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petroniaIn which I pretend I have the remotest idea of what I'm talking about. If any of you catch some horrendous technical mistake in this I'd appreciate knowing, but I can't promise that I'm competent enough to do something about it. ^_^; No more boats in the rest of it, thank heavens.
Draft-quality, and something like 30 years pre- game timeline. Because I am insane, and want to begin this at the beginning.
De Tenebris
I.
The young man arrives in Lea Monde by sea, having boarded a three-masted merchant barque in Cordova for the week-long journey across Bastogne Bay. It is the final destination for which he planned at the beginning of a long voyage, and the one nearest home. Accordingly he is on deck early, long before land is sighted. It is mid-morning when the ship rounds the verdant tip of Pointe Melus, and the sun nearly dissolves his first view of the city in light, roofs and spires broken into a scintillating mosaic above the wine-dark sea.
"Not an hour now," a dour bearded man says, pausing for a moment at his side. He is the second mate of the vessel. The young man acknowledges this information with a courteous nod. Around him the deck has come to life, hands clambering over the stays and hauling on the halyards, bringing in the sheets in accordance with shouted orders. Bear with the land! Hold course! There is a vivid undertone of gladness to the shouts and hails that crowd the air, and even to the offhand curses. The crew is mostly Leamondain, and has been far afield before putting in at Cordova: the Isolde lies low in the waves, her hold crammed and fragrant with cedar lumber of the Valendois Indies, island spice and bolts of plain silk destined for the Bel Comté's steam-stifled dye-shops. And thence gilded and embroidered and cut, streamers rose madder and gold to flutter in a Valnain lady's wake... The young man turns up the collar of his cloak against the salt spray and leans out over the railing, shading his eyes with one hand. Is that glint the sunlight glancing off stucco and marble, or the new copper sheathing a cathedral dome? No, the Cathedral of a surety. And above its façade the white statue of the saint, arms spread to guide the mariners home. Lea Monde, holy birthplace of Iocus, whose winding streets once sursurrated with the echo of miracles.
City of Light. Who would gainsay that name?
The Isolde is at half-sail. The yards and masts creak in the wind as she slows, approaching the city. Sunlight dances on the water. Gulls and petrels wheel above, flecks of white against infinite blue, their cries welcoming. Mind the tiller now! the bosun calls out. See to that buntline! Land! Land!
And the young man allows himself a smile.
An order, and the topgallants lowered; another, and the courses come down with a great sound, main and fore and aft, furling like the white wings of some immense bird as it settles on the waves. They are in the harbour itself now, the sailors throwing out mooring lines to the small boats that are congregating, darting lissome as fish about the ponderous flanks of the sailing ship. The anchor weighs with a dull splash.
A voyage ends. A voyage begins.
The young man is one of the first ashore. He has paid the passage of his crossing beforehand, and slips away unnoticed in the bustle of docking. His luggage consists of a small sea-chest he sends before him to a hostel he knows by recommendation, with a scribbled note and the promise of a generous fee. His hands thus emptied, he sets out on foot.
The harbour is riotous with sound, and filled with the heavy salty reek that landsmen think of as the scent of the sea. The young man, who has travelled far, knows it is not: it is the scent of the places where the land meets the sea. The green growing things of the shore touch the ocean, and wither and rot and dissolve; the sleek cold finny things of the ocean cast upon the shore and do likewise. It is a death-scent, but he finds it energizing and rather pleasant. Amid the incense of decay a city of men has arisen like an unwitnessed resurrection, a long-desired second home.
Through the narrow streets of this city the young man wanders like a questing prince, looking for a sign.
Draft-quality, and something like 30 years pre- game timeline. Because I am insane, and want to begin this at the beginning.
De Tenebris
I.
The young man arrives in Lea Monde by sea, having boarded a three-masted merchant barque in Cordova for the week-long journey across Bastogne Bay. It is the final destination for which he planned at the beginning of a long voyage, and the one nearest home. Accordingly he is on deck early, long before land is sighted. It is mid-morning when the ship rounds the verdant tip of Pointe Melus, and the sun nearly dissolves his first view of the city in light, roofs and spires broken into a scintillating mosaic above the wine-dark sea.
"Not an hour now," a dour bearded man says, pausing for a moment at his side. He is the second mate of the vessel. The young man acknowledges this information with a courteous nod. Around him the deck has come to life, hands clambering over the stays and hauling on the halyards, bringing in the sheets in accordance with shouted orders. Bear with the land! Hold course! There is a vivid undertone of gladness to the shouts and hails that crowd the air, and even to the offhand curses. The crew is mostly Leamondain, and has been far afield before putting in at Cordova: the Isolde lies low in the waves, her hold crammed and fragrant with cedar lumber of the Valendois Indies, island spice and bolts of plain silk destined for the Bel Comté's steam-stifled dye-shops. And thence gilded and embroidered and cut, streamers rose madder and gold to flutter in a Valnain lady's wake... The young man turns up the collar of his cloak against the salt spray and leans out over the railing, shading his eyes with one hand. Is that glint the sunlight glancing off stucco and marble, or the new copper sheathing a cathedral dome? No, the Cathedral of a surety. And above its façade the white statue of the saint, arms spread to guide the mariners home. Lea Monde, holy birthplace of Iocus, whose winding streets once sursurrated with the echo of miracles.
City of Light. Who would gainsay that name?
The Isolde is at half-sail. The yards and masts creak in the wind as she slows, approaching the city. Sunlight dances on the water. Gulls and petrels wheel above, flecks of white against infinite blue, their cries welcoming. Mind the tiller now! the bosun calls out. See to that buntline! Land! Land!
And the young man allows himself a smile.
An order, and the topgallants lowered; another, and the courses come down with a great sound, main and fore and aft, furling like the white wings of some immense bird as it settles on the waves. They are in the harbour itself now, the sailors throwing out mooring lines to the small boats that are congregating, darting lissome as fish about the ponderous flanks of the sailing ship. The anchor weighs with a dull splash.
A voyage ends. A voyage begins.
The young man is one of the first ashore. He has paid the passage of his crossing beforehand, and slips away unnoticed in the bustle of docking. His luggage consists of a small sea-chest he sends before him to a hostel he knows by recommendation, with a scribbled note and the promise of a generous fee. His hands thus emptied, he sets out on foot.
The harbour is riotous with sound, and filled with the heavy salty reek that landsmen think of as the scent of the sea. The young man, who has travelled far, knows it is not: it is the scent of the places where the land meets the sea. The green growing things of the shore touch the ocean, and wither and rot and dissolve; the sleek cold finny things of the ocean cast upon the shore and do likewise. It is a death-scent, but he finds it energizing and rather pleasant. Amid the incense of decay a city of men has arisen like an unwitnessed resurrection, a long-desired second home.
Through the narrow streets of this city the young man wanders like a questing prince, looking for a sign.
