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Chapter One: A Barbarian Visits the Empire
It was a beautiful day in Areistea, the capital city of the Empire of Areis. The warm sun had just passed its zenith, and a fresh breeze blew in from the sea. The waters of the bay sparkled and a few boats floated on the waves, anchored just off the pier.
The smell of salt and fish hung heavy in the air as Jorgen walked past the warehouses. The sounds of the waves against the breakwaters and the docks, the gulls flying overhead, the clink of metal tools, the shouts and whistles of the workers. Comforting sounds Jorgen remembered from his childhood on a different shore.
The streets were wide, heading away from the port, and some had a canal running down the middle, lined with white and grey stones. The canals, Jorgen was told by a helpful local, who found the big barbarian gawking at the construction, were part of a system of canals, dams, and locks that replaced the natural Sestea river delta. The ancient elves had tamed it and put it to use.
Larger canals were used to transport goods through the city and into the Areisian heartland, while others were used by small boats as transportation within the city, for goods and people. The large canal Jorgen studied now was mostly traveled by small barges, bringing supplies up and down to the port. Some barges would continue a short ways up the river, or have their supplies transferred to larger river boats that headed inland.
Jorgen looked back down to the docks and The Wanderer, the sailing ship that had brought him here. The old merchant vessel from Spearpoint had been pressed into service during the latest orcish breakout. The one that had killed Jorgen's family four years ago.
The one that had made him, a six-foot-eight northern barbarian, join up as an Areisian soldier, saluting pompous men more than a foot shorter and half his weight.
But, that was over. Now what? Jorgen needed to find an adventure, a quest, anything. There was a dark cloud trailing him. He had to keep moving.
Turning in a half circle to get his bearings, Jorgen headed west, in search of the inn and tavern recommended by the ship's captain: "Elf's Bottom".
It was sunset by the time he found it, in a district where the port's warehouses gave way to workshops, shops and the homes of working folk.
The inn's impressively outrageous sign illustrated a blonde elf of uncertain gender, bending over, ass out, with one hand on his or her naked bottom, looking over his or her shoulder with an exaggerated wink.
Jorgen just smirked, shook his head, and opened the door. He was greeted by a warm rush of air and the smell of cooking, and the sound of people talking and laughing.
His large frame barely fit through the door, and his greatsword clanged against the doorframe as he passed through. Looking up sheepishly, he was grateful that nobody seemed to be paying much attention. Apparently he wasn't the first barbarian giant they had seen, although he probably was the biggest.
It was an old building, two stories high. The front door led into the tavern and eating hall. It was packed. Jorgen saw a dozen or so tables, full of cheerful people drinking ale and eating hearty food that smelled delicious.
A bar stretched across the back of the room, opposite the door, flanked by a pair of open doors, leading to a kitchen on one side and probably storage on the other, Jorgen thought.
Along the left side were stairs to the rooms above, and the right had a large stone fireplace, with a few comfortable-looking chairs before it. It was currently unlit in the warm early-summer weather. The front wall of the inn held two large tinted glass-paned windows, on either side of the door Jorgen had just entered. The tables near the windows had a nice view of the busy early-evening streets.
There was no doubt that it was a popular spot.
Behind the bar, a young man was pouring drinks and serving plates of food.
Jorgen was impressed with the decor, which was simple yet elegant. The floors were polished hardwood, and the furniture was mostly oak, he thought. The walls were an interesting mix of bare brick and wood paneling. The ceiling was a lattice of exposed beams and support columns.
What surprised Jorgen was the lack of actual elves. He was hoping to meet one.
"Hello there!" a voice called out, startling him out of his reverie.
"Are you lost? Do you need a drink?"
"Sure, a drink sounds good." He walked to the bar and set his pack on the floor at his feet, resting the hilt of his old sword against the bar top.
"What'll you have?" the barkeep asked, leaning on the bar, his dark intelligent eyes shining.
Jorgen took a quick measure of the man. Late thirties perhaps. Dark brown hair in a curly mop. Five and a half feet tall at best. He looked somewhat fancy in an embroidered silk shirt, and was wiping out a glass on a clean white half-apron.
"Do you have mead?"
"Oh yes, we have mead. Honey mead, fruit mead, dark mead, spiced mead, even a few aged meads. What's your pleasure?"
"I'll try the dark mead."
"Comin' right up."
A moment later, Jorgen was savoring the cool, sweet liquid and feeling more relaxed than he had been in weeks.
The bartender looked him over, appraisingly. "What brings you here, barbarian?"
"Name's Jorgen."
"Ha! Sorry, Jorgen. It's unusual to see a seven foot monster of a man in the heart of the empire. Trying to burst out of those poor auxiliary leathers no less! I'm not complaining, just curious."
"Not quite seven feet" the barbarian said with a smirk before answering.
"I've never been here before, to Athea. Fighting with the orcs has cooled off for now, and I am traveling to find.. well, I guess I'll know it when I see it. My old life in Valcris is gone. I figured I should see the world. New places, new people - maybe even meet an elf.
"I notice you have those little pointed ears. I've seen a few people now with those. And you're a little guy, but not unlike the Areisians I fought with at Eastwatch. You are human, right?"
The bartender laughed, "Well, yes. Most Areisians are human. Descended from the original elves of Athea. That is, we all are. We call ourselves 'high humans' on account of the elvish blood. Over two thousand years now since we first intermingled, back at the siege of Westhaven."
Nelion touched his ear absently. "I just happen to show it a bit more than most. Didn't anyone teach you this stuff?" the little barkeep asked, eyebrow arched accusingly.
"I guess it never came up while I was a kid up north. And I've been too busy killing and trying not to be killed for the past few years to learn much of anything. Beyond the odd soldiers' tales, anyway."
Jorgen finished off his mead and slid it towards Nelion, prompting a refill.
"I figured I might as well come find out for myself. At least, that's one reason. I'm always on the lookout for a reason," the barbarian added, holding back a sigh.
"Oh, well, I suppose that makes sense," the barkeep said, pushing the pint of mead back to his customer, before he continued, "if you'd like a lesson, a short one's included with your mead. And by the way, name's Nelion. I've owned this inn for fifty years."
"Why?"
"Let's just say your presence indicates an adventure of some sort, and I'm always looking to live vicariously through my interesting patrons."
Jorgen nodded thoughtfully.
"Fair enough. I'll take you up on that lesson. And fifty years? You Areisians never look your age."
"Yep, the elvish blood."
"Must be nice," he grumbled. "Tell me about elves. I've always heard they were here in Athea, but I haven't seen any. Where do they live?"
Nelion nodded in acknowledgement, seeming to approve the question.
"Westhaven. It's a region of Athea, to the south, on the western coast. They are the last of the original pure-blooded elves from before the empire.'
"None of them live in the city? Aren't they part of the empire, too?"
