Rage and Rebellion (Histories of Havenhearth)

1.1 Wynemere

Prudena Overvalley's voice rang out above all the noise of the port of Albion that could be heard from aboard the Alvalerion. She called out from the haute deck, the highest deck of the ship right at the back. Her voice cut like a knife into the ears of the tired young women and men working on board, trying their best to fight through the haze that excessive alcohol consumed the night before had left them in. Identifying what rope went where was hard enough on a sailboat even when sober and well-rested.
"Flowerfield, see to whoever that is immediately!" She shouted out and a young woman waved her hand in acknowledgement of the command, turning to walk along the deck to greet Wynemere Brackenridge, who had just clambered up over the gangway, dragging her sea chest behind her. Wynemere's large timber chest with metal fastenings, contained everything she owned now. Her new life at sea was beginning.

She had arrived in Albion only the day before, and had thought it a place of wonder and amazement. Wynemere was fresh from the quiet, green countrysides of Elsa. All of the buildings seemed tall and imposing to her, and covered in the salt of the sea. But none seemed taller or more imposing than the headquarter of the Marine Protectorate, to where she had reported the day before, with its tall windows and columns, the rain-soaked Tainish banner flying high on its staff above the front door.

The grey skies and drizzle which dampened the cobblestone alleys had not similarly dampened Wynemere's mood. And neither had she scurried from her cab out of the dampness into the dry and warm buildings, like others that were caught outside. She did not want to forget a single bit of it, not the wet, and definitely not even the smell. It was a smell she had smelled before, when she had visited Albion as a child. She had begged her parents to come to the docks to see all of the ships, even then they had a pull on her. And the smell had not changed, not even after ten years. It was a mix of salt and tar and sea and canvas and ropes and fire and adventure.

She saw the carriages of prosperous merchants, those who were growing with the Tainish Empire with their silver-headed canes, and lavender-coloured gloves. There were also others: the poor, who went along with heads bent against the drizzle, shoulders hunched into thin garments, cloth caps and shawls, the children barefoot.

She had nearly forgotten her chest in the cab, remembering it just before the cabby drove the horses off, pulling it out and dragging it slowly up the stone steps between the columns and into the entrance hall of the portectorate's headquarters, which was no less ornate or stately than an ascendant's palace, she was certain.

She had immediately felt out of place in her blue cloth tunic and cap, which she remembered to pull off her head after she had entered. She turned sharply when something sounded behind her: an older woman was coming in through the doors she had just walked through. This woman kept the hat on her head however, running her hands along the front of her tunic, standing up straight with a ramrod back, and an air of confidence and assured importance.
She belonged here. A quick glance at Wynemere and another woman appeared, she dressed in thick grey cloth called out to the first:
"Good morning Capitaine Jacynthe," she turned towards the woman, "Good morning," the older woman replied.
"I will announce your arrival to Ms. Matthiala. Please kindly wait here a moment,"
"We sail shortly, you understand," the capitaine said in an accent that matched the stateliness of the surroundings.
"Yes, quite," she replied, and turned on her heels, not taking any notice of Wynemere. To Wynemere's surprise, the capitaine greeted her. "Young woman, what are you here for?"
"I am to join." Then, feeling that she had spoken out of turn, added 'capitaine', and wondered if she should bow, as one did when greeting ascendancy.
"Ah yes, Pickfordshelm."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You'll see presently," she said, noticing the reappearance of the first woman in the hall, and signaling to her to cross the hall.
"You can sit," she gestured to a row of chairs along the wall, walking away in large strides as she spoke.
Wynemere dragged her chest across the smooth brick floor towards the chairs, and sat down, looking at the many oil paintings on the walls, portraits of Capitaines of yore, Wynemere presumed, depicting a history of clothing and hairstyles. She imagined what it would be like to be a capitaine. Would she ever sail across enough seas to ever be able to have her own portrait on a wall? It was two years training, then another two as apprentice mariner before she could sit the exams for becoming second mariner. Then it was another two years for first, and another two for master mariner and then an appointment for capitaine would have to open up. It was a long wait, and for some it never came, interrupted by death or injury, and sometimes in disinterest. On another wall were portraits of watercraft, also displaying a history of other sorts: that of marine technology and expansion of the Empire. She wondered what kind of craft she would be in.

Wynemere was hit with a sudden bout of homesickness, of her brick little farmhouse in the small town of Elsa,
her mother walking out to the fields for a day of toil. Actually, that morning her mother would be attending the spiritualists service before beginning her work for the day. If the harvest had been greater the previous year, perhaps she would have even been able to join Wynemere, on this momentous day of her daughter joining Protectorate as a trainee boatswain. She concentrated thoughts instead on what her Capitaine would be like and of the other people she might meet along this incredible journey she was about to embark on.

Wynemere had waited, nervously wringing her hands in her lap, observing the traffic going in and out of the various rooms and hallways leading off of the entrance hall. After maybe twenty minutes which had felt like an hour, Wynemere was ushered into the same room that the capiteus had entered. A man and a woman sat at a timber desk, in an otherwise plainly decorated room: this was an administrative office no doubt. The woman was thin, with sharp features, but a smile in her eye. The man was portly, with a brown beard and hair, and seemed to be looking down his nose at her.
"Good morning, Wynemere Brackenridge," the man said, his voice not unfriendly. She smiled in response, feeling she was standing awkwardly, "and welcome."
"Thank you, sir-ma'am," her voice came out so feebly and quietly, she cleared her throat.
"With conviction, Brackenridge,"
"Yes sir-ma'am," she said, relieved her voice came out sounding normal.
"Have a seat," the woman said, whose tone was far harsher than the man's.
She sat down with a thump, expecting the cushion on the armchair to be a lot softer than it was, landing hard onto the timber. Her cheeks reddened, feeling she had already embarrassed herself before anything had even begun.
There were no formal pleasantries, or even informal ones for that matter. The woman looked at Wynemere for longer than she felt comfortable.
"Task and command, tascom for short, These two things will make up your life with us. Your task and command. Respect both of these and you will achieve success with us, provided that's what you want,"
"Yes sir-ma'am-," the lady leaned forward, gazing still too deeply into Wynemere's eyes.
"You finish your task and you respect the commands of your superior. They are really one and the same when you get down to it, but It's that simple. It matters not the vessel, neither the crew nor the sea, as long as you are aboard one of our ships, you must live and die by this. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir-ma'am," she leaned back, her eyes resuming their softness once again.
"You have a great responsibility with us, Brackenridge, and you are filling a unique position within our protectorate, starting directly with your boatswain training. We have high hopes for you, you know."
"Yes sir-ma'am," Wynemere was horrified to feel a sneeze building in her nose, and she tried to wipe it casually, but the sneeze remained.
"It is a dangerous job, working for the protectorate, but rewarding and exciting," the sneeze came anyway, as did the second and the third. What a fool they must think I am "pardon me."
"You will find life at sea to be quite different to a farm in Elsa. You will
encounter a mix of people, and you might undergo a type of culture shock. Be careful when you go ashore, and I suggest staying sober. That is the last thing I want to say on this. Let me repeat: Task and command.  Do you have any questions?"
"No sir-ma'am." The other leaned forward, face solemn.
"I would like to add one thing. Men. Be thoughtful about your approach to men at all times. On ship, ashore, no matter. They can do you harm. Not physically, I mean to your chosen path. Romance is best avoided." Wynemere flushed, not wanting to admit to her shyness and lack of experience in this area.
"Yes sir ma'am, I mean no sir ma'am,"
The man started shaking his finger at her "Indeed. Best avoided, at least until your training is done."
"Yes, quite. I know you young ones and your instincts, I was young too once, even though that might be hard to imagine," then she laughed as if she had said something hilarious. Wynemere smiled politely. "these are natural, just like animals. But we are not animals, and the men ashore are not beasts to be conquered. Show some respect to them, to your job and to yourself. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Wynemere said, wanting this part of the lecture to be over.
"Welcome aboard," the pair rose to their feet, Wynemere did as well.
"Thank you sir ma'am,"
"You will go now to your ship. Have you been told which one?"
"No sir ma'am,"
"You'll be on the Alvalerion. Under capitaine Pickfordshelm."
"See you in half a year." He handed her a stack of papers.
"Dock 9, Brackenridge. May the spirits guide you well."