Theros Ironfield

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The town was a tiny speck on the side of a pristine shoreline of azure and green. A battered war barge glided slowly toward the coastline, the vessel barely under sail. It was obvious that the barge and its crew of minotaurs and human slaves had recently seen action. Only one sail remained aloft, and most of the rigging was down, tangled in masses on the decking below. The mainmast had been shattered, and its remnants lay strewn about, making life difficult for the crew.

“Port Five!”

A minotaur barked course corrections to the wheel. He stood on the forecastle, staring at the tiny dot of civilization through a spyglass. The spyglass symbolized life for the vessel. Originally of human design-possibly from as far back as the Cataclysm-the glass was just under two feet in length, made of brass. It counter-twisted to focus the two lenses on distances as great as a mile or more.

The markings on the side were foreign to the minotaur, but he didn’t care what they said or meant. The device did what it needed to do. It magnified items in the distance, warned of the approach of either enemy or victim, and that was what the minotaur captain wanted. The price had been right, too. It had been part of the booty from a raid years ago. Everything on the barge had either been stolen in raids, or was rigged as needed while at sea.

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