Cheruscan

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” Cambyses looked about himself, inspecting the inside of the weathered little tent he had just stumbled into. "By Saint Daniel..." he mumbled under his breath, trying to get used to the foul smell and cold air that sifted through some of the slits and tatters in the tent's thin cloth. *This had better be worth it.* He thought to himself as he sat down upon one of the cushions. His attention wandered from levitating candle to candle, and he couldn't help but think that they made for quite the fire hazard. When he did acclimate to the crone's abode, he set his gaze upon her, and spoke. "Thank you very much for having me", a warm smile forming on his face. "It's high time I had my fortune told." A short silence set in. "Ahem, of course. My story." he let out a little awkward cough, and continued: "Well, first and foremost, my name is Cambyses Cöllwitz d'Aumerie. A mouthful, I know. I don't know how well word spreads to... villages like these, but you may have heard the name a little while back." A certain sense of superiority could be discerned in the way Cambyses spoke of the poor old woman's hamlet, a sense that was palpable even to arrogant young lads such as himself. Too proud to apologise, he did his best to rationalise the insulting tone. "Not that there's anything wrong with villages like these, mind you. As a matter of fact, they do have their... charm, do they not?" he let out a curt laugh, adding: "I'm from the Commonwealth, madame. This just happens to be quite different to what I'm used to." "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" the boy asked, his hand fiddling around in his coat. He unsheathed his pipe, as well as a small tin locket filled with tobacco and a wooden box filled with matches, before the crone could even answer, a small heap of dark leaves had already found their way into the pipe's bowl. "My father..." Cambyses began, lighting the pipe and giving it some small puffs to properly ignite the tobacco, "bankrupted our family a little over five years ago, so there was some gossip here or there." He looked up from the tobacco in his pipe to the old woman, trying to gauge her reaction. "Not to worry, you'll still get your fee." he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Where was I? Oh, yes. You see, we were very comfortable before then. Our family, house Cöllwitz d'Aumerie, had been a respected clan among the Vallagne burgher class. Sine nobilitas, yes, but blood does not make the world go round; money does. And we happened to have plenty of it." "Had. That is." He took a long drag of his pipe, thinking about what to say next. "Now, enough lamenting the past. I've been travelling around, trying to restore my family's good name. Our dreadfully empty coffers are on the verge of running completely dry, so I'm hoping to find work in the capital. My father always said the shining pearl of the Commonwealth provides for her sons, but I just hope she provides me with a means of providing for whatever family I have left." A quick glance at the pipe's bowl revealed that there was hardly any tobacco left, and so the boy's pulls became more conservative and subdued. "I should hope an artisan might take me under his wing as an apprentice. I would jump at the possibility of working in the civil service or bartering for goods as a merchant, but most of all I wish I could study. Reading law and studying the seven liberal arts would be a dream come true, if I'm honest. Alas, I've no scholarship, and certainly no financial means to get in. I dare say we're so penniless that I've no choice but to do whatever labour pays us enough to survive. He sighed, his eyes set upon the miserable pile of ash that lied where there had once been fresh tobacco. "Tell me, madame." he said, shifting his gaze to the woman. "Has fortune forgotten me yet?"

The sound of tides crashing against the docks, seamen cursing and merchants trying to pass off their goods filled the air. That is to say, those sounds filled the parts of the air that were not yet occupied by the monstrous smell of fish. Pickled, salted, fresh, rotten, it did not matter. The homogenous mix of acidic stenches forced itself up Yis’akhár's nose, causing him great discomfort. How disgusting he found the animals, how uncommon they were where he was from. As he tried to get used to this large city, one he had never visited before, an Urbanite stepped up to him, hoping to usurp his attention. “Welcome!” He began. “What brings you to this lovely city? Adventure? Wealth? Or some grand aspirations to elevate your place in society?” the words stung in the Kalamite's ears. He was not at all used to hearing the Common Tongue in this accent. In his nine years as a mercenary, he'd been taught to speak it by his comrades, but to hear a posh Heartlander speak posh words in his posh accent... Needless to say, you wouldn't find that in any Qalasheen companies. Instinctively, Yis’akhár placed his hand upon Khopesh. The immigrants, tourists and merchants had wasted their afternoons staring across the seas, watching as the ship Yis’akhár was on got ever nearer to the city. Thinking himself too highly to watch over some blue lines at a city that would not go anywhere, the follower of Bahyweh had sharpened his sword, inspected his arrows and prepared his bow. These city types were not to be trusted, much like just about anyone on this godforsaken continent, so the man thought. He let out a deep sigh, streams of air loudly brushing along his beard. His face was stern, his eyes peered at the man before him. He expected an answer, no doubt. As the both of them stood there, Yis’akhár simply stared the man down, embracing the momentary, quite honestly awkward silence that surrounded them. After five whole seconds or so, he opened his mouth, saying: ”I have no goal, no direction. Bahyweh is my shepard.” before the man opposite him could say a word, he seized the moment, saying: “And I have no bloody coin, either. If you're here to sell me useless trinkets, find another fool to bother.” Tactlessly, Yis’akhár would place his left hand upon the man, shoving him aside savagely. The Rheshish would then occupy the space where the city-dweller once stood, treading the path to the city centre without giving him a second thought.