Reading joins the War for Avalon.

In the year of our Lord 1554, the town of Reading stands not as a quiet market settlement upon the River Thames, but as a place transformed—its streets thick with the sound of labor, its riverbanks choked with timber, rope, and ambition. Once known for its abbey and trade, Reading has become a crucible of war, its people turned from merchants and farmers into shipwrights and river fighters.

The long shadows of the ruined abbey still stretch across the town, its dissolution under King Henry lingering like a ghost among the people. Yet where monks once walked in silence, now the ring of hammer upon iron resounds. The yards near the river teem with craftsmen—carpenters, caulkers, sailmakers—working day and night beneath smoke and torchlight. The scent of pitch and fresh-cut oak fills the air, mingling with the ever-present damp breath of the Thames.

Here, the humble but cunningly designed hoy has become the lifeblood of Reading’s war effort.

These vessels are small, single-masted craft, their shallow drafts allowing them to glide across waters too thin for heavier ships. Their true genius, however, lies in their collapsible masts—ingenious constructions of jointed timber and iron fittings that can be lowered in moments. This allows the hoys to slip beneath the many low bridges that cross the Thames, turning the river itself into a hidden highway of war. Where larger vessels must halt or turn back, the hoys pass like ghosts, silent and swift.

Along the riverbanks, rows of these ships take shape in staggering numbers. Hulls lie half-finished like the ribs of great beasts, while others are already tarred black and fitted with sails of rough canvas. Boys carry nails and water, women weave cordage and mend sailcloth, and old men—too frail for the fields—sit shaping pegs and wedges that hold the vessels together. Every hand in Reading has found its purpose in this effort.

The urgency is driven by fear and fury alike. The Order of Gabriel—spoken of in hushed tones as zealots, hunters, and destroyers of all that is not purely mortal—has brought war to the waters of England. Their ships, heavier and more rigid, cannot easily pursue into the narrow and winding veins of the Thames. And so Reading answers not with brute strength, but with speed, cunning, and numbers.

By the height of summer, the river becomes a procession of war.

Fifty hoys—fifty swift, low-slung blades of wood and sail—are launched from Reading’s banks. One by one, they slip into the current, their crews lean and determined, many little more than fishermen and dockhands turned warriors. Their purpose is clear: to harry, to blockade, to strike where the enemy is weakest and vanish before reprisal.

They move at dawn and dusk most often, when the mist clings low over the water. With masts lowered, they drift beneath bridges in eerie silence, then rise again beyond them like spirits returning to form. Armed lightly but effectively—crossbows, small swivel guns, barrels of pitch for fire—they are not meant for grand battles, but for sudden violence and swift retreat.

Reading itself feels the weight of what it has become. The markets still open, bread is still baked, and ale still flows in the taverns—but all is touched by the war. Conversations turn to river movements and sightings of enemy sails. Mothers watch the river with quiet dread. Fathers teach sons not only trade, but how to fight upon water.

And yet, there is pride.

For in this moment, Reading is no mere town. It is a forge of resistance, a place where common folk have reshaped themselves into something sharper, faster, and far more dangerous than any enemy expects.

The Thames, once a road of commerce, has become a weapon—and Reading its master.