I learned markings, like all good Tamvaasa born for the waterwandering. No waterwander can be successful without an accurate reckoning of supplies. Similarly, no profit was gained from a trade without knowledge of markings.

It is only in the end of my passage that I turned to markings for the counting of memories.

Waterwanderers have many of them. Where we lack wealth in Kin or hearth, we make up for with stories.

I therefore dedicate these memories to the Benefit of my Kin and Karkin[1], even to the entire Folkin, all the way to the Lakdwellers.

May it serve to profit you through many passages of Gaal.


Good memories rarely have clear beginnings, middles, and ends as their telling implies. It takes a songweaver to do that. So I will begin where my memories begin, and end where they end. Hopefully it will be enough for the Songweavers of other passages to enhand my memories into a story.


Many Wanderers know the Seapaths south—to the gentle waters of the Shinse, the Golden towers of Kunazem and the easing pickings to be had on the pillager’s coast.

Every waterwanderer cuts his teeth on these poor parts.

–In recent passages I’m told the way has become more hazardous due to the rise of the Armada—

Well in the early passages of my waterwandering, this was as far as even the bravest need go. Be one in search of treasures, or the sharp eyed Shizu, all manner of adventure could be had on the Pillager’s coast.

I joined the waterwanderings from a young age—as soon as I was old enough to enhand an axe.

In those passages I was made to sit in the watercraft and guard it while the rest pillaged.

This is how I killed my first man. A Shinse ambush intended to burn our watercraft, so as to encircle the fighters and pick them off one by one. They came, three young Shime. I remember hiding until they had spread out. Then, Axe enhand and silent as the air in Gaal’s absence, I swung it at the back of the Shime neck.

The satisfying crunch of axe on bone had never left me. The Shime was dead before he hit the ground. I had to put my foot on his headbone and heave to get it out again.

Warm and disgusting, that’s what the blood on my foot felt like. But I had caught the bloodcraze, the Warheat coursed through me as I went for the next Shime. This one cried in agony, calling the third. I was just barely a match for one Shime, not to bespeak the challenge of fighting two. The fact that one was wounded and slow saved me, for I was small and quick.

I let myself be chased by the healthy one, turned a corner, then felled him by throwing sand. My size saved me again, for the Shime was not on his guard. He fell choking on his own blood. And so did the third.

It was the other Waterwanderers who found me, covered in blood, panting like a vilkai over my three kills.

This is how I earned my name Jonderen Bloodbather.

[1] Clan

Continue to Jonderen's account of the Long South - Part 2

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