The 50th of Winter, 516 AV
''Uldr's cracked skull...'', the man cursed, coughing up a mouthful of saltwater and sand as he woke. His soiled face rose from the grainy mud of the beach to behold the barren shore he'd washed up on. Through a fog of headache and sickness, he recalled the images of the ship he was meant to safeguard from pirates, and equally so the images of pitch dark clouds and raging water from which he had just barely saved his own life. A desperate, powerless anger crawled over him as he came to realize the dunghole that fate had tossed him into. Shipwrecked gods know where on the eastern seas.
The first thing he did after staggering to his feet was to pull the soaked coat and shirt off of himself and toss them onto the sand in a fit of frustration, all while struggling not to fall back, arse first into the sand himself in the exausted, painful daze that he was in.
''Good gods, it's a bloody miracle I 'aven't lost an arm too.'', he kicked at the sand, still angrily lamenting his ill luck. He just had to accept the job from that ONE bloody bastard, on that ONE ship that was going en route for the FIRST time to the ONE gods damned island that nobody sane wants to visit.
''I'll make it worth ye while, lad...'', the man snorted, beginning to laugh at himself in desperation, repeating what the merchant who'd hired him to guard the now wrecked ship told him before he ever accepted the job. They were bound for Sahova, a small vessel of some rat-alley fool who got lucky enough to afford himself a ship and stupid enough to think that the mages who live there were as connable as the pettiest merchants that one can meet at the markets of Sunberth. It was none of his business, dealing with sorcerers and warlocks and whatever the hell else lived on that hell-hole of an island, nor did he care that they were transferring a cargo of over two dozen human corpses to sell them to the bloody freaks. He and the other mercenaries just had to see to it that none of the crew members did anything shady with the merchandise and that no backwater pirates tried to sack the ship. As easy as ploughing a back alley whore, just come in, stay on the ship for as long as it'd take for the bastard to sell off the bodies, and then get the hell away from there. He was never told the road will take twenty and some and not five days.
''If I ever get my hands on you, you lying whoreson, you'll wish you sold your own bloated corpse to them rotten warlocks!'', he yelled at the shattered hull of the ship that still stood visible, broken upon a great rock some half a mile away from the shore, not giving the slightest bit of care for the fact that there are now likely five and not two dozen human corpses soaking up with water under that very shipwreck. They got the easy way out. After crouching down, hands pulling at the messy strands of his hair and a long, quite expressing ''FFFUCK IT!'', the youth finally began collecting his wits, which further led to the collecting of whatever salvagable supplies he could find around the beach that might've washed up from the ship's wreckage. He was quite relieved when he discovered his own rucksack merely several feet away from where he woke up, and not so relieved when he realized that most of the food and supplies in there were soaked through and through. What truly pleasantly surprised him was that he was also able to find his personal weapon, a straight bladed polearm, among the trash that had washed ashore. It took about an hour of salvaging, but in the end he managed to collect a couple of means of preventing his face and teeth from going rotten, a decent amount of still halfway edible food, posibly to last him a week, a purse of coins, and a sweet, sweet little razor that he went and safely stuck into the end of his coat's sleeve in case he needs an additional means of killing whatever creature comes 'round observing him as a meal. Soon he was at least halfway dry, packed up, and ready to face the issue of where he hell to head on this gods forsaken island.
After a minute of pondering, he decided to move southwards... or well, judging by the sun, he could only guess it was southwards, after several minutes of walking, the beach shifted towards the supposed East, and after another brief time spent walking, Einar finally grasped the eerie frames of empty docks and buildings in the forest growth in the distance. Somewhat encouraged by this sight, he proceeded the walk hastily towards this distant port. Not too long afterwards, any feeling of relief he had felt was swiftly ruined when he sighted some unholy abomination in front of one of the buildings. It looked like the most bizzare suit of armor... which was alive. It was moving, and talking to some fellow who, even from the considerable distance, didn't seem human at all. Driven by instinct, Einar moved into the cover of flora that surrounded the harbor, hoping that none were yet aware of him. He'd spent some ten minutes concealed and at a distance, observing an odd marketplace, governed by moving metal constructs and browsed by some folk whose appearance steadily made his stomach turn. Soon he came to the realization, although a part of him knew from the moment he woke up on the deserted beach. What he was seeing were the sights of Port Silence, and he was shipwrecked, alone, and with barely a thing to his name, uponthe dreaded island of Sahova.