The Wind Seer rocked badly on the night’s sea. Most of the crew weren’t fairing too well in the weather either. Half of them were seasick and the other half were drunk in their bottles, but all of them were restless and on edge. Most of them weren’t sailors or used to a life at sea and that held true for both Marko and Mikhai as well. He had never wanted to take this job in the first place, but Mikhai had persuaded him to do so, believing a huge amount of coin and fame would be involved. He wasn’t exactly wrong either. Travel by ship might indeed be faster than by land depending on where one was going; however, it was by no means safer. In the eastern and southern waters were countless pirates who pillaged, murdered and raped the unsuspecting. The northern waters were extremely cold and the natural habitat to ulymi; creatures of such immense size, ferocity, and abilities, that everyone knew to steer clear of. That left only the western sea, as the safest route. But that wasn’t exactly true. Pirates still sailed there, but more frightening than that is that it is called the Black Sea for more than just the colour of its waters. Ships have been known to vanish mysteriously while sailing through it and resurfaced as wreckage along the west coast while others returned home, but plagued with unknown and incurable illnesses. Nevertheless, it was without a doubt the fastest route between Turrok and Klimek, and Arnslo, the captain of the Wind Seer, wasn’t a superstitious man. He was no fool either though, so he made sure to hire some protection while he made his journey to Turrok. The trick with that however was, not many wanted to have much to do with the Black Sea and if you stayed too close to the coastline of Arincar, you ran the risk of running into pirates. There’s also the fact that the kingdom of Wanton, located between Turrok and Klimek, had placed a restriction on travelling through their lands and waters. As a result, all ships passing that way were forced to go out further into the ocean; into the Black Sea or be shot by the ballistae on their blockade of ships without warning. So, Arnslo had no choice but to pay a hefty price to hire some ten able men as protection – easy money as far as Mikhai was concerned. He didn’t believe in the stories of the Black Sea like some and he feared very little already anyway; so he figured we would just sit down on the journey to Turrok, enjoy a free meal, a few days at sea, and an easy payment; crones, at that. They were simple golden coins with a crown on each of them but the only currency which could be used freely in any kingdom and were therefore desired by many; especially travellers such as themselves. Marko couldn’t see a flaw in the plan nor was he in particular superstitious either, but he was reluctant about the journey nonetheless. Even if they were only rumours, there still had to be some reason how it earned its name. And with a name like that, it worried him.

“Marko, relax. Tense - too tense. The journey’s end is near, be at ease.” Mikhai told him in the harsh native tongue and accent of the nomads. He sat opposite to Marko, with his weepy pinkish eyes and sheepish grin.

“I’ll be at ease when this task is finished and this big bowl has come to a stop”, he replied in their native tongue. His arms remained folded to his chests with his back against a wall. Mikhai only laughed at that; he was always a laid-back person who often tried to avoid conflict even though he possessed great skill with a sword. In truth, he made for an odd Hrvati; a lazy self-proclaimed pacifist who would sooner eat, drink, laugh and whore himself to an early grave than do anything else. Ironically, it’s because of these vices in the first place that trouble always seems to find him; always eating and drinking without the coin to pay for it, laughing at some noble to their face, or sleeping with some man’s wife, daughter, or both. Truly, a man who’s eyes never saw life as anything other than his playground. He was far too detached from his culture to care about doing anything related to it and even went as far as jesting that he’d rather die between the legs of the Phoenix Queen from her blade, than buried deep in the grounds of the Garoh Mountains. Well, it was not as if he had a choice in that anymore anyway, since he was exiled from his home. As such, he could never step foot again in the Garoh Mountains less he faced death. Being marked with the Maugæl on his forehead; a brand shaped to look like a seven-pointed star which meant, “Shame of the Generation”, he would be easily identified as an exile and killed on the spot. This was a law that the Hrvati enforced upon themselves, regardless of the fact that they all carried the same eyes and although the patterns may differ, they all carry some similar intricate markings on their skin. Those were the defining traits of the nomads; their crimson eyes and the varying marks on their bodies; their Rhou’n. It was also these traits that made them targeted, feared, and hated by most.

“Come now, come! Drink, friend! Drink, my blood! The strong water will ease you as sure as the sun!” he replied with a keg held high in the air. Pushing the keg towards Marko’s face, he laughed loudly; the wine on his breath. Marko peered at him through one opened crimson eye and shook his head; both in rejection of his offer and in defeat of his friend’s drunken, merry state.

“Maybe it is you who should slow down on the strong water, my blood” he replied to his friend, still in Hrvatian. He spied a glance to his left and saw a few of the other men aboard, looking at them both with disgust and loathing in their eyes. Marko looked back to his friend who only continued drinking merrily and laughing loudly; not even paying attention to the stares. As sure as the sun, Mikhai never felt the cold blood in the area. He had always been that way for as long as he could remember; even before the two formed the “Blade and Soul Mercenaries”. The name was his idea; claiming that he was the “Blade” while Marko was the “Soul”.

The group of men started speaking in hushed whispers amongst themselves, although their eyes never left them. Mikhai’s own pinkish-red eyes were focused on nothing more than the keg of wine in his hands. After a long swallow, he slapped the empty bottle down on the table and ran a hand through his shaggy black hair.

“Strong water? Hahaha! It should be called fire water! That burns through your chest! Amazing!” he shouted as he banged the now empty jug against the table over and over. The hushed whispers also seemed to increase to match his own merriment; this time, it was audible enough to hear some insulting terms being thrown around. His knowledge of the common tongue was not as great as Marko’s, so he probably didn’t understand most of what was said, although even if he did, it was not like to make him act any differently. He never cared for what others thought of him and even less for his race.

Marko on the other hand, was a different story – while he was not the type to become easily angered or start a conflict, he did still become annoyed. However, it was in his nature to be calm, reserved, and in control of his emotions. As such, he chose to ignore the insults as well, and would continue to do so unless cold blood gave birth to hot blood. Then and only then, when blood would flow, would he retaliate, he told himself.

In the midst of some bawdy joke, Mikhai snorted loudly as he was pulling up another keg of wine. It was then when he noticed the stares of the other. With a sneer on his face, he began “The seed of scum plants – “

Marko’s foot found his friend’s shin before he could finish the words. The motion was purely instinctive. The words his companion was about to say, were those of a harsh insult towards the men, their families, and their entire ancestry. Sure enough, they may not have understood Hrvatian but he would much rather take no chances.

“Sorry, sorry. I am sorry with blood enough to overflow the sea. Truly! Truly!” Mikhai said with a sheepish grin towards him with a fist over his heart; still in the natives’ tongue. It normally was a truly sincere apology when used but his companion use the saying so often that he rarely ever gave it much thought so he didn’t even stir when the words came tumbling out of those lips as they so often did. Instead, he chose to focus his attention on the group of men. They remained more or less the same, so he figured none of them understood what was about to be said. With that knowledge, he took a sigh and closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep before the ship reached its final destination in Turrok. Just then, however, a hand slammed down on the table, startling them open again.

“Oi! Why don’t you speak the bloody language of the lands, you damn freak, huh!” spat a man into Mikhai’s face. His cream forearm on the table showed ripped muscle and the branding of a skull on it; something that he did himself at only ten years because he killed his first man then; or so he claimed anyway. This man was called Ragneif and was a man limbering close to six feet with so much muscle, he looked more monster than man. He always carried himself without a top, showing off many scars from battle and he never shaved or groomed his shaggy Red Beard or hair. His choice of weapon was a massive double-bladed war axe he called, “The Touch of Xyxes”; figures, him being a follower of the religion. As only fitting, the men on the ship called him, “Ragneif, the Oxen” to his face, but “Ragneif, the Tyrant” to his back. During the trip, he had made many stories about his past known, such as the one involving the brand; and like that one, none of them were anything to joke about. One such story was how he killed his mother for giving a pair of his boots to his younger brother even though they could no longer fit him and they were poor. His brother had only lost his feet because he only wore them once, and not gave them away, he would say while laughing loudly. And now, such a man was about to pick a fight with Mikhai, who was about half a foot shorter, not nearly as built, with only a messy mop of dark grey hair on his head, a longsword as his own weapon, and no brutal stories of murder and mutilation of his past. A blinding contrast.

“Now now”, Mikhai began in the common tongue, thick with his nomadic accent. “No fight, no conflict. Come! Drink, friend, drink! Be at ease and drink!” he finished. His knowledge of the common tongue was somewhat limited and he could only speak it in broken sentences but most understood him anyhow.

Ragneif didn’t reply, but instead looked at the newly opened keg of wine and snatched it from the nomad’s hands. His hands were so massive, that one of them spawned more than half the keg on its own without even holding it by the handle; and his strength was so immense, that he crushed it with just that one hand. Wine splashed across the table, floor, and everywhere in between.

“Since you like the wine so much. Here, nomad. Drink like the dog you are” he said as the wine flowed down the table onto the ground. He pointed to it on the floor and repeated himself. “You heard me. Drink, I said”, a smile broad on his face. Marko’s eyes went from Ragneif to his companion, watching them closely for a reaction. That moment of silence was tense and felt like an eternity to him. Even the other men were watching closely but the hints of smiles threatened to show on their faces.

After some time, Mikhai looked to the wine on the floor and only sighed. “Ahhh. You wasted the wine. No one drinks now, Ragneif Big Hands” he said with some sloppy expression of a frown. Ragneif’s teeth gritted and his face morphed into a deep scowl as he reached for Mikhai’s hair, but Marko was faster. Before the tyrant’s massive hand could grip the hair, he had already grabbed it by the forearm. His build was not too different from his companion’s. As a matter of fact, it was exactly the same, but Marko’s hair was longer, darker, and braided down to his chest, whereas Mikhai’s was shorter, a lighter shade of black that made it more grey, and messy. As such, he had always given people the impression of someone weak and feminine; much less the image of someone with the power to stop such an arm; and yet, he did. As a matter of fact, it was so unexpected and sudden that everyone, save for the two nomads, looked on the scene with shock, even Ragneif.

“There is no need for conflict, sir”, he said while lowering the tyrant’s arm from his friend’s head with a smile towards the monstrosity of a man. The monster’s scowl turned upon him now, with an incredulous look of shock, disbelief, and disgust, all mixed together.

“Do not touch me, Amongæl” he said with icy venom.

The blood in Marko boiled at that; at that word. The word was Hrvatian for “Spawn of Evil”; a word that was often used by the settlers to insult and belittle the nomads; to show that they were beings less than human; less than trash. In the Days of Origin, when the First Fleet arrived bringing with it the purebred Vayans into the northeastern lands of Arincar, they found the natives, the Hrvatian. Because of their vastly different cultures, language, and looks, the Vayans were wary of the nomads. But what truly terrified them of the nomads were their crimson eyes and their Rhou’n. As such, the Vayans treated them as beings less than human and even hunted them for sport and slavery. Even as the following kingdoms rose, all continued this for more than half a century, which was when the nomads fought back. That fight began the Three Hundred Year War in which countless lives were lost for the freedom of the Hrvati. But at the end of it all, they earned it and was even given enough land to be called their own; the Garoh Mountains. The nomads were reduced from being the once most common race throughout the lands, once living in it from the most northern point to its southern deserts. That one word encompassed more than just, the “Spawn of Evil” to a Hrvati; the settlers saw to that. They made that one word encompass the countless lives lost; the countless women and children raped, abducted, and sold; the countless amounts of artefacts stolen and melted for their weapons, for their homes. That one word, to a Hrvati, was a word that only brought depravity. And rage. A rage with enough blood, that it would overflow the sea, as they would say.

It wasn’t Marko who moved first, but Mikhai. Before Ragneif could even raise his other hand to properly shield his face, Mikhai’s longsword had already flashed at his face, cutting right beneath the eye and across his nose bridge. The man screamed like a dying animal as hot blood splattered into both his hands; clutching at his face as if he was trying to stop the flow. As he stumbled back, Mikhai came forward and kicked the monster of a man square in the chest, bringing him down with a loud crashing thud to the ship’s floor.

The other men were up now, with weapons drawn and making their way towards them, but Marko had already notched three arrows to his yew bow and aimed towards the group. He stood with Mikhai to his right, and he could see a smile on his face in the corner of his eye. Everyone came to a standstill, with no one making a movement or noise, save for the screams of Ragneif which were now losing volume.

“I’ll have your HEADS for that!” the tyrant screamed as he climbed back to his feet. He pulled his hands gingerly away from his face, exposing the bloody mess. The blood had slowed, but it was clear to see the wound would leave a scar, and a horrendous one at that, as the blow had went down at a jagged angle where it met his nose bridge. He looked to his right and an even bigger smirk appeared on Mikhai’s face. “And I think I’ll have them now!” he said quietly. Mikhai’s eyes followed his movement and he instantly dove in front of Marko, after the man. Marko stole a quick glance as well and saw it; Ragneif’s massive war axe.

“He can’t hit us all! Get him!” went up a cry from within the men, and that was the signal. They all came rushing at him, ignoring Mikhai and the tyrant. He frowned and repositioned his aim.

“And now blood will flow”, he said in Hrvatian before he loosed the arrows. Each one found a target as the men were all so closely bundled together while rushing him. Two got a man in the knee and thigh, while the final one took another in the shoulder. When both men fell, they brought another two with them to the floor, leaving only three men stumbling for balance and rushing towards him.

“He’s got to notch again! Quick! Take him! Kill the fucking archer first!” shouted one of the men on the ground above the screams of the others. Marko heard the faint sound of steel on iron, clashing repeatedly over and over in the rhythm of war. Mikhai wasn’t fast enough to beat the man to his weapon then, he told himself. With a resolute nod, he reached for an arrow in the quiver on his waist as the first man swung a blade at his head. He was, as always, calm and nimbly dodged beneath the blow, spinning forward towards the second man and past the first as he did. While spinning, a sweeping kick to the ankle tripped the second man as he drew and notched the arrow. By the time he rose up, the arrow was readied and aimed right in the face of the third man before he could bring down his sword.

“What is this! What is this madness happening on MY ship!” bellowed a voice before he could shoot the arrow. Arnslo stood at the top of the stairs leading out of the ship’s cargo area where they all were, with his broad gut before him. He was a burly man getting along in his years by the show of the grey beard and streaks of grey in his brown hair, but his arms were still tightly knotted with muscles as a sailor and captain. Even Ragneif and Marko had stopped their bout of blows at his entrance. It was, after all, his ship and he and his crew outnumbered them two to one. If he felt like it, he could overpower and throw us all overboard with the help of his men and none on the mainland would be any the wiser about it.

“I come down here ‘cause I thought I heard something ‘n’ this madness is what I find, is it! So close to the damn goal! I gots half a mind to not pay a damn crone to any of you lot! You don’t deserve it!” he shouted again.

That made half the men sheathed their swords, one of which was Mikhai. Marko lowered his bow and removed the arrow, putting it back in the quiver at his side. Two of the four men on the ground, the uninjured ones, got to their feet and sheathed their swords as well and helped the other two up. Their cries of pain were muffled now by their lips and fright to anger Arnslo further, but their faces showed it well enough.

“’n’ you, ox!” called down Arnslo with a great heave of his chest. All eyes turned to Ragneif who was panting heavily with small bleeding cuts across his arms, legs, and stomach. Mikhai might not have had the strength to match the monster face-to-face but he more than made up for it with quick strikes it seemed. The man still had a fire of rage in his eyes that burned bright, however, and he seemed unlikely to let go of the massive weapon.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he finally tossed the axe onto the floor in front of him. A great heave of air went out from Arnslo then. He turned to the two with arrows and then back to Marko.

“You. Archer. Their medicine fees are coming out of your pay, you hear me?” he said with a stern point of his finger.

“O’ course, sir” was all he said, with a simple nod of his head. The captain’s eyes then went to the shards of a bottle on the ground.

“WHO’S BREAKING MY FUCKING WINE, YOU LOUGHTS!” he raged, but no one stepped forward. Rather, Ragneif didn’t step forward.

“YOU THINK MY FUCKING DRINK IS JUST FOR YOU TO WASTE! UHHH, YOU FUCKING FREELOADERS! ANSWER ME!” he carried on. Mikhai sighed then and stepped forward as the culprit, raising his hand.

“THAT’S COMING OUTTA’ YER PAY TOO THEN, YA FUCKER! YER MOTHA’ NEVA’ THOUGHT YA TO NOT WASTE FOOD! HAAHH!” he went again, his voice still rising.

The shouting carried on at some length before he was finally satisfied. By the end of it all, the other men were smirking at both the nomads; as if they had planned the whole thing, pleased with themselves. And now, it was the two nomads who had to pay for injuries and damaged goods out of their earnings no less. The thought left his friend in a sore mood, but Marko was happy enough knowing that the conflict didn’t escalate to anyone dying.

Everyone remained where they were as Arnslo ordered someone to bandage the two wounded and made his way through the door again, slamming it shut behind him and headed back into the rain of the storm. The Blade and Soul Mercenaries sat on their seats, far away from the other men who were tending to their wounded. Ragneif pushed them away when they tried to look at his wounds and bid them to leave him alone so he could remember the scars of the nomad he had to kill. Mikhai was not concerned and remained disgruntled at the thought of the lost of money. Admittedly though, had he not made that sacrifice, Arnslo might have very well docked all of their promised payments instead. It was already expensive for the captain to be paying for hired help and providing them with food and drink, so it was no wonder why he was furious about the wine. Had the man’s fury grown more, everyone might have paid the price instead of just him; a selfless act out of greed.

“The hot blood might’ve stopped, but the cold blood is still there, my blood. Be careful or we will end up poorer men still, or worse yet” Marko told Mikhai in their native tongue. A nod was the only response he got, but he accepted it nevertheless.

An hour or more passed since the incident. Both parties remained to their respective sides with not many words being exchanged within either group. The storm had gotten much worse and it took all their effort just to not end up face-first on the floor or be rocked into each other or a wall. Even the cargo which was packed away tightly became loose and rolled and slid across the floor. No matter how tightly either group tried to repack them, they always came loose again, and so, both gave up trying. Instead, they made sure to steer clear of the cargo and hoped the crates and barrels were strong enough not to damage any of their contents. Eventually, one of the men, the one who Marko had held at close range with an arrow, went upstairs to notify someone about the cargo, but he had not returned yet and that was almost half an hour past.

Then, another went, but he too had not returned despite another hour had passed. Marko was beginning to be somewhat concerned and nudged Mikhai who was nodding off to sleep.

“Be wary, my blood. Something is odd” he said in Hrvatian. His companion rubbed the sleep from his eyes at that and sat up straight from slouching.

After some more time passed, Ragneif himself got up to go to the door, to see what had happened to the first two men. The moment he placed a hand on the door however, there was a deafening crack and the door exploded outwards. Ragneif’s massive body was riddled with juts of woods that came flying and piercing it as he soared through the air and down the steps, crashing into the floor with a massive thud. He was dead before he even hit the ground. All eyes turned to the massive lump of flesh collapsed on the floor but after a brief moment, they all turned to the big gaping hole where a door once stood.

“The bloody hell ju –” began one man, but his words fell silent as a figure stepped through the opening. It looked human enough, but it smelled of poison, disease, and decay. The clothing it wore was tattered, worn, and shredded; its hair was long and white, covering most of its face. Stranger yet, was that the figure was covered in black spots which looked like the signs of some plague and blue veins showed all throughout its body. Marko instantly knew that whatever this figure was, it was definitely not human, although he could not say how.

And when he saw what was in its hands, he knew it was not friendly either. In either hand, it dragged the bodies of the two men who went up hours past. It took another step onto the landing and dropped both bodies with a thud and slowly surveyed the on-looking faces.

“Monster”, said one man softly. When no one seemed to respond, he shouted it this time in complete fear.

“MONSTER!”

The five men scrambled to their feet, drawing swords as swiftly as they could but fear had already gripped them and their movements were only sluggish at best. The ferocity the men had shown when facing against the nomads earlier was now lost to them. The creature turned to the group and lazily stepped off the landing towards them.

It was only for a moment; a very short moment. So short a moment, that Marko would’ve been convinced it was a trick on his eyes had five heads not dropped to the floor before even the being did. He wasn’t sure what he saw, but in that moment, he saw something flashed around them all. And yet, he didn’t see anyone move; not until the heads rolled to the floor.

“And the land went dark and still” said Mikhai in his native tongue, his voice just barely above a whisper.

The five bodies stood there not even aware that they were dead. After a moment, their muscles twitched violently and collapsed around the creature. At that, Mikhai stood and drew his sword, tossing aside the sheath.

“Until we see each other again, my brother” he said to Marko without looking at him. Marko’s eyes darted towards his friend. He spoke in the common tongue, he told himself in alarm. He intended to –

Another flash of black and the being had Mikhai pinned to the wall of the ship. His steel longsword had already dropped to the floor and he struggled with both hands to pry free the grip on his throat. No matter how hard he tried, the creature didn’t even seem bothered. It was as if a deer was struggling and desperately fighting to live while it was already in the jaws of a mountain lion. It was pitiful. To see his old friend in such a desperate state, Marko was lost for words, thoughts, and actions.

“R-r-run...” his friend managed to mumble in Hrvatian. It was then, that a single tear rolled down his cheeks, for he knew what he had to do.

“RRUNNNN!” Mikhai said again, this time in a shrilled desperate screech that sounded like a scream. At least, it spurred Marko into action this time. Without looking back, he bolted away from the two and towards the stairs, his bow in hand.

He wasn’t sure how or why, but he knew. He knew that its eyes were on him then. The shudder that went through his body was too deep and chilling. And for a moment, he couldn’t move. He was frozen stiff with fear. Fear made him want to look back to see for himself, and fear also made him too scared to do so. It cut him deep; too deep. But his friend; his one and only friend, was sacrificing his life for Marko’s. So he willed himself to move; he demanded his leg to take that one step. But he was like an old oak tree with roots deep and firm.

He heard the choking; the final sounds of what sounded like life leaving his friend’s throat, and that was what did it. The sound of death behind him willed him to bite his own tongue; to stir himself to move again, and it worked. With the taste of iron filling his mouth, he ran head-first up and through the stairs and onto the deck of the Wind Seer.

What greeted him there was a massacre. Some twenty or so bodies laid in pieces scattered all over the brown – no, the red ship. Blood painted all the ship’s masts, walls, and railings. The constant rain that was heavily falling did nothing to wash it all away either; it was as if the wood only wept red instead. Arms and legs could be found everywhere, detached from bodies, a torso was dangling in rope hung from the centre mass by its arm; its head, left arm, and lower body were missing. A body with its enormous stomach was torn inside out with the innards laying in a tangled mess and wrapped around the door handle of the captain’s quarters. He saw a head with its eyes missing staked upon a torch on a wall. Everywhere he looked, was some horrific scene of death and despair and he retched his insides all over the floor in front of him. The endless rainfall from above only washed it back onto his feet.

Coughing, he wiped his mouth and stood up straight. He needed to get off the ship, he knew at once, so he dashed to the railing, and he was stunned yet again. The ship was still moving, he realized with fright. He turned his head behind him and saw that the sails were still and again looked to the water. No, without a doubt, the ship was threading the water. There was no wind nor were there any rowers, but the ship was definitely moving. He spun his head around again at the sails once more in confusion, trying to figure out what was happening, when he saw it. That... thing was there, watching him. This time in its hand was Mikhai’s body.

Tears rolled down his eyes but he took a deep breath and drew his bow anyway. He pulled it back well beyond his ear this time, all the more for power. His yew bow was a special one he was given at the age of ten; before he had left his homeland. His father had been a great hunter and gave it to him as a gift; even bidding him to take it with him when he chose to leave behind his home. Then, however, the bow was too much for him to draw; he couldn't find the strength in his arms nor grip. The first time he had tried to, he nearly sawed his fingers straight off. The second time, he couldn’t even get it drawn a fraction of the way. But now; now that he had the strength, he could fully draw it and be confident in its speed, flight, and accuracy; he was confident that this bow, when fully drawn, would kill even this monster.

The being only looked at him without moving; and for a while, the two stood there like that. It, holding his dead friend in hand and him, holding his bow fully drawn, poised to shoot at a moment’s notice.

Unexpectedly, it tossed Mikhai’s body across the floor; sliding and rolling to a stop right in front of him, painted in red. Marko looked down at his friend and saw their chest heaved. He was still alive! But why? Why did it not kill –

Another blur of black flashed before him and the creature was right in front of him, its cold hand, slick with blood, on his bow arm. His arm lowered against his will, no matter how much he tried to fight against it, the monster’s strength was absurdly greater than his own, that much was clear.

Defeated, Marko looked up to the face of the creature and saw its face for the first time. It looked like that of a man with grey-green eyes and the hints of a nasty scar where it should have a nose and his top lip. His white hair also showed traces of reddish-brown at the roots, he noticed. What was this thing before him!

“Wh- ... what do you want of me?” he asked in the common tongue.

What he could only guess was a smile came across the mess of a face the creature possessed.

“... A trade”