HWD Talesan's Village - Mon 27/04/15 01:03 UTC
The Heartwood
A little west of Road’s End Bridge, Blackwater River
Just Outside of Talesan’s Village
Rameday, the eleventh day of Scholar
Daxia, Bekkah, Kadri, Mikal, Cesare, Darian and Dean
Longtooth, Morning Star, Khorall and Dama Larsen, Kisa Allaine, Kay Koromov and Romana
It was almost as if Midsummers were many handfuls of days ago. No, indeed, it was exactly as if Midsummers where many handfuls of days ago when the caravan reached the escarpments’ edge and below sprawled the mainland’s western shore.
Talantal and the Midsummers Council had been left behind, but not unchanged. There was a Hospice being built in the First Ring – a suitable retirement occupation for one no longer running a cathedral, and Lady Anastasia had taken the twins with her. Even in its start the seeds of change had been planted: the ability to practice the Lady’s ways hands-on turned out to be a certain temptation to the younger Initiates.
Lord Tray Korie seemed well-ensconced in his role as High Seneschal, although rumors of allowance adjustments for certain Damas were already rippling through the Rings as their caravan was making their way through the gates.
The activities of other Nobles, specifically the Korie Heir, were determined to be acceptable and proper... which, in the longest term of consideration, could have interesting consequences indeed.
Captain Koromov and her Wild Horde were eastbound so any news of their hunt remained in the caravan’s wake, although runners had been sent out. And as they rode west, the promised mustering of the Talantal men-at-arms was being met. They shared the Highland Path with footmen, Knights, and Squires, at least until they had passed Pathside Manor and left the Duchy of Talantal behind.
There were other rumors, picked up by Mikal, that the night before they left certain folks held an impromptu sparring bout. Kay showed up in the morning, literally dragging herself in with a limp and bearing two black eyes, being worried over by Romana and escorted by Dunwich Scott. Duffy mumbled something along the lines of...
“... folks say that eventually luck always runs out ... But sea and stars, it didn’t until after dawn ...”
The trip west was a curious sword of two edges. Traveling with the Larsen entourage was peaceful and entertaining; even though they were on the road for weeks it felt like an afternoon’s excursion. Khorall Tieg Larsen took to the trail with good humor, even if it added time, as he often chose to talk to those they met on the trail. If they were going west, they were invited to join. If they were going east, the news of the day was shared. A farmer’s home along the highway often became an extended lunch with inquiries upon crops, weather, and general well-being.
And when they did run into what would have normally been trouble, well, it all tended to work out a little after Khorall or Dama Larsen rode forward. First, one did not argue with a Noble, any Noble. And second, it was really hard to get angry at the Larsens in the first place.
“Cor. What do you mean I can’t poke him?”
On the other hand, Kay’s droll complaint, usually muttered while leaning on her spear and giving a passing Jvrillian caravan guard a measuring look, summed up the downside of traveling with the Larsens.
It was safe. It was quiet. It was enjoyable company.
And more than little boring.
Not that the terrain was very exciting; it was open farmland between Talantal and Talesan’s, with only one major tavern – the White Cup Inn – between the keeps. The White Cup was famous for the goblet set above its mantelpiece. It was rumored to be Ironsilver but upon close inspection it was only porcelain; not that that wasn’t a treasure in itself.
The Allaine Heir kept her promise; she was very quiet during the entire trip. She kept to herself, mostly, although at night she always ended up sitting at the campfire or hearth next to her Knight. The most amusing thing about that was that it was often mirrored on the other side of the campfire by Bekkah’s apprentice and her self-appointed bodyguard.
“What?”
Kay would give a cross look as she stole a hunk of bread from Bekkah’s basket and then dunked it in Daxia’s gravy.
“A gal’s gotta sit somewhere.”
Kisa spent most of her time watching the Larsens, green eyes sharp and piercing beneath a lush fall of red hair. Once, late at night, after Dama and Khorall had taken their leave, she leaned her head on Daxia’s shoulder and observed quietly.
“It’s not all natural. Watch Lady Larsen. She does not have her husband’s gift. Her kindness is practiced, learned... just as Khorall Larsen’s innate likability is stretched farther by his choice of words and actions. He is better at using his talents than Lord Korie and his weather witching … maybe even better than Mother.”
For Darian and Cesare, the change from city to farmland may or may not have been welcome, but it was more familiar. There were signs too that folks of their own ilk had passed this way; stories of card readers for Cesare and the hunting signs of much more traditional followers of Khannish for Darian.
And at the least, looking down from the rocky bluff to the landscape below, Talesan’s Village appeared to be exactly that. It was certainly not a city, not even a major settlement like Cragside or Bordertown.
From here the land dropped through a smooth set of descending slopes, like waves of land sweeping towards the sea. The bridge they had just crossed was called Road’s End because the road running eastward ended at its stone-paved arch. From here, gently winding downhill, the paved way ran all the way to the sea. It was no small thoroughfare either, at least four wagons could fit across its width and the stones were set so close the sharpest dagger could not sweep between.
The bridge itself had leaped over the Blackwater River in a single smooth arch. The river itself was well-deserving its name, as it was a bit peculiar. The bridge was very high above the surface, at least thirty or forty feet, and the bed the river flowed through was deeply cut. The river itself was at least ten to fifteen feet below the bank itself. The earth and rock it cut through were dark toned, that too cast the surface in shadow making the water look, indeed, black. Every so often there was a splash as a fish leaped.
They seemed hungry; at least there was the thought that it was dinner anytime anything that could be bit walked by.
From here the entirety of the Village and its outlying farms could be discerned; even if the buildings themselves were small and still a decent ride away.
Closer in, a group of homes and such surrounded an open market courtyard, the traditional layout of a country village. To the right, the north, a scattering of smaller individual farm houses could be seen; one of which was, most assuredly, the home of Kirill Mikaelsson. Just beyond that and sneaking towards the Village like a slowly moving plains cat was a line of thick green woods.
The edge of the Dirkwood Forest.
Beyond the market square, there was a tighter collection of buildings, much more rigidly organized. Some were long enough to be considered warehouses, and they very may well be for these buildings were not set upon grass and fields. They rose from true set stone; a flat and carved plain that struck out into the water, to form a border straight and rectangular. Many folks had seen wooden piers on the side of a lake or wide river.
The farther portion of the town was set on huge stone piers that thrust out into the waves. And they were not small – there was a boat not out fishing, perhaps it was being repaired, and the top of its mast did not even rise above the edge of the stone dock.
“We have a little bit of a tide.”
Obviously, among Tieg Larsen’s talents, was that of the understatement.
To the south stood the Village’s heart, a striking and beautiful structure of honey marble.
The Cathedral.
Its height and breath put the Cathedral of Talantal to shame as it towered above the rest of the Village, and even at this distance the rainbow reflection of its stained glass panes could be seen.
“We are also not as affluent as our Korie cousins.”
Again Khorall Larsen was correct. Even this far out the holes in the roof, the collapse of the western tower, the strewing of rubble and building blocks could be seen. The cathedral had seen much, much better days.
A bridge led further south, at the end of the Blackwater, where the path then switch-backed up a seacoast cliff. Atop it was a quiet-looking – but very secure - citadel: Talesan’s Keep.
“That is our destination, at least, for myself, my dear wife, and my retainers. Dama Allaine, you are, of course, welcome to stay… as well as your household.”
Khorall Larsen did offer, but then provided options.
“However, if you do not wish to be saddled with the boring hospitality of the poorest keep, there, on the east border of Market Square is the Amber Inn. It is small, but friendly, and sometimes the youngest of Kirill’s sons play for coin and supper. It is an easy ride and you should be there before noon. Kirill’s place is a half day farther out – if you keep riding you should be there just about dusk.
“Three-quarters of a day along the Blackwater’s edge and you will find Waverider’s Watch. You can see just the hint of its tower there, right at the edge of the Forest. That is the place you and your guardsman are interested in, isn’t that correct, Dama Korie?
“Or there are the cloisters... at the least three of you will be welcome there. That said, Father Canna may be old and a touch scatterbrained, but he has a kind heart and more rooms than he knows what to do with – probably enough for all of you.
“I’d recommend staying away from the Forest and river’s edge until you get used of them – and yes, do beware of the tide. It comes in very, very quickly.
“Welcome to Talasan’s Village.”
The Khorall swept his hand forward, a slow and theatrical arc that took in his Family’s entire holding.
Land and Sea.
Beneath Her light, the sea sparkled as if someone had carelessly tossed diamonds and sapphires across its surface. There were bright flashes of smooth color – the sails of the fishing boats – to add life and a bit of playful dash to the seascape.
And the sea, it stretched out – beyond the stony hook that created Talesan’s Bay, out to the far flat horizon, brilliant blue and white and silver as far as one could see.
They had, finally, reached the edge of the world.
A little west of Road’s End Bridge, Blackwater River
Just Outside of Talesan’s Village
Rameday, the eleventh day of Scholar
Daxia, Bekkah, Kadri, Mikal, Cesare, Darian and Dean
Longtooth, Morning Star, Khorall and Dama Larsen, Kisa Allaine, Kay Koromov and Romana
It was almost as if Midsummers were many handfuls of days ago. No, indeed, it was exactly as if Midsummers where many handfuls of days ago when the caravan reached the escarpments’ edge and below sprawled the mainland’s western shore.
Talantal and the Midsummers Council had been left behind, but not unchanged. There was a Hospice being built in the First Ring – a suitable retirement occupation for one no longer running a cathedral, and Lady Anastasia had taken the twins with her. Even in its start the seeds of change had been planted: the ability to practice the Lady’s ways hands-on turned out to be a certain temptation to the younger Initiates.
Lord Tray Korie seemed well-ensconced in his role as High Seneschal, although rumors of allowance adjustments for certain Damas were already rippling through the Rings as their caravan was making their way through the gates.
The activities of other Nobles, specifically the Korie Heir, were determined to be acceptable and proper... which, in the longest term of consideration, could have interesting consequences indeed.
Captain Koromov and her Wild Horde were eastbound so any news of their hunt remained in the caravan’s wake, although runners had been sent out. And as they rode west, the promised mustering of the Talantal men-at-arms was being met. They shared the Highland Path with footmen, Knights, and Squires, at least until they had passed Pathside Manor and left the Duchy of Talantal behind.
There were other rumors, picked up by Mikal, that the night before they left certain folks held an impromptu sparring bout. Kay showed up in the morning, literally dragging herself in with a limp and bearing two black eyes, being worried over by Romana and escorted by Dunwich Scott. Duffy mumbled something along the lines of...
“... folks say that eventually luck always runs out ... But sea and stars, it didn’t until after dawn ...”
The trip west was a curious sword of two edges. Traveling with the Larsen entourage was peaceful and entertaining; even though they were on the road for weeks it felt like an afternoon’s excursion. Khorall Tieg Larsen took to the trail with good humor, even if it added time, as he often chose to talk to those they met on the trail. If they were going west, they were invited to join. If they were going east, the news of the day was shared. A farmer’s home along the highway often became an extended lunch with inquiries upon crops, weather, and general well-being.
And when they did run into what would have normally been trouble, well, it all tended to work out a little after Khorall or Dama Larsen rode forward. First, one did not argue with a Noble, any Noble. And second, it was really hard to get angry at the Larsens in the first place.
“Cor. What do you mean I can’t poke him?”
On the other hand, Kay’s droll complaint, usually muttered while leaning on her spear and giving a passing Jvrillian caravan guard a measuring look, summed up the downside of traveling with the Larsens.
It was safe. It was quiet. It was enjoyable company.
And more than little boring.
Not that the terrain was very exciting; it was open farmland between Talantal and Talesan’s, with only one major tavern – the White Cup Inn – between the keeps. The White Cup was famous for the goblet set above its mantelpiece. It was rumored to be Ironsilver but upon close inspection it was only porcelain; not that that wasn’t a treasure in itself.
The Allaine Heir kept her promise; she was very quiet during the entire trip. She kept to herself, mostly, although at night she always ended up sitting at the campfire or hearth next to her Knight. The most amusing thing about that was that it was often mirrored on the other side of the campfire by Bekkah’s apprentice and her self-appointed bodyguard.
“What?”
Kay would give a cross look as she stole a hunk of bread from Bekkah’s basket and then dunked it in Daxia’s gravy.
“A gal’s gotta sit somewhere.”
Kisa spent most of her time watching the Larsens, green eyes sharp and piercing beneath a lush fall of red hair. Once, late at night, after Dama and Khorall had taken their leave, she leaned her head on Daxia’s shoulder and observed quietly.
“It’s not all natural. Watch Lady Larsen. She does not have her husband’s gift. Her kindness is practiced, learned... just as Khorall Larsen’s innate likability is stretched farther by his choice of words and actions. He is better at using his talents than Lord Korie and his weather witching … maybe even better than Mother.”
For Darian and Cesare, the change from city to farmland may or may not have been welcome, but it was more familiar. There were signs too that folks of their own ilk had passed this way; stories of card readers for Cesare and the hunting signs of much more traditional followers of Khannish for Darian.
And at the least, looking down from the rocky bluff to the landscape below, Talesan’s Village appeared to be exactly that. It was certainly not a city, not even a major settlement like Cragside or Bordertown.
From here the land dropped through a smooth set of descending slopes, like waves of land sweeping towards the sea. The bridge they had just crossed was called Road’s End because the road running eastward ended at its stone-paved arch. From here, gently winding downhill, the paved way ran all the way to the sea. It was no small thoroughfare either, at least four wagons could fit across its width and the stones were set so close the sharpest dagger could not sweep between.
The bridge itself had leaped over the Blackwater River in a single smooth arch. The river itself was well-deserving its name, as it was a bit peculiar. The bridge was very high above the surface, at least thirty or forty feet, and the bed the river flowed through was deeply cut. The river itself was at least ten to fifteen feet below the bank itself. The earth and rock it cut through were dark toned, that too cast the surface in shadow making the water look, indeed, black. Every so often there was a splash as a fish leaped.
They seemed hungry; at least there was the thought that it was dinner anytime anything that could be bit walked by.
From here the entirety of the Village and its outlying farms could be discerned; even if the buildings themselves were small and still a decent ride away.
Closer in, a group of homes and such surrounded an open market courtyard, the traditional layout of a country village. To the right, the north, a scattering of smaller individual farm houses could be seen; one of which was, most assuredly, the home of Kirill Mikaelsson. Just beyond that and sneaking towards the Village like a slowly moving plains cat was a line of thick green woods.
The edge of the Dirkwood Forest.
Beyond the market square, there was a tighter collection of buildings, much more rigidly organized. Some were long enough to be considered warehouses, and they very may well be for these buildings were not set upon grass and fields. They rose from true set stone; a flat and carved plain that struck out into the water, to form a border straight and rectangular. Many folks had seen wooden piers on the side of a lake or wide river.
The farther portion of the town was set on huge stone piers that thrust out into the waves. And they were not small – there was a boat not out fishing, perhaps it was being repaired, and the top of its mast did not even rise above the edge of the stone dock.
“We have a little bit of a tide.”
Obviously, among Tieg Larsen’s talents, was that of the understatement.
To the south stood the Village’s heart, a striking and beautiful structure of honey marble.
The Cathedral.
Its height and breath put the Cathedral of Talantal to shame as it towered above the rest of the Village, and even at this distance the rainbow reflection of its stained glass panes could be seen.
“We are also not as affluent as our Korie cousins.”
Again Khorall Larsen was correct. Even this far out the holes in the roof, the collapse of the western tower, the strewing of rubble and building blocks could be seen. The cathedral had seen much, much better days.
A bridge led further south, at the end of the Blackwater, where the path then switch-backed up a seacoast cliff. Atop it was a quiet-looking – but very secure - citadel: Talesan’s Keep.
“That is our destination, at least, for myself, my dear wife, and my retainers. Dama Allaine, you are, of course, welcome to stay… as well as your household.”
Khorall Larsen did offer, but then provided options.
“However, if you do not wish to be saddled with the boring hospitality of the poorest keep, there, on the east border of Market Square is the Amber Inn. It is small, but friendly, and sometimes the youngest of Kirill’s sons play for coin and supper. It is an easy ride and you should be there before noon. Kirill’s place is a half day farther out – if you keep riding you should be there just about dusk.
“Three-quarters of a day along the Blackwater’s edge and you will find Waverider’s Watch. You can see just the hint of its tower there, right at the edge of the Forest. That is the place you and your guardsman are interested in, isn’t that correct, Dama Korie?
“Or there are the cloisters... at the least three of you will be welcome there. That said, Father Canna may be old and a touch scatterbrained, but he has a kind heart and more rooms than he knows what to do with – probably enough for all of you.
“I’d recommend staying away from the Forest and river’s edge until you get used of them – and yes, do beware of the tide. It comes in very, very quickly.
“Welcome to Talasan’s Village.”
The Khorall swept his hand forward, a slow and theatrical arc that took in his Family’s entire holding.
Land and Sea.
Beneath Her light, the sea sparkled as if someone had carelessly tossed diamonds and sapphires across its surface. There were bright flashes of smooth color – the sails of the fishing boats – to add life and a bit of playful dash to the seascape.
And the sea, it stretched out – beyond the stony hook that created Talesan’s Bay, out to the far flat horizon, brilliant blue and white and silver as far as one could see.
They had, finally, reached the edge of the world.