Mist clung low over Restin Cove as dawn crept over the palisade, the lake turning from slate gray to pale silver. Restenford’s three docks, narrow and overworked, were already jammed full with fishermen’s skiffs. Gulls screamed overhead. Ropes groaned under the weight of another busy morning.
Old Charlie Grumblefish stood on the dock, glaring down the waterfront as his crew hauled nets and cold boxes from the fishermen’s warehouse and loaded them onto the boats. They had used that building for generations, for drying nets, repairing hulls, storing catch, and surviving lean seasons.
“Make it quick,” he barked. “The gnomes will try squeezing in any minute.”
Right on cue, a deep metallic clang echoed across the water.
Out of the mist came a squat gnomish lake barge. Brass fittings gleamed through the fog, and arcane conduits pulsed along its hull. At the prow stood Fizwick Copperdraft, red beard braided tightly, expression pinched with impatience.
His voice carried clearly across the cove. “You lot, make way. I’ve got a scheduled loading from that warehouse. I need a dock and I need it now.”
Charlie spat into the water. “You will wait till we’re finished, Fizwick. Docks are full and we are busy loading the boats from our warehouse.”
Fizwick frowned and guided his barge closer, right up to the dock-end piling. “Clear off Dock 1 and move your boats before I plow that rubbish out of the way.”
Charlie, bristling with anger, retorted, “You touch our boats and there will be hell to pay.”
Fizwick growled, “You already have one warehouse and now you have taken over all three docks. My barge has goods to collect, goods your Baron wants moved, and I am on a schedule.”
Before Charlie could respond, another vessel glided into view. A sleek riverboat descended from the Restin River, its deck piled with crates from Orlane, Gondrag and the woodland traders of Vardensil. Its captain, Roderic Hale, looked as if he was about to explode.
“Oh, wonderful,” he shouted. “Copperdraft, why are you still here?
Before Fizwick could answer, he turned to Charlie and shouted, “I was anchored upriver all day yesterday and all night, waiting for my turn at the docks. I need to unload now before this produce spoils. Those goods belong to people who entrusted them to me, and every day I sit here costs me customers and coin.”
“You can unload after I load,” Fizwick answered. “Besides, the warehouse is full because these fishermen have taken over the only other warehouse in town. And now they have clogged up the docks.”
At this, Charlie stiffened. “That warehouse is ours,” he snapped. “It’s ours, I tell ya. Always has been.”
“It is not yours,” Roderic said as he guided his ship closer. “It belongs to the Baron, and it is the only other usable warehouse in town. Right now it is choked with nets and half-rotted dinghies.”
Roderic stepped onto the gunwale, and leapt neatly from the riverboat onto the dock. He strode forward until he stood directly in front of Charlie, who was growing red in the face.
“Let me explain this to you so that even a fisherman can understand,” Roderic said slowly, the anger in his voice apparent. “I cannot offload until Fizwick loads. And Fizwick cannot load until he docks. And he cannot dock because.” He swept his arm wide at the crowded, tangled waterfront and finished “of this.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes. “This what?” he growled through clenched teeth.
Roderic met his glare without flinching. “Because of this pile of rotting skiffs and you fish-stinking men standing around like you own the place.”
Charlie stepped forward until their noses nearly touched. “These skiffs and these men have fed this town for generations.”
Roderic cut him off. “Well, this town does not need you anymore.”
At that, the docks fell nearly silent. A low murmur spread among the fishermen. Several of Roderic’s crewmen hopped onto the docks, muttering something under their breath. Fizwick jumped down from the bow of his barge onto the top of the piling, several gnomes following onto the dock. A gnome whispered, “Here it comes.”
The first shove landed a heartbeat later.
A river sailor pushed a fisherman. A fisherman shoved back. Someone swung an oar.
Chaos erupted.
Men slipped on the slick planks. Nets tangled around ankles. Two fishermen swung oars like clubs. A gnome crewman tackled a sailor. Someone fell off a mooring post with an enormous splash.
Fizwick began shouting tactical advice. “Aim for the knees. Humans go down easily. Like poorly balanced crates.”
Roderic threw a punch and missed, striking a barrel instead. Charlie headbutted a sailor, blood splattered across his face.
From his office at the end of the waterfront came Welcar and his dogs.
The guard captain strode down the dock with steady purpose, the manner of a man who had broken up more than his share of brawls. His two dogs waited at the edge of the dock, ready to pounce.
A sailor swung at him. Welcar ducked, pivoted and sent the man flying into the lake.
A fisherman jabbed an oar at him. Welcar, moving with precision, seized the oar, twisted, and flipped the man cleanly onto the boards.
Roderic lunged, but Welcar caught him by the coat mid-swing.
Charlie charged next. Welcar sidestepped, hooked the fisherman’s ankle and sent him sliding harmlessly against a piling.
Fizwick tried to scramble up to the safety of his barge, but Welcar reached up, plucked him down and held him firmly under one arm.
At that, the fight ended as quickly as it had started.
“You three,” Welcar said calmly, “are under arrest. Again.”
The wharf fell silent except for the sound of water dripping from the men and the gulls calling overhead.
Baron Grellus Dunnivar looked exhausted. He sat at the head of the long council table, hands folded, brow lined with worry. To his right stood Pelltar, stiff-backed and disapproving. On the opposite side leaned Almax, arms crossed and jaw tight. Abbot Qualton paced behind them with his prayer beads, murmuring under his breath.
Charlie, Roderic, and Fizwick stood before the table, dripping water onto the stone floor and refusing to meet one another’s eyes.
Baron Grellus exhaled slowly. “Explain yourselves.”
Charlie stepped forward immediately, bristling. “Baron, I know what you are thinking. You want to take our warehouse from us. I can see it in your eyes. But that building is the only thing keeping us going, and if it is taken, the fishermen of Restenford will be ruined.”
The Baron opened his mouth to speak, but Charlie barreled on.
“We are being squeezed out. These lake gnomes and river merchants act like they own the place.”
Roderic stepped forward sharply. “My lord, with respect, Charlie’s sentiment is standing in the way of progress. Restenford cannot pretend to be a trade hub while blocking its own docks. I have goods from Orlane and Gondrag spoiling on my deck because one warehouse is filled with netting, broken planks, and refuse.”
“Refuse,” Charlie snapped. “It is not refuse, it is the work of honest men.”
Fizwick cleared his throat and straightened his vest. “Baron, the Lake Hierarchy is considering reducing service to Restenford unless efficiency improves. My barge must follow the schedule. I cannot remain if I am unable to load cargo in a timely manner.”
Pelltar sniffed softly. “The answer is expansion. If we built additional storage eastward, behind the warehouses where the orchards are, we could solve this bottleneck permanently.”
Almax struck the floor with his staff. “Absolutely not. Those orchards feed this town and protect its people. You would cut down our livelihood for the sake of crates and coin.”
Qualton raised his hands. “Please, brothers. There must be peace in this hall, or we will never find a solution.”
But the room did not fall quiet. Voices tangled and rose. Charlie pleaded for the fishermen. Roderic demanded modernization. Fizwick warned of schedules and lost trade. Pelltar lectured on logistics. Almax defended the land. Qualton begged for patience.
Baron Grellus closed his eyes. He looked older than he had just moments before, as if carrying the weight of every argument, every complaint, every fight on his shoulders.
As he looked out the window, he could see the gulls circling. Their cries echoed through the chamber like a reminder that tomorrow would bring the same chaos to Restenford.
Original artwork generated for the Aeldrath campaign using ChatGPT (OpenAI).
