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[Razkar]

39th Day of Spring
The Anchorag Flotilla
14th Bell

Razkar's body was still unsure if it was at land or at sea. Patently, he was at sea... technically. His feet never touched water and the scenery did not change, but there was nothing but wood and water under them, of that he was sure. Even with countless vessels lashed together, there was still the motion of movement, faint but constant rocking.

The Flotilla was a city, though. Razkar stood on the cusp of the Cuttlefish and squinted past the sun, and he could see no end to the masts and decks and sails that spread far in every direction.

The Myrian shook his head with a rueful smile. He missed Falyndar. He missed his clan, his people, the handful of true friends he had been lucky enough to earn in that harsh place. But if he was still there... he would not see wonders such as this.

"Well, it's not Riverfall," a voice said to his side, and he was Captian Tonio looking about ready to burst with pride, "But to us, it's every inch the Shining City."

"How long has it been here?"

"Lifetimes. And it moves?" Tonio nodded slowly as the Myrian turned his inquisitive gaze towards him. "Oh, yes. With the seasons. They release the ropes and we sail as one vast armada..."

"That is..."

Tonio smiled wider, patting his passenger on the shoulder.

"I know. Hard to find the words, yes?"

"Yes."

"We have business here." Tonio said, and his voice became a shade harder when he did, his Svefra crew massing behind him with intent in their eyes. "Feel free to wander, but remember where we are. We shall continue our voyage, but will be here for many days. We have much to see... as, I am sure, do you?"

Razkar nodded slowly, casting his eyes over the bewildering assemblage of ships and... people. That was what amazed him even more. Hundreds, thousands of ant-like figures were scurrying, climbing even gliding on ropes from ship to ship, using the vessels as streets and thoroughfares. He saw a dozen deals being struck with every glance, a score of greetings and reunions with every turn of his head.

Anchorage was more than a collection of ships. It truly was a city, and a community. Warrior and battle-thirster as he was, Razkar felt the urge to explore and tread the wooden roads...

"Yes. I think I do."

Razkar of the Shorn Skulls started his wanderings, going from ship to ship, stretching legs that had been too long cramped below decks. He wondered idly if Mrrko could come above deck. Hells, there was enough space out here...

Then he heard it. The cracks of wood on wood, shouts of pain and victory, barks of instruction. Memories of the Training Yards of Taloba and the spotless hall of the Riverfall's Kendoka Sasaran sprang to the fore, and his senses immediately pinpointed the sound.

To the edge of the Flotilla. Hmm... new arrivals, like them?

Either way, he felt his palms itch in curiosity and hope. He'd sparred with the two Akalaks on board the Cuttlefish, the Svefra too (and learned they were not the soft water folk he had been told they were), but he sensed something more... purposeful, more martial from beyond those masts.

Razkar started climbing and zigzagging towards the sound of clashing weapons.

[Anchor]

The solid thuds of wooden weapons cracked throughout that edge of the Flotilla, driving away a lot of people but attracting many others to the activity. Most were Svefra, who had a certain obligation to at least support in some way the effort being made, but there were some, like Razkar, who were drawn simply by what was going on. Across the bigger boats involved, various duels had been set up between all ages and genders interested in fighting, sweat glistening on their brows as their arms flew and their weapons clacked. They weren't confined to just a single space however, as the duelists took advantage of everything around them - the rigging, the barrels and crates, the side of the boats, even the masts. Those who were experienced in such a style seemed to almost glide between positions, their bodies moving as fluidly as water as they slipped around each other, metal weapons ringing like bells to a deadly dance. Razkar would find no trouble approaching, the decks of the boats in that part of the Anchorage mostly bare except for those who were training. Those who were on their ships were either watching or tending to their vessel, paying the Myrian no mind as he drew closer to the combat. He was not the first, and he would certainly not be the last.

[Razkar]

Razkar thought of himself as proud enough to recognize his own prowess, but humble enough to know where they needed improvement. Time and time and time again, peers, elders and instructors had taught him the dangerous sin of arrogance that was so easy for a warrior to embrace. Such sins always led to death.

Now, watching the intricate and faux-deadly ballet unfolding around him, he was again in awe of those whose skill outweighed his own.

It was not that the Svefra were necessarily better with their blades than he: it was how they moved with them. They climbed and leapt, dumped and dodged, never in the same place twice. He marveled at their creative and cunning use of their surroundings. Masts and rigging, barrels and the edge of the decks, wherever their feet or even their toes could gain purchase, that was where they were.

The Myrian shook his head in wonder. He could learn much here... and he intended to.

He strode over to a handful of the Sea People, men with copper skin and braided hair down past their shoulders, talking earnestly as they displayed moves and compared tactics. When he got close, they turned to him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

Razkar gave a short, respectful bow and let them take in the sight of him. When he straightened, he was as to-the-point as always.

"I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls. I wish to train."