Marine Misadventures of a Magicless Kind

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Dusk 2.5 - "I knew a fool boy worse than you."
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You decide to head away from the mood-changing first mate. Faaar away. The complete opposite direction. The sensation of being soaking wet one second and dry the next is… uncomfortable (Nyla would laugh and call it a genius prank).

Everyone you've met so far has been a little off somehow. You don't… you don't really trust anyone, even if Rakky was a rather pleasant change from Eis' scalpel-edged sniping and Captain Arond is, for some reason, invested in your wellbeing. Still, they're kinda all related to the reason you're not back on Florialis. Then again, they did save your life, so…

Anyway, will you go through with the information exchange with Rakky? Her side of the oath only comes into effect if you initiate.

[]Yes. A potential ally is worth the risk.
[]No. Trust is earned, not given.

The bucket of mopwater weighs as heavily as your thoughts as you edge toward the ship's prow, past the wind-throwing sailors. Your earlier "crazy" ruse seems to have worked on them, for not one glances your way, content to ignore a weirdo.

The open sky beckons, a clear blue rivaled only by the empty expanse of ocean, and as you gaze straight ahead to the distant horizon, a pang of longing twinges in your chest. It's… familiar. Something… still calls you in. Why? Aren't you already on the waters, traversing parts unknown to you? Then why does the sea-longing still haunt your shadow? It feels louder than on the island, and… it hurts.

Maybe you got it from Moram, who had done the same every morning; he would sit in silence, watching the dawn rise from the sea, with an unfathomable sadness clouding his eyes.

"Something to be said about home, boy," he'd said once, "is that it is not always where your kin lives. You… this island is not my home any more than it is yours, and I have been away for too long. Wanderlust? Heh. So they say. That feeling is your heart knowing its incompleteness. No fire can heal that."

You wish he would tell you what to do. He had some experience on ships, during battle and peace, in war--in the teeth of the Sheer Winter, before he found you. You can almost see him now, with his back turned to you, the ends of his headband fluttering in the slipstream, gazing into the skies.

"!"

It wasn't your imagination. Before you, to starboard, stands a red-haired man, whose crimson headband makes your heart skip an irrational beat. It's the brightest color you've seen aboard this ship, and you know only one person who's worn one with the same braided ends. As if hearing your breath catch, the band turns sideways, letting a spark of shrewd green peek from under strands that, upon closer examination, are closer to auburn than the true red Moram's had been in earlier years. Three scars carve the man's cheek from temple to chin—three lines, as if some beast had clawed him there—and the accompanying smirk recalls a roguelike image. A troublemaker. Losing interest in you, he returns his attention for'ard.

Shf. Shf-shf. Sssshff.

The wind in the sails and the ship's knifing through the waters nearly drowns out the gentle scratching, a dead leaf's rustle over stone. You nearly miss the source: a small form perched on a barrel before the jutting spar of the prow.

The person drowns in their gray cloak, which they're using as a hooded blanket shade, completely shrouding their identity. In one hand, they're holding a sheaf of paper nearly half their height; in the other, they're using a piece of charcoal to make an occasional stroke--an artist? You didn't expect anything quite that mundane aboard this ship. As you approach, you find you recognize the subject of the drawing.


You didn't recognize Arond's face at first, because during your short meeting, he didn't bear anywhere near that peaceful of an expression. Here, with his face smoothed and softened by the hand of an artist, he looks younger, gentler. Almost how you'd sometimes imagined your unknown father to be (when he didn't look like a younger Moram). It's a good likeness.

You set down the bucket with a soft clatter. At the sound, the small figure whirls around, clutching the drawing, gray eyes wide with fear. In a gush of bone-rattling wind, they dash past you and are halfway up the rigging to the crow's nest before you can open your mouth. They climb as nimbly as a squirrel even with one hand occupied.

Wha...? You're not that scary, are you?

The scarred, auburn-haired man, who (you realize too late) had been watching the drawing in progress, clicks his tongue and stoops to retrieve the piece of charcoal dropped during the hasty exit. "You had t' frighten Crow off. Why'd ya do that for? Took since dawn t' get the kid down from his nest, me."

His tone makes it sound like you kicked his favorite pet bird. The name doesn't help.

"I'm… sorry?" It's not like you knew.

Auburn throws his arms out dramatically. "Suuure you are. Crow'll be up there till the cook calls mess, so now I'm looking at hours of water, water, and more bloody water!" You twitch at his choice of language. No good ever came from invoking Earth's cursed blood. "I was staying out of trouble like the wet blanket wanted. What else does his highness require?"

"No one wants anything," you reply, a little taken aback at the sheer disgust in his tone. "I'm just cleaning here--don't mind me."

"Ha!" He scoffs, a thumb jerking back the way you came. "Then who was that son of a shrike who made you a swabbie? A jumped-up codfish? Heh, a human codfish'd be a more reasonable sort of man."

Is he talking about Eis?

"No one sent me here," you rephrase. "It's my first day on the job, so--"

"Ah, so ya got day-shifted, same as me. 'S what happens t' everyone Eissy doesn't trust around Captain Arond. So he can keep an eye on us. Doesn't he know? Sons of Peril don't need nursemaids." A pause. "Or a mother."

If the first is true, you don't blame Eis—he'd be foolish to trust you, a stranger. But you get the oddest feeling that with the irreverent man's last statement, he's taken a boulder-sized hornets' nest, smashed it with a club, set it on fire, and chucked it into a bear cave. He seems utterly unrepentant for it.

Peril. Flip it all. That means Arond is one of those people you'd said you'd rather avoid. Too late. You really don't want to get involved in that mess, so you avert your gaze, slap the mop on the deck, and make to continue your monotonous task while projecting a "nothing to see here" aura, but with the scarred man burning two holes into your face—and you can feel it, twin points of green dragging from your forehead to your heels—it's a little hard to concentrate. What is it with people on this boat stabbing you with their eyes?

With the strike of a sloping seagull, a wiry arm coils companionably around your shoulders. You freeze. "Are ya trying to ignore me, bucko? Now that's just not done," the headbanded rogue says conversationally. "You chased off my one source of amusement, and funny thing is, no one likes me when I'm bored. What're ya going to do about it?"

You duck to shake him off and quickly re-position several arms-lengths farther. "Don't you have more important things to do? Like work?"

Auburn snaps his fingers, and tiny orange flames bloom on the tips. He just as swiftly snuffs them out. "Fireblood on a wonderfully flammable boat? Not my idea. Fireblood and under the watch of Mr. 'I Hate Fire'? Ha! Eis wouldn't trust me with even a bucket and mop. I was going t' jump ship at the last island, but luck of all bad luck, the Revenge never hit shore!"

"Not your idea?" you echo, a bad feeling curling in your gut.

"Let's put it this way. When the one person actively keeping you from being Black Dragon chow has to captain a suicidal mission and is taking volunteers, well, it'd be stupid t' stay behind. A choice between Viperilon's son and Viperilon's teeth?" He gestures toward his slender body with a vain flourish. "Now, I'd make a handsome toothpick, top marks and all, but Captain Arond made a better offer--I get to live longer, and if I get killed? I know Mylston's sword is swift and painless."

What. Is he joking? Please say he's joking. Did he just--

Arond. Son of Peril (with a capital P). Black Dragon. Viperilon. Vi-peril-on.

What.

Auburn interrupts before you can get a word out. He's a rather fast talker when he gets going. "Wait, hang on, forgetting a little something, me," he mutters, then brightens with a snap of the fingers. "Right, impending boredom." He straightens and cocks a fist with a smirk bending his scars, the wind throwing the ends of his crimson headband aloft. Yep. The very picture of a young rogue—the kind your mentor would either adopt or punt off a cliff. "Well, come on, don't stand there like a toothless rabbit at a cabbage feast. Y've got decent reflexes for a bit of scrapping, and I've got nothing to do. Fight me! There's nothing better t' keep a man out of trouble!"

What. (And oh, does that last statement explain a lot.)

You've only had the occasional mock throwdown with Jard and Nyla (and on one occasion, a pineapple-haired guy with a name you don't remember). You're more of a "think first, fight last" person. Seriously, how do you respond to that?

[]Fight him. If you can hit gulls, you can hit people... right?
—[]Use the mop as a weapon.
—[]He's unarmed, and you fight fair when you can afford it. Old-fashioned fisticuffs it is.
[]Talk: I'm Jet, the guy Eis kidnapped a night or two ago. I... didn't catch your name.
—[]Mind clarifying what in conflagration you just said about Arond?
—[]Nice headband. My mentor wore one in the same exact style—does it mean something?
[]Walk away. You don't want trouble.

-
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You are Nyla. You're lying on the beach, twirling the object in your hand against the sun. It glows dully like a dying ember edged in ashes. This is Aunt Merry's condition for leaving most days of your training in Uncle's hands (so long as you help out with patients in the evenings).

"How does this help any?" you wonder, bringing the bright feather and its securing leather thong close to your face. It's certainly pretty, but it's hardly a safety rope. Eh. Taking it seemed to lift a load from your aunt's mind, so it's a small price to pay. You loop it over your head and roll your head to wink at your grumpy companion.

"Hey, little night terror, how're ya doing?"

"Kruaaaw!" This Kruakkk is mighty! You dare wake him from his slumber?

"Heh, I probably shouldn't've woken you, but I'm no night person. I'll have to get you a new cage--it can't be too comfy in that space. Wonder what Jet was thinking when he shoved you in there."

"Kruawww!" He was thinking of pineapple-stuffed roasted Kruakkk! No pineapple shall live while I survive!

"Yeah, he probably wasn't thinking at all. Probably grabbed the first cage he could trade for. Anyway, you're gonna need a solid name, little dervish."

"Kruakkkawww!" This Kruakkk already has a name!

Hmmm. What to do, what to do?

[]Nightwing, cuz he's one gray son of the winds.
[]Wingull, cuz he's a windy gull thing with wings.
[]Fuffles, cuz he fluffs up into a feathery ball of indignation.
[]Jet, cuz… you can't let go. Not yet.

You snap your fingers. "That's what I'll call you! Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Kruaaaw! Kruakakakaaaw!" No, I am Kruakkk! Kruakkk! Cease and desist!

...He doesn't seem to like it.

"Too bad, bird. You're living with it, so deal with it."

The thing seems to understand every word—of course, Flaky wouldn't get you a stupid present—and falls into a silent sulk, cuddling under its wings.

...So. Cute! You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. You're not changing the name even if he does look like a grumpy old fogey. Hm. Is he even a male? Could be female.

"..."

Eh.

Anyway. That's not why you're out here on the beach.

You close your eyes and brush the waves past your heart. The domain before you swirls and roars around you, and pulls and tugs and pulls and sings… a siren song that wants you to step closer, closer, to become one and the same.

You refuse, turning away from Water's majesty towards your own fantastic self. Never let anyone lead you in a solo dance.

You feel every bead of moisture on your skin, the very sheen of sweat. Water from one's body is easiest to move—even children of earth have blood flowing through their veins, under their control, no one else's. Just enough control needed to live. Breath for wind, blood for water, emotion for fire, form for earth. Bodies are kinda like mini domains, full of stuff you can't control. Coax, not control, as Aunt Merry would say, which is exactly what your blood-domain tries to do to you. You have permission to step in Water's domain; the danger is in letting the power take the lead.

Water is part of me. I'm not part of it. My blood is water, but my body is earth, and earth is my anchor. I am me. Water doesn't control me. I am Nyla.

With the scent of soap and ashes, the slow melt of ice as it cools your brow, you feel the moment the sweat on your arm changes direction, your will sliding the moisture from your shoulder, to the crook of your elbow, down your wrist, into the palm of your hand.

You exhale, let go, and gasp as a wave you didn't mean to drag up the beach breaks over your head.

Drenched, you scowl at the water as it bubbles happily back toward the ocean. Control is harder than power.

"Just you wait, you salty, friend-stealing, parent-murdering puddle!" you growl. "I'm not afraid of you, and I'm gonna get strong enough to never lose anyone to you ever again!"

If your voice cracks, no one's around to hear.

It'd be so easy to give in and drown in the immersion like others have, but you've prepared your mind for years. You know who you are. You're an adventurer, a horizon-seeker. You're not alone.

...The bird counts.

Anyway, Uncle will be coming around soon. He's always been ecstatic about how quick a study you are with the applied knowledge…

[]Of stars. That was more Jet's thing with Moram.
[]Of currents. Uncle's always hoped you'd be a fisher, so you know how to feel for treacherous water.
[]Of winds. As a gatherer, Aunt Merry taught you much about their effect on weather and direction.

Maybe today, after drying off cuz Uncle doesn't need to know you're messing with water without him, you'll finally put some of it into practice.

"Kruaw!" I will not be silent!

With your little feathered friend, of course.

-

[Inventory updated: added Bright Feather.]

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Dusk 2.6a - "If you meet, do not indulge him."
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You are Nyla, and you're trying not to yawn.

"...And that's how to disembark without a splash or sound. Perfect for sneaking up on your pals. Now tie 'er up," Uncle says, tossing a section of rope that you fumble and drop.

Jard's instructing you on some rather more interesting sailing techniques, some probably not all benign in purpose. He's thrown in a bunch of water tricks too—you particularly liked the one for hiding your wake. You'd never much thought of water as stealthy, what with all the crashing and crushing it does. Showing you the ropes—heh. About time. Jet might be interested in the lesson, since he'll be leaving eventually.

You clench your teeth on a pang of grief. But he's not here anymore.

Uncle bends, takes the rope, and coils it over one arm before placing his hand on your shoulder. "You're not focused, Nyla. That's dangerous when you're working with a domain, even your blood-domain." He tosses the rope in loops around a pylon and secures it. "Tell you what—we'll call it a day. Relax. Feed your little winged monster. Help out your aunt. You shouldn't go out there when you're like this."

"Neither should you," you retort. You didn't miss the tired slump to your Uncle's shoulders. He's been that way since he returned from his boat that night without a sign of Jet: not a single shred of clothing or a strand of white hair. Your Flaky friend had been a fixture in all of your family's lives, and Jard's was no exception.

He gives you a hair-ruffle and a sad smile. "I know, Nyls. That, I do."

"You're supposed to feel better if you talk about it," you say, poking him in the ribs. Not that you're going to talk feelings.

He shrugs awkwardly, fiddling with the rope. "Not much to say. Jet… now there was a good kid. But he wasn't meant for this island. Sons of earth are wanderers at heart. He never would've been happy here forever. Didn't expect him to go this way, though." A sudden smile cracks wind-worn features. "Ha, that's probably why old Moram liked him—they were both misfits. Finding him was the best thing to happen to the old man since… since his wife was alive."

Gramma Lani. You don't remember her at all, but she must've been one firebrand of a woman to put up with Grampapa Moram, let alone marry him.

"If he was so happy with Jet, why didn't he adopt him?" you wonder aloud, knowing how highly your friend respects and admires him.

"I asked him that once. He said it'd be like betrayal—of what, of whom, Moram didn't say—probably something to do with the Winter, and you know how he got about that. Your aunt and I would've offered, but Jet was taking care of himself by the time the old man passed, and it never felt right to bring it up."

"He wouldn't've accepted anyway." The certainty in your mind rings like a wind chime.

"Mmhmm. Never was comfortable making decisions, that kid, but he was downright intense when he did. I reckon he went down fighting, in the end."

"I miss them," you whisper. It's all you'll admit aloud. Without Jet and Moram, island feels colder now, less safe.

"Me too, kiddo. Me too." Uncle pauses. "I don't blame you for wanting to leave, but our aunt…" A deep sigh. A twinge of guilt flashes through you. "What's the hurry? Just a couple days ago, you were all set on the healer's path."

"That's never what I wanted, Uncle. I can't do that stuff my whole life—gathering, plants, dirt, bug bites, boredom. I want to be out there on the open sea, with everything new and unknown, to travel to all the places Grampapa talked about, and…"

"And?"

You frown, thinking of a way to phrase your desire. "I-I want to find Jet's family. They… they at least deserve to know what happened to him, right?"

Uncle shakes his head. "We've no clue who they are or where they might live. That's anywhere from the next island to the sun's sleep. If anyone knew, Moram would've, but he's not around anymore. A fool's errand, Nyla. If that's really your reason for going, I can't let you."

Your heart leaps and falls. "I'm not doing it for them! Or for him. Not really," you protest. "Jet's dream was to find his family. I just… I want to prove that it wasn't an empty dream. That he didn't live for an unreachable horizon. Besides, I'll already be traveling—why not look?"

Jard sighs. He's been doing a lot of that today. "Because I don't want you to end up like Moram. Water drown it—I know he's yours and Jet's hero, but he spent years of his life chasing ghosts. Manning the beacon by night, searching the waters by day… Nylan and Pirra never would've wanted that for him. I miss my brother. I do. There's few things I wouldn't do to see him again. So many questions... What if he and your mother hadn't gone out that day? What if we hadn't offered to watch you? But I never took it to Moram's extent. He was obsessed. If he'd still been alive today…" His brows furrow with past concern. "He'd have killed himself searching for the dead. Death was always hard for him to take."

You shift uncomfortably, and the wind chills your skin despite the sun bearing down from above. Much as you know Moram wasn't always victorious, you never like references to his failures, and neither did he. It's why he never spoke of his time in the Sheer Winter—on the rare occasions he did—with anything but pure self-loathing.

"Did he stop his search because of Jet?" The brief silence had been too thick.

"Not right away. Healing takes time." Uncle heaves yet another heavy sigh. "Ahh, but that's in the past. Back on topic. I won't try to change your mind about leaving, but would you at least wait a few days? At least until you can ground the boat mid-water without tipping it over."

He gestures to his sturdy fishing canoe (handcrafted with blood, sweat, and tears!) as it floats keel-up, bobbing by its rope.

Your eyelid twitches. Your control isn't that bad.

...He's waiting for an answer.

You throw up your hands. "Oh, fine! I guess I can do that much."

A wink. "Knew you'd see it my way."

[]"I'll cast off with you tomorrow morning—experience could help."
[]"I'll practice while you're out. Can't have you laughing at me for long!"

"Sure, Nyls. Whatever you say, Nyls."

"Don't patronize me, D—Uncle!"

"Dunkle? I don't know any Dunkle. The water must've gotten to your brain, poor niece of mine. You should have Mer look into it."

"Uncle Jaaard!" Your face heats up, and you curse that tiny slip of the tongue. You haven't done that since you were little.

"Getting a little red there, kiddo. Need some cooling off?" A twitch of the hand makes his intention clear. You'd back up, but the edge of the deck is behind you.

"Don't you dare—!"

Foosh!

You pause, dripping from head to toe, and slowly turn to Uncle, concealing your next move. "Oh, now that's just going overboard—"

You lunge!

Sploofssh!

"—just like you. Who's a Dunkle now, hm?"

"You are, because you're in the water too, silly niece."

A passing fisherman stares at the spectacle of a grown man and his maybe-daughter flooding the pier with wave after wave, laughing as they try to soak each other to the bone… or drown the other. The nameless fisherman isn't sure which.

He quickly decides to disembark elsewhere.

-

After an epic water fight, a group scolding from the returning night fishermen, and a quick dry, you leave Uncle to the ire of his colleagues and trek back through the banana grove to your aunt's cozy, metal-roofed workplace.

"Aunt Merry?" you call as you enter, the overhanging herbs rustling in your wake.

"Just a moment, Nyla." She's in the tiny back room, probably mixing ingredients that need a cooler temperature.

You shift a foot awkwardly. You didn't exactly part with her on a high note, despite her little present. She sounds fine, but she's also fairly skilled at putting aside her feelings while on the job. You're not quite so good at compartmentalization… which is probably a reason why your control could be better.

Access, control, will. Each it's own battle. No wonder old people are better at all three—they've had more time to figure it out!

A fake cough to the side alerts you that you're not alone. "Oh, no. The crazy one appears."

The last person you want to see is reclining on the pallet Merry uses for patients. He's recovered his smirk, though his face is twice as red as before. Did you scare some color into his pathetic life?

"Here to apologize?" you ask scathingly.

The pineapple snorts. "Not hardly, crazy woman. I'm not saying sorry for being right."

You scowl. "Then what're you doing here? Don't you have a hole to stare at?"

Brand twirls a hand airily. "Volcano watch, you crazy woman—the Earth rift could tear back open at any moment. It's an important and dangerous job. I'll have you know I'm injured—the thing sent up steam into my face today, and I almost died yesterday because of you. My stomach hurt all day just thinking about your vicious beast claws around my neck."

And didn't you get the tiniest scolding ever when Jard heard about his insensitive comments on the clifftop. "Don't kill a guy for making you mad." Ha.

You cross your arms and smirk. "Burn heal and anxiety? You really are a wimp, aren't you?" Not a shred of sympathy. He brought it on himself, poking you when you wanted to be left alone.

"It's called being normal. You know. Fear is perfectly normal. Healthy, even."

Merry's eyeroll is audible from the back room. "Give him the ginger tea, Nyla. The water's on heat already, should be about hot now."

"Sure, Aunt Merry."

"If the service is acceptable, I might even forget yesterday's total lapse in common courtesy."

You bite back a snide reply and turn your back to the pineapple idiot. With a thoughtful hum in your throat, your eyes roving the dried herbs overhead and on Merry's worktable, a devious thought crosses your mind.

Brand's no gatherer like you'd been forced to be by Merry's medicine lessons. He won't know the first thing you're putting in the tea, and ginger's potent enough to mask most flavors.

What'll you brew in the tea with the ginger? These are all good for the stomach, so you're not contradicting Merry. You're doing the pineapple a favor, really. Best of all, he'll have to drink it, or suffer a lecture from the island's premier healer on wasting ingredients.

[]Crushed hot pepper. This might burn a bit. Great for the sinuses and stomach lining.
[]Crushed aloe. It has the consistency of syruped frogspawn. A nice solution to constipation.
[]Dried senna leaves. A common tea ingredient. With his hot air, he probably needs a laxative.
[]All of the above. It'll be a better stomach tea anyway, right?
[]None of the above. But you'll still pretend you did something.

-

[Nyla: Skills, updated. Experimental "Access, Control, Will" scale added.]

-
Dusk 2.6b - "You'll never get rid of that little rebel."
-

You are Jet. You can't believe you're doing this, but Auburn looks like an action kind of guy. He probably wants to talk as much as you want to fight.

You heft the mop experimentally. It's horrifically unbalanced compared to your usual selection of strong, straight branches, but it's the closest you have to the usual, and you're not about to fight unarmed.

"I just got out of the sickbay. I'd really like to stay out of it for a while." You hope the guy's happy enough to take it easy on you.

His answering grin is all teeth and mischief. "Captain Arond wants ya safe and unhurt. This is guest treatment. I won't knock ya around. Much."

That's not as comforting as it could be.

The scarred man bounces on the balls of his feet in preparation. "Broken a few polearms before, me. Won't old Eissy be properly piqued at me if I snap that little toothpick? Hm, no, wait, he'd probably blame it on you—he never got that casualties happen."

You tighten your grip. "It's all I know to use."

He raises his hands in a long shrug. "Heh, I'm not judging! Always preferred daggers or a shortsword m'self. Now, come at me!"

You stand in defense, hands wide apart on the mop shaft, side-profile to present a smaller target, eyeing him warily for the initial strike, but when the tense silence stretches on, you realize—

"I'm dying of old age here, bucko! Get on with it!"

—he won't make the first move. He's surprisingly patient for all his talk.

You pivot and send the weight of the mop head spinning at his head, and suddenly he's surging forward and intoyourguard! Dodge. Dodge. Dodge! Only your reflexes, honed by constant, high-speed aerial assault, keep you from getting several handprints on your face and neck.

Your eyes are wide with incredulity. Slaps? Is he at all taking you seriously? ...But you did want him to go easy, right?

The nails of Auburn's unclenched fingers narrowly trace your cheek as you flinch, pulling back, and send a few belated jabs His way in retaliation. He has the nerve to whistle an upbeat rendition of a familiar song as he leans away from your attacks.

No, you conclude. Not seriously. He's not even hiding how much he's playing with you. And even if you didn't really want to fight, something in you bristles.

"Y're not looking too cool there," he comments. "What say I speed it up a little?"

Again, his empty hands flash past your guard, faster now, but you'd been watching, which saves you when—tilt head, twist!—a flurry of short swipes aimed at your midsection make you backupbackup back up!

You skip a pace farther and duck as he follows, twist, narrowly avoiding a sneaky smack from below your chin. All the while, Auburn keeps a jaunty commentary.

"Ya got fancy moves for a guy who's untried in battle. Maybe y' won't die when the airheads hit the Herald—oh, right, hang on, that's all ya blackheads know t' do, isn't it? Strike from afar?" he taunts.

You'd be more offended if you actually had black hair. Like Arond. Rakky was pretty irreverent herself when talking about the captain, but that seemed to stem from familiarity. This guy's flavor is more… insulting.

Insulting is the rogue's description in a word. He hasn't once blocked you, content to swerve and bend and hop around your attacks like a boneless mongoose, the occasional open palm smacking solidly against your guarding shoulder. You wince, knowing it'll be bruised all over—the force behind his blows is no joke, even if his manner is.

You fall into a pattern of not being where he strikes, diverting what you can't dodge, and utterly failing to land a hit on the lightfooted man, so you're unprepared for a sudden shift as he catches your next jab in a vicegrip.

"Think I'll take this for a spin, bucko." The whisper is the sound of sparks carried on a breeze. Your answering tug is futile as he lands a punishing slap to the side of your head, cracking your neck to the side.

The ringing in your ear jars your balance, and you stumble, the rough deck catching your sandals. Only instinct, pounded into you by practice, experience, and a certain beaconmaster, curls your body into a roll—no 'gulls, why am I?—and in a blink, you're back on your feet, weaponless and glaring dizzily at the scarred mop-thief, the tang of metal blooming on your tongue.

Auburn ignores you in favor of swishing the implement in expert twirls around his body: under arm, over shoulders, thrust-guard, flick-spin, parallel to the deck then vertical at ease—showy but impressive, you admit reluctantly, considering how unbalanced the tool is. Your swings look unrefined in comparison, but they've served you well when needed. Until now.

"Learned that fancy stuff from Unna Spyrene Ferralong, my second cousin once removed or something. Or maybe a great aunt? Easy t' lose track, I've got so many relations. Ya know what they say—Ferralongs live ferry long!" He chortles. The tool clatters to the deck. "Well, enough of that."

He stomps a booted foot onto the ropy mop and uses it as a pivot to kick the shaft into your shins. Still staggered from the blow to the ear, you yelp in pain and offer no resistance when he spins and sweeps your ankles out from under you, laying you out jaw-and-belly on the deck. The breath gasps out of you as his weight crushes your shoulder blades—is he crosslegged on your back?—and then he's using your makeshift weapon to bar your neck to the planks. He didn't even bother securing your hands.

Your awakening pride snarls fiercely at the treatment. You knew from the beginning he was playing with you, but this is adding insult to injury.

"Get. Off," you huff. The man is just a bit taller than you and far more muscled. The sheathe of your firestone knife feels like it's digging a furrow into your chest.

...Knife.

"Fancy moves," he repeats, having the nerve to sound disappointed, "but nothing t' write Gran about. If she's alive. Not bad on the defense, but terrible on the attack. My win, bucko."

"We… never set… the terms," you gasp out with what little air is left to you. Behind his back, your right hand inches down your side, then to the tunic's folds at the small of your back.

"Thought it was obvious. Do ya yield?"

Yield? When you've killed flocks of nightgulls by firelight, swum the blackwater, and even now bear the scars of a krakenspawn? No. Your pride has awoken, bubbling up from the crevices of your mind, as it had during the entire mockery of a fight. Who even is he to ask if you'll give up?

"First blood," you say firmly as your fingers close around the object you seek.

"That doesn't sound like an 'I yield' t' me. Buuut if y' want t' get marked up that badly, sure. First blood." He shifts his weight, and you guess he's reaching for a dagger hidden on his person. You brace and wait. "Hold still, and this won't—"

You lunge upward with all the strength left in your body—"Get off!"—and strike with a blind twist of the arm!

Auburn leaps off you as if stung, which is… not far off, allowing you the chance to roll upright and away. With a groan at the cracking of your ribs, you quickly add distance between you and him, breathing heavily, the spire of Rakky's echo shell clenched firmly in your fist. It's more durable than you thought.

An unreadable expression clouds the man's scarred face as he runs a flame-touched palm over the side of his right thigh. A basic healing technique—you've seen Merry used it on many patients, including you. It doesn't erase the spot of dark crimson that mars the gray cloth, and you can't help the curl of satisfaction at the corners of your lips. Petty, maybe—the win really is his, and you know it, even if you did belatedly set the terms of victory.

Your opponent breaks the ragged silence. "So, ya do have some bite t' ya. Interesting." A wicked smirk crosses his face at the sight of your improvised weapon, a flicker dancing in his eyes as he draws his glowing fist up to guard, where is bursts into flame. "Warmup's over! Time to 'Waken up—"

Thwinggg!

A great arrow bolts from the sky! All of five feet, fletched with nightgull feathers, its appearance, quivering point-down in the deck, effectively halts Auburn's advance. Your head shoots up, and you scan the rigging warily. The sound had come from the weapon's impact, not its flight. You'd forgotten your surroundings because someone made you mad. Moram would shove you off the beacon cliff for such a basic mistake.

Auburn extinguishes his flame and lowers his hands with a wink in your direction. "Aah, theeeere we go. Took Crow long enough—the sun must've been in his eyes. Ya weren't too terrible, guy—kept me amused for a bit. Let's make this a regular thing, why don't we?"

Before you can protest—

"What. Do you think. You're doing?"

—a familiar voice pours icewater over your heated emotions.

Auburn is unfazed, his expression anticipatory, and you realize, indignance prickling into a sneer, he'd used you as bait. To be taken lightly stung your pride. To be disregarded entirely when he's the one who wanted to fight? Heh.

Eis stalks forward with tension outlining arms bared to the sun, sleeves rolled with no cloak in sight. Two slender knives, double-edged and rippled in the distinctive pattern of waterstone—not scalpels, are patients special?—hang loosely in his hands, but a movement could send one spinning in any direction.

The rogue tuck his hands behind his back in a show of false contriteness. "Eissy! I thought I'd have t' make something explode t' make ya show up!"

The first mate's attention is wholly focused on the scarred man, his steely eyes radiating an intensity that makes you content to fade into the background, your gripes nearly forgotten. "Remember the terms—there's to be no sparring on this ship without the watch of Captain Arond. Get back in line, Lisen Ferralong Redtail!"

Auburn—or rather, Lisen—places a hand over his heart, his scars stretching with eagerness. "Ooh, the full name treatment! I'm honored, mother." He bows mockingly, narrowly dodging a blade aimed at his throat. It sails onward to lodge point-first in the deck behind him.

"You're supposed to be keeping watch," the first mate growls.

"That's what Crow and his darts are for, wetblood, or ya never would've known t' come for'ard. I have nothing t' do, and neither do you." He grips an arm with clear intent. "What say we settle this?"

"You know what I meant."

A careless shrug. "Yeah, I do. Must hurt t' know the captain values my amusement over your earthblooded prejudice, heh?"

The muscles in Eis' neck contract at the Earth-cursed insult. "Get back in line," he repeats firmly.

"'Come on! 'S not like we'd wake the captain. Ya have the control for that much, don't ya, Waterstone?"

"I would like nothing better than to slit you from kidney to kidney and distill poison from your bile," Eis replies cordially with a vicious smile that sends chills down your spine. "But I'll be denying us both that pleasure… that is, if I don't need to put you down for insubordination."

A snort. "Says the lapdog to the hound. What're ya waiting for? Scared I'll win?"

"Hardly. I do not need to listen to the provocations of a descendant of murderers."

"See, there's where ya stumble—can't say I'm a murderer, can ya? Did ya forget the oathbreakers too? All the ones who sacrificed life and power and mind for your people?" Lisen's accusation is bitter.

"The ones who matter are all scattered to the winds, those the Winter didn't destroy." A pause. "And then there's you, the runaway who lived to be a spare."

"Spare?" he spits. "I fought, same as you!"

"Can you deny that Fire's inaction in the Winter, your blood's inaction, is the reason the Black Dragon still lives?"

Lisen gives one fierce head shake, the ends of his crimson headband lashing out. "No, but at least my family fought and died with honor instead of turning blood traitor!"

"I am not my blood," Eis snaps.

Lisen throws his arms wide. "Well, neither am I!" he shouts.

The wind is sharp, like knife edges dragging lightly over your neck. A total switch from the earlier air of jovial mischief. You're all too aware that you've become a bystander to something personal: Eis' backstory, Rakky said, which sounds full of drama and betrayal. And Lisen is involved… somehow. The Sheer Winter. It all comes to that, doesn't it? But if they both fought in the Winter, they'd have been young. Younger than the traditional age of Gifting… children in a warzone so terrible that Moram rarely ever spoke of it except in anger and self-loathing.

Fell winds solidifying the seas and destroying the harvest, men drowned on dry land, women and children frozen solid before they could flee...

You probably should run, but your thirst for knowledge, about the Winter, about your situation, about the crew, roots you to the spot.

"Fool boy," echoes your mentor's voice. Yeah, you've heard that before.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Eis' dismissive tone seeks to end the line of attack at a stalemate, the first mate seeming to give the point up as lost. But you notice he doesn't relax once in Aubur—Lisen's presence.

"Oh, ya don't get t' walk away from this one, Eissy. Speaking of loyalties," Lisen throws a pointed glance upward and enunciates his next words slowly, as if tasting a fine wine… or setting flame to a fuse, "wouldn't want a nightgull t' hear about that one guy who's back to wading with the waterdogs, do ya?"

"Be. Silent!" You can't do anything but watch in horror as Eis lunges at the smirking rogue, murder in every muscle.

"Now this's more like it!" Lisen roars, his fists trailing heat waves as he moves to clash.

This is no friendly spar. Eis, at least, has his knives coolly trained on his opponent's vital points... and the human body has a lot. You barely catch the water from your bucket draining away, flowing and spreading quietly over the deck. Lisen is a blur of auburn and gray and heat, the shimmer rising from his body serving to distort his image and confuse the eye, but his smirk is wild and knowing and alive in a way it hadn't been against you, revealing that he's fully aware of his situation. Does he have a deathwish?

How did your agreement to fight a rogue turn into a deathmatch between first mate and subordinate?

[]Sit back and let the fight happen. Hopefully no one dies.
[]Stop them yourself.
—[]Talk
—[]Use force
[]Get someone to stop them.
—[]Rakky. She… might help? But you'll owe her.
—[]Arond. He cares about his crew, and both men answer to him.
—[]Crow? You don't know him, but his near spear-length "darts" might help.
—[]The windblowers. They think you're crazy, but there's a bunch of them.

Now, the take-it-or-leave-it QM's one-day-belated birthday special! A tiny gift from me to you. ;D Whose perspective will begin Dusk 3? Choose any one character who's made an on-screen appearance. Most requests or best argument gets it!