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"!
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