Chapter 2 - Kirit's Eye

                                    

                                          
Leafstide 1920
                          
“You’d like wine? Wine? Does this look like a Feldorian tavern?” Jurges Innsman asked. He raised his voice over the raucous din of a half-dozen mariners roaring songs towards a motley collection of painted women at the back of the tavern.
                          
The neatly presented young man smiled and shrugged, idly playing with a silver coin in his elegant fingers.
                          
Jurges scowled and rummaged for the inn’s solitary bottle of wine on the back of the filthy bar. He displayed it to the patron who eyed it closely then indicated his acceptance. The barman filled a goblet with the deep red liquid then slammed the bottle down. The young man flipped him the coin then turned to watch the card game. He surreptitiously wiped the rim of the goblet before sipping its contents.
                          
Jurges hated foreigners even more than he hated the locals. This was unfortunate given that he owned a decrepit seaside tavern in one of the dingiest ports in the continent of Nurolia. The Rose Tavern was an ironically named example of the worst sort of drinking den in the port of Kir. The dockland region of Kir had the appearance of a colossal shipwreck. The slimy wooden boardwalks lead to creaking piers and jetties that clawed at the tumultuous waters of the Northern Ocean. Kir’s small cove gave limited shelter from the winds that wailed from the Scattered Isles six hundred miles to the north.
                          
In ages past, in the golden era of Azagunta, Kir (or Theles as it had been known in days gone by) had been the anchorage of choice for traders sailing towards Helien or returning to Aquatonia. It survived the Plague of Dust that had decimated the majority of Azagunta in the final days of the Era of Magic, and this astonished many. They joked that its price for survival was to become a source of every known plague to torment man since that day. The haughty neighbours of Goldoria dubbed it Sogox’s barnacle, an irreverent reference to the demon god of disease.
                          
The Rose Tavern, like its dozen compatriots whose amber lights haunted the portside of the Barnacle, was a haven for slavers, pirates, dishonest traders, thieves and, of course, gamblers. Jurges sneered at the specimens that played Kirit’s Eye tonight. Multi-national card games rarely ended well.
                          
***
                          
At the central table sat five players, cards arranged before them. The closest to the bar was a young brown-haired Thetorian called Hunor. His glittering earrings matched the twinkle in his eyes.  On his left was Alfra’Te, a rotund Mirioth merchant who was relishing in the sound of his own voice.
                          
To Hunor’s right was Jelbettio, a drunken Feldorian, all curls and tanned charm. The final pair of players were sullen Azaguntans—Olix and Malik—their auburn hair trimmed very short as was the current fashion amongst the criminal classes of the immoral isle.
                          
Alfra’Te was dealing whilst chattering in Imperial, the common language of traders.
                          
“There’s no doubt that the local market for quality carpets and cloth has dried up like an Azaguntan plague pit. I would say I’ll be heading to the Choosing when I’ve cleaned you losers out.”
                          
His podgy hands were laden with cheap jewelry as he flicked the first set of cards out to the other four players. 
                          
“Which order is taking in this season?” Hunor asked.
                          
Alfra’Te paused and clicked his tongue. His gold teeth glittered in the subdued light. Out of the corner of his eye Hunor could see flickering of hands between the two Azaguntans. 
                          
“It’s the Air-mages, young Hunor. Unfortunately Coonor is not the city to be visiting at the advent of winter. I swear I’ll be wearing my rugs as robes!”
                          
Hunor and Jelbettio laughed, the latter swigging his ale as he did so. 
                          
“You could warm that fat back end of yours by enlisting to the Uristân legion, Alfra. I heard the lizards are chopping up your cousins for dinner again,” Jelbettio said, his voice slurred.