The ship Grinning Gull had not, in fact, been grinning for the past seventeen days. Neither had any of its passengers, least of all Reyn Caleran, who was discovering that a lifetime of training as a Bormecian Barbarian did remarkably little to prepare one for the indignities of long-distance maritime travel.

  "Land!" called the lookout from above, a statement which would have been entirely unnecessary had anyone bothered to look forward, where the sprawling port city of Westkeep spread across the horizon like an architectural inkblot.

  Reyn lifted her head from the ship's railing, where she had been contemplating the philosophical relationship between breakfast and its brief tenure in one's stomach. Her auburn braids, normally kept in immaculate order, hung limply around her face, the small wooden beads at their tips clacking in a slow rhythm alongside the gentle waves as she straightened.

  "Thank the Ancestors," she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand that could have comfortably palmed a melon. "If I never see another wave again, it will be too soon."

  The sailor next to her, a weathered man with skin the texture of old leather and about as many original teeth as a newborn, cackled sympathetically. "First ocean crossing, eh? You'll get your land legs back soon enough."

  Reyn straightened to her full impressive height, the fitted leather armor she wore creaking slightly with the movement. The cuirass with its practical shoulder guards and bracers marked her as a warrior, but unlike the heavily plated knights who occasionally strutted through foreign ports, Bormecians favored protection that moved with the body rather than encased it. It was more honest, more true to the wearer.

  "Have you sailed many Bormecians before?" she asked, curious about how much the outside world knew of her people.

  The sailor's eyes flicked to the massive greatsword strapped across her back, nearly as tall as a man and wrapped carefully in oiled cloth that did little to disguise its imposing silhouette.

  "Just a few in my twenty years of sailing," he admitted, chewing on his gums. "Even fewer of your Barbarians, eh. Your folk don't travel much, do they?"

  "Not anymore, our raiding days are over," Reyn said with a smile. "Some of us do, though. I'm on pilgrimage. A journey to perform good deeds across the kingdoms before returning home to become a Guardian, a true Barbarian."

  The sailor raised an eyebrow. "Heard stories about those raids. Fierce warriors with swords and axes big as a man, they said."

  "The Unification Wars ended that practice generations ago," Reyn said. "Most of the tribes realized they'd be stronger together, and started our new society. The pilgrimage is part of that tradition, to honor our history."

  "Sounds noble enough," the sailor said, his lips twisting skeptically. "Can't say I've heard of barbarians doing things outta the goodness of their hearts, eh."

  "My people believe the journey matters more than the destination," Reyn said and wrinkled her nose at the smell of her own breath. "After this voyage, I find myself questioning that wisdom."

  The sailor laughed again. "Well, your journey's about to change considerably, eh. Westkeep's not like your homeland, miss. It's..." he searched for an appropriate description, "...busier."

  This, as Reyn would soon discover, was rather like describing a hurricane as "breezy."

  ---

  Westkeep hadn't so much been planned as accumulated. Streets wandered with the purposeless meandering of sleepwalkers, buildings hugged each other like forlorn drunks after a festival, and the entire city appeared to be engaged in a collective shouting match that had been going on for several centuries.

  The air carried a chaotic mixture of smells: salt water, rotting fish, spices Reyn couldn't name, and an underlying sweetness that seemed peculiar to Western cities. In Bormecia, settlements were laid out with geometric precision, each building with its designated purpose and place. The organized chaos here was both disorienting and strangely exhilarating. It was the complete opposite of Eastkeep where her journey started, which she already found noisy being the least Bormecian city in Bormecia.

  Reyn stood on the dock, her sea chest at her feet, watching the organized chaos of the port with the careful attention of a rat looking for potential escape routes. The travelers disembarking around her gave her a wide berth, their eyes occasionally flicking to the enormous weapon on her back before hurriedly looking away. At least she believed they looked at her sword, Good Deeds. It was, after all, a very fine weapon.

  It never occurred to Reyn that her physical presence was just as intimidating for the westerners not used to seeing an actual Barbarian. In Bormecia, she was merely above average height, her muscles impressive but not unheard of. Here, she towered over most of the crowd, a warrior in a sea of merchants and sailors.

  A small girl darted past, nearly colliding with Reyn's legs before executing a nimble dodge that would have impressed even the most demanding of Bormecian training masters. The child paused, looked up at Reyn with frank curiosity, and asked, "Why's your sword so big? Are you going to fight a dragon?"

  "This is not for dragons specifically," Reyn said, her lips curving into a smile. "Should do the trick, though. It's a Bormecian greatsword, you see. Good Deeds."

  The girl considered this explanation with a slight frown. "But you could fight a dragon with it?"

  "Well," Reyn said with a casual shrug, "sure."

  "Brilliant," the girl declared, before disappearing back into the crowd with the sudden directional change only children and hummingbirds seem capable of achieving.

  Reyn smiled slightly. Children were much the same everywhere: direct, curious, and refreshingly free of the complicated layers that adults wrapped around simple questions. In Bormecia, children were considered the most natural philosophers, unhindered by preconceptions. A lot of the Ancestor's teachings revolved around keeping the spirit of one's inner child to see the world as it was meant to be seen.

  She hoisted her chest onto one shoulder with casual strength and began making her way from the docks toward what appeared to be the main thoroughfare. Her first task would be finding suitable lodging, followed by orienting herself to this new continent. The pilgrimage required deeds performed in each major kingdom, which meant she needed to understand the political boundaries and travel routes.

  The thoroughfare proved to be less of a road and more of a perpetual market that happened to allow traffic as a secondary consideration. Stalls lined both sides, selling everything from questionable meat pies with mostly rat, to a merchant selling "Love potions! Make anyone fall in love with your coin purse!"

  Near one corner, a robed wizard with greying long hair sat cross-legged, palms upward, a small ball of blue light hovering between his hands. A small crowd watched as he shaped it into various animal forms, each lasting only seconds before dissolving back into formless light. That, at least, was genuine magic. Modest but real, unlike the "enchanted" baubles being hawked nearby. Reyn paused briefly, intrigued. Magic in Bormecia was subtle, practical, often tied to ancient rituals, with the exception of the chaotic Sorcerers. This casual display of mystical energy for entertainment seemed almost frivolous, yet she couldn't deny its beauty.

  Reyn navigated through the press of bodies with the careful precision of someone not accustomed to being the largest moving object in any given space. In Bormecia she was just above average, after all. Most people gave her a wide berth, though whether this was due to her size, her weapon, or simply the natural caution one develops in crowded ports was difficult to determine.

  "You there! Tall... woman... whatever! You with the ridiculous sword!" called a voice from her left.

  Reyn turned to see a small man with an expansive mustache waving enthusiastically from behind a stall draped in colorful fabrics. His table displayed an eclectic collection of items that appeared to have nothing in common except that they all seemed slightly wrong in ways difficult to articulate.

  "I don't require anything," Reyn said with a polite gesture of her hand, attempting to continue on her way.

  "Ah, but it's what you don't know you require that matters most!" the merchant insisted. He tilted his head, studying her more carefully. "You're not from around here, are you? From across the Eastern Sea perhaps?"

  "Bormecia," Reyn confirmed, mildly surprised at his geographic acumen. She didn't for one second think that her appearance stood out even in the eclectic and colorful crowd of Westkeep.

  The merchant's eyes lit up. "Exotic! Mysterious! Perfect!"

  "Perfect for what?" Reyn asked, her eyebrows rising with honest curiosity that gave the man a wide smile.

  "For needing my special good luck charm, of course!" He held up what appeared to be a miniature bird cage containing something that might, with sufficient imagination, be considered bird-adjacent. "Only two silver pieces for guaranteed safe travels!"

  Reyn studied the object. "How does it guarantee safe travels?"

  The question seemed to momentarily derail the merchant's practiced patter. "Well... it's enchanted, of course! By a very powerful... wizard. From the North. Very mysterious fellow."

  "I see," Reyn said, her tone flat. She had little experience with enchanted items, but the few she had seen had this distinct little sparkle about them that was lacking here. "And what does the enchantment do?"

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  "It..." The merchant glanced around as if hoping inspiration might be lurking behind a nearby barrel. "It alerts you to danger! Yes! It makes a distinctive noise when peril approaches!"

  "Like a bird?" Reyn raised an eyebrow.

  "Exactly like a bird!" the merchant agreed enthusiastically.

  "So it's a bird. In a cage."

  "A magical bird," the merchant said, his emphasis suggesting this distinction was crucial.

  Reyn leaned closer, examining the creature, which chose that moment to make a noise distinctly reminiscent of a hiccup. "We have a saying in Bormecia: 'The simplest explanation is most often correct, unless dragons are involved.'"

  The merchant's smile dimmed slightly. "Are... dragons involved in this situation?"

  "No," Reyn said. She looked up at the sky just to be sure. "I don't think so. Which means the simplest explanation is that you're attempting to sell me an ordinary bird for an extraordinary price. There are lots of birds out in the wilds for free."

  She stopped for a moment, before leaning slightly toward the merchant, lowering her voice. "You do have birds in the wilds here in Vaelen, don't you?"

  The merchant deflated visibly, his mustache drooping in tandem with his shoulders. "Can't blame a fellow for trying," he said, his shoulders slumping with a sigh. "Not easy making a living these days, what with the trade routes disrupted and all."

  This caught Reyn's attention. "Trade routes are disrupted? Why?"

  The merchant looked at her as if she'd asked why water was wet. "The bandits, of course. The Crimson Hand's been raiding caravans along the northern road for months now. The city guard does nothing, probably getting paid off." He shook his head. "Bad for business, bad for travelers."

  Reyn chewed on this information. Bandits preying on travelers could potentially provide an opportunity for a good deed, assuming the merchant wasn't simply inventing problems to sell magical bird cages.

  "Who are they?"

  "Who? The Crimson Hands?" The merchant shook his head. "Just another bandit group like the others. They appeared what, about a year ago? Vicious lot, attacking larger caravans and the likes."

  "Thank you," she said, reaching into a small pouch at her belt and placing a copper coin on the table. "For your time."

  The merchant picked up the coin with a bemused expression. "You're an odd one, aren't you? Most folks either buy something or tell me where to shove my wares."

  "Neither seemed appropriate," Reyn said, her head tilting in surprise that the merchant was surprised.

  As she turned to leave, the merchant called after her, "If you're looking for lodging, try the Broken Shield on Harbor Street! Tell Marta that Pock sent you, she might only overcharge you a little if it's one of her good days!"

  ---

  The Broken Shield proved to be precisely the sort of establishment one might expect from its name: a tavern and inn that wore its many years of service like battle scars, with mismatched furniture that suggested each piece had its own story of survival. The actual broken shield that hung above the bar had clearly been split by something with considerable force and questionable intentions.

  Its bearer lost that fight, Reyn thought, giving the shield a small nod of respect. In Bormecia, weapons and armor were often displayed after their final battle, honored for their service rather than discarded.

  Marta, the proprietor, was a mountain of a woman who might have had Bormecian blood somewhere in her family tree, if that tree was particularly tall and prone to intimidating smaller flora. She even stood taller than Reyn, which made her believe the woman had some ogre in her blood as well.

  "Pock sent you, did he?" she said after Reyn had introduced herself. "That little weasel still trying to sell those enchanted doorstops?"

  "Bird cages, actually," Reyn said.

  "Must be Tuesday, then." Marta nodded, then shook her head. Her gaze lingered briefly on Reyn's braids and the enormous greatsword propped carefully against the bar, but she asked no questions about them, a courtesy Reyn appreciated. She loved Bormecia and could talk about it for days, but the voyage across the sea still sat in her body.

  "Rooms are a silver a night, extra if you want hot water or sheets without stains that are best to not think too much about where they originated from."

  "I'll take a room with clean sheets, please," Reyn said, placing several coins on the counter. "And perhaps some information, if you're willing to share it."

  Marta pocketed the coins with the motion of someone who could count currency by feel alone. "Information's always free. Whether it's worth anything is another matter."

  "I'm on my Pilgrimage as a Barbarian, which includes the need to perform good deeds in each kingdom of this continent," Reyn explained. "I'd appreciate knowing the lay of the lands, and where help might be most needed."

  Marta's eyebrows rose slightly. "A wandering do-gooder, eh?" Her lips quirked in a way that suggested she found the concept both admirable and slightly amusing. "Heard of your lot. Never seen a Barbarian Pilgrim myself. Oh well, you're in the kingdom of Vaelen now, as I hope you already know. Westkeep is the second largest harbor, and the main trade with your homeland. Just north is Valemark, then Fort Redscale to the south. South-East past Valemark you'll find Highcrown, though I wouldn't recommend it this time of year. They get tetchy during the Rain Season."

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "As for good deeds, you won't have to look far. The Crimson Hand's been getting busier by the day. Just last week they hit a caravan less than a day's ride from the city gates. Took everything, including a shipment of medicines bound for the Temple of Healing."

  "The same bandits the merchant mentioned," Reyn said, nodding. "They seem to be causing significant problems."

  "That's putting it mildly," Marta snorted. "The city guard makes a show of looking for them, but everyone knows Captain Holt's getting a cut of their takings. The only people suffering are honest merchants and the sick folks waiting on those medicines."

  The conversation was interrupted by a crash from the corner of the tavern, where a table had been overturned in what appeared to be a rapidly escalating disagreement between two particularly large individuals.

  "The Light preserve me," Marta sighed, her eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "Not again. Those two have been at each other's throats all week over some old gambling debt."

  The dispute was indeed intensifying. One man, a burly dockworker by the look of his calloused hands and salt-stained clothes, had grabbed the other by the collar and was threatening several creative rearrangements of his facial features.

  "Should someone intervene?" Reyn asked, watching the confrontation with a slight anticipation.

  "Usually I let them tire themselves out," Marta said. "Less damage that way. My bouncer's not due in for another hour."

  The dockworker punctuated his latest threat by shoving his opponent into a nearby table, sending several innocent drinks to an untimely demise on the floor. The affected patrons quickly backed away, forming an impromptu arena for what promised to be an impressive display of amateur pugilism.

  Reyn felt a familiar tension build at the base of her skull, the precursor to Rage. In Bormecia, such disputes would be resolved through formal combat with clear rules and a designated arbiter. This chaotic brawling was both inefficient and likely to result in unnecessary property damage.

  "I could stop them," she stated matter-of-factly.

  Marta gave her an appraising look. "You're welcome to try, but fair warning. Doran there," she nodded toward the dockworker, "once knocked out a mule. The mule had it coming, but still."

  "They usually do." Reyn stood, carefully leaning her greatsword against the bar. "I won't need that," she said.

  As she approached the brewing fight, she felt the familiar mental exercise taking hold, the careful balance of calling the Rage without letting it in. Bormecian Barbarians spent years mastering this technique, learning to channel and suppress their Rage as needed, without being consumed by it. The danger wasn't in calling upon the Rage, but in letting it take over completely.

  Reyn remembered all too well her first training session with Elder Torval, when she had allowed the Rage to consume her. She had woken surrounded by splintered training equipment, with no memory of the destruction she had caused.

  "Control defines the warrior," Torval had said through gritted, blood-stained teeth. "Power without control is merely violence."

  In this situation, she didn't need the Rage, but wanted to have it ready in case it was needed. Calling upon it would end the fight quickly, but it was an unnecessary risk considering the situation and location. There was always the risk of succumbing to the Rage, even though it didn't seem likely in this situation.

  "Gentlemen," she said in a voice that carried easily over the tavern's noise. "Perhaps there's a more productive way to resolve your disagreement."

  Both men turned to look at her, momentarily united in their surprise at the interruption. The smallest of them opened his mouth at the look of her.

  "Stay out of this, woman," growled Doran, the dockworker, his face reddening as he took a step toward her. "This thieving rat owes me money."

  "I won fair and square!" protested his opponent, a wiry man with a scar bisecting one eyebrow. "Not my fault you can't count cards worth a damn!"

  Reyn held up a hand in a gesture for pause. It also ensured her hand already was up in case a fist flew her way.

  "Fighting won't resolve who's right," she said. "It'll only determine who is stronger, or luckier."

  "That works for me," Doran said, cracking his knuckles with theatrical menace. It wasn't a good look.

  Reyn sighed. She had hoped reason would prevail, but experience suggested that was rarely the case when pride and alcohol were involved. She closed her eyes briefly, felt the Rage sizzling like water that's starting to show bubbles within her. She breathed in and held it. She wouldn't need the Rage.

  To the onlookers, little changed in her outward appearance. Perhaps her stance widened slightly, her breathing deepened, but there was none of the frothing or bloodshot eyes that storytellers often attributed to berserkers. The change was more subtle: a focusing of intent, a heightened awareness of her surroundings, and a built up pressure held back like a predator on a leash.

  When she opened her eyes, Doran had already launched himself toward her, clearly operating under the assumption that size and momentum would be sufficient to remove this obstacle.

  What happened next was so quick that many patrons would later disagree on the exact sequence of events. Where Western brawlers relied on momentum and brute strength, Bormecian combat training emphasized precision and leverage, in addition to pure strength and power. Reyn simply redirected Doran's charge with a subtle pivot of her hip and a carefully placed foot. His own force became his undoing, his balance lost before he even realized what had happened. One moment he was charging forward, the next he was somehow on his back, looking up at the ceiling with an expression of profound confusion.

  Reyn stood over him, with no evidence of any strain in her breathing. "In Bormecia," she said as if she talked about the weather, "we believe strength comes with responsibility. You should use yours more usefully."

  She turned to the other man, who was wisely reconsidering his choices. "And you. If you've been cheating at cards, this would be a good time to admit it and make appropriate amends."

  The man swallowed visibly. "I... may have had an extra ace up my sleeve."

  "Of course," Reyn said and tilted her head. "Perhaps returning his money would be appropriate?"

  A small pouch of coins quickly found its way onto a nearby table.

  As the two men sheepishly retreated to opposite corners of the tavern, Reyn suppressed the surfaced Rage, using the breathing techniques she had practiced since childhood. The process always left her feeling slightly hollow, like a bell after it stops ringing. There was a certain intoxicating draw to the Rage she couldn't deny.

  She returned to the bar where Marta was watching with undisguised approval.

  "Not bad," the innkeeper said, nodding and pursing her lips. "Doran usually takes at least three men to subdue when he's in a mood."

  "He wasn't expecting resistance," Reyn said, retrieving her greatsword. "Surprise is often effective. As are stronger men."

  Marta smiled and nodded toward a back staircase. "Room's the third on the left. And if you're serious about bandits and doing good deeds, there's a merchant named Marten organizing a caravan north next week. Rumor has it he's hiring guards."

  She paused meaningfully. "The kind who can handle themselves in a fight."

  Reyn nodded. "Thank you for the information. I'll seek him out."

  As she climbed the stairs to her room, Reyn reflected that her pilgrimage had begun rather more quickly than expected. She hadn't even had time to add the first trinket to her braids. Traditionally, Bormecians collected small tokens from each significant place or event during their journey, physical reminders of lessons learned and deeds accomplished.

  She touched one of her braids thoughtfully. Perhaps after dealing with these bandits, she would find something suitable to mark her arrival on this new continent. Something worthier than a "magical" bird in a cage.

  Stopping a barfight's a pretty good deed, she thought with a smile. She decided it deserved a minor trinket, but it wasn't what the pilgrimage was for. The village elders were frustratingly vague about what constitutes a worthy deed.

  "You'll know it when you find it," Elder Katha had said with that infuriating smile. As if the entire point of a pilgrimage wasn't already challenging enough.

  Before heading to her room, Reyn paused by the broken shield above the bar. A small metal fragment had worked loose from its splintered edge. With Marta's nod of permission, she took it, examining the weathered metal with a practiced eye. Perfect.

  That night, she carefully wove it into the third braid on the left side of her head, the side reserved for lessons in restraint. Each trinket would tell her story when she returned home, a physical chronicle of her journey that any Bormecian could read in the arrangement and nature of the objects. This small shield fragment marked her first lesson in Western conflict resolution.

  She laid out her plans for the next day: learn more about the Crimson Hand, perhaps scout the northern road for signs of their activity. She had some time to kill, and might as well use it productively and be as prepared as possible. And get a bath. A real bath, in running cold water, as they did before. It was all part of the pilgrimage.

  She wasn't entirely sure what a pilgrimage-worthy "good deed" entailed, but she had plenty of time to figure that out. There was also the tournaments, and whatnot, that had to be done to become a true Barbarian.

  This will take quite the while, she thought with a smile on her face as she took in the Western air. She would miss her family, sure, but this was all that she had worked for and dreamt of her entire life.

  One kingdom at a time, as her people had done for generations, until she could return to Bormecia with honor, wisdom, and hopefully a few interesting stories to tell.