Though the fog was thick and heavy, the ocean spray—from the waves crashing upon the low cliffs—could still be felt from the ridge. Vinn held up a hand to shield himself from the splash of the waters. However, the sea was violet that day and droplets broke through his guard, like the damned mercenaries, and stung his eyes.
With a heavy sigh, he walked off from the ledge, the spray of rogue waves still touching his back. There would be no use peering over the stout cliffs in such a fog, nor would it be safe to leave the flame unattended for too long. Ships sailing towards Panaguilla were surely to crash in to the great cliff sides without the flame of the lighthouse to orient themselves properly. So Vinn pulled open the door to the tall, square tower that sat on its tiny island of gravel and grass tufts.
Inside it was cozy and lavish by all means for having been exiled. That he was given credence to use a tenth of his coin in accommodating this Shaded place, Vinn was grateful Re Verdani had graced him with such geniality. Though he certianly still held him in poor regard as he could have too let him choose his fate, rather than shover him onto this forsaken island with nothing more than a tower and the rare man who would never spout a word but drop off a week's supply of amenities and foodstuffs.
Vinn huffed at a spiderweb that clung in the corner of the fireplace. With a broom, held together by bronze fixtures, he swept it away and battered the spider to death on the tile floor. It was then he saw a glimpse of a gauntleted fist driven into the poor, rugged face of another man. He was willing to make the man's family rich, give them a tenth of his wealth, but instead he was foreced to spend it on re-tiling, stuccoing, and furnishing his forever home. Perhaps the rest of his wealth had gone to the farmhand, though it likely was still in the hands of the king and his brother would be fighting to get an ounce of the gold and jewels.
"Bastards." He sputtered before pulling himself up the stairs. The room was always well kept, the floor blanketed with detail carpets and rugs, a four poster bed set up in a corner, and a large desk with its own bookshelf sat beside an open window. Vinn stepped up to it, hands behind his back, staring out into the grey void of a pure and dark mist.
Pointless, trivial, nonsense. He mulled over such words as he raised his chin. Were the Rueschan to breech their damned blockade or assault them by foot through the Knotting Wood, Re Verdani would surely need him then. He was a damned knight of the land and sea, Captain of the Left Hands, the leader of all the king's lieutenants! Yet, now he sat away in the cursed tower, cast in shadow whilst the rest of the world soiled his name. So he left the window to go stoke the flame.
The winding stairs wore at him. Aching knees, heavy breaths, and a pounding heart came throughout the years. A plague from having clambered up the steep staircase many times everyday. Either it be for keeping the flame alight, bringing up firewood deliveries, or out of pure boredom, he withered to the mercy of the stairs.
At the top, he unlatched the hatch door and pushed it open. Moist, heavy air suffocated what few flames flickered in the great brazier. Even the coals had grown dull and grey.
Vinn took up a bronze tube, and plunger, a bit of silvery strands, and some timber. The wood was chucked into the brazier, nigh kicking the flames out. Using a modicum of haste, he plucked up a small, brass cup to place the silver threads into. Holding the bronze tube over the shiny kindling, he struck the plunger down. A shower of hot sparks forced the silvery strands to burst into seering, white flame.
He snatched up the cup, whilst sheilding his eyes with a free hand, and lurched to swiftly throw the hot, white flames into the brazier. The silver strands burned with a brilliance of that which rivaled the sun. All of the sodden coals and fresh wood that was touched by the white light were instantly torched. The fire billowing with blinding glows in its heart.
Vinn swiftly tossed in more wood, that the flame burned wide as the brazier. Such intense heat drew drops of sweat down his forehead. He wiped them way. However, his sleeve was unable to soak up the droplets, having been drenched from the prevailing mist and ocean spray. Although a fruitless endeavor, it had proved rather familiar. He had once worked up such a sweat and cleared his brow with his sleeve, that which was soaked in the blood of the man he had pummeled. It was hard work, truly. It is a time of peace, he was to be your page! The king had roared at him.
In reflection, he found that it was a rather unnecessary punishment. However, had the man not disrespected his very name before the whole company, having stuck to cleaning Vinn's cups as demanded, such a problem would never have occured. Besides, as the tides ever turn towards war with the Rueschan, Re Verdani would not stay the hands of the Captains, Lieutenants, and Sargents in the times to come. Such brutal punishment is necessary in maintaining the proper order in a company of soldiers. It would only be a matter of time before the king would come to regret his decision in his exile.
He then stepped up to the banister and leaned over it to peer through the ever dense fogs. In the beaming light of the great fire shone large squares of sails, tall trunks of masts, and long bodies of the tightly packed Estolinian ships bobbing in the Basin waters.
A scoff rolled off his lips. He did not quite mean it, but it would not go amiss in how he felt about the blockade. It was a stupid stratagem truly. Re Verdani likely organized such an endeavor months ago, but only in the past weeks had the ships formed a tight, double line across the thinnest span of the Median Basin. Were he still part of the King's Counsel, this would never have passed. A bloackade is but cowardice, and the positioning of it did not choke Rueschan trade any more than before, aside from denying a route to Vestonia. Regardless of trivial matters about the maneuvering of coin and goods, the truth was that the Rueschan held the greatest naval force in all the Valley. Such blockades would be mere drills for their soldiers.
He shook his head and turned from the banister. As he went down the first steps and took hold of the hatch, an echo of timbers torn asunder reached the lighthouse. Vinn rushed out, nearly stumbling over the railing, to gaze upon the poor souls that likely crashed into the cliffs. However, there were no ships along the ridge.
Faint voices screamed from afar. Another bashing of splintering wood floated by. In the blurred distance, where the blockade stood, ships with dark sails had crashed into those of Estolina. Then, a jest of flame light up in the thick haze. More screams followed after, but it seemed to have no effect on the ships. That was for the moment. But after another stream from the dark sailed crafts, roaring fires rose upon the decks of the Estolinians. The orange flickering engulfed them, reaching up to the sails and soon the entire ship burned brighter than the lighthouse brazier.
Vinn's heart dropped, clanking down each rib, sliping through his hip, and slapping onto his feet. He stared on as more gusts of fire burned down more ships further down the blockade. Though he despised many of Re Verdani's rulings and decisions, the lover for his countrymen had never waned. Grating, warbling, strained cries and screams tickled at his clenched heart.
He pulled himself from the most grim fate any soldier could face—a death of drowning and burning. He rushed down the long winding stairs. Once of the cheeky buggers slipped from beneath his heel. Before he got to meet all the other slaps face to face, he shot his arms out. Hands scraping against the stone walls, he jerked to a stop and took a moment to breathe. A moment later, he reache his bedroom.
At the large desk, he took a bit of parchment and set up a writing space. Words wizzed about his head and what was written had been rushed and wild. Besides, were this letter to go to the king himself it should be written well and embellished. Perhaps witnessing Vinn's tenacity to inform and serve Estolina may be enough for Re Verdani to pardon his deeds and let him fight for the coming battles.
He flung open a drawer that held a large case of many colored inks and even tools for illuminating manuscripts. Rare was it that he opened such a drawer; only for the times in which he responded to his lover's letters that sailed in with supplies and aphrodisiacs. It were the few things that ever kept him from jumping off the top of the lighthouse. But with such a chance to impress the king, Vinn wrote and embellished a final missive with various colors, flourishes, and trims. It so read:
As per the duties of the lightkeeper,
I so solemnly account, on this utterly foggy day, the ambush of the southern end on the blockade of Rueschan ships. Screams, rammings, and streams of fire tore the ships asunder. Though under such great mists, out ships burned and were given no chance of escape or maneuver.
Handed by,
Sir Vinarllio
After the final stroke, Vinarllio took a bit of silken thread, rolled up the missive, and tied it up for delivery. He took the message over to the cage that hung by the window where his carrier pigeon, Ventonio, sat pecking at molting feathers. The cage door squeaked open. Vinn took a bit of cordage to tie the missive to tightly. Then, Ventonio fluttered out the window.
As he watched the pigeon fly away, a great glow lit up the right of the sill. Lurching outside, the Median Basin had caught fire and a long line of billowing flames and columns of dark smoke flooded the waters and skies. The blockade ahd been torched like a pyre for the damned.
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