As always, a crowd of people greeted the ship as it pulled alongside the jetty, cheering their return from the horrors and dangers that they were forced to endure. There were inquiries of barter, requests for news or stories, and offers of assistance for any who needed it. Loved ones were greeted tenderly, friends loudly, and acquaintances warmly. It was as true a homecoming as any, but Aina always felt set apart from such feelings. For the past years, Seacrow had been her home and any time in Havnoy, though certainly restful in a place which she loved, was merely an interlude before she could return to the thing that gave her life purpose.

*

A round of raucous laughter and the vigorous drumbeat of fists banging on tables filled the crowded main room of the tavern as smoke drifted lazily from the rafters, casting a haze on the scene that had nothing at all to do with the four jars of mead that Aina had already consumed. The sweet drink went down well. Far too well. It was far too easy to go far too far, but no matter. Recent experience had proven that their tenuous existence could be cut short at any moment; might as well enjoy it, hey?

Sailors from Otter and Cursed be Iron, and a handful of the townspeople who had known the man, were listening to comradely stories about Hawk – funny how a man could become better liked in death than he was in life – and offered a few of their own. They raised their tankards in praise of their ships, their commanders, in spite of the gods, and in anticipation of the death of all Frekir.

On their own cruise, further north than Seacrow had gone this season, the Otters had taken some time ashore to harvest some young trees, perfect material to replace some of the keel wood should they get a chance to drydock their ship. Unfortunately, that particular patch of woodland had turned out to be the hunting grounds for a local tribe of elves and, predictably, negotiations had gone very quickly awry.

Skill and cunning had played off against tenacity and technology, but the Otters had the numbers and Thaumaturgic magic to bring to bear, tipping the scales in their favour and driving the point-ears away with only a handful of losses – toasts were raised for them too. It had been an eventful cruise for both ships and dead hands would need to be replaced. There was still no shortage of desperate volunteers late of Cursed, yearning to once again be back at sea, and a number of skilled natives with a mind to leave the confines of their small world.

But such matters could wait for the morning. Now was a time for drink and forgetting The End of All Things.

*

The pair of them hit the bed with a dull thud, the goose-feather mattress yielding and soft, a frenzied embrace forcing lips against lips with clumsily-questing tongues as hands tore at clothes, pulling them from bodies and grasping handfuls of flesh, soft and yielding. Leggings were off, breeches were down, and suddenly they were tangled together with a sudden burst of pleasure.

Again and again they pushed together, their bodies moving in rhythm, their hearts pounding and their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Again and again they bucked and moved, building a sensation in the base of her abdomen that grew and grew until her back arched with a sudden explosion of sensation. Spurred on by her reaction, her partner groaned and tensed, ending their dance in a single jolt.

Exhausted and drunk, the pair collapsed in a tangle, sweat sheening in the moonlight, uncaring of the state they were in.

Then, all of a sudden, daylight was burning through the thin curtains.

Aina groaned softly, this time from a feeling as far removed from pleasure as could be. Head reeling from the cannonade inside her skull, she sat up and fought down the flash of nausea the sudden movement brought. Already knowing the answer but dreading it nonetheless she looked to her side to see the softly-snoring, half-naked form of Alvard lying on the bed.

Damn it, not again, she cursed inwardly. Every time on shore leave, without fail, she would get drunk and end up taking the man to bed – or did he take her to bed? – and every time she would declare to herself “never again!” but always the need for companionship in these dark days proved too strong. Now she would need to go see Agata Varlo, the witch, and get some silphion again, which she thankfully had in abundance in her sprawling herb garden, much to the benefit of the town’s residents, especially Mr Varlo. Careful not to wake her lover of the night lest she risk a conversation she really did not want, Aina dressed herself and ventured unsteadily out into the damnable brightness of the morning.

The town was quiet enough as she stumbled through the damp streets, the cold sea breeze blowing away some of the bats that had taken up overnight residence inside her skull, hands crossing her midriff to prevent the contents from spewing back up again. Her mouth still tasted of the last time.

Up she went, out of the harbour, through the centre of town, and out past the scattered farmsteads on the other side. People who knew her waved greetings as she passed, those that didn’t nodded politely, and to all of them she could only muster a confused squint and an acknowledging grunt. Further along the road became rougher, the cobbles giving way to a dirt track that wound its way up the slope of the great mountain, deep-rutted from a thousand carts and studded with ancient rocks.

Half-way to her target, Aina paused, retched a bit, then sat down for a rest. Fingers combing through her knotted hair, she stared down over the town with its long stark shadows and across the bay, water glittering in the golden light, the two ships sat at rest. Beyond was the ocean, the barrier setting them apart from a world of death and pain, from a world of memories.

When was the last time I went as far south as Fennia? She thought, any coherent response lost amongst the mental cacophony. She wanted to say she would never drink again, to live a clean life, but she knew in her heart it would be a lie. Self-reflection is a virtue… Helps you know your limits… For a while longer she just held her head in her hands, eyes and mind unfocused, until a cramping in her leg drove her to continue.

The ruins above Havnoy were an enigmatic thing, belonging to the civilisation only known to scholars as the Aldaz, examples could be found across Forsara, Galasi to the east, and Jodlund to the south, showing this people had once been a continent-spanning empire over three millennia ago. Their purposes were sometimes obvious, a lighthouse on a rocky promontory, a public bath around a hot spring, but most often a mystery and always in a state of destruction. Records from this time were sparse and there was no account of their fall, seemingly overnight, and the subsequent rise of the new nation under Forsar.

As with many others, Aina always wondered who these people were. Humans, elves, or something else entirely, the speculation was endless. Some people even said dwarves, but everyone knows they don’t exist. Records from the time, the oral history of a culture that shaped bronze and that had been slaves to this race for uncounted generations, only spoke of the Aldaz in cryptic half-truths and metaphor, as if the mere mention of this time before their freedom was a great taboo. Even the name “Aldaz” was not what they had called themselves, only what they had been known as in the proto-Forsaran tongue.

What these people looked like, what they had worn, what kind of art they had produced, only the elves had a racial memory long enough back to know these things and they were notoriously tight-lipped when it came to sharing their history.

Aina always imagined the Havnoy ruins to be a far-flung outpost, a bastion watching for threats beyond the seas, manned by tall soldiers in shining armour of bronze and gold, their white stone fortress lit by the stark white glow of magic. The secrets of Thaumaturgy and electrum were two things absolutely known to have been passed from the Aldaz to the Forsarans, the ability to cast and protect against arcane power was dangerous knowledge, and of the few relics that had been recovered, that pale yellow metal was inlaid in almost everything. It sparked her imagination in a way that suggested she may have ended up a historian, had she ever been given the chance.

In contrast, the residents of this island had little care for the ruins. They had always been there and always would be and there was “no use in both’rin’ ghosts”, as they liked to say. Except in the summer when dragons came over from the mainland to roost. Then you had to be careful and make sure you kept your cats inside.