Passing through the Trade Post

 Trystan’s Scouting Score: 6 + 3 + 6 = 15 – PASSED!

Thanks to the druids’ guidance, the young wayfarer had little difficulty finding his way back to the coast. From there, he followed along the shore until he caught sight of a small bay. Within its tranquil, foamy teal waters were a pair of ships anchored not far from a small settlement. By the sounds of hammers echoing off the water and the movement around the edge of the bay, it appeared as though several people were building a dock. As the Trystan drew closer to the scene, he saw that crew members of one ship were raising crates up from rowboats that struggled to remain steady on the waves. He continued to approach the settlement, his green eyes ever watchful for anything that felt out of the ordinary. At first, he expected pirates. Yet pirates wouldn’t build a dock to their secret lairs, he suspected.


As he drew closer to the docks, the young man walked up from the beach to the small village. There were humble cottages and huts circling around a small square where a handful of kiosks stood for tradesmen to sell their wares. The sound of clanging pierced the air as a blacksmith worked at his meager forge beneath a small pavilion. It also looked as though one of the cottages was being expanded on, from which a portly-looking fellow walked as soon as he spied an unfamiliar face wandering by the blacksmith.

“You! There! No, not you! The younger fellow!” The Mayor said, waving his hand in a dismissive manner toward an old woman who was returning home from the market. Trystan paused in his tracks and looked at the rotund man who wore a rather fine-looking sash with a handful of official-looking medals pinned to it. Between that and the jeweled rings that cluttered his fingers, the Mayor stood out as the leader of the Trade Post. “Welcome to the Trading Post,” the man huffed and puffed once he caught up with the wayfarer. “Th-thank y-” Trystan attempted to be polite, but found himself being talked over by the excitable gentleman. Finding a pudgy hand grasping his shoulder, the young man was taken by surprise as he was pulled in close while the Mayor introduced himself. “I am Medraut Masnach, Mayor here of the Trade Post, though I do hope to give it a more official-sounding name later on,” he declared triumphantly, preferably naming the town after him as his family legacy. Naturally. “Mayor Medraut Masn-” Trystan attempted to repeat the alliteration, only to be interrupted once more. “Masnach, yes,” the town official stated, as if correcting the lad’s pronunciation. “Me and several entrepreneurs have built this town with our own bare hands.” Medraut’s hands didn’t look as though they had held a tool in his life, though it was hard to tell with the way he was waving at least one of them around as he directed Trystan’s attention to a small number of landmarks around the small town.

“For now we export furs, the finest found off the mainland,” he explained as they walked past the tanner’s tent. “We hope to expand into the lumber trade once the expansion of my mansion is completed. Just you wait and see, the Trading Post will be a thriving town before long!” Mayor Masnach said with a shriek of glee, clenching Trystan even closer and causing the younger fellow to stumble and trip over his own feet. The poor lad’s face grew red from embarrassment, and he wanted nothing more than to pry himself away and regain some proper footing. “Come, stay at the Green Man Inn and enjoy an ale or two before your ship leaves,” the mayor insisted before Trystan finally bowed his way out from within his grasp. His hat fell to the ground briefly, which he quickly scooped up and replaced atop his dark, shaggy hair. “Speaking of the ships,” he thought to ask, taking a couple of steps back before the mayor could latch onto him again. “Are either one of them heading back to the mainland? How soon will they be leaving?” The jovial nature of the mayor’s expression faltered with disappointment for a brief second. It was clear that this newcomer wanted nothing more than to get away.

“Eager to head home, I see,” he finally responded as a fake smile graced his features. Turning toward the quayside, Mayor Masnach squinted at the two ships to determine what was going on. “Neither of the ships is taking on passengers, but you can hire a fisherman to take you to Yellowport in the morning,” he suggested albeit dismissively, hoping to at least bring in a little bit of business from the visitor who seemed too eager to leave. Trystan felt a little inconvenienced, but he forced a smile and nodded in understanding. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a bow of his head. Just then, the sound of wood clattering caught the good mayor’s attention. The robust man quickly returned to the construction site of his cotta-er-mansion. “Goodness gracious! The heat of the sun is not so unbearable that you cannot properly lift a wooden plank,” he fussed as he scurried away.

It was indeed hot, but Trystan was not looking forward to spending the rest of the day at the inn. Instead, he decided to investigate a hilltop that overlooked the town. When he thought about it, he honestly thought that the mayor would have wanted to build his supposed mansion on the hill. As a way of lording over the rest of the town. Following along the slender pathway, what could not be seen from the settlement was a series of three obsidian pillars. These pillars were topped in a way that made them look like three gates. The wayfarer’s brow furrowed with concern. What were these? Were the townsfolk aware of them? Approaching one of the pillars, he placed a gloved hand against it and felt an unnatural vibration pulsing through the stone.

Piercing green eyes examined the black stone's smooth sheen more closely and realized there were runes carved into its surface. His fingers traced the runic engravings upward until he could no longer reach. His neck craned when he learned that the carvings continued over the headstones, so he took a few steps back. Only then was he able to see that letters were carved on the tops. “Yellowport, Marlock City, Wishport,” he read out loud as he circled around the archways. Wait.

Where did he recognize those names from? Pulling out the waxed leather tube secured to his belt, he pulled out the map that the druids gave him. Yellowport was the name of the city that the mayor mentioned, but Marlock City and Wishport were on the map! This was great! If these were portals to wherever they were labeled, then Trystan wouldn’t need to wait and hire a fisherman to take him to Yellowport. According to the map, he could just as easily pass through Marlock City and head northward to the forest!

In his excitement, he missed the sounds of something rustling through the nearby bushes. It wasn’t until a low, bestial growl rumbled through the air that he looked up from the map in his hands. His green eyes were met with the yellow orbs of a snarling wolf. Wolves were not known to attack without reason. Starvation or perhaps protecting a den of cubs were the usual reasons. But why was there only one and not a pack of them? Why here of all places? Someone should warn the townsfolk of the possible danger.

Without thinking about the stone archways being magical, Trystan bolted to run through them and back toward town. Which specific gate he ran through, he had not paid attention to. All that could be said was that the enchantments were triggered. The wolf witnessed the runic carvings glow with a blazing light, and cowered from the pulse of magic that radiated through the air. Static electricity coursed through the man’s body, causing his skin to prickle as his hair stood up on end. He was engulfed by a blue-and-white force of crackling energy. He covered his eyes with his arms when flashes of lightning and claps of thunder overwhelmed his sight and hearing. Darkness enveloped him, and for a moment he could not see or hear anything.