Chapter 0: Moving Home
The better part of an afternoon was gone, and yet the scrubbing continued. His knees were wet and cheap soap bubbled across the entire floor, previously an ugly portrait of soot and rat droppings. Matteo had quite enough of the nauseating scent of lavender, yet scouring the filth off the walls and floor boards proved satisfying enough to finish it all in one go.
He also went through the trouble to sort the previous tenant's leavings, keeping some of it after a good polish: two buckets of nails filled to the brim, a couple of bolts, loose axles and other minutiae. If nothing else, it'd be worth to make the place not look so vacant and forlorn. Well, not that there was that much space to begin with: Matteo was the newest proud tenant of one of those wagons west of The Foundry's General Store. Nevertheless, with all those pyres burning dead folk and questionable upkeep habits of whoever left the place, raising it to a status of serviceable was quite a task and the retired shipwright was all but exausted.
Washing his face and upper arms by a basin a few yards away, he kept looking at the wagon as he rubbed a moist towel on the back of the neck. A handful of finishing touches remained to be addressed, but nightfall had already enshrouded the whole province and Matteo had once ambled throughout the entire settlement unsuccessfully seeking a lantern. Thus, it would all be left for the following day, save for one: the package he had in his grasp.
Matteo had commissioned a custom panel, and it had been finally delivered earlier that same day. It was quite simple, just "Ponz' Woody" written above a pristine silver saw, but he liked it. He was not a man of fancy words, as numbers and blueprints were much more to his taste. Atop a short ladder, he hammered the plaque in place, a few nails still waiting their turn over Matteo's pursed lips. He shoved it lightly when he was done, watching it sway back and forth with a gleam of satisfaction. Whatever happened from that point on, at least he had carved his name somewhere within the First Province...even if it was just an ordinary panel.
There was much to do...but not that day. Hands pressing on his waist, he threw a quick glance at the timber pile, growing as of late. There was the question whether he would sell it to other merchants or work them himself. In any case, he intended to put all of it inside the wagon come the first rays of sunshine, as nobody can be trusted in these dark times. However, all Matteo wanted now was sit and finally recline into his new abode, staring at the bristling movement outside over his eastward half-door. For better or worse, this was home now. A mug of bad ale was beside him, which he sipped every now and again.
And then smirked, even laghed a bit. Only then he realized the pun in his head...that he had rented a wagon, a house on wheels. He muttered under his breath, still smirking: "Movin' home...into a movin' home".
A sea dog's account
Re: A sea dog's account
Chapter 1: A Tainted Cabin
The old woodworker kept his gaze fixed on it: battered boards, incessantly punished by unrelenting sunshine and salty water gushes. The only door was loose and didn't quite fit the threshold anymore. The entire shack was derelict, from the missing roof patches to the unkempt and decrepit furniture...but Matteo loved it.
"I'll take her!", he beamed, running a palm on the wall in desperate need of varnish. "Ya got yerself a deal, mate!"
"Are you sure? Aren't you going to ask me why it's so cheap?", said a man. He wore a straw hat and chewed on a toothpick.
"Don't care, she's beautiful and I can afford 'er", he said, barely looking away. The other man still held the property deed rolled up in his hand. He sighed.
"Look, I could just as well give you this and walk away with your silver, but you seem to be a respectable fellow. Give me ten minutes and, if you still want the shack after what I'm about to tell you, then I'm off. Alright?"
Matteo looked at him, inspecting his demeanor for a moment. "Yeah, a'ight"
Both of them were sitting on old crates, probably washed ashore by the ebbing southern sea. They shared some of the ale Matteo always carried on him to finish a hard day's work. A small campfire burned between them, trying to compensate for the fading sunlight.
"The place belonged to a young and very studious individual, who chose to relocate here due to his trade of choice. I saw him often by the Merchant's Lane though we never actually spoke other than the usual pleasantries. Apparently, he had a few customary buyers for sand and other related goods, such as this". He raised his bottle.
"Gotcha. And where's the guy now?"
"Well, that's the point. He died, but that's not what should concern you. He had it".
"Had what?"
"The illness", he nodded, putting his bottle down to cross his hands together. "I should've paid more attention the last couple of times we ran into each other, his eyes didn't look right. I just assumed it was due to the sea haze, or that he had a flask blow up on his face. No, it was the thing"
"What happened?", Matteo replied, elbows resting on his knees.
"Well, he was due a couple of premiums but stopped showing up. When I came down here, I could tell something was wrong: I could see very little through the window slit, but I saw enough to realize what was inside the shack. He must've locked it from inside, otherwise he would have tore me to pieces considering how violently he was pummeling that door"
"Then ya killed 'im?"
"Decus, no. I don't even have a dagger on me, I'm not this sort of person. Notwithstanding, I did seek the sentinels for help, as reporting this occurrence is every citizen's duty. Three of them accompanied me back, heavily armored head to toe. It was quick, but gruesome: they tore in, slashing their way until nothing was moving anymore inside the cabin. Even so, whoever was in there fought like an animal. I wish I could forget it".
They shook each other's hands, and the landlord took his leave on horseback. Matteo had the deed, but the enthusiasm was gone. The clear picture of a good night's sleep inside an actual house carried him throughout the day, but now he just couldn't quite muster the courage to do it. The guards splattered what was left of the former resident all over the walls. What if the affliction was passed through blood? What if his spirit was stuck there?
Matteo could not say he didn't have a proper house to his name. And yet, his wagon's sooty floor would still be his bed for at least another night.
The old woodworker kept his gaze fixed on it: battered boards, incessantly punished by unrelenting sunshine and salty water gushes. The only door was loose and didn't quite fit the threshold anymore. The entire shack was derelict, from the missing roof patches to the unkempt and decrepit furniture...but Matteo loved it.
"I'll take her!", he beamed, running a palm on the wall in desperate need of varnish. "Ya got yerself a deal, mate!"
"Are you sure? Aren't you going to ask me why it's so cheap?", said a man. He wore a straw hat and chewed on a toothpick.
"Don't care, she's beautiful and I can afford 'er", he said, barely looking away. The other man still held the property deed rolled up in his hand. He sighed.
"Look, I could just as well give you this and walk away with your silver, but you seem to be a respectable fellow. Give me ten minutes and, if you still want the shack after what I'm about to tell you, then I'm off. Alright?"
Matteo looked at him, inspecting his demeanor for a moment. "Yeah, a'ight"
* * *
Both of them were sitting on old crates, probably washed ashore by the ebbing southern sea. They shared some of the ale Matteo always carried on him to finish a hard day's work. A small campfire burned between them, trying to compensate for the fading sunlight.
"The place belonged to a young and very studious individual, who chose to relocate here due to his trade of choice. I saw him often by the Merchant's Lane though we never actually spoke other than the usual pleasantries. Apparently, he had a few customary buyers for sand and other related goods, such as this". He raised his bottle.
"Gotcha. And where's the guy now?"
"Well, that's the point. He died, but that's not what should concern you. He had it".
"Had what?"
"The illness", he nodded, putting his bottle down to cross his hands together. "I should've paid more attention the last couple of times we ran into each other, his eyes didn't look right. I just assumed it was due to the sea haze, or that he had a flask blow up on his face. No, it was the thing"
"What happened?", Matteo replied, elbows resting on his knees.
"Well, he was due a couple of premiums but stopped showing up. When I came down here, I could tell something was wrong: I could see very little through the window slit, but I saw enough to realize what was inside the shack. He must've locked it from inside, otherwise he would have tore me to pieces considering how violently he was pummeling that door"
"Then ya killed 'im?"
"Decus, no. I don't even have a dagger on me, I'm not this sort of person. Notwithstanding, I did seek the sentinels for help, as reporting this occurrence is every citizen's duty. Three of them accompanied me back, heavily armored head to toe. It was quick, but gruesome: they tore in, slashing their way until nothing was moving anymore inside the cabin. Even so, whoever was in there fought like an animal. I wish I could forget it".
* * *
They shook each other's hands, and the landlord took his leave on horseback. Matteo had the deed, but the enthusiasm was gone. The clear picture of a good night's sleep inside an actual house carried him throughout the day, but now he just couldn't quite muster the courage to do it. The guards splattered what was left of the former resident all over the walls. What if the affliction was passed through blood? What if his spirit was stuck there?
Matteo could not say he didn't have a proper house to his name. And yet, his wagon's sooty floor would still be his bed for at least another night.
Re: A sea dog's account
Chapter 2: Old Scores
'Tis odd that the most profound thoughts always come when one is in the utmost leisure. Matteo reclined on a rocking chair on the patio, basking in the dim sunlight of yet another dying afternoon. He could gaze at the calm ocean waters reflecting the drowning sun from his vantage point, the salty breeze doing a service to his health. Despite the hour, there was still hubub on the nearby village, men yelling to other men and planks being hammered on. One of his goals in this forsaken place - driving out all the damn vermin of the fishing village and clean it back up - has been done...albeit without a single drop of his sweat. Matteo puffed once on a shoddy pipe and laid his head back. He wished he could have, but old problems were meant to find him first. Tall problems, with broad shoulders and angry pockets.
If only dreams of his youth or the many outstanding voyages on the Pearl would flood his mind. But no, these were the events Matteo recollected idly. He knew these people, the sort of folks that ran dice games in candle-lit basements by the pier throughout the night. And even if he'd let 'em hanging when he left, he knew folks also made many a fool outta him more often than not: the damn foremen with that crooked ledger talk, crews that counted more men than anybody remembered aboard, and so on. But Matteo should have known better, fellows can be really tenacious when it comes to settling old scores.
* * *
When the two men barged into his farmlands hall, the retired sailor knew right there what was about to happen. He recognized one of the men, Barnes, and that gold-tooth smile told him he wanted to be remembered.
"It's been a long time, Mattie", he smiled, "hasn't it?"
Matteo nodded, watching Barnes as he dragged two chairs closer to a table nearby. A quick glance to the door met the other man's fixed posture, arms crossed over his chest.
"Please", Barnes motioned to the other chair across the table. Matteo sat, sighing under his breath.
"I'm not here to catch up, old timer", he started, reaching for a bit of dry herbs to chew. "Despite our little mishap, I'm kinda fond of you and your fishing mates. And I avoid the ugly everytime we can simply finish our matters with civility. Do you understand?"
"Yeh, I hear ya".
"Okay, so I'm gonna ask this only once", Barnes leaned back and intertwined his fingers. "Do you have the gold you owe me?"
Matteo's head was reeling. In repeated strokes of sour luck, his table amounted such a debt that his salary at the company would go straight to Barnes' pockets for the better part of a year. He'd faced high crests and low valleys before, but dues like this could seriously hamper what life he had ahead of him, maybe even his freedom - Barnes was rumored to have friends at the Prelacy of Volgen, maybe even back at the First Coast. So, Matteo chose the unthinkable: he left Volgen two days earlier than his mates, not once going back at the inn to warn them. He even paid the carriages outta his own pocket and Foundry credit.
The following weeks were hellish, as every time his crew would port to unload the day's batch, he'd figure Barnes would be there, or have sent some muscle to collect. Yet, nothing happened. And almost five years later he had those gold teeth snickering back at him in silence, waiting.
"Yeah, I can get yer coin", he finally said, casting his glance towards the machinery nearby and wondering how much he'd be able to keep after settling the bill.
"Oh, and by the way, I added a little extra for, you know, these last few years and having to personally seek my old pals", Barnes nodded, shoving a small piece of parchment across the table with a finger. Matteo squinted, both because his eyesight was not what it used to be and then due to the number written thereon. He lifted his gaze to meet Barnes', but the other was perfectly still.
"But I'll lose me hall! Can't give this much and 'ave a roof!"
"I see. Which reminds me..."
Barnes pushed himself off the chair, circling the table towards Matteo as he snuck his hand inside his coat...
-To be continued-
'Tis odd that the most profound thoughts always come when one is in the utmost leisure. Matteo reclined on a rocking chair on the patio, basking in the dim sunlight of yet another dying afternoon. He could gaze at the calm ocean waters reflecting the drowning sun from his vantage point, the salty breeze doing a service to his health. Despite the hour, there was still hubub on the nearby village, men yelling to other men and planks being hammered on. One of his goals in this forsaken place - driving out all the damn vermin of the fishing village and clean it back up - has been done...albeit without a single drop of his sweat. Matteo puffed once on a shoddy pipe and laid his head back. He wished he could have, but old problems were meant to find him first. Tall problems, with broad shoulders and angry pockets.
If only dreams of his youth or the many outstanding voyages on the Pearl would flood his mind. But no, these were the events Matteo recollected idly. He knew these people, the sort of folks that ran dice games in candle-lit basements by the pier throughout the night. And even if he'd let 'em hanging when he left, he knew folks also made many a fool outta him more often than not: the damn foremen with that crooked ledger talk, crews that counted more men than anybody remembered aboard, and so on. But Matteo should have known better, fellows can be really tenacious when it comes to settling old scores.
* * *
When the two men barged into his farmlands hall, the retired sailor knew right there what was about to happen. He recognized one of the men, Barnes, and that gold-tooth smile told him he wanted to be remembered.
"It's been a long time, Mattie", he smiled, "hasn't it?"
Matteo nodded, watching Barnes as he dragged two chairs closer to a table nearby. A quick glance to the door met the other man's fixed posture, arms crossed over his chest.
"Please", Barnes motioned to the other chair across the table. Matteo sat, sighing under his breath.
"I'm not here to catch up, old timer", he started, reaching for a bit of dry herbs to chew. "Despite our little mishap, I'm kinda fond of you and your fishing mates. And I avoid the ugly everytime we can simply finish our matters with civility. Do you understand?"
"Yeh, I hear ya".
"Okay, so I'm gonna ask this only once", Barnes leaned back and intertwined his fingers. "Do you have the gold you owe me?"
Matteo's head was reeling. In repeated strokes of sour luck, his table amounted such a debt that his salary at the company would go straight to Barnes' pockets for the better part of a year. He'd faced high crests and low valleys before, but dues like this could seriously hamper what life he had ahead of him, maybe even his freedom - Barnes was rumored to have friends at the Prelacy of Volgen, maybe even back at the First Coast. So, Matteo chose the unthinkable: he left Volgen two days earlier than his mates, not once going back at the inn to warn them. He even paid the carriages outta his own pocket and Foundry credit.
The following weeks were hellish, as every time his crew would port to unload the day's batch, he'd figure Barnes would be there, or have sent some muscle to collect. Yet, nothing happened. And almost five years later he had those gold teeth snickering back at him in silence, waiting.
"Yeah, I can get yer coin", he finally said, casting his glance towards the machinery nearby and wondering how much he'd be able to keep after settling the bill.
"Oh, and by the way, I added a little extra for, you know, these last few years and having to personally seek my old pals", Barnes nodded, shoving a small piece of parchment across the table with a finger. Matteo squinted, both because his eyesight was not what it used to be and then due to the number written thereon. He lifted his gaze to meet Barnes', but the other was perfectly still.
"But I'll lose me hall! Can't give this much and 'ave a roof!"
"I see. Which reminds me..."
Barnes pushed himself off the chair, circling the table towards Matteo as he snuck his hand inside his coat...
-To be continued-
Re: A sea dog's account
It never goes backwards
The workshop has always been cluttered with an assorted mess of thick boards, table legs in need of sanding and all matters of wooden modules. Lately, however, strewn empty bottles replaced nail boxes and the occasional hammer lying around. Matteo hadn't used his place to fulfill any order for quite a while, a fact further substantiated by the thick layer of dust covering every flat surface there.
Though it had never been his goal, the retired sailor's venture into carpentry had been wildly successful and he would never be able to spend the wealth he amassed. Some people would do just fine with endless leisure upon their hands, but Matteo was not part of this select group: though his trips to the fort were becoming increasingly few and far between, he'd return with crates of ale to drink away both his solitude and the memories from the past that insisted to scream for attention.
Matteo sat upright by the wall, watching a pillow as his addled brain tried to reason how long it had been there. A month now? It was easier to sleep on the floor instead of heading upstairs, his breathing became erratic at times and even flared coughing fits that could last for minutes if he took the steps; he'd get that looked at next week and so he kept that pillow around, although the week to see a doctor in town was always put back.
There was little incentive to go back to the fort if not to get a refill: he'd need to bathe (something Matteo had neglected for maybe ten days or so) and the few familair faces he'd cross paths with would surely comment on his scrawny appearance. Why take the chance to let folks furrow their brow at you? He was just fine with a bottle in his hand and no neighbor in miles to pester him about anything.
His hand suddenly clutched at his chest, the burn traveling towards his arm and flushing his face with a painful red. He'd been having these spasms for some time, but it was all a matter of relaxing on a corner until it went away. They came and went, so Matteo would drunkenly request Decus to make them stop (a wish He had insofar failed to grant him). That was a big one, and Matteo pressed his lungs for as much air as he could to stifle that nasty cough that accompanied the burning ache in his chest. Maybe if he remained very still it'd go away? When it was finally over, a wave of numbness washed over him and Matteo almost immediately fell into a deep stupor. There was always another day, he used to say. Well, he got that one wrong.
[Final post]
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Full name: Same.
Birthdate: 13th of Thawmist, 1289.
Birthplace: First Coast.
Birthsign: Virtue.
Requiem sung in: 11th of Goldleaf, 1347.
Age: late fifties.
Height: average.
Weight: average.
Eyes: black.
Hair: receeding and almost entirely gray.
Skin: heavily tanned.
Handedness: right-handed.
Posture: slouching due to back pains.
Hygiene: questionable.
Scent: usually sweat and ale.
Strengths: practical, hard-working, crafty.
Weaknesses: solitary, uncouth,
Governing Virtue: Justice.
Governing Throne: Hatred.
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The workshop has always been cluttered with an assorted mess of thick boards, table legs in need of sanding and all matters of wooden modules. Lately, however, strewn empty bottles replaced nail boxes and the occasional hammer lying around. Matteo hadn't used his place to fulfill any order for quite a while, a fact further substantiated by the thick layer of dust covering every flat surface there.
Though it had never been his goal, the retired sailor's venture into carpentry had been wildly successful and he would never be able to spend the wealth he amassed. Some people would do just fine with endless leisure upon their hands, but Matteo was not part of this select group: though his trips to the fort were becoming increasingly few and far between, he'd return with crates of ale to drink away both his solitude and the memories from the past that insisted to scream for attention.
Matteo sat upright by the wall, watching a pillow as his addled brain tried to reason how long it had been there. A month now? It was easier to sleep on the floor instead of heading upstairs, his breathing became erratic at times and even flared coughing fits that could last for minutes if he took the steps; he'd get that looked at next week and so he kept that pillow around, although the week to see a doctor in town was always put back.
There was little incentive to go back to the fort if not to get a refill: he'd need to bathe (something Matteo had neglected for maybe ten days or so) and the few familair faces he'd cross paths with would surely comment on his scrawny appearance. Why take the chance to let folks furrow their brow at you? He was just fine with a bottle in his hand and no neighbor in miles to pester him about anything.
His hand suddenly clutched at his chest, the burn traveling towards his arm and flushing his face with a painful red. He'd been having these spasms for some time, but it was all a matter of relaxing on a corner until it went away. They came and went, so Matteo would drunkenly request Decus to make them stop (a wish He had insofar failed to grant him). That was a big one, and Matteo pressed his lungs for as much air as he could to stifle that nasty cough that accompanied the burning ache in his chest. Maybe if he remained very still it'd go away? When it was finally over, a wave of numbness washed over him and Matteo almost immediately fell into a deep stupor. There was always another day, he used to say. Well, he got that one wrong.
[Final post]
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Character Name: Matteo Ponz
- Matteo face.PNG (219.28 KiB) Viewed 641 times
Birthdate: 13th of Thawmist, 1289.
Birthplace: First Coast.
Birthsign: Virtue.
Requiem sung in: 11th of Goldleaf, 1347.
Appearance and Personality Traits
Age: late fifties.
Height: average.
Weight: average.
Eyes: black.
Hair: receeding and almost entirely gray.
Skin: heavily tanned.
Handedness: right-handed.
Posture: slouching due to back pains.
Hygiene: questionable.
Scent: usually sweat and ale.
Strengths: practical, hard-working, crafty.
Weaknesses: solitary, uncouth,
Governing Virtue: Justice.
Governing Throne: Hatred.
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