3. Yana at the Docks

Yana at the Docks


  • I lean on the railing of the balcony of the Grapevine Inn. The wind blows through the valley from the north, bringing with it the smell of freshly turned earth and cut wood. It’s the smell I grew used to growing up in Norwick, but now seems so foreign to me. The clouds move quickly overhead, casting running shadows on the fields. I watch below me as contestants in the games fight each other to test their skill.

    There were times in my life where I ached to grow up and compete. When I returned to this land, one of the first things I did was participate in the games to practice and prove myself. I wanted mom to be proud. I wanted to live up to my name as the daughter of one of the great warriors in this land.

    I have, I think. I have bested reputable metal clad warriors armed with sword and shield, with nothing but silks and what I was born with. Now, except for the occasional demonstration of skill, the games no longer hold much interest to me.

    However, I have learned that there is a price for this level of competence, particularly for a woman.

    Loneliness.

    I watched it happen with mom. Men would look up to mom with respect, admiration, and sometimes fear. Rarely however, would they look upon her with love or desire. Those that did hid it, fearful I suppose that she would find out.

    I noticed it with myself. When I came back from Damara, my youthful exuberance and lack of confidence brought men to me. They cared for my well being. There were offers of protection and affection. Now I am kept at a respectable distance.

    Perhaps it’s me. The experiences required to obtain this level of training come with a price. Despite my elven longevity, the woman who stares back in the mirror is different than the one that did ten years ago. Her eyes have seen too much, and they look back at me cold and uncaring.


  • The air in the Pissing Goat is filled with the smoke of hearth and pipe. The scents of cooked meat and fish mingles with the odors of old ale, straw and sweat, creating an atmosphere unique to this establishment.

    I sit in the corner of the large room. Dressed in my ODS blue and yellows, I am as innocuous as I can be. Yet as always I sit alone, my small table vacant save for me and the remains of my evening meal. The darkness won’t be put aside today, or buried in that little corner of my heart. Jenny served me dinner and saw the look on my face, and then left.

    The sounds of the room are a cacophony of laughing, swearing, and clinking of mugs and dinner ware. This is punctuated by the chime of coins at another, and the low voices surrounding me. It’s a constant drone that tells me all is well.

    Until suddenly, the tone changes

    It gets quieter. The change in pitch is as alarming as a shout in my ear, and I glance up at the large table full of coins. A man is standing. He is slender but tall, with thick black hair covering his face and arms. A Damaran pig-sticker rests easily in his right hand, the point of it at the throat of another who remains sitting.

    I know most everyone here, but not the men at this table. A new ship perhaps, or group from a caravan from Damara.

    I get up and make my way over. He notices me about ten feet before I get there, but dismisses me at a glance. The man seated is frightened, and has leaned back in his chair. The point of the knife has drawn blood.

    “…nobody draws cards like that, nay e’en blessed b’Tymora” he spits out.

    He looks at me again. This time I’m holding up a badge.

    “You can kill him for cheating”, I say, “But then I’ll have to arrest you for murder. You’ll go to jail, be tried, and then hang. I hope it’s worth it”

    Except for a low murmur, the room is very quiet now. He looks around at his companions for support. No one moves. He glances around the room to gauge the situation. Several of the regulars shake their heads, advising him with glances and looks. His mouth twitches some, and I notice the muscles in his arm relax. With a flourish he sheathes the knife, and sits with a contemptuous expression.

    I turn and walk back to the table. The noise of the Pissing Goat rises again to its familiar, comforting level.

    I sit at the table again, alone with the remains of my dinner.


  • Jealousy

    I wandered from the Dancing Mermaid out into the commons. Rico is talking to this red head, the one that’s been seen around Mariston and his squires. She looks the part of the performer, her face smooth and comely. She is beautiful in ways I could never be. Their eyes are locked and she smiles demurely, playing with her hair.

    It swells inside me, the monster nibbling at my pride. I tell myself I can’t compete with the likes of her and walk away.

    Bitterness

    I walked away from the defeat of the shadows. Others did not, and gave their lives for the good of many. It was my duty to defend the common good. I have sworn to do so, and ask little in return. I have what I need to survive, and many of the finer things beyond what I truly need. Others were not so lucky, and did not survive.

    Yet, my bank account grows depleted. I have little to show for any of the adventures I have been on. Mom used to have a wall where things were hung, and a shelf below it. They were full of trinkets of her conquests and travels. Reminders of great deeds accomplished, and adventures had.

    Save for the silks I wear I have nothing, save what I have purchased or traded. I question what I truly need, but discover it boils down to what I truly want.

    Resentment

    It is said that the great among us aspire to serve others. To give of one’s self so that others can live their lives and be safe. I have done so in the service of this city for many years. I have watched friends die to keep this city and its people from harm.

    But so few care of these lives lost, or buried in the mire of tedium and fear needed to protect them. Many resent us, and now with sadness I have begun to resent them in return. I resent the ungrateful people I protect, and the ungrateful people that order me to do so. Yet I continue as a good person must.

    These dark emotions and thoughts follow me through the docks. Many see the darkness in my demeanor and avoid me. No longer the little blonde waif, people fear what I can do. No longer the friendly face, but simply the law.

    My journey through the docks takes me to the end of a pier. I fold into a sitting position and rest quietly in meditation, pushing the darkness aside. I have a little trunk in the corner of my heart where I keep these feelings, and lock them in there where they won’t do any harm.

    I worry though that someday the trunk will be too full to close, or that someone will steal the key. That will be the day I will do something I truly regret.


  • It’s raining outside in Norwick. It’s a cold driving rain that soaks through clothes in seconds. A few people run from house to house, occasionally slipping in the muddy streets. I just stare out the window from my room at the Grapevine Inn. I’m having a hard time focusing my feelings and thoughts.

    Three friends of mine paid the price of arrogance. They died because we didn’t value life, and underestimated our foe.

    We had searched in vain for Rico. When we didn’t find him, the kobolds had asked for tribute. They said we should leave it for their chieftain to ensure safe passage out of the warrens. I was in the middle of bargaining when Rith decided that tribute would be in the form of a summoned earth elemental, which appeared behind their barricade and slaughtered all who didn’t escape.

    The trip out soon became a nightmare of epic proportions. Kobolds and their lizardmen allies swarmed out from the underground pools and streams, blocking our entrance. What started as an organized melee became a flight for survival. Rico, Saria, and Corwin all fell.

    I was standing outside Peltarch’s gates, simply thankful to be alive. Fadia and Tindra were there, all of us dazed, wounded and exhausted. One of them mentioned that Rith should be bopped on the head. I was too upset to laugh at the time.

    When their spirits were returned, Rico had a look of guilt. Saria was bewildered and confused. Corwin stood proud and stoic, and walked himself out the room. I had expected less of him, and couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. I still remembered him as the boy next door, and not the man he’s become. I’ve seen many a seasoned adventurer with far less dignity.

    My thoughts turn back to the present. A wagon goes by my window, spraying two children with mud and water. They squeal in delight, and continue to run about in the rain, sliding in puddles. I watch them and smile. I was one of them a lifetime ago.


  • I have just come back from the Festival of the Seldarine. With deliberate care I undo my pony tail, and place my uniform on my dresser. I sit on my bed and close my eyes. In my mind I see the others in the festival, laughing and dancing.

    A band is playing downstairs in the Mermaid. The music filters up through the floorboards of my room and fills my senses. It is a mixture of dulcimer, a heavier stringed instrument, and drums. The music is slow and rhythmic, but begins to pick up pace.

    They’re playing my song.

    Many years ago, Glorion had me put some of my katas to music. It was an exercise in rhythm of movement, and a way of expanding my thinking on what unarmed combat was truly about.

    The song I chose was a classic. “Warrior’s Demise” by Chipolte. It’s a sad song, with soaring sequences that lift my heart above my daily cares.

    Downstairs, I hear them practice. Soon they start again.

    I stand from the bed. My hands come up in fluid movements, arms outstretched to the rising notes of the dulcimer. My leg rises to near vertical, as the heavier stringed instrument begins its solo. Soon, the two instruments begin a slow interlocking duel, my arms and legs sweeping the air in time with the music below me.

    The pace quickens, and I begin to sweat as my arms, legs, and body sweep the room quickly in circular interlocking motions. Time passes. I am lost in the sound and rhythm. My worries and cares forgotten.

    Eventually, the music slows along with my movements. In the song, the warrior is dying, and I honor the music by lowering my stance and finally, collapsing to the floor.

    The music stops.

    I hear clapping downstairs, as the waitresses and few patrons show their appreciation for their fine performance. I get off the floor, and blow out the flame in the lantern.

    Like the warrior in the song, my world turns dark.

    I wonder if he too, danced alone.


  • The morning sky is cold and gray. The waves crash noisily on the piers, the last gasp of a passing storm. The vendors are just beginning to open their windows and carts. People peek out of doorways and look up. An hour from now, the docks will be busy again.

    I accepted Ael’Que’s request to teach him some of the finer points of unarmed combat. Though he follows me on my rounds sometimes, and asks questions, I can’t help but think there are other motives behind this request.

    Every morning before shift, I teach the guards the little tricks needed to throw someone off balance, and to throw a punch or an elbow properly. I teach the guards as a method of keeping the peace. Unarmed conflict is far less deadly, and if a situation can be resolved before weapons are drawn, so much the better. However, I don’t think Ael’Que wants to learn unarmed combat to keep the peace. Although he hasn’t said it outright, I believe he wants to learn so he can win in the Norwick games.

    Ael’Que is strong and quick. He is a disciplined warrior. I can teach him the right and wrong ways of fighting unarmed. Given the time and training, I could make him very good.

    But is it the right thing to do?

    I can never share the fullness of Glorion’s teachings with him. He’s too set in his ways, and lacks the necessary insight. I could see that, in the first few lessons. Being strong and quick does not make up for that.

    The Tempus warrior in me tells me to arm a person who wishes to fight. Lathander loves athletic contests. I teach him because my faith tells me it’s the right thing to do.

    But something inside me tells me it’s wrong, and puts the seeds of doubt in my heart.


  • It started with the neighbors complaining about the noise. A routine investigation leading to a dark alley and a sturdy door.

    I stood in the narrow spaces between the buildings unmoving, staring at the door. The wall behind me obscured the twilight from the western sky, and the alley was filled with misshapen shadows. The dark corners of my mind whispered for me to get another guard.

    But I didn’t.

    I knocked, and I was surprised when the door opened a crack. An emotionless eye peeked out.

    “City guard”, I said. “May I come in?”

    A long pause. A long look behind him.

    “Sure thing”, he said, unlocking a chain inside the door.

    He smiled. It bothered me.

    I stepped in, wary of my surroundings. It was neat and tidy. Somehow, I had expected different.

    “How can I help you?” he said, smiling again. He was tall, and thin. His black hair was was well groomed. He had shaved recently. His eyes were light gray.

    The smile and the eyes were disconnected. Incongruous. One betrayed the other. It was then I began to notice the smell.

    “The neighbors have been complaining about noises coming from your apartment”, I said looking around carefully.

    “What kind of noises”, he asked. The smile was innocence pasted on a face of full wariness. His eyes flicked to an interior door.

    I wandered around, gently and casually turning over various knickknacks, all the while watching him. It was a trick I learned from a retired lieutenant. People betrayed themselves so easily.

    “Nothing specific”, I lied.

    I brushed my hand on the handle of the door, and he stiffened. The smile never faded.

    “What’s in the next room?” I asked innocently.

    “Just my pantry” he said.

    I went to open it, but it was locked. A faint noise came from the other side of the door.

    “Please open it” I replied

    “Do you have a warrant miss?” He challenged.

    “You invited me in”

    The smile faded, but never left. “Now I’m asking you to leave”

    My kick shattered the door jam. The dim light from an oil lamp revealed in grisly detail what lay around the small room. Something, or someone moaned. Someone that couldn’t possibly still be alive, but was.

    I threw up.

    Then I was hit.

    The blow caught me off guard, and drove me to the floor. My vision exploded with little white lights. He raised the long metal bar to hit me again, but I could see it all coming, an echo in my perception. When he swung again, I simply wasn’t there, having rolled aside and kipped to a crouch. The bar hit the floor with a solid thunk and a clang.

    As my vision continued to swim, he swung again. I leaned back and was content to let it miss. Knickknacks and shelving shattered on the wall.

    He was still smiling when he raised the bar over his head, and I hit him so fast he never finished the swing. He staggered back against the wall, a look of stunned shock on his face, still pasted over with that eerie smile.

    In the back of my mind was a choice. I could see the choice played out. I would arrest him. He would go to prison. There would be a trial, and he would be executed.

    I killed him before that choice was made.


  • The wind whispering through the valleys and hills surrounding Norwick is familiar. It’s an old, comforting sound that tells me I am home again, though it is no longer my home.

    I spent much of my life here with mom. I grew up with the children, swam in the streams, and played in the hills. I trained, sweated, fought and hid in these halls. There is so much of my life here that I want to remember and forget.

    I come here often to think. As a Peltarch city guard I can never leave my job behind. Even off duty, I am still a guard, and duty and responsibilities always swim in the murky waters of my subconscious. In Norwick, my responsibilities seem so far away.

    Today, I have much to think about. I honestly don’t even know where to begin. All of it so bewildering and sad.

    As a member of the Divine Shield, I was called to halt a series of events designed to destroy the city. I had been following the reports of parallel planes, appearances and disappearances as best I could. But my primary duties are the mundane and daily tasks of my profession. I often leave the confrontation of demonic and otherworldly forces to those best equipped to deal with them.

    I didn’t understand most of what I was supposed to be doing. I knew that there was a portal, and going through it would trigger a release allowing demonic forces to enter our realm. Shannon, Daisy and Mariston would be there to stop them. I knew that this portal entered another version of Peltarch, where dark forces there were bent on destroying mine. All of this centered around a device called the calculabe. We were to go through this portal to stop these demonic forces, and recover it.

    We were successful.

    I like to think I fought well, and contributed to the mission’s success. But I wasn’t good enough. At least not good enough to save Aelthas.

    Aelthas died facing a creature beyond my ability to fight. He died bravely, doing his duty and fighting for his city. He died with honor. Tempus would be proud.

    …and I cried.

    I had no time to cry then. I was too scared, too involved, and too focused on the tasks at hand. It wasn’t until later, that I let myself grieve.

    I don’t have many friends in this world. Aelthas was one of them. Already married with children, he was my “safe” guy friend that I could flirt with and discuss my feelings. I like to think that part of my grief is for his wife Lycka and his children, but right now my grief is selfish.

    I’m going to miss him.


  • She arrived the other day. I heard a sailor talking, laughing drunkenly that he had seen an older version of me asking for directions.

    She stayed in the Mermaid, this older version of me. She is slender. Fate did not strengthen her limbs or have a champion of Tempus to teach her the ways of combat.

    She is older. She has seen her son in law die of a broken heart, her daughter dead at the hands of others. She has seen much in this life, and wants to see a little more before the years carry her away.

    She is my grandmother. Her name is Fi.

    We introduced ourselves to each other in the Mermaid. She had a copy of the broach made by my father, a man I never knew. A broach also given to my birth mother, a woman I only knew for a couple of months before she was slain. I spent my life in the Sisterhood never knowing her, but cared by a woman who loved me, and raised me as her own.

    We walk along the docks now, her gate calm and steady. I point things out to her, and introduce her to vendors, street urchins, and dock workers. I spend the day and show her the city.

    As we walk, I wonder how her presence will change things. She runs a merchant business in Impiltur. When she returns, will I go with her?

    I leave such decisions and thoughts for another time.


  • It wasn’t until I overheard the date at one of the pottery shops, that I realized it was my birthday.

    It should be special I suppose. I should have a tight circle of friends and family. We should gather at an inn, eat heartily, sing silly songs, and listen to stories designed to embarrass me. Isn’t that what everyone else does?

    Now that the shrine is finished, mom is elsewhere. I don’t have anyone else that I could call family, and my circle of friends, the ones who I talk to every week, ones I share jokes with, the ones who laugh and cry with me…

    …don’t exist.

    They used to. There was a time in my life when I shared adventures with people, people whose lives I cared about, and would sacrifice for. People who shared those feelings and returned them.

    …but they’re gone too.

    But are they truly gone, or is it me?

    The city I loved has become my life. I have withdrawn from adventuring to protect this city. I have given so much to it, and it has taken every bit, swallowed it, and demanded more. The dreams and visions I had have been replaced with a daily tedium of duty and obligation. More a symbol of Torm than Lathander. I have become Sergeant Yana of the Peltarch City Guard. Nothing less, yet nothing more.

    Perhaps this is why this little brooch has become so important to me. I’ve spoken with merchants, clergy, and bards to gain what little insight I could into a legacy that shouldn’t matter, but somehow does. Perhaps I am hoping that knowledge of the past will guide my future.

    I hear shouting in the Pissing Goat. One of the waitresses comes running out of the door to me, and says one of Shay’s men has cut down Little Robert after being accused of cheating. There’s blood all over the place she says, and Shay’s man isn’t backing down.

    I close my eyes momentarily before I enter the Pissing Goat.

    Happy birthday to me.


  • 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”