A splash of cold brine patters against the deck. The cabin-boards creak again, and the stern dips beneath the foam. A tidal wind rattles the door to the hold, and the beddings swing on their hangings. Judo, the broad-built Fescian sailor, rubs his temple once more, gives his companions a coy smile, and tosses his lowest card to the table.
“S’ver misifrin,” ever-grumpy Gaus mutters as he sweeps up his winning set. He busily grabs the marble infoltot and lets it spin, and when it lands, he declares, “seventeen.” More cards hit the table as the sailors make their plays.
Judo can’t help but grin as he looks down at the seventeen in his hand. Before long, he wins the set and adds five more cards to his scoring-pile. As he does, he glances again at the Andonian man – Feter is his name – sitting across from him. An odd burn-scar decorates his bare torso. It looks familiar, vaguely, but what could it mean?
Feter wins the next set and spins the infoltot. But as he calls the next number, Gaus makes a vulgar exclamation and shoots an angry look at the rafters. The tagalong girl, the only pink-skin on the ship aside from Feter, sits perched on the beam a few feet above them, scraping out a leaky, rotting knot so it can be sealed with pitch. She keeps a rag held carefully under the spot as she works, but Gaus hasn’t trusted her for a moment with it.
“What did I tell you?” He barks at her. She returns a look of confusion but adjusts the rag to keep it flat on her palm. “Sorry…” she mumbles.
A crewman reclining on a nearby mat stirs at this. “”Let the girl be, Gaus,” he lazily says. “At least she’s doing something.”
“Then she can move over there and sprinkle wood-rot on you for a change!”
“Nine,” Feter repeats with a cough.
No good for Judo. He gives up his lowest again and gazes at the shivering door. Even with his nicest coat wrapped tight, the draft still gets to him. Two more months. That’s all the man wants from you. Then you can be home, and warm.
But two months is still a long time to be apart from Miss Fali.
“We’re still making port tomorrow, yea?” The man beside Judo says. “Anyone hear how long we’re getting?”
“Captain isn’t staying a day,” Gaus says definitively. “So whatever you boys plan on doing in the city, do it fast.”
“Aha!” The next set’s winner exclaims. He stacks his winning cards and spins the infoltot as he says, “I’ll be sticking to the port. They’ve got it all right there, no sense chancing the city-proper.”
“Everything you need, is it?” Feter says with a grin.
“Counting on it.”
“I might have a walk in the city,” Judo muses, and the others laugh. “No, it should be nice. With all the silver the port is raking in, I hear they’ve been cleaning up the place.”
“We’ll decide that.”
“I’m ashamed of you, Judo,” Gaus grumbles with irony.
More cards hit the table, and it’s looking like Judo won’t be winning this time. Good thing this isn’t much of a betting game. He tosses his lowest and watches the girl scraping away at the rotten board. Judo can’t help but to feel sorry for her. She’s a pauper, escaping her home for whatever reason and trying to survive to see their destination, the port-city of Pera in Andonia. Most of the crew consider her a pest. She snuck aboard when the ship berthed at Badroto-Oron, and she tried to pay off the captain with some copper when he caught her. He nearly had her hanged off the larboard all the same; Judo was happy to see her an hour later scrubbing the floors instead. He doesn’t take well to killings, especially not on this cramped cargo vessel.
The girl identifies herself simply as Neeta, – woman, – which the men find laughably overstated. She may keep up a sturdy personality, but she’s young and girlish in appearance… or maybe boyish is the better word. She keeps her Andonian, deep-brown hair just over her ears, and her front is nearly flat. She even prefers pants and loose shirts to more womanly attire, not that skirts would serve her well as a deckhand. It’s likely a façade, of course, as Judo knows well. Her appearance testifies to life on the isles of Badroto-Oron. Nothing good ever happens there.
Gaus ends up winning the round, easily, somehow having claimed thirty out of the fifty-card deck. He glances at the hourglass hanging in the room’s center before shuffling the deck and dealing anew, ten cards to each player.
Judo looks once more at the mark on Feter’s chest, and this time, Feter notices. Judo tries to pass it off diplomatically. “I don’t suppose there’s a good story to that scar?” And for a moment, he worries he might have soured the man.
But on the contrary, Feter smiles at this, as if he was waiting for someone to notice. “It’s my heritage.”
Gaus joins in readily. “It’s a faith-symbol, isn’t it? Hadarotianism.”
“Part of it is, yes. The blossom.” He traces the curves in the symbol’s center. “But the thorn-wreath surrounding it is a symbol of the world’s evil, held at bay for those who stay true to their fathers.”
They play another set in silence, and then Gaus comments, “I didn’t figure you were religious.”
Feter shakes his head. “It’s more of a family thing. I’m a descendant of the Kribbon Brotherhood, if you’ve ever heard of it.”
Gaus nods solemnly, but Judo says, “No, forgive me.”
“They’re legends, Judo,” the man beside him interjects. “How have you not heard of them?”
“They were a part of the Great-War,” Feter more politely answers. “Near its end, around three decades ago, an elite band of Kribbon warriors – my ancestors – entered the service of the king of Andonia. They were led by the lord of Corlette, and they took on the task of driving the invading, barbaric Sketjok from Andonia once and for all. My father was among them, a boy-page for a proud knight. But… well, I won’t bore you all with a history lesson.”
“No, go on,” Judo presses, unabashed by his apparent ignorance.
“Alright…. But, too late, the Kribbon warriors realized they had walked into a trap. The king of Andonia deceitfully claimed the knights of Cordon would aid them, but as the Sketjok began to close on the Kribbons’ camp, no such help could be seen. It turned out the king of Andonia had placed a bounty on the lord of Corlette. He intended to dispose of him and exact revenge over a past feud.
“The Kribbons fought bravely, but they were trapped deep in Sketjok territory. In time, the lord of Corlette was captured and returned, alone, to the king of Andonia. The shamed Kribbons slipped away and hid in the wilderness.
“And then… you all know what happened next. When the emperor of the Artuttans captured Meres, he freed the lord of Corlette and even trusted him with the occupation’s governance. He ended up becoming the High King of Harotia, and now, his descendants still control that country. And they’re among the most powerful rulers in the world.”
“You say that as if you regret it,” Judo responds.
“What, have you seen the state of the Kribbon people?” Feter counters, mildly agitated now. “The house of Corlette was meant to return Hadarotia to its traditions and restore the Kribbons to prestige for defending them all along – but the rule from Meres is corrupt as ever, and the Kribbons still fear for their lives.”
The other players have gone silent, their game forgotten. Feter continues to rant, but he soon is interrupted by a cautious voice from above them. “What about your father?”
“What?” Feter looks up at Neeta, who also has stopped to listen.
“What happened to the warriors, who lost the fight? Your father had to have survived, somehow.”
“They went into hiding. And the Sketjok were still no friends to Andonia, so they made a deal with the Kribbons, in the end. The Kribbons could stay where they were and live in safety, as long as they offered loyalty to the Sketjok chiefs.”
“And… they accepted?”
“And they live there still, even now,” Feter confirms with a nod. “What choice did they have? Now they’ve sworn revenge on the abusive royal families, who have forgotten their duties to Hadarotia to favor their own, growing power. We, the Hadarotians, aren’t led by fathers anymore, Neeta. We’re led by tyrants.”
“So you’re in on this revenge?” Gaus asks as he examines his cards.
Feter cools and looks down at the table. “I’ll go back. One day.”
Judo reflects on this speech as the game resumes. He considers himself lucky not to have been born an Andonian. But things will be better once he’s home, and away from these violent realms. It’s still peaceful there.
Tales from the Thornlands 