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West of Caer Calon, Calon Bannorn, Drakonis 2, Hakkonsday, 9:27 Dragon
Dawn came soon enough, along with the morning chores that befit a drover.
Marian Hawke woke with the crow of a nearby rooster, prior to the morn bells of a Chantry Abbey in Caer Calon. Groaning with wakefulness, the young woman found herself waking up in a bear fur-lined sleeping roll, the tanned leather on the outside to protect her from the wind and weather while the fur interior kept her warm and comfortable. The bear skin had come from one of the few brown bears she had brought down, keeping livestock and homesteaders safe in Lothering, its meat and hide worth a pretty coin (correction, lots of pretty coins!). The first one she had brought down when she was thirteen, she had sold the meat save for half-a-stone's worth and kept the skin to tan herself with her father's help, having learned from one of the local tanner's in Lothering with small game hides she had been bringing in since she was twelve and started trapping and hunting small pests and predators such as rabbits, foxes, badgers, and raccoons. A part of that bear hide became her preferred sleeping roll; waterproof, weatherproof, soft, and warm.
It took her a groggy moment to realize that she wasn't in Lothering, and she wasn't hunting in the local woods or forests surrounding Lothering.
The fifteen-summers old young woman slid out of her sleeping roll, feeling a bit of the bitter chill of the pre-dawn morning dressed only in her sleeveless linen tunic and her pleated twill-woven worsted wool walking kilt. The campfire she had slept nearby for her drover team was merely embers now, the supper kettle set upon the coals with its lid on to keep the previous nights' stew warm and protected. She sat upon her roll shivering slightly as she pulled her wool socks off the tops of her chevalier boots and put them on her feet, pulling them up fully onto her calves before slipping her feet into her sandals and buckling them at her ankles.
Already a couple of the other drovers were getting up as Marian went to a small pile of leaves and branches near the fire, spearing several leaves through a branch and bundling them together before lifting the kettle upon its branch crosspiece and sticking the bundle of branches onto the coals. The leaves caught fire quickly, flames licking against the branches as Marian got the fire going quickly as she leaned forward to blow on the wood coals to make them hotter. The flames grew as the bundle of branches started to burn instead of just the leaves as she added a few more pieces of wood in a cross-pattern fashion to get the stew hot again.
"Nice t' know some o' us can roll outta bed inna morn." Tobias macConnell said as he laced on his own sandals, still only in his own tunic and breeches. The both of them looked over to where Broderick FitzHugh laid but a few paces away, still asleep. Well, the morn bells hadn't tolled yet. "Get a kettle o' water on an' I'll make th' tea."
"Tea do sound lovely, now." The morn was just on this side of cold, so a hot bowl of stew and a hot cup of tea for breakfast was a right and proper thing. The young woman went to the wagon to pull out a small ceramic tea kettle for the fire, using some of the last remaining water in one of the buckets to fill it up with enough for a few cups. She lifted the crosspiece and slid the kettle's handle onto the wooden crossbeam, careful to have it dangle next to the stew kettle instead of above it as she lifted the iron kettle's lid to look at the stew from the previous night, seeing that it was still thick and cool. The older drover was rummaging through one of the sacks in the back of their wagon when he pulled out a clay jar with a clasped lid; ah, that was the jar filled with shredded-and-dried tea leaves.
A bell tolled in the distance, brass and deep in the early morning, tolling six times. That would be the local mission or abbey for Caer Calon ringing the morn bells and the general start of the day for most. macConnell moved over to where Brock still laid in his sleeping roll and gave him a gentle but pointed kick in the feet to wake the man up.
"Bloody cunt, man! Ohhh… me head!" The ginger-haired man moaned as he wiggled his way out of his roll, his voice thick and grumping and most certainly looking the worse for wear. FitzHugh sat up and leaned over, propping himself up with one arm as he began to vomit onto the ground beside him, a good deal of liquid spewing from his mouth as he retched three more times in succession. Marian merely looked over to Tobias, knowing well what was going on with the man; he had overindulged last night, and was clearly paying for it now. Brock was still leaning over, giving a few empty retches and coughing afterwards, having finally emptied his stomach from drinking too much the night prior. The young woman silently handed him a bucket that still had a few mouthfuls of water in it, the ginger-haired man taking it and upending it, slurping at its contents, swishing and gargling it in his mouth before spitting it back out. Then he slurped some more, drinking the second portion. "Thankye, lass." His voice was still rotten and terrible like his condition, his eyes barely open and looking a mite pale.
"Ye'll be less thankful wit' morn chores." Marian reminded him, the drover groaning at the thought as he set the bucket down and began undoing his sleeping roll so he could extract himself from it while the young woman moved over to the oxen, seeing that they were rousing up as well, grunting and softly mooing. She gathered the leather feedbags and gave each of the six oxen a good helping of hay, dried corn, dried barley, and flax in each of their feed bags before slipping them on over their muzzles. With the bovines feeding, the young woman grabbed a carrying pole and the six buckets used last night to fetch some water, sliding the pole through the buckets' rope handles and placing the carrying pole across her shoulders before making her way to the local creek.
Thankfully, it was but a small jaunt to the nearby creek as Hawke set down the pole and buckets and began filling each one by sticking a bucket into the icy creek water that was no doubt running from Loch Calon, filling each individually until she had all six filled up most of the way to prevent losing too much from sloshing, not to mention to prevent her from getting wet or drenched. After filling the buckets, Marian fed the pole through the rope handles and hoisted the pole across her shoulders, her hands resting on the pole to better control it as she gently made her way back to the wagon. True, she could have done it with two buckets at a time, but the archer had done chores like this since she had seen eight summers and knew how to fetch water without making a mess or losing half her contents. It took her about twice as long getting back to the wagon as it did going to the creek, but Marian arrived with almost no water lost as she set the pole down and started putting the buckets in front of the oxen so they could drink.
"Stew an' tea be done." Tobias had a bowl of stew and a wooden cup in his hands, holding it to the young woman as an offering. She took them with a smile and spoken gratitude as she went to the log she had used last night to break her fast, taking a small whiff of the stew to get some warmth in her nose, the bitter chill of the morning deceptive but slowly growing more apparent. She took a sip of the tea, which was mint tea!, before setting the wooden cup on the ground, pulled out her beads and said her graces, and began to eat, blowing only a little on the stew to make it less hot in her mouth. Brock, the lug, was still in his sleeping roll, though he was sitting up with his own bowl and cup in hand. He looked pale and sick, no doubt from a night of overindulging, wincing as he sipped at his tea and took small mouthfuls of stew. If he was going to be this way, both macConnell and herself would have to pick up on his chores this morn if they wanted to be ready by the time Master Levi Dryden gave the go-ahead to move. However bad it was going to be for them, it was undoubtedly going to be worse for Broderick FitzHugh once they got to moving.
Marian found herself looking a little forward to that.
The six wagons and thirty-six oxen of the Dryden Brothers Merchant Company traveled west along the Old Imperial Highway upon the cut-and-fitted stone road quarried, chiseled and laid deep in the Ancient Age by the Tevinti Imperii to make accessible its lands and holdings through trade, mediation, oppression, and war. While their pace was slow, about the same as a man walking, it was continuous, the twenty drovers walking along the six wagons as they rolled over the stone road being pulled by their bovine beasts-of-burden along with what each wagon carried.
The Old Imperial Highway wound its way west and south, sometimes going around obstacles such as tall hills and woods, and sometimes going through them as evident when reaching the thorpe of Kethinch, approximately eight leagues west-by-southwest of Caer Calon. The old Tevinter route had a small hamlet of about eight to ten buildings on the north side of the Highway with various thickets and copses to the south of the road that turned into rolling hills.
But just past the thorpe was one of the rolling hills where ancient Tevinter engineers, instead of going around the thirty-pace tall hill, decided to cleave through it, creating an artificial canyon for the Highway to go right through it. The sight of it amazed Marian as they walked through a hill, towering either side of them for perhaps half-a-league or so before it finally sloped down to flat ground. The young woman tried to imagine how many men it took to dig out a cut of a hill about fifty paces wide, thirty paces deep, and half-a-league long. It probably took weeks if not months depending on how many men they hired…
…no, it was the Tevinter Imperium. They used slaves.
The wagons, the oxen, and the drovers continued their trek for another two hours when they reached another village much larger than Kethinch; Tobias called it Polgate when the archer asked him. It was perhaps half the size of Lothering, and was clearly a fishing village, Loch Calenhad laid right to its west with the Old Imperial Highway on its opposite side. As far as locations went, it was a great one with the village placed upon the shores of the largest lake in the world (so it was said) on one side and one of the best traveling routes on the other. Marian was actually rather surprised on how large the village was, no doubt in thanks to its location with water trade and land trade likely being big business, not to mention that she could see dozens of little rowboats and even a few longboats out on the loch fishing or netting. Lochfish came to the markets of Lothering to sell alongside their riverkin, and the archer briefly wondered if those lochfish had been from Polgate.
The teams took a rest near Polgate, the sun high in the sky as they rested their oxen, giving them feed and water while the drovers took a break themselves. The weather had been holding out well for the day, a few puffy clouds in the sky overhead while deeper westing dark monstrous clouds threatened whatever horizon they were over with rain or perhaps snow, the clouds gray and their bellies dark and thick. Marian couldn't tell how far away they were, but they were in the direction they were heading. Perhaps whatever storm they carried would be spent by the time the teams reached their threatened lands and the clouds moved along to bring bad weather to someone else. One could only hope.
After a candlemark stop for a cold lunch and a break from walking, the teams were back on the highway and making their way west towards Redcliffe upon the ancient highway. Marian spent most of that time on the opposite side of the teams of where Loch Calenhad laid, walking on the side where the fields and woods of the Bannorn of Redcliffe laid. As the Merchant Company's only dedicated archer, Marian was expected to keep her eye out for further threats, able to engage at distances that none of the others could. Aye, there were bows amongst the wagons, and there was always a couple of men with a short bow and quiver on their back. Most of the men were armed with proper weaponry; spears, axes, shields, a couple swords, a few javelins. Aye, there were bows, and some of the men were good shots. But none of them had a long bow, none of them had a strong pull, none of them were her.
None of them had ever won the archery contest at the Annual Bannorn Fair in Lothering. Twice.
The fields and woods of the Redcliffe Bannorn subtly changed the further west they went and the lower the sun got; soon fields and woods began to become farms and homesteads. Tobias macConnell pointed to one dirt road, clearly well-traveled by the many ruts made by wagon wheels, and stated that in that direction was the ancient caer known as Calenhad's Foothold; where the Silver Prince made his caer to besiege Redcliffe over four Ages ago! Marian wished they could make a sidetrek to visit it, trying to image a caer said to have been designed and built by none other than King Calenhad Theirin himself! The young woman peered south to see if, perhaps, she could get a glimpse of a stone tower or a rook, something to see amongst the fields, trees, and farms. All she could see in the distance was some small quaint village in the distance situated at what appeared to be a crossroad. They passed by the dirt road without any possible sighting of some caer or battlements to be seen, perhaps too far away or perhaps time had worn down the temporary fortress to where it didn't rise above the trees that surrounded it.
The teams continued their way as the sun slowly slipped from its great height in the sky, slowly dropping in front of them as they passed by another town in between Loch and Highway; Rabert's Bay, so Marian was told. Like Polgate, it was a good-sized town with perhaps a hundred or so buildings to it, with plenty of boats out on Loch Calenhad for its fishing bounties, and at least two longships in the town's quays. Like Polgate, it had a log wall surrounding it, confining most of its buildings within the defenses. But commerce and growth had surpassed it, and there was at least a dozen or so buildings, farms and homesteads by the look of them, settled outside the protection of the log wall. Most of the surroundings by the highway were generally farms or ranches for livestock, cattle and sheep being the most popular. Marian looked to the south and saw much of the same, circular farmhouses with copses of trees and jutting hills splitting the landscape, sometimes a stone structure of some sort poking out in between the trees.
After another hour or so of walking, the wheels of the wagons rolling over the quarried stone road as the oxen pulled their burden, Marian spied something in the Loch ahead that wasn't like everything else; a small island jutting out of the water with red rock walls standing out with a caer built on top of it.
Caer Dearg Bearradh; the infamous impenetrable fortress known for the color of the rocks it was built on. Besieged by the Imperium, the First Blight, hordes of Alamarri, King Calenhad, and even the Whorlesians, its walls were said to have never failed. Built in the Ancient Age to protect the Alamarri, the Avvar, the Chayne, and all those who lived within the sight of that edifice of defense, songs and tales said it had never fallen in battle.
Redcliffe. They had arrived.
Marian found herself looking at a small hamlet that was outside the stone wall surrounding the city, the buildings made of wood and thatch, somewhere around fifty or so that hugged the Old Imperial Highway on either side. She could see that most of the buildings were small, single-story circular cottages and teachíns, small stone walls or wooden fences defining the boundaries of each croft of the domicile. The young woman could see a few people out about in their yards for planting or caring for their livestock, cotters and villeins taking advantage of the coming warmth of spring to cultivate crops or caring for their stock.
The teams walked along the cobbled stone of the Old Imperial Highway as Marian found herself walking within paces of a low uncut stone wall where a young woman around her own age was sitting on a stool shearing a sheep of its winter wool, wearing a plain skirf dress made of linen and wool and a kerchief covering her hair. The shepherd paused with her shears to look up at Marian, a look of mute surprise on her face to see an armed and armored woman traveling in the company of armed and armored men. The lass was probably just surprised to see that she was a woman, much less the company she kept.
As they passed cottages and crofts, the team of six wagons along with their oxen and drovers began approaching the easting gate for Redcliffe, a cobbled stone-and-hod made wall that looked to be about twelve paces tall save for the gatehouse, which stood even taller, which looked to be sixteen paces. The gatehouse contained three doors; two man-sized ones to each side of the central one, which was certainly big enough to accept wagons, looking to be ten paces tall and about eight paces wide. All three entrances were open, and the archer could see people entering into the left side doorway while others were exiting from the right side. Up ahead were about half-a-dozen or so spear-wielding watchmen with red-and-brown quilted gambesons manning the gates while another four were upon the top of the parapet wall with bows relaxed in their hands, two of the watchmen on the ground engaging what looked to be a farmer with a donkey-and-cart attempting to enter the city with what looked to be canvas sacks loaded on the back of his small two-wheeled cart. A third watchman moved to the back of the cart as the farmer talked to one of the other watchmen, pulling open a bag to see its contents.
The farmer was let in after a short inspection, waved along by one of the watchman as the lead wagon of the Dryden Brothers Merchant Company pulled forward to the wagon gate. With six wagons and thirty-six oxen, Marian found herself mostly seeing Master Levi Dryden approaching one of the gate watchmen as oppose to hearing him, flanked by Oliver Torwell and her father Malcolm Hawke. Willard Mikkelson and Master Mikhail Dryden were at the oxen of the lead wagon, the lead drover having halted the teams and giving one of the oxen a good pat while Master Levi's brother Mikhail stood alongside another with his muscular arms folded across his thick chest.
Marian found herself taking a few paces closer, almost to the head of her team where Tobias macConnell stood, a hand upon a short rein of one of the bovines to keep it steady. Despite what her Papa told her of his travels and visiting other cities in Ferelden (and even Orlais!), this was all new to her. She saw Master Levi armed with a rolled leather portfolio in his hands, unfurling it to display… whatever it was on the inside of the protective leather piece. Oh, it was whatever permissions or authority he had to transport goods for the Chantry!
While one could travel where and when they wanted in Ferelden, there were many lords and Banns throughout the Kingdom, and one moving from one Bannorn to another to avoid paying taxes, avoid paying a debt, fleeing from a warrant or a charge, or no doubt a dozen other reasons, was viewed in an ugly light. Aye, one could travel and one could relocate as long as they did not have a standing debt to their laird or their lord, or have an outstanding debt with any citizen of the Kingdom. No doubt whatever parchments or documents that Master Dryden had were signed to authorize him as a traveling merchant delivering goods to various locations in Ferelden, along with the necessary supplies, equipment, and people to do just that.
Master Levi was showing one of the watchmen whatever was on the inside of the leather scroll, leafing a few pieces no doubt to show whatever authorizations they had. The watchman, wearing leather-and-ring breastplate with a red-and-brown tabard displaying the Redcliffe hearldry complete with simple brass-riveted leather pauldrons, bracers, and greaves along with a wide leather belt with a leather strip skirt and brass rivets punched into the leather to protect his thighs, was looking over the documents with a practiced ease with his spear held easily in his left hand as he pointed at something with his right. There was an exchange of words between the men going back and forth, the conversation seemingly benign and proper as Master Levi finally rolled up the leather parchment with what looked to be a smile upon his face as he reached into a pouch and handed the watchman a small leather bag that looked to weigh as if it had a good bit of coin in it. Marian thought of what Broderick FitzHugh had said when they had reached Kyless but had moved on instead of stopping at the village. Chances were there was some 'gate fee' for merchants to enter into the city so they could sell at the markets, something that everyone did.
Master Dryden turned from the watchman and did a curious motion towards the drovers standing by the wagons, something about… throwing something up and over?
"Lass, lift up th' rear cover o' th' wagon." Tobias explained it to her. Ah, so the watchmen were going to peek into the wagons! Probably to make sure they weren't smuggling people or weapons or some such thing. Marian slid her strung bow over her head and across her body, the upper limb and handle nestled between the arrows in her quiver to keep the bow from sliding down too far and potentially dragging the lower horn in the dirt as she went to the rear of their wagon where the rear canvas flap to the wagon's canvas covering protected their merchandise both from weather and from sight.
There were two ropes tied to the bottom corners that laid within the wagon that the young woman pulled out, each about ten paces long. She threw the one tied to the left corner over the covering to the right-hand side, and then the other rope over to the left side, having them cross over at the top of the wagon's covering. She then tugged the rope to pull up the rear flap, doing a quick hitch knot on the forward wheel before going to the other side and repeating herself, the rear flap now pulled fully over the top of the wagon's arched canvas cover to expose the contents of the wagon.
Finished, she stood by the rear of the wagon where she could see three of the watchmen coming down the line to inspect the wagons, where twelve oak-and-coopered barrels were laid and stacked with two extra barrels without lids stood upright for miscellaneous supplies and gear needed for the trip, butting against the semi-pyramidal stack to brace it from loosening from its moors and rolling out. The archer waited for the watchmen to inspect the wagons, seeing both Tobias and Broderick standing by her for the same purpose; probably to assure nothing was amiss and nothing untowards was involved.
The three watchmen started making their way down the line of wagons, stopping at the first and looking at the back for a few moments before they deemed it satisfactory and moved to the second. This happened two more times in much the same fashion; the three armed-and-armored men went to a wagon to inspect it, peering inside the conveyance while the drovers watched on, answering whatever questions the watchmen had. The inspection process didn't seem to take long, no doubt the watchmen doing something like this everyday with a city the size of Redcliffe. Soon, the three watchmen were approach the rear of the fourth wagon where Marian, Tobias, and Broderick awaited.
"Good eve to ye, gentlemen." Tobias macConnell spoke up as the lead of the fourth wagon, his buckler hanging from his bearded axe nestled on his left hip while he casually held his Danes' axe in his right hand, butt planted in the cobbled stone of the Old Imperial Highway. Broderick stood but a few paces away from Tobias, his buckler loosely held in his left hand and his boar spear pinched in the crook of his right arm while his beaded axe was slipped into his belt for holding. Marian stood on the other side of the wagon's rear, her bow slung over her right shoulder, nestled between the arrows held in her quiver, while she slipped her thumbs into her wide leather belt to show her hands weren't on any of her weapons; the bow resting on her shoulder, the hunting knife on her right hip, or the bearded axe on her left. The three watchmen came just to the front of the rear of the wagon where the drovers stood but a few paces away. "Have a look?"
"Right we will." The eldest-looking watchman stated, a beard more gray than brown cascading from his jaw hiding most of his face along with his simple steel helm with nose-and-eye guards. He along with the fellow watchman next to him turned to look at the wagon's item while the third, a lad by the look of how short and sparse his beard was considering his helm covered most of his face, just stared at her. While the two poked and prodded in the back of the wagon as they had the others before, looking at the spare barrels filled with miscellaneous equipment and if anything that shouldn't be there tucked in, the third one continued to gaze at her as if nothing else existed.
"…help ye, serah?" Marian finally asked, looking at the leering watchman but a few paces from her.
"You're a woman!" The lad (oh, he was a lad alright; his voice sounded young!) spoke, his voice more surprised than accusatory. Marian did her best not to roll her eyes as she looked over to Brock and Tobias.
"Hey, why didna either o' ye gits tell me I was a lass? Shaddn't I know these thin's?" Hawke called out to her team, her voice mocking. That had Brock chuckle as he spat out a wad of hemp-juice spittle, smirking while Tobias just grunted, sounding faintly amused. "Well?"
"Musta slipped me mind, lassie." FitzHugh said after wiping off his lips with the back of his arm, the sleeve stained permanently with hemp juice and spittle. "I'll tell ye th' next time, Maker's truth." macConnell was just chuckling and shaking his head as Marian turned back to look at the watchman laddie, his fuzzy cheeks red with embarrassment, and then flush with anger. Thankfully, the two inspecting watchmen were done with their task and satisfied as the elder watchman trudged over to his youthful companion.
"We're inspectin' 'em, Harold, not makin' friends wit' 'em." The lad's elder said, slapping him none-too-kindly upon the shoulder to remind him. "Let's check the next wagon." The young watchman squawked as if he were to say something else, but he was shoved in the right direction by his elder as the archer watched the three of them finally round around the oxen of the fifth wagon and made their way towards the rear.
"Wanker." Marian muttered when she was sure the man was out of earshot. Both her and Brock pulled the cover back over the wagons' back now that the inspection was finished, having to wait only a little bit for the last two wagons to be inspected. The three watchmen eventually walked by, and Marian noted the young one hardly disguised himself looking at her again, like he had never seen a woman before! The bloody nerve! Eventually, they reached the Easting Gate and waved them on as Willard Mikkelsen slapped one of the oxen in the first wagon's team of castrated steer to get the train moving. They started out slowly as the began to enter through the gate, each team entering through the gate that was at least eight paces long with an iron portcullis and a stout oak gate door to bar the way, both opened for access.
The teams slowly passed through the stone gate as Marian found herself walking through it, looking up at the stone arch that supported the wall above it with some wonder; there was nothing like this in Lothering with its log palisade! Marian found herself gaping a little at it as they exited the short tunnel and walked underneath sky once more as the hunter returned her eyes to where she walked, and to her left, just past the gate was… that wanker who was staring at her! It was the same bloke, fuzzy-cheeked lad who peered at her through his iron helm's eye guards as if nothing else existed. Poxy manker! It wasn't like she had her teets pushed up and out of her armor or her kilt pulled up to show off her arse or anything! The lad leered at her as they walked by, his face almost a sneer as they walked by far enough that she was no longer in his line of sight.
Slowly but surely, the six teams entered into the city of Redcliffe. And Marian Hawke was enchanted.
Dearg Bearradh was an ancient city, going back into the Ancient Age when the Alamarri clans inhabited the lands, before Andraste and even the Tevinter Imperium Highway! The caer had been built for the ancient lords of Redcliffe, and the inhabitants had built a village at the base of it on the southing shore of Loch Tyrdda, what was now known as Loch Calenhad. Marian found herself walking into the city of Redcliffe for the first time, having been told what it looked like with tales by her father. But those had just been words; now the young woman was seeing it for herself.
The oxen and the wagons were moving upon wooden slats laid upon the ground so they weren't walking on hard-packed dirt or mud, the thigh-thick beams tied together with thick rope at the ends and the middle, leaving a finger gap in between but otherwise hooves, feet, and wagons were able to traverse with ease! And surrounding the wooden path were buildings that were two, three, sometimes even four stories tall! Some were made of wood-braced stone, others beams and logs, and one made out of fired brick (it was a smithy according to the hanging sign, so a necessity). There were hardly any yards in between the buildings and no kind of fencing or marking to say who owned what, perhaps big enough for a cart or a wagon to be pushed through, and definitely not big enough even for small livestock; perhaps a couple of chickens in a coop, but not much else. Most of the roofs seemed to be made of curved clay tiles, one dipping down while the other dipped up, not one sight of thatch, bundled branches, woven hay, or threshes. Several windows appeared to actually have glass in their opening as oppose to being open-air with wooden shutters to keep out the elements, and Marian was shocked; she had never seen a glassed window before except for the Chantry chapel in Lothering! The buildings were tall but thin, pushed and scrunched together on either side of the wooden path leading deeper into the city.
And then there were the people of Redcliffe themselves.
It was getting to be late in the day, almost heading to dusk, and there were easily dozens of Redcliftons upon the wooden road or walking to and fro into the buildings on either side. There were men in colorful kilts and loose tunics with vested surcoats upon them, walking upon woodplank sandals with ribboned ankle ties and high woolen socks while women in aproned dresses wearing what looked to be wooden chogs on their feet. Some of the cityfolken seemed to be at work, carrying woven baskets, a pair of women to one side pulling linens and clothes from a line, one man shouldering a small empty barrel, a lad with a brace across his shoulders with a pair of buckets on either end. There were a pair of young bairns, a kilted laddie and a skirted lassie, chasing each other in some imaginary game, laughing as their bare feet went from dirt alley to wooden walkway with ease, a young mother with a babe on her hip talking to an older woman, a man and woman holding hands while walking past the archer, and in one alley, a man pressing a woman up against a building with his kilt and her skirt up as she clutched at him…
Maker's breath! Marian turned her head back ahead at the sight and recognition of what they were doing, blushing furiously. In broad bloody daylight!
The teams continued on as Tobias held a rein of one of the lead oxen of their wagon to guide it, giving a bark of warning for those too daft to see six castrated steer coming their way. The wooden path they were on led to another one, one that went across to either side while the one they were on continued ahead, more buildings coming into view as the Dryden Brothers Merchant Company ambled their way to their destination. The first wagon had already made a left onto a wooden road that seemed to be just as wide as the first, more than enough for two wagons to pass each other by.
The going was slow inside the city with all the people moving about on their business, Marian noted, getting use to the change of walking on the Imperial Highway out in the forests, plains, and hinterlands of Ferelden when people were scarce and the absolute hubbub of dozens if not hundreds of people of a city flocking about. Some people were daft enough to walk in between the teams of oxen-and-wagon without a care or concern, while others had to be reprimanded not to touch or mess with either the steers, the wagons, or the drovers. Marian looked to see Brock walking at the back of the wagon to make sure no one tried to climb on or take anything out, his spear in his hand as he held it upright and used the butt to shoo off what looked to be a pair of rascal lads trying to take a peek.
It was a bloody madhouse. No wonder the Dryden Brothers had so many drover guards.
The teams continued on the new road, the wooden path still lined with buildings, some with wooden signs hanging above the doors or sticking out and hanging from a beam. Marian saw signs advertising a grocer, a bakery, a candlemaker, and a haberdashery. There was also a 'halfway house' (she didn't know what that was) that another helpful sign stated… rooms for rent?, right next to a millinery that thankfully had a painted picture of a hood and a beret on it; a hatmaker! After that there was a… a rúnlesiðr! An actual rune-reader? The sign showed an ancient Alamarri rune, along with three threads tied together in a knot in the middle, a flying raven, three card slightly off-set, and then just a circle; oh, a crystal ball! The young woman couldn't believe that a shamaness was working in a city like this! How the Order of Mercy hadn't snatched her up was beyond Marian.
About half the buildings on the street seemed to be houses, narrow tall things where Redcliftons lives, some set next to shops and businesses, sometimes several houses in a row. The teams crossed another intersection, another wooden path, but didn't turn in either direction as they kept going forward, sometimes having to bark or cry out for someone to move out of the way or watch themselves. A couple of the passing men walking either in the same direction or opposite of the teams took to having an eye for Marian, obviously realizing that she was a woman and worth looking at. One bloke with a beard with gray at the chin decided to approach her with an offer for drinks at a tavern later that evening; the man was older than her father! The young woman politely refused and told him to go back home to his wife, a gentle hand on the head of her skeggjaðrøx in case further encouragement to leave her be was needed. Thankfully, the man went about his business without a fuss, likely noting that she was quite well-armed and with a band of equally-armed men.
The company continued walking through Redcliffe, Marian keeping one eye out on its citizens and another on its sights as the lead wagon took another turn at the next intersection, this time going to the right. The wagons creaked and groaned as they rolled across the wooden beams that made up the streets of Redcliffe, the oxen huffing slightly as their shooed hooves clumped on the wood while the wagon wheels thumped with every gap in between the beams. They passed by even more stores and homes, Marian wondering if this were the market 'street' or was there a market square like there was in Lothering?, seeing more signs for sellers and services; a weaver, a ropemaker, a carpenter, a teahouse. Again, houses seemed to dominate the street, making the young woman wonder how many people lived in the city. She knew that it was larger than Lothering, but by the amount of people she was walking by and the amount of homes she was passing, the archer thought it was at least double the population of Lothering, maybe even more than that!
All six teams made the turn onto the new street where the young woman could see a large building further ahead that wasn't made of brick or wood, but hewed quarry stone, towering over the other buildings surrounding it; the Chantry. The roof alone was probably five or six stories tall, and the bell tower possibly another two stories on top of that, easily making it the tallest building Marian had ever seen. The sight of all the other buildings along the street were dismissed at the sight of the tall stone edifice that dominated the young woman's eyes as the teams ambled towards the cathedral as the brass peel of a bell rang throughout the town, no doubt from the Chantry's belfry. The bell rang four more times, indicating that it would soon be evening with five brass bells ringing throughout the city. The teams continued straight towards the Chantry, and Marian recalled what Tobias macConnel had told her about transporting Chantry goods. It seemed like they were heading right to the Chantry.
A few moments later, Marian discovered that she was right as the first wagon entered in through the stone gate of the Chantry.
The Chantry cathedral was surrounded by what appeared to be an eight-pace tall fieldstone-and-riverstone wall, mortared with what appeared to be Imperial cement to surround the grounds of the church and flanked by two fully-armored men bearing helms, shields with the heraldry of the burning sword, and swords on their hips; the Order of Mercy, two Templars guarding the Chantry. The teams entered into the yard, and Marian saw the wall was perhaps only a pace or so thick depending on a particular stone, and the grounds itself rather large; six acres in total, perhaps. There was plenty of room on the grounds for the six wagons and thirty-six oxen along with the cathedral itself. Inside the grounds there were a few Lay Brothers and Lay Sisters moving about in their ecclesiastical duties while by the stone steps leading to the cathedral's double doors stood a large wooden post-and-board with a sister in red-and-white habit and miter standing beside it; a Chanter and her board. To one side there was a nice-sized garden of what appeared to be herbs and vegetables, tended to be initiates and acolytes (at least that's what Marian assumed) while another pair of Sisters were pulling habits and frocks off of drying lines.
"We're here." Marian stated softly to herself, still looking around at the size of the Chantry, perhaps three times larger than the main Chantry in Lothering, plus it was made of cast stone instead of wood-framed fieldstone! There was maybe two dozen clergy moving about in their duties for the Chantry, everything from full-fledge sisters (based upon their white coifpiece and guimpe, along with their red veil over their heads) to Chantry wards in simple albs and cinctures frolicking about. The wagons continued around the cathedral, heading towards the rear of the large building where Marian could soon see a pair of slanted wooden doors half-buried in the ground with stone steps leading downward, almost butting the church. The undercroft!
"Here we be, lass." Brock said after spitting onto the ground, jerking his head to where the Revered Mother herself stood, her red-and-white miter marking her for whom she was, flanked by another pair of full-steel armored Brother Templars. "Chan'ry root cellar, 'mongst ot'er t'in's." The way the loathsome man said it had Marian a little apprehensive.
"Your Reverence." That was Master Levi Dryden, walking forward to the cassock-and-mitered Revered Mother, dipping a knee and kissing her raised right hand where her signet ring laid. "I'll have me lads bring the goods t' their right an' proper place while we finish our business inna yer office. Twenty barrels, Mother Hannah?"
"That is correct, Master Dryden." The ancient-looking Revered Mother replied with a smile, Marian noting she had a soft but distinct Orlesian accent. "Come with me while we conclude our business while the Brother Templars open the way and show where to offload your goods."
"Get ready f'r th' heavy liftin', lass." The redheaded man said as he spat out another wad onto the ground.
Author's Notes: As Ferelden is suppose to be the British Isles, I've included a great deal of the historical heritage of such. Britton, Welsh, Gaelic, and Celtic will be here, along with Roman, Saxon, Norse, Dane, and Norman; the infamous outsiders that helped mold the United Kingdom into what it is today. While the Thedasian time period is Tudor England, Ferelden is a bit… barbaric. Like the Mortalitasi Death Mages of Nevarra and the Seers of Rivain, Ferelden's heritage is still steeped in the Ancient Alamarri traditions that Andrastianism hasn't quite erased. Remember, Horsemaster Dennet's wife, Elaina, didn't want him touching that tree with an ax because of 'the old ways and the old blood' and that tree was dedicated to Tyrdda's leaf-eared lover; the Lady of the Skies. So there will be some Alamarri, Avvar, Chasind, and Clayne traditions and oral history.
Note that the 1st of Drakon I call 'Menesday' and then the 2nd of Drakon 'Hakkonsday' in the 'time/location' identifier at the beginning of the chapters. In the English Calendar, Monday is named after the moon, so I named the first day of the week after the moon Meneis. Tuesday is named after a Norse God; Tyr, the God of War. As Ferelden was originally Alamarri/Avvar/Chasid, they believed in the pagan nature gods before the coming of Andrastianism. So I named the days that still hold the Norse names (Tuesday for Tyr, Wednesday for Wodin/Odin, Thursday for Thor, and Friday for Frigga) after the Avvar Gods that bare the closest resemblance to those names; Hakkon (winter/war/death) for Tuesday, Korth (king of the gods) for Wednesday, Sigfrost (a bear diety) for Thursday (there wasn't a thunder god for the Avvar), the Lady of the Skies for Friday (called Skiesday). Saturday is named 'Kingsday' after King Calenhad (who not only created modern-day Ferelden, but also fully brought the Chant/Chantry to his new kingdom), and Sunday is Bridesday. If you're asking why the English calendar has Viking Gods named after days of the week, I suggest picking up a history book or just binge-watching Vikings when the Danes, Norse, and Saxons decided that England needed to listen to the Immigrant Song for about 200 years. The Battle of Hastings in 1066 was when the final Anglo-Saxon King, Harold Godwinson (also the King of the Danes, or Denmark) fell in battle against Duke William, Duke of Normandy, now known as William the Conqueror. Chances are, just about every ancient calendar named its days after their gods (Ra, Krishna, Quetzalcoatl, Chenobog, Jupiter, Apollo… whomever was available). The French Calendar still uses the Roman Gods for the days of its week (Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, and the Sun) as the German calendar has Moon (Montag), Your day (Deinstag, 'dien' being your), Mid-week (Mittwoch), Thunder day (Donnerstag, so Thor), Free day (Freitag, but probably an homage to Frigga), Samstag (?) and Sun day (Sonntag).
I claim that Lake Calenhad is the largest lake in Thedas. As far as current boundaries of the maps of Thedas are concerned, this is correct, the second largest being Coeur d'Celestine (Heart of Celestine) in Orlais, SSW of Val Royeaux and west of Montsimmard.
I mentioned the caer known as Calenhad's Foothold; this is the location in DA:I where a Fade Rift is in front of a broken bridge. I also obliquely mention the crossroads where you find Mother Giselle. Yes, this is the Hinterlands, but I call it the Redcliffe Bannorn as each Bannorn is perhaps the size of a man traveling on foot for a day, much like Texas towns (if you didn't know, towns in Texas are about 25 miles apart in the central and eastern part of the state; the distance a man can walk in a day. This isn't exactly true in west Texas, though. Check out a Texas state map and see what I'm talking about!).
Caer Dearg Bearradh - As I mentioned in the previous chapter, 'Caer' means 'fort' in Welsh. Dearg Bearradh is Irish Gaelic, for Red Cliff. No, I can't pronounce it, either (I assume 'De-ahrrgh Beer-raid' but with a mouthful of Guinness gargling in the back of your throat for accent).
Cottage - Though the term is relatively similar to its use in the modern era, in the medieval age a cottage was a semi-independent, rural, humble, detached dwelling. Think of a 400-500 square foot wooden storage shed with a proper gabled roof that one can buy from Home Depot, and that would actually be a nice version. There's a not-so-nice term for this in America; shotgun shack, or even better, slave quarters (which some still exist to exhibit how fucking stupid our ancestors were). Since Ferelden is suppose to be the British Isles and the timeperiod is Tudor England/Renaissance, I will be using homes from that time period, to include the roundhouses one saw in the Hinterlands.
Teachín - An Irish term for a thatched small house, usually for farmhands and laborers. Usually one to two rooms (in which the second room was generally for small livestock).
Croft - A Germanic/Scottish word, usually a fenced yard. In Scotland, the size was usually defined by the distance one could throw an axe or a spear from each corner of the domicile. To make it less confusing, each plot of land (rented from the owner of the land, usually a lord or a land baron) is 1,000 square yards/9,000 square feet, or about 1/5 of an acre.
Cotters and Villeins - Peasant or serf, essentially. These people farmed the land they didn't own, paying tax upon the land and house to the manorial lord/land owner (so like a medieval mortgage but without a bank). The rules and restrictions were heavy on these people as, since they didn't own the land (or technically the house) they couldn't leave without permission since they owed their lord dues and rent. Though serfdom was mostly over by the 16th Century in England, it lasted in France until 1783-1789 (see French Revolution).
The East Gate of Redcliffe I base upon an actual RL wall and gate that has survived at least five hundred plus years; the West Port of St. Andrews, Scotland. The dimensions that I give should be pretty close to factual (though I use paces instead of feet). And yes, I used English driving laws; you drive and enter on the left (BACKWARDS!).
Danes' axe - a dane axe is most commonly thought of as the two-handed Viking long axe with a 4-5 1/2 ft shaft with an 8-12 in 'cutting' edge that usually extended up and down to create 'horns', making the axe edge more pronounced than that of the common wood-cutting/wood-splitting ax. Here, I call it Danes' axe as a reference to Dane; the historical and legendary character of Ferelden's history (such as the tale Dane and the Werewolf and the dragonslaying sword Yusaris).
Ax vs. Axe - I've seen both spellings and both are technically correct but like grey and gray, there doesn't seem to be an actual hard rule as to which to use. For this, ax is something that you use to chop a tree with, and an axe is something that you use to chop a man with. Yes, you can use a logging ax to kill a man and a skilløx to chop a tree down, but the heads are made for its actual purpose. Generally, 'killing' axes have a much longer and heavier head for hewing through armor, flesh, and bone. Bearded axes (called this because the lower 'tang' droops well below the handle hole) have a hook-like bottom for pulling down shields or trapping weapons. As for much of the Dark Ages and even into the Middle, Medieval, and Renaissance Ages, swords were highly-expensive weapons that took a great deal of time to make compare to the simple spearhead or axe head, and were usually found in the hands of the rich, the knight, and the nobleman. For the common peasant grunt infantry, axes, spears, and improvised farming equipment were the general weapons in their hands (remember, the kama, the sickle, and even the scythe are all for hewing wheat, the mancatcher was used by shepherds to pull back sheep, and the sledge/maul was used to hammer stakes or wedges). In the Dryden Family Merchant Company, there are only four swords; Levi, Mikhail, Malcolm Hawke, and one other man at the rear of the train. You'll see later on why Malcolm is 'permitted' to have a sword; did you think he ran around in robes carrying a stick with a crystal on it? Sus.
I mention 'wooden' roads, which did exist in the past to some degree. This was to keep the mud from being tracked everywhere on dirt streets as well as not stepping into… feces and other bodily excrement. What do you think those people did with their chamber pots? Carted them to a creek and dump them? Nope, right out the window (or perhaps into a slit trench or compost heap if you're really lucky). I can easily recall the 'water channels' of Baghdad, especially the Shulla Mohallah, what we called 'the Meat Market'. There it was animal blood and animal shit flowing in the gutters.
Coif, Whimple, Guimpe, and Veil - these are the traditional names of the various headcoverings of the Catholic nun; Coif being the cotton 'hat', the whimple being the cloth headdress, the guimpe being the neck-and-shoulder 'short cape', and the veil being the cloth that drapes over the head and onto or behind the shoulders. Based upon all the red-and-white penguins in the game.
Alb - the Cassock-Alb is the general 'acolyte' robe that is basically a long-sleeve dress with a rope cincture to tie around the waist. The traditional historic Catholic monk robe, but white instead of brown or black.
Miter - the 'tall' hat worn by Bishops and Cardinals, based off of Mother Giselle's funky headwear.
