The battered husk of what was once a proud ship limped into the docks of Askileon, its tattered, flaccid sails catching one last breath of wind, like a dying man fain to see the other side but too far gone to fight.
The city's dockmaster dug furiously at his right nostril as the wreck crept in. Extracting a choice morsel, he examined his crusty prize studiously before tucking it away between lip and gum. A gull cried. He paid no mind to the wreck or its captain; such a ship was neither enemy frigate nor merchant schooner, and if there was no alarm to be raised, no bribe to be bribed, then let the salty fools handle their own mooring.
There was something in the captain's shout that shook the dockmaster from his reverie, a strength and confidence that rung across the harbor like steel on steel, or perhaps the crashing of a purse of gold cast heedless upon some high hall's marble floor.
"Damn it, Thursday!"
The ship was a strong breeze away from the river's bottom, the words made no sense, and none of the usual Empire men had told him to expect a special guest, but the shiver down the dockmaster's spine told all. This man was nobility, and more than that, a warrior. He swallowed his snack and hustled to the dock, stepping to the tune of the nobleman's rage and indignation, all of which seemed to be directed at a day of the week.
"Is today even Thursday?" He mumbled to himself, nervous and bewildered. "Ah well, at least it's not me he's cussin'. Ho there!" He shouted up at the ship's passengers, which he could now see were two, neither one less ragged than the other. The one doing all the shouting was tall and long in the legs, longer still of burnt gold hair and beard, both of which were shot through with streaks of grey. The target of his loud and eloquent abuses was a shorter man, strong and stocky, of swarthy skin and coal-black hair and beard. Neither had felt the barber's touch for months, if not years.
"Ho there! " he shouted again, hoping to be heard.
"Ho yourself! " the captain shouted back from the helm, at last casting a baleful gaze down at the dockmaster, who shrunk beneath the power of the nobleman's half-mad stare, the kind of gaze that pierces through a man like so much glass, as if he were no more material than the air itself. The dockmaster barely noticed as the other man began casting down lines.
"Well don't just stand there!" The command shook the dockmaster from his terrified stupor, his ears waking to the sound of the hempen ropes thudding onto the planks of the dock around him. Frantically he began securing the ship. No sooner were two lines tied than assorted baggage began raining down around him as well, making the process a bit like dodging arrows in a siege. The captain was cursing Thursday, the blackhaired man was hurling luggage, and the dockmaster was considering once again how he really should be getting a better salary.
The lines were all tied and the dockmaster had just begun picking up the assorted crates, bags and satchels strewn across the dock when the ship's gangplank came crashing down with a thunderous crack, splitting a plank of the dock and frightening the dockmaster half to death, so much so that he dropped all the luggage and had to begin picking it up all over again.
A noble procession in miniature commenced down the gangplank, the swarthy man flanking the noble captain, who walked with the air of a king home from war, no small feat considering his legs were obviously reacting poorly to land's firm stance against them. His right hand held fast to the pommel of a sword at his waist, his left clasped the last scraps of what once must have been a magnificent sable cloak to his shoulder. As he reached the dock, he looked about with disdain.
"Where should I.." the dockmaster began, but the nobleman silenced him with an upraised palm, his eyes roving the harbor and the city beyond. The dockmaster was sweating beneath the weight of the luggage, the hernia he'd been battling for months on the brink of intestinal victory.
At last the nobleman spoke, his voice betraying an Eastern accent. "What is this place?" he asked.
"This is Askileon, greatest city in the world, your.. my.. uh, sir," the dockmaster gasped. What did they call nobles in the east, anyway?
The nobleman raised an eyebrow. "Smells like a fish market."
The dockmaster grimaced, nodding politely. "These are the docks, sir."
"Smells like a brothel in a drought," the nobleman murmured, distracted. He nodded to himself, as if the matter was settled, and marched off wobbling toward land.
