When people think of the Faulk, they think of hairy brutes with more hair than clothing. They think of numerous villages assaulted by raids, of sacked riches, and of fast, two-hulled ships fading to and from impenetrable fog. Everybody has a story about how someone they know got robbed, maimed, or killed during a Faulk raid. The Faulk have been stealing from their neighbors for over seven hundred years, and no sane man would ever try to ask them about themselves.

My teacher, Deraj Carbonne, always did say the line between madness and genius is defined by the success of one’s endeavors. I have opted to not stop in Sima with the other students. Rather than write a study on a well-known culture, their magic, or their technologies, I managed to successfully navigate Faulk customs to understand more about them, all to make this report.

I will not deny that they are raiders. However, they are more than that. They are a hardy people who have survived in the harsh western swamps before even the dragons found us. They are traders, farmers, hunters, craftsmen, mages, artists, and some of my colleagues may even claim them philosophical peers. They are not lawless savages. In fact, they follow a strict set of rules referred to as the ‘laws of hospitality’. These laws of hospitality can be summed up with a few key rules.

First: Your word is tied to you. Liars, schemers, and cheats are only tolerated in war. Should you cheat a Faulk, they will remember who you are and spread your name though their ‘grapevine’. (Author’s note: I’m not completely sure what it is, but I can account for its efficiency.) The grapevine allows the Faulk to communicate with each other over vast distances instantly, maintained by a spiritual magecraft-focused elite: the shamans.

Second: Debts are honored above silver and blood. The Faulk prize silver above gold due to its lighter weight and rarity, but debts are honored more so than any silver. These debts are not strictly measured, more maintained through a complicated network of relationships that can best be described as merit. If one provides for the community, they engender a debt from the community to them and are treated as such. An individual with high merit can expect to be provided for by the community so long as they continue to provide in turn. As a result, communities are small and close knit, rarely numbering more than a hundred people. Furthermore, killing an innocent (even a foreigner) is seen as dishonorable and invites a debt from those close to the victim. This explains why Faulk typically do not kill or maim children and the infirm.

Finally: One’s home is sacred. A Faulk will never poison you in your own home, or in theirs. If they invite you in, act as they do. For them, a shared hearth is a shared heart.

Of course, these rules have a plethora of smaller rules and quirks, which can make things confusing. Which is why they have shamans and jarls to mediate disputes. And if they cannot reach a conclusion, the matter is taken up with the High Jarl, who may be in a hightown (wherever they are hosted by a subordinate jarl) or within the Stone Circle, where shamans train.

The longer I’ve stayed, the more fascinating facets of their culture I discover. How they make their drakkars, special two-prow boats to navigate the swamps. How they farm in the dark and musky swamp using chinampas. How they spread knowledge through skalds and word of mouth rather than written language due to the difficulty of using slate or paper. Their food, sumptuous and filling.

I will send more information to the College when I am able. Praise Emperor Lyon, and may he add our insight to his tremendous wisdom.

Exactly Yours,

Scholar Apprentice Remi Chauffier

A letter recovered by scholars fleeing the purge of Bergin.

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Rael had never liked bards. Maybe it was because Tulip’s hold was a small town where no talented bard would bother traveling to. Far away from the major trade city of Nize meant that there were no major trade routes. The village was nearly a hundred kilometers from a branching trade route from the countries of Paralu and Hu leading to Ganor, the capital. The first bard they’d met was a lecherous old man who tried to cop a feel from every woman that passed him by. The next was the idiot with the bagpipes. And the last was a beautiful young woman who sang and danced tales of sorrow and betrayal, bemoaning lost love and fortune. She stayed long enough to marry a young man ten years her junior, disappearing the morning after with all his valuables. Rael and the rest of Tulip’s Hold were somewhat…cold to whatever other minstrel came into town after that.

“On the eve of the skies torn,

Drifted a wreck born of scorn.

Within lay a child and his ward,

Hung by naught but a cord.”

In sum, Rael had only met charlatans and philanderers claiming to be bards. Maybe that’s why Rael felt so uncomfortable as they sat at the front row of Feldon’s personal drakkar, listening to the trio of skalds play a song that Feldon had commissioned about Rael and Azmond.

“‘Drink my lifeblood if you must survive,

I promise I will keep you alive!’

From flesh the Ward called to drink,

Even as their wounds began to stink.”

Was Rael supposed to applaud after this? Correct them? Feldon’s warriors sat behind them, slamming their feet to the beat. Rael could feel the prickle on the back of their neck. They were watching Rael. The singer was putting his heart out into the song as the drummer accentuated the beats softly, the twang of the tanbur growing in intensity and speed.

“Weaning off water and rott’d shellfish,

A lone captain granted their wish!

Brought ashore, given aid, ale and hearty stew,

Who knew what the pair would do!”

They began playing faster and louder, the music hitting a crescendo.

“Oh, they travelled side by side,

With some mighty Faulk indeed!

They were in for a mighty ride

From the fae hidden within the reed!”

The three skalds sang in tandem for the chorus.

“Child of Dragons pulled within

Pray to escape with your skin!

Dragonward claim your name,

Victory in fae’s game!”

And they played, whooping and hollering as the Faulk on the drakkar joined in for the chorus again. Rael held their head in their hands as they struggled to keep their composure. With a final note, the band of skalds stopped playing and bowed as the crewmen cheered. Drinks were poured, several crew members patting Real heartily on the back. The skalds were herded around until they made their way to Ulric, Derrol, Kip, and Feldon. Rael watched the skalds bow and share a mug with the high-ranking Faulk. They talked, Rael clasping their hands together and squinting, trying to read their lips through the thick beards and the hubbub on the boat. Kip laughed hard enough to spit out his drink and pointed towards Rael.

“Oh hells.” Rael groaned, standing up straight and trying to walk through the crowd.

They had sidestepped three spilled drinks, two pairs either wrestling or on the prelude to some very public lovemaking, and someone singing off key when they felt a hand grab their shoulder.

“Rael!” Kip’s face was flushed, and his breath reeked of ale. “Dontcha wanna meet the skalds who gave us such a fan-fan-GREAT song?”

Rael did not spare a glance to the three behind Kip, casually brushing Kip’s hand from their shoulder.

“No.”

“Ach, what?!” Kip stumbled back in exaggerated shock. “They made a song about you! I’ve been tryin’ to get som’n to sing my praises for years!”

“I’m not you.” Rael huffed, trying to walk away. Kip teetered forwards and swung an arm over Rael’s shoulders.

“Maybe, maybe. But…at some point, yer gonna hafta accept that you are no longer alone.” The drunk captain wiped some drool from the side of his mouth, throat rumbling in a restrained belch. “Strength in unity ‘n all that.” He leaned in close enough to talk into Rael’s ear, almost yelling over the raucous partying on the boat. “N’ they went through the effort of writing all that stuff ‘bout you and lil’ Az. Do you know how hard it is to do that?” Kip careened backwards, almost tripping over a pair that were definitely not wrestling. “I can’t even get my bagpipe working without sounding like the caterwauling of a mangy swamp cat trying to make love to a capricorn!”

Rael threw their arms in the air and waved the three skalds over, hoping that the thoroughly inebriated youth would leave them alone. Kip smiled, only for someone to punch him in the gut. Wheezing, he turned around and jumped into a steadily growing brawl. The skalds practically danced through the chaos as the fight began to spread. They sat down on a bench, Rael picking up a plate of fruit and red meat from a raider who’d fallen asleep centimeters from her meal. The three skalds bowed and introduced themselves.

“Honored Dragonward, my name is Skald Meayetti, and behind me are Skald Yvon and Skald Pequit, brother and sister.” Meayetti still held onto her drum as her neatly combed red hair cascaded down her shoulders. Yvon and Pequit shared a similarly angular nose and fair hair, but otherwise didn’t look related. “Greetings onto you.”

Rael gave a curt nod but said nothing.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” Pequit gave the smile of someone who was used to charming their way into the hearts and pants of anybody he desired. “But I’m sure you noticed how…sparse our song was.” Yvon elbowed him discreetly in the side. Pequit flinched and threw a glare at his sister, fumbling over his words for a moment. “Er, that is…not a slight on how much or how little you’ve done, we just seem to be missing some information.”

Meayetti held up a hand to stop him before he risked saying more.

“Pequit did not mean offense, Dragonward.” As she talked, Pequit poked Yvon in the side, who responded with an angry poke of her own. Meayetti turned around to glare at them.

‘They’re definitely siblings.’

“No need to walk on eggshells around me, I’m not Faulk. I don’t care about all that, I know how little I’ve done.” Rael threw a raspberry in their mouth, leaning forwards to avoid two people pushing each other around. They took another berry and threw it higher in the air to catch.

“So can you tell us about the demon attack?” Pequit asked, ducking under a thrown plate.

“What?” The berry bounced off Rael’s forehead.

“There have been rumors…” Yvon sidled by Rael, fingers dancing across her worn tanbur.

“Normally the stories people from Bergin tell are so boring.” Pequit continued as his sister pushed away a glassy-eyed brawler. “Emperor Lyon this, Emperor Lyon that. Maybe they mention the Sons of the Empire, but it’s so repetitive!” Pequit rolled his eyes and sat in front of Rael. “Until recently. Tales, practically rumors, of a Bergin galleon and a sloop destroyed by demons.”

“Rumors.” Yvon sat next to him, prodding him in the side again. “We’ve yet to meet anybody from the supposed wreck.”

“Ah, but!” Pequit leaned closer to Rael. “The rumors all agree on one thing: there was a Child of Dragons aboard the sloop. And the eastern winds blow strong this time of year. Strong enough to bring the remains of a wreck all the way to Faulk.”

Rael gritted their teeth and turned their head. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“Come on, please?” Pequit whined, clasping his hands together. “If the rumor is true, then that’d make your song sooooo much better!” He gasped when Yvon pinched his ear and twisted. “Owowowowow! Stop!”

“The last time you tried to get someone to fess up to some grand story, we were mocked for months!” Yvon hissed. “I do not want to be scolded by the shamans again!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Rael said firmly, standing up and making towards the gangplank. They were pulled back by a meaty hand.

“You can’t leave just yet.” A gruff voice spoke from behind them.

Feldon had grabbed Rael’s arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough that Rael knew they wouldn’t be able to slip out of grip. He was short enough to get lost in the bunch of brawling Faulk, but his presence was strong enough that the shifting tides of the crowd broke and moved around him like a boulder in a stream.

“Jarl Feldon.” Rael inclined their head. “I’m not exactly a party person. I don’t see why I need to stay.”

“I am not fond of this revelry, either.” Jarl Feldon nodded but made a point to pull Rael closer. “But it is customary for the Jarl’s entourage to remain on the Jarl’s ship.”

“This isn’t exactly a good place for Az.” Rael nodded in the direction of some Faulk who were not far from undressing each other in public.

“Laundun berry wine does that to people.” The Jarl shrugged. “I don’t like it either, but I let my crew celebrate however they like, so long as they aren’t hurting each other.” There was a cheer as a woman knocked out somebody with a spectacular uppercut. “Permanently, I mean. But it isn’t Azmond you need to worry about, he left an hour ago. It is the Dragonward that is accompanying me.”

“You guys and your traditions.” Rael rolled their eyes.

“They are strange, aren’t they?” Jarl Feldon hummed and let go of Rael’s arm. “Follow me.”

Rael did not have to weave through the throngs of drunk Faulk as they did earlier. Everybody seemed to make way for Feldon, moving to make room for the Jarl as he approached casually. Rael could see the skalds struggle through the closing crowd as they kept their distance. Feldon climbed a set of steep stairs to the aft section, where there was nothing but a ship wheel, some lines, and a great log of wood coming from near the front of the ship that settled into a sort of two-pronged fork on top of the wheel. Rael leaned against the log, looking down into the square pit formed between the two hulls and the raised aft. There was little room to move around, with rows of parallel benches leading through the pit, divided into two columns separated by the log that was two meters overhead. Yet, the people danced, wrestled, ate, and cheered where they could. A vessel had become host to a raucous party and its captain stood silently by Rael’s side.

“Have you ever shaken someone’s hand, Rael?”

“Yeah?” Rael cocked their head curiously.

“Odd that we associate shaking hands with trust.” Jarl Feldon noted. “Long ago, warriors would clasp each other by the arms and shake before meeting to dislodge hidden weapons. There was something sacred about two warriors meeting one another without weapons.”

“Understandable.” The youth said slowly, prompting Feldon to keep talking.

“Traditions are like that. Long ago, they were tasks undertaken to secure trust, prove worth, or ensure survival. The methods that survive and continue to exist are the ones that worked. The echoes of these original actions remain, even if they no longer hold the weight they once did.” Feldon motioned to the party below. “Just as we once shook hands to dislodge weapons, the Faulk once sent a Jarl with their mightiest warriors to the Stone Circle to choose a new High Jarl through ritual combat. Knowing they might be sailing to their deaths, the crews would have a glorious feast, to celebrate the lives they’d lived. It would either be their last feast, or the first among many more should they achieve victory.”

“I’m hoping you don’t do that anymore.” Rael crossed their arms.

“No need to worry.” Jarl Feldon chuckled. “These are echoes of darker times. Times before Dragonborn Fenris.”

“Dragonward, Dragonneedle, and now Dragonborn.” Rael smirked. “You guys really like the dragons.”

“Maybe if there were people willing to help you understand.” Jarl Feldon shrugged in an overexaggerated, sarcastic manner. “It’s not as if there are three people who are all too eager to talk to you that have studied all our stories.” He ignored the three skalds at the bottom of the ladder as he jumped back down into the pit. Pequit stared pleadingly at Rael until they broke.

“Fine,” they waved them up. “Let’s talk.”

Pequit rushed up the stairs, scrambling to get close to Rael. The other two skalds followed in a more refined manner.

“Oh, thank you thank you thank—”

“Not about how I got in the shipwreck.” Rael held a hand up in Pequit’s face.

“But, I, um…gah!” Pequit blubbered, throwing his hands in the air. Meayetti put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“That’s fine. We probably know more than you do.” She said softly, leaning against the log by Rael. “What would you like to know?”

Rael thought of the flashes of emotion and images that sprung into their mind whenever they were distracted. The dreams of things that had happened to someone else. Glimpses of sensations that were not their own. It was partly the reason they hadn’t slept since their encounter with the fae. They could feel foreign memories stirring beneath the surface, lurking like a hungry crocodile. Rael didn’t want to admit it, but they were afraid. Rael hated being afraid. They hated it when they were young, hiding from their father when he was drunk, hiding from other kids when they wanted an easy target. And they hated it now. If Rael could figure out what they had brought back with them from the fae realm when they adopted the title Dragonward, they would be able to overcome whatever these memories were. Just as they overcame their father. Just as they overcame the other children.

“Can you three tell me about the Dragonward?”

“Oh, we could do that, easy.” Pequit nodded rapidly. He turned to Yvon. “Why didn’t we do that? We could have worked Rael with the other two songs, hinted at their life becoming the next in a trilogy.”

“Jarl Feldon said ‘short and sweet’.” Yvon noted. “And it’s hardly a trilogy with all the songs about them. Even singing about Dragonward Bjorn would last us until past midnight.”

“I’ve got time.” Rael pulled themselves up to sit on the log. The skalds looked at them with raised eyebrows. Until Pequit took a deep breath and began to sing.

“There was once a man as hairy as he was big,

Who could snap your spine like it was a tiny twig.

He met a fair maiden ‘neath a great big rock.

That’s when he showed her his spectacular—”

“I meant time to talk!” Rael interrupted, slapping a hand on the log. “I don’t want to dance around metaphors and rhymes when it comes to knowing this kind of stuff.”

“I didn’t even get to the chorus.” Pequit whined.

“Rael isn’t as artistically minded as you, Pequit.” Meayetti comforted him. “They want history, not entertainment, because they’ve got big boots to fill. Why don’t you and Yvon be dears and bring us some drinks.”

“That makes sense.” The singer admitted. He quickly turned about, pointing dramatically to the barrels piled high at the bow. “Onward! To adventure!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yvon said, following her excitable brother.

“He’s not all that bright.” Meayetti smiled sheepishly. “But he’s a true artist that finds joy in whatever he does. Maybe that’s why I love him.”

“Really?” Rael rose an eyebrow. “Him?”

“The heart wants what the heart wants.” The skald climbed the log to sit besides Rael. “Haven’t you ever fallen in love?”

“Once.” Rael said before they could stop themselves. They frowned as Meayetti smiled slyly. “The way kids do. In the stupid, blind way without really knowing their crush.”

“That sounds like it ended badly.” Meayetti remarked.

“In Gulass, we have a joke.” Rael lay down on the log, staring into the foggy nothingness above. “It’s called a crush because it’s the feeling in your heart when it’s over.”

“That doesn’t sound funny.”

“Yeah, we have a terrible sense of humor.” Rael chortled. “I find it funny because it’s what I did to his nose when he turned out to be a jerk.”

Meayetti’s giggles grew into peals of laughter.

“I thought you had a terrible sense of humor?”

“We have an expression to go with our awful jokes. ‘He who laughs hardest at your jokes either loves you or wants something from you.’” Rael’s smile was hollow. “And considering you opened up to a stranger with a confession of love for a friend, I might just think that Pequit is not the one who finds information about your muses.”

The two were silent, listening to the hubbub below.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re incredibly paranoid?” Meayetti’s voice was without mirth.

“Get your crush to sing about it. At least then, you’ll have something.” Rael said coldly.

“Is it wise to be antagonizing those who write songs of you?”

“Only if they write about childhood crushes and events I don’t want to talk about.”

Meayetti shrugged.

“Who would you like to hear about first, then? Bjorn or Ruen?”

“I think I’ve heard enough about Bjorn for now. What could you tell me about Ruen?”