The Defiant

Hi all,

This was posted on the old forums, but it's my favourite story that I've written so I thought it would be worth posting up here. More to come, too.


Lothar was little more than a shadow in the night. Like a cat he prowled the streets of Nordland, and not a soul was there to see him. Great buildings, with their stone steps and grand balconies, were dark and silent. As you would expect at this time of the morning, but that was exactly what Lothar was hoping for.

He passed onto the main road, leading directly to the largest building in all of Nordland besides the chief fortress - the Cathedral of Manann, god of the Sea. The task Lothar was about to attempt would make or break his career – possibly, more likely even, it would end his life.

For the first time during the evening, he had to abandon the protection of the darkness to ascend the stairway to the temple. It was the only entrance unless you wished to break through the windows many feet above the ground, and that would not suit Lothar’s purposes.

He sprinted up the stairs and came to a halt before the grand doors to the temple. They were painted a light blue colour, and inscribed with depictions of the seas, the monsters within their depths and the battles that took place above them. One iron handle was on each door, each sculpted into the figure of a silver albatross. They were not locked - it would be sinful to do so – so Lothar pushed his way in.

A corridor, carpeted in sea green, lead to the main section of the Cathedral. The stone walls were also inscribed with depictions of sea battles, some shining with a light that did not come from any natural source. Numerous doorways lined the corridor, evenly spaced, and Lothar began counting each as he passed it. As he reached the seventh door on the left, he pulled it open and was dazzled for a moment. Incredibly bright light was streaming forth, illuminating the entire passageway and temporarily blinding Lothar.

He shielded his eyes with his gloved hand, blinking quickly.

‘Hey! You there, you can’t be coming in this room! Out!’ A voice called from within. Lothar heard numerous bodies moving inside the room, and turned away from the light. He ran to another door, and slammed it shut behind him. Spotting a wooden stool, he propped it up against the door handle. Try as they might, the Imperials would not get through there.

Taking in his surroundings for the first time, a smile was brought to Lothar’s face, revealing several of his gold teeth. The room was filled with rack after rack of the finest rum in all of the Empire. Sweeping off his feathered hat in awe, he began strolling down the racks and picking out random bottles, shoving them into his pack. He completely ignored the pounding of the clerics in the corridor. He pulled out another bottle, but looking into his pack, he saw that it was quite full.

“Need to save some room, aye? Maybe I should be a-swiggin’ this down now. Best not let it go to waste on these bloody priests, aye? Aye.”

And with that, he grabbed the cork in his mouth, tore it away from the bottle and spat it out. He turned his head skyward, gulping the rum as if he were fresh from the Arabian Desert. He downed the bottle in a number of seconds and then started on the next.

Empty bottles piled up rapidly. The pounding on the door had stopped, and now Lothar swayed as he stood, clutching his half-emptied bottle. The yawned, blinked once, twice, and then fell to the floor, his eyes closed.

He woke up hours later, and the night still hung over the city. He rubbed his eyes and shook his long black hair out of his face. The Imperials were now attempting to batter the door down. He struggled to push himself up, his muscles screaming against the strain. That is when he remembered why he was there.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.” Lothar kicked the stool away and flung the door open. To his surprise, no one was there. The seventh door was open, but the light no longer issued from it. He stroked his short beard with his left hand, but with his right, concealed by his dark coat, gripped his sword.

“How curious…” he made his way cautiously to the seventh doorway, squinting his eyes in preparation of the light’s return, but it did not come. Instead, three men wearing the livery of Imperial soldiers stood waiting for him, all with swords drawn and helms upon their heads.

“’Allo mates! Long time no see, aye?” Lothar smiled, flashing his golden teeth at the soldiers. They did not think it funny, however, and they came at him quickly.

Lothar batted away the first man’s blow. He dodged the second man’s, grabbing his sword-arm to block the third man’s strike. He punched the second man square in the nose, leaving the imprint of the numerous jeweled rings that Lothar wore, before slamming the heavy door into his head.

The first man came at him again. He lunged unskillfully, wielding his sword with both hands. Lothar dropped to all fours, driving his elbow into the unfortunate man’s crotch. He let out a high-pitched yelp and fell to the ground.

The final man stared in wonder as Lothar motioned him to halt, reaching into his pack for another bottle of rum.

“You’ve been stealing from the Cathedral! You common swine! Have you no sense of decency?”

“I have a fine sense of decency. For instance, this rum is quite decent. Indeed it is much better than that piss-in-a-bottle the Bretonnians call rum. That’s a compliment, boyo.” Lothar said, trying to twist off the cork as he spoke.  

“On guard!” the soldier said, and launched himself at Lothar.

“Oh yes, I forgot to ask before; why exactly are you attacking me?” Lothar said, not even watching as he bounded out of the way.

“You have trespassed on ground that was not intended for common feet. Most would be too respectable and religious to attempt such a stunt, but I am now without doubt that you are sacrilegious, which makes my removal of the tumor that is yourself all the more important.”

“Well, that was a fair mouthful, wasn’t it, aye? Wonder how many times you have rehearsed it with your little mates?”

The remaining soldier growled in answer. He lunged at Lothar, but he was more skillful than his two companions who now lay prostrate on the carpet. Lothar dodged his blow just as easily as he had done for the last two, but the warrior brought his blade slashing down towards Lothar’s spine. It looked as though the sword would strike Lothar, but in the last moment a knife appeared in Lothar’s left hand and swung around to block the strike.

“Where did that come from, thief?” the warrior said, staring at the knife.

“If you’d ever fought a real battle, sonny, you’d know that you should never be going a-fighting without at least two extra weapons. That way, you can always surprise your opponent. Like so.” Said Lothar, tucking the knife back into his belt and drawing a loaded pistol.

“Why, you swine!” the warrior said.

“Why, you self-important brother-loving sheep-shagging son of an Estalian brothel-dwelling concubine!” Lothar said quickly, and the warrior was taken aback by the sudden ferocity that came over him. “You see there, don’t ever be insulting Lothar de Graff, because you’ll never be a-winning.  Savvy?” In a single fluid movement, he cocked the pistol, pulled the trigger and blasted the warrior where he stood.

“Sorry, mate.” as the warrior fell to the ground, his brain pierced by the lead shot, Lothar pulled a bottle of rum from his pack and took a short gulp of it in the fallen warrior’s honour.

Lothar now, for the first time, took in his surroundings. The room was small; perhaps only five metres by six, and racks ran all along the white walls, neatly arrayed with magical and religious artifacts. Three wooden stools sat in the middle of the room, one upturned by the brief scuffle. The roof was immeasurably high, but six circular windows allowed the moonlight to illuminate the room.

Lothar peered around carefully, looking at the odd-shaped items that sparkled off each other in the moonlight. Some were clearly scientific, with dials and wind-up parts and cauldrons of sickly liquid, but others were religious, totems and the like. Lothar spotted the crown – on the top shelf, right in the center of the back wall.

Lothar smiled, and moved towards the crown. He leapt for it, his hands scrabbling for it, but he was at least a foot too short. He looked around, and his eyes came to rest on the stools.

He strode over, grabbing the nearest stool. He propped it up against the wall, straightened his salt-stained bandanna, and climbed up, using the racks for balance. He raised his arm to clasp the crown, but he was still just inches away.

Warily, he placed one foot on a shelf. It creaked, but it would hold his weight. Lothar raised the next foot, and reached for the crown. He grabbed it, and brought it down to stare at it, still standing precariously on the shelves.

“Ha ha!” he said, but as if the Cathedral itself was showing it’s spite for Lothar the shelf gave way beneath him and he came crashing down, numerous artifacts falling with him and making a terrible racket.

Lothar pulled himself up groggily, feeling now more than ever the after-effects of the rum. He swayed where he stood for a moment, but his eyes quickly refocused and he brushed himself off brusquely. His hand still clasped the crown, and he brought it before his face.

It was made almost entirely of silver. It had five points, and the foremost, being the largest, was not shaped like a wave as the others were but carved into the likeness of an albatross, the great sea birds of the Empire. Clearly Manann favoured this crown, for both the five-pointed circlet and the albatross were his symbols.

Far-away shouts reminded Lothar of the din he had made. He shoved the crown into his pack and hurried away.


Blood flushed to Lothar’s face as his legs pounded the road beneath him. His chest heaved with exertion, and his rapid breathing turned to mist before him. He came to an intersection and turned left around one of the great stone buildings that littered the town, but ran into a group of those he fled from. He raced back in the direction he came, instead taking the right path. They shouted as they gave chase, but they were unfit and he quickly outpaced them. By the time he reached the outskirts of the town, he could no longer see them.

He ran out over the cultivated fields, vaulting a number of picket fences before reaching the grassy ridge. From there, he could see little but blackness, marred only by a small speck of white. Lothar knew that down there was the bay. And down there was his ship. The sound of the waves filled his ears, a sound Lothar had loved ever since he was a lad. He continued down the other side of the hillock, his pack swinging wildly as he leapt over the rocks.

He felt the ground beneath his feet shift from tangled grass to fine sand, with the odd shell scattered amongst the white grains. Three figures loomed out of the darkness, and one of them called out,

“Got your shine, Captain? We was wondering where you’d got to. We’d nigh on set sail back for The Defiant!”

“Sure do, but they’re a-coming after me real fast.” Lothar said. There was not enough light for him to see their faces, but he knew their voices well enough. Carter, Robbins and Limey were their names, and they were sailors under Lothar’s command. He followed them to the shore, where a boat seemed to materialize before their very eyes. Lothar threw in his pack and clambered in. Robins joined him as the other two pushed the boat off the sands and to the water.

As they jumped in, Carter landed right on Lothar’s pack.

“Damn it, Carter, do be more careful. Wouldn’t want to be undoing all me hard work, would you? No. So get some control over yourself aye?” Lothar said indignantly.

“T’was an accident, Cap. But you was the one throwin’ it in here anyways!” Carter said.

“Shut your mouth. Any more lip from you and you’ll be a-swimming to The Defiant, ye crazy fool.”

Carter was silent for a second, but a smile was creeping over his face. Such sincerity! Such sincerity from a man such as Lothar, the most feared pirate in the Empire, Bretonnia, Estalia, Araby and even Tilea itself for over a decade.


To the Good Count of Altdorf,

As you know, I am currently residing in the fine and respectable province of Nordland. Here, there is a more minor god to that of our Savior Sigmar but still of considerable power. His name is Manann, God of the Sea. Recently, there have been events that have, in my opinion, brought the disfavour of Manann down upon Nordland.

You see, the greatest building of this land is the Cathedral of Manann. Some say the chief temple of Sigmar is larger, but to them I say; only the heart within the temple is larger than that of Manann’s Cathedral. In all other aspects, the Cathedral dwarfs all of Sigmar’s temples in this land. But I am going off-track, as I am oft inclined to do when speaking of religion.

Back onto my subject. Three nights ago, an unknown man entered the Cathedral. He came very late at night, when no worshippers would be there. We all know it is sin to lock the doors of any of Manann’s sacred places, as it is with being over-protective. It is said to stifle the Spirit of the Sea. Three guardsmen were left in the most holy room, and that is where this man went.

By the testimony of the two remaining soldiers, this man first went to the storeroom and stole a large number of Cathedral bottles of alcohol. He then went to the sacred room, which housed a number of consecrated items, and proceeded to assault the guardsmen. He killed one by the name of Longan, shot through the eyeball at close range. He damaged relics to the number of twenty-two, and made off with the Jones Crown.

All the followers of Manann fable the Jones Crown. It signifies the power of the seas, and it is said that its wearer can take control over the very waves beneath his keel. If worn for extensive periods of time, the bearer will eventually become mentally impaired. It is from this information that I draw my theory that the thief was a pirate.

Without this item, the province of Nordland is falling out of Manann’s favour. The albatrosses have upped and left, and the waves no longer crash with such power against our shores. It is my request that you send out a small fleet of the Imperial Navy, or dispatch some privateers, perhaps that legendary Lothar de Graff if he could be located, to regain this Crown. I believe our survival is dependant upon it.

Gabor Haas, Writer/Historian/Adventurer

It was true. Lothar was, by the law, a privateer under the Elector Count of Nordland. But in every other way, he was a pirate. He was legally allowed to capture and destroy pirate or Norscan ships and their crews and, under extreme circumstances, raid enemy settlements. All of this had ceased to matter to Lothar. He no longer called the Empire his home, instead favouring Sartosa, the island off the coast of Tilea populated entirely by pirates. That was where he belonged.

The Defiant, his grand eighty-four-gun flagship, was sailing in to port at Bilbali. The Imperial ships were slow, and the pursuit they had launched after their stolen crown was soon left flailing behind. And Lothar’s image as an honest privateer was not broken.

The dock was lodged between two huge natural rock walls, forming a ‘V’ shape. Fresh water poured into the ocean from these mountains, and the city of Bilbali thrived. Behind the dock were more walls, but these were carefully contrived. Three fortresses were evenly spaced through the gap in the mountains, all with easy access to the rivers. Hundreds of buildings lay between them, joined by a maze of cobblestone roads.

Merchant vessels and trading canoes were so frequent that the helmsman was inclined to make the man in the crow’s nest blast on a horn in warning every time a boat got in their way. Lothar, who had been charting the ship’s progress below decks, came up at the sound of the horn.

“You don’t need to be doing that, mate. Drop the anchor, we’ll row from here.”

“But Captain, aren’t ya intending on careening the ship here?” the helmsman asked. He didn’t like being in the wrong; his ego didn’t often allow it.

“Not a chance! Far too many scallywags here. Don’t you even know where we are? We’re in Estalia! They’d burn this ship to the ground with us inside it if they knew who we was. Speaking of which… I don’t want none of you talking Tilean! It will get you shot out here, you mark my words. Imperial, or Estalian if you know it. Foxy, you can talk Bretonnian.” Lothar said, turning briefly to a man of small stature with sharp eyes and a pointed nose. He laughed.

“Aye, sir.” The helmsman said.

Once the anchor had taken a firm hold on the ocean floor, Lothar ordered the Estalian flags to be shown above the ship. They were authentic, taken a little more than a month ago from a navy galleon. News of its demise would not yet have reached Estalia, so they were safe enough for now.

The crew began rowing towards the shore. The dock was a bustling hive, with people of all cultures (with the exception of Tileans) trading their goods. Two hundred pirates came ashore, while the rest were forced, under sufferance, to remain on the ship. Men who went ashore were laden with their own shares of treasure, and they scattered as soon as they set foot on land, scurrying off to the nearest brothel or inn.

Lothar walked side-by-side with a young girl, perhaps sixteen years of age. She was quite beautiful, but dressed plainly in a dull bracae so that she didn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. Still, numerous filthy, toothless men leered at her as she strode past. She bore a strange likeness to Lothar – the same sparkle in her icy-blue eyes, the same proud walk. She was Tamika de Graff, Lothar’s only child.

“I don’t think much of this place, Father. The men are filthy and their eyes are lusting.” Tamika said, her voice young and innocent.

“Of course they are! The best looking thing they have seen until now was a hairy old hag more akin to cattle than to humans. You, mate, are like an elf-maiden.”

“When can we go back to Bretonnia, Father? It has been many years since I have set foot on that wondrous land.”  

“And many years more, I should hope.”

“What is it about Bretonnia you hate so much? The land is clean, all are respectful, and deceit is a nonentity.”

“It is not Bretonnia I hate, it is the land itself. The land is deceptive, but the sea does not ask questions. The sea is… freedom, savvy?”

“And of course, you are the greatest advocate of honesty, aren’t you, Papa?” Tamika laughed. Her teeth were amazingly white, which was to be marveled at for on The Defiant, hygiene had quickly become unimportant. How she retained her feminine beauty was a wonder to all who knew her.

Lothar didn’t answer. There was a very different reason as to why he wouldn’t go to Bretonnia, but Tamika didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

They walked into the busy marketplace warily, both of them with their hands upon their weapon hilts. Tamika gripped her long knife at her father’s instruction, and her eyes took in everything at once.

Raggedy stalls were scattered randomly throughout the square, some larger than others. They were selling everything from tropical fruits to tribal medicines, rusted weapons to leering foreign totems. Lothar made his way to one of the fruit stalls, and it’s owner called out eagerly to him.

“Good day, sir! Finest fruits as can be found in all of Estalia, bargain at just three silvers apiece! Nowhere else shall you find such a good deal!”  

“Look, mate. I’m an Imperial privateer, and I need fruit for five hundred sailors. I’ll give you a hundred silvers for every piece of fruit you’ve got here. Sounds like a good deal, aye?”

“What? Everything in this stall would be worth thousands! There is not a chance I would sell it for just one hundred silvers!” the merchant was outraged. His rotund face turned bright red as he spoke.

“All right, I understand that. How about this then; I’ll give you one hundred silvers, and let you keep your skull intact.” Lothar said, leveling his pistol at the merchant’s face. He sighed in fear, and said softly,

“Take it, sir. Just don’t kill me! I have a wife!”

“Are you sure of that? Are you a-sure you don’t just have a soiled, disease-ridden concubine?” Lothar’s response was savage. “Good to see you’re so willing to help. Me and you will carry this stuff down to my ship. Tam, make sure he doesn’t try anything funny.”

Off they went, with Lothar carrying a large crate over each of his shoulders. The fat merchant carried a considerably smaller crate, and yet sweat was pouring from his flabby frame before they had even left the square. Every now and then, Tamika gave him a light poke with her knife, not hard enough to pierce the cloth and skin but enough to speed him up for a while.

As they came in sight of the shore again, they saw at the mouth of the rock-walls another ship was fast coming in to port. Lothar could not see her name, but she was easy to recognize – it was the Julietta, an Estalian frigate captained by a man known only as the Vulture. He was allied to Lothar, but none knew the true conditions of their agreement.

“Ha! The bird has come back to his nest.” Lothar exclaimed. He didn’t particularly like the Vulture; perhaps it was the age-old hate of the Estalians that ran through his blood, but the only reason he didn’t kill him and take all of his plunder was that the Vulture was a useful spy.

The trio had reached the boats now, and the merchant dropped his crate and splashed some seawater on his perspiring face.

“I will go now. Pay up!” he said, still breathing heavily.

“Actually, friend, you’ll go when I say you can go. What’s your name?”

“I – do not disrespect me!” Lothar did not answer, and so the merchant continued, “ My name is Garta Levento, honoured agent of the Tuertua-Levento Fruits and Fine Wines Company.”

“That’s great. Your money is on the ship, so you’ll be waiting here while I fetch the rest of your fruit. Tamika here will see that you don’t go anywhere.”

The merchant turned to face Tamika, his eyes lingering for a moment on the twin bulges at her chest.

“Aye! Get your lewd eyes away, or she’ll pluck them out for you, right?” Lothar said, and the merchant whipped his head around to look in the opposite direction.

“Certainly, certainly.” he said, and Lothar’s eyes met his daughters as the pirate went back up the beach.


It was not long before Lothar again reached the market square. It seemed quieter than before, somehow. The animals, tied to stakes on their stalls, made more noise than the people. Most of them were gathered together in the far right corner, encircled around something, but Lothar really wasn’t bothered by it. He went over to the stall and gathered up the last two crates, leaving the loose fruit for whoever got to it first.

“Stick him!” came a cry from the gathered merchants.

“Hang him!” came another.

“String him up by his balls!”

“Feed him to the piranha!”

That got Lothar’s attention. He barged his way through the crowd, catching some of them with his crates, and at the centre were seven men in military uniform holding swords to one of Lothar’s crew. It was Carter, a prizefighter from Tilea.  

“What’s all this then, Carter?” Lothar said, switching to the Bretonnian language. Few here would speak it; or so he hoped.

“Reckon they found out where I’m from. They don’t like us much, mate, in fact they feel the same as us Tileans feel towards them,” he answered, his Bretonnian heavily accented. ‘Think we might have a tussle on our hands, Captain! It’s been too long.”

“He’s one of them! Get him, too!” a tall merchants hollered. The group turned to look at Lothar, but they made no move towards him.

“I heard him conversing to that scumbag in Bretonnian! Have at him!” the same merchant cried again.

“Do I look like a Tilean to you?” Lothar said calmly, switching effortlessly to Estalian. “I am from Bretonnia. I was asking this miscreant what crime he had committed, that is all.”

That was enough for the merchants. They turned back to Carter, all but the one merchant who recognised the Bretonnian language forgetting about Lothar. Lothar himself quietly made his way through the crowd, moving around the inner circle to get behind Carter. One of the merchants in the front row carried a bundle of swords, and Lothar smiled.

He dropped one of his crates and raised the other above his head. Leaping through the crowd, he brought the crate down upon a stunned soldiers’ head. He stumbled, and Lothar laughed, pushing him over. The soldier caught one of his comrades with the corner of the crate, making him clutch at his leg.

The merchants stood in bewildered silence for a couple of seconds, so Lothar picked up a fruit that had fallen from the crate and bit into it. He savoured the taste for a while, but then spat it in the face of one of the leading soldier.

He remained still for a moment, but his soldiers started in indignation. Slowly he raised his hand up to his face, wiping the pulp out of his eyes.

“What are you waiting for? Kill them!” he said.

“Catch!” said Lothar, grabbing one of the swords from the merchant and throwing it to Carter. He caught it easily, and charged into the group of warriors, Lothar at his heels. Carter slit his first opponent’s throat, as Lothar hacked into another warrior’s chest. Both fell to the ground, and the warriors were withdrawing.

But the merchants were not so easily perturbed. There must have been at least twenty merchants to each of the pirates, and now they were sure that both Lothar and Carter were Tilean. Weapons came to the merchant’s hands seemingly from thin air, and they made to form a tight circle around the pirates.

“Sure do wish I had one of them fancy armour suits around about now, aye?” Carter said, and Lothar laughed.

“Sheath your sword, mate,” said Lothar. Carter looked at him incredulously; as much as he preferred fist fighting, going against all those merchants was downright stupid.

“Do it.” Lothar said, this time with a fierce authority. He sheathed his own sword, and Carter soon followed his example.

“Gentlemen, we give up. I am sorry to have offended you, but rest assured, we are not Tilean. We are Bretonnians.” Lothar said in the Estalian tongue.

The leader of the warriors began walking towards them, sword still drawn and a wary look upon his face. He was only ten or so feet away when Lothar yanked out his pistol and fired rapidly, catching the warrior in the chest. The crowd scattered at the sound of gunfire, all but the tall merchantman fleeing out of sight. He ran, instead of away, to the body of the warrior.

Lothar and Carter made their way swiftly back to their ship. They ran past the tall merchant and off down the street, being very careful not to look back. The merchant sobbed, and at the pirates’ backs he screamed,

“Bastards!”


The Defiant had put to sea, and now she sailed around the northwestern corner of Estalia. Not one of her crew had been told where they were going; and Lothar had not been seen on deck for days on end.

Lothar did not understand what was happening. He knew his ship must soon be careened, for the keel was being eaten away beneath their feet and they would be travelling at less than half of their potential speed until she was fixed. But somehow Lothar felt that before he stopped to clean the keel, a task that could take up to three months, he must get as far away as possible from Bilbali and that one tall merchant. It was a pure gut feeling, and it could not be denied.

The only person he had spoken to was Tamika. Anyone who wished to speak to him would give their messages to her, and they would be passed on to Lothar. Most of the time, he was too drunk to be spoken to. Every other time, he was preoccupied; always the Jones Crown was in his hands.

For hours on end he would stare at that crown, sometimes his eyes focusing on the albatross, sometimes looking inwardly. On one such occasion Tamika sat down beside him. Lothar continued staring at the silver circlet, and Tamika was silent.

“Robbins sends the following message – we have reached forty-two degrees longitude and twenty-two degrees latitude. We have come within sight of a suitable, lonely beach, shielded from the rest of the land by a section of forest. The way is clear, and your orders are awaited.” she said. Lothar grunted in reply, and so she continued, “What troubles you, papa? Why have you become so… odd? I know I often complain about your loudness, but now I think of it I much prefer that to your silence.”

Still Lothar did not speak. Instead he closed his eyes as if nothing had been said. He grasped the crown in both hands, and slowly, methodically, he raised it to his head. With sudden quickness, he pulled it down, over bandanna, hair and all, and sat still for a moment.

An expression of enlightenment came over his face. A smile grew, his lips spreading slowly wider as he began to laugh. His eyes flicked open, and he stood up, running gaily out of the door.

“Set sail for that there beach! Gents, prepare yourselves for a long rest. Once we’re there, I think we ought to have double rum rations for everyone, what say you to that?” Tamika heard him shout, and the crew cheered back. Many yelled their approval not only of the extra rum, but also for their captain’s return to the decks. But Tamika remained sitting in Lothar’s quarters, not truly assured that whatever had troubled her father had really passed.


At high tide, The Defiant was sailed in to shore. Once the tides changed, she was beached there, and all the goods on the ship were carried off, hidden within the first row of trees. The musket cases were brought off last of all, and Lothar took them away himself. They were kept in iron cases, locked and with the key always kept on Lothar’s body, only to be unlocked before a battle. The fear of mutiny was always prevalent in Lothar’s mind.

Eventually, all that was left on the ship was Garta Levento. Lothar had had him working in the kitchens, but once they had come ashore he had the quartermaster, Thomas Payne, lock him in the cells. Payne was only too happy to do so; he was a full-blooded Tilean and Levento was a prime specimen of the race he hated so much.

When the tides rolled out again, many of the crew were given the unenviable task of hauling The Defiant further up the shore. Levento’s faint cries could be heard as the ship made her slow, jolting way up the beach.

“All right! That’s enough for now, lads. Tomorrow we’ll be bringing down the main and fore masts, so you’re in for a hard day’s work. But before then? I believe I promised you a double rum ration, ain’t that so?” Lothar said, and the men on the beach turned to cheer at him.

“Sorry, but I lied.” he continued. Stunned silence met these words, and some started in anger. “You will not receive double rum rations. Instead, you shall each have a full bottle, and two pieces of exotic fruit, courtesy of our fine Estalian compatriot Mr. Garta Levento!”

Again there was silence, but this time there was no anger. Smiles crept upon the faces of the crew, and like the waves upon the shore laughter and cheers broke upon the white sand.


To the Good Count of Altdorf,

I thank you for your sympathy. I am also very pleased to hear of your dispatching of three Imperial galleons and two privateer’s barques. I do hope they can quickly catch and return with the Jones Crown and it’s thief, for I am impatient to see justice be done upon him.

I had quite hoped you would send Lothar de Graff, but if he is not to be found then I suppose the Fleet ships will do just fine. Still, it is said there is no finer seaman alive today than Captain de Graff. An honest old privateer, to be sure, and I am not shy to say that I idolize him. He is the same age as I, I believe, and yet his spirit for adventure far surpasses mine. Doubtless he is a better soldier than I!

Nordland is becoming ever more desolate. Farmers and fishermen are near to poverty; it seems that the fish have deserted and the bees refuse to pollinate. Clouds that never rain cover the towns, and they sneak upon the greater cities undeniably. Even as I write this I can see them coming, spreading over the horizon like a plague. Urgently now does the province of Nordland need the Jones Crown back, and once it is returned there will be a much larger guard placed upon it!

I myself am making plans to move away from here, perhaps to settle in Altdorf, perhaps to Middenheim or Kislev to chronicle the lives of our northern kin. The dread of Nordland is becoming unbearable.      

Thank you sincerely for your help, Count.

Gabor Haas, Writer/Historian/Adventurer




SM

I remember this... I love the way the letters compliment the rest of the story - I tried to incorporate that into my work but it didn't quite work out, but nevermind.

I haven't read all of it, I'm afraid, but intend to... I'm in a bit of a rush, and just stopping in for my Stronghold fix.

It looks very good. Very evocative language.

Meanwhile, I haven't seen you on the boards in awhile. Where ya been? How did Conflict go?

Are you aware that Nordland is a province of the Empire? The sentence reads similarly to: "Like a cat he prowled the streets of Queensland".
Perhaps you should pick a city for it to be situated in.

Cheers

I thought Nordland was the capital of something. Oh well, guess I don't know my WH geography .

I haven't been around at all. My personal life has been out of control these past few months... I didn't end up going to Conflict (or even building an army to take) but I'm getting my life back on track, so hopefully I'll be around a bit more often. I've read some really good bits of fiction here lately, so I'd like to get back to it.

I had written much more of this story on Imperial Literature, but I'd only written it in posts rather than in Word so I hadn't saved it. As it happens they've been hacked and have lost all their old posts, which means a lot of the work I did is gone. I do hope to write more of this story... I like the characters and have loads of ideas, now I just have to find the time.

Thanks for your comments

SM