Author’s Note:
Welcome to Chapter Three of The Travels of Jain Farstrider! This draft represents a work in progress, it is still mostly an outline that I am fleshing out a piece at a time and this introduction is designed to give you a glimpse into the world we’re building and the story I am refining. As I shape Jain’s journey, this chapter explores not only the physical landscapes of the Westlands but also Jain’s evolving curiosity and resilience as a young adventurer.
In this chapter, Jain sets out from Caemlyn, leaving the city’s grandeur behind as he heads toward Cairhien. His first stop is Aringill, a vibrant riverside town where trade and intrigue thrive along the bustling docks. While interacting with the town’s colorful array of merchants and travelers, Jain hears tantalizing tales of Stedding Chanti, a mysterious Ogier sanctuary nestled in the foothills of the Spine of the World. This sparks a desire to take a detour, leaving the beaten path for a journey that promises both challenges and discoveries.
The route eastward isn’t without its perils. Jain encounters sudden storms over the Maraside Mountains, glimpses the distant village of Morelle, and navigates the rugged Jolvine Pass. Along the way, his missteps and struggles remind us that the road is as much about growth as it is about reaching a destination.
His search for Stedding Chanti leads him instead to Stedding Kolomon, where he is welcomed by the Ogier. This serene and timeless sanctuary becomes a place of learning and reflection for Jain. Here, his love for writing and storytelling deepens as he marvels at the Ogier’s wisdom and peaceful way of life.
As Jain’s time in the stedding draws to a close, the chapter leaves him facing a pivotal decision: to delve further into the mysteries of the Spine of the World or return to his original path toward Cairhien. This moment highlights the duality of Jain’s journey—the tension between curiosity for the unknown and the pull of his intended destination.
We hope you enjoy this glimpse into Chapter Three as it evolves. While the draft remains unfinished, it aims to capture the heart of Jain’s adventures and the spirit of exploration that defines him. Stay tuned for updates as we continue to refine this chapter and the world it reveals.
Chapter Three: Steddings, The Sun Palace and the Game of Houses
(My Age: 16)
Chapter 3: Leaving Camelyn, Finding Stedding and Cairhien
Written a few weeks after departing Caemlyn.
Journal Entry: Reflections on the Road East
It has been weeks since I left Caemlyn, yet its gleaming spires and bustling streets linger vividly in my mind. The image of Queen Mordrellen presiding over her court remains etched in my thoughts, as does the city’s intricate beauty and the ever-present whispers of intrigue. And, of course, how could I forget my foolish escapade that landed me in the palace dungeon? A humbling—if mortifying—lesson that I have no desire to repeat. Never again! Though my stay ended on a sour note, the marvel of Caemlyn itself remains untarnished in my eyes. It is a city of wonders, truly.
Still, the road ahead calls louder than the “comforts” I left behind, even if those comforts included hard straw in the dungeon and an escort to the gates by unsmiling guards.
The journey eastward toward Cairhien has been winding and slower than I had imagined. The smaller towns I’ve passed through, while unassuming, hold a certain quiet charm. They lack the grandeur of Caemlyn, but there is beauty in their simplicity—a rhythm to life here that feels familiar, reminding me of my own home. The fields are vast, stretching to meet the horizon, and the people are warm, if a bit curious about a wandering youth with a journal and far too many questions.
The days pass with a steady cadence: the crunch of boots on dirt roads, the occasional bite of a brisk wind, and the ever-present hum of life in the countryside. Sparrows flit from branch to branch, and the air carries the scent of wildflowers and freshly turned earth. It is a slower world than Caemlyn, but no less vibrant in its own way.
Though I miss the marvels of the great city, there is something refreshing about these smaller places. They are honest in their simplicity—unconcerned with the Game of Houses or the weight of crowns. Here, life revolves around harvests, trade, and family. And though they do not possess the sprawling markets or majestic palaces of the capital, these towns are not without their own stories. One only has to listen.
Journal Entry: Arrival in Aringill
Written on my first evening in Aringill.
Aringill lies along the banks of the Erinin, a bustling river town with an air of constant activity. The docks are alive with merchants and laborers, their shouts mingling with the creak of wooden planks and the splash of water against hulls. The scent of fish and damp wood hangs thick in the air, and the streets are lined with inns, warehouses, and market stalls.
The town is a crossroads of sorts, its location drawing traders from Cairhien, Andor, and beyond. The mix of accents and wares is dizzying; I saw silks from the south, furs from the Borderlands, and even a Sea Folk sailor bartering over a crate of spices.
Footnote: Aringill
A key trading hub in Andor, Aringill serves as a waypoint for goods traveling along the Erinin River. Despite its importance, the town retains a rough, utilitarian character, its wealth concentrated among a few powerful merchants.
Journal Entry: A Night at the Red Pike
The Red Pike is a noisy inn near the docks, its common room alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of mugs, and bursts of raucous laughter. I found a corner table, nursing a mug of watery ale, and allowed the tales of the river folk to flow around me like the Erinin itself.
One grizzled man, his face weathered as driftwood, leaned in close as he recounted his story. “There’s a ship,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “It sails the Erinin on moonless nights. No crew, only shadows gliding across the deck—silent, watchful. And then, like a whisper, it’s gone.” A ripple of unease moved through his audience, some scoffing, others glancing toward the darkened windows as if half-expecting to see ghostly sails on the horizon.
Another voice broke in, louder and more insistent. “Forget ghost ships! What about the wolves?” A younger man, lean and sharp-eyed, spoke with a certainty that demanded attention. “I saw them myself, just outside town. Not ordinary wolves, mind you—these were massive, as big as small horses, with eyes that glowed like embers in the night.” He shook his head, his gaze darting around the room as if daring anyone to challenge him.
Wolves so near a bustling place like Aringill would be remarkable enough, but the kind he described were beyond belief. Wolves of any size seldom venture close to towns, let alone a busy trade hub like this one. The very idea unsettled me, though I couldn’t decide if it was the tale itself or the way the room seemed to hold its collective breath after he spoke.
The innkeeper interrupted my thoughts as she placed a bowl of fish stew before me. Thin and overly salted, with bones that outnumbered the flakes of meat, it was still a comfort after a long day. “You’re not the first wanderer to stop here,” she said, her sharp eyes flicking to the journal on the table. “But take care. Aringill has its share of secrets, and it’s best not to go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Margin Note:
The next morning, I found a streetside vendor selling all manner of goods for travelers. Among his wares was a finely carved walking stick, its surface smooth and polished, clearly crafted by skilled hands. With some of my dwindling coin, I made it mine—my fourth walking stick since leaving home.
One had been lost to a treacherous stream when I misjudged the slipperiness of a log bridge. I’d ended up soaked to the bone, though by some small miracle, my pack remained dry, its contents—including this journal—protected by the oiled skin I had fashioned weeks earlier. That lesson had stayed with me, and I take no chances when it comes to safeguarding these pages.
As I walked back to the inn, I cast a glance toward the woods at the town’s edge. The wolves from last night’s tale were still on my mind. Could such creatures truly exist—giant wolves with glowing eyes? And if they did, what had driven them so close to human habitation?
That night, lying in the cramped room I’d rented, my new walking stick resting within reach, I resolved to keep my wits about me. The world is vast and strange, and Aringill, it seems, holds more mysteries than its bustling streets first let on. Perhaps one day, I’ll learn the truth of those wolves and the secrets they carry in their silent, watchful eyes.
Journal Entry: Honest Work in Aringill
Aringill may be bustling with trade and filled with secrets, but for those like me, traveling on scant coin, it is also a city of opportunity—if one isn’t too proud to take what comes. My time here has taught me that work, no matter how humble or unpleasant, can be a window into the lives of others and a chance to learn something new.
I began my efforts at a merchant’s stall near the docks, assisting an elderly man named Herrick. His wares were mostly practical—bolts of coarse cloth, small tools, and pots of ink—and his customers were the riverfolk and laborers who kept Aringill running. My job was simple enough: hauling goods from the back of his wagon to replenish the stall and keeping an eye on any sticky-fingered patrons.
Herrick had a quick tongue and an endless supply of stories. “You see that dockworker there?” he said, nodding toward a burly man carrying sacks of grain. “He claims he wrestled a bear once. I say he’s wrestled nothing but his supper plate!” I laughed along with him, though I couldn’t help but notice the spark of respect in his eye when the dockworker caught his gaze.
Later, I took on work for a tailor named Madral. He ran a modest shop in the New Town, his specialty being sturdy garments for tradesmen. My task was to deliver finished orders to his clients, which took me all over Aringill—down narrow alleyways, through bustling markets, and even to the quieter streets where the wealthier merchants lived.
One delivery brought me to a house on the northern edge of town. The door was opened by a woman whose sharp gaze softened when she saw the neatly folded bundle in my hands. “Madral’s work is always fine,” she said, handing me a coin. “Tell him he’s a credit to his trade.”
It wasn’t all clean hands and polite exchanges, though. For a few days, I worked as a stablehand at an inn called The Sable Hart. Mucking out stalls is as unpleasant as it sounds, the odor clinging to me long after the work was done. But the horses—strong, sleek creatures with glossy coats—made the effort worthwhile.
There was one mare in particular, a fiery chestnut named Ember, who seemed to take a liking to me. Each morning, as I brought her fresh hay and water, she would nuzzle my arm and whinny softly. The stablemaster, a gruff man named Torvik, noticed this and grunted his approval. “Horses know good folk when they see ’em,” he said, tossing me an extra copper.
Journal Entry: Whispers of the Ogier
The Sable Hart’s stableyard was as lively as the inn itself. Merchants and travelers came and went at all hours, their voices blending with the soft whickers of horses and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Though my work kept me busy—hauling water, mucking stalls, and brushing down the horses—I always kept an ear open for the tales that passed between the patrons.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the stableyard in gold and amber, I overheard a conversation between two travelers resting on the inn’s front steps. They were grizzled men, their cloaks dusty from the road, and they spoke in low, conspiratorial tones.
“…Ogier,” one of them said, his voice carrying just enough to reach my ears as I fed the horses.
“Stedding Chanti, they call it,” the other replied. “Nestled somewhere in the foothills of the Spine. Peaceful folk, those Ogier, but strange. You’d think they were part of the mountains themselves, the way they live.”
Curiosity sparked in me like a flame catching dry tinder. I’d heard of Ogier, of course—keepers of ancient lore, builders of cities and palaces that even the greatest masons couldn’t hope to replicate. But their Stedding, places of serene beauty and seclusion, were the stuff of half-whispered legend.
“You ever seen one?” the first man asked, his tone skeptical.
The other chuckled, a sound like boots crunching over gravel. “Not me. But I heard it from a trader out of Cairhien, who said he passed one on his way south. Claimed it was like stepping into another world. Trees taller than towers, air so still you could hear your own heartbeat.”
As they continued their conversation, I found myself lingering by the stable door, brushing the fiery chestnut mare, Ember, with slower strokes than usual. Could it be true? Was there really a Stedding so close to Aringill?
Later that evening, I mustered the courage to ask Torvik, the stablemaster, about the Ogier. He was stacking bales of hay with the ease of someone who’d done the task a thousand times, but he paused at my question, one brow arching beneath his shaggy hair.
“Ogier, eh?” he grunted. “Aye, I’ve heard of ’em. Big folk, they are, gentle as spring lambs but strong as oxen. Buildin’ things’s their trade, but they keep to themselves, mostly.”
“And Stedding Chanti?” I pressed.
Torvik leaned on his pitchfork, his expression thoughtful. “Hmm. Could be. The Spine’s got places most folk don’t bother with. If there’s a Stedding out there, it’d make sense. But you’d best tread careful, boy. The mountains aren’t kind to wanderers, and the Ogier don’t take lightly to folks who disturb their peace.”
Margin Note:
Farm work back home had taught me that no job is too base if it keeps food on the table. Whether it was delivering bolts of cloth or shoveling manure, I reminded myself that these tasks were stepping stones on my journey.
And in truth, I learned more about Aringill during those days of toil than I ever could as a mere passerby. From the gossip at the market stalls to the quiet gratitude of a tailor’s client, each interaction revealed another layer of this complex, lively town.
By the end of the week, my purse was heavier, my hands rougher, and my understanding of Aringill deeper. These honest days of work, though unremarkable in themselves, grounded me. They reminded me that no matter how far I wander or what wonders I seek, the world turns on the small, unglamorous efforts of people like Herrick, Madral, and Torvik.
Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll leave this town behind, but the lessons I’ve learned here will travel with me. The idea of finding a Stedding filled my mind that night as I lay on a bed of straw in the stable loft. I’d read of Ogier in stories, but the thought of meeting them, of seeing their fabled Stedding, was too tantalizing to resist.
Journal Entry: The Road to the Mountains
After several days in Aringill, I decided to move on. The lure of the Maraside Mountains, which loom faintly to the east, proved irresistible. Locals spoke of a pass that cuts through the range and rumors of a hidden stedding beyond it. The thought of meeting the Ogier was too intriguing to ignore.
The trail leading into the mountains was narrow but well-trodden, winding through rolling hills and clusters of trees. As I walked, the bustle of Aringill faded into the stillness of the wild, the air growing cooler and fresher with every step.
Journal Entry: Into the Maraside Mountains
Written on the evening of my second day in the mountains.
The Maraside Mountains are a place of rugged beauty, their peaks jagged and weathered by time. The path I followed climbed steadily, flanked by towering pines that seemed to whisper in the breeze.
At one point, I glimpsed the village of Morelle far below, its stone cottages clustered near the edge of the forest. The smoke rising from their chimneys looked inviting, but I pressed on, eager to find the stedding I had heard so much about.
Footnote: The Maraside Mountains
A small spur of the Spine of the World, the Maraside Mountains are known for their rugged terrain and sparse settlements. Though not as imposing as the Spine, they present their own challenges to travelers.
Journal Entry: The Storm
Written by firelight in a makeshift shelter.
The storm came without warning, rolling in with clouds that swallowed the sky. Rain turned the trail to mud, and the wind howled through the trees like a living thing. I managed to find shelter under a rocky overhang, but the night was long and cold.
Lightning illuminated the mountains in brief, blinding flashes, and for a moment, I thought I saw a figure on the ridge above me. Whether it was a trick of the light or something more, I cannot say.
Journal Entry: Searching for Stedding Chanti
Written after a fruitless day of searching.
I had heard tales of Stedding Chanti in Aringill—stories of towering Ogier and their peaceful groves hidden deep in the mountains. But finding it has proven more difficult than I imagined. The trails here are confusing, splitting and disappearing into dense thickets.
Still, the search is not without its rewards. The mountain air is invigorating, and the views are breathtaking. At times, I feel as though I am the only person in the world.
Journal Entry: The Discovery of Stedding Kolomon
Written on my first evening among the Ogier.
I had nearly given up hope when I stumbled into a clearing that felt different—calm, almost sacred. The Ogier who greeted me were as I had imagined: tall, broad, and serene, with voices that seemed to resonate in the air.
They welcomed me without question and invited me to stay in their grove. Their homes blend seamlessly with the forest, carved from living wood and stone. Here, time seems to move more slowly, and the weight of the outside world feels lighter.
Footnote: Stedding Kolomon
One of the many stedding scattered across the Westlands, Kolomon is known for its tranquility and the wisdom of its Ogier inhabitants. The Ogier value peace and knowledge above all, their lives a testament to patience and harmony.
The HolloWords of the Mad 
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