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Port Anitora and the Dragon Ship
by Enly
Edited by Phildaburn, Annatira, and Roja.
Chapter 1: An Outcast
Quietly, Sarma walked outside the tavern and took a stroll through the darkened city. It was late at night and he should have been getting home, yet the cool night air felt good after a few too many drinks. Reaching the outskirts of the city, he sat down on a rock and leaned back. Above him a stunning blanket of stars twinkled while the two moons hung silently in the darkness casting their ghostly light upon the city.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This was beautiful, this was peace. Yet, as he sat there, his happiness was marred by the thought of the next day: more ropes to make, work to be done, money to be made. Without money he wouldn't be able to pay the rent on his house and would be left with no place to live. With a sigh, he picked himself up and headed back toward his house. The few other people on the streets barely looked at him. Sarma was a gnome and short enough to be easily forgotten, but that suited him: better to be forgotten than persecuted.
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"That is unacceptable! I ordered twice this! And the quality is horrible as well!" The tall human angrily threw the rope at Sarma. "Out! I shall never do business with a stupid gnome like you again!"
With a scowl, Sarma gathered up his merchandise and stalked out of the building. His business was failing fast and he was running out of options. Making a living in Whitestone City was far more difficult than it seemed. He walked down the streets, now crowded with people in the middle of the day. Passing through the market, he reached his small home. He cursed as he reached his doorstep: the door was smeared with mud and white paint that read ‘stupid gnome’.
Gnomes were uncommon in Whitestone. It did get many races and numerous travelers, yet gnomes were not among the most common residents. Therefore, being in the minority, Sarma was persecuted. He stored the rope in his room and went to find something to clean the door. As he walked back toward his door he heard rocks landing on it, as well as yells and jeers from outside. Angrily he threw down the wet rag he was holding and yanked open the door. Outside was not a bunch of kids as he had suspected, rather a small mob of humans. At the head of the group throwing rocks toward his house was a slender and pale human. He had simple brown hair and common blue eyes: an average man, unrecognizable to most. Yet Sarma knew his face all too well.
"Hello Groden," grumbled Sarma. Groden was a young human who delighted in making Sarma’s life as miserable as he could.
"Gnome! How dare you show your face in this city. You sell things at outrageous prices, thereby stealing money from our humble people. You act poor when truly you hide your riches. You are a thief and an abomination."
Groden would have continued for quite some time had Sarma not cut him off.
"Enough, you lousy weasel. You hate me, obviously, now can’t you just be content with your hatred and let me go about my life?" Sarma yelled.
Groden smiled wickedly and raised his fist, which held a rock. Sarma paled and jerked behind the door before the rock could hit him. He closed and bolted the door as more rocks pounded the outside of his house.
Sarma walked back to his bedroom and looked around at his few possessions.
"I’m done," he yelled to the wall. "I’m leaving this sad city never to return." Angrily he gathered his things and threw them in a bag. Walking to the back of his bedroom he located the metal grate next to his dresser. The smell rising was horrendous, yet he had learned to deal with it. He pulled it up, slipped inside, and climbed down the ladder into the sewers. He silently thanked the gods he had found this little escape route several years previously. It had likely been installed by the previous owner, whom Sarma knew to have been a thief. That sewer connection was also the one reason Sarma was able to afford a decent house in town. If someone took the trouble to close off that sewer entrance, perhaps the landlord could actually rent the building for the price it deserved. Eventually Sarma found another ladder and climbed back up to the city, he was now on its outskirts. Brushing himself off, he shouldered his pack and headed toward the gate. He halted as he exited the city wondering where was he going. He contemplated this for a moment and then looked south. Far away, beyond where he could see, was the bay where his life had first begun. Setting out, he thought about what he knew of his origins.
He had been born in the small village of Lakeside; it would be 30 years ago in several weeks. His pregnant mother had washed up on the shores of the Riven sea. She had been found by the villagers of Lakeside and taken to the Inn where she had given birth to Sarma, and then died. The villagers had named him Sarma because of a necklace she had worn that had the name engraved on it. Reluctantly they had raised him, yet to them he was strange and unnatural. As soon as he was able to fend for himself, they turned him out of their homes. Eventually Sarma had made his way to Whitesone, and made what life he could there. Sarma had often wondered if the people in Whitestone had considered him a thief because of the nature of his house's former owner. It seemed unlikely to him, seeing as he had been persecuted even when he had rented a room in the tavern for nearly a year. In the end, Sarma was forced to conclude that he was only ever persecuted because of his race, and no one looked at him beyond that.
Lot of good they were, thought Sarma to himself. As afternoon crept into evening, he reached Lakeside Village. He spent nearly all of that evening finding some place to stay. At last he located an old abandoned cabin on the village outskirts that he was told he could have. It was only one room lacking any furniture whatsoever. He was content in spite of this though: it was a roof over his head and walls to keep out any animals. Settling down on the dusty floor, he rolled out his blankets and let sleep take him away from his troubled life.
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The next morning, he awoke to sunlight streaming in through the wall’s cracks. He lay there for a while, enjoying the peaceful silence and looking around the room. After a few moments, some boards in the corner caught his eye.
Groaning, he rolled out of bed to investigate. His muscles ached after a night on a wooden floor. No doubt he would be sore all day, but for now all he could do was loosen up a bit. He stretched out his arms and rolled his neck as he walked over to examine the odd patch of flooring. The floorboards in a square patch at the corner were new and fresh wood, while those around it were old and rotten like the rest of the house. Curious, Sarma slid his fingers into a crack between the new wood and the old. The fresh patch lifted easily from the floor, it hadn’t even been nailed down. Underneath it was not the dirt he had expected, instead there was a hole with a ladder leading down into the darkness.
Sarma was very intrigued now. Throwing caution to the winds, he grabbed his lantern and slid himself through the hole and onto the ladder. He climbed down slowly; the passage was tight, even for a small gnome like Sarma. He couldn’t think of how anyone but a child could have gotten through the tunnel.
He thought perhaps a dwarf, but why would a dwarf be digging tunnels in Whitestone? They had their own lands and mines, and though they came to Whitestone for trade, it was unlikely they would make it a residence long enough to be digging tunnels around the coast.
At long last, the shaft opened up into a tunnel running south and slightly west. He stretched his legs for a moment, then stooped to make his way through the tunnel. The ceiling was low and his back ached as he bent over for so long. Small spiders and rats darted in front of him, then back into the shadows.
He began to notice the tunnel was starting to slope up slightly. Suddenly, at the edge of his lantern's faint circle of light, he noticed a ladder in front of him. The tunnel ended and turned straight into another shaft, far overhead Sarma could see light. Eager to see what the purpose of this mysterious tunnel was, he climbed up as fast as he could.
Despite his lantern, the tunnel had been dark compared to the bright morning light he now found himself in. Blinking a couple times to adjust his vision, he examined his surroundings. He was on the beach! Stunned, he turned to glance behind. The rocky hills that normally posed an obstacle for anyone trying to reach the beach lay directly to his back. Satisfied with his discovery, he stood and looked around. The beach was small and had coarse white sand.
He strolled for a bit trying to imagine where his mother had washed up. He had never actually seen the beach before. Few people ever came to it; his mother had been lucky enough to wash up when the villagers had held a celebration on the shore.
Settling himself at the waters edge, he stared out to sea. A small island lay in the water not far off shore, beyond that though it was water as far as the eye could see. He silently wondered what lands lay out there, perhaps one full of gnomes? No, gnomes are odd creatures, uncommon remnants of some old race, he thought to himself. But what if they aren’t? questioned a different part of him. What if there are other lands out there with gnomes everywhere? He looked behind him at the rocky hills, at the ladder which led down to the tunnel and then back to his pitiful cabin.
What do I have here? What do I have to lose? And somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered, nothing. I will build a boat and sail across the oceans until I die or find some land out of legend. Irillion, the fabled continent of Irillion! Myths start somewhere don’t they? He tossed this thought around in his head. Every myth contains a grain of truth. Perhaps there are lands out there, and if they are, I will find them!
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