Curse of the Witch-King, Chapter 1
Posted: Wed Jul 08, 2020 6:27 pm
1st of Mirtul, 1473 Dale Reckoning
Winter snowstorms have given way to chilly Springtide showers. In the harbor of Zhentil Keep, the once-solid icepack has disintegrated into bobbing chunks too small to threaten a fishing boat. The onset of the early shipping season has set the wharves buzzing with activity this wet, cool morning, with slaves and freemen working side by side in haste to load galleys and sailing ships with goods bound for Hillsfar and the southern countries. At one long gray stone pier a cog newly-arrived from Phlan disgorges its cargo and passengers.
Alain steps off onto the cobbles of the pier, warm and comfortable in his Cadorna Textiles cloak, holding a lead-lined box in his other arm. His investigations had pointed here, to Zhentil Keep… But only minutes ago, a Zhentish Harbormaster’s clerk gave him the heavy box and a letter from Phlan, which had somehow arrived ahead of the cog. The message from the City Council of Phlan thanks him for his service and terminated his role in the investigation. No further explanation. But the seal seems genuine and the package that came with the letter contains the items he claimed from the Harpers, his promised reward for helping the city government.
His police contract thus fulfilled with unexpected swiftness; the man has no special business in the city. He does, however possess an interesting bit of second-hand information left over from the investigation: the whereabouts of his former adventuring companion, Klokulf Blix. The priest of Bane has reportedly taken up residence at a house in Thargate, the city’s portside district, cohabitating with the lovely blonde 'maiden', Alwina.
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Klokulf sits at his desk in an upper room of the high, narrow, Thargate house he rents, his home for the last couple of months.
Before him on the desktop, a spread of papers and maps. Vaasa. His ecclesiastical patron, the High Doom Thorodus, has granted him leave to organize a private expedition to that northern country in search of artifacts left from the rule of the Zhengyid witch-kings and the subsequent domination of the Sons of Orcus.
Not much in the way of funds.
He doesn’t have a party yet. But he does have a burglar on retainer for the indefinite future, as Katrina owes him her freedom (such as it is).
Looking again at the paper with a row of Zhengyid-era inscriptions and the parallel row of (Nova) Vaasi letters in his own hand, the close resemblance in writing systems strikes him afresh. It cannot be coincidental. The links…
From downstairs comes the noise of the girlchild in his charge crying, followed by Alwina singing.
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Kat walks up the cobbled lane to the rented house at the top of the hill, her dwelling-place these past several weeks of parole.
Noises drift up from the waterfront.
A glance eastward shows the tops of sails over the roofs of downhill houses and shops, belonging to ships moored in the river mouth harbor. Ships that could carry a woman across the Moonsea to…
But she has obligations. Laws she might scoff at, but personal debts are something else.
Ducking under the awning to get out of a sudden burst of cold rain, she raps on the door.
A wreath of meadow grass still hangs there from yesterday's spring festival.
Theophilus peeks out a shutter near the entrance, and a moment later the lock rasps. The door swings in. The skinny slave waves Kat into the house, taking her cloak and hanging it on a peg in the dim hallway.
“The Master is upstairs, Mistress Katrina.”
She hears the familiar sounds of Alwina feeding her adopted daughter. "Drink your milk, dear." The young woman refuses to use a wet-nurse but feeds the little girl some concoction of Klokulf’s.
Kat never had any children of her own, but early in her serving days she worked for a family that had two sweet little things.
Memories of Richemulot well up like the Musarde surging in a spring flood…
Winter snowstorms have given way to chilly Springtide showers. In the harbor of Zhentil Keep, the once-solid icepack has disintegrated into bobbing chunks too small to threaten a fishing boat. The onset of the early shipping season has set the wharves buzzing with activity this wet, cool morning, with slaves and freemen working side by side in haste to load galleys and sailing ships with goods bound for Hillsfar and the southern countries. At one long gray stone pier a cog newly-arrived from Phlan disgorges its cargo and passengers.
Alain steps off onto the cobbles of the pier, warm and comfortable in his Cadorna Textiles cloak, holding a lead-lined box in his other arm. His investigations had pointed here, to Zhentil Keep… But only minutes ago, a Zhentish Harbormaster’s clerk gave him the heavy box and a letter from Phlan, which had somehow arrived ahead of the cog. The message from the City Council of Phlan thanks him for his service and terminated his role in the investigation. No further explanation. But the seal seems genuine and the package that came with the letter contains the items he claimed from the Harpers, his promised reward for helping the city government.
His police contract thus fulfilled with unexpected swiftness; the man has no special business in the city. He does, however possess an interesting bit of second-hand information left over from the investigation: the whereabouts of his former adventuring companion, Klokulf Blix. The priest of Bane has reportedly taken up residence at a house in Thargate, the city’s portside district, cohabitating with the lovely blonde 'maiden', Alwina.
---------------------------------------
Klokulf sits at his desk in an upper room of the high, narrow, Thargate house he rents, his home for the last couple of months.
Before him on the desktop, a spread of papers and maps. Vaasa. His ecclesiastical patron, the High Doom Thorodus, has granted him leave to organize a private expedition to that northern country in search of artifacts left from the rule of the Zhengyid witch-kings and the subsequent domination of the Sons of Orcus.
Not much in the way of funds.
He doesn’t have a party yet. But he does have a burglar on retainer for the indefinite future, as Katrina owes him her freedom (such as it is).
Looking again at the paper with a row of Zhengyid-era inscriptions and the parallel row of (Nova) Vaasi letters in his own hand, the close resemblance in writing systems strikes him afresh. It cannot be coincidental. The links…
From downstairs comes the noise of the girlchild in his charge crying, followed by Alwina singing.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Kat walks up the cobbled lane to the rented house at the top of the hill, her dwelling-place these past several weeks of parole.
Noises drift up from the waterfront.
A glance eastward shows the tops of sails over the roofs of downhill houses and shops, belonging to ships moored in the river mouth harbor. Ships that could carry a woman across the Moonsea to…
But she has obligations. Laws she might scoff at, but personal debts are something else.
Ducking under the awning to get out of a sudden burst of cold rain, she raps on the door.
A wreath of meadow grass still hangs there from yesterday's spring festival.
Theophilus peeks out a shutter near the entrance, and a moment later the lock rasps. The door swings in. The skinny slave waves Kat into the house, taking her cloak and hanging it on a peg in the dim hallway.
“The Master is upstairs, Mistress Katrina.”
She hears the familiar sounds of Alwina feeding her adopted daughter. "Drink your milk, dear." The young woman refuses to use a wet-nurse but feeds the little girl some concoction of Klokulf’s.
Kat never had any children of her own, but early in her serving days she worked for a family that had two sweet little things.
Memories of Richemulot well up like the Musarde surging in a spring flood…