The Old City

0.33: Timoleon

The Lighthouse of Soran holds watch, that's what they say. It is the western guardian that protects its citizens from seafaring invaders and brings its sailors safely home even in the harshest of tempests.

The Lighthouse reached higher than any structure in the territory of Soran, a beacon for sailors astray, in search of shore. A mile from the Jaws, it stood atop a small craggy island. Its wide square base provided a sturdy foundation that also housed hundreds of soldiers, an elite force ready for any dangers that might befall the sea. Stone steps rose in a spiral around the exterior, connecting the balconies that jutted out every fifty meters. Each balcony could hold dozens of men and was fitted with cannons and arrow slits. Only at the penultimate level did the exterior steps disappear entirely. To reach the final level holding the Lighthouse's great beacon, one took the interior stairway, a cold, musky stone passageway barely large enough for two men to pass shoulder to shoulder. The highest level was a glass room with littered with spyglasses and charts and light. It was fueled by the Flame of Liberation, an ancient fire that remained lit always. An engineer had configured an apparatus of crystals around the Flame to capture its energy, focusing it toward the sea. When the fog rolled in, so thick like cream, twisting to confuse those ensnared in its trap, the Lighthouse's hope shown for miles.

Timoleon stood atop the Lighthouse, just a few yards from the Flame, in the midst of one such thunderous storm. Waves crashed and cannibalized themselves ahead. Water beat upon him from the heavens, but he did not mind being soaked. Anybody who claimed to be from Soran had to be comfortable with the sea; to have comfort at sea meant to relish the uncomfortable moments.

Such storms were common on summer mornings. They also said only a trueborn Soranian could navigate the Sea of Adair this time of year. These hundred foot swells so near shore would destroy a ship whose captain or pilot did not know exactly how the reefs on the ocean floor grew, how those clusters of coral dictated where the waves swelled and crashed and broke.

Soran's power always came from the sea...how was it that our ancestors conquered these swells first and left so few spoils for the rest of the Continent? Why couldn't they have helped others escape the yolk of Magnar? Surely a city-state such as Windkeel sought autonomy before the Kingdom was established...if only we had invested in another ally.

Timoleon caught himself and bit his cheek.

It was the kind of wishful thinking he had mostly excised from his mind. Fanciful thoughts had no place on the battlefield - all that mattered was what is, not what could have been. Diverting any resource from thinking about how to make the most of their current situation to bemoaning paths not taken was a slothful luxury he abhorred, the kind that must find refuge in the minds of those portly misers and politicians of the Second and Third Rings.

Therefore instead of hoping for more allies, he turned his vast mind to the problem of Soran, its Rings, its Underground, its place in the world.

How many souls call Soran home? Half a million? A million?

Of course, the actual figure bubbled to the top of his mind eventually: Soran housed some one million three hundred and twelve thousand souls, mostly human but plenty of fishmen, werebeasts, and other species as well. Timoleon had accumulated thousands of such facts and each seemed useless until it wasn't. Sometimes that niche knowledge provided exactly the spark he needed to find a winning strategy. If it didn't, he knew that the very act of learning kept his mind sharp, and that the blade that was his mind would find the way forward even in the darkest of situations.

"My lord! The sun peaks around the Baymont. Guards will be here soon. We should return to the mainland."

"Tut tut, Aros. How many times have must I tell you that I am no lord? How could I claim a title when I plan to eradicate all the lords?"

Aros was the most recently promoted lieutenant in his Crimson Lotus. An eager young man, no older than twenty four, his zeal had fueled his ascent throughout the gang. His red hair was cropped short in the military style, though he'd never joined. It was an homage to Timoleon, who still kept his hair short years after leaving the army.

"You are my lord, no matter what you say."

Timoleon grew sad at Aros's words. He knew success would bring followers. He had studied the leaders, the usurpers, the tyrants. The one thing connected the great ones: they inspired others to join their cause. To throw the whole force of their lives against that cause, that dream. Many followed blindly but some truly understood the vision, and by understanding the vision, they understood the man. Aros was one such man, and that understanding frightened Timoleon.

Aros knew why meetings with Enforcers were held in private: they could not be trusted. Even the least corrupt Enforcer was as liable to sell your secret for scraps as to keep it. They broke into homes and stole food and clothes. They walked into merchants' stalls and took whatever they pleased. They beat children in dark alleys for looking at them the wrong way. Enforcers could not be trusted, yet Aros had no problem with Timoleon using them. He understood how valuable the information they could provide - and leak - was.

Aros also suspected why Timoleon spent so much time at the Lighthouse, even though it was constantly guarded by soldiers - one of the reasons at least. The sea was freedom, all Soranians understood this. Even a man such as Timoleon sometimes dreamt of a world free of burdens, free from the struggles that defined him and laid heavily upon his shoulders. That tantalizing freedom which could never be his but which he might provide to future generations called to him most strongly on the open water. This ocean reminded him why he fought so damn hard.

Timoleon took in the rolling sea one last time. The storms grow worse and worse. It will be a difficult summer...

As he turned to leave, still watching, always plotting, the skies cleared. Perhaps some angel looked down on him: The sun began to pierce through the storm clouds, a pale ray of light landing gracefully upon his face. With the sun a halo above him and the storm breaking behind, Timoleon seemed the embodiment of nature. He stood proud, so confident that even the most cynical Soranian might believe he could accomplish anything. He struck the outline of a conqueror, but he had a different word in mind.

Wait children, for my ships shall arrive in just two months. I will be your liberator. I will free our Soran.