<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Alseifar</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://i.postimg.cc/SQTMJvJK/1-B07-B713-5-C30-467-A-8315-3-C7-A5157-DFBF.jpg)</div></div>is a sprawling coastal village whose foremost industry is whaling. Longships ply the waters of the Arcadian Ocean hunting pods of whales. They harpoon the great marine animals and return to Asleifar with the flensed and dismembered carcasses. Right whales and bowhead whales are the most popular, but larger whaling ships prefer to hunt sperm whales for the precious substances only that breed holds. The docklands of Asleifar are a rough-and-ready neighborhood; dank flophouses, sweaty brothels, and squalid waterside taverns cater to the tough whale hunters, while nearby harbor facilities and dry docks swiftly repair and refit whaling vessels. The workshops boil down blubber into oil, clean and dry whalebones, and extract valuable cetacean substances, such as spermaceti, baleen, and ambergris. Whale meat is plentiful and popular with locals.<br/><br/>It was cold. Desperately cold. A sharp wind cut through the uncobbled streets - if they could truly be called streets - carrying with it the rancid stench of the town’s whale processing facilities. The locals seemed to not even notice either the stench or the cold as they trudged through the icy mud of the main thoroughfares. Wooden piers sprouted haphazardly from the coast; cold, foamy waves slapping heavily against their greenish wood. Among the innumerable Ulfen longboats, an elaborately decorated caravel towered. It sported a trio of triangular sails and a larger-than-life lion adorned its bow, frozen in a pounce. It was a clear sign that the vessel had been wrought by the skilled Taldane ship-builders of Cassomir, though the craft flew a Varisian flag. However, even those Ulfen who ventured beyond the Land of Linnorm Kings made little effort to differentiate people of the Inner Sea region. So for the whalers and fishmongers of Alseifar, “southern” was the only classification they had any frame of reference for.  The sailors of the craft busied themselves with ropes and weights, casks and crates. Despite its relative small population, Alseifar was a popular trading port for ships from the Inner Sea and beyond. While whale meat was not terribly popular abroad, the Inner Sea’s appetite for cosmetics and lamp oil was insatiable. In exchange, the Southerners brought a variety of manufactured goods: silks from the Varisian coast, glass from Osirion, even ointments and unguents from the Night Markets of Katapesh.<br/><br/>However, this ship’s most conspicuous cargo was the<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">young man</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://i.postimg.cc/dtcwMnxL/56-B48-EAC-EC91-46-C4-907-A-38-FACF5-D28-BE.jpg)</div></div>who stood on the end of the gangway, staring at the thick mud before him with palpable reservation. A human in his late twenties, his hair was brown, cropped short, and his beard was trimmed close to his face, as was common among the clergy and literati for the south. His once-white robes peeked through a dark, canvas cloak, which was fasten with a silver brooch. It was a sealed scroll set against an eight-pointed star. The young man gazed around the dock, his pale skin tinted almost the green of the wood beneath him. The combination of sea travel and the newfound stink of dead whale appeared to have bested him. His contemplation was soon broken by the bark of one of the deckhands. “You’re in the way, wizard!” the sailor called as he began barreling down the plank with a cask under each arm. The young man startled and turned, only to stumble back into a particularly deep portion of the half-frozen mud. He frowned down at his feet as the sailor passed. “Again, my name is Menas and I’m not actually a wiz...” The sailor was already halfway back up the gangway and clearly uninterested in the finer point of magic-using taxonomy. With a heavy sigh, the young man hoisted a bulging, leather pack over his shoulder and began to trudge deeper into town.<br/><br/>It took some time for Menas to make his way to an inn that was frequented by mercenaries, solders, and other hired-hands. He had been told that Taldane was the most commonly used tongue in the region. And while that may have been true among the richer merchants, nobles and academics, Menas was not trying to get directions from any of those people. He had thumbed through a primer on Skald over the course of the voyage, and while he found the grammar interesting, the pronunciations were almost impossible for his tongue - at least simply from reading. He had not known a language could feature so many diphthongs. But, after much pantomiming and more than a few chuckles from the local, Menas found his way to what he understood to be the largest inn in the area. Above the door a large wooden sign - a fish bucking in a net - swayed in the icy wind. Reasonably confidant that the inn’s name translated to something like “The Swollen Net”, he decided that, in any event, he’d rather be warm than right and pushed his way through the door.<br/><br/>The inn was bustling. Menas had arrived in the middle of the day. Most of the men in the village were fishermen, so their work began in the darkness of the early morning, but they were done before many of Menas’ colleagues broke their fast. The large center dining room consumed the whole of the main floor, an open kitchen in the northwestern corner, blocked from the patrons by a bar. A large, gruff looking Ulfen - though Menas found most Ulfen men to be large and gruff looking - stood behind the bar, barking orders into the back. A handful of servants hurried around the room, serving mead and ale, along with plump, round loaves of bread and various preparations of fish. The few who noticed Menas gave him a glance, turning back to their tables with murmurs and chuckles. However, the young man seemed not to notice, preoccupied with removed as much mud as possible from his boots. Once he was satisfied that any more wiping was were rubbing the stains in, he wiped his hands on his cloak and approached the bar. After a moment, the Ulfen looked Menas up and down. A bushy, raised eyebrow was the only intonation of a question.<br/><br/>“Oh, um... yes sir. My name is Menas Orlavsky, of House...” Menas stumbled a bit over his words. Common when he had time to consider them before hand. But the barkeep raised a hand. “Mead or ale?” he asked in thickly accented Taldane. Menas let out a small breath of exasperation.<em>No appreciation of decorum...</em>The young man removed his supple, leather gloves and laid them on the bar. “Actually, I’d like a mug and some boiling water, please. And some warm broth, if you have any.” To lend substance to his request, he laid a gold coin on the counter, as well a wooden<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">medallion</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://i.postimg.cc/50Jq54QJ/81-EEF929-35-D2-44-C5-9-F51-CBC694-F0-F289.jpg)</div></div>. The barkeep frowned at the pair, but eventually took the gold and called his order back into the kitchen. He set a beaten metal mug before the southerner. “Whatever fool’s errand you’re on, you may find help here for the right price. You can put up a sign over there...” He pointed to an unadorned portion of the wall near the door. “Most can’t read it anyway though.” He added with a chuckle. With that he moved down the bar toward on of the waitress who was hovering nearby. The pair began to speak in the long, lilting syllables of Skald. Menas hoisted his bag into his lap and produced a smaller leather pouch and a small metal item. It looked like a censer, but was only slightly larger than a quail’s egg. His slender fingers gently pulled the metal ball in half. He pinched a wad of tea from the pouch and gingerly arranged it in the infuser, before closing it again and stowing his pouch back in his bag. He gazed into the frenetic kitchen and waited for his order.