Echoes of the Reach

[3.2] | A Dose of Dockside Digging

    Rising three storeys high in columns of dusty, burnt orange stone, the riverside's central buildings glistened with glittering mineral flecks over the foliage-strewn cobbles. The edifices stood in a row to mimic the layout of the docks they overlooked, capturing every detail down to the short, dead-end alleyways between neighbouring buildings. Small porthole windows invited the morning air inside, and from the rooftops, large white-gold pennants emblazoned with the Syndicate's emblem wafted in the breeze. Beside every building's iron-reinforced main door, a pair of sword-wielding guards kept watch, glinting sunlight bleeding from their weapon points.

    A passing nod from Salahara was all the permission the group needed. As the front door's latches slid loose, she turned to her charges. "Just a heads-up that this place is packed with heavily armed, overworked, and underpaid soldiers," she said, casting her eye over each of the troop in turn. "Start anything, and you'll be tasting boot before you can piss yourself."

    "Yeah, right," Arlo scoffed with a wipe of their nostrils. They sized up the guard next to them, huffing at the dented disc of metal that passed for a shield. "These rookies could barely fight their way out of a busy cloakroom. They couldn't lay a finger on me if I let them."

    Salahara laughed and shook her head. "Don't worry. I won't need your permission to beat you down."

    Stupefied, Arlo's starry eyes locked on Salahara until Tangle thumped them back into the moment.

    Stagnant heat, dust, and stale sweat swamped the bunkhouse's interior, and the clatter of stomping boots and tossed equipment battered the scarred walls. Throughout the space, straw-coloured wicker mats stretched to cover the scuff marks and gaping potholes in the bare stone walkway to a cast-iron serving counter. What little furniture was present had been repurposed from other, more administratively focused government buildings, with only hasty cleaning and bodging repairs done to prepare it for its new life. Posters drawn in languages as diverse as Common and Old Dwarvish hung from every wall, though regardless of the words, the message of 'LOYALTY & SERVICE' came through loud and clear.

    Long corridors filled with nameplated doors made up the central and leftmost wings, yet Salahara steered them to the right, passing open double doors to a training facility. A handful of guards paused their sparring to note the appearance of the strange civilian troop, yet Captain Salahara's presence ensured that none raised a word of protest. It was not fear that lingered in their faces after seeing the captain, however, but a profound, many-layered respect.

    A short walk later, and Salahara breezed through a set of double doors to a large hall filled with round tables and skewed, splintering benches. "It's been a while since I haven't had to fight for a seat in this dive," she said, setting her spear by the door. The lift of her cape revealed a bold pair of deep green swirls tattooed along her left arm, as well as the hilt of a simple, yet ferocious scimitar by her waist. "Welcome to the mess hall. Don't get comfortable."

    The sun fought through a lone foggy window on the far wall, leaving most of the lighting work to teams of scrap-metal lanterns variously fuelled by oils, wood chips, or arcane power cores. With their aid, the floor's true putrid state was laid bare, from dented metal trays and bent cutlery to heavy splatters of food, ale, or more dubious substances. Discarded helmets and shields cluttered the empty tables, yet most eye-catching were the daggers lodged in the posters and banners along the walls. A knife stuck in their emblem was likely not in line with the Oathbound Syndicate's definition of loyal service.

    Loudly clearing her throat, Salahara bashed her fist on the serving counter at the back of the room. "Friese! Out here. You've got company."

    "Yes, of course! Right away, sir." The responding voice eked out from behind a side door, its notes crackling and warbling. It did not take long to discover why; behind the swinging side door stood a skinny squirrel amari, the awkward proportions of adolescence evident in his stance if absent from his physicality. His clothes were a size too large, the straps of his boots were loose, and his amber eyes stayed wide open as he quivered his way into Salahara's presence. "Am I in trouble, Captain Salahara?"