Scions of the Four Winds


Joining the Scions

A cool breeze comes in off the Sea of Secrets. The sun setting the rolling waves which kiss the pier a menagerie of golds and yellows. Tri-finned Helioseals dance amongst the bobbing ships tethered to the docks hoping to snatch the offal and scraps from the fishmongers and they ply their trades in conjunction with the fishers and spearers. The city of Mulen is only a ten minute walk from here, the high syth walls a glittering wash of marble and copper and the towering spires of the noble districts peering cautiously above the wall to stare out at the sea. In the shadows of these walls lay the Seafarer district. Home to the hovels and homes of those who ply the seas and those who support them. It is also a point of commerce with the towns and villages of from the Hitcher’s Firth to the Ison Cape coming to trade and sell their wares.

You find yourselves before the Wind’s Whistle Inn located a short walk from the docks. A stout two story traveller’s bastion of stonework, sythwood and steel glass bids welcome from the aroma of the kitchen is inviting as well. Summoned by either messenger of caller you have been notified that a friend of your respective families, one Tuss Tono, has requested your presence with an offer of employment and perhaps acceptance into “the family business”. Upon entering your senses are assaulted by a mosaic of aromas. Pipe tobacco ranging from the spice laden leaves of Ghan to the stark thick headiness of Milave is married with the scent of cooking fish and cabbage. The sythwood floors are stained with 20 years of muddy boots and spilled drink. The hearth is warm and beside it some sort of numenera music box (a collection of clear tubes and wiring a fixed with a simple square with a series of speakers) belts out an old tune popular with the older generation. A smattering of patrons occupy the tables scattered about the dining hall. A couple look up at you as you enter but go back to their meals or companions. The walls are lined with an eclectic collection. Skulls of creatures you don’t recognized, blades of foreign design and framed drawings and paintings of places and people you don’t recognize, save one. Amongst the assortment of blades and busts and maps and art you see images of your parents many years ago amongst strangers and in locales never spoken of to you. Behind the bar a portly man dressed in some sort of uniform and with a numerneric arm and eye addresses you without looking up from the drinks he is preparing, “Well, looks what the bushwara dragged in.”



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