Rickard

Rickard kept to himself for most of the trip. At times he would look to the Lieutenant, his mind itching to ask him if he had dispatched enough men to find Dayna. If he can guarantee her safety...but he knew that it would do no good to question the man now. How would he know in any case as to their progress. No...if there was anyone to blame if anything is to happen to her, he needs look no further than to himself. He is the one that has failed her. He is the one that is supposed to keep her safe.

He tried taking his mind off of the thoughts brooding in his head by thinking of what he can recall of Calmoor and Melise. Merchants in the past had come from Melise to purchase the mastercrafted wares from The Molten Anvil, his old forge. The Nethicite ore from the mines in the east that they incorporate into their alloys keeps the metals as strong as any, but weighing only half of their contemporaries. This had made the Molten Anvil famed in the lands surrounding their Duchy.

The merchants had often spoken of the massive docks at Calmoor that moored the massive fleets of merchant ships from all across the Windswept Strait. Stories of southern Dathmoori vendors that had braved the Gale Coast, carrying trinkets never before seen by the northern duchies. The never ending stream of workers coming to and fro from the great docks, working their tireless shifts of unloading wares from one ship and onto another.

Of the Melisians he recalls little. Most of the merchants that he had come into contact with were but middle men. Those whom hailed from Melise herself were generally more reserved men, soft spoken and were as careful with their words as they were with coin from their purse.

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Before he knew it, the sun had begun to descend and they had reached the rest stop.