((((I'll take two ranks from intimidate two from climb and one rank from handle animal for a total of 5 in profesion: Sailor. i've updated his character sheet as well.))


Also, I'll need crew member names and dispositions (and for some godforsaken reason i think i'd like rankin Rankin...))))

"Of course Captain Stillwell, we'll be waiting for you when you reach Windwater Then!" (what sort of speed difference are we talking about between the Woodwitch and the St alarice?)

((((oh, and i added the woodwitch to his character sheet too.))))

Once we're clear of the harbor Corwin will start with the more serious orders. "Make all sail for Windwater! Mr Stevens, I need a First mate, you've got the job until I find someone better. Keep us on course, I need to look over the books (Stevens is whoever Corwin had noted was a good sailor on the St Alarice)

With that, corwin will go below and look over the stores and look over the logbooks





"I must admit, Master Ainsley, that you have learned the esteemed art of sailing at an astonishing rate throughout your weeks aboard my ship," Captain Stillwell called to Corwin from gunwale to gunwale. "Very, very few boarders ever earn their sea legs as swiftly and as proficiently as you have; one might say that you were born to play the seafarer's role. I hope that you will come to serve the Navies of the Imperial League one day; they would find great service in an officer of your mettle. And the pirates would find yet another good name to fear, eh?"

Four strong hands wound the Saint Alarice's capstan in a slow, grinding circle, raising her massive anchor from Port Jahalio's waters as, across the brief expanse, a half-score of mooring lines were yanked from the docks below and thrown aboard the Woodwitch.

"I shall see you in Windwater, then. Good winds to us all, Captain Ainsley!"





"Make all sail for Windwater! Mister Stevens, I need a first mate. You've got the job until I find someone better. Keep us on course, I need to look over the books."

"Aye, Captain." So saying, Stevens marched to the mast, weighing a belaying pin in his hand before slipping it in place and directing two deck hands to weigh on the yardarm and bring the sail to bear portside.

Below deck, Corwin hunched under the low ceiling and stalked end-to-end through the cramped cargo hold, checking his manifest and examining the woodburned labels on the great thousand-pound casks and five-hundred-pound barrels which lay stacked, roped and pinned in place. The sharp odor of burning lamp oil mingled with the chokingly sweet, pervasive aroma of fresh fruit, the strong scent of freshly planed cedarwood and the bitter reek of brown tar pressed and fired between the innumerable beams and planks.

"...forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty casks of bananas. That matches this last-moment note about replacing several of the half-ton casks with paired quarter-ton casks to ease the loading. Efficient sorts, those Three Griffons people, in spite of their tarnished reputation."

Thirty tons of fruit to be turned into gold. How successful could Corwin be in such an endeavor?





The Woodwitch reached the port of Windwater four hours ahead of schedule. Along that stretch of coastline he was passingly familiar with every current, every riptide and which directions the breeze tended to favor. Casting his eyes portward as he approached, Corwin beheld the dark, swampy shores of Bardosylvania, his cruel homeland, mocking him and bidding him to abandon his foolhardy venture and return home.

Seventeen larger sailships, their drafts too deep for the river's shallow beds, had weighed anchor near the bayous of coastal Nellowswann, favoring the serene shallows over the swift waters which perpetually spilled forth from the delta to vigorously strain the chains and ropes of any ship foolish enough to moor there.

At Corwin's command, the sails were struck and any slumbering sailors below were roused from their bunks. Eight oars bit through the waves, rowed, raised and bit again, prodding the Woodwitch slowly into the delta and up the Black Earth River. The smooth spokes of the wheel protested in Corwin's hands as the river's shifting currents bore against the rudder time and time again, but soon the welcoming sight of city spires rose to greet him, and a line of lively windmills along the eastern shore ground corn and oats in their bellies, driven to their task by the passing eastward gusts.

But the light of midday was being swallowed by the evening, and First Mate Stevens dared to look from his oar onto Bardosylvanian soil, alerted to the reek of decaying meat. Among the reeds and the twisted trees, mouldering feet and decrepit footwear plodded upon the sopping earth of the shore. Sixteen dead eyes watched the Woodwitch from the western shore, and unsightly humanoid forms shuffled and loped through the swamp's undergrowth, following the living morsels as the seaborne vessel continued northeast along the river. Before long, the Woodwitch and her shorebound pursuers drew up to Windwater's shoals, and the walking dead abandoned the chase, turning slowly from the river in unison and slouching back into the rising verdant shadows of Bardosylvania.

Through his fearful and wavering gaze, Stevens finished a breathless prayer to any merciful god who would listen. Corwin thrust a commanding finger to the waters, and the hefty bronze anchor was then unceremoniously dumped overboard as a gaggle of roustabouts milled forth to greet the Woodwitch.





Back on solid ground, Corwin saw neither hide nor hair of Captain Stillwell nor the Saint Alarice, and he realized a dilemna which would need to be solved entirely by Corwin's discretion alone. The trading companies of Windwater would surely offer the most convenient way to offload his cargo and receive his coin, and through them he would face no hindrance in selling everything he had to sell. But trading companies were typically commanded by the vice of greed and often prospered though unfair deals with traders; Corwin understood that he would receive less coin for his goods were he to deal with the trading companies...the price of easier effort and greater surety.

The smaller independent merchants in the bazaars and the marketplaces of Windwater were usually staffed with commoners who were content to eke out their livings and were hence more inclined to deal fairly with traders. But the independent merchants were unorganized and unreliable by nature; Corwin could hardly expect any one such merchant to purchase his entire hold's worth of tropical fruits for resale, so he would likely spend hours soliciting prospects, leading them back to the Woodwitch, striking bargains with the merchants and offloading his casks...and there lay the likelihood that he would not at all be able to sell all of his fruits with the independents.

So where would he go first, Corwin wondered? To the trading companies, or to the bazaars?

First, corwin will establish a watch on board (just cause it's fruit doesn't mean that someone won't steal it or try to stow aboard)

then it's off to the bazaars, if only to get an idea on a fair price to charge for the fruit when dealing with the trading companies. (also, Corwin will be keeping an eye out for opportunities. (you did say that windwater was a pretty lax town as far as law enforcement, and My master commanded me to go to Windwater.

Spoiler:

"We will mind the ship in your absence, Captain Ainsley," First Mate Stevens assured him. The gangplank bowed beneath his plated boots as Corwin stepped off the Woodwitch and alit to the dock below, searching out the city's many bazaars and private produce stores.

Dusk was coming, and no sign of Captain Stillwell was to be found. If nothing else, sloops were considerably swift, even if their cargo capacity and durability left something to be desired.

Windwater was the height of Nellowswann's commerce, bristling with opportunity...and with opportunists. Passing along the great dockworks, Corwin spied a hawker and his riverboat crew, calling the masses from across his laid gangplank and the reed-bearing shore. "...two pence for a ride! Come and see the shores of dread Bardosylvania from the safety of this boat! Mayhaps ye'll see the walking dead! Mayhaps ye'll spot a werewolf or a vampire! Come join the adventure into darkness for only two coppers...."

Corwin scoffed. So easy it was for the boatman to make sport of the monsters, surely having never lived among them himself. Mayhaps a werebat would swoop down on his vessel one fateful night later....

A bazaar sprawled along the western docks of Windwater, and it was there that Corwin began his inquiries.

(Corwin - untrained Gather Information check (DC 10): Success (20))

"Oranges and bananas? Sure, lad...I'll pay 320 gilders for eight tons so long as they're fresh...."

"Oi, Burnsen's only payin' yeh 40 gilders a ton-crate? I'll pay yeh 55, but I can only buy six tons...."

"...the last trader palmed off his blasted two-week-old bananas at my tent. If yours're fresher'n that, I'll pay you 460 gilders for ten tons."

"...not sayin' that I'm the type who goes there, but the temple of Hextor is readyin' for some religious revival or somesuch, an' they need plenty of food an' wine. See what gold they have to offer, but I'd have a good priest check the gold for devil-taint afterwards...."

"Oranges? No, I've no use for oranges. But bananas're good. 200 gilders for four tons. That's my offer."

"...my cart's a mite short on bananas, aye. How 'boot I pay you 70 gilders for a ton? One ton. 'Tis all I need, truly...."

"Sure, sure! Seven tons I need, seven tons of bananas, oranges, cherries, whatever you have. How does 245 goldies grab ya?"

"...oh, lad, I just wandered back from the Sassy Cat brothel...purely of curiosity, mind you. The girls there are always lookin' for fruit an' wine. I've no idea what they need with all that rot, but you should smell the fellas who come shamblin' outta there. What? No, no...I just got finished eatin' a bushel o' strawberries, that's all...."

"See Murdock the fruit peddler. He'll pay yeh 350 for 10 tons, surely...."

"No, I have no need for fruit of any sort. But come an' see me when you're ready to buy pottery, eh?"

"Oranges? Why, my ship is preparin' for a voyage to the Amethyst Coast, an' we need oranges to prevent another spat wid scurvy. I'll pay ye 150 gilders for 5 tons. Good offer there, wouldn't yeh say?"

"...Right, then. Ye drive a hard bargain, friend, but I cannae take them oranges for more'n 60 gilders a ton. And I need fourteen tons afore I can sail for Fioriallia. What say you, then?"

Corwin stood in the shadow of the eastern barbican, having taken in his inquiries of all the merchants he could find. And he considered where to go with what he had learned.

_________________
"Science is the foot that kicks magic square in the nutsack"
Scratch Fury, Destroyer of Worlds

hmmm.. that temple of Hextor idea has merit... temples have gold, (or so i'm told) so it might not be a bad idea.. To the temple of Hextor!


what's hextor the god of again?

also, it looks like the price i should be going for is around 50gp

(and i'm thinking unless the hextor guys buy it i'll be going to that guy who wanted to buy for 60


(Hextor is basically a war god and a tyrant god--might makes right, the strong should rule the weak, et cetera--with the Domains of Destruction, War, Law and Evil. Hextor (Lawful Evil) and Heironeous (Lawful Good) are half-brothers, and the clashes between the two deities and their followers are common and often legendary. However unsavory Hextor's faithful may be in the eyes of the nobler folk, they do have something to contribute to society and hence find more acceptance from civilization than the followers of other evil deities do. Hextor's followers can often be found among a city's administrators and law enforcement bodies as well as among the military and militias of practically any given civilized nation.)

(Some cities allow temples to be built for certain evil deities; this offers the benefits of placating the less benevolent religious types while also allowing any concerned citizens or authorities to identify any potential naughties in their midst. Some militant Good types still don't like what they see as the city openly admitting vipers into the nest, but even the evil types can serve society if they have the inclination...which is why deities like Hextor get temples in cities and the Chaotic, discord-sowing, kill-crazy deities like Erythnul and Nerull do not. Gruumsh gets a few temples, true, but that's just to help convince society's orcs and half-orcs to shut up and behave themselves. )


The gray cobblestone road passing beneath Corwin's heels turned to black as he left yet another crowded bazaar behind him. The black iron of the torch mounts standing rigidly at attention along the path seemed to hum in hushed tones as he passed. And before him, the dark edifice of black granite and dark redwood loomed, chanting in a firm monotone of many voices as he approached. The Hextorites were gathered for one of their weekly ceremonies, an hour of worship, reverence and self-aggrandizement.

Were he any benevolent and selfless man, Corwin would have felt pangs of timidity and hesitation as he approached. But Corwin was no such man, and he approached the great brass-riveted doors freely.

A gray-maned Hextorite cleric, one well along in years, attended the door and drew forward to greet his temple's visitor. Though physically lean and frail in stature, he bore himself with a height and a purposeful stride which underscored his strength of will. The black vestment which swatted at his iron-shod ankles was a curious amalgam--half of robe and half of armor--and the sharp, pyramidal spikes which lined the cusps of his pauldrons joined with the deep scar which crossed his sinister jaw to hint at the inner fire which had driven him through a tempestuous and bloody youth.

"Welcome, my good guest, to the Temple of Hextor!" his voice thundered, as if the simple act of receiving a visitor was in some way a victory. "I am Deacon Lamordra, and we welcome you to our house of worship. But might I first ask what has brought you before our mighty house and lord this night?"

"I was informed that your temple is soon to host a religious revival, and that fruit would be among the goods you need in plenty...."

"And you have some, I assume?" the deacon assessed, his eyes boring into the head of the trident which crossed Corwin's back. "You seem to be a seafaring man, yet you are unusually well-armored for one...no matter. You have come to the right place, for the wretched and fawning Heironeans caught wind of our coming revival and are to host one of their own, hoping to steal our thunder...come to that, we should go inside and discuss the matter privately, hmm?"

The deacon ushered Corwin into the temple and closed the great doors firmly behind them. The nave was arranged in a triangular fashion, with the pews and worshippers at the broad end and the priests at the tapering point...an obvious suggestion of the parish's pecking order, one founded on unyielding priniciples of dominance. Marble faces of anger bedecked every hissing sconce on every pillar, and the thick haze of burnt bitterweed blanketed the aisles and pews, enough to obscure the feet of those who might pass.

"Given our competition with the Heironeans," Deacon Lamordra continued, "it behooves us to offer generous payment for your wares, if only to ensure that our revival eclipses theirs in popularity. And with so many of our society's citizenry grown dissatisfied with being led by weaklings and fools, we expect our attendance to be quite large."

The Hextorite chanting rose as the three priests gathered at the large, black iron brazier centered in the sanctuary. The two who flanked the brass cauldron before the brazier grunted and groaned as they lifted the cauldron, then poured its deep scarlet contents into the seething brazier. And the flames lashed and leaped violently, igniting what red fluid dribbled within the cauldron and threatening to singe the hands of those who held it.

"But tell me, my friend," Lamordra asked aside, observing the ceremony, "what of your faith? Has Great Hextor yet shown you the way to reach out and grasp with both hands the fullest of your potential?"

Corwin knew the devout types well, being a religious sort himself. This was no innocent question, and it surely had very few right answers and countless wrong ones. And a right answer would certainly make the trade even sweeter.

And the wrong answers would be best left unexplored.

"While I can appreciate many of the Edicts of the Tyrant, Might makes right, and the Strong ruling the Weak, I serve another Lord, Deacon. One whose goals may not be incompatible with your own lords." Corwin will reply with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Oh?" Lamordra asked, his interest suddenly stoked. "And which lord might this be, if I may ask?"

"I serve The Seawolf of the deeps." Corwin replied reverently. "In hunting, there is always the predator and the prey, and the Great Wolf's teachings bring this to ALL things, Battle, Love, Commerce." Gesturing to the Deacon. "In your temple, I see kindred spirits, which is why I came here to Hextor's temple with my wares, instead of those sanctimonious hairyoneites" (((((and yes, i deliberately misspelt heironious's followers names... just like Corwin deliberately mispronounced it as "hairy one knights")))))


(Deacon Lamordra - Religion Knowledge check (DC 25): Success (33))[/CENTER]


The deacon considered Corwin's words for a long moment. And then, the pause was broken with a deep, resonant cackle rising from Lamordra's breast, a cackle which drew deeper into him and blossomed into full laughter.

"Heh...you mock our enemies so pleasantly. I like that. And though I have not heard of your god in many years, I believe that your predator-god is the Devourer. We do share a number of ideals, yes...the prevalence of the strong over the weak foremost among them. It seems that our tenets primarily differ in what to do with the weak; the Devourer seems to prefer the harvesting, culling and destruction of the weak, while great Hextor prefers that the weak be dominated and forced into servitude for the strong. And a shame, it is, that the weak are permitted to be our governors and nobles, when they should be our slaves...our 'omega wolves,' if you will."

"But sheep cannot pretend to be wolves of any sort."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose that you speak truly enough. I fear that we must continue to disagree on that point, perhaps. But we share much in common on so many aspects of our faiths...come. Let us continue our discussion in the priest quarters."

Corwin and the deacon slowly strode the length through the nave, observing the priests and faithful of Hextor conduct their ceremony of worship with all due dedication. The liquid fires of the cauldron continued to rise, even spilling out of the cauldron and onto the floor as the chanting persisted among a score of arms raised in supplication to their dark lord.

"Ah, here we are," the deacon surmised. The maplewood cabinets which stood at rigid attention around the small chamber reeked of strong incenses and reagents, and the four beds arranged in a perfect line along the far wall were proper and meticulously made, their bedsheets clean and crisply folded, their pillows stuffed neither too thickly nor too thinly. And a great tome lay spread on a thick and sturdy iron lectern in the center of the room. Corwin's gaze roved across the unholy book's pages as Deacon Lamordra unbuckled his brass-headed morningstar and set it aside on the waiting table, liberating himself to crouch and access a broad, flat trunk between the nearest bookshelves.





"...And the Prophet Zesephal spake to the Red Disciples of Berengia, 'If a man strikes you without justice, let you strike him five times in retribution. If a man steals from you one ox, draw your axe and claim five oxen from him. For those who violate the law and honor of Great Hextor should invite ruin unto themselves, and the charge to deliver this ruin is handed unto us.' Is this the First Book of the Iron Song? This printing doesn't seem like a direct translation of the original Low Brustaggan...."

"It is not," the deacon affirmed, rising with two bottles and a brass-ringed torch in his hand. "This version of the Third Book of the Iron Song was uncovered by Omikoroan explorers excavating an old bunker among the mountains of East Brustagg; they translated the book into their native dialect, and the religious scholars of various other nations translated the book from Omikoroan into their own native tongues and dialects. This book, as you may expect, was later translated into the unifying Imperial tongue well after the ascension and crowning of the Faceless and Eternal Emperor in Fioriallia, over nine centuries ago. I hope to venture to Brustagg one day; perhaps I may succeed in finding original copies of the Books of the Iron Song, and then I can gift the world with a purer translation.

"But here we are. It gives me hope to receive visits from kindred hearts as enlightened as yours, even if they must stray from Hextor's path to walk parallel roads. And this revival must be grand, it must be great and it must be fruitful. Therefore, I am prepared to pay 85 gilders for as many as twenty tons of fruit or whatever other food or drink you may have for us. And, to sweeten the bargain further, take these: two vials of water drawn from Hextor's Basin of Ire, and a witchfire torch. As it illuminates your path, so shall it illuminate what is lost to you."





"You will find that service to Hextor has great rewards, even if you stand outside the Hextorite cabals. Do we have a deal, then?"

"And here is where I put on my merchant hat, but it's a very odd one. I'm actually going to say a different number than the one that you gave me, which is normal, but here's where things change, I'll be saying a lower price than the one you just mentioned. but... I'm also throwing in some advice as well with the fruit.

would 80 guilders a ton strain your treasury, as the book says, if your enemy steals an ox, take your axe and take 5 of his... what would you say to a plan that will thin the amount of people who can be fed at the Heronieus (damn i can't spell his name right) festival, as well as showing them up for the weak spined fools that they are?"


Though his body remained unmoved at the suggestion, a dark smile crept across Deacon Lamordra's lips. A sinister smile which could only be underscored by his stillness.

"I would say 'Tell me more, friend, and spare no details'."

Well, I just happen to know a concoction that destroys plant life, be it herb, grain, or fruit. It would be a shame for some of that to get into the Heronites storerooms the day before their festival.... If they had no food (or less food) to supply, they'd HAVE to cancel their festival. If you timed it right, the crowd would be outside of their temple and be turned away, Meanwhile, I will sell you 20 tons of fruit, and you just let the word be spread around the town that you have fresh fuit in from the tropics.

In exchange for the recipie, Id like you to think of doing your future shipping with the Three Griffons Trading Company. for that, i'd give you the price of 80 guilders per ton and the additional items you provided.


"Very good, very good," the deacon replied. "I do find your plan to be most ideal. The paired revivals will occur three nights from now, and would it not be such a shame for the Heironeans' revival to fail so soundly from tainted fruit? Surely they will blame us for the mishap, but we can simply illustrate how the good names of the Hextorite clergy have been so maliciously slandered by Heironean bigotry before. Perhaps they should have done business with the Three Griffins Trading Company as well, rather than whichever unreliable merchant they employed to supply their feast....

"But as soon as you are able, bring your 20 tons of fruit and the formula for your vegetation killer to the rear entrance of the temple where the priests' quarters can be found. There we can pay you directly from our temple's coffers for your generosity, and our own alchemical apparatus is there so that we can verify the effectiveness of your herbicide; the better it works, the more we may offer for it. We can also send along six acolytes of Hextor to aid you in unloading your ship, though with so many Heironeans snooping about the streets and the docks they might come to suspect our collaboration in advance. The choice I leave to you."

all in all, I'd rather keep my involvement in this as circumspect as possible. There would already be a bit of suspicion just as the party that is providing the fruit for your festival

"I understand," the deacon conceded. "We shall withhold our own clergy and await your return with the fruit shipment. Remember, come to the rear of the temple. I shall be waiting for you. And if you are docked at Windwater's western docks, you may consider bringing your ship further up the river and back down to the eastern shore of Windwater, which is closer."




"Very well Deacon, I can definately arrange the transport of the goods."

Corwin will go back to the ship, and arrange the offloading of the fruit as well as arranging for some "Ruprechts Retort" gotta keep the mold and mildew out of the ships hold after all

For hours into the night did the Witchfire's crew labor, bringing casks of fruit down from the deck and rolling them through the streets of Hextor's sanctum, where Deacon Lamordra and Priest Gorss welcomed the crewmen warmly. The casks were swiftly and furtively rolled into the temple's crypt below, and Captain Ainsley was promptly rewarded; three large leather satchels brimming with coins weighed from Corwin's shoulders as he shared his recollection of Ruprecht's exfoliant with the deacon, the priest and the assembled acolytes, all eager to test the potion's effectiveness.





Ruprecht had not seen fit to dictate the specific terms under which the plant-killer's ingredients were prepared and brewed, but Corwin had observed enough of the process. His bottle of Ruprecht's Stinking Herbicide was much weaker than Ruprecht himself would have made it, but after several long minutes the orange subjected to a light fogging of the poison began to slowly brown and wither, leaking its fetid juice from the peel's many pores and dry ruptures.

"It will suffice," Priest Gorss confided to his nodding deacon. "We thank you for your business, Captain. Our methods of handling the Heironeans are normally more honorable than this, but if they would stoop to mimicking our revival, then we must stoop to sabotaging their efforts to undermine us. Again, we thank you."





With two-thirds of his cargo profitably sold, Corwin did not have much left of that task. Then, once he procured enough iron cookware for the journey to Brustagg, Windwater would be behind him. "Unfortunate, it is," he considered, "that I will not be here to witness the fruits of what Ruprecht's formula has sewn here...unless I were to tarry well behind the company's schedule, perhaps."

It just so happens deacon that I remembered your earlier wish to travel to Brustagg... It just happens that my crew and I are headed towards Felsenstadt on the next leg of our journey. If you like, once we've sold the rest of our cargo and pick up a new one, I'd be more than happy to have someone worth talking to on the voyage.

Lamordra drummed the tip of his chin with a contemplative finger, weighing the merits and liabilities of accepting such an offer. "Hmmm...A most provocative opportunity, I must admit. For as much necessity binds me to my duties here, I wonder if the abbot and the priests of this temple would permit me leave. They might resent my abrupt departure--or forbid it outright--and other clerics would surely seek to maneuver and claim my position in my absence. But if this expedition were fruitful, and if I were to return to this temple with so little as one unearthed volume of the original Books of the Iron Song in my hands....

"I cannot commit myself to any such errand now, but I shall speak with the abbot and the priests in the morning. If your ship can wait until noontime before leaving port, I should have an answer for you then. Is this agreeable?"

I can wait that long at least Deacon, it will take a little time yet to finish our business here in Windwater, but surely after dealing such a blow to the Heironians, the abbot would not decline your request.


"We shall see," Lamordra nodded. "We shall see tomorrow afternoon. Be well until then."

In the dead of night, Corwin knew, there would be very few merchants about to purchase his fruits or to sell ironware in turn. He would either have to hasten his steps or wait until the bazaars opened for business in the morning, the latter of which would leave far less time for the Woodwitch's crew to settle their business before Corwin returned for Deacon Lamordra...and, perhaps, a favorable decision from his superiors.


"And you also, Deacon." Corwin will look up the guy who offered 60 a ton and try to sell the rest of the cargo.

Returning to Wexel's Splendid Produce, Corwin slid up behind the thick figure of Wexel as the fruit merchant rolled three verdant watermelons into a large burlap sack, thanking the elderly woman before him for her purchase.

"Oh! Yeh've returned!" Wexel blurted with a start, facing his unexpected guest. "I wadn't sure if yeh might come back...."

"I've considered your offer of 60 gilders per ton. I regret that I only have ten tons of fruit--not the fourteen you needed--and there are some casks of bananas among the oranges. But if this is acceptable...."

"Oh, aye, aye, 'tis good an' well," Wexel nodded nervously, his voice betraying a tone of desperation. "Ten tons'll put me much closer to me goal than nothin' will, an' I may be able to trade the bananas for more oranges as soon as I reach Fioriallia, if not afore then. Me partners should be understandin' of this, given the season and whatnot...."

"So we have a deal, then."

"That we do, aye," the fruit vendor affirmed, reaching for the key to his bolted coin chest. "600 gilders for ten o' yer tonnage. Have yer men unload and bring the cargo to me now, if yeh nae mind. I've much to do afore sunrise, aye."





At this hour, fewer and fewer merchants kept their tents and booths open for business, and his hard-working crew would need their rest for the morning. Leading Mr. Stevens and his sailors back to the docks, Corwin considered the task of procuring the load of pottery for the leg to Felsenstadt come first light.





The river rolled beneath the ship, and the ship rolled beneath the captain's bunk. And dark dreams rolled within the captain's head.

"Now, Mommy dearest...I find it highly appropriate that you'll spend the remainder of your days in the fate you set for me, powerless, locked in the filthy life you chose for me."

"Let me out, ungrateful whelp!" the voice spat from the other side, in the darkness of Corwin's cellar room. "Let me out! Let me out now!"

"I, for one, look forward to seeing more of this world. Maybe I'll even stop by and see how my dear Uncle Borogon is doing, just to let him know how his sister fares."

The hateful thunder of fists against the inside of the cellar door rose in intensity, jarring Corwin's teeth even through the still gray air. Heedlessly, Corwin turned to leave.

"I'm sure that after living down in that stinking cellar for a few years you'll realize that you should have obeyed my lord's demand."

"Listen to me!" Gwenlyn implored from her dark prison below. "The Devourer will betray you! Do not continue with this! Corwinnnnnn!"

But not all was as it had been before. The thick planks of the cellar door vibrated violently with the tremor of her screams, grinding against each other with loudening groans. With more of instinct than reason, Corwin turned again to the door, backing away slowly. And backing away more swiftly when the iron bolts which held the door together sheared from their braces and bounced across the forest floor behind him.

"CORRRWINNNNNNNNNN!!!"

He had already taken to a blind sprint well away from the hovel before the cellar door shattered outward, spraying the looming trees with a thousand torn wooden flinders. The heavy footfalls of something towering and monstrous crashed and crashed against the damp, winding earth somewhere behind Corwin, screaming with the wailing wrath of a choir of banshees. And the low-passing limbs of twisted trees tore the trident from his grasp, leaving him defenseless against the nightmarish thing that Gwenlyn had become.

"Bastard...bastard...unwanted, rancid, bastard fruit of my womb! Lock your mother away to die, will you?"

The giant, stampeding feet slowly closed the distance, casting a long moonlit form through the lattice of shadows cast from the trees. Cold breath washed across Corwin's back in venomous rhythm as Mother crumpled the undergrowth in her furious chase.

Ahead, he saw the forest yield to a clearing. The half-light of the trail's yawning mouth offered no promise of escape, merely the promise of a flight unimpeded by rising roots, hanging boughs and other wild growth.

"Never shall you escape me, Corwin Ainsley! [SIZE="5"]Never!"[/SIZE]

He burst from the woodlands in long, panicked strides as Mother's long claws, with scythe blades for fingernails, raked across his shoulder, rending his leathers and scratching the skin beneath. But Gwenlyn's deafening footfalls fell to silence as Corwin sprinted into the clearing, stopping soon after she had stopped as his senses shifted from one state of alarm to another.

He stood not on the road to Boughbog, as he had expected, but in the courtyard of a sprawling manor, its dark walls of gray flagstone infusing the very air with a twinge of bleakness and despair. The courtyard's outer walls rose to surround the scene, and from each tower and each parapet hung the twitching, unclad bodies of those who had displeased the manor's lord, whether writhing on great hooks, moaning within the tangled clutches of crude iron chains or weeping inside suspended cages, their spike-lined bars stained brown with old blood. And from the blackening mists of the courtyard came forth three black figures, one obese form flanked with two younger and stronger ones, rising to tower against the full moon. Three malignant gazes descended on Corwin as the silhouettes spoke first in unison, then in succession.

"Welcome, Corwin, to the House of Ainsley."

"At long last we meet. Welcome, my grandchild."

"My nephew."

"My son."

"No..." Gwenlyn sobbed, her haggish form falling to her knees and shrinking to her human stature once again. "Father...brothers...leave him! Leave him be! Do not touch him, I beg of you!"

"And why not, Sister?" the gentler voice of the three retorted softly, yet no less grimly. "We are his birthright, his blood. We are kin."





Corwin bolted to wakefulness in his bunk, recovering his breath as he cast his eyes to the shuttered window. The first rays of sunrise played against the slats of the shutter blinds, reminding him of the time. Beneath his feet, the Woodwitch bobbed in the waves of the Black Earth River as he recovered his boots and went below to wake his crew.





Though he willed himself to his work, the terrible dream still pressed against the walls of his mind as he milled from courtyard to courtyard, speaking with every pottery trader he laid eyes on and inquiring of both the quality of their wares and what coin was demanded in trade for them.





"Yes, lad, I am indeed selling bowls and mugs by the crate! Twenty-two tons' worth and 30 gilders for each...not too much to ask, is it?"

"Yeh caught me just in time, methinks. I'm rollin' up my tent this morning and headin' home. But I still have three tons of bowls an' cups an' crates unsold...tell ya what. I'll only charge ya 18 gilders a ton, just to get 'em off my hands. Whatdya say?"

"Our potters have been working all week to bring our wares to you! Oh...a trader, are you? With the Three Griffins Company? Ah, surely you'll be pleased with our offer, then: 35 gilders a ton, and all the pottery you want! Yes, we do indeed have more than enough pottery to fill your fifty-ton cargo hold. Have we a deal, Captain?"

"If only you had come sooner, sir. I'm down to twelve ton-crates of pottery, but my ale mugs are of pressed terra cotta...superb quality. I suppose that I can part with them for 20 gilders a crate. Interested?"

"Mugs, cups, plates, saucers, bowls, pitchers, pots and wash basins! I have them all! Mere coppers for each item, and 26 gilders for a ton of them! Buy the whole lot of ten crates for 260 gilders! Buy them now, before they're all gone!"

"No, no...you misunderstand. I only have five ton-crates left, and I can't part with them for less than 42 gilders each. But look at this platter! Etched by hand and inlaid with white quartz! Observe the quality of the tempering and kiln-firing here...."

"...But surely my cups and plates are excellent wares, sir! One-hundred gilders for my last four tons is truly a pittance for what quality you...oh. I am truly sorry, sir! Please, mind the shards. No, no, I'll sweep it up. Oh...yes, yes, very well. 80 gilders for four tons, with my apologies. I barely brushed it, too...."


Though he found a number of pottery merchants on his own and more through hearsay, his search for pottery wholesalers was not nearly as fruitful as had been his search for purchasers the night before. That morning, Windwater's reputation as an elysium of earthenware had come to something of a disappointment.

damn... well, one possible check is to see what iron and glassware are going for... if the pottery is down, then it's possible that someone else had the same idea as the 3 griffons



(((of course, if I can at least price them here, i may be able to save some time. (I also could get an idea with the price may be for these items in Brustagg.))))

The pottery search had led to minimal success. "Perhaps," reasoned Corwin, "the people of Brustagg do not care of what materials comprise their dining wares. And if clay is not handy, then mugs and platters of iron, brass, wood or glass would serve Brustaggan appetites equally well."

Retracing his footsteps, Corwin rounded the bazaars of Windwater again, this time with a different set of questions.





"Gods preserve me, I have competition from one side of Windwater to the other! Look at this. Tempered copper glass, very durable and attractive! And I'm selling twenty-one tons of glassware for only 24 gilders a ton! But can I sell it? No. And why not, you ask? Because just two blocks east of here, Cranweisser is selling the same glassware for 17 gilders a ton...umm...perhaps I shouldn't have said that...."

"Welcome to Cranweisser's House of Glass! If it's made of glass, we sell it! Say again, Captain? Why, indeed we do sell glass drinkware and cookware for only 17 gilders per ton! How did you know? Oh, never mind. But I hope that you'll decide to do business with us soon. We only have four tons of glassware’s left. Yes, when you sell them for only 17 gilders per ton, word gets around...."

"...da, I know, 32 gilders for a ton of glassware is high in price, considerin' that we still have twenty tons to sell. But we dwarves make superb glassware, stronger than stone! Observe! This glass plate will not so much as crack or chip when I strike it against this hardwood...oh. Blast it! Damn the rot...that was a good table, too! Ah, Fafsurr? Where did we put the broom? Oh, Dwarf Father's bowels...it cracked the tilework too. Why must I drop so many things? You could kill an ox with such a plate, da?"

"Hmmm. Yes, sahib, we have glass in Lebeq Prime as well...more glass than Nellowswann, yes. So why did I stop here? Because the wagon broke an axle, yes. And now I need money for a new axle and a new camel. No, he ran away while we were trying to repair the wagon. And then the wolves got him after he crossed the bridge into Bardosylvania, yes. It was then that my sons and I decided to turn around and drag our broken wagon here. Please do an old nomad a favor and buy my last three tons of glassware. Yes, I only ask 45 gilders for all three ton-casks. Surely such a well-dressed trader as yourself can afford such a pittance, yes?"

"Glazing is hard work, sir. We only produced sixteen tons of glass cups and bowls for this month, and there's such a glut that I can sell them for no more than 20 gilders per ton-cask. Oh, that? The red tint is caused by iron particles in the sand which was melted and poured to make the glass. It's quite a lovely hue, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know. I only have five tons to sell because these mugs take time to make. But look at them! They're shaped like skulls! Look at all of these leering orange and red skulls! Yes, they are indeed iron glass. Clearly you know glass. And these mugs should be very popular with the warlike people of Brustagg, mark my words! 30 gilders for a ton-crate is reasonable...don't you think so?"


Things were looking up for Corwin. A little resourcefulness, he found, can be a very useful thing.

ok, i'm definitely buying the magic beer mug. (might make a good bribe in Brustagg)


"Ja, I just god a shipmendt off vooden dining vares from Bardosylvahnia, und I'm trying to sell zem off so I can hire a coach bock to Brustagg. Papa has fallen very sick, and I vish to see him again before he leaves zis vurld. Seven tons left, priced at zer very affortable price off 20 gilders per ton. Haff ve a deal, friend?"

Corwin will ask if he can lower the price if we threw in passage closer to Brustagg

dwarven indestructible plates would be an advantage in the bars at Brustagg....

in short, detect magic on magic mug and buy (300) negotiate down the 7 tons of wooden wares (140gp before negotiating), 16 tons of the iron infused glass bowls and cups (320gp), 10 tons indestructible dwarf plates (320gp) 5 tons skull souvenir mugs (150) 4 tons Cranweisser’s glass cookware (68)


(See? You're a trader and you don't even know it. )[/CENTER]


And so Corwin went about his end of the bargaining....





Corwin's eyes widened as he finished his subtle invocation to the Devourer's wisdom. In his eyes, the ever filling tankard was indeed sorcerous in nature; no sleight of hand had played a role in filling the mug to the brim. He had only to remember the activation words...or to write them down so there would be no need to remember.

"A quill and ink...yes, you may borrow mine," the merchant Shahobb offered, sliding a sharpened white plume and a squat bottle of sepia ink across the coin table to him. Corwin counted out 300 golden coins from his travelling coffer, stacking them before Shahobb's waiting hand before sopping the quill in the inkpot and readying it over a small scrap of parchment at hand.

"If you would, Shahobb, repeat those magic words one more time."





"You are in luck," Corwin assured the desperate Brustaggan wood ware merchant. "The next leg of my trade route leads to Felsenstadt. If this is near enough to your destination, then perhaps you could secure with passage with me...."

"Felsenstadt is much closer to Braun Tal zen Vindvater is. Name your price for zer steerage, Captain."

"I was thinking that we could help each other in this bargain. I wish to buy all of your wares, and my coin is limited. So perhaps if you were to lower your prices for me...."

"Ja, it is done! For steerage to Felsenstadt I vill part with my voodvares for only 10 gilders per ton. Cutting my price in half means zat I sell zem at a great loss, but I simply must return to Brustagg immediately, for Papa's sake. Hanswold Gaersen at your service, Captain. I zhall help your sailors load your ship now, if you vish."





At last Corwin's business with the bazaars was concluded. The dwarven merchant Jaerkausen's glass plates were impressive indeed; thrice-tempered glass had made the plates and dishes almost as durable as iron, and they held a long, resonant ting when rapped with a trident's tines. Cranweisser's wares were priced to sell, and sell they did. The red glass was ordinary in most aspects, save for its color; surely they would find buyers in Felsenstadt, as would the casks of glazed skull mugs packed into the cargo hold beside them. All told, Corwin's business in Windwater had come to a rather successful end.





"Ah, there you are, Captain Ainsley!"

Glancing down from the Woodwitch’s deck, Corwin answered Deacon Lamordra's approach to the gangplank. A large sack weighed down on the Hextorite deacon's shoulders as he marched forth, listing to the opposite side in an effort to balance his burden. His dark robe, trimmed with a violent scarlet, drew the narrow-eyed concerns of several commoners as the priest strode arrogantly through their ranks.

"Your temple has granted you permission to travel to Brustagg, I assume?"

"Indeed, you assume truly! I have gathered my research journals, my maps of Brustagg and enough changes of clothing to last for several days. Let the neophytes squabble for my position in my absence; when I return with one of the Books of the Iron Song in my hands, none of those underlings will have any standing to challenge my authority!"

"Then come aboard, deacon. We leave for Felsenstadt shortly."

And as he took Lamordra by the hand to aid his ascent up the gangplank, another sharp, familiar voice spilled forth from the distance beyond the Woodwitch’s stern.

"Ho there, Captain Ainsley! You leave Windwater's port so soon? Moor the boat, gents!"

The Saint Alarice had too large a draft to travel up the Black Earth River, but the dinghy in which Captain Stillwell had come to Windwater did not. His crew's oars dug into the water rhythmically, conveying them slowly against the river's course.

Turning to face the gunwale Corwin will respond with an equally hearty bellow "Aye Captain Stillwell, after all, we've got a schedule to keep, if we want to earn those bonuses. You'll pardon my haste, but my passengers wish for a speedy voyage to Felsenstadt!

"I understand your haste entirely," Captain Stillwell replied. "I have transported many a passenger over the years too. And it does my heart good to see that you have done so very well for yourself in so short a time. Why, if you had begun your seafaring as a cabin boy of 12 years--as I had--imagine where you could be this day, eh?"

Stillwell tipped his broad-brimmed hat in farewell to his once-apprentice.

"Perhaps we may one day meet again. With what bounty we claimed from Captain Sharper's head I plan on purchasing another three-masted vessel. When next we meet, we may be leading some rather grand fleets. May the sea always favor you, Captain Ainsley."





And favor Captain Ainsley the sea did, for the wind swept fiercely and constantly northeast along the coast, and the riptides were fewer and weak as the ocean waters ebbed and flowed. Drawing the sails full and angling the rudder to keep the Woodwitch's hull from the continent's shoals, the efforts of Corwin and his crew were proven to be practically flawless, for a journey which should have consumed most of a day--even in a sloop--was completed in a mere nine hours.

From the shoreline rose the many towers and steeples of Felsenstadt, her streets busy with commoners scurrying among her quaint townhouses and sprawling grand bazaar. Bells rang among the docks as foreign trade ships and Brustaggan warships moored and departed, and the deck of a charming redwood cruiser rang with chains and irons as her uniformed crew dragged a gaggle of shackled ruffians--likely pirates--from her hold. The great mayoral palace stood tall from the highest hill in Felsenstadt, flanked with a towering gibbet at each corner. Some of the nooses swung with the weight of hanged criminals bound hand and foot, mute testimony to the wages of violating the law in Brustagg.

From the prow, Mister Stevens intently eyed a vacant dock two-hundred yards from the Woodwitch. "Your orders, Captain?"




Arrange a watch schedule Mr. Stevens!, we'll most likely be in port for a few days, and I’d like to arrange some shore leave, the men have been working hard, and deserve a short break