Category: Publications

Soren buckled the leather apron straps around his waist, steeling himself as he marched into Master Kurgan’s studio. The familiar scent of clay and dust lingered in the air, the rhythmic tap of chisel on stone filling the workshop.

Kurgan’s stern eyes narrowed as he looked up from his work, his thin fingers poised above an emerging stone portrait. His bushy eyebrows furrowed. “You’re late.”

Soren swallowed hard. “I apologise, master. I lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”

Kurgan sniffed. “Perhaps you should lose track of those daydreams instead.”

“I really am sorry. I was—”

“I don’t need excuses.” Kurgan pointed at Soren’s cluttered workbench, gesturing towards the coating of dust. “I need you to focus on your work, boy.”

Soren dipped his head. “I know.”

“You’ll never master your craft if you’re always chasing shadows.”

Soren picked up his chisel and mallet, the tools at home in his grip, and continued working on his latest piece—an alabaster wyvern with its wings outstretched.

“Remember, Soren, the world beyond Nebel Hafen’s walls may seem alluring, but it’s as cold and unforgiving as the Braun Sea.”

Soren gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the thought nagging at him. There had to be more to life than this.

The day wore on and Soren soon regained focus on his work, the wyvern’s form slowly revealing itself with each strike of his chisel. It was the closest thing to magic in this world—the ability to create something beautiful and lasting from something as mundane as a block of lifeless stone.

The light from outside caught his attention. He blinked up at the window, his eyes dry and tired from dust and concentration. White-capped waves crashed against the harbour wall as the afternoon sun shone down on the Braun Sea.

Soren took this as his cue and broke away from his work. He cleaned his tools and swept the floor. He gazed at the half-finished wyvern on his workbench, its pink alabaster seeming almost translucent in the dim light. He couldn’t wait to get back to work on it, but errands for his master loomed.

Alaric appeared near the workshop door. He leant against the frame with one foot on the wall, a smirk on his face, and his hair still damp, no doubt from a morning spent at sea.

“Hey, Sor.”

Soren waved a hand in greeting.

“Need any help?”

“Thank you. That would be great.” Soren wiped Kurgan’s tools and gestured to his own workbench. “Help me finish up here. I need to run some errands for Master Kurgan.”

“Sure thing.” Alaric pushed off his leaning post.

Soren placed the last of Kurgan’s tools down and let out a sigh.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Let me guess.” Alaric grinned. “Old Kurgan wants you to clean his smallclothes.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“It’s not that funny.”

“I know.” Soren cocked an eyebrow.

Alaric wandered over to the wyvern statue and pushed out his bottom lip. “This yours?”

“Yeah, he has me doing pointless little ornaments. Apprentice pieces, he calls them.”

“I guess we’ve all got to start somewhere. Your father had me mending nets again today. I want to be on the bow with a harpoon, bringing in a sperm whale. But, no, I get to sit in the hold, fiddling with old nets while my fingers turn red.”

“And I want to carve mountains.”

“Ah, the life of an artist.” Alaric ran his hands over the statue. “So mysterious and full of torment.”

“Torment? Hardly. It’s just…sometimes. I don’t know.”

“Oh, here we go.”

Soren glanced towards the window. “I feel like I’m stuck in this place, doing the same thing, day after day after day.”

“Welcome to being an apprentice.” Alaric clapped him on the back. “We all feel that way sometimes. At least when you’re finished, you don’t stink of fish guts, or have frostbite to contend with. You know, it was so cold out there today, I felt like my nose was going to freeze off. Imagine that. Your nose getting so cold it would drop off your face.”

“I guess.”

“I know you feel trapped in this place—we all do. But you have an incredible talent. And, one day, you’ll show everyone just how great you can be.”

“It can’t come soon enough.”

“Well, don’t let me get in the way of your fun.”

Alaric headed for the door.

“Yeah, right. Fun.”

Soren glanced around his still unfinished tasks and sighed as the door clicked shut behind Alaric. “Some help you were.”

---

A narrow stone path led to the cottage Soren shared with his father. He marched homewards, his head pounding, his arms aching, his legs spent. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls had weathered many storms, standing steadfast against the elements.

Warmth hit him as he opened the door and stepped across the threshold.

“Ah, there you are.” Soren’s father smiled across the kitchen as he bustled around, chopping vegetables with deft hands and stirring pots with practised ease. “I was ready to send out a search party.”

“Sorry about that.” Soren offered him a tired smile. “I had errands to run for the master.”

“Ah, well, needs must. I brought back some fine trout today. Not keen on these winds we’ve had coming from the north. Burn the skin off your knuckles if you’re not careful.”

“Alaric said it was cold.”

His father chuckled. “Aye. Very cold below deck out of the winds, I’m sure. He had it easy and he still found time to complain. Needs to buck his ideas up, that one.”

“I think he’s just itching to do more.”

“Oh? Has he been complaining?”

“No.” Soren shook his head. “I just remember him talking about how much he wanted to catch a whale, that’s all.”

“We’re a fisher, not a whaler.”

“I know.” Soren rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands at the basin. “Let me help.”

As they worked side by side, Soren couldn’t help but admire the precision and skill with which his father worked on the fish. With each cut, he removed the bones and excess skin, leaving behind perfect fillets. The sharp blade glinted against the warm light.

“You’ve got that look on your face again.” His father watched him with a sidelong glance. “Everything alright?”

Soren hesitated before answering. “I’m fine. I’m just looking forward to finishing my apprenticeship. I feel like…I don’t know. I can do so much more than ornaments. I’ve improved so much and I’m ready to do more…I know I am.”

“You’ve got a keen eye and a steady hand, son. But Master Kurgan has done you well.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I feel like there’s something more out there for me.”

“Like what?”

Soren shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s like Alaric—he’s stuck in the bowels of a ship all day, fixing nets when he’d rather be out hunting whales.”

“I see.”

“What I mean is, I don’t know if I can stay doing what I’m doing for another five years.”

His father paused, his eyes meeting Soren’s. “You’re free to follow your own path, son. But don’t forget where you come from. It might not be glamorous, but it’s honest work. In time, it’ll put food on your table.”

“I know.”

“I’ve paid a decent chunk of coin for that apprenticeship. I could have insisted you follow in my footsteps, but I wanted more for you.”

Soren forced a smile. “I know. And you’re right. I just…I just need to keep focused on getting better, focused on learning my craft.”

“That’s my boy.”

---

The next day, Soren’s arms were aching from hours of chiselling. He took a step back to admire the completed wyvern sculpture. A mixture of pride and satisfaction bloomed within him that he had transformed a lifeless slab of alabaster into a work of art.

He walked around the piece, studying it from all angles. Master Kurgan would have no choice but to let him move on to more challenging pieces.

A sudden draught drew his attention away from his work.

The door closed behind Alaric. “Nice job.” He sidled up to Soren and gazed down at the sculpture, rubbing his chin. “Is it supposed to look like a chicken?”

“It’s supposed to be a wyvern.” Soren wiped his brow with a dirty sleeve and registered Alaric’s smirk. “Oh, we’re doing this again, are we?”

“Seriously, though, it’s impressive.” Alaric leant in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I bet Kurgan did the finishing touches, though. No way you’d be able to do those scales like this without him holding your hand.”

Soren narrowed his eyes. “You can joke all you want, but it was all me.” He studied his work from several angles. “And I have outdone myself, if I’m being honest.”

“Because you’ve not been honest all this time?”

“You know what I mean.”

Alaric shook his head and grinned. “Nah. It’s good. You’ve done alright.” He gave Soren’s arm a playful punch.

“Careful!” Soren grabbed his chisel, catching it before it fell off the edge. “Tools of the trade.” He glanced towards the door. “But thanks, though. Kurgan’s been pushing me harder than ever. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever think I’m truly ready.”

“Maybe he wants you to reach your full potential, or something.” Alaric leant against a nearby table and picked up a hammer, turning it in his hand. “There’s always room for improvement, right?”

“Easy for you to say.”

“You’re right about that. Turns out I’m pretty good at this speaking lark.” He placed the hammer down and gestured to the door. “Come on. Let’s take a break. There’s more to life than chipping away at rocks.”

“What you got in mind?”

“I don’t know. Let’s have some fun. Cause some trouble, like we used to.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Alaric waved his hands. “Alright. No trouble. But all work and no play makes Soren a dull boy.”

“Fine. You win.”

“Excellent. Get some coin together. We could eat, have a few drinks, play some cards, whatever.”

Soren smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

“Let’s go then, before old Kurgan comes back and gets you to scrub his privy.”

The door opened, bringing with it the chill from outside.

“Oh, well.” Alaric took a step back. “Too late. Looks like you’ve missed the boat.”

Kurgan marched in with his arms folded and scowled at Alaric. “You again?” He gestured to the door. “Go on, do one. Be off with you.”

Soren gave his friend a helpless shrug. “I need to stay here.”

Alaric nodded and ducked past Kurgan. “Later, then?”

“Yeah. Later,” Soren said as Alaric departed.

Kurgan strode over to Soren’s workbench and gazed down at the wyvern. He stood silent for several seconds, his head turning this way and that as he tapped his chin. “You’ve done an adequate job there, boy.” He pointed to the tail. “Watch your tapering on the base. And the barb doesn’t look like that.” He lifted the wyvern and turned it in his hands. “You haven’t touched the underside of its feet. And wyverns have four claws, not three.”

Soren looked at his wyvern through Kurgan’s eyes and noted the flaws for the first time. “Thank you, master.”

“Also, you should add more depth to the scales. Remember, to capture reality, you have to exaggerate it slightly.”

“Thank you, master.”

“Remember, Soren”—Kurgan lay a hand on his shoulder—“true mastery comes not from talent but from humility and perseverance.” He raised a finger. “Talent gets you in the door. But it’s a commitment to learning one’s craft that marks a true artist.”

“Of course, master.” Soren hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “I was wondering…”

“What is it?”

“How many pieces like this did you have to do before you completed your apprenticeship?”

Kurgan shrugged and pursed his lips. “A few hundred at least, maybe a thousand or so.”

Soren gaped. “Are you…are you joking?”

“No joke.” Kurgan stroked his moustache. “And let’s just say, my old master wasn’t as lenient as I am.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing faint scars across the backs of his hands and arms.

“What happened?”

“They’re reminders. They’re reminders of the importance of hard work, of commitment to your craft.” He jerked his sleeve back down. “But they also remind me that violence is ugly and terrible.”

Soren looked down at the back of his hands and chewed on the inside of his lip. “Thank you.”

“I received those beatings for much less than your mistakes.”

“I will try my best. I swear it in the eyes of Creation.”

“Good.” Kurgan cleared his throat. “Maybe if that fish boy wasn’t in here every day, you might produce some better work.” He placed the statue down and gestured to a block of white marble resting on a nearby bench. “I’d like you to try another piece. Work from the same brief, but this time in Sieshin marble. The stone is much harder to work, so keep your chisel sharp and your rhythm steady.”

“Another wyvern?”

Kurgan nodded. “Another wyvern. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, master.”

“Have you considered experimenting with different materials?” He gestured to a collection of various stones and metals along the workshop wall. “It might help you grow as an artist.”

“I like working with alabaster. I really want to get good with it.”

“And leave everything else behind?” Kurgan shrugged as he began to pace. “Heed my words, boy. If you only master one thing, you will be an apprentice forever.”

Soren shook his head. “How am I supposed to become a great artist if I don’t have a specialism?”

“The specialism comes when you have mastered all parts of your craft. A solution in modelling may provide a fresh perspective on carving. Techniques and processes can be adapted from one medium to another. Don’t allow complacency to stifle your growth. If you’re not growing, you’re dying.”

“I understand.”

Kurgan patted Soren’s back. “You don’t.” He chuckled to himself. “But you will.”

---

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Soren locked up the workshop for the night. The dying light cast long shadows across the cobblestones, while a chilling breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the scent of brine and the faint hints of fish and seaweed.

He double-checked the lock and started when Alaric slipped from the shadows.

“By Creation.” Soren’s hand shot to his chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

Alaric rubbed his hands together, his face obscured by his hood. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Plan for what?”

“For tonight, fool.”

Soren shrugged a shoulder. “I’m tired, my arms ache, and I’m covered in dust. I just want to head home…It’s been a long day.”

Alaric grinned and placed both of his hands on Soren’s shoulders. “Great. We’ll head to yours. Get yourself changed and grab some coin, and then the night is ours.”

Soren let out a sigh and nodded. “Fine.” He headed back along the path through Meerand, Alaric at his side.

“I bet this place used to be so different back in the day.” Alaric gestured up to Meerand Castle. “Imagine living in that place when it was whole.”

“You’re not going to start with stories of the Guardians again, are you?”

Alaric shook his head. “I wonder what it was like, though, all those people. I bet there must have been hundreds of people living there.”

Soren gazed up at the ruins. “I guess everything comes to an end. I wonder what happened to them?”

“Maybe they’re still around, working in secret.”

“Yeah. And maybe the Wolfsbane clan are still hiding in the forests.”

Alaric sniffed. “I think we can definitely say that’s not happening.”

“Would you have joined?”

“What? The Guardians?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Might be more fun than mending nets. Be a hero. Go on adventures. Bit of swashbuckling. Yeah, I could do that.”

“I bet it would be boring. I’d join up, do a seven-year apprenticeship, and then I’d probably end up in the offices, doing paperwork, knowing my luck.”

“You make your own luck in this world.”

“You sound like Master Kurgan.”

“Don’t say that. Never say that.”

“Are you going to start lecturing me on proper chisel care?”

Alaric laughed. “Yeah. And make sure you dust off those…tooly things.”

As they reached his cottage, Soren pushed open the door and entered the kitchen, still grinning, Alaric following on behind.

“Father?”

No answer.

Soren glanced around the dimly lit room. His gaze fell upon his father’s pipe smouldering on the table.

A muffled thump echoed from elsewhere in the cottage.

Soren turned to Alaric, his grin fading. “Stay here.” He bolted across the kitchen and headed for his father’s chamber. He threw open the door.

Soren froze. There, sprawled across the floor, was his father—his limbs contorted at unnatural angles, his throat cut.

Crimson blood pooled by his father’s side, and his eyes stared vacantly.

“This is…this is…”

Alaric joined Soren’s side and stared. “By Creation—”

“What kind of monster—?”

“Shh.” Alaric gestured behind him and ducked. “Someone’s here.”

Soren’s heart thundered in his chest. He willed his body to respond, and he crouched, hearing light footsteps move through the house.

But he couldn’t stay down long. He rose to stand. “We need to know who did this.”

Alaric jerked him back. “Are you completely mad?”

Soren shrugged off Alaric’s hold. “Better mad than a coward.”

“Fine.” Alaric’s jaw clenched. “But if we die, I’m blaming you.”

Soren crept through the cottage, every creak of the floorboards seeming to echo off the walls.

“Damn, he didn’t even let him finish his pipe.” Alaric shook his head. “That’s just rude.”

Soren glowered at Alaric.

By the faint light of the moon, he caught a glimpse of someone retreating outside. A man in grey, his face twisted by a gnarled scar across his right eye.

The man vanished into the night.

Soren wanted to give chase. But all he could do was stand in place, paralysed by it all. He stood at the cottage door and looked out into the darkness. “I swear in the eyes of Creation…”

Alaric stood beside him, his expression grim. “What do you want to do?”

“Find him.” Soren took his time scanning for any signs of the killer. “And catch him.”

“And then what?”

“And then we bring him to justice.”

Alaric nodded. “What about…” He gestured behind him.

“I can’t think about that right now.”

As they stepped outside, Soren took a deep breath. “We need information. Someone must have seen this bastard skulking around.”