (Mystir)

PBEM Orlantia: The Menacing Dwarf.

The morning had been dull, but things picked up quickly in one short series of bursts. First the large man and his halfling friend entered the Copper Keg.

*What was it they said?* Mystir tried to recall. But before he could ask, a 4-foot dwarf sporting weapons at his sides burst in looking around with a glare in his eyes. His gaze immediately fell upon Mystir and instantly he began to stride directly and purposefully toward him.

One quick step, then another, then another, too rapid to count, his eyes showed he wanted something and he meant to have it. Mystir was momentarily flustered since the dwarf was practically upon him in scant seconds. His heart raced. His staff was against the wall, only a few feet distant but too far to reach in time. And then . . . the dwarf passed him by.

The mental inventory of spells Mystir had summoned to the forefront of his mind lay in readiness, but as quickly as he summoned them forth, he began to relax and ease his mental faculties. His breathing slowed and he calmed himself. Apparently all the dwarf wanted was to get his carcass right next to the hearth, and that just happened to be where Mystir had seated himself. He took up a position opposite Mystir and spread his large hands forth to warm them by the fire.

Before Mystir could fairly assess the new arrival, yet another patron stepped inside past the thick, heavy door. He, too, scanned the room, though he tarried at the door longer and seemed to take the room in, just like a man who had never before been inside the Copper Keg would. Yet another stranger. The place was exploding with them.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia:

He breathed quickly, then quietly. Mystir let the spells, which had quickly surfaced, ease back into his mind. *Fire,* he thought. *He only wanted the fire.*

The wizard breathed a sigh of relief.

After taking a moment to regain his composure and line of thought, Mystir went back to his notes. But before finding his place among the pages, the flurry of cold air once again swirled about the room. Again a few minutes later, Mystir looked up.

*Five travelers. Five in the span of an hour or so?* Mystir questioned. The boy's light blue orbs lit up like a child's. "The roads!" he whispered to himself. "They must be open!"

The slim halfelf stood and placed his notes upon his chair. *I wonder from which direction they came,* his mind raced. *Their destination. The condition of the roads.*

*Home.* He stopped. *Kioset. I'll head back home, and then back to my expedition.*

Mystir slid his pack under the chair and set off to speak to the travelers. Bypassing the dwarf in favor of the human and halfling, Mystir thought, *Maybe I won't need to bother HIM.*

- Kevin (Mystir)

PBEM Orlantia: The Not So Menacing Dwarf.

Looking around the tavern, Tyrulf saw only a few patrons - a halfelf, a halfling, and some humans. Tyrulf also noticed that almost everyone carried a weapon of some sort. It seemed odd to him, as this was not necessary back at BlithenOre.

Seeing the fire roaring in the hearth, he quickly rushed towards it to try and warm his bones. The halfelf sitting beside the hearth gave him a strange look, but he was more interested in the warmth of the fire.

After warming up for a few minutes, Tyrulf noticed the halfelven man get up and go over to the bar to talk to the huge human and halfling he had noticed when he first entered. *Don't need any trouble,* he thought to himself as he decided to go to the other end of the bar so as not to disturb the skittish halfelf.

"Well sir, what can I get for you today?" bellowed the bartender in a friendly manner as he approached Tyrulf.

"Good day kind sir. I was hoping for something hot to eat, and perhaps some warm cider to wash it down with."

"I think we can help you out. I take it you just arrived in town then?" At that he called to the back for some food and ladled out a glass of steaming hot liquid from a small pot over a brazier at the end of the bar. "Where you from then?"

It took Tyrulf a second to realize that it would be obvious to see that he just arrived, since he was carrying all of his gear with him. On top of that he didn't think to stop and clean up after arriving, something he would usually do without thought. *That is why the halfelf gave me such a strange look. Stupid me,* he berated himself. Perhaps the cold was getting to his brain.

"BlithenOre, actually. I just delivered some ore and was wondering where to get a room around here," he replied, cradling the steaming mug in his cold hands.

"Well, we actually have a few rooms here, but if you are partial to something a little less noisy, the Stars Cradle Inn is just down the street," he offered, cleaning some of the dirty mugs while speaking. "There have been a lot of travelers through the years here, but I must admit I don't really recognize the symbol on your robes there. No offense intended. I am just a curious sort of guy."

At this, Tyrulf's face lit up. Sitting up a little straighter and with a smile, he said, "Well this symbol is Boccob's, the God of Magic." Tyrulf's voice rose at this point, as it usually did when he spoke of Boccob. "Many don't know all the virtues of magic, and some even wrongfully fear it. I am traveling the world to extol the merits of magic to those who have not come to that obvious conclusion themselves." Tyrulf quickly scanned the room as he said that, hoping to catch the eye of someone who looked interested. "Magic is a wonderful thing, and I hope that some day all will see its value. I was wondering if there is a sage or library in town that I may go to?" he asked.

Tyrulf looked hopefully at the bartender. There was always a chance that there would be information to be had about his tattoo, even if only a slim one.

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia:

Jasper Kegg was a kind man. He was an inquisitive man. He was even a friendly man. But experience as owner of the Copper Keg had taught him not to be too kind, too friendly, and it had certainly taught him not to be overly inquisitive with strangers. No matter how friendly they might seem at first, appearances could often be deceiving. And it didn't help matters when his primary source of income - the liquor he sold - could slowly turn the friendliest sort into the meanest sons of bitches it would ever be anyone's misfortune to meet.

Of course a fair percentage were the other sort - friendly drunks. The more they drank, the more they were everybody's pal and lover. They were hard to take sometimes, too, but they rarely stuck you in the ribs with a dagger.

That's why Jasper kept to himself as much as possible while tending bar, at least until he could see what kind of drinker a person was - how they held their liquor. It just delayed his assessment if they didn't 'drink' at all, not to mention the fact he didn't make as much money from teetotalers.

He smiled at the dwarf. "I think we can help you out," he said. As he ladled out some of the steaming cider he called for a plate of food from the back - the special, whatever that was.

The dwarf went on about this or that - Jasper didn't pay it much mind except to offer short answers when necessary. That is, until his curiosity got the better of him. *That symbol, just like the other one. Not very common, and now there are two of them. Don't seem overly nosey, Jasper,* he warned himself.

"There have been a lot of travelers through the years here, but I must admit I don't really recognize the symbol on your robes there," he lied. "No offense intended. I am just a curious sort of guy," he said while smiling broadly. A broad smile could conceal a great many sins, and Jasper's smile was broad.

It was obviously the symbol of Boccob, though Jasper had come to know it far better those last few days than he ever bothered to before. He glanced over at the halfelf who had been staying at his tavern for pholars already, constantly brooding about something, but mostly keeping to himself, almost like he was waiting for someone. He wore a ring with the very same symbol on it. Jasper had seen it enough as he served him drinks. And now this dwarf was there, sporting the same symbol.

*A secret meeting of the followers of Boccob? What are they planning? Some trick? They did seem to know each other, or what was that look?* he questioned himself, secretly wishing he could pour a fifth of scotch down the dwarf's throat to loosen him up and see what secrets might fall out. He didn't have that option, however, so he tried another.

"I take it you just arrived in town then? Where you from then?"

Now it was Tyrulf's turn to answer a few innocuous questions. He did so easily enough, half disappointing Jasper nothing unexpected popped up, except one thing.

*BlithenOre? BlithenOre?* he thought. *Who is sending away for copper?* he wondered.

Jasper's knowledge about the local area was pretty good, but far from perfect. Still, he remembered the name of BlithenOre since it produced copper ore. He half suspected 'Blithen' was dwarven for copper or something like that, but he never tried to confirm this. Tucking the information that someone in Tarren was dealing with copper in the back of his head, he was about to inquire further but stopped short. The dwarf was now beaming with pride and going on like a, like a . . . cleric might, looking for converts.

*Awe, there's no secret here. Or is there?* He just couldn't be sure, and a dwarf who didn't drink bothered him. *Maybe that's just his 'story.'*

"Well, that was quite a trip then, wasn't it? And in this cold, too. How about a shot of something harder to really warm you up? I've got some lovely applejack. Nice stuff, too. And it'll go well with your sweet cider there. What do you say?" he asked, as he drew out a jug from behind the bar, the clear hard liquor mirroring the hearth's fire in the bottle's surface, almost invitingly asking the dwarf, 'Hey, I'm delicious, so you want a nip of me, right?' Though it didn't really say anything.

Tyrulf looked at it for a time but he seemed on a different quest at the moment, and instead asked about libraries.

"Libraries?" Jasper repeated. *Now what's he doing?* He poured a double shot of applejack and offered it to the dwarf.

"You've come so far, least I can do is welcome you to Tarren. This first one is on the house. So, libraries, is it? Well, everyone knows the King's library is second to none around these parts, but I doubt you've got a royal invitation if you're hauling ore. I hear Shereef's got a good library. He's a sage. He lives near the tower works, too. Oh, you may not know that. The tower works, that is. Well, the king's building a tower, you see? They say it'll be done in 20 years, but when it is, it should be breathtaking. Right now it's only 3 levels high, but man, they are putting some fine sculptures along its perimeter already, and done up in pure white marble. Just hope we can afford to finish it," he ended with a murmur as an odd look appeared behind his eyes.

*Shut your mouth already!* Jasper mentally screamed at himself. His overly friendly nature had gotten him into trouble before. He had the scars to prove it.

"Excuse me," he said, looking for a way to excise himself for forgetting to be careful. "I have to check on your food." With that, Jasper Kegg left the bar for a moment.

Jasper Kegg was a kind man. He was an inquisitive man. He was even a friendly man. But he was also not a brave man, and past experience had made him, sadly, a bit of a paranoid and overly cautious man, too.

- JimGM

PBEM Orlantia:

Sefarlain arrived at the dock with some speed, his labored breath creating great plumes of vapor around him in the cold air. The longboats were a little way from the shore still, and despite his keen eyesight it was difficult for Sefarlain to get a clear view of the rowers yet, obscured as they were by others at the dock. He found a vantage point on top of a large storage barrel and settled down, awaiting their arrival.

Sefarlain could feel the occasional curious glances aimed in his direction. What with a ship in harbor at this time of the year and an ice-crusted elf clad in bear skin and boots, the inhabitants were spoilt for a choice of strange sights and fully intended to satisfy their curiosity. Just what drew Sefarlain there? A question he found himself asking as the rim of the barrel began to dig itself into his leg and his stomach began to growl once again.

The chance to travel had certainly been an important influence. His father had fired that desire long ago with tales of exotic locations and heroic battles - all guaranteed to keep the young Sefarlain awake late into the night. Not that they were based a huge amount on factual information, he now knew, since his father had spent most of his early career in Peric before . . . before everything changed.

Perhaps it was not just his father's tales. His master fletcher in the Tugath Valantaúr had always been willing to bend the ear of his apprentices with stories of the Northwest. And judging from the scars over his arm, these weren't just idle tales. But it wasn't the scars that were the talk of the young Valantaúr. It was the bow.

Nothing like it existed on Tugath, although Sefarlain later found out that their existence was reasonably well known in Peric. It was, in short, magnificent to the young elf's eyes. At five and a half feet and crafted from a single piece of Thindel wood, its dimensions did not appear overly strange. But within its shaft were woven fine strips of a black substance - unknown to Sefarlain - that formed a complex mesh around the bow. The craftsmanship was impressive with a small ornate Valantaúr rune in the center of the bow. And as for its draw strength! - it had taken Sefarlain ten years of training to be able to bend it at all! He often smiled when remembering firing his first arrow from it. First in his group, too! And by the time he was sixty, he could fire the bow properly. Some of the senior team had never done that in their lives.

The master fletcher had always been a bit quiet when it came to the details of the bow's origins, but he had certainly traveled extensively in the Northwest. And his uncle seemed not surprised at this.

*Sounds like an Asian bow to me,* he thought. He knew they were masters of their art in high draw bows and finely crafted katana swords. They didn't get that black material around Peric, however, so he knew he was wasting his time looking. But he had his eye out for such a thing, should it cross his path. So far, it hadn't. He had since heard there were other, more local craftsmen who might be able to make such a bow, but it wouldn't look like the one from his childhood memories.

*Maybe one day I'll venture to the Asian Gulf,* he hoped, while silently waiting for the longboats.

Maybe he could ask around a little to try and glean a bit more about such bows, even if the price was almost certainly out of his reach. After all, not only did adventure provide excitement and a test for his skills, but also a little bit of gold might well enter into the equation.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: A Strange Man

A jumble of thoughts ran through Tyrulf's head.

*He seems a bit strange. Perhaps he imbibes a few while working,* he thought, as he sat there staring at the glass of applejack the man had poured him.

*I am surprised that he didn't recognize Boccob's symbol, being in this business. I wonder where this Shereef person is. How hard is it to get into the King's library?* The last thought made him smile, though.

*He's right. Like they're just going to welcome me into the 'King's Library.' Maybe I should take that shot. Obviously my brain hasn't thawed out yet.*

With that, Tyrulf picked up the glass and tried the applejack.

*Not bad, not bad at all.* Tyrulf could feel the warmth of the drink going down, momentarily taking his breath away. *I never could understand how people drink a lot of this stuff.*

A short time later the bartender came back. Looking at Tyrulf's empty glass, he started to reach for the jug until Tyrulf interrupted him.

"No thanks, I would rather not have anymore of your applejack. I could use some more food and another cider. Could you also tell me where this 'tower works' thing is you mentioned that this Shereef fellow lives nearby?"

With that Tyrulf put a silver piece on the bar hoping this would take the bartender's mind off of pouring him another drink.

"How much do I owe you for my meal and ciders, by the way?"

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia: A Special Price.

Jasper summoned his courage and brought forth the hot plate of food for the dwarf, returning from the back kitchen to discover, to his delight, the man had drunk the social lubricant.

*Ah, he's finished the applejack. Good, * he thought, as he again reached for the jug after placing the hot meal before the dwarf.

"No thanks, I would rather not have anymore of your applejack. I could use some more food and another cider. Could you also tell me where this 'tower works' thing is you mentioned that this Shereef fellow lives nearby?"

Disappointed, there was simply no way around it after a patron refused more drink. This was only the third dwarf he had ever met who wasn't a hard drinker, so it just went to show him, not all dwarves were boozers. Then again, they had such natural tolerance for alcohol, Jasper knew it was unfair to think of them as 'drunks' in the same way he might think of a human who had a drinking problem. He smiled to himself thinking about the old joke and dwarven drinking problems. 'No dwarf had a drinking problem,' it was said. 'They knew how to drink quite well, thank you very much.' Jasper wisely decided not to share this bit of mirth with this patron.

Tyrulf put a silver piece on the bar and Jasper looked at it. *Surely, he doesn't think that will pay for his food, does he?" he wondered.

"How much do I owe you for my meal and ciders, by the way?" asked the dwarf.

*Ah, it's a tip,* he concluded, taking it and reaching back behind the bar and giving a cord a sharp pull. A sweet sounding chime sang out. Regular visitors knew Jasper had just been tipped. It was an odd practice, really, but it kept it in their minds that 'tips' were appreciated. It was a sort of 'thank you,' one might guess.

"Well, let's see. The special, two and half, and cider half a spot each. Three and half silver, so far. If you'd like another plate or a third cider, it'll be more. You let me know when you've had enough. I don't like to see anyone go away hungry or thirsty," he smiled.

"Hmmm, Shereef. Well, you can hardly miss it. Even at only three stories, the tower is pretty obvious and close to the castle. You walk down this street here, turn right, and you can see it already. Just head for it. Shereef's place is a dull looking flat, built of blue-gray stone on the corner. You can't miss it. Tell 'em, Jasper sent you."

Jasper left him to his meal then. More customers were coming in, and the second waitress had not yet arrived.

- JimGM

PBEM Orlantia: Last to dock gets the first round in!

"Aye, the journey was smooth enough," said Cosher, making his way through the rowers as he stepped up to the prow of the longboat to stand alongside the figure on the end.

"WHAT?" shouted Lieutenant Robinson, trying to make himself heard over the rhythmic calls being belted out by the lead rower.

"Ah said," Cosher began, "the journey was smooth enough, wasn't it?"

"Oh aye," said Robinson. "The journey was fine, but I'll be glad for a break now. A chance to properly stretch my legs on land. Anyway, why aren't you at your oar?"

"You excused me, remember?" said Cosher. "Something about wanting to talk to me about the Cap'n?"

"Yes, yes that's right," said Robinson. "What with all the commotion, I nearly forgot."

"Well?"

"Oh it's nothing really. The Captain will talk to you when we get to the docks, I expect. He may want you to accompany him to the harbormaster's office. He's heard a rumor the harbormaster here can be somewhat difficult, and he may want you to put your silver tongue to use."

"Sure," said Cosher, concealing the fact that he wasn't at all happy with this little arrangement. In the past, such a task had led to a whole day's worth of administration duties, following the captain around and bartering with countless petty officials. He didn't care for this sort of work.

"It sure is a sight to behold," said Cosher, changing the subject. Cosher gestured out to the other longboats that flanked their own. The lieutenant's gaze followed Cosher's and he briefly surveyed the other boats, each one packed with the sailors from the Exador, toiling at the oars as they rowed into the harbor. At the prow of each one stood one of the mates, whilst at the head of the adjacent boat stood Jacob Fenmore, the captain. With one boot on the low railing of the boat, his hands on his hips, and his head held high, he looked every inch the proud captain.

"It still amazes me that they race to get to shore," the lieutenant laughed, shaking his head. As if in reply the boat lurched and the two men had to steady themselves on the railing to stop from falling into the harbor. Lieutenant Robinson turned to glare at the crew of his longboat - pitching their lieutenant into the harbor in their haste to be the first to dock would not go down well.

Robinson looked back at the ship and turned to face the sea dwarf again. "Who did we leave on board then?"

"Not too sure," replied Cosher. "Lieutenant O'Nesh was dealing with that, but at a guess, Ah'd say Gibbs and Smitty. Knowing their track record on this voyage, yup, Ah would say ol' Gibbs and Smitty are still onboard the old lady - the Exador that is, not the lieutenant - scrubbing away at the decks as we speak, presume . . . presum . . . presumab . . . oh, probably!"

Lieutenant Robinson fired a warning glance at the sailor for his cheap joke at the only female officer onboard the Exador. Lieutenant Marta O'Nesh could certainly hold her own amongst the crew, and in most cases was more than a match both physically and mentally for the average sailor. Of course, that never stopped the almost daily jokes at her expense, albeit mostly out of earshot of any officer.

The newcomer, Afyanna, now that was a different matter. Here was a real lady, a completely different kettle of fish to the rather masculine O'Nesh. The whole crew was certainly taken with her, but the captain had set down the rules right from the beginning of the voyage, and not one finger had been laid on the halfelven lady. The captain had a reputation for dealing with harshly with those who stepped out of line whilst under his command. And besides, Lieutenant Robinson had personally assigned Cosher the role of keeping a close eye on her . . .

"And what about your new friend down there?" Robinson whispered. Cosher followed his eyes to where Afyanna sat, proudly perched upon on the foremost bench of the boat, just out of earshot. Fittingly for such a lady, she was the only one not rowing, besides themselves. "Who's going to look after her when we get to shore?"

"For one, she's hardly me new friend," said Cosher, "and two, Ah'm more than sure she can look after . . ."

Cosher stopped talking - this in itself was an amazing feat for the talkative dwarf - as the halfelven lady suddenly rose from her perch and approached the front of the boat, which was now almost at the dock and beginning to slow down. Afyanna was peering ahead, but not looking at either of them. No, it seemed like she had seen something ashore.

Cosher followed her gaze and immediately understood what had captured the attention of the lady. Sitting atop a large barrel was one of the strangest sights the young sea dwarf had seen in many a voyage. What appeared to be an elf was sitting there gazing fixedly at the boats - but this elf looked like no other he had ever encountered. No, this one was wrapped in a huge, mangy looking bearskin and seeming as if he had been dragged through a bush backwards!

- Johnny (Cosher)