3. Yana at the Docks

Yana at the Docks


  • I stare at my right hand for a moment, turning it over to look at the back of it. The skin on the second knuckle is split, despite the training and calluses. Blood drops from my hand to the ground, and mingles with the blood of others in the sand.

    I arrested nine people today for assault. One of them I almost killed because he wouldn’t submit, and insisted on trying to kill me with a fishing gaff.

    I hope the senate means well, but this is getting out of hand. By the gods, make up your fucking mind and stick to it. The people aren’t sheep, willing to be herded from one decision to another. There are times when I think that mom’s right, and we should go back to having a king.

    The only senator I trust any more is Mariston. Everyone knows where he stands. I find it odd that I would be willing to die for him, yet could scarcely call him friend because I honestly don’t know him. Yet I trust him implicitly, not necessarily to make the right decision, but to make a single decision and stick to his word.

    I wrap my hand in a clean cloth, and go back on patrol. I have this constant feeling I’m being watched, but I see no one lurking in the shadows, or moving with me through the crowd.

    Last week, Nicahh gave me a brooch. A small stone-like leaf once owned by my birth mother; a link to my unknown heritage. I run it through my fingers. It’s heavy, and warm to the touch.

    Perhaps someday I will find out about the elven woman that died, and the half-elven man that loved her. It amuses me to think of myself as the daughter of great adventurers, or elven royalty. Truth is that they were probably scribes, or simple travelers looking for a new home.

    It shouldn’t matter. I know who my mom is. But it’s an itch I can’t scratch, and I am curious.


  • The sky is overcast. Its gray darkens my mood and the woods around me. I stand in the cold shadow of the Legion tower, its stones rising high towards the steel gray sky. It speaks nothing to me of the events that transpired here a few days ago.

    I am told Jay died here somewhere. I suppose the exact spot shouldn’t matter, but it does.

    I move wraithlike through the area, stopping here and there at the stained spots on the ground. The leaves are scattered and the ground churned, the last remnants of a fight for life, or a search for death.

    I stop for a moment, and pull up a tattered piece of cloth. It’s stained with dried blood, and for a moment, I imagine it belonged to Jay.

    His death, this death brings with it a sea of conflicted emotions. I torment myself with thoughts of actions I could have taken to stop all of this. I could have loved him a little more, and drawn him away from the darkness. I could have hated him a little more, and ended it there in the gaming fields of Norwick. For all that I both loved and hated him, he was never unkind or mean to me. I wonder if my heart found the darkness in his, and made me walk away.

    The other night, Jay’s armor was returned to me. Exquisitely crafted, I cleaned the armor myself. With as much detachment as I could, I watched as the water washed the dried blood into the gutter. The tears that stung my eyes made it difficult.

    I had it repaired. Now it sits gleaming in storage. It will not be bargained with. It will not be traded or sold. It will be a gift for someone deserving, perhaps someone who can remove the stains that remain with it, and on my soul.


  • There are giants that walk on Toril. They not the literal giants of legend, song and story. They are not aligned to fire or ice. They are instead people who spawn the legends, songs and stories.

    I see them from time to time. If the world were one large Gnomish contraption, they would be the flashy lights, the sparklers, or the horns that shake the hills with their trumpeting. When trouble arises they lead the charge, and myriad others follow. People surround them, following their dreams instead of their own. People yearn to be at their side for a smile, a touch, or even love.

    I have been in their presence. They are people like Mariston, Mom, Ronan, and Rith. Just standing in their presence fills one with confidence. That the world will be a better place with their presence, and that everything will be alright when they fight at your side.

    I am not one of them.

    If the world were a large Gnomish contraption, I would be one of the gears in the center. I would be hidden from view, behind spinning tops, whistles, and iron plates. Strong and tireless, I would spin so that others could see the flashy lights, the sparklers and the trumpeting horns.

    I wonder. I wonder what it would be like to be one of trumpeting horns someday.


  • I swim underwater, silence surrounding me. The sun dances above me, shining fingers of light through the water. With each stroke a blow small amounts of air, the bubbles trailing behind me.

    I surface lazily next to the boat, and climb up the ropes to the deck. Jerrick is laying there in the sun, the scar across his chest contrasting with his bronze skin. He has little on but the hat covering his face.

    “Hey lazy bones”, I say

    The summer water of the Ice Lace is never warm, but it’s tolerable, and a welcome respite from the heat of the noon day. I’ve invited Jerrick up to spend time on the Lazy Day away from his troubles. I only made two rules. No discussion of the work back on land, and no shapeshifting. He pouted puppy-like at the last one, but I was adamant.

    He pushes the hat up, and I feel his stare upon me. I don’t wear anything when I swim. For that matter, neither does he. We were comfortable with each other this way, but his stare is primal, and I blush despite myself.

    “I have a right to be lazy”, he replies. “Besides, isn’t this the whole reason of this trip, to be lazy? To forget about life down south for an afternoon?”

    I nudge his foot with mine. “You can do that without being lazy. Go swimming again. Go fishing. Doing something helps me forget. It might help you too.”
    He pushes his hat back down again. “I’m fine right where I am”, he says stretching lazily like a dog before a hearth.

    I watch him stretch before padding over to the bow. The sun has already begun to dry my skin, and I tie my silks about me. The captain, seeing that we’re done, pulls anchor and heads back to the harbor.

    It was a brief respite with a friend from life’s toils. Nothing more, nothing less. Soon however, the harbor appears on the horizon, and I feel the weight of them on my shoulders once again.


  • The city has changed me.

    I looked into a mirror the other day. I can’t recall the last time I did. I don’t own one, and haven’t the need to. I don’t even recall the last time I was on a date, or had my hair done.

    I was investigating the robbery of one of the businesses near the soup kitchen. It’s a small shop that mostly sells mugs and glassware. They had a mirror on display, one made of glass with a silver backing.

    I stood in front of it until one of the privates tapped me on the shoulder.

    The person who stared back at me was not the person that I saw so long ago, when I had planned to go dancing, and had secured a fine dress for the occasion. That woman was young at heart. She was full of life and ambition. She blushed at colorful comments, and dreamed of love and romance.

    I knew it was me, but the stranger that stared back was a twisted caricature of the woman I thought I was.

    Her mouth was full, and her lips too big. Her hair was done in a business like pony tail. There was a small scar near her left ear. Her complexion was darker from the shadeless expanse of the docks. Her limbs were strong, and full of power.

    Her eyes were cold and hard.

    We left the shop, and both privates excused themselves for dinner. They asked if I wanted to come, but I didn’t feel particularly hungry. Instead, I wandered to one of the eastern piers, and sat on the end, the sun at my back. As I watched the waves, I thought of the person in the mirror, how alone she has become. I thought of her lost loves, the hurt, and the pain.

    When did I become this woman?


  • I love the sea. I never realized how much until I came to live by it. While most of my prayers are given to Lathander and Tempus, I find myself offering thanks to Valkur for the opportunities to enjoy the blessings he provides.

    I am standing on the beach outside the gates. The wind is gentle, and smells sharp and clear. The waves caress the beach rhythmically, and provide a soothing back drop for both me and a student of mine named Thomas. He stands beside me in the sand, dressed in old comfortable clothes. He is tall, and coarse blonde hair is long and tied in the back.

    Being with Thomas is not exciting. It is not charged with emotion and laughter. However, there is a quiet ease about him I find comforting. He is educated, intelligent, reserved and disciplined. I have not felt so relaxed around another person in a long time.

    I had hoped that perhaps, he would be the one I could pass my knowledge to. However, after working with him for a week I realized quickly that it was not meant to be. Some people simply lack the perception to look beyond what they see, and unlearn some very basic principles life has taught them.

    It saddened me at first. To be at ease with someone is rare. I have settled instead to teach him some of the tools he can use to better his swordsmanship. People often see me fight unarmed, and forget that I am quite good with weapons. The skills I have learned in my martial arts help me considerably.

    I hold two long staves, and toss one to Thomas. He catches it easily, but there is little speed in his movements. He’s going to have to win his fights with skill and precision, rather than speed.

    “Swing”, I tell him.

    He swings the staff with a long powerful stroke, the air whistling as it passes. He goes to retrieve his stance and cock his arm again, but I block the return of his staff with mine.

    “Hold right there. Don’t move”, I say with a smile

    I reach forward and gently pull on the staff. He stumbles forward, surprised at the lack of force required to pull him off balance.

    “Thomas, when people swing their weapons, they change their center of balance to compensate. I’m not faulting you for your lack of balance, but you need to be aware when your opponent is changing their center of balance, and use it against them. Swing again please”

    Thomas swung again, although I could tell he was hesitant. This time however, I hooked his lead foot with my staff at the moment of extension, and he stumbled to his knees in the sand. I helped him to his feet, and to his credit he did not appear ashamed or angry, but instead reflective and thoughtful.

    “You can knock people over with your shield using brute strength. My mom does it all the time”, I said with a grin, “But being aware of your opponent’s center of balance will give you an edge.”

    He nodded, listened, and practiced.

    I worked with him most of the morning until I had to go on duty. Not once was there a snide comment or an angry look. He took what I taught him to heart, and clasped my forearm when I left. It was all very polite and proper.

    Exciting? No, but it does make me curious.


  • The mob presses in from all sides. The guards shout in anger for them to get back. The mob shouts in anger in return. Weapons and anger all around.

    This one is bad.

    The man in front of me has a polished hickory stick. The one to my right has a fishing gaff. Their shouts are drowned in the confusion and noise. Bodies are pressed together, all pushing forward

    With a sneer on his face, he swings the hickory stick over his right shoulder.

    I see it, a fraction of a second before it happens. An echo in my perception, a skill opened up to me by a wizened old Dwarf with a desire to teach a young mixed breed elven girl.

    I stumble through the scene, to simply be where the stick is not. He swings twice, the last time the hickory hits the road in the cloud of dust. He appears frustrated and confused.

    _The fishing gaff thrusts forward

    A bottle is thrown

    A large man grabs my arm

    A fist from the side

    A hatchet…._

    It’s too much. I can see it all, but I’m simply not fast enough to avoid everything. I am hit, my silks are cut. A bottle shatters on my head, and my vision gets dizzy. Blood runs down my cheek, staining my uniform. The guards pull back. A citizen is stabbed with a shortsword. A crossbow fires. Someone screams. A guard is pulled into the mob….

    …and I snap.

    The man with the hickory stick takes the brunt of two decades of intense physical and martial arts training. I extend my Ki through him, and the first strike shatters his sternum. The low kick sweeps his legs. A knife hand to the throat ruptures his larynx and he thrashes on the ground, suffocating and drowning in his own blood.

    The one with the fishing gaff tries to hook my leg. I jump high over it, and the snap kick shatters his jaw.

    Someone tries to grab me, and I lock the arm, breaking his elbow with a palm strike. Two quick kicks, and falls down unmoving

    I whirl as someone grabs me from behind and I hook his shoulder. He is thrown violently over my hip and crashes into a man with a makeshift glaive. I punch down hard, and teeth spray the ground.

    The attacks contine. A man charges with a small flail. An older boy with a knife. A pitchfork. A woodcutter with an axe.

    Within minutes, I am surrounded by the broken bodies of disgruntled dockworkers, bar patrons and sailors. Until…

    …the attacks

    …finally

    …stop.

    I look around. The shouting has quelled to a quiet murmur. A sea of angry and familiar faces stare back at me from the crowd. Some guards stand beside me. Others have fallen back with the same haunted look as the citizens in the crowd.

    “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!”, I scream hoarsely.

    My face grows hot, and soon the tears well up uncontrollably. I sit heavily on the ground weeping.

    Slowly, the crowd disperses. I feel a hand on my shoulder.

    I want to stop crying

    But I can’t.


  • My uniform is cut in several places, and I have a new scar on my forearm. My hair has dried blood and cheap wine in it.

    I am exhausted.

    Fortescue walked up to me on the docks. I could see he was about to ask me if I would work another shift. I would have been my third. Instead he told me to go home and get some rest.

    Perhaps he cares after all.

    The riots were bad enough, but the looting on top of it is too much. At least Jaelle had the courtesy of blowing herself up somewhere else.

    So many innocent people are injured or dead, and I feel powerless to stop any of it. I used to feel like I made a difference. Now I feel trapped in sea of chaos, and I wonder if my actions have any point to them at all. For every person I arrest, three more take their place. Last night I had to run from a mob. I recognized several of the faces in the crowd…people who last Spring might have even bought me a drink. Now their faces were twisted in anger, fueled by the emotions around them.

    I don’t even know what they’re angry about. I don’t think most of them do either. It just makes them feel better to be angry about something.

    I see the looks in the faces of my fellow guards. It’s not just me. We’re all exhausted. I hope General Ash and the Senate do something soon.


  • I’ve just come back from a swim, and my hair is soaking wet, slicked down over my head and onto my back. My clothes however, are dry from sitting in the sun.

    The captain of the Lazy Day is fishing, or at least pretending to. I glance back with a smile and notice is head is lolled off to the side. Asleep again.

    The bow of the boat rocks gently up and down in an inconsistent rhythm. I sit cross legged, and bounce up and down with it.

    Here, on this boat right now, I am at peace.

    The election is behind us, and I’ve requested a few days leave. Ordinarily, I’d go down to Norwick, but I decided rather than risk violence fighting gods know what, I would take the time to actually relax.

    I’ve heard through the grapevine that Telli was slain on an adventure in the Ostromog mines. I don’t have any details, other than she is with Chauntea, and her body lies in the Temple.

    I never really knew Telli that well. I always tried to be polite, despite her mannerisms and habits irritating me to no end. She appeared to have a good heart, and was driven to make things right. I respect that.

    I’m not saddened with her death though. I find it regrettable that a person of good intentions and determination would pass away, but saddened more for the people that miss her, than for myself or her in particular. She’s with Chauntea now. How can anyone be sad for that?

    Perhaps it’s because I tie her to the whole incident with the war with N’Jast, and The Legion.

    The Legion brings a sea of conflicting emotions. On one hand I admire their organization, and their goals. I respect some of their members. A few I call friends. On the other, I loathe what they’ve done. If we attacked a wizard, who in turn defended himself by summoning vast powers to defeat us, and destroyed vast tracts of land rendering it inhabitable due to demonic presence, he would be accused of evil of the vilest sort.

    Yet, when it comes to the Legion, the basic response is …

    …Ooops?

    I would argue that had it never occurred, and N’Jast won, that the land as a whole would probably be better off than it is now. The basic farmer, shopkeeper and merchant would know little difference. The only things that would change would be the names in their government.

    I often wonder how often when we defend what we value, that we destroy it in the process.

    Food for thought.

    Later.

    The boat bobs up and down, and I am at peace.


  • Leaflets blow in the wind. They collect in alleyways and corners. They litter the harbor, rain barrels, and doorways. Leaflets everywhere.

    Thank gods the election is over. Now we just wait for results.

    It’s the morning after. The air is cool and crisp, but clear skies and a brilliant sun promise warmth later in the day.

    The guards are tired. We move about the docks, rousting drunks and sending people home. A shop owner complains his door has been knocked off its hinge. A prostitute complains she was robbed. Two exhausted dock workers still argue over candidates, and have to be separated when they come to blows. More clean up. More arrests.

    I’m dead on my feet and want to go home.

    A group of new recruits come by, led by Chen. They stand at attention in the street while Chen addresses them. Their uniforms are clean. They shift about nervously as Chen gives them assignments, and then they pair off. I wave to him, but he doesn’t see me. He’s yelling at two of the recruits who don’t seem to know that pair means two, and separate.

    “Sarge?"

    I turn around and see two of the recruits looking at me. One of them is a young woman, about sixteen. The other, a man, isn’t much older. I see the uncertainty and fear in their eyes. The same look I had when I first joined so many summers ago.

    “What’s the problem private?” I reply

    “Um, ma’am, we’ve got a problem in the alley by the warehouse yonder, ma’am”, the young man stammers. “Man’s drunk, but won’t leave”

    “Well, there are two of you. Make him leave”

    “Ma’am, um, it’s not that simple. He’s pretty big ma’am”

    I sigh and follow the two of them over. The young girl hasn’t said a word the whole time. She just follows along with that perpetually scared expression. Was I really like that once?

    They take me over to the alley. Gregory sits there, a look of drunken stupor on his face. His clothes smell of stale sweat and ale.

    Gregory is a behemoth of a man. Perhaps six five or taller, and three hundred plus pounds. He fought in the liberation of Peltarch in the civil war, and again defending Peltarch from N’Jast. He’s seen things that made many of his fellow soldiers turn and run, yet stood his ground. Somehow he survived both wars and a full military service, but the horrors of his experiences turned him to drink. The box of medals he keeps under his arm and carries everywhere appear to be his only solace.

    I walk over. “Hello Gregory”, I say softly.

    He peers up with one bloodshot eye and salutes drunkenly, “Hel…helloooo Sarjint Yaneh”

    “Gregory, promise me you’ll go home before noon”

    “I promish”

    “You promise?”

    “I promish”

    I nod and put five coins in his hand. He curls up again with his box and closes his eyes.

    The two recruits look puzzled. “Um, ma’am, Fortescue said to roust ALL the drunks, and keep the streets clean. He’s not going….”

    “Gregory is an exception”, I say, walking away. They follow, and I get tapped on the shoulder.

    “Ma’am, Fortescue is a captain, and you’re…”

    “Look”, I interrupt. “Our job is to keep the peace. That man is a very, very experienced soldier. Drunk or not, it would take five guards to remove him, and he’d probably kill three of them. It’s simply better for all concerned if we pretend we saw him last, and remind him of his promise to go home. If Fortescue gives you any problems, have him come see me, but I promise you he won’t. Understood?”

    Both of them stood straight and saluted. “Yes sergeant”, they said in unison.

    “Dismissed”, I say. “Oh, one more thing. We don’t salute in the guards. That’s a military code of conduct. We’re civilian”

    As they walk off, I realize those were the exact same words Fortescue said to me a many years ago when I first joined.

    “Great”, I told myself with a chuckle, “I’ve become just like him”


  • The evening is very still. No breeze caresses my cheek. The water reflects the stars like glass in the harbor.

    I sit outside the still unfinished temple on the docks. I’ve placed three candles on the stones, and kneel before them.

    I light the first candle.

    A good man named Brent died recently in the riots. A new guard who just joined two weeks ago, he signed up just because he loved the city, and wanted to help protect it. A 5th generation Peltarchian, his ancestors have been around since before even mom came here.

    He was a large, amiable sort. We used to laugh that we could hide three guards behind him, and still have room for me. Although strong, he was a gentle soul, and would often donate coin to the Sisterhood’s food pantry.

    He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was knifed in a crowd, and had wandered to an ally to bandage himself. But the femoral artery had been cut, and he bled to death an mere minutes. A senseless waste.

    Several of the guards took up a collection to bring his spirit back at the Temple of the Triad. His spirit however, would not return. It absolutely sickened me that a good man like this, a worshipper of Tyr would not come back, and a man like Jay who died faithless would.

    I drew the short straw to tell his family. He had a wife, two children, and his father who lived with him. I would have rather faced Drow.

    I light the second candle

    I know what it’s like to have feelings for someone, and not have them returned. Now, I am the object of this unrequited love, and it tears at my heart just the same. He’s a good friend, and I’ve hurt him terribly, simply by telling him the truth.

    I could have said yes. I could have told him I would give it a go, and see how things worked out. But it would have been a lie of the heart, and driven a dagger through our relationship before it even started. Better the pain now, then brought upon both of us ten-fold later.

    I’m sorry Benji. I truly am. Please still be my friend.

    I light the third candle

    I watch what’s happening to mom, and it terrifies me. I’ve faced fear before on many levels. Fear of failure, fear of loss, and fear of death. But I have never watched someone I love like mom suffer in her mind, and faced the fear of having her still there, but losing who she is. To be faced with the person who loves you, but a twisted dark version of itself, is a nightmare.

    I sat in the hallway outside mom’s cell with Aelthas most of yesterday. Every time mom would talk about betrayal, death and revenge I died a little each time. Many other people showed up … Dwin, Devlin, Admiral Ashire, Ronan and so many others, that it gives me hope. How can someone so loved and respected NOT get better?

    Then I think about Brent, and it scares me all over again.

    I pray to Tempus. The prayers I recited so often as a child come easily, like old nursery rhymes. I know them by heart, and each prayer brings forth old, almost forgotten memories.

    Please Tempus, let mom fight with honor again.

    I stand up, and head towards the docks to begin my rounds. The night is still. Behind me, the flames of the candles burn hot, stand straight, and don’t waver


  • Its passage through the air creates a ripple, almost inaudible. It’s different than the whisk of an arrow or the whine of a bolt. The urgency of its change in pitch tickles my senses.

    I move my head three inches to the right, and the rock whizzes by my ear.

    I turn to face my attacker. A man about seventeen perhaps, slender, but with muscular upper arms and shoulders from working on the docks. He takes another rock from his left hand and shouts, “Fucking Guard!”, and throws it.

    His aim is excellent. He could probably kill rabbits with his throwing skills. The rock hurdles towards my nose at alarming speed.

    I open palm it, slapping it aside just enough so it passes to the left of my head.

    He gives an “Oh shit” look and runs. The crowd parts a bit as I shout that he’s under arrest. Truly a formality at this point, because he certainly knows I’m going to arrest him. He doesn’t get very far though. He makes the classic mistake of looking over his shoulder while running, and trips over a bench.

    I catch him in seconds. I hope he resists, and obliges by stumbling to his feet and throwing a powerful but sloppy punch at my head. Easily blocked, I step inside his swing and pivot on my lead foot, using his position as leverage against him. He goes over my shoulder and crashes into the bench he just tripped over. He holds his head and doesn’t get up.

    Two privates come by, and I order him arrested on charges of assault. Some people stare. Some watch, but pretend not to. Most go about their business.

    Thus starts the first ten minutes of my day.

    I flex my hand a little as I walk down the docks. It’s going to be sore for a few hours from deflecting the rock. I have no itinerary today which means hours of relentless boredom, punctuated with additional moments of possible violence.

    I wander from pier to pier and make it a point to stop at the Lazy Day to say hello to the captain. He’s not there though, so I begin to wander aimlessly keeping my eye out for trouble. My thoughts begin to wander aimlessly as well, and I think about Jay some, and oddly, Jaelle.

    Each person handles grief differently. Jaelle seems to wallow in it though, in a self destructive, “look at me I’m going to die” attitude. It’s not only grief, it’s a cry for attention, and several have heeded the call. I’m not sure how to act when I straddle the border between pity and disgust, so I just ignore it.

    It makes my heart sick that Jay died faithless. I loved him once, and a part of me, oddly, almost shamefully still does. But his death is not going to destroy my life. He may not live well in the afterlife, but the good parts of him will live on in my memories forever.

    That has to be enough.


  • I’m sitting on a pier, my legs dangling over the water. The sun is bright and relentless. The water reflects it in a thousand stabs of light that twinkle and burn my eyes to tears.

    So I tell myself.

    Mom informed me yesterday that Jay is dead. Killed in a bar room confrontation by Oscuran guards.

    There is a part of me that rejoices. The part that feels that Jessica has her justice, and things are settled. The other part twists and writhes in my gut, feeling his absence.

    I loved him once. A part of me still does, and always will.

    I wish things were different.

    I sit here quietly, and close my eyes. The cacophony of the docks floods my senses, and I pick out each sound and focus on it in turn. The docks were Jay’s home, as they are mine now. Remembering the good part of him is the only homage I have left. The docks will help me do that.

    I squeeze my eyes shut, and think of something else.

    The other day, a box came to me. It contained a short little poem, and a hibiscus, but was unsigned. It wasn’t hard to find out who sent it. Benji had delivered it to the guard barracks personally.

    That was awkward.

    Benji and I sat by the south gate in Norwick and talked for awhile. He had been hoping our friendship would turn into something more. I tried to tell him as gently as I could that it wouldn’t. All the while listening to him I couldn’t help thinking I was a substitute for Marie.

    The number of good friends I have in this land I can count on one hand. Benji is one of them. Our friendship now will never be the same. There will always be that backdrop of awkwardness between us now.

    I will always respect him for trying though. My master once said that the only people that fail are the people who try.

    I wish things were different.

    I sparred with Aelthas yesterday. He was in good mood, having bested all challenges, including mom. He didn’t take me seriously though. What’s one unarmed elven girl against six feet three inches of muscle, discipline and steel?

    I weaved drunkenly past his defenses, striking quicker and faster than he could follow until I lost focus, and almost beat him. Had I aimed the palm strike two inches lower, victory would have been mine.

    Even though I lost, the surprise on his face was worth every bruise and cut. He helped me up, and took off his helmet, his long hair flowing to his shoulders. His eyes were warm and bright. He smiled at me, a smile of friendship and perhaps, new found respect.

    I wish things were different.


  • I’m on another fast sloop out of Hoarsgate destined for the docks of Peltarch. The wind is from the starboard, and the sloop skips through the water like small child at play. It runs effortless and free in the wind, guided by a stern hand at the helm.

    Fuck.

    I am being thwarted at every turn. Hoarsgate will not cooperate, and there isn’t a blessed thing I can do about it without taking the law into my own hands. Oh I could have. I had the opportunity last week at Norwick’s games. Jessica could have had Justice at my hands, but I stayed them. I am not a vigilante.

    I had planned on killing Jay at the games the moment I found out. I don’t usually enter the unarmed combat, as my training leaves most folks outmatched. However, Jay usually enters. His size, strength and experience gives him an excellent chance of winning.

    But not against me. Not any more. All I would have to do is wait until he entered. In the little make shift arena would be Jay, without his weapons and armor, against me.

    All I would have to do is not hold back.

    But last week I did hold back. It wasn’t within me to be his executioner. I like to rationalize that it would have broken my oaths to do it, but that wasn’t it. I looked down at him lying on the ground, and the part of me that still sees him lying next to me, the part of me that still sees whatever small good in his heart remains, stopped me.

    It burns my soul thinking that he could kill a helpless child, yet I cannot be his executioner. It isn’t within my right.

    I prayed for Jessica last night, hoping her spirit is well taken care of. In the end, I asked for her forgiveness.


  • I’m on a boat to Hoarsgate again. I sit on the bow of the ship with my eyes half closed, and my face to the wind. The cool air of the Icelace streams my hair behind me, covering it in spray.

    By the gods, I love the seas.

    Finding out exactly what happened has not proven easy. The guards in Hoarsgate were rather quiet about the whole affair, and were obviously scared. But people talk, and there were others besides the guards. It took a series of gentle smiles, reassuring looks, and the purchase of numerous drinks to paint a picture of what happened. Charles, the leader of a local gang, his wife and daughter murdered.

    Many were cavalier about it. It was obvious that Charles was not missed much. His wife and child were the casualties of war. Why would someone like me care they would ask? Did I know them? Did I know the little girl named Jessica?

    No I didn’t, but the event poisoned me with its cruel touch. It opened old wounds with its claws, and brought back memories I had buried so long ago.

    In many ways, that little girl Jessica was me.

    I was little, and watched with the horror of a child who doesn’t understand that monsters ~can~ get into your bedroom. The madman who came into the Grapevine Inn and started killing people methodically…he wasn’t a dream. He was a nightmare that came to life, and amidst my screams dragged me out from under the bed. I clawed and screamed. I fought with everything a small child could muster. I cried for mom to come kill the monster, but she wasn’t there.

    And he strangled me. It’s not the death that hurts. It’s the panic and the dying prior that haunts you.

    This isn’t about the law. This is about Justice. The madman was eventually killed. I had it. Jessica doesn’t.

    We have laws that govern the administration of Justice. Most of the time, the laws work well. People are caught. Evidence is presented. People are found innocent or guilty. Punishment is exacted in the name of Justice, and what the majority deems fair.

    I think it’s why I became a guard. To protect the innocents of the world from the madmen. Give them a chance to grow up, like I did. I was lucky. I had people that cared.

    I spoke with people at Hoarsgate. I spoke with magistrates and people of law. Hoarsgate and Peltarch have no agreements or terms of extradition.

    How then is Jessica to receive Justice? Does Justice come with a price? Who decides and how?

    I prayed to Tyr for answers. None came.

    Perhaps then, it’s up to me.


  • “Crossbow!”, the guard next to me yells.

    I snap my head left and right frantically, searching the unruly crowd for the man in the crossbow. I hear the “chunk” off to my right and slightly behind me, and a guard named Jack two rows down cries out in pain and slumps to the street, his shoulder near his neck impaled by a bolt. The shooter is on a balcony, two stories up. I see him put his foot into the metal stirrup, and begin rewinding it.

    There’s always some asshole in a riot who isn’t content with beating the guards down and causing general mayhem. Instead they take the chaos as a gods provided opportunity to really kill someone.

    I turn away from the line holding the crowd back. Without shield or armor, my style of fighting is less than ideal for this sort of work anyway. I sprint forward, and vault the hedge underneath the balcony.

    One of the lieutenants returns fire with his crossbow, but the bolt skims off the metal railing surrounding the balcony, and tumbles into the outer edges of the crowd.

    The man on the balcony sees me, but I’m directly beneath him, and he can’t fire through the grating. He starts to look over the edge for a shot, but thanks to Glorion’s training, I ascend far faster than he anticipates.

    I vault over the balcony, swinging upwards in the opposite he’s facing. By the time he turns and fires, I’m already inside the front of the crossbow.

    Close quarters. Elbow to the throat. Forearm and back of hand to the face. He begins to turn, so I pivot with him, hooking my arm under his. He goes over the railing, and crashes to the street below. I jump after him, collapsing and rolling to a standing position. He groans and starts to stand, but I sweep and legs and he falls back to the street.

    I kneel on his arm, and raise my right hand to strike.

    The man looks up at me stunned, his eyes wide. The moment stretches out as I fight to control the anger I feel now. This isn’t someone trying to smash windows, or push pass the guards to get to the Senate. This man needlessly and deliberately tried to kill one of my friends. With the back of his head on hard packed dirt, killing him would be easy.

    …and I wonder. Would anyone care?

    The lieutenant runs over. My arm relaxes, and I stand up and nod to the lieutenant.

    “Nice work Sergeant. See if you can get the men on the left to pull back a bit. This riot is getting out of hand.”

    I nod in acknowledgment and I run back to the line.

    Behind me, the lieutenant's crossbows fires, killing the man on the ground.


  • The chaos of Peltarch’s dock district swirls around me in the afternoon sun. People go by carrying boxes. Vendors hawk wares of silk ribbons, small trinkets, and unknown food on wooden sticks. I hear the shouts from several moored ships, and the confused banter of a drunken sailor.

    I’m well known here now. No longer the little blonde waif, I am GuardswomanYana. I’ve paid my dues in bar fights and blood, arrests and chases, inspections and investigations. I’ve earned the respect from some, and loathing from others. I can walk anywhere on the docks, and get a courteous nod, the tip of a hat, or a friendly smile.

    Yet still, I am lonely.

    The number of true friends I have can be counted on…Do I have any?

    I pause at this thought, deeply troubled.

    There are many folks I can call friends. There are people who trust me, who say “Hi”, when I walk by, or feel a sense of caring, mostly because they knew me when I was younger.

    But true friends?

    I purchase a bag of honey roasted nuts from one of my favorite vendors. He keeps them warm, and they are a little sticky, but there’s something about them I find addictive. I buy them, while dwelling on this, and as I walk away the transaction is quickly forgotten as I focus on this troubling thought.

    For all the friends I have, I have none to share my secrets. No one to sit under and tree and share my troubles. No one to hold at night, and listen to my fears.

    I wander by the northwest dock, and watch the old fishing boat “Harpy’s Rest” bob in the water. It’s owned by a couple who have been together since most of the old timers in the dock can remember. They have the boat, each other, and little else.

    For all the coin I have in the bank, and the magic and silks, they are still wealthier than I.


  • I am standing beside the crafting hall in Norwick. The grey skies churn overhead, the heavens open, and the rain turns the ground to mud beneath my feet. I stand without my cloak, and the rain washes over me, soaking me to the skin.

    I stare at the road and the inn without seeing them. My mind is focused elsewhere.

    Last season, I entered the Norwick games as I always do. Since I’ve been little, I’ve enjoyed the athletic and martial competitions this town has. They are a test of skill and ingenuity.

    At least I thought so, until now.

    There are folks who use magic prior to the events to give themselves an edge. I’ve seen them do it, when they think no one is looking. I’ve seen folks come full of magic after an adventure. They enter the contests stronger or faster than they usually are.

    There are folks who pray to their gods for blessings, so that they might win. Do the gods care?

    Apparently so.

    What are the lines between reputation, pride and sportsmanship?

    Have I crossed them?

    For seasons I stayed away from the unarmed competition. I’ve been trained to fight unarmed and unarmored, and prevail against steel, swords and arrows. Against someone who’s never had this training, it must seem like magic too. What chance do they have against me, who have not?

    So why do I do it? There is little test of skill for me to fight any more. Do I do it for pride? Do I do it for reputation?

    Sadly, the answer is yes.

    I spoke to mom about this. She said I earned it, and told me to enjoy it while it lasts.

    …but I’m not so sure I enjoy it.

    The next season’s games arrive in a week. Should I be humble, as I have, or should I hold the Champion’s Belt up high, with pride? Perhaps for a time, this is my moment in the sun. I wish however that Lathander or even Tempus would give me sign for some great deed or quest instead. Victories over friends seem rather hollow.

    I look up. The rain stops as suddenly as it began. The skies rumble overhead, and the sun peeks out, turning a drenched Norwick into a cluster of watery jewels that glisten in the light.


  • I stood before Captain Fortescue, my reports in his hand. “I heard there was trouble in the Pissing Goat”, he said, looking up briefly at me.

    “No trouble sir”, I replied.

    …and that was the end of it. He signed the reports, gave me my new duty roster, and I was on my way.

    It took me a day or two of meditation after the fight in the Pissing Goat to re-enter that state of mind, where everything is clear, and every movement obvious. Now I can do it at will, and I worry that the self assurance it gives me will make me overconfident, and that’s a dangerous mind set to get into. However, I have reached a point in my training where I feel I have accomplished the goals I have set for myself, and I am beginning to look at my future with a different set of eyes.

    Yesterday, a man who calls himself The Herald asked to speak with me. I had spoken with him briefly in Norwick last week, and he called me over in the Peltarch commons yesterday, offering me a drink, and wanting to talk.

    He is an odd fellow. Covered in tattoos that move about like so many scurrying cockroaches exposed to sunlight, my first encounter years ago caused me to recoil. But over the course of my training I have learned to look at people with more objectivity, and curiosity got the better of me.

    I sat and listened.

    He told me he wanted to tell me his story. What followed was a fantastic tale of Netherese cities, old exiles, impossible lifetimes, and an even more improbable purpose. I didn’t know what to believe. At first while listening to him, and asking the odd question or two, the believability of it bothered me. Eventually however, I realized that it didn’t matter. This was his story. This was how he wished to be perceived. When I boiled it all down, it was just the tale of a lonely individual who wanted to talk, and needed someone to listen.

    At the end, I asked him how he wished to be remembered. He replied, “Not at all, I wish to leave this world without a trace”. I laughed inwardly at that, because he failed by telling me his story. The finest mark we leave is in the memories of others. If he didn’t wish to leave a trace, he should have remained silent.

    I find myself wondering how I will be remembered. I am sure Aelthas will one day tell his grandchildren about the mixed breed elf girl he once knew he nicknamed “Legs”, and how she could fight people wielding swords with just her bare hands and snatch arrows out of the air. My legacy will be reduced to a sentence or two, along with the shared smiles of old friends.

    …and that’s OK.


  • This story written with special thanks to DM Stuiped and head DM Andelas

    My master in Damara called them moments of clarity. These are moments where the world resolves itself in perfect detail. Every nuance revealed. Every moment within touched.

    It is said that the great masters can achieve them in meditation. For some people, they come during quiet moments. A lonely sunset. A spell under a willow tree. A walk alone at night. For others, they come during moments of high emotion or revelation. A lover’s first kiss, or a tender touch. For most, these moments are elusive and never come at all.

    My first one came in a bar fight.

    It was an otherwise uneventful evening on the west end of the docks. I had ended my shift as I usually do in the Pissing Goat. My investigation continues there, and I have made myself a usual sight to avoid undue suspicion.

    Holly was talking to three sailors in the corner. She was flirting expertly with two of them, and keeping the third on an invisible hook, ready to reel him in. Sandi was talking to a heavyset balding fellow that I didn’t recognize. Another new sailor from Hoarsgate I supposed.

    The barkeep laughed at some old joke that Harry the Toothless was telling for the umpteenth time. Barmaids hustled around and avoided gropes. Amidst laughter and derision coin changed hands at a table in the corner. Steins rattled, one falling on the floor.

    All the usual sounds washed over and surrounded me. I paid little attention…until the back of someone’s skull hit the wall so hard, the plank shattered.

    I watched the heavyset balding man walk away. Sandi slid down the wall, a red streak trailing behind her on the wood from the back of her head.

    It was only a brief moment before I leapt to my feet. I had confided in this woman just days before. She and Holly had listened as I poured my heart out to them. Suddenly, I looked upon this man with hate. This wasn’t just an assault on some nameless prostitute.

    It was personal.

    He heard the movement behind him, and turned cautiously but relatively carefree. He was big enough not to worry about most folks, and looked at the little waif before him with little concern.

    I kicked him in the groin with every ounce of strength I could muster.

    His face went pale. His eyes bulged from his head, and he stopped breathing. His knees wavered and buckled. He sank to the floor like some big merchant vessel that had just been rammed.

    …and that’s when I felt it.

    It was a wave of pain in my side, followed by a giddy feeling. I looked down at my right. Blood was seeping quickly from an opening between my silks. A weasel faced man stood there with a serrated kris, slick with my blood. I had been so focused on the large fellow, that I had completely ignored any friends he might have in the corner. I felt stupid.

    …and thus began my moment of clarity. Perhaps it was the shock. Perhaps it was the pain. At that moment….at that precise instant in time, everything in the Pissing Goat became, utterly crystal clear.

    _I watched a drop of my blood make a star pattern in a space between the straws on the floor. The sweat on the weasel faced man’s upper lip. The movement in the muscles of his left arm as he sought to stab again.

    I became aware of two more who were helping him. The skinny one behind me was going to stand on the table and jump me. The bearded one to my left was going to swing a chair.

    Beyond them, five men playing cards. One was going to drop one. The barmaid was going to move to his side. Amidst giggles and false protests, one of the players was going to pull her on his lap.

    Most were going to turn to the commotion. The two guards I’ve been watching were beginning to look up, but I knew that it was all going be over before they even rose from their seats._

    It was if the entirety of the Pissing Goat were the stage of some intricate bardic play, and I had the script.

    The weasel faced man lunged again, but I spin to the left pushing him past me and throwing him off balance.

    The man behind steps on the table. I continue my spin, snapping my leg out and sweeping his. As his head crashes down on the corner of the table, I arch back. The chair whistles over my head from the person who swung it.

    The man in front of me with the knife turns and slashes. I pivot left, grabbing his arm. Elbow to the face. High kick under the chin of the man with the chair while he is off balance. Maintain hold of the arm with the knife. I turn again, twisting his arm over. Snap kick to the side of his head, and he goes down.

    The man with the chair recovers and swings again, but I’m not there as I sway my body left. I see everything before it’s happening. The chain crashes into the ground, splintering.

    Muscle memory and training become faster than conscious thought. Hit to the wrist, fist to the stomach, knife hand to the throat, heal of palm under his chin. He staggers, and a roundhouse kick snaps his head sideways. He falls, unconscious or dead before hitting the ground.

    …and it’s over. The sounds of the Pissing Goat wash over me, their detail lost in the noise. Men lay scattered about this end of the room like discarded toys. Sandi lies slumped on the floor. She’s still conscious but bewildered.

    Almost everyone is looking in my direction, but soon turn back to their drinks, women, and games. For most, it was a brief but entertaining diversion from routine.

    For me, it was an awakening.