That was how these caravans marketed themselves, with bold letters across their exteriors. A claim that none so far bothered to detest, for they’d been true to their craft for the past century. Transporting businessmen, tourists, families, and in rare cases, platoons of soldiers, across the Asgardian territories. Odd was the day when an incident would occur to these coveted vessels, for their horse-drawn wagons were known to be sturdy and well kept, guarded at all times by a minimum of two men.
The All-Expense Caravan to Dansfurt was no exception to this. Almost the size of a modest village home, it was built entirely out of different varieties of Northern wood. It had a dense frame of white oak that sat upon two pairs of wide-rimmed hickory wheels. The walls were lined with sleek Red Cedar panels, painted with motifs and corporate regalia to earn a distinguished look. Its roof, too, was sourced from cedars, fashioned into an arch to create the semblance of an Asgardian longhouse.
Either side of the caravan bore two shutterless glass windows near the front and back, veiled by a set of curtains hanging on the inside. The door to the caravan sat on the western wall, with stepping boards below and a lantern above. Two other lanterns lit the vicinity of the vessel. One towards the back by the storage compartment, and another in the front hanging from a long iron rod. Beneath the northward lantern, sat the two armed men responsible for manning the strapping draught horses that powered the vehicle.
On the inside, the caravan boasted a vast interior, capable of taking over a dozen travellers, but primed for fewer. There were eight cots in total, four on either side, stacked in bunk-style pairs separated by the door. Each cot came with its own drawing table, alongside the ample storage space provided below it. It was lit by a powerful central lamp that was stationed at the center of the caravan, by the eastern wall, opposite the main door.
Tonight, only four passengers had boarded, leaving each an abundance of two cots to make their best use of. Among these passengers were Fjalla and Walshie, accompanied by an elderly couple who seemed to be from Mokosh. Albeit speaking very little Yormic, the couple presented themselves as patient and friendly, managing to convey that they would be getting off much earlier than Dansfurt.
A short while after all had settled in, a young, well-kept lady boarded the main body. She wore a tight grey knee-length gown, holding her gloved hands elegantly together as she grinned through a pair of bright red lips. Her golden locks were pulled into a knot behind her head, where a small, round hat matched her attire. Evidently, she was no passenger; she served the role of a temporary attendant, explaining the route to the others in their respective languages. Her warm tone and tight vocabulary only added to the simplicity of their humble agenda:
- This is the Transgard Express Caravan heading from Tir Albis to Dansfurt.
- The trip in its entirety should take around two to three weeks with no delays.
- Every day, the caravan will take two one-hour-long breaks. These breaks will be held at Transgard-sponsored inns, where All-Expense passengers will be provided food and drink.
- The caravan will make two overnight stops at Clowick and Bludansk, respectively. You are free to explore these towns, but please be wary of your possessions and make sure to return before noon the next day.
- Transgard is not responsible for any damages or harm occurring outside the safety of its caravans.
She wished the passengers farewell on behalf of the company and exited the vessel. The allure of hospitality seemed to capture Fjalla, who wore a toothy smile the entire way through. Glancing with excitement at Walshie, she could see him roll his eyes as if eager to get on with the journey. Which, shortly after, they did.
Fjalla refused to let Walshland’s disinterest in the corporate display ruin her enthusiasm. Right as the wheels began trudging across the mud path, she flung the curtains to her window wide open, peering into the moonlit plains of South Rock. They curled and wound infinitely into the horizon like a stormy ocean of grazing hills, tinged silver by the night sky. Soon, her eyes would feel heavy, easing her once again to slumber as the floating clouds swarmed the moon, depriving the lands of its gracious gleam.
There it was again, that same dream.
The same empty house.
The same creaking door.
But now there was a difference.
Far in the distance, disturbing the eerie silence, came the high-pitched cawing of crows.
Getting louder and louder as the winds gathered around.
And once more she wakes.
A stray beam of sunlight had ventured onto her face, paired with the rattling of the carriage as it raced along the muddy path; it was enough to rouse her from deep slumber. She sat up in her cot, gazing out her window into an entirely different scene. Ironically, there was barely any light outside. Oaks and willows lining the road had absorbed much of what little the cloudy heavens had to offer, and if that was not enough, a dense fog dispersed the remaining specks.
The roads were worse-maintained than those she’d travelled in South Rock; one could argue they weren’t maintained at all. Bumpy and damp, their dark muddy surface was littered with moss and ditches where seasonal rainwater had formed greenish puddles. In fact, the entire atmosphere carried this greyish-green tint, which left an unpleasant impression upon the eyes of onlookers.
Fjalla grimaced in disgust, her air of excitement and adventure almost ruined by the bitter sight. Not so far from her, a familiar voice interrupted, “Look who’s awake?”
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It was Walshland, sitting at the edge of his cot, back arched, writing away into a small journal. Fjalla cheekily glanced at it; she had to read it.
“Morning,” greeted Fjalla.
“Morning? Must be afternoon by now,” mocked Walshland.
Shocked, she turned her head to look at the sky, hoping she could glimpse the time of day. Alas, it was almost impossible to locate the sun through the fog.
“Hahaha,” chuckled Walshland,” That’s Mokosh for you, clouds and mist and more clouds, maybe even some sh…” he paused mid-sentence, realizing he’d almost cursed before a child. He put his pen and notebook aside.
“Well, I’d wager it’s probably for the best you didn’t get to see much of it,” he went on, a serious expression taking his face, “ the thing I’ve heard about this place, I can’t quite put them to words.”
Fjalla shuddered, irked by the notion; she’d done some reading of her own about Mokosh in her free time. A landlocked country in the center of the Northern Continent, it had been the host of many wars and conflicts over the past two centuries. It had a significantly lower standard of living than its neighbouring nations, and its marshes were infamous for harbouring all sorts of malicious beasts and criminals.
Even the weather was unkind to the people of Mokosh, with yearly sun-blocking clouds that poured highly polluted rain known as “black fall”. The water often killed crops and poisoned the rivers, for which the local government had wasted its funds on attempts to purify them. Rain here was no blessing, but a pitiful curse of famine and disease.
Despite that, the people of Mokosh remained proud, holding onto sovereign independence against the persistent advances of Asgardians. They upheld their own laws, own language and own flag, and they had no plan of letting them go.
“We should be coming to a stop soon!” came a voice from outside, towards the front of the caravan. It was one of the men at the reins looking through a small horizontal slit in the Northernmost wall.
Rubbing her eyes, Fjalla attempted to fix her hair, immediately stopping when she sensed the hat against the back of her hand. She flails her arms around, trying to hold it back in place, making sure no one has peeked at her ears. This grabs the attention of Walshland, who was fastening the buttons to his shirt. With a raised eyebrow, he questions, “Going bald there, Fiona?”
“Fiona?” she wonders, confused for a moment, before she remembers that’s the name she’d given herself. Her father had mentioned that she was being pursued, that people want to find her, and handsome or not, she could not risk telling anyone her real name just yet. In retrospect, she felt silly giving him a name so close to her real one.
“No, it’s just,” she stutters,” it’s my papa’s hat.”
“Awee,” he responds empathetically, putting on his shoes,” was he a fisherman?”
“No,” she replies softly, fumbling about for her satchel, “he was a… carpenter.”
“Cool,” Walshland was all dressed, patting his uniform and standing straight in the aisle,” mine is an Einhrar Lieutenant, and one day I will be like him!”
She had no clue what that was, and frankly, she didn’t care. All she could think of was how stunning Walshland looked in his little outfit. By the gods, how was this little man the most beautiful thing she’d seen in all of gorgeous South Rock?
Preceded by the elderly couple, they quietly made their way to their first stop. A humble, isolated, mostly wooden structure by the road. It featured a medium-sized main building with a row of four outhouses to its east. A sign hung above its door frame, spelling the name of the establishment, “Morky-Lis Inn”, in both Nu Yormic and Mokish.
The interior, too, was quite simple yet tidy. A kitchen and bar represented the back of the house, and two rows of long wooden tables lay in the front. There were no paintings or hanging trophies, just a placard claiming “Proudly Sponsored By Transgard”.
All four passengers sat on one table, while the two guards took up another to their own. Promptly, a young maiden provided the passengers with menus in their respective languages.
“How convenient,” remarked Walshland.
“We are Transgard Sponsor, sir, ”the young maiden explained in a heavy accent, her Yormic grammar failing her. Walshland understood her nonetheless and nodded back with a smile.
This upset Fjalla, who could not help but frown. “Oh, so she’s your type?” she wondered to herself in jealousy. She found the maiden to be quite pretty and thus, she thought he must too. This frustration only made the meal-picking task even harder, for aside from reading their names, she couldn’t make sense of any of the items on the menu before her.
Noticing her confusion, the elderly lady chuckled before placing her thin finger on an excerpt in the menu.
“Bikosh Stew” - it read.
Looking up towards the lady, Fjalla tries to think of something to say, but is cut short by the old lady slowly nodding.
“Good choice,” affirmed the maiden,” come with meat and mushrooms.”
Fjalla nodded silently to confirm her order.
Walshland, who’d been spying on the exchange, goes, “Oooh, I’ll have one of those as well.”
Annoyed by his interruption and nosiness, Fjalla smacks his shoulder.
“Ow!” exclaims Walshland, squinting and rubbing his arm.
The others all chuckle for a moment, joined after by Fjalla and Walshland themselves.
“Okay, four Bikosh, will be back soon,” nods the maiden before she retreats to the kitchen.
This was about as much direct interaction as Fjalla and Walshland could have with the couple, considering the hard language barrier. Either group tended to stick to conversing in respective pairs for much of their time at the table, breaking conventions only to offer silent pleasantries: nodding when the food arrived, praying silently and exchanging tableware. From afar, they appeared to be a functional family: two bickering siblings and their elderly parents.
It was here as well that Fjalla got to learn more about Walshland for the first time. He was a young private, only four years her senior, stationed in an Asgardian platoon in the north of South Rock. After completing his initial training period, he’d been granted a leave of five weeks by his superior. He intended to use that leave to travel to his hometown of Dansfurt, to spend a couple of nights with his mother, who’d been living by herself since he left a year ago.
His father was always on duty, serving the king’s army at the North-Eastern front. Despite expressing grief at his recurring, long absences, he stated he was proud of his father and the work he did. The dividends he sent home every month had provided his mother and him with an above-average standard of living, and his reputation within the army had provided plenty of benefits to Walshland’s time in service.
Fjalla found herself ashamed, for she had no such story to share, not one she could right now, at least. And so, she played an old game of two truths and a lie:
First, she claimed she never knew her mother, as she passed when she was but a babe, a truth.
Second, that she never had many friends, as her father had her homeschooled, is another truth.
Finally, she was going to meet with her uncle in Dansfurt, which was a lie. She had no clue who this Eskel was or his relation to her father. But she knew he trusted him, and he rarely ever trusted anyone.
“Oh, that’s fine, I don’t really have many friends either,” chuckled Walshland, trying to ease the girl’s tension, “ Except maybe for that one guy, but he was kind of a salt licker.”
“Oh,” she responded, averting her gaze shyly, not knowing what to say.
“We can be friends, can’t we? Maybe?” proposed Walshland.
“YES!” she responded, in an excited tone. The old couple were startled, but after reading the air between the young travellers, they giggled and smiled tenderly.
The young ones were embarrassed for a moment, but then shook hands to seal the deal to their new accord.
“Hour’s over, let’s head back now, be quick!” exclaimed the guards.
With full bellies, high spirits and newborn friendships, the travellers make their way back to the caravan to continue towards further frontiers.