(3 days before Summer Solstice
Barsaivan Calander: 1st Day of Strassa 1506 TH
Theran Calander: Callibration, Week 73 / Day 3 1062.
Day of Water)

The K'tenshin T'skrang who came to fetch Z'Phir Yashi Mar was the most beautiful he had ever seen. He just knew that had circumstances been different his fellows would have been calling down their love and boasting of their haropas. But looking through a cage puts a different complection on things.

The fabled Sixteen Towers of the K'Tenshin are indeed impressive, the tallest anywhere on the Serpent, but best appreciated by those free to move about.

The walking beauty peered into the midst of her captives, and spots Z'Phir. She lets out a low whistle and calls out in a stream of musical words to him. Words that kaissa blotted from his mind. He picks up a few words here and there "wings, come"

One of the Crew Covenant, a gruff old T'skrang name Esk'il, whispers to Z'Phir, knowing he remembers little of his native tongue and providing a translation "she heard about your wings, and wanted to see if it was true, she hopes you can give the K'Tenshin a flyer of their own."

"Floranuus' Burning Barge, but she's beautiful though, " he adds.

The K'Stulaami is ushered out of the cage and escorted up through the tower. His captor speaks as they go, and realising he cannot understand her, switches to Throalic.

"Well, my lovely boy," she says, in lyrically accented Throalic, "while we have you with us we'll see if you can't repay us for some of the trouble you caused by leaving behind some hatchlings like yourself."

(10 days before Summer Solstice
Barsaivan Calander: 23rd Day of Doddul 1506 TH
Theran Calander: Vestrial Descending, Week 71 / Day 5 1062.
Day of Wood)

An'Kael Gavrael always enjoyed keeping the younger troll co-wives company while the clan went raiding. Of course the Sky called to him and he longed to go with them, to prove his worth, but there were consolations.

Most Namegivers probably never thought of a troll without imagining a screaming, rage filled, bearded face. They probably never considered that a young troll girl, part of large line marriage, might be both beautiful and lonely.

It almost made up for his duties as a Newott, though cooking, cleaning and caring for children were not the life he envisaged for himself. At least putting his carpentry skills to work on the Clan's airships allowed him to feel he had some part in their glory.

The Trollish sense of honor is hard to unravel to any Namegiver not brought up among it, so Gavrael had some notion that, despite the seeming openess of the line marriages, it was best if he keep his dalliances quiet.

If only he had boasted Abora Frost-Morning Stone-Claw might not have been banished! Newott's are forbidden to mate with non-newott clan members, only with each other. But the dishonor falls on the clan member not the newott.

Five days ago Gavrael had to watch as the lovely Abora Frost-Morning had her horns sawn off, and was outcast from the clan. No longer a Stone-Claw, she left as er'ka'a'kul, carrying her sundered horns with her.

It is a source of shame to mistreat or abuse a newott, but after the banishment Gavrael found himself given ever worse or more meaningless jobs, and punished harshly for failing at the most impossible tasks.

The trolls' resentment over the loss of Abora was leading more of them towards dishonour, so they needed to get rid of him. A newot is not to be bought or sold, so the Clan chief thought carefully what to do.

Trading him to another Clan would only lead more Trolls to dishonor as, no doubt, the unruly newott would repeat his antics, which would bring a loss of Kat'ral (Clan honor). Setting him free would reward him for shaming Abora bringing a loss of Katera (Racial honor).

After careful consideration a crew set sail for the Sixteen Towers of the K'Tenshin, giving Gavrael his first chance to serve on an airship. On docking at what he saw as a nest of demons, Gavrael's heart sank. The look on his face brought hearty laughs.

The captain left the ship, and spoke with the t'skrang dockmaster. Gavrael watched and worried. Was he being sold to the t'skrang? Wouldn't selling a newott like a slave bring further dishonor to the clan?

Eventually the troll returned, escorted by a stocky bald dwarf with tattoos circling his head and the K'Tenshin dockmaster.

"Let's see this 'peace offering' then" the dwarf says, his Throalic carrying a strong but unfamiliar accent, and Gavrael is shuffled off the ship. The dwarf eyes him up and down, nods and offers the Troll his hand.

As the troll takes his hand the K'Tenshin abomination speaks, mangling the dwarven language and making Gavrael's skin crawl, "I'll have the trading papers drawn up," it says, "your ship is now welcome to trade here, perhaps you'd like to see what we have on offer..." The pair wander off leaving the dwarf to escort Gavrael to his new ship.

"You'll like the Ignis Volturius," he says, "we're a sturdy ship, but fast, and Carisa Blood-Fang is a good captain, firm but fair."

On first sight, the ship looks both bizarre and hauntingly familiar. Like the ships of Scavian lore, it is hewn from stone, and engraved with wards and enchantment. A Vulture head prow houses a Fire Cannon and there is another mounted on each of the wings. A busy crew bustles around on deck, loading barrels of the T'skrang's preserved fish while the Captain, an Ork with olive green skin and long red braided hair, speaks with an Elf dressed and outfitted like a Magician of some type.

"Well, pitch in," the dwarf, who introduced himself as Shem-Ka, says, "those barrels will not load themselves."

(2 days before Summer Solstice
Barsaivan Calander: 2nd Day of Strassa 1506 TH
Theran Calander: Callibration, Week 73 / Day 4 1062.
Day of Air)

Grabthar lingers in his cell, considering his fate. Slavery! A good Throalic citizen like him! And his cousin dead!

His jailer, an elderly human, brings him his food, "too good for a spy," he mutters in Theran, "but nobody asks old Sharben, no they don't."

Switching to Throalic he says, "eat up, you'll have a visitor soon and you'll need your strength if you're going to impress him, yes you will." He shoves the plate of spiced stew and rice through to the dwarf.

Walking away he mutters to himself in his own language, "and if there's any justice he'll say you're only fit for the Heavenherds to experiment on, yes, yes, oh let Erendis arrange it so."

Grabtar eats, and stares through the bars at where his possessions lie on a table out of reach. Some hours pass.

On Sharben's return he is accompanied by a well dressed, portly dwarf. The pair converse in Theran, and stop to look in each cell on their approach. Grabthar hears the newcomer assess each captive and question them on their skills, before deciding which market they will be sent to. Sharben cackles with glee as each is announced.

When they arrive at Grabthar's cell he sees that the dwarf wears an ornately decorated Astral Sensitive Eye. The dwarf peers intently at Grabthar.

"This one's an adept," he says in Theran, cuffing Sharben with the back of his hand, "you should have taken me to him first."

"What are your talents?" he asks, "what do you have to offer?"

(1 day before Summer Solstice
Barsaivan Calander: 3rd Day of Strassa 1506 TH
Theran Calander: Callibration, Week 73 / Day 5 1062.
Day of Earth)

Prison is not what Atrii Avoni imagined. Instead of filthy straw and dank darkness he finds himself in a room such as you might find in a comfortable inn. Of course, at the inn he would be allowed to come and go as he pleased, rather than being escorted to a yard twice each day to let him take the air.

Much of the time he is left alone, to hold the ashes of his failures and brood.

On the Day of Earth, however, he recieved a visitor. The guards had long since turned away gawkers come to see the former Jotyn, so he knows this visit must have a purpose.

He is left alone with an elf maid, wearing the badge of House Ippuli, a troubadour she claims.

"Well, if ever someone needed a friend it is you," she says, "and it's your lucky day, because that friend has come." She favours you with a grin that is all at once friendly, conspiratorial and predatory.

"Jotyn was a fool to let you go," she confides in a whisper, "and for what? So Ilvan Mandra can play at business? Does he think he'll find the hidden monastry before some creature makes him its snack?"

She laughs, a heartier laugh than you'd have expected from someone so delicate in appearance.

"You've acquired yourself a tarnished reputation," she says, "and many will not see beyond that, but Ippuli was founded by namegivers of tarnished reputation. We'll see you through."

She looks him in the eye,
"take what needs to be taken," she says gesturing around Atrii's room, "you're not going to the auction block today, I've just bought you. You're mine now, you'll serve on one of my ships."

She taps her badge, "and when the captain says you've earned your freedom one of these will not be far behind."

Gavrael eyed the dwarf carefully, and then glanced back towards the demon pit. "Aye. I reckon it be best if they didn't." He took a few steps over to the barrels and gave one a nudge to judge weight, then turned back to the Ignis Volturius. Kit over his shoulder and sporting his 'T'skrang hide' armor, he felt that it was enough warning to keep the demons at bay.

Walking the dock, he assessed the ship stem to stern and keel to crow's nest. The tell tale scorching of the hull and the non-standard rigging marked her as a mining barge. The fire cannons indicated she had to protect her cargo, likely working the Scarlet Sea. Gavrael recalled stories of Death Sea being off limits to the Crystal Raiders due to its curse, so they would prey on ships coming out of the safer Scarlet. Once again he turned back to the barrels and then the rigging and then to the others struggling to load the barrels. He sighed and shook his head.

Climbing the gang plank, he stopped at the rail, raising his hand in salute. "An'Kael Gavrael reporting for duty, sir. Permission to come aboard."

When the ork signaled him to board, he stood there for a moment, confused. Scavians did not allow their women to crew the ships, and it was somewhat rare to see a troll woman aboard a raider ship as well. Gavrael wasn't sure if he was being tricked by the demons, but it did make more sense for an ork to be named Blood Fang than an elf. Hesitant at first, he proceeded to the corner to drop off his kit. Shedding his curaisse, he turned his attention to the rigging and the task at hand. Tracing back the outriggers, he pulled the belaying pin and slung the yard arm out over the dock. He played out enough line to reach the barrels and then tied off the other end. Looking about for the cargo net, Gavrael had to settle for a coil of rope nearby.

The rest of the help seemed confused, used to simply carrying the barrels. Gavrael threw a couple choker hitches around three barrels and then a winding hitch on to the outrigger line using the belaying pin. As he climbed to gang plank again, he found the captain staring at him.

The captain directs a questioning look at Shem-ka who responds with an eloquent shrug,

"a gift from the Stone-Claws," he says in Theran, "a peace offering they say."

The captain waves Gavrael aboard with a curt nod and returns to her conversation.

Gavrael makes himself useful, loading the goods, eager to be away from the tower as soon as possible. Once the goods are loaded, Shem-Ka escorts you bellow decks to a small cabin.

"This bunk will be yours" he says, having established you speak Theran, "now let's take you and get you sworn in."

Gavrael follows the dwarf to the captain's cabin where Carisa Blood-Fang sits next to a brazier, shaped like a claw holding a glowing red crystal, a knife, and a piece of illuminated parchment.

"Can you read?" she asks, pushing the knife towards him "or do you need someone to recite the oath for you?"

"Of course, captain. I'm fluent in several languages." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, taking up the parchment and reading it. His grin turned to a scowl about half way through. Muttering something in Scavian, he pushed the parchment back towards the captain. "Ye be making a fierce mistake here, Captain. Ye c'n ask for me loyalty and my body, but ye best not be askin' a Scavian for his soul like that. We done gave the world our sea so that everyone could survive the Scourge. I'll not be givin' my soul to Her too. She's a mighty fine ship you've got here, Cap'n. An' I'd be might proud to serve her well. I'll secure my loyalty with my Word, an' if that weren't enough, ye can secure it with yer spear point 'n chains. But I'd sooner be cast back into that demon pit nekkid than give my soul to Her."

Grabthar looks back at the dwarf in silence for a moment, his features impassive. Then he says, quietly:

"I am a weaponsmith; a craftsman. With my hammer I can forge and repair tools, weapons, armour or shields."

He thinks for a moment longer, before continuing...

"At need I can also use those things I create. I have some knowledge of the ways of warfare; strategy and tactics, that sort of thing."

He stops there, waiting for the dwarf's response.

News of a visitor was hardly enough to stir Atrii from his melancholy, but it at least forced him from bed. He had gone through the motions; pressing his worn-out robes with a hot iron and cutting back the wild growth of his neck and cheeks to a more reasonable puff of black beard. His hair, he parted at the left into a clean seam and locked into place with a dab of lantern oil.

He is dressed and ready when the visitor arrives, trying his hand at a meditative stance in one of the room's chairs - his staff laid across his knees. He accepts her mild praise and overtures with a grain of salt. Assurances that the past shouldn't weigh on his shoulders are just polite words from ignorant strangers.

At the offer to leave with her, he glances down to the leather pouch hanging from his neck. If he is honest with himself, he is content to stay here and rot away to nothing. But he has a duty.

"Thank you, miss," he says softly, rising. "May I have a moment of privacy?"

If she allows it, then he will make his bed and set the room in proper order. After gathering some few personal effects, he is ready to leave.

The captain's expression darkens, at his response.

"So you'll give me words but not blood," she says, "words are just air..."

She shakes her head,

"I'll keep you as a dogsbody until you're ready to join the crew," she relents, "now get out of my sight."

As Gavrael closes the door behind him he hears

"Shem-Ka, make the Vulture ready, we sail for Sky Point where, no doubt, we'll pick up more waifs and strays."