Kindling: Part 1

We fought for Amerand. We fought for Vedra. For a hundred years, we were swept up in two violent, inexorable tides, ebbing and expanding, swallowing cities, villages, outposts—

Since the war ended, you’ve already sold off most of your armor—
First the sabatons—
Then the shin guards—
The metal skirt that at one time protected you from the blades of your enemies—
The cuirass—
The shoulder plates—
Your helmet, dinged from use—

Since the war ended, you’ve already sold off most of your armor—
First the sabatons—
Then the shin guards—
The metal skirt that at one time protected you from the blades of your enemies—
The cuirass—
The shoulder plates—
Your helmet, dinged from use—

The south knew you by a number of monikers too, both flattering and not.

The crowd’s almost reached you now, moving with a purpose that reminds you of certain court toadies and minor lords, so you turn back to Tana (who’s dabbing at her bloody lip) and Leum (who’s looking impatient).

Windfall blossomed. Hotels, card rooms, merchant shops; buildings popping up one after another like weeds; everyone hoping for the next big lode.
They never found it. Over the years, the mines dried up. The town shrank.

“Join us, and maybe you’ll see it for yourself.”
She laughs again. “A month in some northlands backwater? With nothing better to do than clean up after the cows? I’ll pass, thanks.”

You pour them all some tea. You’ve smoothed their hackles, for now, but that doesn’t mean they’ll work together. You can still feel Leum’s hostility rising from her like miasma from a swamp.

On the north side of the corral, a scrawny kid with big eyes and baby fat on her cheeks lets out a whoop. She’s a slip of a thing (maybe fourteen years old), perched precariously on the fence with a shrouded weapon at her side—
The mark of a kindling, trying to blend in—

By the fence, a skinny child is watching you intently. She’s attended every one of your duels in Gateway, studying you with the ferocity of an acolyte, though you’ve got no interest in followers—
You’ve got no interest in anyone, really—
You’re better off alone.

Dismounting, you let your horse slake its thirst in the fountain while you creep up to the windows of Harana’s Cardroom, where Amity found you last night.

Livia, your town, was known for its textiles. Robes, coats, wraps—
Beautiful, light wraps in double ikat, with embellishments embroidered in expensive cotton threads.

Livia, your town, was known for its textiles. Robes, coats, wraps—
Beautiful, light wraps in double ikat, with embellishments embroidered in expensive cotton threads.

Here is the story of Vana, Third Queen of Chenyara, as recorded by Saya, Weaver of Nemera—
You arrived just in time to abscond with the wrap—
The anchors lifting—
The sails unfurling—
Your wild leap from the deck to the dock, where you landed by accident among several officers of the port authority, who tried to hold you for questioning, but the Shell Collector gave you an escape and you took it.

Vedrans are notorious for their revelries, their festivals and feasts and weeklong debaucheries. You’d always been told they were wastrels and sybarites, which was why Amerand crushed them in the end, but maybe being a sybarite suits you.