The Barge to Darlor

Dras was roused from his slumber, a residual echo of the recent battles resonating within him. His body ached with a familiar, muted throb, a lingering testament to the trials and combats endured. As he adjusted to consciousness, it struck him that his surroundings were not the harsh, sun-scorched expanse of the desert nor the austere, regimented layout of a military camp he had become accustomed to. Instead, he was nestled in the heart of a pulsating city, cocooned within its urban vibrancy.

Dras sat up on his bed and walked over to the window, throwing the wooden shutters open. He looked out onto a scene that was bustling with life. The city of Blad stretched out before him, a vibrant tableau nestled beside a vast, serene lake. The surface of the lake shimmered under the morning sun, the glistening water providing a captivating backdrop to the city's tableau.

The structures of Blad were a testament to the architectural prowess of its inhabitants. Buildings of sun-dried mud and chiseled stone stood tall against the azure sky, their walls adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant mosaics. The designs wove a captivating tale of the city's rich history and folklore, the geometric designs interlocking in harmonious synchronization.

The streets of Blad were alive with the rhythm of daily life. Traders, their voices filled with the promise of exotic goods, called out to the crowd, their words riding on the warm, spice-laden breeze. The laughter of children rang out from the city's nooks and crannies, their innocent mirth a refreshing contrast to the somber desolation of the desert Dras had left behind.

As he took in the bustling scene below, the distinct melody of street musicians wafted up to his window. The musicians, stationed at various corners, coaxed melodious tunes from their instruments, the notes twirling and intertwining to form the unique soundtrack of the city.

Despite the sensory overload, Dras felt a comforting sense of familiarity. He recognized the patterns on the buildings, the unique blend of spices in the air, and the melodious hum of the city. He knew, without a doubt, that he was in Blad. The city was an overwhelming symphony of sights, sounds, and smells, a stark contrast to the desolate desert landscape he had left behind.

As Dras stepped out onto the city streets, a soldier in the familiar uniform of his own squad caught his eye. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried the quiet air of confidence that spoke of a seasoned warrior. He greeted Dras with a nod as he approached.

"Dras, glad to see you up and about," he said, his voice rough with fatigue.

Dras nodded in acknowledgement, his mind wrestling with the uncertainty of the fates of his squad. "Any news from the rest of the squad?" he asked, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

The soldier took a deep breath before responding, "We've been given a week's respite. The commanders think we've earned some rest before we head back to the capital."

Dras felt a wave of relief wash over him at the news, but it was quickly followed by a pang of apprehension. "And the others?" he asked, bracing himself for the answer.

The soldier's eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to the ground. "We all made it, but can't say the same for the other squads. Many didn't survive the trials."

The news hit Dras like a punch in the gut. The excitement of the bustling city seemed to fade into the background, replaced by a somber silence that echoed the soldier's words.

Just then, he noticed two familiar figures approaching them. Alia, her blonde hair catching the sunlight, and Maris, his stoic demeanor unchanged, walked up to them.

"Dras, it's good to see you," Alia said, a gentle smile on her face.

"And you, Alia," Dras replied, his voice choked with emotion. He turned to Maris, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm glad we all made it."

Maris simply nodded in response, his gaze serious. "We've been fortunate," he said. "Others... not so much."

The weight of their words hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the trials they had faced and the comrades from other squads they had lost. The cost of their duty was high, and the shadow of loss loomed over them all.

"We've survived," Maris finally said, breaking the silence. "Now, we must honor those who fell by continuing our fight. That's our duty."

Dras looked at his friends, their resilience in the face of loss instilling in him a renewed sense of purpose. They were right; they had a duty to those who had fallen, to continue their fight and live to honor their memory. The city of Blad, teeming with life and vigor, seemed to echo this sentiment.

___________________________

Over the ensuing days, Dras and his squad experienced the unceasing rhythm of life in Blad. The city was a pulsating entity, alive with the daily routines and rituals of its inhabitants, providing a stark contrast to the regimented lifestyle they were accustomed to in the military.

At dawn, they watched as the city awoke to the melodic call to prayer, its resonant tones spiraling out from the towering minarets and echoing through the narrow streets. The first light of day would reveal the fisherfolk returning from their nocturnal expeditions on the lake, their boats laden with the night's catch, the fish glinting silver in the nascent sunlight.

As the day progressed, they observed vendors setting up their stalls in the bustling markets, their voices rising above the din as they called out their wares. The rich aroma of fresh bread wafted through the air as bakers, awake from the wee hours of the morning, displayed their crusty loaves and sweet pastries. Meanwhile, children scampered through the streets, their laughter ringing out as they darted between stalls and around corners in their endless games of tag.

In the city squares, craftsmen were engrossed in their work, their skilled hands crafting wares ranging from intricate jewelry to sturdy leather goods. Each strike of a blacksmith's hammer on metal or the soft scrape of a potter's hands shaping clay was a testament to the city's thriving artisan culture.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the city was bathed in the warm glow of lanterns. The day's heat gave way to a refreshing coolness, and the city's numerous taverns and eateries came alive. Dras and his squad often found themselves in these establishments, the air around them filled with the sizzle of grilling meats, the clinking of glasses, and the merry chatter of patrons.

As they ventured through the city each day, they became a part of its tapestry, caught up in the ebb and flow of life in Blad. The city, with its rich culture and lively populace, provided a well-needed respite, healing their spirits in ways they hadn't anticipated.

During these explorations, thoughts of his sister often seeped into Dras's mind. He found himself staring at the faces in the crowd, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of her familiar features. As the days passed, his resolve to find her and bring her home only strengthened.

One sun-soaked afternoon, Dras found himself drawn to a peculiar street vendor as he meandered through the vibrant markets of Blad. The man seemed as old as time itself, with a stooped posture and a network of wrinkles etched deep into his skin. Yet, his eyes twinkled with an intriguing blend of wisdom and mischief, and his voice, although frail, resonated with an undeniable strength.

"Ah, young sir," he called out, a sly grin spreading across his weathered face, "you seem like a man who appreciates fine craftsmanship. Come, have a look at these." With a grand flourish, he unveiled a pair of swords that exuded an air of antiquity and allure.

The swords were unlike any that Dras had seen before. They sported sleek, curved blades that broadened towards a rounded guard. The exquisite handles were designed to accommodate a two-handed grip and the sheaths were adorned with intricate decorations. One sword bore a finely crafted gold inlay, while the other sparkled with an elegant silver motif. Despite the visible signs of age, the blades were as sharp as if they had been freshly honed.

"Only a hundred gold coins for the pair," the vendor proposed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

A low whistle escaped Dras' lips. He peered into his pouch, counting his meager collection of coins. Five gold coins and fourteen silver ones clinked in his hand. "A hundred gold coins? That's a bit steep for my pockets," he confessed, his face clouding over with disappointment.

The vendor's eyes twinkled with amusement. "For you, young sir, a special price. Four gold coins, and they're yours."

"Four gold coins?" Dras echoed, incredulity lacing his voice. He haggled half-heartedly, more out of habit than necessity, before handing over the coins. "You have a deal," he affirmed, still unable to fully grasp the unexpected bargain he had stumbled upon.

Later, when he showed the twin swords to his squad, his comrades gaped in awe. "Four gold coins, can you believe it?" he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

However, when they decided to return to the market later that same day, hoping to meet the enigmatic vendor again, they found nothing but an empty patch of ground where the old man's stall had once stood. The vendor had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, leaving behind only the memory of his twinkling eyes and the exquisite swords now in Dras's possession.

_____________________

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, bathing the city of Blad in a warm golden glow, Joren found Dras standing alone on the edge of a bustling square, his gaze lost in the distance. Taking a deep breath, Joren approached him, the usually confident lines of his face softened by an unusual introspection.

"Dras," he began, his voice just above a whisper. His blue eyes, usually icy with haughty superiority, now held an uncharacteristic warmth. "I've been meaning to talk to you."

Dras turned to face him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Joren? Is something the matter?" he asked, concern colouring his tone.

"No, not exactly." Joren paused, choosing his words carefully. "I... I just wanted to say... thank you."

Dras blinked in surprise. "Thank you?" he echoed, unsure of what Joren was referring to.

Joren nodded, his gaze dropping to the cobblestones beneath their feet. "For saving my life," he clarified, his voice barely audible above the hum of the city. "During the trials... I would not have made it without your help."

Dras was taken aback. Joren, the haughty nobleman, was thanking him, a fellow noble. "It was nothing, Joren," he said, trying to brush off the unexpected gratitude. "Any of us would have done the same."

Joren shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps," he said, "but it was you who did it. And for that, I am grateful."

As quickly as the moment of humility had come, it passed. Joren straightened up, his usual aloof demeanor returning. "But remember, Dras," he added, his tone stern, "even though you are now a noble, our paths to nobility were different. I was born into it, and you earned it on the battlefield. We each have our roles to play."

Dras couldn't help but chuckle. "Of course, Joren. I wouldn't dream of forgetting our respective paths."

Joren nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Good," he said, before turning to leave. As he walked away, Dras couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie. Their relationship was a complex tapestry of gratitude, rivalry, and unspoken respect. And despite Joren's reminder of their differing paths to nobility, Dras knew they were more than just nobles - they were comrades, bound by the trials they had faced together.

_____________________________________

The dawn's early light was just beginning to peek over the horizon when the commanding voice of Commander Rhea echoed throughout the encampment. His voice was like a strong gust of wind, assertive and authoritative, cutting through the morning air with ease and precision.

"Attention, soldiers!" he commanded, his tone resonating with an energy that immediately caught the attention of everyone within hearing distance. The hum of morning activity in the camp instantly ceased as every soldier turned to face their commander. "We've received new orders. Our platoon is to merge with another and head north across the Sea of Tir to South Darlor, to join a campaign against an unexpected incursion of the Dark Ones."

A murmur of surprise spread through the ranks. The trials they had recently faced were still fresh in their minds, and now they were being thrown back into the fray. The Dark Ones—an enemy they had hoped to have left behind in the desert—were now threatening the peace of the idyllic Darlor.

"We're to board a barge that will take us across the Sea of Tir, and then north to Darlor," Rhea continued, his gaze sweeping over the assembled soldiers. "The city, known for its stunning fjords and towering mountains, is under attack. We're expected to provide crucial reinforcements."

Before he could continue, the loud, boisterous voice of Sergeant Keldorn interrupted. Keldorn was a towering figure, his voice as robust and hearty as the man himself. "Well, lads and lasses," he boomed, a wide grin spreading across his rugged face. "You heard the Commander. It's time to pack up and ship out! We've got a city to save!"

His words were met with a chorus of cheers and affirmations. Despite the sudden announcement, the squad's spirit remained unbroken. They knew their duty and were ready to face the looming challenge head-on.

The city of Blad, which had provided a serene refuge for the past week, was now a whirlwind of activity. Soldiers scurried to pack their gear, their faces a mix of determination and anticipation. The markets and bazaars that had been places of leisure and exploration were now bustling with hurried preparations and whispered goodbyes.

With their orders in hand, Dras and his squad navigated their way through the thrumming city of Blad, its vibrant life now tinged with a bittersweet farewell. Their destination was the city docks, where the mighty river of Dar bared its chest, ready to carry them north across the Sea of Tir.

A sturdy barge awaited them, its broad deck and muscular frame designed to challenge the river's swift currents.. As they clambered aboard, Dras stole one last glance at the retreating cityscape, a tapestry of mud and stone buildings, bustling markets, and lively streets. A pang of sadness tugged at his heartstrings, but he quickly quelled it. There was no room for regret in the face of duty.

The barge set off, skillfully maneuvered by a seasoned crew of river sailors. Their faces were weather-beaten, mirroring the river's moods in their eyes—calm and steady, yet hinting at a hidden ferocity. Dras found himself drawn to the barge's railing, his gaze captivated by the unfolding panorama.

As the city fell behind, they passed by stilted villages dotting the riverbanks. Their simple wooden structures, dwarfed by the towering reeds, stood in stark contrast to the grandeur of Blad. Children ran along the muddy banks, their cheerful waves and laughter cutting through the monotonous drone of the river. Their innocent faces, oblivious to the gravity of the squad's mission, were a poignant reminder of the peace they were fighting to protect.

Gradually, the city of Blad disappeared from view, replaced by the rolling landscape of Bartex. Verdant meadows stretched out to meet the horizon, interrupted occasionally by clusters of trees or the odd hill. The sight was soothing, a peaceful prelude to the battles they were to face.

As the last traces of Blad faded into the distance, Dras gripped the hilts of his newly acquired swords. The intricate patterns on their blades shimmered under the sun, reflecting the river's restless energy. He didn't know what awaited them in Darlor, but he was ready.