Vaskul
New member
Tarengard, Capital of Adelstahl
2,547 S.E.
Port Whitemane
It was a beautiful day in Tarengard. The sun shone down, bathing the city in warm light. Clouds drifted lazily by. A cool breeze blew in from the sea. And Port Whitemane smelled of birdshit.
Most people, mused Mannus von Hawken, don’t even know what birdshit smells like. They’ll see it on the street, or if they’re unlucky, get some in their hair, but never enough to actually notice the smell. They don’t know how lucky they are.
Indeed, no small number of birds circled in the skies above the port, the busiest of Tarengard’s three nautical points of ingress. As per usual, it was mostly gulls, alongside a smattering of other avians, all of whom had contributed droppings to the pungent melange now wafting about in the air. The birds, of course, had been drawn in by the fish, which were being brought into Tarengard in vast numbers thanks to the small fleet of fishing vessels, which went out of Port Whitemane every morning, and returned in the afternoon with their nets full.
All in all, Mannus was not an unlucky man. He’d been born to nobility, after all- even if he was only a member of a cadet branch of House Hawken. And despite being the third-born son of a cadet branch, he’d secured a well-placed position within the Royal Inquisition, the domain of his house. As First Inquisitor of Port Whitemane, Mannus ostensibly had the authority to inspect any vessel attempting to dock, and seize any cargo he deemed suspicious, or potentially heretical. In practice, this meant almost nothing. Save for merchant vessels from Chélidione, and smaller ships from the fractious kingdoms of Szel, which were an incredibly rare sight, there was almost never anything worth inspecting on an average day.
Shipping vessels that had set sail from Tarengard itself were unlikely to have somehow picked up any heretical texts during the time they spent at sea, and any ships that flew the flag of another Great House were typically off-limits, unless Mannus received orders to the contrary. Though House Hawken’s duties as stewards of the Inquisition meant they stayed out of politics, they remained a vassal of the Throne, and if a Blackacre ship was held up at customs by agents of the Inquisition, it would be taken as a veiled insult from House Marshall itself. Better to simply let them pass without incident.
All of that meant that Mannus spent his days in utter boredom, watching the horizon from the window of his small office, located within the customs house. The Inquisition’s presence at Port Whitemane was so vestigial that they no longer had a building of their own- the four-man team that Mannus oversaw had been relocated into a spare office in the customs house some years ago, and their old building given over to some more useful purpose.
By now, Mannus could recognize just about any flag from a distance, without even the use of the spyglass that sat, gathering dust, on his desk. Naturally, the most common was the green-gray of House Storm, owing to their naval supremacy. Then, of course, the smaller ships owned by House Provident, not armed for war, but carrying spies and propagandists, which they spread across the seas, delivered to enemies and allies of Adelstahl alike. Those always flew the copper-and-blue, proudly carrying the emblem of the fox, which symbolized their cunning, crafty nature. Chélidione ships, recognizable from their strange make alone, flew the silver-and-gold, with a pair of crossed spears and a knight’s helm. Their merchant vessels always came accompanied by a small detachment of imposing armored warriors. Mannus even knew the various flags of the kingdoms of Szel by heart, though he’d only seen each a handful of times in his years at Port Whitemane. That was why it took him completely by surprise when he spotted a pair of flags he didn’t recognize in the slightest.
Disbelieving, Mannus blinked, rubbed his eyes, and checked again. When the strange insignias failed to surface in his memory, he fumbled for his spyglass, knocking it against the windowsill to dislodge the layer of dust on its surface, before peering down the device to get a closer look. The nearer ship flew a flag that depicted a coiled serpent, scaled in green, against a background of bloody red. Behind was a flag of bronze, emblazoned with a silver sword. Perplexed, the young von Hawken turned to consult the tapestry hanging from his wall, which depicted the flags of the various Great Houses and assorted other polities in miniature- but found neither of the new arrivals represented.
Perhaps... mercenaries from Szel, flying flags of their own design?
Now determined to resolve this bizarre mystery, Mannus extended the spyglass again, studying the ships in more detail. They were some distance away, but unmistakably headed for Port Whitemane, and their make was unlike anything Mannus had ever seen. Low and long, with rows of wooden shields lining each side of the vessel, and a carved wooden figurehead at the prow. Clearly, they were not merchant vessels, as there was evidently scarce space to store any cargo in such a ship. Neither flew more than a single sail, yet both moved swiftly, as it seemed nearly every man on each ship was rowing, allowing them to outpace the more leisurely fishing vessels also making their way back into port.
Only once the strange ships got a little closer was Mannus able to make out the men aboard. They were clearly armed for war, but they were not soldiers- at least, not any sort of soldiers Mannus had ever seen. Each man wore a different set of armor from his fellows, to say nothing of their strange helms, which bore everything from feathered wings to animal tusks. Many seemed to sport impressive beards, the sort that were strictly forbidden amongst men-at-arms in Adelstahl. And the others, Mannus realized with slowly dawning horror... were women. Women, wearing armor, bearing weapons, and seemingly built with enough muscle to make even Mannus feel inadequate.
These strangers seemed familiar, but not because Mannus had ever seen them before. Not in person, at least. Instead, they brought to mind a tale one of his tutors had read to him, during his upbringing. In teaching the young scion of House Hawken about the world, he’d read him the history of the Kingdom of Chivalry, the nations of Szel, and even ancient myths about the Elves of the Far Continent and the savage Orks of Tagesh-Tul. But of all those stories, the ones Mannus remembered frightening him the most were those of the Northmen. The savage warriors who weathered an eternal winter. The bane of every merchant ship from Hangman’s Coast to the Worldspine.
“Vaskul.”
One of the Inquisition agents, who’d been napping in the hall just outside Mannus’s office, stirred at that.
“Eh? You say something, Lord Hawken?”
“VASKUL, YOU FOOL!”
“Tch. Smells like birdshit.”
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ivarr the Pitiless, Varl of Clan Scylûng, spat off the side of the dock as he stepped off the deck of his longship. The odor was offensive, but nearly so much as the group of spearmen lined up at the far end of the dock, barring his way into the city of Tarengard.
They’d had a good look at Tarengard from miles out. Some of the Skarn in Ivarr’s longship had murmured their amazement at the towering heights of Adelstahl’s capital, but he’d been far from impressed. They’d built their walls high, but for what purpose? To protect themselves from the Nightbreed? From Røtgar? No- for they were plagued by neither in these soft, southern lands. They’d raised their walls out of fear of each other. And that didn’t impress Ivarr in the slightest.
Nor, in truth, did the spearmen intimidate him. They were soft men, brought up on a diet of milk and honey. He saw more than a few whose weapons trembled in their feeble grip, frightened at the prospect of facing warriors of the North. But the colors they wore did inspire a different feeling entirely. Anger. For they wore the colors of House Storm, whose sea-borne warriors had clashed with the Skarn of Clan Scylûng for generations.
It was no surprise that men of Storm were waiting to greet the Vaskul at their capital city’s port. But if they thought they could continue to point their sticks at a true Skarn without arousing his ire, they were sorely mistaken. And if Ivarr was merely growing incensed, his warband was already furious. The Skarn disembarking from their longship behind him already hand their hands on the hilts of their weapons, ready to draw swords, hammers, and axes to meet the spearmen of House Storm in battle. All they awaited was their Varl’s command.
“Hold.”
The order came not from Ivarr, who continued to silently size up the Storm spearmen, but from Jökull, the Varl of Clan Eindell, whose longship had flown the red-and-green serpent flag. His own Skarn looked no less happy to be facing a host of men wearing Storm colors, but at their Varl’s command, they let go of their weapons’ hilts- about the closest to a gesture of peace any Vaskul was likely to make.
When he saw that Ivarr’s men still stood ready to strike, Jökull turned to address his fellow Varl. The Serpent-Slayer’s expression was hard to read from behind his helm, but his voice remained level, his words measured and reasonable.
“We came here armed for war, but our fight’s not with these men. Any blood we spill now will only serve to weaken us when the real battle begins.”
Ivarr turned the words over slowly. To brook such an insult was not the Vaskul way, but he could not deny the truth of what Jökull had said. Still silent, he held up a closed fist, a signal to his men, and they released their weapons’ hilts as well.
The gesture did little to calm the nerves of the Storm spearmen at the other end of the dock, but it did seem to provoke a reaction in someone else. From within the crowd of soldiers emerged a handful of black-clad men, in uniforms with silver trim, bearing the crest of a hawk. Evidently, the man at their head held some sort of authority, for with a few whispered words, he instructed the spearmen to lower their weapons, before he approached.
Unwilling to get too close to the Vaskul, the young nobleman took a position in the middle of the dock, equidistant between both armed parties. As such, he was forced to raise his voice in order to be heard clearly.
“Ahem. Greetings, Northmen! I am Mannus von Hawken, First Inquisitor of this fine port! On my authority, I welcome you to Tarengard! You have come a long way, but I am afraid I must ask you to wait a few moments longer, as I cannot permit--”
At that, the Vaskul bristled. Men drew weapons partway from their sheathes, or banged bracers together. A few spat half-intelligible curses at the Inquisitor, for daring to suggest that he could prohibit them from doing anything they so pleased.
“Erm, that is to say, I would politely request that you remain where you are, until a more appropriate authority arrives! It’s been, ah, quite some time since we’ve had a diplomatic visit from your kin-- aha, that is to say, from your noble people. That... is the purpose of this visit, is it not?”
Uncertainty trembled in the von Hawken’s voice, as if only not contemplating the possibility that the Vaskul had arrived here for some other reason. As Ivarr took a step forward, he flinched, but swiftly regained his composure, drawing up to his full height at the Varl’s approach.
“Aye. Or near enough. We’ve come to speak to your King. And if you can’t make that happen, I suggest you hurry along and find someone who can.”
However intimidated Mannus might have been by Ivarr’s stature, or the sword he wore on his back, his surprise at the Vaskul’s words clearly took precedence.
“An audience with King Marshall? Without so much as an invitation? My apologies, good Northman, but precisely who do you think you are?”
Had the other Vaskul been near enough to hear Mannus’s words, they would likely have drawn their blades and prepared to dismember him for the insult. Ivarr merely scoffed.
“It’s not I that you ought to be concerned with, boy. It’s him.”
Chuckling darkly, gestured back over his shoulder, where the last voyaged on Jökull’s longship was emerging. He was a strange sight in the company of the Vaskul- of similar stature, but with none of their impressive muscle. Nor did he wear armor, or sport a beard. Instead, this stranger wore robes of maroon and crimson, and carried an ornate staff with a crystal orb set atop it. He would have been the picture of an aged sorcerer in a children’s storybook, save for the fact that he was clearly no more than thirty years of age. His bearing was not that of a warrior, but nor did it have the haughty insecurity of a nobleman.
Passing through the ranks of the Vaskul warriors silently, the robed man approached Mannus, until he was close enough that the young nobleman could look him in the eyes. As soon as he did so, Mannus recoiled, for he’d seen that the stranger’s eyes glowed golden, shining with an unearthly light that made it seem as though he could stare right into one’s very soul.
“Wh-who is he?” Mannus demanded of Ivarr, who merely stood aside to let the stranger speak for himself.
“I am Yvain, last survivor of the Occluded Order... and I have come to claim my seat on the King’s Council.”
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