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Old 01-19-2004, 04:19 AM   #65
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Sting

Rog

A sliver of moon hung low on the eastern rim of the sea. The waves picked up the yellowed light, throwing it from one to another in a widening, rippling pattern until it faded out against the side of The Gull. Rog leaned on the railing watching the illusion as the moon and ship moved south in tandem.

‘Are you feeling ill, sir,’ came the quiet voice of the sailor on watch as he passed by. Rog smiled, his back to the man, as he heard the familiar scrape of the bucket across the deck. ‘No, Arallas, but I thank you for your concern. For now I’m feeling fine.’ He fumbled with his hand for the small lantern he had hung on the upright post to his left that held the railing. ‘Do you have a light for this, by chance?’ he asked, as the man made to move on. Rog had brought his satchel up to the deck with him, intending to make a few notes in his journal before they arrived at their so called port.

‘No lights, sir,’ said Arallas, ‘by the Captain’s orders.’

Rog had wondered why the usual lamps were not lit fore and aft when he’d come up. Now that he looked about again, there were none of the crew smoking either. And a look back toward where the shoreline should be showed him they had pulled further out to sea. ‘No lights?’ he asked, waiting for further explanation.

‘None at all, sir,’ came the quick reply. ‘We’re running dark past the Havens tonight. The Captain wishes to draw no attention to our passage.’ Rog declined the man’s offer to see him below deck and to his cabin. With a nod to him, Arallas moved on, continuing his rounds.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The moon moved further up the night sky, obscured at times by the thin bands of scattered clouds. Several hours had passed and still the darkness found Rog looking out to sea, though by now he had traded his leaning against the rail for the comfort of a small crate pulled near to sit on.

The Gull, once past the cluster of lights that marked the city at the head of the bay, now veered in a southeasterly direction, back toward the coastline. ‘Land soon!’ he thought to himself, eager to have a firm, stable surface beneath his feet once again. His eyes strained to see where the ship might put in.

From the helm, the order rang out to ‘heave to, lads’, and Rog watched with growing bafflement as the ship’s sails were adjusted and the movement of the rudder felt. They were stopped a ways off shore, and now as he stood and peered toward the strand he could see a small covey of various sized boats coming out through the surf to meet them. Ten in all, they came abeam, and a number of the crew of each came aboard to meet with the Captain and First Mate.

Business was soon done; goods and monies exchanged; the traders eager to get back to their companions on shore. In exchange for a small cask of honeyed mead from the northern horselands, a group of traders led by Mas’ud, agreed to see Aiwendil and Rog north to the city.

‘Come, come,’ urged the thickset merchant as he climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting skiff. His two sons, Qasim and Umar, had already gone ahead in the larger boats, the crates of quail with them, cages secured with ropes. All were expected to help row the small boat back to shore.

Rog’s palms chafed against the thick oar as he pulled against the sea’s swells. For one moment he considered how easy it would be just to wing his way inland, but his eye caught the movement of Aiwendil as he bent into the rowing, his gnarled hands firm on the tightly wound, rope grip. With a heavy sigh, Rog pushed himself to continue the rhythm of his strokes.

‘If the old fellow can do it,’ he thought, biting back a barely suppressed groan as the wet rope bit into his skin, ‘so can I . . .

Last edited by piosenniel; 04-07-2004 at 12:14 PM.
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