The Vineyard Worker’s Rest

 

In  Estasea, where the streets were filled with the cries of traders and the aroma of salt water and spices from the docks, there lived two men who both stood out in differing ways. One was a renowned artist named Feverin, known for capturing life on canvas with a mastery that drew admirers from across the region. The other was a wine merchant named Percaldi, a man of shrewd business sense and a well-trained palate, whose wines were celebrated in both the taverns and the grandest halls of Estasea.

Feverin's studio sat at the edge of the artists' quarter, a cluttered chamber where sunlight spilled through wide arched windows and cast warm tints across half-finished canvases. He was famed for painting scenes from Estasean life - fishermen hauling their nets, noblewomen sipping wine under the orange glow of lamplight, and the hubbub of the markets. But deep within himself, Severin was unfulfilled, feeling that his art, as acclaimed as it was, did not capture a truth that he wished to convey.

Percaldi's shop stood in the midst of the merchants' district, its shelves weighed down with bottles of deep red and honeyed gold. He had found success through hard work and an eye for commerce. Yet despite that, it all felt hollow - each transaction was a repetition, each shipment just another tally in his ledger. He yearned for something that eluded him, no matter how fine the vintage he poured and how successful his business.

Their paths crossed one evening when the city was alive with one of its many festivals. The Feast of Lights transformed Estasea into a mass of lights that glimmered in the canals, streets and on rooftops. Feverin, wandering through the city in search of inspiration, stopped by Percaldi's shop. In the window, gilded by evening sunlight, was a display of wines that mirrored the reds and golds of the sunset.

Feverin stepped inside and introduced himself to Percaldi, who was arranging a tasting for some wealthy patrons. The artist couldn’t help feeling that the wines were stories bottled up, awaiting their release. Percaldi, in turn, found himself curious about Feverin as they discussed the wine but also the symbolism of colours and the art hidden in daily life.

 Months went by and Feverin and Percaldi developed a somewhat unlikely friendship. Feverin created a series of drawings and paintings inspired by the wine merchant’s tales of vineyards and how they were infused with the toil, hope, and love that came with each harvest. Percaldi, for his part, became interested by Feverin’s pursuit of meaning. He began to see his wines as vessels that carried dreams, from the grape harvesters in the fields to the nobles who bought the best vintages.

Their evening conversations usually took place on Feverin’s terrace, where Percaldi brought his finest wines and Feverin unveiled sketches and paintings that he was working on. They spoke of worldly success, the weight of expectation and how each had chased fulfilment without real success. Feverin admitted that, despite the acclaim he had received, he feared that he had never painted a scene that truly resonated with his soul. Percaldi confessed that he had become wealthy beyond his expectations but only seldom felt real fulfilment.

One evening,  Percaldi arrived with a rare bottle from an ancient vineyard, known only to a few connoisseurs. As Feverin tasted it, the deep, complex flavours sparked something in him that he couldn’t find words for. 

As soon as he woke the next morning, he hurried to his easel, brushes flying as he painted a simple moment - a vineyard worker resting at noon, a jug of wine by his side, eyes closed against the sun. He worked swiftly with short quick stabs of paint straight from the tube, and with an intensity that he had never experienced before. 

The painting captured something that Feverin had sought for years—the quiet victory of small moments, the joy in simple things, the pride in an honest day's work. Percaldi, seeing the completed work, felt that it was as if Feverin had taken the essence of his own life’s story and laid it bare. 

The two men remained lifelong friends, realising that wealth and fame were nothing compared to sharing life’s truths and stories with a friend and a glass of wine in hand.

A Monk of Danfelgor Visits Estasea

 

Sheltering from the winter wind in a busy tavern called The Compass Rose, on a quiet street just back from Estasea’s busy docks, a stranger sat alone at a corner table, quietly watching the crowd. He wore the drab clothes of a monk, and his manner made him stand out from the animated people around him. His gaze was steady, almost meditative, his every gesture restrained. His name was Cassian, and he was a follower of the teaching of Kentumirto and Mirana.

Before long, the tavern owner, a broad-bearded Estasean named Marlo, noticed him sitting alone and approached Cassian’s table, two glasses of red wine in hand.

“Could you do with a bit of company, my friend?” Marlo said, placing one of the glasses in front of Cassian. “Have a glass with me.”

Cassian looked up, a faint smile on his lips as he accepted the glass. “Thank you, that’s very kind. I’m Cassian, from Danfelgor.”

“Aha!” Marlo’s eyes lit up as he sat down. “A monk and also a man of philosophy, no doubt. I hear it’s how you Danfelgorians are —balance, restraint, all that. Me? I’m a simple man. Born and raised here in Estasea, where we know how to live. We work hard, but we make the best of it! Food, family, and a glass of good wine to hand.”

Cassian raised his glass slightly. “Yes, I’ve noticed. People here seem... full of life, engaged with the world. There’s a warmth, but also an urgency.”

Marlo laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Well yes - life is fleeting, isn’t it? Why sit in silence when you can laugh? Why take only what you need when you can enjoy what you want?”

Cassian chuckled softly, swirling the wine in his glass. “But isn’t there peace in needing less? In simply observing, without wanting?”

Marlo raised an eyebrow, thinking it over. “Well, I suppose there may be, but let me ask you this—when you’ve had a long, hard day, don’t you enjoy a glass of wine and a good meal? A place to sit down and rest? Maybe a friend to laugh with?”

Cassian nodded, conceding the point. “Of course, there’s joy in those things. But they  flow past, like the river. Enjoyable, but not the source of real contentment.”

“That’s where we differ, my friend,” Marlo said, sipping his wine thoughtfully. “For us, the root of life is in those moments. It’s what makes us feel alive, and that’s what matters. Take this wine for instance—it was crafted with care, aged properly, and shared with a friend. What else could you need?”

Cassian thought about it and realised that perhaps Marlo’s perspective contained a wisdom of its own. “Maybe you’re right. In the monastery, we look inward to find contentment. We avoid attachment to worldly things, thinking it brings pain. But perhaps there is a value in such attachments, in a love of transient things.”

Marlo grinned, raising his glass to Cassian. “What a philosopher - finding wisdom in  such everyday things! And a simple tavern owner like me, feeling like I’ve grasped something profound. Well, you know, maybe we’ve both learned something.” 

“Anyway, do you know what people round here say? How can you tell whether you’re in Estasea or Danfelgor.”

“Don't know - how do you tell?” asked Cassian.

“In Estasea the buildings are made of honey-coloured stone, but in Danfelgor the stones are grey," said Marlo, laughing.

They sat there together, the monk and the tavern keeper, sharing stories and discussing life - in the end agreeing that, though they saw life differently, they shared a need to connect and understand.

As the tavern emptied and Marlo began to close up, he clapped Cassian on the shoulder. “Come round again, any time. You may be a man of few needs, but there’ll always be a glass of wine waiting for you.”

Cassian laughed, starting to feel at home in this cosy tavern. “Thank you, Marlo. I’ll take you up on that.”

As he left, walking the streets of Estasea, Cassian realised that he had found something that he had not always felt in his own city - the quiet joy of belonging, and a realisation that wisdom could be found anywhere, even in a noisy Estasean tavern.

The Leatherworker, the Poet and the Thief 

 

In Estasea, where the scent of spice, leather, and sea salt mingled in the air, the Grand Market was alive with the unceasing hum of commerce. The market, held in an enormous stone square filled with laden-down stalls, was a place where trade was as lively by day as the stories and songs of the city’s taverns were by night.

Gerrin, a leatherworker known for beautifully crafted belts and satchels, laid out his goods with care, hoping to attract the customers that filled the marketplace. His tools were small and sharp, tucked neatly into a leather apron, and his hands were always dark with dye. A life of craftsmanship had earned him a level of success - enough to keep a workshop on the corner of Willow Street, a small house nearby in the Artisans' quarter and a decent enough way of life. But it was friendships with other traders, his reputation for fine work, and the joy of creativity that kept him returning to the market each dawn. Estasea’s commerce was as much a matter of life’s rhythm to him as the setting of the sun.

 

One morning, a young thief named Marlis slipped through the crowds. Hardly an expert in his craft, he was just about clever enough to stay ahead of the city guards. His fingers were deft, his eyes looking  for anything left unattended, and yet he had an air of anxiety about him. Gerrin worked hard for every coin he made, whilst Marlis preferred a quicker way to make ends meet, but each of them saw the market as his work place.

Before long, Marlis’s gaze settled on Gerrin’s stand. The leatherworker was busy with a customer, showing her the intricate detailing on a belt that she had commissioned, the tooling representing her family crest. Seeing his chance, Marlis sidled up to the stand and reached for a heavy coin pouch resting beside a stack of goods. But just as his fingers brushed the pouch, a voice beside him froze him in place.

“Planning to buy something, young man,or just admiring?”

The voice belonged to Elira, a well-known poet of middle age, with unruly curls and a warm, often sardonic, smile. She was given to frequenting the market - observing Estasea’s characters for inspiration. She lived very frugally, spending her earnings from book sales and live performances on cheap wine and food in the taverns, and she was famous for her verses celebrating life in Estasea. With artistic curiosity, she watched everyone and everything, weaving their stories into her poems.

Marlis tried to be calm, with a quick, nervous grin.

"Yeah - I was just looking at that bracelet actually..."

 

Gerrin had already realised what was going on.

“Ah, Marlis,” Gerrin said, slightly weary humour in his voice, “you know, you’d be better off working than stealing.”

Instead of getting angry or calling the guards, Gerrin held out the small, intricately designed leather bracelet.

“There you go then,” he offered. “For a fair price. It’s better than risking your neck over a few coins.”

Marlis looked at him and, somewhat begrudgingly, counted out a handful of coins he’d stolen earlier and paid for the bracelet, pocketing it with a mumble of thanks.

Elira, watching this play out, couldn’t help but laugh. “You two, so opposite in nature! Gerrin, a patient craftsman. Marlis, an impulsive spirit. And yet here you are, sharing a piece of life in the market. Both of you, come to the Golden Barrel at five bells. Let’s have a drink together.”

 

The winter sun went down over Estasea, and Gerrin, Marlis, and Elira met in one of the market taverns, the Golden Barrel, enjoying some inexpensive wine amongst the crowd of merchants, traders, and market customers. The tavern’s solid wooden tables, polished by countless elbows, glowed under the candlelight like the barrels stacked along the walls. Conversation and laughter echoed from every corner. Gerrin insisted on paying for the first bottle, and Marlis awkwardly offered to cover the second, a small but telling gesture.

As the evening wore on, they talked about life, amongst other things. Gerrin shared stories of crafting leather as a young boy, his hands stained but his spirit excited by what he was learning. Marlis reluctantly told them about his childhood, explaining that he was born to a family whose grandfather had lost everything in a risky venture. Elira listened, finally commenting.

“You know, Marlis,” she said, “there’s something almost poetic in you. You’re a thief and a scavenger, true, but the way you navigate this city’s heart, you’re a reminder that there’s always a little mischief in the spirit of Estasea.”

Marlis blinked, not sure whether he’d just been insulted or praised.

 

“What I wanted to say is this,” Gerrin said, joining in. “There's a story in every belt or bag I craft, and every coin I earn, apart from buying my food and wine, shows me that my skill is appreciated - these things, Marlis, are worth respecting. So when you grow up and decide that you’re ready to go straight, come and see me”

As the evening passed, Marlis experienced an unfamiliar feeling — it wasn't just the open fire, but the wine, music, and, most of all, the camaraderie that had warmed him in a way he hadn’t expected.

A week later, Marlis showed up at Gerrin’s shop—not to steal, but to help. He was clumsy at first, but Gerrin could see that he was honestly trying, and taught him patiently. Meanwhile, Elira took inspiration from their unlikely friendship, penning a new poem that began with:

"The old leatherworker, and the younger thief,

Between them the poet, who stands and sees -

Each one of us a tiny part

Of old Estasea’s dirty heart..."

She opened her reading in the Golden Barrel with it that night - the regulars listened and they nodded. They understood.

Estasea, with its untidy, forgiving spirit, hectic nature and all its imperfections, embraced them all.

A Stranger in Valtura

 

In the fishing village of Valtura, on the coast half a day’s journey from Estasea, the sea dictated life’s rhythms - fishing in the early morning, market trading at noon, mending nets in the afternoon, and huddling around the fireplace when the cold coastal winds swept in. It was a simple life, with a strong sense of community. The fishermen knew every tide, wave, and current, and they were used to extending kindness to strangers who arrived by land or sea.

One such stranger arrived one evening. His name was Marek, a tall man in his late thirties with the look of someone who had spent years at sea. Marek came from Estasea with a trader’s satchel brimming with rare goods—exotic spices, amber nuggets and a pearl the size of a small egg. The villagers were impressed with his charm and his knowledge of the wider world, but he said very little about himself. He took a room at the Sailing Gull, the village’s only inn, whose owner, Ina, took to the stranger with the generous nature.

One evening, as the tide pulled out and everything was wrapped in a salty night fog, Marek told the villagers at the inn a story. He told of a hidden cove not far from Valtura where, he said, ancient sailors had buried a king’s ransom in silver. He described the cove’s high cliffs and treacherous waves, a place where few dared to sail. The story stirred something in the younger men of Valtura. For generations, they had lived humbly, fishing and just about surviving.

Of all the young men, none was more taken than Rurik, Ina’s son. Strong and determined, Rurik was calm and brave on the rough seas. His mind filled with dreams of finding the hidden treasure and changing the future for his mother and himself. After hearing Marek’s story, Rurik started preparing his small fishing boat, The Wild Wind, and convincing two of his friends to join him in the search.

They set off at dawn the next morning, the wind whipping against their faces as they sailed out to the cove Marek had described. As they rounded the point, the seas began to get even rougher, the boat pitched and swayed, and a thick fog rolled in, concealing the rocky coast. Rurik could see that these were treacherous waters, yet he pushed onward, convinced by Marek’s vivid description.

Back in Valtura, Ina grew worried as days passed without any sign of her son. She looked for Marek, but he had slipped away quietly, leaving his room at the Sailing Gull empty save for some money to cover his bill. In the village, some people said that he used his charisma to trick honest men into disaster, and that he had sent Rurik into the unknown with dark intentions.

Rurik and his friends finally emerged from the fog, having discovered no treasure, only the harshness of the sea and the very limit of their endurance. As they rowed back to shore, exhausted and empty-handed, Rurik thought about his place in the world and in the village that had always been home.

Upon his return, Ina welcomed him, and the villagers gathered at the inn, glad to see him safely back. The village elders said that nothing good could have come from the search - Rurik listened, but he saw it differently. His adventure had taught him something about himself and a life he had taken for granted.

And Marek? He was never seen in Valtura again, though some claimed he’d been spotted in other coastal towns.

 

Years later, a visitor was sitting in the Sailing Gull having a quiet glass of wine. The only other customer that afternoon was a very old man, who had lived in Valtura all his life. They got talking, and the old man told the visitor the story of Rurik and his fruitless quest.

"I'm a bit confused", the visitor said, "what was Marek's dark intention then? What on earth did he have to gain by sending Rurik to the cove?"

"Nothin'," said the old man, "'e didn't 'ave no 'dark motivation' - 'e were a nice feller, and 'e just told a tall tale to pass away a cold winter evening and 'e was 'orrified when 'e 'eard that Rurik and his friends 'ad actually taken 'im at his word.

That's why 'e left Valtura in a 'urry - 'e were just embarassed, thas all."

The Market Trader and the Connoisseur

 

 In the hectic atmosphere of the Grand Market of Estasea, an over-dressed man named Ardelio strode through the stalls, chest puffed out, as if his very presence was a gift to those around him. He thought of himself a true expert in anything valuable, from rare spices , wines and jewels to fine fabrics, and he was very free with his opinions. For years, Ardelio had been a collector of valuable and unique goods, though some privately thought him a dilettante  with more money than sense.

At one of the stalls, he saw an assortment of brilliant gemstones—amber, amethysts, sapphires, and a few glistening pieces of lapis lazuli. The stall was owned by a young woman named Calina, with a soft-spoken manner that belied her cleverness. She was no stranger to customers who thought they knew everything, but she would play them along, since, of course, it served her purpose.

Ardelio’s eyes alighted upon one of the stones on Calina’s table. It was an unusual shade of azure, with flecks of silver embedded through it, as if it held a miniature night sky.

“Ah, the famed Celestial Sapphire,” he declared, using a name he had just made up. “A rare stone, indeed! You can have no idea of its true worth.”

“Well no, probably not,” Calina said, allowing herself a little smile. “Please, sir, tell me all about it.”

Ardelio launched into an elaborate description of the gemstone’s imaginary properties, while Calina listened with an attentive nod, even though she knew that the 'stone' was, in fact, just a type of glass that had once been produced by a specialist glasswork artisan of Estasea. She humoured him just enough to keep him talking and inch up his sense of his connoisseurship .

When Ardelio finally declared that the stone was worth a king’s ransom, Calina sighed with admiration. “Then I suppose I’ve misjudged it terribly, sir. However, as you are the only one with the knowledge to appreciate it fully, perhaps I could part with it. What would you say to a hundred silver pieces?”

Ardelio smirked, feigning shock. “A hundred? That would be tantamount to theft. In the interests of fairness, I’d have to give you more than that for it - as a collector of integrity I'd be bound to.”

Calina inclined her head gracefully, saying, “Well, now - you know I’m not sure that I could part with it for less than five hundred, if it’s all you say it is.”

And in this way, the transaction escalated, with Ardelio, managing to outbid himself in his eagerness to see off any potential interest from another collector and show off his supposed acumen. He finally persuaded her to accept four hundred silver pieces, and he left the market bragging to anyone within earshot about his rare find.

Later that day, Calina returned to her small home with a very good bottle of wine, counted the silver, and smiled to herself. 

As for Ardelio, his ‘gemstone’ became the centrepiece and pride of his collection, and he never knew, or cared, that to anyone else it would be worth little more than a few silver pieces. 

The Pirate and the River Nymph

 

The brisk river trade between Estasea and Danfelgor connected the two cities, and the riverboats - with names like Swift Current, Gull’s Wing, and Grey Otter - were mastered by captains who had seen storms, drunken fights ashore, and close calls with river pirates. Their boats carried everything from expensive furs and wine to ironwork and pottery, and each journey began and ended at the docks, where there were always eyes to observe and ears to hear.

Captain Jarek of Low Tide was well-known on the Danfel - a bear of a man, with a greying beard and a scar across his eyebrow, the result of a dockside tavern brawl. His crew was a mixture of seasoned sailors, young deckhands, and many who had sometimes been on the wrong side of the law. The ship was their domain, and they handled it with skill, navigating currents, the weather, and sandbars, as well as flotsam and jetsam floating downriver.

This trip was expected to be routine - a heavy load of barrels of fine wine from Estasea, bound for the markets of Danfelgor. But as dusk started to settle and they neared the midpoint of the route, dense fog came down over the water, covering the boat like a shroud. The crew shivered, feeling the chill of the damp air.

 

Through the fog, they heard the sound of another vessel approaching. Lanterns on the smaller boat revealed it to be a swift craft with shadowy figures aboard.  Jarek’s first mate, Larne, recognized them from past encounters. “Cuthar’s crew,” he muttered. Cuthar was a ruthless river pirate who rarely left survivors - any cargo he seized would never be seen again in any honest market.

“Hold steady there now boys!” Jarek called out, signalling his crew to prepare themselves for a fight. With cutlasses, wooden clubs, and old rusty axes, they stood ready as the pirate boat came alongside. Every one of the crew knew that the river was a rough place.

 

But just as Cuthar’s men were about to come alongside and board, the water shimmered. A  figure, white and radiant as the moon, broke the surface of the river, long yellow hair draped in the flowing water, her pearl-like skin veiled in mist. It was a river maiden, Ziana, the water nymph of the Danfel, daughter of the River God, Linadafur. Her pale, almost translucent form glowed. The pirates froze, unsure of what they were seeing, as the nymph spoke, her voice strong as the river’s flow and rippling like the current, 

“This river is mine, not yours -  and certainly not yours to command, Cuthar. I suffer the riverboats to pass along here safely - who are you to defy me, and what I ordain?” 

Her eyes, deep green like the water, turned to the pirate captain, who stood watching her in shocked  silence. With graceful movements, Ziana raised her hand and turned her head. The water around Cuthar’s boat began to churn - the powerful current turned its hull, pulling it away from Low Tide. The pirates cried  out in panic as their vessel spun in circles, helpless against the force of the water. 

“The next time you seek to disrupt the peaceful course of this river, it will not be Ziana who confronts you but my father Linadafur and I warn you that I am most mild and gentle compared to him, whose vengeance is mighty. Take heed.”

The pirates were swiftly carried downstream, their boat completely beyond their control, their cries echoing in the foggy night. They were swept out to sea, and neither Cuthar nor any of his crew were ever heard of again. As they disappeared the nymph turned to Jarek and his crew, and without speaking, slightly inclined her head, her eyes briefly meeting Jarek’s. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she plunged back into the river, leaving only ripples in her wake.

 

The crew was shaken from the encounter, but Jarek ordered them to stand to and resume their course - they continued up the river without further incident, docking in at Danfelgor to unload their cargo safely. The crew received their pay and rapidly proceeded to the dockside taverns to spend a good part of it on ale and rum.

Captain Jarek saw to the mooring of the boat, and then leaving the unloading to Larne and some deckhands as usual, headed to the Rusty Anchor, his normal destination at the end of a journey. He sat on his usual barstool and ordered a large glass of rum.

“You have no idea what happened to us this evening…”