The bell was a crisp ring in the still air, struck with a consistent military precision. The fact no bell rang in answer did nothing to dispel Albus’s feeling that the world around them was no more. The fog was insular, it seemed to consume all until what little remained was the rock of their boat, the beat of their oars against the water’s surface, and the sound of the bell. Still, he remained steadfast at the head of the boat, eyes scanning for any motion, for as little he could see, or any dangers upcoming from the waters.
And perhaps, though he dare not admit it, mutter a short prayer for safety from the Martyr, may her blessings be.
Jittery nerves or not, something was afoul, Albus knew, though that did not take much to figure. In a fog this thick, how could it be there is no one to answer their bell? Had there been an error with the charts? Had there been some calamity within the town? Had all sainted souls been drawn from the earth and the Word awaited them?
Still, he was a company man, he had served in the east he could do his duty here. In the mists, a shape seemed to colaless, a mass of black among an uneasy gray.
“Slow! Slow! We’re coming up on something.” Albus called and the oarsmen complied, with the usual grumbled that came with a break in rhythm. It was several yards before Albus could make the form out, a dock. He contemplated a moment as to whether or not he should call out, but with the bell signing their approach was there any reason not to? “Hail, hail! Men of the Saber requesting to come a-land!”
He was met with a creeping sort of silence. Without another word, for the whispers of the men behind her were well enough, Albus picked up a length of rope and tossed it around a pylon. He waited until their boat was within jumping distance of the pier, adjusted the strap of his rifle so it wouldn’t be lost in the motion before he leapt across the gap. The dock was well made and hardly made a noise as he landed upon it. He caught a length of rope as it was tossed to him, and used it to pull the boat parallel to the pier before tying it down to a different pylon. As he worked, he could hear the Governor speaking to the Captain.
“Where are the dockhands at? Jacobson would never leave the docks unhanded like this.” The man said.
“Illness perhaps?” One of the soldiers offered, but it got only a grunt from the Governor.
“We’ll head to the meeting hall first, we can question someone there.” The man said, accepting Albus’s offered hand as he gracefully pulled himself up onto the dock. Albus’s gaze fell to the Captain as he offered his hand.
“Sir, shall we leave someone here with the boat?” He asked. So it can cut it loose when he hears us calling for the saints.
Behind him the Governor strode to the end of the pier, in his gait only confidence, but Albus was certain he could see the Beast’s Own in the man’s vestige as the mists swallowed his form.
1 post • Page 1 of 1
- Global Mod
- Posts: 1787
- Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 12:07 am
- Location: Lost in the Snow
//… and it was there, and her blade flicked out catching only air. She backed from the door, worn floorboards shivering with each misplaced step...// Fall of the Aelir Isles, Vol. III
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests