The Prince's Mark

The Road to Dezmer - Fourteen

While the sun hadn't yet lifted beyond the horizon, the village was awake. Often, the villagers were up even earlier than Tracou.

Whenever someone spotted Tracou and Mirthal, they would call out a hearty, "Good morning, Lord Vartanian!" as was proper. Tracou would return the greeting. Mirthal did his best, often opting for volume over pronunciation.

What he did must have seemed quaint compared to Mirthal's daily life. Tracou's experiences inside castles was limited to getting Mirthal out of a dungeon which could not have been a good representation of castle living. Mirthal's responsibilities had to be beyond the scope of his imagination. What did he think of Ergakan with its petty problems?

Tracou had gotten rather good at spending time away from Mirthal, but couldn't help brooding about something in his presence. He had to pull himself together!

Stepan lived near the eastern edge of the village, as close as he could get to the ocean while still being part of Ergakan. His shack, slapped together many years ago with bits of a wrecked ship, did indeed move around. It didn't move far, but enough to simulate being on the water. The house even smelled salty and appeared to be damp. Years ago, Tracou had Serpouhi ask him why he insisted on having his house this way and Stepan had replied that it was bad luck for a fisherman to lose his sea legs.

Mirthal wrinkled his nose at the sight. "This is a house?"

"Yep. A fisherman lives here."

"I see. It does smell like fish."

"I won't tell him you said that," Tracou said as he knocked on what passed for a door.

Almost instantly, Stepan vanished the door and stood in its absence. Approaching sixty, Stepan lived with an intensity better suited to younger men. He stood about two and a half inches shorter than Tracou when fully upright, but he tended to slouch and thus seemed shorter. He had white hair that was receding with a vengeance, leaving the majority of his head shiny and red. A puncture scar lay on his cheek from the time he had used a Zeibr fishing hook and accidentally speared it into his face. This, of course, was not a story Stepan would tell anyone, but others had been around for the incident and talked about it at every opportunity. Sometimes, Stepan's contemporaries referred to him as Ol' Two-Mouths when he wasn't present.

Clearing his throat repeatedly, Stepan took his time eyeing both Tracou and Mirthal. Tracou stood, waiting, but Mirthal had other ideas.

"Goot moning."

At first, Stepan didn't react. Then Stepan let out a lone 'heh,' his eyes glittering in amusement.

"Good morning, Lord Vartanian, elf," he said, focusing on them in turn. "Come in."

The shack was much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, but contained only one room. Stepan kept a bed in the center, likely so he could go to sleep and release the magic he used to make his home larger without an issue. At night, the home could contract to its normal size without disturbing the bed. His other, less important furniture would spend the night out in the open.

Far too many colors, slapped around haphazardly and changed daily, covered the walls. One part of the room was dedicated to fish—there was a table to hack fish apart and a box Stepan could keep cold to preserve his catch. With the right wind, Tracou could smell it from his manor. Stepan had a small supply of other food, as well, which didn't help the stench.

A seagull stamped about with all the security and fearlessness of a favored pet—Stepan's familiar.

Grunting, Stepan arranged three stools for them and waited for the other two to sit down. Mirthal jumped at the chance and dropped himself on the stool before holding his head in his hands.