“Daddy, daddy come quick” cried Zahra excitably.
Qadim sighed, wondering what small wonder his daughter had found now. Would it be another seashell she was convinced was a fallen star or perhaps she had once again seen a fairy flitting between the Clematis flowers.
“What is it my little Orchid?” he said, not moving from his hammock.
“Daddy, there’s a Shujin washed up on the beach”
“Sure there is,” he agreed lazily
“There is daddy,” the six year old girl stamped her foot, “and its hurt.”
He groaned at the effort of having to move, swinging first one foot and eventually the other out of the hammock.
He stood up motioning the girl with a wave of his hand, “Go on then, show me what you’ve found.”
She ran ahead, disappearing through the orange trees. Qadim followed on lazily, taking a moment to check the progress of his oranges. Still not ripe yet, but soon. He pushed through the last of the foliage, emerging onto the beach and saw Zahra stood about a hundred metres down the coast infront of something bright red. Now he was more alert, shouting at her to get back as he approached. It was not a Shujin but a very burnt and beaten man. He had no shirt and his trousers were shredded leaving his legs bare and as burnt as the rest of his skin in the merciless heat of summer in the North. Qadim put his fingers to the mans throat, feeling for any sign of life. It was weak but present.
“Go, fetch your mother and tell her I need her magic here.”
As the little girl ran back towards the house, Qadim began to build a small shelter, keeping as much of the sun off of the man as possible until his wife arrived. Mumarada, Qadim’s wife, arrived in a swirl of rich purple cloth, dropping to her knees and beginning to chant as soon as she arrived. Her healing magic flowed through her hands and into the body of the man, instantly closing wounds Qadim had not immediately noticed and reducing the redness of the man’s skin somewhat. As she finished up the man stirred, groaning a little.
Mumarada exclaimed, “That’s impossible, he should still be unconscious for a while yet.”
The man’s mouth opened and he tried to speak but he could only croak. Mumarada pressed a bottle against the man’s lips, letting him drink the water she had brought with her. Another minute passed and he spoke again, croakily but audible,
“Do you have any wine?”

Duke Phillippe Alfonso Lazzaro Tavari made a swift recovery. As he regained strength he told tales of how he had ventured off in search of a lost weapon of the Sea but had been set upon by pirates and sea demons alike. He had fought so many off before they took him down, binding him in layers upon layers of chains and magical wards for fear he would escape. For weeks they kept him prisoner, asking questions he would not answer and demanding ransom he would not have given until one day he convinced them to play him at a game of wits. Using poison and deception he had won this game, making good his escape. But the sea is a treacherous and moody damsel, a storm having wrecked his boat casting him adrift. He knows not how long he was adrift in the hot salty ocean before he washed ashore here, on one of the Northern islands of the Archipelago. Shajar-Oran was the islands name and as soon as he was healthy enough he asked for passage back to the Duchy. The inhabitants of that small island gladly provided him transport for he had been a friendly guest, full of stories that enthralled both children and adults alike. They were also out of wine…