Incendiary Dreams

Ostiarium Dock Ward

The warehouse seemed to lean toward the coast, its shadows cast long by evening sun. A dockworker fell to his knees, both hands clutching his throat, unable to staunch the rivers of red that ran between his fingers. Above him, deep in the shadow’s embrace, stood a man with hateful eyes whose dark, wet garb sagged and dripped from his stealthy, waterborne approach.

With a sneer, he watched the dockworker drop in front of him, before shifting his attention back to his mission. Vigilantly, he peered around the corner of the warehouse, scanning the quay ahead. Clear. He slowly stowed his bloody, curved dagger and motioned a band of his brothers forward. They would have to make haste if they were to do the job and get back to their camp by nightfall.

Two of the men carried a hefty wooden crate as they trudged forward along the quay toward the gangway of a carrack. There they sat the crate down and opened it. Inside was a collection of clay pots, tucked safely and neatly in rows cushioned by leather buffers and soaked grass.

Disbursing the clay pots amongst themselves, their clandestine duty commenced. Upon opening the wax seal of one of the clay pots, the man smiled grimly to himself at the potent scent of its flammable contents. These foreigners and their gods would all soon be driven into the sea.