Ascencion Gate: Fresh Water (round1,part1)

“Tomdril Batynos! The son of the sea! Without family or friend- a cast out was he. Living alone with the nightmares, the gate full of dreams. Tossing and turning all night, his mind filled with the screams!”

The bard lets his lute carry on his tune, smiling down at it as he picks out a traditional sea folk chorus.  When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“But I would be rude to start this story in the middle. Before you can know what Tomdril did, you must know who Tomdril was.”

A boy, young and yet still bearing a puckered scar over his cheek looks up from his mug with a sneer. “He was a merman.”  He spits the word like a curse, and the Bard’s fingers stop on the strings as his eyes turn towards the interruption. But he does not frown, instead his dark weathered skin crinkling as he gives the boy a warm smile.

“Tomdril takes no offense at that term, child. For you see, he was born many long years ago. Back before the sea folk were united into the group that they are today. And yes, back then, they were known as mermen. Tomdril especially took to that name, having no clan of his own by which to identify himself.”

His fingers resume their strumming.

“I do not tell you the reason why he was cast out, as that story is the right of Tomdril and Tomdril alone to tell if he so chooses. But for the purposes of this story, it is enough to say that from an early age- when he was even younger than you, boy- Tomdril was cast out and stripped of name and rank, sent to either live with the fish or to feed them.”

“But Tomdril was as stubborn as a wet knot, and he refused to die, doubling his years and learning the secrets of the place of dreams. Heretical by most standards, insane by all, he chose to live on the edge of the gate itself. And while that would lead to his eventual downfall –but I must not skip ahead- it was this fact and this fact alone that meant Tomdril was one of the first mortal men aware of the gates opening. He watched from his boat as the doors between realms opened, saw the colors as they began to spin, and felt the press of power around him as the other gates responded in turn…  He knew it was an omen, and an omen most high.”

The bard stops, drawing his hand up to his chest and tapping twice over his heart before kissing his knuckle and murmuring a few quiet words, but what his ritual means, he does not choose to divulge to those watching him. Some blink and look at each other in confusion while the bard sits with his head bowed, but those who live on the coast hardly bat an eye, well accustomed to the eccentricities of their dark skinned brothers.

“And so!” The bard’s voice rings out again as he throws an arm wide, drawing startled attention back to himself. “And so. Tomdril set his sail to the wind, said goodbye to the sea. Came to this very bar, and began his journey.”

He plucks out a single note again, looking around at all the faces. “You are confused, friend.” He tips his head to a woman sitting sprawled out across a bench and she raises her chin defiantly at him.

“Were logic to just be going through the dream gate first.” She explains in a drawled accent. “Am not thinking very highly of your character yet, Poet. Why were he coming to the shore?”

The bard’s eyes twinkle in amusement and he turns towards the barkeep. “You will bring me a mug of fresh water.” Again, his tone is soft, neither demand nor request, and the bar maiden there stands up slowly, nodding. Only once he has it in his hand does he turn back to the woman on the bench. He takes a pinch of salt from a satchel on his belt, sprinkling a little into his mug and tossing the rest over his shoulder. “A good question indeed, friend. And difficult to answer completely. But I shall try. You see, while you seek to pass through the gates and attain immortality and power over those weaker than you, Tomdril had no such motivation.”

The woman sits up slightly, eyes narrowed.

“Tomdril sought only to complete a ritual, and as all rituals seem to be needlessly complex, he was drawn first not to the nearest gate, but to the farthest. The place of shadows.” He crosses his legs, balancing his mug on his knee with the practice that comes from living on constantly lapping water, and clears his throat. The lute sings out in counterpoint as the bard raises his voice, and as he sings, Tomdril’s world opens before his gathered audience, taking them to when the tavern belonged in an earlier age.



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The tavern smells like old canvas and fish oil. That’s the first thought Tom has as he pushes open the door and steps inside. The second is wonder. Even the greatest of clan ships do not have holds like this, with tall walls and stairs leading up to a second floor. “I was not expecting this…” he murmurs to himself, closing the door softly behind him. The oak planks on the floor creak and groan under his bare feet as he makes his way to the only populated table, smiling gently to the three men there. “I interrupt, and ask, may I sit with you, friends?”

The three men look between each other before one shrugs and nods. “Pull up a chair, merman.”

There is another moment of wonder as Tom slides a chair across the floor from another table, and he sits slowly. “I suppose there is no need to bolt down the furniture when the world under you is sleeping…”

The man who first spoke laughs, giving him a good natured slap on the shoulder. “Welcome to dry land for the first time, fishfoot. Can I cut you in?” He spreads his hand at the table and the bent cards that lay face up there. “Or is God’s Eye only played by us landsiders?”

“Oh no, I play. Or, I used to play. I am full of regret when I say I have not played in… well, more years than I would have chosen for myself.” He reaches for the cards that are dealt to him, sorting them by value and looking down at the table for the score. “I have not much to wager.”

“What of those?” The second man points at Tom’s ears, tugging at the beard that hides most of his face. “That’s good metal there, mate. I’d put up coin against those.”

A barmaid comes over, leaning over the table and winking at the men there. “Can I get you boys anything?” She jumps and glares at one of them, smacking his shoulder as he pulls his hand back, and Tom smiles pleasantly.

He sets his cards down and reaches for a pouch on his belt with one hand, the other freeing his ear of its metal loop. Both salt and earring are set on the table before him, and he picks up his cards again. “Will you bring me a mug of fresh water?”