Camp Ironstone is the last bastion of safety for the Taborites who live in the backcountry of Eldonir beneath the shadow of the mighty Beak Spire Mountains.
Seven months ago, the body of Inge Gunnar was discovered by a passing caravan. Her murder case was dismissed as a 'Carrick harassment tactic' by local authorities, and her body was quickly buried despite the outcry for answers. Soon, within a matter of weeks, five more families were weeping over their children's graves. Desperate for answers, Inge's mother sends for help.
The ship heaved once more before it settled in the berth. Watchman Smythe shielded her eyes—not a cloud in the sky, except for a spot of grey rolling in from the south. The stink of the tepid bay drew in the seabirds that afternoon. Between the lighthouses, seagulls dove headlong into the jetties, and just before they hit the jagged rocks, the gulls soared back into the sky with a bit of food dangling from its beak. The crustaceans plodded over the craggy black rocks, snapping their claws at the murderous birds. Still, for some, even the most sturdy armor was not enough. The gulls picked and pulled the crabs apart and flew away with their treasure back to its nests hidden along the pockmarked coastline. It was nesting season, and the birds would be busy fetching food for their little ones until they could fly on their own.
Margee watched the murderous birds swoop in for another kill—and waited for her quarry to make an appearance.
She looked beyond the bay at the stately homes near the edge of town—the plunging valley filled with conifers and blooming trees rippled as another gust blew through the trees. She squinted. Heat distortions from the tin roofs baking in the mid-spring sun made the forests appear like a dark green haze on the horizon.
Beyond the haze was the last defensive post near the Disputed Lands, Camp Ironstone, deep in the backcountry of Eldonir. And the last bastion of civilization before the roads turned to sand on the edge of the Great Deserts of Carrick—a country rife with poverty, slavery, and superstition.
Margee rifled through her satchel. Between a couple of worn copies of Finn Deedly's latest swashbuckling adventures, she found Wymot's letter.
She flicked her wrist and produced a pair of worn spectacles.
21st day of Fallen Leaf, 11th Month 1536 AR
'Beware the Ides of New Leaf. A wolf in lamb's clothing stalks among the innocent in false humility. Wish I could tell you more, but presently, the answers are not forthcoming. Death before Dishonor, and this, that, and the other... See you in three months. And remember, my dear friend—’
Margee sighed and tucked the letter into her satchel.
"I know, my friend—I must not fear…."Story in Progress!
The year is 1537. Margee left the safe harbor of the Riccaran Isles' on her first solo mission to investigate the brutal murders near the Disputed Lands of Carrick, a long-standing enemy of Tabor. But instead, she discovers an enemy as dark as the ruins of Brynjar deep in the foothills of Eldonir—an ancient site of bloody ritual sacrifice. Forced to pursue a primitive evil on her own, Margee summons the help of an 'Outsider,' and risks revealing the jealously guarded secrets of the Watchmen.
Nevertheless, she is determined to end the terror in Eldonir and conquer the real enemy that threatens to undo her soul.
Established in 1265, the Watchmen of Mateo Adan, at first glance, may look like ordinary wizards. They wear robes denoting their station, some wear hats, and most carry a satchel filled with books and other sundries familiar to wizards. However, their martial prowess distinguishes them from the standard caster. Beneath the scholarly veneer, each Watchman dons the traditional blue stripe across the eyes and a small blue notch on the lips indicating they have spoken the Oath. The one thing I've noticed about these curious wizards is this. The books they carry are for entertainment only. They don't study their spells—the Watchmen have them memorized!
Further, they wear a fitted gambeson for the chest and hardened leather for the legs. The arm guards have spikes for hand-to-hand combat (if the assailant manages to get past their weapon, of course). Also, please pay close attention to the sword on their side. I assure you, the blade has tasted blood.
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The World of Tabor is a work of fiction that began as a mere unbodied musing whilst toilet scrubbing at the local senior center, written with a level of mediocrity that would make most fanfic dumpster fires wet their pants. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author's twisted imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Certain long-standing institutions, factual historical events, agencies, and musical publications are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. And, of course, credit to where credit is due. All factual events and creations, printed, sang, danced, or otherwise created by the tenacious human spirit, will be credited with respect to their copyrights and owners.