The port city had not been marred by war yet. Though, it seemed it had already decided who it would side with judging by all the Valkenians and mercenaries bearing the Valkenian sigils. As Kasar walked beside Vorza, slipping through the cascading horde of the crowded streets, a deep panic rose in his chest. So many people. So much chaos as the bustling crowd churned this way and that. A blanket of chitter and chatter from the populace polluted Kasar’s head. It hurt as the smithies rang and sparked, vendors barked great prices, and horns blared for ships to dock or sail.

  “So much noise,” he said, wincing.

  “Welcome to your first city.”

  “I know how cities are,” snapped Kasar.

  “Pass through many?”

  “Went to a few while on the run.”

  Vorza shook his head. “Towns maybe.. Your parents would never have taken you in a crowded place where walls and cobbled streets have ears.”

  “So cities are just bigger towns.”

  “For a reason. You settle a village and soon enough people hear. If there’s enough resources or religious relevance, it’ll grow. You can tell what’s going to be a city or not based on its surroundings. And based on where the water flows.” Just as he said it, they parted through a dense crowd and the sea off the northern Warvalean coast rushed into sight. Dark waters stretching far into the horizon and several hundred ships setting sail to and fro, dotting the expanse of water.

  Kasar’s breath clogged in his throat as he tried to search for a word to describe the coast. The myriad of thoughts that raced in his mind paralyzed him.

  “Closest I’ve felt to home in a long time, but farther from it than I was,” said Vorza. He revelled in the breeze and inhaled the salty air. A smile spread on his lips. Not forced, or conscious even. Bliss settled in his mind and body. Kasar had never seen him so relaxed before.

  Waves crashed into the beach and over them loomed great docking yards with row boats, and vessels as large as entire barracks. Large ballistae, great bows, and even canons were being boarded by sailors. The bustling crowd they’d just shoved their way through passed by and boarded the ships, faces haunted by war or loss.

  Kasar distinctly noticed a vast number of armed folk marching off the incoming ships and heading south toward the city gates.

  “Mercenaries here for a chance at glory and gold,” said Vorza, mood immediately souring. “They’ll be from the Gilded Isles.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Isles are northeast of here, and a place for cutthroats and villains, alike. But more importantly, folk with a mind for glory and gold. You go there when everywhere else has failed you. Or if you have too much to gain there.” His words rang of bitter memories and truths.

  “Don’t see how you can possibly fail in Warvale if you side with the Valks.”

  Vorza gave a dry laugh and continued pushing toward a notice board. “We will need to reason our way onto a vessel headed northwest toward the Maharian coast. From there we’ll head north by foot to the Kargil Mountains.”

  “We’re going to your homeland?”

  “You were paying attention to my geography lessons,” mused Vorza.

  “Obviously.”

  Vorza scoffed and nodded. “Aye,” he said, a hint of longing in his voice as his pensive eyes seemed to stare a thousand miles through the bulletin board. A thousand miles north. Toward home.

  “And then?”

  Vorza snapped out of his daze and cleared his throat. “We’ll get there when we get there. Let’s find a captain and a ship.”

  After strolling around the docks for a while, asking prices, suggesting labor, and even some arguments Vorza had to pull Kasar out of, they settled on taking a break upon some carts. Around them the port city bustled on.

  “Now what?” asked Kasar.

  “Now we sit patiently and rest.”

  Kasar nodded and swept his gaze across the port and city as Vorza did, seeing if they could spot someone promising.

  Kasar noted how different everything looked here. The breeze that washed south from the Gilded Isles swept over white-washed buildings with earthen-ware roofs, flat and copperish in hue. Between the buildings, myriad of faces dashed, ambled, and pushed around like a stream of ants in a nest. Pale faces from the far west, oaken skin from Mahar, and faces he’d never witnessed before. Their faces were all caked with some kind of perfume, or make-up products. Kasar only heard of such things from his parents when he asked why some people smelled putrid. He didn’t understand why all the rich folk in towns and villages wanted to smell disgusting.

  Here it seemed it was the norm, and with the sweat dripping from the heat, the glamour smeared off anyways.

  Kasar touched his own face, marked half by his Maharian father, and the other half by his Karthian mother. It felt rough and the beard he’d grown spiked his index like a thorn. It was uneven, and patchy, and he figured there was at least some merit to the clean shaven folk of this city. He looked at their hair too and noted the various styles varying from extravagant swirls for some of the women, to the cropped and curt cuts of the men. The frills of their sleeves, and the flapping of their collars infuriated Kasar for no rational reason. All he could think was how annoying it could be to get one of those stuck between doors or drawers.

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  Vorza bore the sunkissed, ragged skin of a sailor turned desert pit-fighter, but under the marring was the blindingly pale features of the Vrodian people. Both of them were haggard ghosts battered by their time on the road and in the wild.

  Kasar found a sense of pride in that, compared to the more pristine looking dandies of this city. His opinion changed when he spotted a few refugees, soldiers, and ghosts of war shuffling away to board a ship. Those were the poor souls chased out of their home and didn’t stay to fight. Kasar did not judge them.

  However, he did judge the next batch of folk that strode into their sight upon the docks.

  Both Devils muttered “what in the world-?” at the strangest creature coated in reptilian scales. It wore a cloak and cowl, but the two could see its face and hands from under the cloth.

  “A monster?” asked Kasar, reaching for his saber.

  The creature seemed to spot Kasar’s aggression, along with several of the guards’ aggression around the port and city roads.

  “It’s sentient,” snapped Vorza. “It’s just a defect of some sort. My people call them anomalies. There’s always something useful about them. Or dangerous.”

  Beside the creature, a shorter man than even Kasar marched toward the cluster of guards pooling toward them. His grin swept wide and teeth shone bright. “March off, march off!” he bellowed, pulling out official documents. “We’re mercenaries and this is Kasulta. She will not harm you. I am Ostrik Half-Heart. This is my company of a ragged bunch.”

  “What’s that thing, shorty?” barked a Valkenian soldier. He and his cohorts snickered at the scaly thing and the short man.

  “She’s a woman, and her skin is tough as steel. And I am a man who wishes to wed a goddess.” Kasar did not know whether his earnest smile made him look insane or his dramatic gestures.

  The scaled woman hissed in what seemed like laughter. The soldiers did not share the enthusiasm now, confusion underlying their half hearted chuckles. Maybe even hints of fear.

  Kasar scanned the members of Ostrik’s company, and more importantly, their gear. Ostrik possessed a scimitar that rested in his sheath upon his hip and a shield on his back. Kasulta, the scaled woman, bore no weapons, but he noted the wrappings around her knuckles tainted crimson. The third of their company was an exceedingly tall man who bore a greatsword that dwelled in a sheath upon his back. The fourth was a scar-faced man with a somber look as his beady eyes glared at the soldiers. At his hip sat a sickle.

  A handsome man marked the fifth of their company, with soft features and a wiry frame. He moved like the act of walking was a dance. Were he not a man, Kasar would have called him beautiful, and perhaps he might still call him such. His features had an allure that called to most on the docks. Especially the women. He bore a flute in his hand and eyes that Kasar was getting lost in as he stared at him.

  “An odd bunch,” said Vorza, snapping Kasar out of his daze with a nudge of his shoulder.

  “At least they’re no harm,” said Kasar, not believing himself as he said it.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Well she just scared us,” reasoned the soldier to Ostrik. “We’re watching you though.”

  Kasulta the lizard woman hissed out a laugh. “Watch this!”

  The soldiers remained standing, but some of the other bustling sailors and civilians alike gapedin awe as Kasulta performed a flip. An applaud burst out from the audience. Many of them stood in shock at the ludicrous nature of the performance.

  “A bunch of circus freaks,” spat Vorza.

  Ostrik picked up a crate nearby, and stood upon it. His voice boomed over the crowd. Kasar and Vorza both picked up the casting of Blue from the handsome man. He was amplifying Ostrik’s voice. However there was another presence he’d never felt before. Magical for sure, but not quite the Chromas he was accustomed to. Every word Ostrik spoke thereafter captivated everyone on the docks.

  “I search for a worthy captain to sail us to the Gilded Isles. I am late for a wedding, my own wedding, and the woman I am to wed is a goddess!”

  A hail of whistles and cheers and claps. Some scoffs and notes of resentful groans also were sprinkled in there. Some of the sailors, however, grumbled in distrust. Superstitious bunch they were, according to Vorza.

  “Any who would have us travel across? I will promise to fight for your ship as we sail, and perform in theatrics, labor, and storytelling.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked a man in the crowd with a captain’s hat.

  “Between what?” asked Ostick, spinning to face the captain.

  “Theatrics and storytelling?”

  “Theatrics are such that they entertain. Stories are such that capture and bewilder.”

  The captain scoffed and looped his thumbs in his buckle. “Go on then. Give us a story.”

  Ostrik grinned as if he’d expected and even desired this. The crowd that had gathered around the port now all leaned in to listen. The city’s sense of urgency seemed to lessen when Ostrik spoke. “There once was a company of strange warriors that fought and killed beasts of the battlefield. One such adventurer was a mad man with a mad dream. A flute player once visited this mad man, and promised him his dreams would come true if he acted upon his madness. She said to him that to become a god, one must understand what a human is and can be.”

  He paused and regarded the audience. Even Kasar listened intently.

  Ostrik continued.“What a human is, is a petty thing with little meaning, but much to say. What a human is, is a silly thing with little sense, but with much to do. And what else is a human, if not a harmless thing with little trust, but much to conquer. And so the madman set sail and drowned himself in the Tides of Avarice to seduce the sea goddess Ania. For he believed that the sea goddess would adore his tenacity of the tale of humankind. For what else is a human if not a petty thing, with the desire to become a god.”

  The audience glared at Ostrik, some enamored by his words, but most were confused.

  “Who was the flute player?” asked the captain. “You called her a she, but there’s only one woman with you now. And the other flute player’s a man.”

  Many sailors beside him cheered on, begging for a response.

  “This is Dumai,” said Ostrik, presenting the handsome caster before the crowd. “And he found the flute off a dead man in the streets. Any buyers? It’s laced with silver!” A few laughs rippled through the masses.

  “The woman! Who was the woman?” More joined the chant. “Who? Who is she!”

  Ostrik shook his head and laughed. “You’re going to have to promise me a trip for the rest of the tale.”

  Silence hung in the air as the captain stroked his beard, glancing around at the eager men who must have been his. “Done.”

  The sailors cheered and clapped as Ostrik bowed to the captain. Other captains and sailors wondered if they dodged a doom or potential for glory.

  Kasar and Vorza exchanged glances. “That easy?” asked Kasar.

  “I suppose.”

  “You got any stories to tell?”

  “I’m not a fucking bard,” snapped Vorza.

  “Well, maybe I can speak to the captain.”

  “Don’t start anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Vorza shot him a look that meant you know.

  “I’ll just speak to him.”