A Fisherman's Lament

[Ulric]

5th of Summer, 510 AV “Grawp,” moaned Ulric as he tossed beneath his sour, ale-sodden blanket. Last night had been a mistake, plain and simple. It was all Sam’s fault. How was Ulric supposed to forge a decent reputation when he kept getting dragged into alehouses? “I feel like my head exploded,” he muttered with a curse. “That’s because it did,” replied his bedfellow, a hulking bear that sat cross-legged atop the covers, cradling a pair of chipped saucers in its colossal paws. “Care for some more tea?” Ulric awoke to the echo of his own screams. If anything his head ached worse than in his nightmares, although he’d rather endure the shooting pains than a bear’s companionship. “I hate bears,” he snarled as rose to his feet. Sleeping on the floor had its drawbacks. For one, his bones clicked and popped like one of the devilish machines that was said to originate from that gadgeteer’s workshop. What was his name? Adelbert? Adelbert DeGrease? Ulric made a mental note to be more attentive when he lodged his inquiries. Throwing on his faded tunic and trousers, Ulric staggered to the ewer and threw a handful of water on his face. He didn’t remember much of last night, though from what he did recall he was certain that was for the best. Must have gotten into a brawl or summat, he scowled as he poked at his swollen face. At least he hadn’t gotten arrested – or worse, raped. Ulric had his suspicions about Sam, of course, but he recalled a horde of ham-fisted women stomping them in the street. Had they abducted his new friend? Oh, well – the lad would get over it. For now Ulric had more urgent matters to attend to, such as heaving his guts into the chamber pot and then, as a malicious afterthought, tossing the noisome mess into his neighbor’s open window. Take that, you bastard! It was about time the man received his comeuppance. Opening his chest, Ulric rifled through his scant possessions until he located his net and fishing tackle, and then reached for his axe. He needed to venture outside the walls of Syliras, if only for the afternoon. Its corridors were even more claustrophobic than Ravok’s canals. Of course, at least they didn’t have bodies floating in them. That was always a plus. Taking his leave, Ulric strode to the seagate and emerged at the docks. He could see a few ships in the harbor, their decks crawling with sailors that unloaded crates and bales beneath the bare, upthrust masts that resembled nothing so much as chitinous stick-insects. Ha, ha! Ulric wished that old man from the smithies was here so they could resume their debate about birds and boats. He didn’t understand how the irascible codger likened the traders to prideful hawks when they were clearly ungainly ducklings. “Blasted fool,” Ulric muttered as he skirted the docks and stepped onto the fine, ochre sands of the coastline. He wasn’t about to fish off the pier like a half-wit layabout. No, the good fishing could be found in remote locations – places he wasn’t about to share with just anyone. Ulric’s path took him several miles to north, through the shadows of the Bronze Wood, until he emerged at a small, rock-strewn inlet. How idyllic, he thought as he nudged a bereft carapace with the toe of his boot. It wouldn’t be hard to collect a cluster of mollusks to break his fast, but Ulric was of a proud, stubborn sort. He’d take to the water like a proper fisherman. Stripping bare, he took up his net and a burlap sack and waded into the sea, feeling the chill waves lap first against his ankles, and then his knees, waist, and chest. So much for warm southern waters, he scowled. Leaving the shallows behind, Ulric flailed his arms and legs, managing to struggle through the deeper waters until he could clamber onto a barnacle-encrusted spur of rock. Swimming had never been his forte. Setting his burden aside, Ulric looked toward the shore. It was perhaps a hundred paces distant. He was far enough out now that he’d be able to capture the fish that schooled closer to the shore’s protection, but not so close as to spoil his chances. Ulric took up his net, straightening the tarred hemp between his callused hands, and then wrapped the trailing rope around his wrist several times. He didn’t want to lose hold and have to dive in after the damned thing – or worse, have purchase a second net. His funds were low enough as they stood. Coiling the net, he positioned his hands so they were at the top and middle of the net, separating the mesh into two sections of two-and-a-half feet. He looped the lead line across his right elbow so the weight was distributed evenly between his arms, and then wove his fingers into the mass of hemp until the net opened a fraction. Satisfied with his preparations, Ulric felt his muscles bunch as he rotated to the right and then spun back around, casting the net forward. It opened in a vast oval and then descended into the sea, the sinkers fastened to its edges carrying it down, down, down. Now came the hard part. Muscles tensed, Ulric hauled the net from the depths and considered his wriggling catch; a pair of thin silvery-white anchovies and a black-spotted mendalen. All told, it wasn’t a bad haul for a fisherman who’d spent most of his life casting lines into the depths of Lake Ravok. Having put the fish out of their misery, Ulric stuffed them into the sodden sack and reached for his net, straightening it into a long coil. He threw it into the water about a dozen times, managing to capture ten more of the smallish fish that were mostly anchovies and a third species he was unfamiliar with. Flailing back to shore, Ulric deposited the near-empty sack and went in search of wood for a fire. He needed a few attempts to strike a spark into the nest of desiccated grasses, but he soon had a blaze going. Ulric de-scaled and gutted the fish, and then stretched out upon the sand while he waited for them to cook on skewers over the fire. Was there anything as fine as roast fish on a mild summer’s afternoon? After eating his fill he returned to the spur and resumed his labors, reasoning that he might as well earn a miza or two while he was out here. Bending over, he made certain that his fingers were looped in the appropriate places and then cast the net over the waves. As he hauled in the trailing line, Ulric was conscious of the faint, crimson streak on the back of his right hand. If you’re listening, Krysus, he scowled, then you can shove your head up Rhysol’s arse. I’ll never be one of your killers. No matter what he did or where he traveled, he couldn’t help but look at the mark and recall the night he’d succumbed to his infernal rapture. In the darkest recesses of his heart, Ulric had begun to despair that he’d ever escape the goddess’ awareness – that he’d be condemned to inflict pain on others or face his own death. Turning his mind back to his net, Ulric drew the sodden hemp from the sea, extricated a meager catch, and readied another cast. His fortunes seemed to wane along with the sun, for his net started to come up empty more often than not. As stubborn as ever, he relocated to a shelf of salt-stained rock that was located further from the shore, clambering onto the rock with net and sack in tow. He stood upon the edge, his feet about an arm’s length above the cresting waves, and prepared another throw. After his rotation, he spun and released the net, then waited for the sinkers to do their work before he hauled it from the dark waters. Fascinating, isn’t this? he sneered at Krysus’ mark. If the bitch wanted to keep tabs on him, then he hoped she died of boredom. Finally, when the sack was half-full, Ulric dove into the water and swam to shore. It was harder with the added burden, but his feet soon touched bottom and he was able to trudge onto the pearly-white sands of the beach. Having dropped the sack and coiled net, he reached for his trousers – only to find they weren’t where he’d left them. “Lost something?” a compact, fair-haired woman stepped from the trees. She was clad in leather armor, with a sword buckled at her waist and a distasteful sneer as she tossed Ulric’s clothes upon the sands. “I’d give those a wash if I was you,” she advised. “What the petch?” Ulric’s stepped forward, his fists clenched. He didn’t like the look of this, nor did he appreciate the stab at his cleanliness. I just went for a swim, you snide bitch! “Hold up for a minute,” she raised her hand and two more armed women detached themselves from the shadows – one of them bearing a loaded crossbow. Wait, isn’t that a man? Ulric halted and took a second look. He was right. It was a man he looked upon, albeit a slender, fine-featured fellow that looked as though he belonged in a brothel. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the first woman beamed at Ulric. “I am Amelie, and behind me are Hugh and Shaye. Have you a name, fisherman?” “Ulric,” he said, and then resignedly, “I suppose you lot are bandits.” “Not exactly,” Amelie replied. “I identify as a marauder, but Hugh and Shaye refer to themselves as brigands. It’s a minute distinction, to be honest, since we’re going to take your catch regardless of how we term ourselves.” Shaye, a curvaceous woman with an impish smile and thick legs, twirled her spear and shrugged. “I’m on the fence between brigand and raider, actually. I like the sound of brigand, but it doesn’t bear the same implications as far as leisure time is concerned.” “Highwayman is also kind of sexist,” Hugh added. Ulric disregarded their prattle as he met Amelie’s stare. He wasn’t about to forfeit his life in a futile act of defiance. “Oh, go ahead and take it,” he scowled as he tossed the sack at the marauder’s feet. “I suppose you’ve already swiped the few silvers in my purse, so what’s a few dozen fish to me?” “A bit shy, are we?” Shaye smirked, her gaze directed at the juncture of Ulric’s bare thighs. “It’s cold,” he growled, “what did you expect?” “Wait, you’re giving up?” Amelie’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought you were going to fight us. Isn’t there a code of conduct for resistance?” “Code of conduct? I don’t know what the petch you’re talking about,” Ulric spat on the sand. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get dressed now.” “She right, though,” Hugh conceded, “you are supposed to fight us.” “I don’t have to do shyke,” Ulric snarled as he reached for his trousers. “I’ll be slain if I try to fight you, so why the petch should I? And while we’re on the subject, why are you so petching short? I thought all bandits were supposed to have gargantuan proportions.” “Because the seven-footers keep getting killed, that’s why!” Hugh leveled his crossbow. “Can I shoot him now, please?” “No, you petching won’t,” Amelie snapped at the brigand. “You’ll have to forgive him, Ulric – it’s kind of a sore topic. After all, we bandits, marauders, and others that walk the dodgy path are an endangered breed. It seems that more of our ilk are slain in combat than the travelers we seek to part from their hard-earned funds. How can this be, you might ask? It’s not like we swat at flies. Shaye, Hugh, and I are all competent with our weapons, but lately it seems the outskirts of Syliras are teeming with masters of the blade.” “What do you mean?” Ulric asked. “Take yourself,” Amelie spread her arms. “How many lives have taken? By the look of you face, you must be up to score by now.” “Four so far,” he replied with a frown, “and two of them bandits – but none expected it until I shot them or stuck the knife in between their ribs.” “Four?” Shaye scoffed. “that’s a gods-damned pittance!” She might have continued, but Amelie gestured for silence. “With that paltry sum I suppose you’re little more than a hapless sword-swinger,” she said. “I’ve heard tell of men and boys with scant training that have slain two or three outlaws at a time – with a nary a wound, mind you. It seems they masquerade as cobblers and perfumers and the like, but so much as draw a blade on them and it’s like you’re in combat with an entire wing of knights.” “Some of that’s our fault,” Shaye admitted. “After all, we need to stop taking turns with our attacks. It’s the only way to negate their inhuman speed and reflexes.” “Inhuman?” Ulric blinked. “I’ve some skill with the axe and shield, but even I wouldn’t dare to take the three of you on at once. It’s the sort of feat only a master swordsman like Loren Dyres could manage.” “Maybe you’re a coward?” suggested Amelie. “If it’s the crossbow you’re worried about,” Hugh said, “I tend to miss a lot – except for the rare occasion that I deal out a minor wound.” “Keep in mind,” Shaye added “when we take a blow it tends to be fatal. All those fruit-peddlers have an inhuman precision as well.” “I can’t believe any of this!” Ulric sputtered. “You’re wearing armor, for Ovek’s sake! It isn’t possible to deliver critical hits that easily, much less thrice in a span of seconds. Are you certain I’m not still dreaming?” “I wish I was dreaming,” grumbled Hugh. “I can recall having more excitement when we were impoverished students.” “Quite right,” Amelie nodded. “I believe we’ve detained Ulric long enough. Shaye, if you’ll be a dear and grab the sack?” Now it was Ulric’s turn to frown. “Wait, aren’t you going to beat me up or something?” he asked. “I thought that’s all bandits lived for.” “Well, it’s not in our best interests,” Amelie explained. “We’ve already got the fish, and since killing you would only raise the ire of the knights – I’m afraid we’ll have to decline.” “We’re not sadists,” Shaye rolled her eyes as she hefted the sack. “It’s not like we try to kill everything that moves.” Ulric watched them fade into the trees, his brow knitted in confusion. Bitch stole my fish! END

[Leviathan]

Thread Award! Ulric EXP +2 Swimming, +2 Fishing, +1 Cooking, +1 Observation Lore The Days of a Fisherman; Cursing Krysus; 'Bitches, They'll Steal Your Fish' Additional Comments Interesting thread. If you have questions or comments feel free to PM me anytime and we can discuss them. Keep up the good writing!