a. Geasíochatóir (pronounced: GYA-shee-ok-kah-tohr): agent noun of Fefsen “geas”, ‘fleet” appended with the suffixes of “-íoch” (Inferior) and ‘-atóir’, “master (of)”. Direct translation: Fleetmaster-Inferior, equivalent to Vice Admiral.
b. Stiúratóir (STYOO-rah-tohr): agent noun of “stiúr”, “ship” appended with the suffix “-atóir’ “master (of)”. Direct translation: Shipmaster, equivalent to Captain.
c. Geasatóir (GYAS-sah-tohr): Fleetmaster.
d. Marheg (MAR-heg): honorary chivalric title granted by Trinterian heads of state. Equivalent to Knight.
e. Séacarái (SHAYK-kah-ree): the bicameral legislature of the government of the Trinterian Realm in Mirhaime. Located nominally in Imirodreath.
With brows furrowed, the stern-faced Geasíochatóir Earcan Dormeir laboriously shifted through the pages of the preliminary report, painstakingly assembled by his XO from information provided by the Ruanians. His eyes, strained by the unfortunate lack of reference photographs, nevertheless doggedly traced every word, every number, trying his best to make sense of them as he did. One hand to rub his chin, the other to pull his ten-oh-six closer to the table, he scribbled down notes on his book, his strokes interrupted and made jagged by the sea tossing his belongings back and forth like a can of peas. From the information made available to him, he was able to articulate the course of the battle, if he could even call this bloodless transition that. The staggering lack of even a single casualty confounded him as much as the reportedly friendly reception of the occupation force by the locals. Though not unimaginable, professional career experiences and the associated strategic pessimism had him wonder if certain details were omitted or excluded to paint a more positive picture. It wouldn’t be illogical for them to do so, he reflected, recalling similar occurrences during his tour of duty in Aldaar.
Interrupting his train of thoughts was the sound of footsteps from the metal stairs and corridor winding down to his chamber. Recognizing the brisk, youthful pace echoing down the hallway. Earcan closed his book, pencil neatly pressed within before turning his gaze to the hatch which soon opened to reveal his executive officer, and companion on this journey, Iomhar n’Dethar, a stiúratóir of the Cíogáta-class destroyer Heilbhéir whom he’s plucked from his post to serve as captain of the glorified minesweeper on which they were traveling to the Gvelles Island, as well as to act as his aide-de-camp.
“We’re but a handful of miles from port, I just hailed the garrison ashore. I thought you might fancy a look before we dock-” He said, stepping inside, not forgetting to close the hatch so that the sea’s sudden movement would cause it to slam on the threshold.
“One word to describe how things look up there, stiúratóir-” Earcan asked, a simple enough request.
“Pretty as a picture, geasatóir-” Iomhar replied.
“That’s four, but they’ll do-” Earcan chuckled in return, “What’s our congressional friend been up to?”
“Puking her guts out-” Iomhair quipped, “But she should be fine, so long as she doesn’t fall overboard before we reach port.”
“I suppose we should drag her out to join us then?” Earcan asked, reaching for the canvas courier bag hanging from the curved hanger nailed high on the wall within arm’s reach of his work desk. He carefully placed all his essentials inside, then patted his hip to check on his holstered pistol.
“Holding the door for you, geasatóir—Ladies first-” Iomhar teased, a dumb smile stretched across his face.
“I should have you shot for saying that, stiúratóir-” Earcan replied, tone flat.
“Ah, ah, but you won’t-” Responded Iomhar confidently.
“Maybe, Iomhar, maybe,” Earcan said with a faint smile as he reached the door. He paused for a moment, glancing back into his chamber to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything. His eyes settled on the die-cast camera hanging near where he took his canvas bag before. He thought it might be helpful to include some reference photographs in the reports he was to present; most certainly it would lessen the eye strain for whomever the papers are intended for.
“Give me a second,” He told Iomhar before stepping back inside to grab the camera. He adjusted the sling so it hung on his shoulder, drooping to the same height as his canvas bag. “Hmph,” he muttered, glancing around as if trying to figure something out, then reached into a cupboard to grab a box of 35mm films. Extended, might come in handy, he thought.
“Camera?” Iomhar asked, looking back into the room at Earcan and his gadget.
“Yeah,” Earcan grinned, placing everything on his work desk, including the film and camera. He removed the back plate and the spool, then took the roll of film from its paper box. Placing inside his canvas bag some dozen or so reserve rolls, just in case. “Ten,” he muttered to himself, placing the roll in its slot and pulling the film to the spool on the other side of the camera precisely ten centimeters across. Despite the reliability of the Líle II models, the awkward positioning of the bottom sprocket hole made it so that he had to cut a small piece off the film to create a longer lead.
“Thought they might name me Marheg if I glue in a few photos in the reports–” He chuckled, placing the lead into the spool before attaching them both into their place, backplate attached to cover them. Once everything was done, it was only a matter of twisting the reversing knob in the direction of the arrow to create enough tension. “Done-” He said, turning to look at Iomhar. Slinging the camera to his side once more, he walked out of the chamber with him.
As soon as they stepped foot on the deck, the breeze of gloriously bright morning greeted them with a thin veil of mist hugging the sea, carving a line across it as they made their approach. From the deck, Earcan could see the blue-gray silhouettes of the Ruanian warships docking in port, and soon, as they advanced further, the mist suddenly began to lift and the full majesty of the cruiser squadron came into vision. Firstly close at hand in repose, Earcan could see one great warship, the largest of them all whom he guessed was their flagship until his suspicions were confirmed by an “Anserghogeth” painted in white across the lower superstructure. Beyond her, other shapes came into view after one another, matching up to the reports he had received about the presence of a whole squadron on the island.
“Look, the town-” Iomhar said, patting Earcan on the shoulder to catch his attention, an arm outstretched to point towards the settlement beyond the port, ”They’re celebrating!”
As they approached closer still, the plaza behind the naval station came into view. What caught their eyes was an imposing arch consisting of brilliant and gaudy warship flags, the colors red, white and purple deep predominated. From what Earcan’s read, they were the colors of Trockyer’s battle standard, and along with it, his Ruania. Complimenting them were festive bunting and flags, which flew from every vantage point, beneath them silhouettes of crowds seemingly in celebration of their liberation. It was a peculiar sight even for well-travelled men like them, as, even from afar, they could make out the vibrant plumage of the cavan townsfolk swaying to the rhythmic sound of music.
“I’ll go fetch Siobhan-” Iomhar said, heading off to the quarters to wake up their other companion, knowing well that she may be positively amused, “She’s going to like this.”
Without paying much mind to Iomhar’s words, Earcan’s eyes were fixed on the scene before him: the celebration, the jubilation, the joy all reminiscent of a distant memory he was determined to put to rest. It was enough to make one forget that the war was yet to be won. Despite everything, there was beauty in it—beauty that compelled him to lift his camera to his eye. With a click and a flash, he froze that moment in time along with all its emotions.
Before he could fully indulge in the moment, the low groans of a woman, weary from the long voyage, emanated from behind him. He turned to see Siobhan, Gairbhith by Clan and diplomat by occupation, their companion for this trip. Earcan still found it hard to believe that this sickly-looking woman, dressed more suitably for an office than an armada ship in her rigueur Alrestian comple-veston, represented the collective will of the Séacarái though he knew better than to judge her by her appearance.
“A-Are we there yet?” she asked, her voice tinged with nausea as she stepped forward, her tipsy feet carefully balancing on the ship, her hands still clutching her suitcase carrying within documents that not even he had had much of a glimpse of. It seemed the fear of falling overboard still lingered in her mind.
“Good morning to you too-” Earcan said to her, a hint of sarcasm in his voice before returning his eyes to the sight before him.
Too nauseous to catch the tone of his words, Siobhan tipsily approached the railing. She nearly fell to her knees when a light wave struck the boat, lifting the section of the bow where they were standing. After a moment, she managed to drag her eyes to look at the town they were fast approaching.
“So this is the Gvelles Islands-” She observed, the simple thought of coming ashore eclipsing any considerations of the mission. It did not take long for the silhouettes from afar to register in her minds, as she, with one hand flat to block sunlight above, squinted her eyes to see them better.
“Are those cavans?” She asked, mouth slightly ajar in surprise as she turned to Earcan.
“Freshly liberated from the threshold of Terghintine oppression, quite visibly so-” Iomhar added, taking to stand besides her, joining the two of them in taking in the view.
As much as Siobhan wanted to join them long in the quip, or, on second thoughts, enlighten them with her professional opinions on the matter, she simply could not, her mind bombarded with a certain sea sickness tempered only by the thought of their imminent landing.
“We s-should talk over the plan when we reach shore. I can’t take this much longer,” Siobhan stammered, her discomfort evident as she clung to the railing.
“Just your luck then,” Earcan said, nodding toward the shore where a group of Ruanian officers, clad in both work and ceremonial uniforms, had gathered to guide them into port. “I guess that’s your cue, Stiúratóir.” He turned to Iomhar, who was already making his way to the bridge to gather his officers.
“On it,” Iomhar replied, quick on his feet as he disappeared up the stairs to the bridge. Moments later, he called the crew to gather once the ship was moored and anchored.
“Quite the welcoming party,” Earcan said to Siobhan, momentarily lowering his camera to watch the group assembling a dozen meters ahead, waiting for their ship to dock. Siobhan managed a weak smile in response.
Iomhar’s voice soon echoed through the loudspeakers: “All hands to quarters for muster. All hands to quarters for muster. Prepare to come ashore,” calling everyone to gather on deck to prepare for disembarking. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Earcan raised his camera one last time before they make landfall, and snapped pictures of the working crew around him.
“I suppose that is our cue,” Earcan said, lowering his camera and stepping forward effortlessly to where the crew was preparing the ramp as Cavan dockworkers ashore assisted in tying the stern line sent across the water. Amid the sounds of waves crashing against the concrete dock and the distant cries of seagulls, Earcan and Siobhan stood, observing their welcoming party to whom they had already given a complimentary nod of acknowledgement before their official meeting.
To their humanoid Novaran eyes, the Cavan officers before them might as well have been extraterrestrials, despite their thorough education on them. From the look of fascination in Siobhan’s eyes, Earcan could tell she had rarely seen a Cavan before, even though she was supposed to be their political and, de facto, cultural advisor for the journey.
Before the staring could become awkward, everything was done.
With the ship properly moored, and anchored, the officers and men left their workstations to gather on the deck, Earcan and Siobhan at the front, soon thereafter joined by the Iomhar as they made their first steps ashore. In quick succession, three officers of the Ruanian party stepped forward, their winged arms raised to their head for a proper salute that was answered in succession by the Mirhaimian side.
“Welcome to the Gvelles Island-” The officer in the middle, a cava in a well-kept uniform coating a similarly well-kept smooth jet black plumage, extended their greeting in Staynish soon followed by an arm reaching out for a handshake, accompanied by an expression Earcan could only assume to be a smile across their beak,
As a gentleman of his stature would, Earcan extended his own forward to shake the officer’s, though, perhaps, it would be this handshake that he would remember till the end of his days. It was unlike any other he had ever shook, even beyond the soft, but grainy paws of his ursine counterparts. It was different, like bony digits akin to the talons of birds. But the officer’s grasp was firm, and, in their eyes, Earcan could read a certain sense of determination and eased him into a smile despite the irregularity of it all.
“We suppose you are worn from the long journey?” The officer asked.
It had been decades since Earcan last spoke Staynish in length, perhaps, if his mind was fooling him, since the waning days of the Great War.
“Thank you, though I think we’ll be well.-” He managed to eke out a smile to affirm his appreciation before letting his two younger companions come forward and exchange formalities. He was surprised at how well he did.
After the courtesies were exchanged, the officer in the middle bowed slightly and introduced themselves.
“I am Androw Moroven,” the officer said, though there was no way for them to know of what gender they were. “Lieutenant-Commander of the Ruanian Navy.” their rank and association were followed by the companion to his right, a Cava with well-kept brownish plumage.
“Rudhek Marrak,” the Cava officer introduced themselves, “Ensign of the Ruanian Navy.”
Finally, the one on Androw’s left spoke up. “Mihal Sothdiyj. Ensign.”
This introduction was soon followed by the Mirhaimian delegation, with Earcan representing the Realm Armada, Iomhar as the ship’s captain, and Siobhan accompanying them as a diplomat on behalf of the Crown.
“We’re privileged to be receiving you today-” Androw said, “And I suppose you’ve caught us in the middle of celebrations.”
“It’s a very lovely occasion, Ensign-” Earcan chuckled, his opinion echoed by Siobhan and Iomhar who both offered agreeing nods, “We could even see it from afar.” Certainly the reports I’ve received were not….embellishing.”
“This is only the beginning, Geasatóir-” Androw said, through the initial confidence of which Earcan could read a sense of determination, “But alas, Gwithyasmor Cadan Trockyer sent us here to relay that he would like to meet you all as soon as you’ve arrived at the Chei Gwithyadesow.”
“The House of the Warden-” Rudhek interjected, offering a translation.
“May we?” Androw asked, nodding appreciatively to Rudhek before extending a wing to invite the three of them toward the gate, where a limousine taxi awaited.
“Most certainly,” Earcan nodded in agreement, “It would be rude to keep our host waiting-”
“A taxi?” Iomhar asked just as the taxi came into his view.
“Of course, stiúratóir-” Androw said, “Businesses remained undisrupted as the Terghintines relinquished their authorities. I am certain you would not find Arzhel’s caterings lacking. Plus, perhaps a utility vehicle would be very…unbecoming of us to offer.”
“Huh-” Iomhair muttered as they were escorted away.
–TO BE CONTINUED–