The Old City
Gjorn paced the darkening snow covered cobblestones, wishing to find some peace away from the constant discussion of military movements, preparations, and tactics with these human commanders. Oh so tiresome when all they see were pieces to move on a table, the constant reminders to think creatively with the environment were dull and repetitive. The skies were remarkably clear in tonight, not a cloud in the sky.
A lull in the storm as the hurricane bounced off the Vilorthic Mountains to the west. With any luck, the ghastly thing would stay south and not bother piling the streets of Glaion with feet of snow. Though he knew better, this was only the calm before the storm proper. Supposably this happened nearly every year, and he suddenly reminded himself why he didn't come to the penninsula this time of year.
Still, even in the cold, he enjoyed visiting this part of the city. Quiet, away from the constant light of the city. The only thing to wander this place tonight it would seem, was him. He hummed a soft tune that dampened the sound of his footsteps, hushing the world around him. Though his magic was subtle, it would still ring like a bell if it encountered someone to disturb him.
Making his way toward the shore, the odd sound he remembered from the far shores of the north sang in his ears like a familiar lullaby from when he was younger. The ice that formed out in the bay crested each wave that graced the shore like millions of chimes. Only growing louder and more intricate as he neared. The old salt covered piers, only preserved by chance, stuck up from the surf like sentinels, ever watchful to a sea that bore it no mind.
He sat down in the damp sand, his fingers digging into the cold beach. A hazy memory of when his father used to take him down to the Fjords to talk with him as a boy. Even in those days, he didn't mind the cold then either. His father always used to tell him that the winters kiss should keep you focused. A king needed to be focused at all times.
The wind shifted and brought the faint smell of sweet smoke to his nose. Though not wood smoke, tobacco, someone else was here. He recognized the staple of Estile, a sweet and rich variety found on the southern coasts of the Isle. Why had his magic not told him anyone else was around? Changing the pitch to his song, he found the source nearly instantly and recognized her.
He made his way back atop the sand dunes, nothing more than dried seagrass to impede him. He quickly saw a hooded figure sitting on top on the few buildings that still had a roof. The moldering structure with its vaulted ceilings, brick roofing with holes through it, sat just a few hundred feet ahead. It wasn't too far from where he and Halgier had first met her, apparently, she did like to come here.
The old painted sandstone pillars of the building, despite deing near collapse and erroded by decades of abandonment, still held beautiful swirls hidden deep within the stone. As he neared closer to where she sat, he realized that she was actually sitting on a balcony, the roof had crumbled long ago. Bricks and dust strew about, ironically having piled beneth the thing, holding it up.
"I was wondering when you were going to spot me. I saw you down on the shore and thought I'd give you a bit of a hint." Her soft voice rang out like a flock of warbling birds.
Gjorn chuckled, sitting next to the goblin woman. "Well, I see someone had been practicing their magic, how were you able to hide from me, of all things?" She handed him a tightly rolled cigar, smelling richly of leather and cinnamon.
Her deep violet eyes never left the stars, watching as they slowly sojourned across the sky. "See that's the problem, I remember you and the other Dwarf telling me your names. You were Gjorn, if I remember right. The other man, Halgier wasn't it? The one who couldn't keep his eyes off me?" She grinned over at him, seems she was skilled in banter at least. "But, I don't know who you are."
"Ah, that's a fair shout, darling." Gjorn lit the smoke with a small fire from his fingertip. "Let me introduce myself properly then. I am Gjorn, King of the Clan Rhojic. I am the bard Bluejay, the Branch Walker. A bit of an oddity I am, my people usually don't have Talents with the wind, but here I am." He took a long pull from the cigar, letting the smoke swirl around him as the breeze took it away.
"The Bluejay, and a king! Ha! Why do I keep meeting strange things these days..." She laughed, but it was a bitter thing. The thick hood that hid her ears, fell as the wind shifted again. "Sorcerers, dreams, wars, and ghosts, now kings."
"Seems you had quite a lot happen to you since the last we met. There's a long time till mornin'." He let that hint hang while she sat in a comfortable silence with him.
Seems she didn't want to talk much this time, but was apparently appreciative of his company. They gazed at the slow turn of the stars, the waves the only sound between them. It was nearly midnight by the time she spoke. "You have traveled the world far more than I have, Your Majesty."
"Please, none of that. Do I look like a king sitting here in these ruins? No, please just call me Gjorn." He said.
"My people tell me I say things in my sleep after I became the priestess of the village." She began slowly. "Have you ever heard the name Vilorlith before?"
He snapped his head to her, his full attention now captured. They certainly were right about her, a new Champion indeed. There were so few things that walked the Shattered Lands that even knew that name, and here she was, saying the name of her goddess now lost. "Well, that got your attention!" She laughed, "Stop looking at me so seriously, I figured it was a name. I just don't know whose. Or what for that matter."
He laughed with her, trying to hide his rather rigid reaction. He lay down on his back, folding his arms behind his head. Smokes long forgotten beside them, he closed his eyes and asked. "Where did you hear that name? What dream were you having?"
"Truth be told, I don't remember. Sometimes I see a corpse woman in my dreams, sometimes shes around when I'm awake. Sometimes I see our Great Father hunting something, sometimes all I see are the faces of my people, but they are different." She whispered, drawing her legs up to her chest and holding them.
Gjorn opened his eyes before answering and had to tame the jolt of shock. Another woman, like she said, looked like a corpse walking. Long tail swishing across his vision, holding a finger to his lips. With a wave of her hand toward the Goblin woman with an obvious command in her night-sky eyes "Comfort her." Her long ears, exactly like the goblins, her eyes so similar to theirs.
Chills ran down his spine as the full weight of what he was experiencing hit him in full force. Vilorlith. She wasn't gone, she was here and taking an immense amount of interest in this... girl. He and God were right. He slowly turned his head toward the woman sitting next to him. "Tell me, Ilgor, what are your thoughts on becoming Mother?" He said it in Elder Fae, seeing if she would notice.
She answered in the same language, a warbling and light sound. "I forgot I had told you my name when we were in the Forgemaster's workshop. How did you know my people call me Mother? I didn't tell you that before."
"I know a lot of things, dear Priestess. Many things that I cannot speak of, many others that are lost behind words forgotten. But, this language, is old. From a time before the Dawn. I figured it would be easier to talk like this rather than trying to find words you might not know in common. Besides, Mother is actually a common title in this tongue." He began, trying to sound innocent and light-hearted.
"Is it?"
"Oh yes, now. Why don't you tell me why you're upset about what has you all the way out here. Maybe I can help?"Geography
largely, this place is the crumbling remains of the old portside of Glaion, eroded cobblestone walls, overgrown footpaths that were once throughfairs, dry fountains that are home only to mosqitoes and frogs. Wooden structures that have long since rotted away, only vibrant moss calling this home.
While it sits nested between the bustling eastern sector of the Capitol, farms edging the meandering river of Le fil d'émeraude, quiet neighborhoods skirting even those. A wonderful place for the Galcian citizen who prefers not to be in the epicenter of political and economic intrigue of the City. A slower paced world than that of the port side proper, existing with the flow of the seasons. Steady and predictable.
History
The Quarter used to be the old portside of the City of Glaion in centuries past, that is until the river Le fil d'émeraude had taken in a mass amount of sediment from tributaries surrounding it. While the communities that had subsisted off the regular cycles of the river, the yearly floods leaving the soil fertile and bountiful, it filled in the bay on the eastern half of Bay of Swallows.
The port just to the west suddenly became the new economic center of trade for the Galus. The fact that this port happened to be closer to the city itself was only a happy accident. The old city was left to looters and scavengers for years, many being the surrounding farming communities that saw that the vast majority of the residents just packed up and left for the City proper. There wasn't much left in the town worth staying for. Many of the mills that relied on the currents to run the waterwheels now didn't have the current to move the machinery.
With shipping having dried up, much of the work simply shifted west. Though for many this didn't seem to be much of an issue. New lives, new work, better work as the rapidly growing dockside offered was a short walk from their current homes. Those who stayed tried to make their living off fishing but were reminded rather harshly that the eastern half of the bay was the spawning ground. Many of the species that called the delta its home now never reappeared, the marshes having filled in. Shallow water and hot summers did horrors to the young fish.
The only ones left here in the current era are hermits, recluses, and the occasional outlaw. While the surrounding communities hunt the city still, small game being plentiful and enough to make a small income off of, there is next to no foot traffic left here. Those who wish to see the haunting beauty of nature retake the land settled so long by humanity has become a piece of local tradition. Reminding them that everything is only temporary in the grand scheme of things.
Alternative Name(s)
The slums, The Ruins, The Quarter
Location under
Owner/Ruler
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