Session 20: Feeling Wanted

A cold dawn breeze rattled the mooring lines as the Dandy Fraulein drifted away from the Weißbruck docks. The river’s surface shimmered with morning light, promising both safe passage and hidden perils. Qavitrae stood at the helm, silent and watchful, her scar partially hidden beneath a freshly tied headband. Though the burden of command weighed upon her, she guided the vessel with the steady confidence of one who had navigated more treacherous waters in ages past. Wanda, uncharacteristically quiet for the moment, slipped through rigging and rope with seasoned precision, as if the morning hush demanded reverence.

Below deck, Felrick stowed the cargo of flour sacks and salted fish, double-checking every barrel and lashing each sack with care. Meanwhile, Thindruk withdrew to a cramped side cabin—ostensibly his quarters, but no less cramped than any other spot in the small barge. He was merely content to sit for a few minutes, collecting himself and pressing the edges of an official-seeming document between his palms. It bore the legal mark granting them ownership of the boat, but the faintest crease of worry touched his brow. He knew well that document or not, claims to property in these lands were more complicated than simple stamps and signatures.

Their first challenge arrived not long into the journey. The narrow canal walls caused echoes to carry, so the party heard the shout from the River Warden vessel before they saw its banner—a crisp Imperial pennant snapping in the breeze. The Dandy Fraulein’s deck shuddered with tension as the Wardens approached, crossbows at the ready. Qavitrae guided the barge aside, cheeks growing hot beneath the suspicious stares. Captain Astolfo Heger demanded to see who commanded such a vessel—his gaze lingered on Qavitrae just long enough for her to notice a prickling sense of unease. Wanda’s posture stiffened, hand sliding closer to her sword. Yet it was Thindruk, soon emerging from his cabin in a swirl of layered finery, who ultimately defused the situation with regal calm.

In the shadowed cabin, Thindruk offered the official papers to Captain Heger, inviting him to speak in private. Concern etched the captain’s face as he eyed the missing signature of the boat’s previous owner, but Thindruk’s measured speech—colored with half-truths and subtle hints of noble prerogatives—soothed the warden’s growing alarm. While the two men exchanged formalities, Wanda loitered topside and found herself casting a playful smile toward one of the crossbow-bearing wardens, a fellow wearing scars that told a dozen brutal stories. If he noticed her interest, he gave no sign beyond a faint nod; for her, it was enough to remember a name—Harold—and an invitation to visit him at the barracks in Altdorf should she ever desire.

Once the tension slipped away, the journey resumed through placid waters, the Dandy Fraulein gliding through the canal toward the grand capital. Over time, the banks widened and the city’s silhouette rose like a grim colossus of rooftops and spires. The reek of urban decay—human refuse mingled with river rot—assaulted their senses well before they spotted Altdorf’s great docks. Few illusions remained about this place being a pristine seat of power; Altdorf was as coarse and unwelcoming as any fortress battered by centuries of corruption and ambition.

Docking fees greeted them soon after, an exorbitant sum for each day moored to the city’s crowded piers. Yet Qavitrae, with Wanda at her side, navigated the labyrinth of official stampings and suspicious clerk eyes without succumbing to underhanded ‘tolls.’ Unloading cargo meant stepping ashore among the teeming crowds. Thindruk strode behind, frowning at the drifting scraps of old proclamations strewn across the streets. Wanda spotted something unsettling plastered to a notice board—a wanted poster bearing a crude likeness of Qavitrae’s distinctive scar. Behind it, she saw Thindruk’s own face scrawled in stark black ink. Wanda tore away the notices, a chill prickling the back of her neck, uncertain how many more remained pinned throughout the city’s winding alleys.

Back on the Dandy Fraulein, Nora spent her time in earnest training. Under the watchful eye of Torvald Olriksson—nicknamed “Black Tongue” for his fearless speech and black tongue—she practiced swift strikes with her metal-tipped walking stick. Each motion he taught her flowed into another, transforming every block into a counterstrike. Nora’s breath came in gasps, sweat coating her brow, but her spirit shone unbroken. Felrick looked on from a safe distance, occasionally tossing a small ball off the mast to sharpen his reflexes or to pass idle moments. The boat felt crowded with restless energy, a sense of uncertain timing pressing them onward.

Despite their successful arrival, the group now stood upon Altdorf’s muddy streets with a sense of foreboding. They carried cargo to sell and debts to honor, but looming over their every move was the specter of the old wanted posters—reminders of a past that refused to vanish beneath the city’s endless tide of gossip and ambition. Though the Dandy Fraulein sat afloat at the docks, the party’s real journey had only begun. Their steps, for the moment, led them toward the Merchant’s Guild, each heart beating with the knowledge that danger moved in the city’s shadows, far closer than the horizon they once found so comforting out on the open river.