As a felid Courier for the various kingdoms of Hellas, my travels have taken me to strange places within the Mesogeios sea. But the strangest was to the island of Sivyr.

I clearly recall that week. A period of halycon calm during the winter season when the king of Macedai summoned me. Within private chambers he tasked me to deliver a sealed bronze tube containing scrolls to the place where Magnuses and Conjurers dwelled.

The only boat that would undertake the journey to Sivyr was a cargo ship entrusted for the task. Captained by a morose otter and crew of seven from his own clan. They were under a contract by the Sivyrians to be their sole provider of imported goods.

Under a moderate Etesian wind, we set off from the Peloponnese aboard a fat bellied boat with it's lateen rigged sail and foresail for a journey of three days.

Comfort was lacking. For I slept under the raised stern deck sharing cramped, shoulder rubbing quarters with the crew and their oilskin blankets. In the back, lay the smoky sand filled firebox where the cook boiled soup to moisten the bland diet of dried fish for our meals. Atop the stern deck was a tiny cabin where the captain dwelt. But he spent most of his time in front of it. An impassive vested, furred mustilid steering the twin oared vessel by leaning and tugging against the pole running crosswise across the deck.

Whiskers twitching, muzzle tinged white with age. The brown otter spoke little, occasionally barking orders to his crew in an odd sea dialect. In turn, they'd scramble about, adjusting the sail and foresail rigging under choppy seas.

The single large hatch in the center of the boat lay covered by tarps. By the second day, felid curiosity beckoned me to peak underneath. The sealed bronze tube still strapped around my shoulder. A force of habit. For couriers were never to allow precious messages out of their sight.

Underneath the tarp, the cargo was a single layered arrangement of twin handled, fat bodied amphora containers packed in dried grass and tied down. What drew my attention was their appearance. For the amphora were made not of fired clay, but of a strange bluish material. Uniform, with swirls suggesting they were like blown glass. But not so! When my clawed fingers tapped the side of one jar. There came forth a strange, dull thunking sound. The jar felt both stiff, yet oddly resilient.

The captain had noticed my curiosity and beckoned me up onto the steering deck. He said those amphorae had been fashioned by the Mages of Sivyr. And only for their use. A tough material lighter than anything he had known and not brittle like clay. A fall would not shatter them, but merely create a crack or two within the strange material. He called it plastique. Strange alchemy indeed!

By the midday of the third day, we came in sight of Sivyr. A cluster of three rocky, crescent shaped islands surrounding a cone shaped island of ash. The captain mentioned that on some days, plumes of smoke would rise from the center island like one of the forges belonging to the Deity of Smiths.

On top of the steering deck, beside the captain, I took in the view as we tacked towards the largest island. Near vertical and impenetrable rocky cliffs. On top, lay the white walls of the citadel itself. From where I stood, I took note of the rounded roofs of various buildings jutting above the walls. Lime wash making everything glow in the bright sun. By the tallest headland stood an imposing, buttressed white washed tower with stepped walls soaring skywards to twin parapets at the peak. A curved, striped ochre colored strip was the only decoration upon the bone white structure. I noticed two great gates embedded within the tower's base. Two broad stairways led forth. Zigzagging in descending switchbacks carved into the near vertical living rock, towards the wave crashing bottom.

The rough layout of the rock prevented the widest set of stairs from reaching the bottom where two jagged peaks reared up from the sea. Truss like bridgework arched from one peak to the next and a second bridge branched upwards from the center. It terminated up at the wide stair case carved into the cliff. On each rocky peak, by the arched bridge's foundations, two carved sets of stairs switch backed down to the wave crashing sea. But where were the piers? For ahead, lay no friendly sheltered shore at all! Only swelling seas.

Finally, I noticed a series of brown shafts rising from the sea. Twin rows of pillars jutting above the waves. Had the piers been swept away by a storm, leaving only pillars?

The captain continued sailing towards the naked pillars. At once, by the rocky peaks, I noticed a thin brown line almost aglow in the mid day sun. Cat jaw agape, I watched as the strangest sight unfolded before my slit pupiled eyes.

Imagine a floor, unseen to eyes with a large roll of brown carpet slowly unrolling itself atop it. Giving it the effect of floating in midair. Before the lateen rigged cargo ship, there appeared to be something like a stone brown, giant carpet slowly unrolling itself atop the pillars. Fog-like, it became solid. A brown colored, stony pier! Both captain and crew seemed non-plussed by the amazing sight!

The captain hauled up to the only spot where mooring capstans jutted above the brown pier. We moored there. Strangely, the surface seemed to have sprouted a low bench wall in the center! The crew didn't even bother to be amazed at this as well. They seemed busy furling the sail, tying the boat up, removing the tarps off the cargo hatch.

The ship's gangplank slid across onto a seemingly solid pier of uniform, stone like material the color of dull brown. The otter crew formed a gang line, from below deck within the cargo hatch, untying and hauling up the twin handled amphorae. Some were narrow mouthed, no doubt containing liquid. Others wide mouthed. Sealed jars containing various products from the lands ringing the great, wine dark Mesogeios. From oils, wine, beans, grains and packed objects of mundane or great value within.

Panting and grunting, the thick tailed crew lifted an amphora jar out, passing it across the gang plank, stacking them upright against the bench wall jutting up from the center of the pier.

Recalling my instructions to wait for a courier with the proper signs, I waited atop the steering deck with the captain, whiling away the time, gazing up at the island cliffs. It was after the interval of time taken for a short sandglass to empty, that I noticed one of the gates at the base of the tower sliding upwards. Out came a procession. Two figures in blue and green leading a growing line of smaller individuals.

They descended the stairs like a vast, long centipede. The last one in line paused by the gateway. The next to last would stop a dozen paces ahead. And so forth. Till what I assumed to be long line of laborers stood on the stairs. Each spaced a dozen paces apart like a great chain of separated links running down the great stairs across the bridgework and onto the dock.

Our boat crew feverishly finished the unloading and with great haste boarded the boat. They all crawled under the steering deck as if hiding. Muttering nervously. The captain remained at his post. As did I while what I assumed to be two officials leading the precession came forth to where our boat lay.

The erect eared pair were dressed in shirt like tunics. A tall, slim bodied canid in brown and white. The second was a shorter, reddish furred vulpine. The canid stood impassively behind the bench wall while the blue tunic vulpine came up to the gangplank. He had the denser pelted look of those who came from the northern lands. Wearing a shirted tunic of the finest blued linen, with white lapel lines. A white fleur chevron symbol embroidered onto the front flap. He wore a belt and a shoulder scabbard with sword.

He gave a stiff salute to the captain. Then turned and gave a wordless nod to the first laborer at the head of the line. The vulpine patiently watched while the short being strode forth, grabbing the first amphora by it's handles, hauling it up, taking a few strides, then handing it off to the next. Where he then returned to the stacked row. Each laborer walked a dozen paces to hand the amphora off to the next before returning once again. Like an extended bucket brigade handing off amphora instead of buckets. The amphorae slowly made their way up the rock carved stairs till they vanished past the tower gate high above.

No words were exchanged while the sea air titter tattered around the ship. The laborers had an odd stiff look to them. Tan colored, furless hides. Wearing groin cloths. The laborers appeared to be squash faced, tail-less monkeys with only fur on their heads. Their round pupiled eyes were fixed and staring. They looked like statues in living motion. Working a ceaseless pace, they appeared to neither lag or even appeared tired. And I swore I didn't hear them make a sound, nor heard any of the grunts and labored breathing the otters made when they unloaded the cargo.

In a low voice, I muttered, "Strange lot. Slaves? Or contract labor?"

The captain's whiskered muzzle hovered next to my ears as he whispered back. "Neither. Tis Necromancy. It's said the Sivyrians dug up the bones of walking apes from ash deposits on the mainland of Cush and clothed that shape 'round them..."

The blue tunic fox gazed in our direction, the captain ceased his whispering.

At last, the strange brigade of dead eyed laborers had taken the last of the amphorae off the pier. Without any order, the nearest of them, turned and left for the cliff, shuffling slowly towards the stairs at the end of the pier. The blue tunic fox turned and followed them.

From around the bench, the tall, long muzzled dog strode towards the gang plank. Halting a yard in front of it. Tall, erect ears, short pelted in brown and white, dressed in a green tunic similar to the vulpine. The tunic differed by being shorter draped around the waist. The better to allow freedom for long legs. For he had the build and tone of a runner with a thin long tail to match. He wore no sword, but had a shoulder pouch. A familiar looking medallion hung around his neck. The same as I wore.

With a nod to the boat captain, I made my way down the deck to the gunwales and over the gangplank. Pausing in front of the tall, long eared dog. I raised a felid paw and hand signaled. Gestures and motions. The language of Couriers. Even if we had a common language, we would have not used words. For Couriers are sworn to sealed lips regarding the contents of messages. And in that manner by tradition, exchanges between Couriers are expressed via sign language.

He signaled greetings. I answered acknowledgment. Then, I slid the strapped bronze tube off my shoulder while the brown and white dog took a ribbon of parchment out of his leather pouch. He held the ribbon in front of my muzzle. I read the runes, noting they matched those embossed on the wax sealed bronze tube. I took the parchment and gave him the bronze tube. Signaled a salutary good day and we both turned around. I to my boat, he down the pier and up the long stairs to Sivyr.

The otter crew wasted no time untying the boat and unfurling the sails. We eased away from the pier. Captain and crew eager to leave. The boat swung around under a stiff breeze. I looked astern at the receding rocky island of Sivyr just as an odd sea mist arose, obscuring the piers.

© 2013 Sirius Dogfire ("SiriusDF"). May not be reprinted, reposted, or redistributed without permission. First appeared in the January 17, 2013 Thursday Prompt series hosted on FurAffinity by Duroc.