Companions - by Scott Flynn

Broson is sitting at the table to his left at the end is Zabova, across is the Brecht proctor, James, newly met. Everyone at the table had a lot to drink. The Brecht is clearly drunk, as is Zabova. It is very late, and the common room at the Crummy Crab is nearly empty.

    James slouches in his chair which is facing Zabova. He is balancing the chair in front of him on its back legs by pushing the edge of the seat with his foot. The waitress approaches with his pitcher of wine and sets it on the table. The chair clatters noisily to the ground.

    "Thank you, my dear," says James, his accentless Aniurian betraying his foreign background. He fills his cup, closes his eyes, and passes his hand over his cup. The cup frosts then condensation forms.

    "The climate here is dreadful," he says, "I am surprised not everyone is malarial from living in this swamp of a midden heap… Typical of a warrior of Haelyn. So self-righteous, 'I'm right! End of debate'. Just like the missionaries. I mean… he has the ring. They don't exactly hand out Imperial Signets to anyone." He continues a conversation from earlier in the night.

    "She has wisdom. I have traveled along with her. She is a brave and dangerous warrior and has survived when others have not. You may want to heed her counsel." The Vos woman thought quietly for a moment then continues.

    "After all, have you seen any of his so-called 'connections'? Can we say, for sure, those men we saw him with are imperial officers?"

    The drunken proctor rolls his eyes and shrugs, "Still, the ring though?"

    Broson deftly pockets his personal snifter, while the proctor sets up the chair again. He starts balancing it.

    Broson rises, "Anyone can steal a ring. " He reaches down to the table and sets a golden object spinning. He turns and mounts the stairs. Off to bed.

    The object slows, it is obviously a ring. When it settles, the two remaining companions see the imperial signet on it.

    As Broson closes the door to his room, he hears the chair clatter to the floor again.

Dear Mother

621 MR: 5th of Anarire

My dearest Mother, I write to you from a room in the Crummy Crab in the Imperial City. I am not sure where to begin. I guess first of all I am fine. I have traveled far and wide this past year and a half. I have experienced pain like I never felt before both emotionally and physically. Is this what Father experienced when he adventured with Wil, Isaac, Roselyn, and his other companions? I guess you did warn me the world beyond Rohrmarch's borders was going to be dangerous. 

There is no easy way to say this. Henry, my childhood friend, is dead. He is now with his god Eloéle. I am still in mourning. I don't tell the others I travel with but I think about him all the time. I can't even describe what happened to him. We were in this other dimension on a mad quest from some foul elephant god. He wanted us to kill his enemy, called the Orange King, he said if we didn't we would perish from his minions of ape-men that surrounded us. He did promise us magic items beyond our imagination. This dimension had a purple sky and everywhere we looked was flat. It was all so fantastical, that I can't even put it into words to describe it. It doesn't matter...he is dead and I somehow feel responsible for his death. I know that sounds foolish, but that is how I feel.

He isn't the only one we lost. Do you remember Luka, the Vos? He and another companion who we met in Kashmara named Boris also was lost in our adventures. So much death, so many perils...I don't have enough ink in my room to write everything that has happened. It's only been 18 months but it seems like I have been away for a decade. I wanted to prove to you and father that I could spread my wings and create my own destiny. I believe I did that but it came with a price.

Brosen has changed on our adventures. I have changed too. I don't like what I have or am becoming. I don't really want to go into details but I have been hardened. I have made questionable decisions in my journeys. I sometimes wonder if my companions question my decisions. I am sure they do. You always taught me your mantra about being a leader. "Integrity, insight, and inclusiveness are the three essential qualities of leadership". I'm afraid I lack some of these qualities and it showed on my adventure. I am not sure I am cut out to be a leader like my father was. I need guidance from him more than ever.

I am sure you thinking right now why am I reading this letter instead of seeing me in person? No sooner did my companions and I get off the boat than we were met with two guards from the Imperial Palace and an intellectual from the college I presume. He had a smell of dusty old tomes and his attire had many pouches no doubt for his magical reagents. He goes by the name of Cornelius, have you ever heard of him? Should I be concerned?

Anyway, he and a few of his friends met at the Crummy Crab. One of his companions was a drunkard named Lee. The other who dressed as a dandy is named, James Farland. You should have seen the feather in his cap! I don't know what bird he plucked that feather from but it was larger than his head. They questioned us about our time in the port of Aduria about some fool name Virduk II. It would seem he is conquering most of Aduria and he has his eyes set on Darakeene. I guess the Emperor is concerned if he defeats Aduria that he will come across the straight and attack Anuire. I didn't want to go, to be honest, but Dalimyr would have, right? I know he is looking down on me from Haelyn's kingdom. I can't let him down. Do you think he would be proud of me? Anyway...the candle is almost at its end and quite frankly I am exhausted. I had a nice warm bath and its effect on me is like some sleep spell. I hope this letter finds you well, mother. 

Love you always,

Lucian

606 MR - Delma Cross

Delma Cross stares down at young Lucian playing with wooden knights. He has them all set up in an orderly fashion as if they are ready to go to battle. Even at two years old he was speaking full sentences. So tiny, for his age, but yet so intelligent.

 
With a smile on her face, she says, “Lucian, my love, you have all the knights ready to do battle, but that one knight, who is so far away from the rest of them. Who is that?”
 
“That is father. He is looking over his army from heaven,” he replied.

Delma starts to tear up and immediately looks away while she quickly wiped away her tears so Lucian wouldn’t see her crying.

“Well, I am sure these knights will be in good hands then, with your papa looking down on them.” She brushes away his blonde, moppy hair out of his eyes.

Delma called out for his tutor/nanny, an Anuiran sage named Margaret Thomas. However, everyone just calls her Maggie. She was highly recommended by an old friend of Dalimyr’s. Maggie has been a godsend for young Lucian, especially in the past few years. Delma has not only been fighting the depression of her husband dying but also the weight of ruling the Rohrmarch, while quite literally hell was opening up and tearing the world asunder.

All that has passed now, but she can’t seem to get over her sadness. She has seen many priests of Haelyn, but none has cured her of her immense depression. Life, around her, has returned to some normalcy at least. Maggie enters the great hall as she quickly glances above Delma’s throne and spies the great tapestry of Dalimyr riding a majestic white horse.

She asks, “Yes, my Ladyship, how may I be of service to you this morning?” as she bows before her.

Delma responds, “Please Maggie, how many times have I said to dispense with the etiquette when no one else is around?” Maggie apologizes and says it is just habit.

She quickly changes the subject by sitting down with young Lucian and starts playing with him. “I will be leaving in the morning to travel to Ayria. I will be meeting with a consulate that will be living in the palace. I will need you to look out for young Lucian while I am away. Be sure to trim his hair while I am gone and please, Maggie, don’t feed him too many sweets…you know how he gets.”

Maggie nods her head, “As you wish my lady. How long will you be gone?” “Hopefully, I won’t be gone no longer than a week.”, she replies as she rises and looks out the window overlooking the bay and sees a boat with familiar sails. Young Brosen and his associates are here with a shipment of Hoswer brandy. It would seem it’s a popular choice around all the taverns of Keidel. Good to see Brosen take up the family business of his “adopted” father Kalvin.

612 MR - Maggie the Sage

Winded, Maggie comes to a full stop at an entrance of a seedy tavern called the Mermaid’s Teat. She rests for a moment to catch her breath as she glances in the window of the tavern. I swear if that naughty boy went in there he is going get such a whooping all of Cerelia will hear his cries. She has been chasing young Cross all over town trying to get him to do his chores. He just turned eight and has been a handful since he learned how to walk. Sure enough, she spies him hiding behind a plump-looking barmaid.

Standing at the entrance of the tavern she yells out, “Lucian Christopher Cross! Get your arse out of that establishment and come with me. You have to learn the different types of sigils for Anuria!”

“I don’t want to! I want to play with my friends. They aren’t going to be in town for very much longer and Henry is so funny!”, says the boy as he scurries between Maggie’s legs and darts down to the docks.

Maggie curses under her breath and chases after him. Weaving in and out of the dozen of merchants she loses him in the crowd. She stops glances around and thinks about what he said about playing with Henry…of course…Henry Godwynsen. Henry was about Lucian’s age. Henry tags along with Brosen every time they arrive with one of the shipments of Hoswer Apple Brandy. Maggie didn’t think it was very wise to take a child on the high seas but who was she to judge. Besides, Lucian did like Henry they would always chase seagulls along the docks. As she passed the customs house, she remembered just last year that Henry and Lucian got into a little trouble with the local customs official. They were playing with ink and drawing pictures on parchments of the daily imports/exports for the day. Needless to say, the official did not appreciate the artwork of the two boys. With a wry smile, she finally comes to the port where the Brosen’s merchant ship was docked.

 
Maggie crossed the gangway and boarded the ship. She spotted Brosen pointing skyward to one of the sails and saying something to the captain. He spots Maggie and smiles and after he was finished with the captain makes his way over to her.

Cheerfully he says, “Maggie! What brings you down to the docks?” Before she could answer he quickly continues, “It’s me, isn’t it? You missed my charming boyish looks. Now look, Maggie, I’m flattered and all, but you are not my type.”

617 MR - Sparring with Fredrick

Frederick and Lucian faced off on the sandy training grounds just behind Keildel’s stronghold. Lucian looks down at his wooden sword. “Why can’t we use steel training swords? I think I am old enough to use the steel training swords.” Lucian questions Frederick. 

“So young Master Cross wants to use the steel training swords”, mockingly says, Frederick. “First you need to best me with the wooden sword before you graduate to the steel sword.”
 
Lucian sighs, “So be it.” He wants this to be over so he can meet Maggie in the library at noon. She promised she was going to teach him his first cantrip. Lucian never cared for martial training with Frederick he was always so firm and had no sense of humor. Parry this way, side step that way…blah, blah, blah.
 
Lucian waits, trying to anticipate his first move, feeling quite anxious he gets tired of waiting and charges in swinging wildly at him. He deftly blocks his blow with his small round shield and swings himself and taps him on his buttocks with the flat of the wooden blade.
 
“Ouch! That hurt!” bellowed Lucian. “Well don’t get hit then. At this rate you will never be going to use a steel training sword let alone a real sword.” quipped Frederick.
 
Regaining his footing and rubbing his arse his lips tighten and ready his sword. Ok. Focus Lucian. You got this. Frederick’s blade was a blur as it swept up toward Lucian. It sliced empty air, barely missing the edge of his shirt as he sidestepped. Lucian held his breath. Frederick shifted his weight and his sword responded, flashing left after Lucian. He had him on the defensive, already. He blocked blow after blow, sometimes getting his wooden sword up at just the last instant so that Lucian thought he might actually hit him.
 
Frederick’s barrage of blows drove young Lucian back, step by step until he had him cornered. When his back was against the wall, he locked his blade against his blade and pressed it until he was trapped by his own weapon.
 
“Never let a battle turn to a contest of strength.” Frederick dropped his stance and backed away. “You will always lose.”
 
Lucian swiped his arm across his forehead. “Yes, Sir.”
 
“Drop the ‘sir.’ You don’t title people who are beneath you; are you a lord or not?”
 
The expression on Lucian’s face might have been a scowl if he had been a little less regal. But with the way he was standing, somehow looking down his nose at him in spite of being a foot shorter, it just looked like dignified distaste.
 
“I am not. I am just Lucian Cross.”  
 
Frederick studied him as if trying to decide whether or not to disagree. He seemed to decide against it. “The result is the same. Come. Again.”
 
They sparred again with similar results. Lucian ducked and dove, putting increased effort into not being cornered, but he did it anyway. Frederick was always right where he needed to be to press his disadvantage and he was where he wasn’t expecting.
 
“The best defense is a good offense. Again. Put your back into it!”
 
Again they went, this time Frederick drew him into the offensive. His wooden sword spun, pressing every advantage. This time it was Lucian who bore down on Frederick with fire in his eyes; Lucian could hardly follow the flow of movements as he drove him back toward the wall, one step at a time. For a moment, it looked as if he would win.
 
Then Frederick slipped out of the way as if he had simply been testing his strength. He shrugged off his next strike, his expression never changing, and in half a step he was behind him. If he had been breathing, Lucian might have screamed. Frederick’s blade moved around Lucian like a living thing. He only barely got the end of his sword up in time before it would have knocked him in the collarbone.
 
He could have done that whenever he wanted, Lucian realized, stunned. Lord Cross never had the advantage—he only let it appear as if he did.
 
“Your strikes are sloppy. Tighten up your form or your opponent will take advantage.” Frederick dropped his wooden sword, putting his free hand between Lucian’s shoulder blade and shoving.
 
Lucian stumbled forward and rounded on him; for a moment there was indignation printed on his face before it cooled into something calmer. “Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘Sir’.”

Lucian straightened, meeting Frederick’s gaze levelly. “I’ll call you as I see fit.”