The Red Gathering

A Talk of Gods and Whatnot

A poster with a fine drawing of Sigurd fluttered against the port's cool breeze. There was to be a play about the vicaul hero, prepared by the bard Coran and the ever so theatrical, Zaffiro. I did not know Sigurd at the time, but I did see him carry a troll once and heard a great many more things. Seeing it would be something I'd make sure to do that gathering.

"Move it, hangman!" a brawny man barked at me while carrying a massive wooden beam along with several other leather-faced dock workers.

I apologized and made way for the group, who then marched towards the towering galleon - The Dreadnought. I had never seen a bigger ship like it and while it was unfinished and depended on its many tethers within the walkways, it was also the biggest thing in Port Frey.

"I don't care if it pays poor," an old dock worker said to a younger one. "I'm only working outside of that thing!"

"You really scared of the rats?" the younger one scratched his flakey head. "I swear there's probably only six left in there."

"It's not the damn rats, boy. It's... the air in it. Not the smell, but the feeling. The way it wraps around your skin."

"How?"

"It's like...it's like it's holding on to you. Gripping and sometimes scratching."

Their conversation then turned quiet the moment they saw me. I gave them a quick, apologetic bow and went on my way.

The sun was about to set and I knew as well as all the other returned what that meant. More of us, and for me, that meant more stories.

***   ***  ***

The scent of Chef's cooking gently poured out of the warmly lit tavern. A few Returned from Cole were already inside, looking for a good drink to quench their thirst. None of them sang their shanties yet, but seeing as some were already two tankards in and laughing at the presence of each other, that wouldn't be so for long.

The town guard patrolled the outside, circulating the streets with the clings and clangs of their shields and armor. Voices of passing townsfolk scattered about with mumbles, whispers, and the occasional passive aggressive remark to the Returned. I personally had one about my noose and whether I'd be hanging around town for long. If I had a copper for every time I heard that...

I took a table in the tavern and found a place on it to lay down my journal, flimsy pen, and recently acquired spear. I proudly reveled on the latter, rubbing the flat of its hot blade and gripping its leather-wrapped body. It was heavier than the sticks I practiced with in Mandala, but I didn't worry. I learned the sword and the stick in a few weeks. The spear shouldn't be an issue.

"Merry," a reverberating hand fell on my shoulder.

I turned to it, tracing the black mass of an appendage to Renzer - or at least I think it was. Both the man's hands were enveloped by a darkness and traces of an ethereal white. Half of his face was now consumed by the colors and he bore an expression more confident than last we met. He was different, and if I was being honest with myself, sinister even. Still I was glad to see a familiar face so early that night.

"How have you been, my dear friend?" I grabbed his braced arm for a shake. It hummed to the touch. "You've changed I see."

"So have you," he pointed to my spear. "May I?"

I happily handed him the weapon and, to my surprise, was quickly lifted along with it. Panicked, I asked him to let me down. He did so and laughed. So did I, but was a little less sincere about it.

*** *** ***

We shared the table soon after and traded stories of our time between the gatherings of Solace and our journey back to the port where we met. Drinks would have also been on their way if it were not for the sudden entrance of a group of solemn individuals. From their colors alone I could tell they were Celestine, and by the way their hands were clasped together, they were without a doubt religious bunch.