Concerning Adventurers with Poliver and Mycah

The world is a big place. A big, ancient, and messy place. Don’t be one of those fools who goes looking through maps thinking it shows all there is to know about the green country. Before humans took over there was the faye. Before the faye there small folk. Before the small folk was who bloody knows? Layer upon layer of civilizations and tribes making up the world we try and fit into our little maps.

‘Adventurer’ is the broad title we give to folk daring enough to venture out and explore the hidden parts of our world. They’re fighters, scholars, magik folk, spelunkers, and trespassers. Spend more than two nights in any country tavern and you’re bound to see a band of them pouring over tattered maps. Their arms are antiques and dress rugged. I don’t recommend standing within smell range of them.

Some kings are keen to label them troublemakers. Adventurers are firm believers in the ‘right to roam’, meaning any land is theirs for the enjoyment. If you’ve a problem with that then I beg you to justify how an entire countryside can belong to a single pompous twit in a silly hat because of who their parent were. Go right ahead, I’ve plenty of time.

Without these daring folk, much of our world’s past would still be hidden beneath rock and brush. We’d have no knowledge of the tunnel cities of Fennex, the ocean castles beneath the Venom Sea, or that cow urine is a decent mosquito repellent.

I recently shared a roast chicken with a pair of adventurers.  The ash haired veteran, Poliver, was keen to ramble on and on while his younger partner, Mycah, was more question than answer.

Poliver

Poliver Killian was born ‘ages ago’ in the hunting hamlet just outside the Turpin Moors. Those who have never ventured its wild and rude hills may wonder what the fuss is about. By all accounts, moors are generally mundane places where the most dangerous thing is a sudden change in wind direction. Woe to any wanderer heading west of Wellingspring with such assumptions.

The Turpin Moors certainly looks pleasant enough. Come spring the hills are afire with lamp lighter heather and bullberry. A strong wind ripples the grasses into reds, purples and greens like a painter’s basin. I once spent a week camped out on a hilltop, just admiring the ebb and flow of its natural beauty. Well, it was a long afternoon but still, very beautiful.

No, it’s not the flora that makes this land so fearsome, but rather the apex beast of the region, the Turpin Boars. The juveniles size up to half a man while the adults can be larger than pack horses. Their hides are stronger than plate amour and their tusks are jagged and many, harder than smithed steel and used to root deep beneath the land’s hills. All these attributes only become a problem on account of the boars being massive jerks for no clear reason.

Poliver, like many from small towns surrounding the moors, is a ‘Boar Master’. These stout folk act as bodyguards for any who prefer to traverse the land without being gored. Training to defend against these enormous creatures means mastering a pig sticker lance and to withstand a charge powerful enough to crack the doors of the afterlife.

It was a decent profession for Poliver and he did it well for many years. Eventually, however, he figured it was time to acquire stories that didn’t involve murderous pigs. It didn’t take him long to find a group eager for his talents, as a Turpin Boar Master could likely hold fast against even the giants of the north.

After many travels this way and that, he packed up with a fiery youngster, fresh from the sea and impatient for discovery. They make a fine pair to be sure.

Mycah

Mycah Fischer was born on the sea. I don’t mean born in a town along the shore, I mean actually born on the sea. His mother gave birth somewhere along the Azure Coast, right there on the foredeck. They say he was given a few minutes to stop crying and then handed the main halyard.

It was a life he enjoyed for a time. Together with his parents and their crew, he sailed far in all directions and visited strange ports beyond the horizon. Indeed, by the age of nineteen he was better travelled then many I’ve known, but it wasn’t enough.

Each time they anchored, Mycah would gaze inland. Castles perched on snowcapped mountains, maze-like cities brimming with mystery and dark forests that stretched as far as any ocean. All this and more had captivated him to a fever pitch and eventually the allure was too much. On his twentieth birthday, he grabbed a canvas bag stuffed with food and headed east from Port Tarrow without a plan. This was permitted by his parents on condition that he write once a month, something he’s never failed to do in seven years.

Mycah was scared rotten that a young sailor like himself wouldn’t be able to handle the demands of adventuring the wilderness. As it turns out, years of scaling rigging, heaving line and eating weevil biscuits made him a natural at overcoming cliffsides, swinging a cleaver sword and eating bugs while lost in a cave.

Together with his found family Poliver, the pair are two of the most sought-after adventurers west of Watercross. Whether it’s exploring ancient ruins, finding a lost loved one or acting as escort through treacherous wilds, your coin will never be wasted with these two.

They asked me to write that last bit.