| Of Honor and Trust
The wind was blowing steady over the prow of the Nightingale, as it steadily cut through the waves, bouncing gently up and down.
Draven stood with his hands on the railing, leaning on it, staring out over the ocean as the crewmen ran back and forth shouting,
doing each their appointed tasks.
He thought of the recent years of his life, stationed on Dagger Isle. He had been stationed there for four years, but it seemed a
lifetime. The seemingly endless horde of Orcs from the depth of the frozen mountains had given him a focus, and a training edge
that he had most likely not had the chance to gain in most other places of Sosaria.
Orcs, of course, weren't the only threats of the region. The garrison had also been ordered to keep the "inhabitants" of Dungeon
Deceit at bay, the undead under the mountain. Indeed, the nights had been disturbed often, by the wailing cries of a spectre, or
the dark cackle of an occasional lich.
He shook his head softly, to banish the memories to the back of his head, and his hand went absently to a rolled up scroll in
his belt. A letter from the Britain Commander. He had been reassigned, to the city of Trinsic. It was a letter he cared for dearly,
as Trinsic could only be considered a much better change of scenery, and he was indeed looking forward to what the future may
bring, in a place where there are actual people, instead of gritty militarymen, and occasional sailors coming in with supplies.
Perhaps he would even have time to visit some of his family, in Britain where he grew up, son of Kharl, a carpenter, and Vivian,
his musician mother.
He took a deep breath, then looked towards the west, ovre the prow of the ship. In the far distance, land had started to appear,
and he would likely dock in Trinsic in a matter of Hours.
He turned about, and headed below deck to get some rest.
He wanted to look his best, when he arrive in Trinsic. |