Chapter 1- Part 1 : Smoldering Wreckage of A Plan

His boat trudged into the lakeside town of Ripple hours later. Aesop’s arms burned pleasantly from working the oars as the light from lower Ripple lit his face. Maneuvering his skiff to a free spot along the southern dock, Aesop stepped onto the solid oak pier and looked around for signs of his party while he tied off his boat. Searching for any traces of their landfall, nothing out of the ordinary was immediately apparent. The fog was still hanging on this part of the lake. As he had left the island after investigating, the fog had cleared noticeably giving the island a wider berth of clarity. He wished he could say the same about his findings on the island itself. It had been mostly fruitless and the evidence inconclusive, but he had his theories. Wild speculation was one of Aesop’s many talents.

As he stood for a moment gathering his thoughts and things, a drunk fisherman who had been sleeping with his back against a support beam stirred and shouted in graveled voice.

“Damn boat. Mfuckin fire. Ruining my sleep. Keep it down..!”

And more. Indescernable, yet eloquent ranting.

Aesop looked up. The slurred words weren’t intended for him. Aesop had lived on the streets of Velac as an orphan for years as a small child. He knew this type of drunk very well and they spoke to themselves as freely as they spoke to strangers. In his experience folks of this ilk were mostly harmless, even to a small starving boy on the streets of a writhing metropolis like Velac. In fact in times such as these, they could be a spigot of information.

In every moment --for every person-- there are two key words being spoken at once. One applies to the outside facing world. It is the mask we choose to don, or the armor we polish. The other word- the other truth- is our internal one. Sometimes, not always, it is a word kept secret. In some it is kept so secret, it is unknown to themselves. In Aesop's experiences dealing with this type of drunk, the two words that were key to success were: vulnerability & sincerity.

“Good evening, sir. How do you fare?”

The man looked up at Aesop with bleary red eyes, noticing the Bard for the first time. He hiccuped and belched as he examined the strange traveller. Although the man was seeing 2-3 figures standing before him, he was able to discern that he was a musician. Aesop had a lute case tied to the side of his knapsack, it bore a simple but ornate emblem of the musician’s guild. His clothing was immaculate. Black velvet accents on dark, unwrinkled leather. Gold thread was used in the stitching. The figure that Aesop struck was both simple and bold.

“Fuck’re you?”

“Name’s Bishop Prescott, new to town. You were saying something about a fire, did something happen here earlier tonight?”

“Was I? Yeah. About two hours ago, big fugger. Almost took out the whole damn dock. Missed my “Ellie-May” by a hair, I tell ya.”

“Ellie-May? Your boat.”

“Aye.”

The man coughed and spit a large, blackish gob into the lake.

“Lolly loping guards were able to stop the flame from spreading, finally. Twas chained to the pier, had to break the chain to set it drifting away.”

Aesop had noticed the detached chain. It was rusted through and looked cleaved off. He had assumed boat thief, and chalked the lingering smell of smoke up to city life and drunken hijinx. Damp night for a boat fire...

“Then what happened?”

The man’s face twisted into confusion, then anger.

“What do you mean? They left, the boat sank, I found this bottle.”

He held up an empty container, presumably recently filled with cheap vodka.

“Did you see what started the fire, or who?”

Aesop suspected his group, they had a penchant for lighting things ablaze when they were done with them. Perhaps it was their boat, maybe they knew they were being followed. The ranger among them, Stauch, was a keen tracker. It didn’t strain credulity that they had picked up on it.

The man let out a throaty laugh.

“A spark, I’d imagine. People come and go all the time. In lower Ripple you learn to keep your head down. People who tell stories about strangers in the dark, they end up disappearing round here.”

Aesop nodded knowingly. Ripple was divided into three parts. The first part closest to the lake was known as Lower Ripple, a place of thievery and poverty. The best bars could be found here though, the most passionate music, the most engaging of stories. But the criminal world thrived here as heartily as the art & revelry. If you spoke out of turn about the wrong character; the evening could end in an unpleasantly guided tour of a dark alley.

“Of course, sorry to interrupt your night.”

Bishop fished in his sack for an apple. Finding one, he held it out for the man.

“Take this as an apology.”

The man looked up at the fruit with a puzzled look on his face.

“An apple? Thanks and all, but…you got any mead, or beer? Or hell, grog will do. It’s this goddamn headache, the fog, the fire. Thirsty’s all.”

Bishop smiled amiably.

“Sorry, I don’t drink.”

More confusion from the man’s face, it made Aesop chuckle in his mind.

“What do you mean you don’t drink? You crazy or something?”

Bishop laughed heartily at that. He had heard similar sentiments before; but this time the intent was filled with less malice and confrontation than usual, more bewilderment and confusion.

“It’s been suggested before. Would a tobacco cigarette do?”

Bishop quickly replaced the apple in his hand with a small, silver case from his bag. Pressing the small button on the side, the case popped open to reveal ten perfectly rolled white cylinders. He held one out to the grizzled gentleman.

“This is a particularly oaky one. Levish Tobacco from Sov.”

The man’s face grew serious, touched.

“Well. Thank you. Never had a oaky smoke before. What’s your name again? Prescott?”

“Yes, good memory. You can call me Bishop.”

The man placed the smoke into his mouth and padded his dusty brown jacket for a light.

“Mamma said I had a mind like a bear trap. I’m Gantly. Me last name. I’m a military man so I won’t be calling you no Bishop. You’re Prescott in my eyes.”

Bishop flicked a match aflame and lit Gantly’s cigarette.

“Whatever suits you, suits me. Boatswain I’m guessing, navy.”

Gantly ignored the comment. Aesop tabled it for the moment.

Aesop analyzed the man. Gantly nodded his head in appreciation as he took a drag of smoke into his lungs. Gantly was wrinkled, but more war torn than old. He had the kind of craggy face that added decades onto a man’s perceived life. Aesop guessed that the old sailor was barely over fifty years old. He wore a dirty brown jacket and a cap, his hands bore fingerless gloves, his fingertips were cracked and worn. There was a faint, fine scar over his left eye that ran horizontally for a few inches.

“Cold night. Foggy to boot.” Bishop offered politely.

Gantly herumphed with gusto.

“If you think this is cold boy, you’ve had a blessed life for sure. Foggy is true enough.”

“Tell me about it, strange fog too. The lake was clear when I arrived at Wave last night, but come morning time the air was thick with it. Seemed like slightly heavy normal morning fog, but it remained so even as the day warmed up.”

Gantly’s eyebrow raised slightly at the mention of Wave, but it had to be done. Anyone docking a boat this late, had to have a justifiable reason. Otherwise, Aesop risked raising too many eyebrows.

Gantly pinched the end of the cigarette out with blackened fingertips, and tucked it away for later. Aesop thought about what he had found on Woebegone Island. A large crater, dark and wide. When he placed his hand on the soil, it had been warm to the touch. A great power had been there, the source of the fog. It was freshly evaporated, the island was reborn and renewed from a great sickness.

“Strange indeed. Vines caught my Ellie-May up and I couldn’t see a damn thing, had to use my hatchet to free her.”

As he spoke he motioned towards his beloved fishing boat. A sturdy ship, well loved and lived in. She bobbed on the lake top, crudely penned monicker painted in faded red on the side.

“What business did you have in Wave?”

“Named after an old lover?”

“Me mother. Dead now. Seemed fitting. On second thought, you still have that apple?”

Gantly licked his dry, cracked lips. The scar on his forehead caught the light, the tissue had long since healed, but it remained a light pink. A deep cut from long ago. Bishop nodded with a smile. He produced the fruit again, and tossed it to him. Gantly caught it easily. He bit down on the apple and held it in his mouth as he clumsily stood. Wobbling slightly and holding his head, he stretched his back while taking a big bite.

“Cherries. Grew up on a farm that had a bunch of cherry trees. Apples are good too, but I would kill a man for a ripe bunch of cherries.”

Apple juice dripped down his chin as he spoke though a full mouth. Flecks of spittle and food hit Aesop in the face, he made no attempt to wipe it off. Instead Bishop just smiled.

“I have no cherries sir, but if I did they’d be yours. No need for violence.”

At this, Gantly chuckled. The phlegm in his throat put a comical little whistle to the sound.

“So what were you doing in Wave?”

Aesop had hoped that he had forgotten the question, but as Ellie-May had said 'Gantly had a mind like a bear trap'.

Aesop had no problem lying. He did it often, a useful skill to have in his line of work. But even lies give information away. It was all a matter of controlling the truth by letting a little bit of it bleed into the lie. The job Bill had hired him for required discretion, and the people of Ripple looked down greatly on the city across the lake. Even here in Lower Ripple where the people were the lowest of class, they had their whipping boy. In this case it was Wave that suffered from undeserved scorn.

“Heard about a tavern looking for a Lute player. Fool’s errand though, the place was closed down. Looked like a dingy, dismal place to begin with. I was without prospects, so I used what was left of my coin to cross the like. Fine time I picked to visit. ”

This gave Gantly free reign to attach his own bias to the lie. It made the interaction less about the facts, and (hopefully) changed the tone of the conversation from suspicion to something a little more commonplace and less noteworthy.

“That’s Wave alright. Used to be a nice town on the lake, but then magical folks started moving into the area. Strange things started happening. No doubt this damned fog is their fault somehow. Meddling in things they don’t understand. I hope the Goblins kill the lot of em.”

Aesop was saddened by this, even though it was exactly what he was hoping for. Gantly was a man who lived in a town ravaged by classist warfare. The system in place was designed specifically to keep people of Gantly’s position down. In a more civilized and forward thinking place, a fisherman would be revered. Providing fresh food for people was a valuable job, and all benefitted. The rich would starve without folks like Gantly and in Aesop’s mind he deserved a warm home and plenty of food. But Gantly was a simple man. He was a product of his environment and refused to see the strings that controlled his ignorance. Wave was a town like any other. The people were nice and mindful, and the mines near Wave benefitted Ripple endlessly. Workers in the mines were being attacked by goblins daily, and still they toiled to bring ore and iron from the depths. Risking their lives daily for a greater good. Or for money. Bishop furrowed his brow involuntarily at the thought, which was uncharacteristic of him. He normally tried as hard as he could to keep such emotional outbursts inside.

Gantly noticed the furrowing.

“Something wrong?”

“I had also heard there was a group here a while ago, in need of a minstrel or a storysmith. My trip across the lake took hours longer than I expected. I have no idea where they are now. Perhaps you could help me find them, I could use the pay.”

“You’ve been nothing but nice to an old man on a dock, if I’ve seen ‘em I’ll let you know. What’s the lot look like?”

Aesop remembered the description given to him by Bill and Garth. A peculiar bunch. Aesop knew that it was easy enough to move through a crowded city as a sovereign person, but three dwarves arriving at nightfall might leave an impression.

“Three dwarves, I'm not sure where two of them are from, but one is from Levosa. That's their leader, a strong looking one. Noble looking at least, fancies himself a hero. Carries a shield with an emblem on it, Hammer and Anvil. He travelled with two others, a hunter and a medicine woman.”

Gantly thought for a moment.

“Hmm. Never heard of Levosa. Now there are a lot of different types come by these parts. We get plenty of dwarves, but never noble dwarves. Metal workers and dockhands mostly. Doesn’t sound familiar bub, sorry."

Gantly finished the last of the apple and chucked the core into dark night. Aesop was dissappointed, and even a little pissed. Another dead end, this conversation was a bust for his mission.

“Probably never even killed a man though. Otherwise he’d know it’s nothing to sing about.”

He reclaimed his seat on the dirty ground.”

Aesop found himself compelled to wildly speculate again, and before he could stop himself he was speaking.

“You were a soldier you say. Were you at the Battle of Bosco Harbor?”

Gantly looked up at Aesop’s face for a moment, analyzing his expression.

“How’d you know that? Lots of wars to choose from, even more battles.”

“I was there. You have the look of a man who experienced something humbling.”

A partial truth. There were many things to indicate his involvement in the infamous battle. First it was the cherry trees of Gantly’s childhood. Cherries were a rare fruit in these parts, Aesop had grown up in the south and knew that they grew most abundantly around the Sea of Gemberling. That would put Gantly as a young man at the time of the start of the Zealot War and in the vicinity of New Belnag, and nearly 35 by the time Bosco broke. Gantly's cadence had been transformed by years and travel, but his accent was clearly Gemberling in origin.

Second, the scar on Gantly’s head had clearly been made with an elven blade. The line was fine, but when the injury had happened it was deep, and it had bled a lot resulting in a long lasting and pink scar tissue. Normally facial cuts like that would bleed a good deal at first, but would coagulate fairly quickly causing a little white scarring. But elvish swords were made with a steel that affected the wound in such a way that it healed slowly. Without the proper care, the smallest of nicks could be death by infection, or for the unlucky, blood-loss. Tetra had tasked an elite group of elvish freedom fighters to sway the battle towards the Zealot’s side. Many Gemberling soldiers died at their blades, and elves didn’t partake in many battles in the south. Elvish people were elusive by nature, normally very choosy and mostly neutral to matters that “don’t concern” them.

Third. He had heard what Gantly said about killing a man. Some wars appear righteous at the time, and history only supports the idea in retrospect. Soldiers of such wars speak of horrors seen and moments that shaped them inexorably, but they also spoke of them with a sense of heroism and reverence. Who could argue that the Persus Empire deserved anything but to be demolished in war, when they slaughtered thousands of Dwarven children? But the Zealot War was no such case. A war of absolute control over religious freedom. “Zealotry” was a term used to describe any group of people at the time who didn’t practice the religion of the Common Gods. Druids, artists, and priests of various faiths had to take up arms against the ruling government in the state of Gemberling in order to exist. The Battle of Bosco Harbor was the culmination of all strife, a four day siege of the capitol city's main port. It was mounted as a last ditch effort on the part of the faltering “Zealots”. Infiltration to discern Gemberling movements was Aesop’s first big assignment for Tetra. It was even possible that Aesop was indirectly responsible for the scar on Gantly’s forehead, information he leaked was used by the Elvish task force to attack key targets.

Gantly looked lost for a moment. Turned his gaze down at his thumb and began picking something out from underneath the nail. His voice grew quiet and pensive.

“Humbling. Good word for it. Terrifying is another word. Senseless. Also, just plain shitty. Never seen so many corpses. I tell you, we may have won that war against those Zealots, but… cleaning those streets. That harbor. The aftermath of Bosco. Makes a man think about words like ‘won’. As far as it goes…”

He picked out a small splinter from his thumb, let it fall to the ground.

Aesop was touched by Gantly’s earnestness on the matter. He took note in his head to write down the man’s name and story later; it was rare to find anyone whose two words were aligned. Not a wasted conversation afterall. However, Aesop was also hoping that his thoughtfulness ended there. He had slipped up when admitting to being at Bosco, thankfully Gantly’s eyes were distant. Bishop puffed on his cigarette. Aesop could see that in his mind- Gantly was 15 years ago, and five-hundred miles south.

“Sorry for your struggle. I hope life has found a way to be kind to you after all these years.”

Aesop spoke abruptly, but genuinely.

The man brightened up, snapped out of the haze, and turned eyes towards Aesop’s. They were less red now, Aesop was struck with how blue they seemed, even in the dark, foggy night.

“Got a job, money enough for drinkin’, and strangers like you to keep me company.”

“And Ellie-May.”

Gantly grinned from ear-to-ear.

“Right you are.”

“A pleasure, Gantly. Perhaps our paths shall cross again.”

“Oh, I’ll be here.” Gantly pulled off his fingerless glove, and held out his left hand to Aesop. The off hand is used when you are not trying to display power or dominance, but safe passage and well wishes.

Aesop shook it warmly, bowing slightly.

“I have no doubt.”