October 12, 1450: The Road to St. Malo, Sunset
"N gowno!" The lurching figure barked in the low light of the setting sun, struggling to drag his heavy load behind him and keep up with the rest. He stopped for a moment, releasing his grasp on the chest he was pulling behind himself and wiping the sweat from his brow. The chill autumn air made him shiver, and with nothing to keep his bald head warm, he'd resulted to purchasing a woman's shawl and wrapping it about his head like a babushka. The thought made him laugh, even while he cursed the luck he'd had that day.
Looking over his shoulder, he sat and waited for a trailing family behind him. They were losing light, quickly, and he didn't like the idea of being alone in the dark in a strange land. Their dress was foreign to him but he'd noticed them aboard the ship earlier in the day.
The ship. He slammed his fist against the chest in frustration just thinking about it, and for a moment damned the nasal, spitly sounding man at the fore that fancied himself a captain. A late start in the day's journey caused the ship to sail closer to the shore as the sun began to set below the horizon. The captain of the vessel, knowing they were just a short distance from their intended dock, impatiently refused to weigh anchor and wait until the following morning. The sun, shining brightly in its descent that day, obscured the ships view near the port side, and a rock outcropping that rose up just beneath the water's edge. The lance-like spire gauged a man sized hole into the ship, splintering the wood and sending a torrent of water gushing in.
He shook his head, recalling the chaos that ensued as the ship noticeably began to go under, and the captain beached the vessel on a rocky stretch of shore. The ship throttled, tossing cargo and men from their feet to the cold, hard ground some two to three meters below. The casualties were few, but nobody walked away without an injury. He too was still feeling the bruises on his left side from where he'd come to a sudden stop after what seemed like an endless fall, right on top of a cluster of shoreline stones.
Peering back to the family behind him, he got up, stretched an arm out towards them, and made a gesturing motion towards the father. The man, brown haired and wide eyed with a crow's nose, was visibly tired from the trek up the rocky shore and through the fields to the road. He lifted a small child off his shoulders and set down a tied bundle of their rescued belongings before gesturing towards the chest and muttering something in an unknown tongue. The child sat down upon it, and the man reached down to grab it from one side. Lucjan reached for the man's bundle and slung it over his shoulder, then took hold of his side of the chest. None the lighter, but at least in friendly company, they pushed on. The man's wife set a gentle hand on Lucjan's back in thanks.
October 12, 1450: Arrival at St. Malo, After Dark
The lot of them arrived in a steady stream an hour or so after dark, the port wall's watch fires pushing the travelers on as they came into view not long before. Their massed explanation for the night-time intrusion was reasonable enough to get them through the gate, and a small look of pity for those of the lot that spoke the local language. Upon entering the town, Lucjan and the traveling family said their wordless goodbyes, and the bird-faced father pointed him towards a large building with flagon of ale upon its sign. He thanked the man for his direction with a pat on the shoulder and an appreciative wave. All he wanted to think about now was a warm bed, food, and acquiring a new space on a ship to Barcelona. And therein those three goals lie every problem he could imagine.
He didn't speak a lick of local. But he certainly drew plenty of attention.
Pulling the shawl from his head and stuffing it into the chest, he pulled the door open, and with a heavy wooden clatter, dragged his belongings into the inn behind him. The place was busy, very busy, and more than a few heads turned towards the noise. His deep, hazel eyes taking in the warm glow of the fireplace and the bustle of activity, pointed nose flaring with the smell of food and ale. He straightened up. Tall, muscular, and, at a glance, more than a little domineering, the Pollock let himself rest for a moment. Then, with an audible grunt, he lifted the wooden chest up to his own. His light skin turning a feint pink as he strained under the weight before setting it atop the bar and patting the side with a sigh. His long, loose, red robe, and the white sleeves of his clothing beneath, were visibly soiled with dirt, seawater and sweat. Were it not for the notably high quality of the sword that hung at his side, or the outlandish coins that he placed upon the bar and slid toward the tender, he couldn't have possibly looked like more of an anomaly. Despite the uselessness of the visage on the coins, the purity of its substance couldn't be denied. The bartender presented him with an ale, and made a finger motion implying that he was welcome to two more.
At that moment Lucjan's eyes caught the looks of a group near the fireplace, armed as no simple man would be armed, and frequently being approached by others in the same motif. Where there were soldiers in port, there was a ship.
Lugging the chest from the bar he set it to the floor. One hand grasped a handle on the chest, the other the handle on his ale, and the ruthless scraping and clattering of his burden announced his approach to the group at the fireplace. Standing upright, he took a swig of a his drink, reached into his robe and produced a small leather bag. It hit the center of the table with the clanks and pangs of coin, and he hoped to God that at least one of these men would understand him.
Polish, Lithuanian, and in finale the Latin of the Catholic church, he would try the tongues he knew until he got a responce.
"Lucjan Sylfajenski. I need a ship. My last arrangements failed to reach dock."
Firelight flickering in the colorful hazel of his eyes, a crisp glare shining off the sweat of his brow. He prayed for understanding.