Diary 1, pages 1-2

Channa Mokart’s diary –

These words are written beneath flickering lamplight and beside aggressive snores in surely the most decrepit of Courtlock's inns. The second Nightsday of fourthmonth, V.C. 413

"I’ve seen two bloody ships come, dock, and leave again. I’m sick of waiting." I’d grown up next to the ocean; the sweet salty smell of it was often reassuring. Right now it pissed me off.

"I'm sorry sir. Civilians will be issued discounts once the vessel is available; the Consortium and all entities sanctioned by Tiranon III reserve priority. You know this.”

The dock hand would have been a fool not to notice the anger festering in my sidelong smirk. The Consortium could get fucked. People had family on the Everglade, people had appointments on the Everglade, people had shit to do, on the bloody Everglade. Shit that was going to be severely affected by the Consortium's presence. Heads would roll, let it be known, if I lost another family member to the hands of the Consortium.

Never mind that I was one of only four people stuck here at Sandbark's dock– the Everglade was hardly a popular travel destination – or that I personally had no deadlines meet. Nevermind that the galley usually only departed twice a day. This did nothing to quell my rage; and my rage did nothing to quell the inkling of fear it was trying to stifle. The Consortium was not a sight any civilian south of Salenon wanted to see. Nobody had ever complimented my sanity, but if I’d been in my right mind I would have sliced up the dockman and boarded with them. If the Consortium was heading towards the rest of family, then I, too, would follow them. Delphajor (aye, the Everglade had but a single village but its residents were still stubborn enough to give it a separate name) had a population wildly unfit to fend off any members of the Consortium.

The dock hand’s words fell flat, and my hand relieved its habitual grip on the hilt of my dirk (I often wondered whether my absent-minded wringing of its hilt had done more wear than my grip during actual battle. My brother, Cybil, would have scoffed - doubting that a deathmatch with a deer or dog could be called a battle.) I realized that accepting defeat was the wiser choice. Slicing the dock man certainly wouldn't improve the speed of traffic; if anything it'd guarantee that I'd never get home because I'd end up battered and beaten in one of the Salenon's shitty rural carriages, with a one-way passage to stew in the Capital’s dungeons. Or perhaps not - if I was lucky, they'd throw me into a labour job on the boat itself and I'd be forced to perpetually row back and forth from my destination until my sentence was served.

Neither were great alternatives. It was best that I left the dock with its leaning benches and found a seat some distance away on the same tree stump I'd spent most of the last four hours on. The other travelers had mostly given up on waiting – perhaps they valued little in Delphajor, perhaps they were intelligent and did not want to follow the only omen that could spark fear province-wide. The few who remained were scattered about Sandbark, on the beach and the forest, milling around like alleycats and muttering irritated nothings. (Dude from Denderon) was here, his great beard bobbing in rhythm with the curse words he spat – he had a lady in Delphajor, he’d not want her to be trapped on the island with only the Consortium for company.

I unsheathed my sword and let it drop to the ground with the same soft thud it had made the last two times it had coveted itself a comfortable spot amongst the blades of grass - the millions of tiny swords smithed by nature itself. My fists clenched themselves relentlessly under the rhythmic growling that my vocals directed towards the dockman, under scrutiny of a gaze that I hoped would set him ablaze.

Things did not bode well. The Consortium is a harbinger of death; a group of the King's henchmen who served as the empire's mercenaries, blessed (cursed, perhaps) by a right to impunity. Aye, I did nothing to question their presence, but this knowledge lingered in the back of my mind like an ember, driving me to my urge to return home as if I was being whipped by the Consortium’s ominous ties to suffering. I was watching a caricature of the Reaper himself ride the waves towards home. If I was more of a man (or an idiot) I would have swam.

I'd reason to believe the Consortium played part in my father's disappearance and, ultimately, my exile to the bloody Everglade. Well, it wasn't much an exile, more of a responsibility drilled into me by my useless mother - but the rumours that flooded Sanjier after his disappearance would suggest that they'd played a part. That was one of the only times I'd heard of the Consortium traveling in groups. If ever, two or three could be glimpsed in a passing carriage on quiet highways, but ne'er had I heard tell of the entire Consortium traveling together.

Which is why I wanted to slit the goddamned dock hand's throat and board the boat myself.