3. Yana at the Docks

Yana at the Docks


  • Two men argue over a debt. They yell, scream, and swear. One of them has the shirt of the other bunched in his hands. Pushing. Shoving. A torn shirt. More yelling.

    I sit on a railing eating an apple and watch. When I think it’s going to come to blows I toss it. It’s a good shot, and thwacks one of them on the side of the cheek. Startled, he looks at me. Then the other. I cluck my tongue and shake my head a bit, and they break it up, glaring at each other..

    I pull out another apple. The sun shines brightly. The docks are otherwise peaceful. A sense of relaxed giddiness washes over me.

    I am happy.

    I went to Jay’s room last night, and gave myself to him. It has been something I desperately wanted, but was afraid. Afraid I wouldn’t measure up. Afraid I’d do something wrong. Afraid of it not being right.

    In the morning, I left before he woke. I wanted to wake him up, but he looked so peaceful that I didn’t have the heart. My morning run went by in a blur. The morning swim the same.

    My mind not in the present, but drifting to last night.

    I absently reach into my pouch for something to finish breakfast. Dried meat. Nuts. It doesn’t matter. Instead, my hand closes around something cold. Something hard.

    The ring of Tempus.

    The feelings of elation melt away in the breeze. It sits ominous and heavy in my hand. It dares me to wear it.

    I found one, a long time ago. I only used it once, and it saved my life. But I defied destiny and gave it to Devlin. Mom’s friend. A devout worshipper. Surely, he should have it.

    Here it is again. Either it’s returned, or its twin comes to haunt me.

    It is said Tempus only communicates in signs. I wonder desperately what he’s trying to tell me, but I’m afraid of the answer.

    In the mean time, I’m going to go to Jay’s place for lunch. If he’s still asleep I’ll wake him.

    That will be fun.


  • I’m standing here in the sun, the line of the soup kitchen behind me. Dock life swirls around me in chaos. The tension of recent events is thick, and weighs upon everyone here.

    I have little to do but watch, be wary, and think. Sometimes, guard duty is like that.

    Sometimes we reach a point in our lives, and come upon forks in the road. Despite the signs, we stand there stricken to the spot, unable to make a decision.

    That was me, until yesterday.

    I had been invited to be a “Second Knight” in the Divine Shield. One of five people ever asked. It was a tremendous honor, yet a decision filled with doubt and fear. I have no divine gifts. No covenant with the gods. Unlike mom, the gods never pay attention to me, or listen to my prayers.

    I’m simple guard in a city of many. Why me?

    I had the good fortune of meeting with Mariston in the commons, and he said something that had a profound effect on my decision. I asked what was expected, and he said, “To perfect ourselves in the eyes of our god”

    Well, not those words exactly. He spoke them far better I’m sure, than I remember. But the meaning was clear, and spoke to my heart.

    So I said yes.

    One fork in the road taken, but another remained…

    Jay and I had “The Talk”

    Some of “The Talk” was exciting. Some of it made me nervous. Most of it made me want to hide my head in the sand, and talk about something else.

    I left Jay this morning in my bed. It had been a night of exploration and intimacy for me. Something I have wanted for a long time, but was afraid to happen. Even then there were certain things we could have done but didn’t. Both of us wanted more, but I was afraid.

    I took vows of abstinence before I was even old enough to really be interested in boys, and had kept them, even after my resignation to The Order. Now there is so much I want that I find some of my goals pushed aside by thoughts of home, family, and Jay. Silly dreams of a girl with too much experience with violence, and not enough of life.

    Two forks in the road. Two paths taken.

    I pray to Tempus and Lathander that they are the right ones.

    I hope they listen.


  • The sounds of laughter and music filter out into the quiet streets near the Pissing Goat. I pass by on my rounds, and two men stagger out the door, one helping the other keep his footing

    My shift is nearly over, and I walk by, mostly lost in my thoughts.

    Jay and I sat by the fire in the Grapevine Inn. I was in his lap, and we just sat there, his arms around me, and chatted. Though little happened, it was a moment I’m going to remember for a long time. I half expected mom to bring me cookies, and I had to keep reminding myself that she wasn’t there any more.

    It was the only dark moment in an otherwise happy evening.

    I continue with my rounds, and walk past the remnants of the soup kitchen that was setup by the Sisterhood. The tables are still there and pushed against a wall.

    I grew up in the Sisterhood, and still feel an affinity for it, but wonder if it’s even “me” any more. Mom put me on the roster before she left, but like so many things in the past, are just not parts of my life now.

    I walk through the docks, and into City Hall. I turn in my report, and notice a note on the bulletin board. It says the Divine Shield is looking for Knights and men at arms of faith. A warrior of Lathander? Me? I dwell on it a moment, and take those thoughts outside.

    I leave City Hall, sit in the commons, and wonder what direction life is taking me.

    I look up into the sky, and pray to Tempus. I ask him to keep mom safe, and take care of her. The stars swirl overhead, and I watch as one of them streaks through the night, to disappear over the horizon.


  • “Mom, please don’t go. Not now.”

    I felt like a little girl in the Sisterhood again. Mom would leave to go on a journey, and I would pray every night to Tempus for her return. Days, weeks, sometimes months would pass, but she always did.

    She looked at me with both pride and sadness in her face. It was the sadness that hurt. A certain finality to this departure that left a hole in my stomach. Mom never hid anything, even from me.

    “You always welcome to come see me”, she said, brushing my hair behind my ears. Impiltur is no so far away that journey is impossible. Someday, I would like come visit you too.”

    She smiled. It was the kind of smile that could lead armies, or followers to battle. I always wanted it, but it wasn’t within me.

    “But Jay and I, we….”

    She put her long fingers over my mouth, and shook her head, “Is for your own heart to follow Yana. I know I say he is trouble, and think will always be, but you want to know secret? Adam was more trouble than ten Jays, and all people of politics put together. But I still loved him because he had good heart, and fight for what believe.”

    “And you!”, she continued, “You lose heart too much! You cannot be greatest warrior in blink of eye! You are still very much young, and it take time, patience, hard work, and much luck. There is always person in land who will beat you at anything. Remember this.”

    She looked to the caravan as it began to trickle out of town. The hole in my stomach threatened to swallow me, and tears came unbidden. Then with suddenness she picked me up and wrapped me in her arms.

    “Good luck Yana. You write letters to me, and will write to you. Come and visit, if can”

    “Yes mom”, was all I could choke out.

    She mounted her horse, and I watched her leave the gate, her feather covered braids swaying behind her.

    …and she was gone.


  • I can’t sleep.

    It’s late. Very late. But after tossing and turning for hours, I get up. I leave the guard uniform at home, put on my silks, and go for a walk.

    Except for the noise from the taverns, the docks are quiet this time of night. I walk through the streets, my feet padding quietly on the stones. I can hear waves lapping noisily, the ships creaking, and the footsteps of every passerby.

    There is a certain peace now that starkly contrasts with the chaos of the day. It’s the other side of this district’s coin.

    When he’s sober, one of the cooks at the Pissing Goat can do a mean fish fillet. I thought that perhaps some food in my stomach would help settle me, and so I head to the kitchen at the Pissing Goat to check things out. The cook was there and almost sober. He was closing up, but after few coins skittered his way he fried one up for me amidst some grumbling. I thank him, and head out into the tavern.

    The room is smoky, and filled with a whole evening of smells. The odors of unwashed humanity, liquor, and straw assail me. I settle down off to the side and eat my fish.

    Despite the hour, several tables have been pushed together, and a dozen of the crew of some unknown ship are having a good time. There is laughter, crude jokes, and insults. Two women of the Pissing Goat are sitting in laps, and enjoying the attention, drink and coin thrown their way.

    I ignore them. The fish is excellent. If this cook could remain sober for longer than a few hours, any rich household would welcome him.

    A shadow moves across my fish. I look up.

    “Hey pretty, why don’t you come over to our table?”

    He’s young. A cocky smile planted over a clean shaven face. But his eyes spell trouble. Too much liquor, a dare from comrades perhaps. Snickering from the table behind me tells me it’s probably both.

    “No thank you”, I reply. I instantly regret dressing in such haste. Showing my badge would have ended all conversation right there.

    All I want to do is eat my fish and go back to bed.

    He looks back at his friends. I glance over my shoulder. More snickering. Crude gestures.

    All I want to do is eat my fish.

    He leans down. He’s insistent. Words spill out of his mouth, a drunken line of seduction so bad I almost burst out laughing.

    He puts his hand on my arm.

    My instinct tells me several things. It tells me to twist my arm away from his thumb and press on the back of his wrist. It instantly locates two places to strike to break his arm. He would draw the knife at his side and I would slap it away, and then kick from a sitting position to the side of the head.

    But I don’t. Amidst some cheering, crude remarks and cat calls. I get up, and go over to the table with him.

    Several of them look me over. Some stare at my legs. Others higher. Too much skin and not enough silk. The kid has a possessive grip on my arm. Relief and pride are in his eyes.

    All I want to do is eat my fish.

    “I’m sergeant Yana of the Peltarch guard”, I say. “I’m also inquisitor to Magistrate Borodin. I am going to go back and eat my fish. If I am interrupted again, someone will have to explain to the captain why a warrant was obtained, and his ship searched for contraband”

    Silence. I break the grip on my arm and walk back to the table. Hushed whispers behind me. The local girls confirming my story. I sit with a sigh, and take another bite.

    My fish is cold.


  • They’re going to be trouble when they grow up.

    Two dirt covered boys, twelve years old. Lost in the twilight in between child and adult. I’ve been there, kind of. It’s a hard age to be. For me, it lasted a long time.

    I watch one of the Hartness twins begin to haggle over some fruit. He draws the attention of the proprietor, then his wife when he points to the boxes in the corner. In the mean time, his brother quietly and with great practice filches a box of strawberries, and quietly walks away.

    The proprietors should know better, but they’re new here. The Hartness twins are inseparable. Every merchant on the docks knows it, and they still lose merchandise to their shenanigans.

    Both kids were very careful to be out of sight of the “Blue and Green”, the guards that patrol the docks. The irony is that I’m off duty, and dressed in flamboyant reds, orange and yellows. I blend in by looking ostentatious.

    The boy passes by me, and I grab his ear.

    “Ow! What the f….oh, Hi lady Yana!”

    The feigned innocence is well practiced. They know me pretty well, and don’t try any foolishness. I know they both carry knives under their shirts, but drawing one now would be cause for a broken arm and the inside of a cell, even at their age.

    …and they know it.

    “Put the strawberries back Dana”, I say tiredly, but with a smile.

    “I’m Drake…that’s Dana”, he points to his brother, who walks up to us, hands in his pockets.

    I could never tell the difference, and simply shrug. “Well whoever you are, put the strawberries back before I arrest you, off duty or not”

    Drake…or Dana, sighs and puts the strawberries back. The proprietor watches in alarm and starts to raise a fuss once he realizes he’s been robbed, but I assure him that the boys have returned everything, and that I will take care of it.

    Both look at me and give me a “whatever” shrug, and walk away, inseparable as ever. I start after them, but know in my heart there is no point. They’ll never change until something truly bad happens, and scares responsibility into their lives, or kills one or both.

    That’s just the way it is sometimes.

    I reach the pier, and sit on the edge, feet dangling over the water. The sparkles of the sun on the water remind me of stars, set on a moving field of gray. If I half close my eyes, I can see them twinkle.

    If I close them completely, I think of Jay.


  • I’m walking through the streets, and I’m assaulted by a cacophony of sounds. Vendors shouting. Sailors and dock workers cursing. Children run through the street, screaming and carrying on. The gulls protest the throngs below them, and squawk their complaints. Someone starts up a stringed instrument, and it’s quickly accompanied by a flute and drums.

    It’s chaos, baked and ripened by the harsh sun.

    I love it. I could walk through the docks a thousand times, and each time would be different.

    I stop for a moment and take it all in, before I sit down on a bench for awhile and let the world pass by. Absently, I rub my arm.

    It was again, a hollow victory at the Norwick games. I win in a sport, and everyone seems impressed. A few comments, people telling me how good I am. I few grins. A couple of pats on the shoulder. But it doesn’t really count. I won at boxing. How many times do the hobgoblins or gnolls come charging in force, unarmored and bare handed?

    I can see the progress. I beat Jay. I beat Lyte. I beat Maythor. Hope swells in my heart, but is dashed to pieces in the first real fight with weapons. I stood quietly on the sidelines, frustrated.

    Now I’m sore from last night’s practice. Two days after the games in Norwick, I met Jay in the basement of the Lucky Ferret. We sparred for an hour before I turned in for the night, he with a wooden practice sword, me unarmed. I might as well learn from the best.

    I still can’t face a good swordsman, not and have a prayer of winning. It frustrates the hell out of me. I try to be patient. The elf blood tells me it will all come in time, of which I have a lot of, but the human in me snarls and gnashes its teeth, telling me to hurry up and get better before I fucking die.

    It tells me other things too.

    Jay and I have this long standing rivalry. He’s bigger and stronger than I, and uses his size and natural skills to counteract my training. We are nearly equal. He wins some. I win some. I use him as a benchmark for my progress.

    When I beat him two nights ago, a high round house kick that caught him off guard, I hugged him in relief. He returned my hug, simply happy for a friend that succeeded. Quietly, he told me to finish it, and win the whole damn thing.

    He can be such an ass, but awkwardly sweet on occasion.

    Me and Jay?

    I squeeze my eyes shut and shake out the thought. The elven part of me tells me to be patient, bide my time, and find the right person. The human part of me?

    It tells me something else.

    I open my eyes, stand, stretch, and resume my rounds. The chaos swirls around me, a little piece of it lodging in my heart.


  • It’s sunny and quiet. Most workers are off today. It’s some Valkurian holiday, and many of the sailors and dock workers are taking advantage of it. Most of the foremen just gave up trying to get anything done. The merchants of food and drink are however, making a killing.

    It’s only eleven in the morning, and already the taverns are full and overloaded. People are gathered outside. Traveling vendors are going up and down the street selling their wares.

    The west side of the docks are mobbed. I however, am on the east side. The loudest sound I have are a dozen angry gulls fighting over the piece of bread I just threw in the water. I watch one of them fly off with the prize. The rest hover around me indignantly, as if I’m the only source of food for miles.

    Peace. Harmony. Balance.

    I had someone ask me about them two days ago. He wanted me to teach him how to live life in balance, how to be at peace, and in harmony with life.

    How do I answer that? I have no fucking clue.

    I stood there listening to him without a inkling of what to say. We each have our own goals, our own sense of peace, and what balances one individual will not balance another.

    In the end, that’s what I told him.

    It’s what my instructor did. He pointed me at the signs, and I decided which road was right for me.

    The best I could do was teach him how balance his body. I gave him a few routine exercises to do, to teach him the basics. It’s one of the fundamental flaws even good warriors make. They build their strength, their flashy routines with a swords, and slick moves to defeat their opponent, but they forget about balance. A properly balanced body makes all the moves easier.

    A properly balanced life does the same.

    Mom was a master at both. I think if there’s any one thing I would like to live up to, it’s that


  • Written for DM_Stuiped, wrapped in a bow, with a bottle of Riskey

    –----

    I am running along the wall. Crenellations pass by in a blur. The wind is in my face. My heart beats slowly. Up ahead, a gap of 10 paces…then some.

    Limitations

    Wisdom is knowing what they are. With training, they can be removed.

    The other day however, I faced a potential opponent, and I have no idea how the hell I would fight it, or even train for, had I the need too.

    I was approached by the number killer

    The shadows overcame me, my mind reeling in madness. I could not move. I could not fight. I felt a malevolent presence of such power, it rooted me to the spot. I sensed and felt it touching me, then leaving, perhaps realizing its mistake.

    I had truly lured it to me, but it was not the evil priest, or evil wizard I had thought. It was no human being who desired to ascend to great power through ritual and sacrifice. Whatever it was already had great power, and I was powerless to fight it.

    How do I fight such things? What magic must I possess, or discipline of body must I accomplish to even stand a chance?

    Hell, I can’t even fight a good swordsman. I can, just not and win. First, I must learn to get out of the way. At least this goal is within my sight.

    It takes a certain skill to drive your fist past wood, brick and stone. I have been taught to focus my body’s energy, my Ki, and do what the untrained would consider magical. Is it possible to fight the demons and magical creatures of this realm with just this power?

    _The gap approaches

    I jump.

    The wind is in my face. My heart beats slowly. I am flying.

    …

    I land. Legs collapse. Body crumples, tucks, and rolls.

    I am running again._

    Is it possible?

    Yes

    But I already knew the answer.


  • The Zephyr had pulled into port, its crew beginning the arduous task of unloading the crates. Several burly men, a few half orcs, and an ingenious looking crane pulled cargo from the hold onto the dock.

    Mark usually handled dock 4, but he had been relieved of duty and jailed. Payoffs, gold under the table, falsifying records. Fortescue was very unforgiving.

    “Cargo manifest please”, I said

    The captain looks at me like I’m from the underdark. A twisted mask of loathing and disrespect.

    “Who the fuck are you?”

    I show my badge. “Sergeant Yana of the Peltarch Guards”. I hold out my hand. “Cargo manifest, if you please”

    He looks at me with contempt. “I don’t please. Where the fuck is Mark?”

    “Mark”, I say, “No longer works the docks. Now you deal with me”

    His face changes suddenly to one with an eel pasted slime of a smile. He walks up to me, and pulled out some papers….along with a hefty sack.

    “Mark and I had…an arrangement. An agreement of mutual profit. A young w…lady like yourself could find that some extra coin very useful, don’t you agree?”

    I sighed, feigning interest. “Possibly”, I say, “How much are we talking about?”

    “One percent”, he says quietly, looking at the crew and nodding to continue unloading. “Sometimes two, for particular cargo.

    We walk along discussing details, until I arrive at my mark. It’s a large set of crates, and we are briefly out of line of sight of the crew. Without warning, I hit him in the groin. He doubles over, and I hook his foot, taking him down.

    “You’re under arrest for suspected murder, and theft of Peltarch property”

    A recruit comes out from the alley hidden by the crates, and hauls him away. A dozen and a half more guards and defenders wait in the alley, snickering. Chen gives a thumbs up.

    Seizing the ship at that point was easy. Leaderless, the crew capitulated quickly at the presence of an organized force. The crates contained numerous food stuffs, but hidden in each were numerous goods that had been shipped by Hoarsgate and “lost at sea”. Since they had been previously purchased by various merchants here in the city, they were technically Peltarch property.

    I’m sure song and praise will be heaped on Fortescue by the merchants. It’s the captains and generals who always win or lose the battle. It’s the people like me and Chen though, that live or die on the field of it.


  • I humbly dedicate this entry to DM Stuiped and DM Silverfang, who led my characters down the path to the described events.

    Harmony and balance.

    I sat in the audience and watched a display of both. Two people dancing in perfect union. Motion harmonized. Their bodies balanced and poised.

    It was then, right then, that it all came together.

    I was so excited, I left in the middle of the play and sought out Chen. A quick look at the sky told me he would be leaving his shift soon, and I sprinted to the barracks. I caught him on the street, walking home.

    It took awhile to convince him. I needed to work with him after shift. A month I asked. One month. He laughed and chuckled shaking his head, declining. Asked if I was nuts.

    I remembered he was sweet on Jenny at the Pissing Goat. It was one of those odd, casual relationships that had hung on for years. They were both comfortably in love, but were never getting married.

    He had seen this dress in the market. 362 gold and change. He had fawned over it, telling me how wonderful she would look in it, but couldn’t bring himself to spend his entire savings and then some.

    I offered to buy it, so he could give it to her.

    He agreed.

    We spent the next month practicing. Unarmed, wooden practice knives, clubs and swords. It was all so easy, and I wondered why I hadn’t seen it before. Rather then block or resist the blow, I moved with it. Like being drunk, but completely in control.

    He steps forward. My rear foot steps in. Pivot. Motion harmonized. A dance of balance, and he goes over my shoulder.

    He lunges. Rear foot goes forward and past him. Pivot. He over extends and falls.

    He steps away. Forward leg behind his. Step forward. Push forward firmly, and down he goes.

    Harmony and balance.

    There was a hidden lesson in this. One that was revealed to me in a moment of reflection, brought on by the teachings of my new instructor. There is a need for harmony and balance in not just combat and dancing, but personal needs, the drive for perfection, and relationships.

    Particularly between mother and daughter.

    At the end of the following week, I took the river boat to Norwick, and arrived on a cool, clear evening, the sky full of stars.

    I entered the inn. It was late, and mom and the other girls were cleaning up. She looked up at me and smiled, but continued her cleaning. She was tired. Her eyes revealing the despair she was feeling.

    “Mom”, I said, “Can I talk to you upstairs for a moment?”

    The seriousness of my tone must have caught her attention. She paused, put the rag down, and we went upstairs to her room. She looked down at me with concern.

    “What is problem?”, she asked, her voice tired and strained.

    I knelt before her, and looked up. “Mom, will you bless me, in Tempus’ name?”

    I bowed my head and waited.

    I wasn’t sure what to expect. I waited for a long time, until her heard her crying. I looked up. Tears were running down her face, but her eyes sparkled, and she was smiling. Still crying, she reached down and pulled me to my feet.

    “Come then with me, and we will do proper”, she said between sobs, and hugged me.

    Later that evening, I knelt before the monument to the fallen soldiers. The Eastlanders respectfully kept their distance as they often do, when proper homage is given. There, I cut my hand and offered my blood to Tempus. Mom prayed in Uthgardt, and asked Tempus to bless me, mixing her blood with mine.

    The cut will leave a scar, a small reminder of promises made between us long ago, and to Tempus.

    Three days later, I am doing my rounds. It’s late morning. The docks are crowded and full of life. A messenger comes up to me. The wax seal has Norwick’s crest, and the symbol of Tempus.

    Inside, in mom’s rough hand, I read about the vision she had the following night. As I read it, my eyes blur with tears. It seems that originally, Tempus had given her sign that she could not fight again until the blessing of Tempus was given. That night, in front of the monument, it had been, through her to me.

    Now she was released to seek battle again.

    Inside the note, was a large black feather. She is given one with every vision, and ceremoniously puts it in her hair.

    This time, she gave it to me.

    With trembling hands, I put it in hair. I will wear it proudly.


  • The post reverberates with each strike. It rotates on its axis, and small arms of wood move to thwart each move and bruise my arms.

    I strike hard, exhaling forcefully for each blow. Pain courses through my left arm, but I have learned to ignore it.

    Twist, strike, each time faster. A flurry of rapid strikes too fast for conscious thought.

    I am drenched in sweat.

    Damn I feel good.

    I step away. Time for a swim and change of clothes. The Icelace is almost tolerable this time of year. I turn to exit the barracks.

    My victory in the Oscuran tournament was hollow. Jay wasn’t there. Neither was Maythor, or Pavel. It was a good test of my unarmed skills but in order to survive this world, I’m going to need to be better than people who use swords.

    …and there, I lost to my first opponent.

    I’ve seen people do it. Master swordsmen put to shame by the magic of personal discipline and unarmed technique. But it’s a long hard road to take.

    I can beat the average mercenary. A dockworker with a knife is hardly a threat. I –am- getting better…

    …but not good enough.

    I walk out from the barracks into the sunshine, and pad barefoot over to the “Lazy Day”, a small private fishing boat. I know the captain, and he lets me dive from the stern and catch the sun. A few times, he even took me out onto the lake. It was glorious.

    I catch sight of Fortescue moving effortlessly through the crowd. He appears to have an aura about him, as no one moves within ten feet of him. He watches me, but from this distance I can’t tell whether he’s gawking or glaring with disapproval. Knowing him, it’s the latter.

    Well fuck him. It’s my day off.

    I spring from the stern and arch through the air.

    Damn, the water is cold.


  • I’m taking a hot bath now, for the first time in months. I feel I could lay in this water forever. The dye has been removed, and my hair is back to white-blonde luster.

    A part of me liked it black.

    I’m also not drunk. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to go running through the docks again, and purge myself of the poisons within me. A week’s regimen of hard exercise, water, vegetables and fish ought to do the trick.

    I am both disappointed and relieved the Number Killer didn’t show. I somehow expected this grand heroic destiny to follow me around like it does mom. The killer would show up, surprise would be on my side and I would vanquish him.

    Things only work like that for certain people though – The heroes, knights, and paladins of this land. Not for me.

    But after living in the docks amongst the poor and destitute, I have come to realize that “heroic” has a different meaning for me now. It’s the people like Bonnie Tailor who lives in a tent, and still raises her three children without husband or relative to help. It’s Arun the guard who does his job every single day, often unappreciated, and goes home to his family at night, rather than going out with his buddies and spending the coin on gambling and beer. It’s the people that are honored by the monument in the pass. The soldiers with no name who fought and died so that many of us know what it’s like to live.

    In two days I will go back to my duty. I will be Yana the guard again.

    Only a little better.


  • I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last week and a half. I got used to the smell too.

    It is often rather fascinating to see the true nature of people, when they don’t know you’re watching. People who have gruff exteriors, but show great kindness to strangers. People sweet and kind, but cruel when they think no one is watching.

    Arun, a fellow sergeant, has been downright vicious to me since I joined the guard. He’s an old timer with five near grown children, and struggles to make ends meet. Yet the other day he gave half of his lunch to me, knowing he had so little to give. I had to turn my head away, lest he recognize who I was.

    Kayla, one of my recruits, has been nothing but helpful. Though she comes from an impoverished background, she has been trying as a guard to make something of herself. Just yesterday though, she rousted me on the law that I must have 10 coins. She kicked and knocked me to the ground for no reason, and I let her. It was almost as if she were trying to punish her own past.

    I will forever see them both in a different light after this.

    I spend my extra coins on liquor. I am drunk, or partially so most of the time, but I’ve gotten used to it. However, I have learned that while I can get used to it, I still hate it.

    It’s not me.

    I want to run again. I want to swim. I want to keep myself in the best condition I can possibly be.

    Now, I just stagger.

    I begin to wonder if this exercise in inebriation by my new instructor was not to learn to be drunk, but to learn about myself.

    I have not been approached by anyone offering me a better life. No rescuers, Number Killer or not. The complacency of the people around me to the poor and destitute is disturbing…

    …but what makes me truly sad is that I have to count myself as one of them.


  • I’m drunk.

    …or I was two hours ago. I’m not sure any more. I have my back against the wall of some warehouse I can’t remember. I stink of fish, alcohol, urine and sweat. I get rousted by the guards now and then, but managed to keep some gold on me as the law requires.

    I am one of the nameless homeless on the docks. I am a wharf waif who answers to Holly.

    I am bait.

    It’s the only way I can think of apprehending the number killer. From what I have gathered, he…or she prays on the desperate. People who are looking for a way to better their situation, and will do ANYTHING to change it. Perhaps I am wrong. At least I will learn something about the docks, the way of life here, and perhaps myself.

    I have stripped myself of all belongings, save a few knick-knacks and planted personal possessions. I am unarmed, except for a rather sharp scaling knife. I am uniquely qualified to do this for my ability to kill someone without even using it. Only a few people know about my situation.

    I didn’t lie. I told everyone that I was getting on a caravan to Damara. I did, but got off some two hours outside of town. There, I met up with Chen and Kane on the shore. My hair was cut and dyed. I was given old clothes. Face dirtied. I was rowed out to a merchant sloop, and stowed away for a week a more, living on scraps. Later, I was dumped ignominiously as a stow away off in Peltarch.

    I am tired. I am hungry.

    …and I am scared.

    Can I kill the number killer if he comes for me?

    Probably not. But at close range, with surprise, I have a chance, and he needs to be stopped.

    I said my good byes. I told mom I was going away for awhile. I told Luke I had feelings for him. Things I wish I had never said, but always wanted to say, were said.

    If he comes for me, and I end up with an VIII on my forehead, I hope I made a difference to those around me, and made mom proud.


  • “CHEN! GRAB HIM!”, I yelled.

    The man in front of me faked right, then slipped left. Chen’s dive for his legs turned into an ignominious dive into a deep mud puddle as the man continued to run through the docks. As I vaulted over Chen in pursuit, he banged his hand angrily into the mud puddle, spraying me with black goop.

    Thanks Chen.

    The man I was pursuing was carrying a snug fitting backpack. He was six feet if an inch, and maybe 160 pounds. He could run like the wind, and gained quick yards on straight pursuit. I had little idea what his face looked like, because all I had seen for the last two blocks was his back side. I watched in amazement as he leapt over a fruit stand and cleared it, while I had to make due going around it.

    This guy missed his calling. He could have been the messenger boy from Hell.

    Suddenly, an opportunity appeared. As we both vaulted down an alley by the warehouses, a crowed of dockworkers appeared in front of us. Most of them were the big and burly type, with three half orcs in their midst. No way he was getting through them. He’d have to turn and face me.

    No. I watched in fascination as he vaulted onto a rain barrel, hit the stand of boxes, and landed on the roof.

    Holy shit…who is this guy?

    I jumped on the rain barrel, but had to be content with pulling myself up with sheer strength. There was a brief and silent moment where I thanked mom for making me do pull-ups in the pantry door jam, before I got up and pounded after him.

    He vaulted the space between the two warehouses, clearing the ten feet with ease but crashing in to heap on the other roof. I vaulted the distance after him, leg collapsing on touch down. Motion redirected. Rolling through the shoulder up to a quick standing position, I continued my pursuit.

    Damn this training was becoming useful.

    Two more rooftops, and I was actually gaining ground for a change. He looked back over his shoulder at me. He was grinning.

    Well fuck you.

    Suddenly, he skidded low, and grabbed a downspout. Hanging for a moment he dropped the two stories to the ground.

    I didn’t slow down. I simply hit the edge of the roof and jumped.

    For a terrifying moment, I felt free. I was flying. The ground 20 feet below me, and then some. The second and a half it took me to fall stretched into an eternity, until suddenly I hit the ground. Legs collapsing. Body tucked in. Motion redirected. Roll to standing.

    The man in front of me turned to run. For the first time I saw his face, and I was rewarded with a genuine look of surprise. I was standing in front him.

    “You’re und…..”

    I never finished my sentence. A harsh scream came from the alley beside me, and this black figure tackled the man in front of me. Both went down in a heap. The man struggled to get up, but was rewarded by the pommel of a short sword to the head by the black figure on top of him.

    “…and stay down!”, Chen said wheezing.

    Chen looked up at me. He was completely covered in black mud, which highlighted the lopsided smile he was giving me.

    “Nice moves Sarge. Fucking nice moves. Easier knowin’ the shortcuts though”

    We both looked at the ground. The contents of the backpack has spilled, scattering thick glass bottles across the road. Each one said, “Hobleys potion of Greater Cat’s Grace”

    Chen laughed, “Ya think he drank one or two of them Sarge?”

    I laughed with him, and collapsed on the road to catch my breath.


  • My shift is over, and I’m sitting on a bench east of the City Hall. Someone from the Saint Claire has dropped a bucket of chum over the side, and the gulls squawk loudly behind me. People pass me by, their voices added to the gulls. The temple bell rings on the hour.

    It all seems so distant and far away. I’m immersed in my thoughts, and the contents of the letter I have in hand.

    Letting go. It’s hard.

    My life has turned an unusual corner. It screams to be free of convention and the disciplines I have wrapped around it. Yet my body refuses to rise, and deliver the message to the courier.

    My resignation to The Order.

    No instructor’s sash. No acknowledgment of my peers. No accolades. All given up for what?

    For the chance to be better.

    I spent the evening last night tumbling from step ladders and tables. Descent redirected, body collapsed, tumbling to standing. Over, and over ad nauseum. I even bribed one of the guards who was set on having ales with his buddies to push me around.

    My body moves in harmony with each blow. Force redirected, dissipated. Backwards, tumbling through the shoulder, rising to stand again, all in one motion. The beauty of it enthralls me.

    I stare at the letter again. Its presence mocks me, daring me to take a leap of faith and embrace the opportunity before me.

    I am startled to the present. The voices and the gulls surround me again.

    “Ey miss? You ‘ad a letter for da carahvan ta Damara?”, the courier says meeting me at the bench.

    I hand it to him. I watch as he walks away to the gathering horses and mules. I could run after him. I could take it back.

    I get up and go to the Lucky Ferret. My new teacher waits.


  • Written for DM Stuiped, who did something totally and amazingly cool.

    I’ve heard tales about how your life flashes before your eyes at the moment of your death. I’ve heard tales about how time slows down at certain moments of inevitable crisis. The brief glimmer of realization that life is over, and that you are going to die right fucking now.

    Two heavy crossbows staring me in the face. Too close to stop. Too far to engage. I am dead, or will be in seconds.

    How did this happen?

    It started as a tip off from Louis the Finch, who told Harry the Younger, who told Marty, who passed it on to me via a courier, who in this case was a sooty-faced ten year old named Ben.

    It’s how the docks work, you see.

    They were smuggling all sorts of goods from somewhere else. Someone pointed to Oscura. Someone else said Hoarsgate. It didn’t really matter, because it was all illegal. Someone wasn’t paying someone else. No paperwork filed. No guilds involved.

    Oh, did I mention the slaves?

    That was the clincher. Certain things can be overlooked in certain circles. Slaves aren’t. Rumored were two 14 year old girls were to be sold under the guise of household servants, all under the table of course. To which rich household? No one knew that of course. Too much hush money there.

    It was a small private house on the edge of the docks. Fortescue decides we’re better off going in the morning, because they’ll probably be asleep. Sound advice. Lisa thinks early evening is probably better, when they’ll likely be away. Sound advice too. Lisa is a lieutenant. Fortescue is a captain.

    We go in the morning.

    It started off easy enough. Chen smartly comes in with a short sword and crossbow. Lisa has her ubiquitous spear, and a short sword too. I have what the gods gave me, and a little faith. We sneak in quietly through a window into a pantry. Chen is damned quiet, and I begin to wonder just what he was before becoming a guard. I go in next, and Lisa last.

    Voices. They’re awake. Wonderful.

    I hope they’re drunk, or at least tired. Chen eases open the door. He’s good, and the door doesn’t even make a sound. We creep down the hall, Chen ahead. He stops. He hold’s up four fingers.

    We can do this. Three against four, but surprise is on our side. He holds the crossbow up and counts down. Three…two…one…and fires.

    This is when Tymora snickers. Chen’s crossbow misfires. The quarrel snaps left, and nearly takes off his index finger. The voices turn the shouts. Chen is swearing. I push forward into the small room and go left. Chen goes right. Lisa stays in the hall with her spear.

    Smart move. No one is getting past a spear in a narrow hallway. That’s why she’s a lieutenant.

    I quickly survey the room. It’s small and crowded. Two mean seated at the far end. The one next to me standing. The one next to Chen is leaning against the wall with a look of surprise.

    Time to earn my pay.

    The man in front of me has a two handed sword. He tries to draw it. Stupid. This is close quarters. He’ll never swing it effectively. Close quarters is my turf.

    Her reaches over his shoulder to draw the weapon, leaving his right side unguarded. Left punch to the ribs under his arm. High kick to his face is blocked by his left hand. Punch to the stomach doubles him over. Knee to the face staggers him back.

    I can’t pay attention. I hear Chen cry out. Today is not his day. Then Lisa gives a large Kai yell and I hear the sickening sound of spear parting steel, flesh, and bone…twice. Must’ve gone out the back too.

    Rule number one in the guards – Don’t fuck with Lisa.

    The guy in front of me won’t go down. He’s built like Jay, but just not as skilled. I hit him three more times, and he still draws that damned sword. He doesn’t seem to care that he can’t use it in a small room without hitting other people…which he does. Only he hits me and Chen.

    Chen gurgles and goes down. The sword whistles, but the tip clips my side as I try to duck. Silk and flesh part. Shock and no pain. His sword buries itself in the wall leaving him defenseless for a brief and valuable moment. I high round house kicks snaps his neck and down he goes. I turn to face the others.

    Chen is down. Lisa has the guy in front of her impaled, but he’s not dead yet. He is much bigger, and has her grappled.

    This is where the crossbows come in. Both men on the far side of the room stood up. Two heavy crossbows staring me in the face.

    I am a dead woman.

    It was knowing that, that allowed me to reach the epiphany that I did. Yesterday in the Lucky Ferret, a little wizened Dwarven Master of unparalleled agility showed me something magical. It was a pattern of unpredictability that produced a sense of wonder as I sparred with him. A new style to integrate into my own.

    I was dead. What else did I have to lose?

    I dropped my left knee as if I was about to slip…only I didn’t. They fired, only one had adjusted his aim…and missed. The other quarrel I snatched miraculously out of the air a hands breadth from my chest.

    In that brief moment, I looked at the quarrel in my hand. The fletching had cut it, but there it was. The two looked at me dumbfounded. It was an odd moment, a second stretched out to encompass feelings of both elation and resignation.

    I closed the distance and dropped them in moments. Lisa had yanked out an ugly serrated short sword and slit her opponent’s throat so deeply he was nearly beheaded.

    Again, don’t fuck with Lisa.

    That night after delivering the two girls and finishing my report, I visited Chen in the Temple. He had managed to hang onto life long enough for a healing kit to stop the bleeding. Lisa resumed her usual post in front of the City Hall. Me? I went to the Lucky Ferret. On the edge of the cage is a note penned to the Dwarven Master. It has only four words.

    Teach me more – Yana


  • It’s an hour before my shift. The docks are cool and quiet. Only a few ambitious souls are up at this hour. False dawn has barely started, promising Lathander’s fair grace.

    I am running.

    Dressed in the thin silks of my order, my pony tail bounces rhythmically behind me. My steps take me past the City Hall in quick, measured paces. The few that are up pause and look at me quizzically, wondering where I’m running to, or who I’m running from.

    I am just running.

    Mom got me into this. I would run beside her in vain hopes of keeping up, her long legs eating leagues. But she would slow her pace down so that my struggles would allow me to keep up. But I had to struggle, each and every step. She told me that often, when two great warriors fought, it was not the one who was better, but the one who endured.

    So I am running.

    I was made Inquisitor to Lady Borodin the other day. I feel unworthy of the tasks ahead of me, yet so proud that I was chosen. Shannon recommended me, and said that if she hadn’t asked first, that he would have. I am filled with trepidation at the responsibilities that are unfolding with each step in life I take. I must be better than I am now. My strive for perfection must not abate.

    I am running, so that I might be better.

    I pass Tent City, measured strides of strong legs counting the beats of my heart. I turn and pass the sewer entrance, and turn right alongside the piers. The wind is in my face now, blowing the sheen of sweat off and behind me.

    My mind wanders at times like this. What if’s, wants, and scenarios played out in my thoughts. I start thinking about Luke. He is creeping into my heart, like a thief in the night. I don’t know if he’s a voyeur in the window, or a man searching for the key. He took me to the Sails hideout in Oscura…a simple search for a good quality belt. I sat on the bed and chatted with him. The room was empty. I could smell him. I think about what would have happened had I taken his coat off.

    A crush. A stupid teenage fantasy. He belongs to someone else.

    I better keep running.


  • I was promoted to Sergeant in a small ceremony. Fortescue comes up to me, and tells me to put my dress clothes on at the last minute without telling me why, just saying it’s nothing important and a waste of time. He tells me to be at the City Hall.

    The captains offer congratulations. The guard commander makes a small speech. Then the captains take their sergeants out to congratulate them, and offer them a drink…except Fortescue. He goes off to have a drink with his buddies, leaving me standing there.

    What an asshole. At least some of my friends were there.

    Things seem different now that I’m back on duty. It’s not the promotion. At least I don’t think so. As I walk through the docks, snaking my way through the throngs of workers, merchants, and children, people look at me different somehow.

    Perhaps it’s the heat. It’s oppressively hot for this time of year. The air is warm and muggy. The mist rises from the fresh rain on the cobblestones. The docks are hazy, and I can’t see one end of the district from the other.

    I watch the other guards and soldiers in their chain and plate armor. Hair plastered about their faces, constantly adjusting their armor as it chaffs. One of the new guards named Dirk dunks his head under the fountain. I walk by in my silks trying not to be smug, but I can’t help it. A small smile gathers at the corner of my lips. Dirk sees me and shakes his head. I wave and pass him by.

    Most of the laborers at the docks have their shirts off. I pay special attention to the Misty Witch, who comes into port from Hoarsgate every month. One of the dock workers, a large man named Haydon is first mate. He’s built like Jay, but with the face and eyes of a performer. I watch him for a few minutes, staring openly. I want to bury my head in his chest and lose myself in his eyes.

    I leave before I catch his attention.

    The afternoon goes on without incident. I settle a dispute between a merchant and a customer, both claiming robbery. I inspect the goods from of the Saint Claire after it pulls into port, and enlist the help of two guard recruits with inventory. I interview the two women who roomed with the slain bath worker.

    None of them give me trouble, which is unusual. There’s a certain deference to the people I deal with now. Some keep their distance, others become overly friendly. People pay attention, rather than arguing around me, or through me.

    That night, I stop in the Pissing Goat at the end of my rounds. The bartender has my apple juice ready. I don’t even have to ask.

    A man stands up behind me, two tables down. I haven’t seen him before. He sneers drunkenly, and makes a crude yet laughable proposition. I sigh inwardly, knowing I’m going to have to defend myself, when two of his buddies force him back in his chair, telling him to shut the fuck up before the lady guardsmen does it for him.

    It was then I realized why people were treating me differently…

    …It was respect