I am posting this part because I need to take it with me and I am leaving my computer. It is not finished and it is VERY rough, as in not even proofread. Read with discretion and keep in mind the edited version will probably be head-over-heels better.

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The stone buildings were visible even from the Swiftlog, and some towered over the protective wall. The ship made good timing, and they were passing the strait between the islands of Tarmin and Felerwit, both overlooking the waterway, watchtowers perched one in each island’s rocky coast.

Jer watched the tan-skinned islanders bringing their items towards the deck. He saw the immense amounts of logs and timber they had brought with them. Their city is made of stone, he realized suddenly, and so are their hearts.

He could hear Grott shouting directions from below the mast to the crew and he spotted Lussell tending to a bag of salted fish. Jer crawled below to the ship’s hold to get his sheepskin coat, but it wasn’t there. He looked around the rotting fish, but that was all there was. He raged towards the hatch and out onto the deck.

“Grott, my sheepskin,” he said. “It’s not where I left it.” The Half Foot was busy shouting commands to his crew, who were getting ready for arrival.

“This is not the time to—” Grott began, but Jer pushed him hard against the pole of the mast. “You—what are you doing?”

“Listen, I’m not playing games. If I don’t get my sheepskin back, I will freeze to death,” Jer said, breathing heavily onto Grott’s face. “So, you will ask every single one of your Islanders—” Or I will cut your throat, he wanted to say, like I already have before.

“You insolent coward,” the Half Foot said, struggling to maintain a straight posture. “If you plan to threaten me, I will have your head.”

Jer looked at the tall, coarse-haired man before letting him go. Grott stalked away, his boots and cane pounding the deck’s floor.

Jer turned around to go back to the hold when he saw Lussell laughing. Jer approached him.

“What’s so funny, priest,” he said. Spit came out of his mouth and hit the priest’s dirty purple robes.

“Oh, mighty Flea, do not suck my blood,” he said, amused. His laughter subdued and his face hardened. “You’d do well not to push the Half Foot. He might be a cripple, but he can easily kill the likes of you.”

“A gold coin to anyone who finds my sheepskin,” Jer said, ignoring the priest. Lussell’s pale lips flexed into a smirk. They had passed the strait and were heading straight for the port.

“Offer no more,” Lussell said, taking his coat from a brown sack behind him. “I thought you’d have better use of the clothes I gave you. There are almost no sheep in Pied.” The priest handed Jer his coat back, and he placed it over his shoulder. “Where is my gold coin?”

Jer felt the urge to stike him, but he managed to control his temper. “It was in the coat,” he said, showing him the shinning metal, and forced a smile.

A sharp pain in the back of his neck propelled him to the floor. He fell face-first, almost knocking Lussell over. The coin flew from his hand and dropped to the sea. On the hard deck floor, he twisted his head to find Grott standing over him, a sword in his right hand. Suddenly, every islander in the ship was around them, quiet.

“Yeh didn’t think I would let you push me, eh?” he bellowed. “I should’ve hit yeh with the other end of the sword.” The Half Foot limped towards him, and put the point of his sword to Jer’s throat. He felt the sword bite into his skin, scraping his neck. Grott put his good foot on his stomach and stomped. Jer cried in pain and groped for air.

“Like a fish out of the water,” the Half Foot snorted. A few islanders couldn’t resist a chuckle.

“I—I just—“ Jer stuttered, but Grott smashed his stomach in again, this time with the butt of his sword. He could hear the Half Foot’s deep laughter as he clutched his abdomen.

“I see you found yer beloved sheepskin,” Grott said, seizing it from his limp shoulder. He slid his sword through it, and pushed the blade upwards, cutting the coat almost in half. Grott sheathed his sword and ripped the rest with his hands, leaving the coat in two pieces. He spat twice, one for each half, and threw them off the boat and into the ocean.

“Now get up, coward,” Grott said, staring him in the eye. A thick glob of blood was emerging from Jer’s throat. He tried to stand, but lost his balance and almost fell again. Through the narrow slit of his eyes, he could see Grott leaving towards the captain’s cabin. Jer went to the prow of the ship and sat, looking towards the sea. He could see nothing but vast water, and eyed a half of his coat floating.

Damn him! A golden coin and my coat! He didn’t know who he was blaming, Lussell or Grott. Either one, they were both island scum. He could see the city of Pied, capital of Mirshire, unfolding. The legendary Holy Build of The Limbless was clearly visible from the ship now, its dark glass windows reflecting the sun. The islanders believed that the Holy Build was more than a thousand years old, though most scholars from Illiem ruled that out. Men worked on the outer city walls, barely specks from the ship, repairing the broken sections from the recent invasions of the kingdom.

When the ship arrived at Pied’s port, a thick wooden plank was connected from the ship to the port to see them safely to firm ground again. The port was filled with ships of all sizes, and he was surprised by the amount of battleships the port held.

It’s no wonder the kingdom’s army never touched their land. Jer could see a spiked chain thick with moss hanging from the far end of the port, down deep below the water. It was raised at night, he’d heard.

The weak winter sun was setting below the gray buildings. Jer was still at the port, sitting quietly on a smoothed stone when he saw the priest coming towards him. He had probably changed robes, because he had a vivid purple one now.

“Friends didn’t find you?” he asked with a sly grin.

You owe me a skin. Jer brushed his brown hair away from his eyes, and looked at the priest solemnly. Lussell didn’t advert his stare.

“You’re hungry,” he said. It was not a question. Lussell got closer and picked a piece of dirt from Jer’s hair. “You could do with a hot bath, as well.” He flicked the dirt with his long fingers.

The city was quiet. A few guards patrolled the streets, their spears taller than themselves. Some city folk were on the streets, and passed them by without so much as a glance. They’re scared. Their crumbling walls were testimony of the horrors and deaths from the long war, and everyone presumed it to be over. The latest attack had been a couple of years ago, yet no one would discard another, and they were ready.

Jer followed the priest until they reached the immense Holy Build of The Limbless. Its dark, old stone walls reached high into the sky and the black-glassed windows which it was known for were reflecting the pink -colored sky. The priest knocked on its massive, elaborately crafted oak door, which depicted the most important of The Limbless.

An eye peaked out of a small hole in the wall, and the doors opened. A sweet smell invaded Jer’s nostrils as he breathed in the build. Multicolored candles burned on brass candlesticks, and shadows danced amongst them as they walked. Statues of the gods were watching over them as they walked: enormous pieces of carved stones resembling humans with only a torso and a head, the gap in their eyes aflame.

He kept following the priest, passing all of the gods, and the altar as well, until they reached a door with a silver moon encrusted on it. Lussell put his hands inside his robes and took out rusted iron keys. He unlocked the door and Jer stepped inside.

It was a modest room; its walls unadorned, save for the carpets covering the freezing floor. A fireplace was burning at the far end of the room, and three straw beds lay at the other side, as far from the fire as possible. An old priest, his head spotted and his hands feeble and trembling, read scrolls by the fire.

“That’s Old Ernie,” Lussel said, his thin fingers pointing at the old man, “a High Priest, but his age has sucked his wits.” Lussell walked towards Old Ernie, who was busy with his parchments. Ernie recoiled at the tap, crawling away from the touch, his hands almost touching the amber-colored coals.

“Easy,” Lussel said. The high priest’s eyes were pale, and his skin white as a newborn’s tooth. Wisps of gray hair grew on top of his head, his long, thin beard unkempt. By the softening of his eyes, Ernie seemed to be recognizing Lussell.

“You be the one they call Lussell, eh?” Old Ernie said, his voice dry as sand. The fire was dying and Ernie put more logs into the fire.

“Yes. There’s no need to ask every night,” Lussell said, beckoning Jer closer. “This here is Flea, a friend of Mallaton.”

The old man’s wrinkles seemed to deepen when he looked at him. He slowly stood, and grabbed Jer’s head with both hands, one covering each ear.

“May this be all you ever need to use,” Old Ernie said, squeezing his head as hard as his weak arms would allow him.

Seems to be failing you as of late, Jer thought. The old man grabbed a flask of water from the table and served them both in stone bowls. He handed each of them one and they drank with the high priest.

“In a salty place, it’s good to have sweet water,” he said softly. “May the gods give us wisdom.”

Lussell echoed the high priest’s statement, and Jer stood staring at the fire, which cracked with the moist logs.

“I’m going to fetch you some covers,” Lussell said, leaving Jer with Old Ernie. The door slammed shut. Ernie passed his trembling fingers through his beard and walked closer to the fire.

“You’re from Mulltown?” Ernie asked.

“Mallaton, actually,” Jer said. He peeked to see what the priest read, but couldn’t make out the small letters.

“It’s not every day one sees someone from the Kingdom.” The old man served himself more water from the flask.

Except during the invasions you mean. There was something in the priest that didn’t belong, he thought. He didn’t seem from the island, his skin was paler that Jer’s and his lips were fuller than the islanders’.

“No mirrors in the build?” Jer hoped the old man might understand him. Ernie laughed softly, and his eyes were aglow with the orange flames.

“I’m as much an islander as Illon The Wild,” he said, referring to the man who saved the natives of the Mourning Islands from the conquerors thousands of years ago. “’Tis true enough that I wasn’t born here, though,” he continued. Old Ernie told him how his father had left his mother after he learned she was heavy with child, and how a sailor had taken his mother for his couple, and worked in the islands.