Dear Zanzibar,
Pray forgive this intrusion into your studies, but my extensive time at sea has had such a profound impact on my world view that I must needs unload the burden of these startling discoveries lest my heart burst from my chest in anxious wonder! You, being from a part of the world so alien to us Northerners that even the stars pattern themselves in homage to gods unknown to us - you, so far from home that your soul must be overwhelmed with longing - you, who speak of the wondrous herbal treasures and strange, spicy foods of your homeland ... well, I just knew you'd be interested in what I had to say.
I will not quibble with you, Zanzibar, but I shall be as direct and forthcoming as you have always known me to be, and all I ask is that you consider my plan in all its daring and audacity and vision.
For the world is round, Zanzibar, round! It is a great ball that hangs in the heavens, and so certain I am of my hypothesis that I am willing to embark on the greatest of voyages to prove it, and what is more, I shall want to take you with me!
Yes, Zanzibar, you understand the implications, don't you? I say again that the world is round and though you traveled over mountains and desert and gods know what to reach our frosted lands, I have every reason to believe that your return could be a direct dash across the Western sea, a voyage of mere weeks instead of months! No Egyptians or Romans or Greeks to quibble with over safe passage, no highway robbers to protect yourself against, no silk road to traverse in turtle-paced caravans, none of these! No, your homeland lies SouthWest, my good man. Like an arrow, we shall draw from the port of Bordeaux and loose ourselves into the sea, straight and sure and swift to your home, making landfall on your shores with no stops in between.
I reckon the circumference of this great ball on which we live and die to be some 6000 leagues, and our journey no more than 1/4 of this distance, perhaps 4500 miles as the crow flies or the Aelfbane sales. Though a Teleport can land you on your home soil in the blink of an eye, only the mundane arts of modern travel could open our two lands to the most profitable and profound of trade routes! We shall render the Silk Road obsolete and open a dialogue between East and West that shall forever tilt the balance of power in our favour! We will be lords among lords, kings of the mercantile world! No challenge will ever be beyond our power again! And we must do it quickly, before some filthy Norse dog, filled with low cunning and malice as they ever are, stumbles upon my discovery through no more effort than sheer luck!
Your safe passage would come at the lowest of costs - to act as ambassador to your great merchants and find equitable and profitable trade opportunities for our two lands. With determined effort, we could begin this voyage no later than next Spring! Your home is just beyond the sunset, Zanzibar! Do you wish to be the first to circle the world? I eagerly await your response.
Yours in Earnest
Captain Fjord
dictated to and scribed by his humble servant Bobbers on June 23, In the 8th year of our Independence.
An Egyptian Souvenir for Bobbers
"So Bobbers, how are things?"
"Oh, very well, sir - a touch slow since the departure of Lord Faust, but I have kept myself busy repairing the tower. At your behest, no expense has been spared. I trust you found your chambers in good order?"
"No complaints. You have steered clear of the drink, I trust?"
Bobbers chuckled politely, "Absolutely, sir. But of course ..." And here his gaze lowered in a humbleness I approve, "L-Lord Faust insisted I partake of some bizarre concoction he dreamed up one evening. We were both possessed by powerful spirits that corrupted our senses and abandoned us to dark fantasies! Math have mercy!"
"Never fear. You have exonerated yourself, my good man. You did the right thing twice: first by obeying Faust, and second by confessing your sins to me. In this you have proven yourself twice loyal. And now, " I brushed aside his confession for more pressing matters, "If you'll accompany me to the holding cells?" Bobbers nodded and grabbed a torch off the wall and we trudged downstairs. At present the cell was empty, and yet even here Bobbers had proven his worth as I gazed into the dimly lit chamber with my keen elvish eyes. Nary a cobweb or speck of dust could I find, and the air was fresh with a hint of lemon. It would seem even my future prisoners would be receiving Bobbers' utmost care. I reached carefully into a hidden pocket inside my cloak and pulled out an harmless looking bird.
"Some sort of sparrow, m'lord?"
"A rock swallow, I am told. They are quite common in Africa and can be seen in cities and wilderness alike. It seemed the perfect choice for transformation."
"uhhh ... transformation, m'lord?"
I spared Bobbers a disarming grin as I placed the bird on the cell floor and stepped back into the corridor, slamming the door shut so we could observe through the tiny, barred window. "Bobbers, you are about to meet a very special creature who shall serve us as pet. Are you ready?" Bobbers nodded without taking his eyes off the bird. I waved by hands in the air, recited the incantation and presto! The swallow reverted to its old self: A rather ugly, altogether nasty canine with dripping yellow fangs and four, crazy eyes. Four eyes. Two heads. Bobbers gasped, caught the dog's attention and shrieked when it leaped at him and began furiously scratching at the door that separated the two. "Bobbers, meet Clifford, my big, two-headed, psycho dog."
"Gods of all creation, what a hideous beast! I pity any man forced to be in the same room as him!"
Poor Bobbers, no sense easing him into this one. "Yes, well, congratulations, Bobbers. I expect him to be domesticated by the time I return from my next adventure." The look on his face was indescribable.
"Surely, not me, m'lord! I'm a butler, not an animal handler!"
"As you say, Bobbers. You are the steward of this household. If you think this beast is out of your jurisdiction, then by all means find a trainer. But when I return, he will answer to my commands, or you and Clifford just may share bedchambers henceforth!"
"Yes, m'lord! As you say, m'lord!"
Ahhhhh, obedience: it is the tonic to years of ridicule. And now, I must dictate a letter of special interest to Zanzibar. I may have found a faster route to India which will save him months of travel. But how will he react when I tell him that he is as much from the far West as from the East?
"Oh, very well, sir - a touch slow since the departure of Lord Faust, but I have kept myself busy repairing the tower. At your behest, no expense has been spared. I trust you found your chambers in good order?"
"No complaints. You have steered clear of the drink, I trust?"
Bobbers chuckled politely, "Absolutely, sir. But of course ..." And here his gaze lowered in a humbleness I approve, "L-Lord Faust insisted I partake of some bizarre concoction he dreamed up one evening. We were both possessed by powerful spirits that corrupted our senses and abandoned us to dark fantasies! Math have mercy!"
"Never fear. You have exonerated yourself, my good man. You did the right thing twice: first by obeying Faust, and second by confessing your sins to me. In this you have proven yourself twice loyal. And now, " I brushed aside his confession for more pressing matters, "If you'll accompany me to the holding cells?" Bobbers nodded and grabbed a torch off the wall and we trudged downstairs. At present the cell was empty, and yet even here Bobbers had proven his worth as I gazed into the dimly lit chamber with my keen elvish eyes. Nary a cobweb or speck of dust could I find, and the air was fresh with a hint of lemon. It would seem even my future prisoners would be receiving Bobbers' utmost care. I reached carefully into a hidden pocket inside my cloak and pulled out an harmless looking bird.
"Some sort of sparrow, m'lord?"
"A rock swallow, I am told. They are quite common in Africa and can be seen in cities and wilderness alike. It seemed the perfect choice for transformation."
"uhhh ... transformation, m'lord?"
I spared Bobbers a disarming grin as I placed the bird on the cell floor and stepped back into the corridor, slamming the door shut so we could observe through the tiny, barred window. "Bobbers, you are about to meet a very special creature who shall serve us as pet. Are you ready?" Bobbers nodded without taking his eyes off the bird. I waved by hands in the air, recited the incantation and presto! The swallow reverted to its old self: A rather ugly, altogether nasty canine with dripping yellow fangs and four, crazy eyes. Four eyes. Two heads. Bobbers gasped, caught the dog's attention and shrieked when it leaped at him and began furiously scratching at the door that separated the two. "Bobbers, meet Clifford, my big, two-headed, psycho dog."
"Gods of all creation, what a hideous beast! I pity any man forced to be in the same room as him!"
Poor Bobbers, no sense easing him into this one. "Yes, well, congratulations, Bobbers. I expect him to be domesticated by the time I return from my next adventure." The look on his face was indescribable.
"Surely, not me, m'lord! I'm a butler, not an animal handler!"
"As you say, Bobbers. You are the steward of this household. If you think this beast is out of your jurisdiction, then by all means find a trainer. But when I return, he will answer to my commands, or you and Clifford just may share bedchambers henceforth!"
"Yes, m'lord! As you say, m'lord!"
Ahhhhh, obedience: it is the tonic to years of ridicule. And now, I must dictate a letter of special interest to Zanzibar. I may have found a faster route to India which will save him months of travel. But how will he react when I tell him that he is as much from the far West as from the East?
The Continuing Woo
Dearest Sandro,
I have yet to hear your response to my proposal. I do not worry, for I have been on the move all Winter and did not expect your message to find me easily. I am currently training in Egypt and do not expect to return until Spring. It is pleasant here ... and because of my association with Kheops, I am a "Friend of the Kingdom" and enjoy unparalleled freedom for a foreigner. I have found the loveliest gold brooch inlaid with turquoise that I will pin to your breast upon our next meeting. Yet this is but a trifle compared to the riches I intend to shower you with: the gold will pour from your hair to pile at your feet and your peers will go blind with envy when the Welsh sun focuses through the countless gems into brilliant beams to scorch their retinas! I love you, love you, love you!
No doubt you recall I have spoken of our party's latest recruit, the irritating Vexatious (Yes, Sandro, in Elvish, "irritating" and "vexatious" are indeed synonymous! Rest assured, she is no competition. Helmut delivered a wicked insult at her expense just the other day. He said, "If you were lying in the sand, my pet displacer kitties would mistake your for shit and try to bury you!" Ha! Very droll. Subtle as well, as Egypt has much sandy terrain and a notorious love affiar with felines. Helmut was no doubt warning Vexatious that Egypt may mean the end of her sorry life, slain at the hands of locals and her corpse left to rot on some abandoned beach.
He pummels her constantly with insults. Truth be told, I sometimes wonder if he does not insult her too much. I fear he may grow to enjoy her company if he continues to find merriment in her presence, no matter that merriment's original intent. I must never make that mistake. I feel it in my bones: if we let our guard down, she will rob us blind. She eyes my lucky ring with the same infatuous lust that she once reserved for Faust's magic crossbow. And, she is always writing in a journal of her own ... but with an intensity and calculation that makes me uneasy. Sandro, will you forgive me If I ever have to slay one of our own kind, and a female at that? Let us hope that day never comes.
If I have not heard from you by the Spring equinox, I will visit. It is near impossible to find a pretty elf face in this distant land, and anyway, yours is the only gaze that makes me happy. Will I find you in your fields, sowing the land with life and laughter? I will keep that image in mind until then.
With love,
Fjord
I have yet to hear your response to my proposal. I do not worry, for I have been on the move all Winter and did not expect your message to find me easily. I am currently training in Egypt and do not expect to return until Spring. It is pleasant here ... and because of my association with Kheops, I am a "Friend of the Kingdom" and enjoy unparalleled freedom for a foreigner. I have found the loveliest gold brooch inlaid with turquoise that I will pin to your breast upon our next meeting. Yet this is but a trifle compared to the riches I intend to shower you with: the gold will pour from your hair to pile at your feet and your peers will go blind with envy when the Welsh sun focuses through the countless gems into brilliant beams to scorch their retinas! I love you, love you, love you!
No doubt you recall I have spoken of our party's latest recruit, the irritating Vexatious (Yes, Sandro, in Elvish, "irritating" and "vexatious" are indeed synonymous! Rest assured, she is no competition. Helmut delivered a wicked insult at her expense just the other day. He said, "If you were lying in the sand, my pet displacer kitties would mistake your for shit and try to bury you!" Ha! Very droll. Subtle as well, as Egypt has much sandy terrain and a notorious love affiar with felines. Helmut was no doubt warning Vexatious that Egypt may mean the end of her sorry life, slain at the hands of locals and her corpse left to rot on some abandoned beach.
He pummels her constantly with insults. Truth be told, I sometimes wonder if he does not insult her too much. I fear he may grow to enjoy her company if he continues to find merriment in her presence, no matter that merriment's original intent. I must never make that mistake. I feel it in my bones: if we let our guard down, she will rob us blind. She eyes my lucky ring with the same infatuous lust that she once reserved for Faust's magic crossbow. And, she is always writing in a journal of her own ... but with an intensity and calculation that makes me uneasy. Sandro, will you forgive me If I ever have to slay one of our own kind, and a female at that? Let us hope that day never comes.
If I have not heard from you by the Spring equinox, I will visit. It is near impossible to find a pretty elf face in this distant land, and anyway, yours is the only gaze that makes me happy. Will I find you in your fields, sowing the land with life and laughter? I will keep that image in mind until then.
With love,
Fjord
January 4th, Year 8
Six of us, along with the Carthy crew, have once more put to sea, departing shortly after the Bordeaux Yule that marks the Winter solstice. Our destination is Cairo, via the port of Râ-Kedet. It has been a harrowing dash across The Sea: less than a fortnight to reach Carthage, the winter storms driving us on more than blowing us back. Aelfbane has served us well. It pains me that I should admire any craft of the Norse dogs, but this is the sturdiest vessel I have ever set foot upon ...
We are so awed by the splendour of Carthage, that we have agreed to lay over for two days. Helmut has gone in search of slaves to ship back to Scrape. Kheops sneers at everything, no doubt wishing we had by now "reached civilization" further east. I doubt the rest of us have ever been in a city this large. Hannibal, my first mate, tells me there are a million souls living inside and outside her walls, a number I can barely grasp, and yet utterly believe when gaping at the throngs perusing the main thoroughfares. Carthage is flowing in money and food. The locals name her "the Breadbasket of the World" and one need only stare at the finely cultivated wheat fields disappearing into the horizon to agree with them. Or for that matter, one need only visit the Great Market and smell the loaves of a thousand artisan bakers. The peasants are plump and content, the merchants are obese and amiable, and their commerce is everywhere. I asked Hannibal what gods his people serve, and he laughed, shaking his coin purse and rubbing his belly. Kheops, walking with us, shuddered and made an arcane gesture, as if to signal to his god that he was enjoying this luxury not at all. But even his eye was drawn to the hale prostitutes hanging over balconies, ready and willing in any combination of race and colour that a pervert could imagine. Hannibal assures me that even elf women have made small fortunes here with their bodies - unless they were slaves, of course.
After a night of revelry, my downtime has been curbed to more meditative pursuits. I speak of course of fletching. Ah, fletching! Today I put the finishing touches on a lovely full quiver: each head whetted to a perfect razor with magical assistance; my rune emblazoned on a single signature arrow; and because these are a special gift for a friend, in place of my regular black-dyed goose feathers I've chosen pink-dyed swan. Nothing in the world gives me such peace as this simple art. I ignore the irony.
We are so awed by the splendour of Carthage, that we have agreed to lay over for two days. Helmut has gone in search of slaves to ship back to Scrape. Kheops sneers at everything, no doubt wishing we had by now "reached civilization" further east. I doubt the rest of us have ever been in a city this large. Hannibal, my first mate, tells me there are a million souls living inside and outside her walls, a number I can barely grasp, and yet utterly believe when gaping at the throngs perusing the main thoroughfares. Carthage is flowing in money and food. The locals name her "the Breadbasket of the World" and one need only stare at the finely cultivated wheat fields disappearing into the horizon to agree with them. Or for that matter, one need only visit the Great Market and smell the loaves of a thousand artisan bakers. The peasants are plump and content, the merchants are obese and amiable, and their commerce is everywhere. I asked Hannibal what gods his people serve, and he laughed, shaking his coin purse and rubbing his belly. Kheops, walking with us, shuddered and made an arcane gesture, as if to signal to his god that he was enjoying this luxury not at all. But even his eye was drawn to the hale prostitutes hanging over balconies, ready and willing in any combination of race and colour that a pervert could imagine. Hannibal assures me that even elf women have made small fortunes here with their bodies - unless they were slaves, of course.
After a night of revelry, my downtime has been curbed to more meditative pursuits. I speak of course of fletching. Ah, fletching! Today I put the finishing touches on a lovely full quiver: each head whetted to a perfect razor with magical assistance; my rune emblazoned on a single signature arrow; and because these are a special gift for a friend, in place of my regular black-dyed goose feathers I've chosen pink-dyed swan. Nothing in the world gives me such peace as this simple art. I ignore the irony.
I've not written here since my flight from Scrape. It was an eventful Autumn, but being away from my ship has left me with little desire to write, except for the odd poem and letter. Nevertheless, I must needs note here that we recruited a new companion shortly after Cedrica's wedding. Vexatious, like me, is an Elf Warrior Mage. The similarity ends there:
One, She is a backwoods bumpkin with some sort of inexplicable hatred for goblins that goes well past healthy racism. She mentioned something about her parents - I'm not sure, I wasn't listening. She gives every indication of being some kind of sub-elf product of a warped evolution, emerging from her dreary, unrefined shanty-town on some distant hilltop to abuse the civilized world with her rustic "charms". She is also hideouly ugly and grating to the ears.
Two, against all reason and sane comprehension, she has chosen the short sword and crossbow as her weapons of proficiency - what inexplicable disdain she shows toward her heritage! Though she claims to be more intelligent than I, she would purposefully avoid using weapons that she was literally born to wield! What pride! What gall! How I loathe her!
But she is still an Elf ... that counts. But I would still hold my ship in higher regard ... and most of the crew. As for her standing in the party, she clings to the bottom rung and her feet dangle into the threshold of oblivion, and I need only step on her fingers should that time need arise.
I'm watching you "Vexy"!
One, She is a backwoods bumpkin with some sort of inexplicable hatred for goblins that goes well past healthy racism. She mentioned something about her parents - I'm not sure, I wasn't listening. She gives every indication of being some kind of sub-elf product of a warped evolution, emerging from her dreary, unrefined shanty-town on some distant hilltop to abuse the civilized world with her rustic "charms". She is also hideouly ugly and grating to the ears.
Two, against all reason and sane comprehension, she has chosen the short sword and crossbow as her weapons of proficiency - what inexplicable disdain she shows toward her heritage! Though she claims to be more intelligent than I, she would purposefully avoid using weapons that she was literally born to wield! What pride! What gall! How I loathe her!
But she is still an Elf ... that counts. But I would still hold my ship in higher regard ... and most of the crew. As for her standing in the party, she clings to the bottom rung and her feet dangle into the threshold of oblivion, and I need only step on her fingers should that time need arise.
I'm watching you "Vexy"!
A Proposal from less than ironic circumstances
Dearest Sandro,
I am presently attending a wedding in England. An old comrade has landed herself a princely fish. We saved him from a pit of human devilry in eastern Gaul known locally as The Temple (even for Norse, a grating word to the tongue) and returned him to a throne. The ceremony was brief, notable only in the sheer outrage the locals displayed when their mighty royal allowed a half-orc pirate to act as the bride's second. The rest of the bridal party attempted to play this up as light-hearted jestery; the guests, however, interpreted this ploy as either a statement on the bride's warrior past and the beast the prince had purchased in due course, or as a cautionary meditation on the groom's, shall we say, exploratory ambitions in gender relations. Neither statement was framed in positive light.
But most of what I have written is moot in framing this letter's purpose. For when I remember what we went through to reach this happy occasion, I cannot help but connect marriage with my own mortality, nor exhibit elvish patience in the choosing of life's companion. I wish, Sandro, for you to be her. Though I may not cross the barrier in elder's gowns, I can offer you as much life as creation permits in this short pause. Bear my children, inherit my fortunes, share home and hearth and sword and shield. You are a flower I plucked from thorns and now wish to nurture in a greener, happier garden. I can only pray this deed was noble enough to earn your hand. I am not a handsome elf. I will say no more, but wait for your imminent reply!
I must return to the festivities. My comrade saved herself from the eternal disdain of her subjects with the loveliest of hymns, a most feminine and demure haunting of soft pipes. And she has promised to return for an encore as the sun sets. I shall not want to miss it, especially if she draws from her bawdy war ballads. Perhaps I shall recall the song in a future letter?
Yours in fond trust,
Fjord
p.s. Enclosed is my book of poetry for you to peruse at leisure, and learn the framework of my mind, if that is your wish.
(From Page 24)
Requiem for the Gill-less
When the water encloses the eyelids and seeps,
Into pores barely hidden beneath the clenched peeps,
And follows the orifice inside and around:
Well, one must accept he is finally drowned.
I am presently attending a wedding in England. An old comrade has landed herself a princely fish. We saved him from a pit of human devilry in eastern Gaul known locally as The Temple (even for Norse, a grating word to the tongue) and returned him to a throne. The ceremony was brief, notable only in the sheer outrage the locals displayed when their mighty royal allowed a half-orc pirate to act as the bride's second. The rest of the bridal party attempted to play this up as light-hearted jestery; the guests, however, interpreted this ploy as either a statement on the bride's warrior past and the beast the prince had purchased in due course, or as a cautionary meditation on the groom's, shall we say, exploratory ambitions in gender relations. Neither statement was framed in positive light.
But most of what I have written is moot in framing this letter's purpose. For when I remember what we went through to reach this happy occasion, I cannot help but connect marriage with my own mortality, nor exhibit elvish patience in the choosing of life's companion. I wish, Sandro, for you to be her. Though I may not cross the barrier in elder's gowns, I can offer you as much life as creation permits in this short pause. Bear my children, inherit my fortunes, share home and hearth and sword and shield. You are a flower I plucked from thorns and now wish to nurture in a greener, happier garden. I can only pray this deed was noble enough to earn your hand. I am not a handsome elf. I will say no more, but wait for your imminent reply!
I must return to the festivities. My comrade saved herself from the eternal disdain of her subjects with the loveliest of hymns, a most feminine and demure haunting of soft pipes. And she has promised to return for an encore as the sun sets. I shall not want to miss it, especially if she draws from her bawdy war ballads. Perhaps I shall recall the song in a future letter?
Yours in fond trust,
Fjord
p.s. Enclosed is my book of poetry for you to peruse at leisure, and learn the framework of my mind, if that is your wish.
(From Page 24)
Requiem for the Gill-less
When the water encloses the eyelids and seeps,
Into pores barely hidden beneath the clenched peeps,
And follows the orifice inside and around:
Well, one must accept he is finally drowned.
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