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Dusk 3.5 - Searching for Trouble
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You are Jet, and you want—no, need—to learn about yourself. Though Moram taught you to be wary, and you don't want to owe anyone (even the good-natured Rakky), you can't pass up the chance to have someone intelligent help test your weird skill. You tell Rakky as much, and she grins, pleased—whether because she got another trade out of you, or because you're a new and shiny toy, you don't… nope. It's both. Definitely both.
"Fair's fair," she calls. "Then I'll give ye some help in exchange for a favor a' similar value."
The High Revenge hits another swell, and you're forced to scrabble for balance, envying the helmswoman's easy sway and Crow's seated position. Rakky pushes back strands of gray hair and, keeping her attention fixed on the sea, projects over the deluge of waterfalls.
"What d' ye need t' know to get a location?" she asks. "Image, species, what else?"
"Image, definitely." You examine the concept carefully. "I can't mistake the subject of the image for anything else. Going off that, I think… it's less 'species' than 'identity' I have to get. Everything else is an extra that makes the search faster… maybe? I probably calculate distance relative to my location without thinking, like with the lobsters—"
" 'Craws."
"...Those. My targets've never been that close."
Though Rakky doesn't turn an inch your way, she seems intrigued by your hesitant thoughts. "Let's give ye a wide spread for yore net first, then, t' check yore range. Start off with… hm, nightgulls. Those pests 're common as blackin' in the bottom of a bubblin' bar brew. 'S hard t' miss them. Locate the closest and the farthest ye can and tell me their positions relative to yoreself."
You nod, appreciating the direction. While not completely specific, it's slightly more focused than "find all of this creature as far away as possible."
You take barely a full breath to find the first one, so familiar are nightgulls to you. They're creatures of the sky and wind, evening and midnight, and you know their stars well. Your mentor made sure of it.
"When the Black Dragon's third claw shines in the night, his children rise like a cloud of evil to extinguish what light remains," whispered Moram to your seven-year-old self, beaconlight playing flickering shadows across his fierce grin while behind him rose scores of beady black eyes on dark blue feathers. The rising wind whipped the tails of his headband and sent his coat flapping as the wingbeats of war resounded. "For the last that monster saw ere life left his eyes was the light of dawn, and with his last breath, he cursed its bearer by name, swearing his blood would ever seek the end of all that dares to shine."
You snort at the fond memory, a smile curling your mood. Your mentor could be overdramatic, but his stories used to help you stay awake for the beaconwatch. Awake with terror. In reality, for creatures whose seagull ancestors were said to have tasted the death-blood of the Black Dragon, they aren't that frightening. They still pose a peril for the unwary, though.
"The farthest 'gulls I know are on the island I live on," you call out. That flock is all too familiar.
Impressed, Rakky whistles in the downpour. Somehow. "That's a fair few days out, cully. Nice distance! Next closest?"
Having anticipated the question, you point behind your shoulder at an angle.
"A straight line, that way. Can't say the exact distance, but with Florialis there…" A second finger indicates the island, leaving your fingers in a V. "That's probably the closest neighboring island: Faunalia. We'd 've passed it on my first day on the Revenge."
"Ye can't see farther'n that? That could change if'n ye keep tryin'." The helm turns under a deft twist of one arm. "Or ye just need t' get out and see more places'n the inside a' yore den. I bet ye have never been off that ole island, have ye?"
You sigh, not answering. She's not wrong.
Returning to the task, you line up your parameters, consciously slowing the process down to observe what's normally instinctive. Nightgulls—they're linked to midnight by behavior and origin, so… that leaves the quadrant of Midnight, summer. Dark blue mature and gray young, windblooded. Their nature lines up. They relate to the third claw-star of the Black Dragon. The High Revenge is sailing beneath Aria, so relate the target to the third star of the Girdle—
A roll of nausea that isn't seasickness forces you to one knee on the sodden deck, and you grasp at the sides of your head, feeling like a nail is being driven through your temples.
"Ye look kinda pale there, matey—well, paler'n usual," Rakky observes with concern, turning half away from the wheel.
You shake your head to wave her off, instantly regretting the motion, and take a moment to breathe, ignoring Crow's curious gaze over his drawings of sea monsters (doesn't he have better things to do?).
You've never experienced that reaction from star-searching. Was it a reaction? If so, to what? Did you do something wrong? …No, your calculations were right. Did you search too many things? No, you've never had that problem. Groups are normal. Were the factors somehow too specific? Too close?
Steadying yourself with a hand on the deck, you cautiously expand the scope of your search, and the spear in your head slowly withdraws until you're left with an aching throb. But you have a location.
"That way." You point a few degrees straight back, in line with the ship's course. "I'd say… Maybe around where we were the day we first met?" you guess. That's out of the ordinary. Nightgulls tend to stay within sight of land, and if you remember right, that stretch had not a rock in sight.
A strange expression crosses Rakky's face. "Are ye sure?"
You shrug. "It's a guess, but they'd be in that area, sure."
"Uhuh. Now, about that little swoonin' episode—"
"I didn't swoon!" you object, sending a halfhearted glare at Crow's unhelpful and unnecessary imitation of a dead faint.
"Nah, 'twas a proper swoon, matey. Ye did somethin' similar with the 'Craws, but that time, ye had a bit of a panic party, not a wallop upside the head."
…You'll go with it.
Was the image at fault? The lobster-thing was a drawing, while the 'gulls came from memory. Was it a problem with the source of image? …No, Crow's drawings are detailed enough.
Was the headache a coincidence? When did navigation ever give anyone a headache? How does that make sense? But if it's not a coincidence and your calculation is at fault, how is that normal?
…Then again, you've sort of known this skill isn't quite normal.
You continue massaging your temples, wishing fervently for a painkiller from Merry. "This was a slightly more refined search, so it makes sense the result would be different. 'Every Craw in the general area' was an overwhelming panic hammer to the head. 'Closest nightgulls' is a precision knife." You're not certain about that idea, but it's the best you have without more tests.
…She's going to have you test for that, isn't she?
"A strange problem that is, cully." Rakky looks like she wants to say something else but refrains. "So, we now know yore ability's not specific t' water creatures or daylight." Huh. You didn't think about that. "We already knew ye have no trouble findin' groups. Yore farthest distance seems t' be anchored t' yore distance t' that island… maybe. That'n needs more testin', but later. Now, ye need t' find what's makin' yore head all flippy."
Prediction sustained. Pain is your near future.
You lean to one side as the ship tilts, riding out an errant wave, then scowl as the edges wash your spot with saltwater. "I don't suppose there's a better way of finding out than running barefoot over an old dock in the dark, is there?"
The helmswoman snorts as she guides the wheel starboard by a tiny degree. The prow dips and jumps, sending up a spray of saltwater. "I will not steer ye 'way from pain, but I'm doin' this t' satisfy my curiosity, not t' laugh at yore misfortune. Tell me then, what d' ye think caused yore head-burst?"
You shrug yet again, letting your hands fall to the deck. "The reaction happens when I connect the points. It could be the close distance, or too specific a target. Maybe the wrong parameters."
"The image and distance and such, right?"
"And everything else. The more I know the target, the faster the search. Details seem to help—the stuff I find without thinking, I know inside and out."
After muttering inaudibly with a questioning tilt, Rakky barks out a series of orders to the sodden crew. The corridor is wide enough here to let five ships identical to the High Revenge through side by side without touching either each other or the sea-falls, and the corridor "floor" bubbles in eddies of half-formed whirlpools and rival currents. At the speed you're going, the ship's continued well-being is a testament to Rakky's and the crew's skill and coordination.
She twists the wheel to port, eyes front, and gives you your next task. "Headaches. Ye could have worse obstacles'n that… Test for specific first—locate a person what isn't on this tub. Ye can't get more specific'n someone unique."
…Can you look for people? You've never tried, but is there a reason you can't? No, none you can think of. Does this work as a valid test if everyone you know is on Florialis? You know where the island is, and barring another upheaval on the scale of the more chaotic days of the First Age, the landmass won't be moving anytime soon… so won't each result be on the island anyway? Not to mention your list of people is a lot smaller than you'd like. Merry, Jard, and Nyla are the only ones you'd care to find.
…Moram. If Rakky's right, if she's right, he might be alive somewhere (you know his face, you know who he is). Somehow. (Sun he relates to the sun at dawn) but he's (relate to Aria's Girdle), he's…
The faint hope dies. Nothing. Not even the faintest touch of confirmation. So he's really gone, then. You close your eyes and swallow, acknowledging how much you miss your scowly but caring old mentor.
With the ease of years of hard practice, you wrench your mind away to the task.
You do know the name and image of one other. Miragua, one of the Firstborn, and the serpentine guardian of the sea; she's a popular subject for craftsmen and artists on your island. Rakky's not the only person who swears by her—there's even a statue of her, the guardian of fishermen, at the village center, and you remember the image well: the silvery blue of shimmering scales, with eyes of storm and maelstrom that gleam, set in a wolfish head, over fangs as white as milk. From snout to the end of the tapering tail, she's the length of a ship, they say (which model, they never specify), with four clawed feet that could lift a fully-grown man each. You've always thought she looked more dragon than seal, but hey—you can't argue with that many artisans.
…You're getting nothing. Not one hint. There's… Her name is Miragua, and she's associated with morning and the sea (hers is the wolf star of the Nao the Deep Hunter, which rides the sea at dawn). Name known and image known. You have the pieces, but… nothing. Why? Could she be too far away? Was Rakky right about your range being connected to the island? Could the Firstborn be unsearchable to this skill? Or, like your mentor, is she… gone?
The though brings a spiral of sadness. What could kill a legend? How do legends die?
Shoving the problem aside, you settle crosslegged on the deck—you're down already and see no practical reason to rise—and return your mind to someone you could never mistake: your one and only childhood friend.
After three breaths, you know where she is.
Nyla. She's a waterblood, born under the light of sunhigh, during summer: noon's season (the noon stars of summer). If she'd been fireblooded, she'd have been a true summer child. Even without… she is like sunlight (brightest star of Eness the Navy Queen). You know her face better than your own reflection; her hair glows cinnamon at dawn, bringing warmer tones out of her dark eyes; her smile, contrasted against skin tanner than yours could ever be, is ever infectious.
Until your late teens, Nyla been taller than you—a fact she took pleasure in pointing out until the tables turned (your chin fits quite comfortably on top of her head these days). That girl is stubborn, with a temper as sharp as her elbows and chin—and you've been on the receiving end of all of these (your sides can attest to that). Like you, she dreams of leaving the island, though she's more in it for the adventure…
You let out a wry breath and stop yourself short of cracking into your memories—you'd be here all day. Nyla will be surprised to see you alive when you meet again. Maybe Rakky knows a way of sending a message? …Anyway, your adventure-seeking friend is on Florialis (as expected), and though you can't tell where exactly, on a normal day she'd be with Merry at work.
You nod an affirmative at Rakky, who mouths something like, "People, check." Audibly, "No pains?"
You shake your head. Except for failing to locate (your mentor) Miragua, nothing went wrong. A being that powerful probably wouldn't appreciate being tracked anyway…
"Far distance and specificity are good, then," says the helmswoman. "Now, test for close distance. Try this—ye have seen Eis, and ye know he's in that room right behind ye. Find him."
With a glance at Crow, who's back to ignoring the world from within his nice, dry sphere, you fling some seawater from your face and begin.
A waterblood named Eis Waterstone. Gray hair, clean-shaven, with skin that reveals a younger age than his hair suggests. He's… odd and a healer. You have his appearance and name. Tricky. People like him aren't as predictable as animals, and you don't understand him like you understand Nyla. You're not sure if this'll work with what you have.
"I need a bit more," you admit reluctantly. "Knowing his birth season should help narrow it down."
"He's a descendant a' the Twilit Sea, born inside the Sheer Winter at the peak a' summer—a spry kind a' sprog he was, too. Mind ye, everyone born within the influence of that storm is a winter child, no matter what season or generation their birth. The hair and eye combination's a dead giveaway for forced winters. Yep!" Rakky winks one gray eye. "That means me too. I'm younger'n ye might think."
You store that information away with interest triggering all sorts of questions. Twilit Sea? That sounds like an important bloodline, to be named by domain. And he's a winter child born in summertime? You mull that over, marveling that the most infamous storm on the Charted Seas was powerful enough to overwhelm the natural order of seasons. Clearly, your mentor downplayed the scope of its effects. When he bothered to mention it at all.
You've never calculated something like this before. Eis Waterstone, descendant of the Twilit Sea (evening). Image known. Winter and summer? How do those overlap? Maybe with a dual or multi-season star or formation. By those parameters, several constellations could work. The Bluefin, Exander the Good, the… ah, Wokum's Arrow, third star. The fletching star. You grin as your calculation rings true. The fletching star. Relate it to the third star of the Girdle…
Pain stabs through your head, and you let go quickly, one hand clamping on your skull.
Distance. Is distance the cause? But you had little trouble with those lobsters, and they'd been there. What's different?
"Something about searching this close feels like… like staring at a full-flame lantern a finger's-width away from my face," you note, pinching the bridge of your nose. "How is this skill any different from navigation? Tracing islands on a map doesn't hurt."
"Navigation uses measurable factors. What ye are doin' relies on somethin' more abstract," Rakky replies with a redirective swipe at an oncoming swell. It flattens out early, allowing the Revenge to slip over safely. "How do ye know yore facts relate t' certain stars, anyway? Seems it could be subjective."
You shrug yet again. "I wouldn't know what any of it is if my mentor hadn't taught me. He just told me stuff, and I got what he meant." Well, whenever you listened.
"Hwahahaw! Oh, that makes sense now!" Rakky whoops without warning, scaring a day off your lifespan. "I was acquainted with someone juuust like that. Didn't need t' speak t' be understood, but by Miragua's right flipper, could that featherhead speak. Now, no offense, Jet-boyo, but ye are no genius."
"Really, now?" you say dryly.
"Really," she agrees. "But that means nothin' if'n yore teacher has the ability t' have ye understand what he's teachin'. By Mira, ye just dashed a whole wave-flippin' score a' wild theories!"
"I'm… sorry?" You have no idea what she's saying.
"Don't be, matey. 'S debatable whether the ole bird's even aware he's doin' it." Her utter glee sends a wave skidding merrily into the distance to crash into the corridor walls. "Now, if'n I wasn't sure before, I am now—yore skill is one a' fire's. Relyin' on the intangible 's a strong sign of an essence-based skill. By my book, yore only human precedent is fireblooded, so starin' at stars could have a different effect on ye, not bein' Awakened and all."
"Nothing worse than a headache, I hope."
Rakky turns the wheel to port with a keen twist and a grin. "Ye are not dead or maimed, are ye?"
That was a joke. You hope.
"This person you know who has this skill… What could they do with it?" To be honest, you're still skeptical about the "fire skill" thing. How's it possible for a son of earth to learn something like that?
The next swell passes harmlessly, nudging the ship into a faster current. "Kies Andryns is a hunter-finder, and a Fire-blazin' good one at that—knows exactly what and where t' hunt, never loses her target. 'S all I know about her.
"Now, the Firstborn of Fire… Some say they can catch slips a' the future by readin' the stars." The wheel locks back to center. "Wouldn't think a' that'n too hard, cully. Only the Esser can grasp the stream of time, and time is part of Water's domain, not Fire's." A frown. "Speakin' a' that, I have a question I've been meanin' t' ask since before. 'S a bit off topic, but d' ye think ye could—"
You let out an undignified yelp as your ears fill with water from a wayward overwash, and for a moment, all you hear is the echo of your own racing hearbeat.
"Jet. Relax and breathe. I'm usin' a quick stream with a prerecorded message, like with the shell, see?"
Rakky's lips are moving differently from the words, as if she's continuing the question she started, but her voice is coming from right beside your ear. You take her advice and breathe, trying to ignore the discomfort of water on water, and concentrate as the voice continues, double-quick:
"Did yore mentor ever mention why the Council of Vermilion voted t' keep themselves and their scions out a' the Winter? 'S said that Rekavok saw somethin' alarmin' and swayed the…"
The water drains out, and with it, Rakky's voice, as the roar of the corridor returns in full force.
"—no firebloods in the Sheer Winter. What d' ye think a' that?" she concludes. "Ye can answer yes or no."
You wonder at her discretion, a hint of suspicion bleeding through even as you futilely try to dry your ears. What was said in that question that she wants to keep quiet? And Vermilion? That's a place in the far east, in the Charted Seas, where the oldest sons of fire were born. Moram might've mentioned something, but he wouldn't have gone there during your lifetime. He may have gone there during the Winter, which he almost never spoke of. What is it Rakky thinks she knows?
You indicate a negative in response to the water-bound question and carefully carve a return question into a statement. "I've definitely heard about more than a couple firebloods fighting in the Winter."
You search your mind for the few names your mentor mentioned in his rare tellings. Moram had a thing for giving people nicknames, and you were no exception. Always the fool boy…
Rakky eyes you oddly from her peripherals. " 'Twas nearly all the Firstborn a' Fire didn't fight—the whole Council, barrin' Remoriam and the scions what followed him. Some say Reyzan fought, but Redtail's a healer, never a warrior. But Remoriam was always that, and more."
A memory twigs. "My mentor mentioned some guy named Reyzan, once," you venture. "Said no one was better at healing. They were comrades. I think he was fireblooded—could he be the same Reyzan?" And then there was some kid who Moram nicknamed "a fool boy worse than you," so he's probably not important.
Rakky's eyes bulge. She whirls fully in your direction, leans down, and yanks you up and close by the collar, trapping the wheel straight with an arm and a leg. "Reyzan, some guy? Ye think he was fireblooded?" she hisses into your ear as the roar of the corridor intensifies directly around you both. "Bluebeard's rotten whiskers, are ye jokin'? Sure, the Uncharted Seas 're disconnected from the rest a' th' world, but this's takin' the limpet! I can understand ye not knowin' First Blood namin' convention, but not knowin' the names of the Firstborn? How could ye hear a' the Rising Three but not their monikers? Were ye listenin' t' Remoriam, or was yore head overfull a' starshine?"
Startled by her tirade, you latch onto her last sentence, "Who's Remoriam?"
Rakky's jaw clenches, and after a long moment, she exhales. "What a mess ye washed up on the shores a' this wavedog," she mutters, dropping you to the deck. "Sit down and be quiet. This rakkety roguish brain needs t' think."
Quiet, in this water corridor? You're incredulous, but you comply, returning to your former seat on the deck, thoughts awhirl.
How would you have known Moram's lists of old names would be important? You know that names containing Sun and Fire, Sky and Wind, and Sea and Water are distinguished—it's how you know Arond's no common person and Rakky and Eis aren't either. Days ago, you hadn't known the Black Dragon even had a proper name. You'd ignored ancient genealogy lessons because they weren't practical knowledge. Ha, you're halfway regretting it now.
Crow catches your eye and mimes patting you on the back. There, there, there. You feel your headache returning. For someone who tries not to speak, his brand of sarcasm is salt on a burn.
Seconds in the Sundering Sea flow like thick mud as Rakky mutters to herself, occasionally making violent Crow-esque gestures that highlight her aggravation. You swear she flattened some dangerous waves during her inaudible rant, and while her display of negative emotions is unnerving, you appreciate she's not neglecting her post.
When the helmswoman finally looks your way, disappointment writes her expression, but you feel it's not all directed at you.
"That old bird always had reasons for everythin', so I won't disrespect him by outright givin' away his secrets even if I should," she growls. " 'Nyway, I'll wager ye have enough t' figure stuff out yoreself, and I handed ye everythin' ye need t' know t' not step on the wrong tails, so 's hardly goin' t' be my fault if'n ye ignore it all. Heh, my ole cousin'd make us all chow our historian certifications 'fore he'd tolerate this level a' ignorance in a pupil."
Your face burns under the constant sea shower, and you decide, for your wellbeing, to never mention daydreaming during your mentor's more boring lectures.
"Can we go back to the tests?" you ask, hoping to divert her attention by appealing to her sense of curiosity.
She is silent, but something in her shoulders loosens.
"Oi, Flinky!" she yells.
"Stop calling me Flinky, crazy waterdog!" the man yells back.
"If'n ye can talk back t' yore commandin' officer, ye can bend the trifold quarter t' the limit!" she snaps. "Bring us leeward 'fore we hit the bend or we'll all be havin' swimmin' races with the slippery sloughnaugs! Got it?"
He pales. "Aye, marm!"
You mentally apologize to the crew for inadvertently causing Rakky's downswing in temper. Still, it's almost a relief when she addresses you again. "Jet, we'll be hittin' a wild strand soon, so search this'n quick. Crow, are ye done with the portrait this'n asked for?"
Crow looks up from his drawing and nods his dry, covered head once—slowly, mockingly—and chucks a rolled scrap of paper her way.
Rakky flattens the drawing and passes it to you. "This's a test t' see if'n the power a' yore target affects yore skill's success. This here's Tarrow Mylston; ye probably know him as Vitarrow, the Morning Sky, Firstborn of Wind—or ye would if'n ye learned it," she growls. "Listen. No human or scion'd have a name that holds not only the time a' day but also the domain a' their birth. None. Those are always Firstborn."
I couldn't find Miragua, you don't say, the protest dying on your mind as, instead of seeing a sketch of a fierce dragon of wind, you recognize the very human figure. That silvery hair, touched by the blue of deep frost, is unmistakable.
You'd viewed the Firstborn as ancient, distant beings of power, austere and ethereal, who occasionally, on a whim, assume the form of humankind. You'd imagined them as forces of nature thinly veiled behind human skin, intelligent beasts playing at blending with the sheep. You hadn't expected a normal man. A face in the crowd.
But he's not just a face, is he? You'd seen him from the clifftop on his ship and known he was more than ordinary.
With contours turned gentle by the Crow's hand, with the barest shadow of a beard, the man appears less worn and downcast than the day you saw him. No older than Jard, you'd think, if you weren't told he's Firstborn—immortal, untouched by the wrinkle of age. But your attention is drawn to the man's eyes; they could be wrought of the sky for depth, encompassing and unfathomable; they reflect a will that neither tragedy nor terror could outlast or overtake. Indomitable.
Those eyes, you have seen in one other man: a man you're realizing was a lot more than he let on.
You won't think about it. Not now. Not now. Not—
Calm.
You blink in surprise, confirmation tickling your neck.
Location… found. It worked. You know where he is. But why could you find him but not Miragua? Is she really too far away? Dead? But the Firstborn cannot die (so how did the Black Dragon?).
You go back over your calculation carefully. Tarrow Mylston. Morning Sky. He embodies wind, as all dragons do. He relates to the center star of the Silver Shield, which hovers over the horizon at dawn during winter. Relate it to Aria…
You twist your conclusion, poke it, and try it out once more. Again, it works. But this time, a pair of intense blue eyes peers back at you.
!
Heart jumping wildly, you drop the search like a burning coal.
To borrow a phrase from your mentor, What. In. The. Inferno. Was. That?
You know where Vitarrow is. You definitely know where he is. And by the inferno, if you weren't imagining shadows, if that wasn't a hallucination, he knows where you are too.
You're roasted—frozen. Dead. Snow on the wind.
Calm. Calm. What would your mentor think if you panicked now?
Where Vitarrow is, his ship is too. With his ship, the Red Herald… The pieces fit together with an ease that chills your bones.
The Black Dragon. Arond's mission to take down his uncle (for the sake of his loved ones). His uncle, Vitarrow, son of the Morning Sky, whom Rakky calls Firstborn. The man on the Red Herald. There's gaps in your theory, and most motivations are unknown, but with a tiny leap connecting the coincidences, it makes a terrifying level of sense. It boils down to one conclusion; you're trapped in the vincinity of the next great clash of domains.
Esser, you're going to die!
Calm. Think!
You don't want to be the Morning Sky's enemy. You don't want to be the enemy of any of the Firstborn—not of Arond's father or his uncle and... his mother—! His mother's also a Sky. Which, you don't remember at the moment, but that doesn't matter. Firstborn. You've heard enough old tales to figure that with two Firstborn parents, the captain may appear human, but he's a full-blooded dragon!
…At least Arond's civil, which might speak of good upbringing (unless he's hiding something). But his father is crazy, and you don't know much about Vitarrow.
Inferno. A Firstborn dragon knows you were tracking him! Even worse, this vessel is sailing closer by the day. If Vitarrow wanted to be found, Arond wouldn't be hunting him!
…If he knows you're the one who located him, what would he do to you when the Revenge catches up?
You hate surprises. There's so much you need to know!
Will you tell Rakky what you found?
[]Yes. Tell her what happened.
[]No. Say you couldn't find Vitarrow.
"Rakky," you begin with as controlled a tone as possible with a raised voice and your impending death on the wind, "Why is the Revenge chasing down one of the Firstborn?"
At your words, Crow shoots up, no longer ignoring life, and—all muscles tensed—stares wide-eyed at Rakky. Does he—didn't he know? Ah. Wait. Didn't Arond say something about…?
"Long version or short version?" Rakky says tersely. A blind man could tell the helmswoman is still peeved. Her attention remains fixed dead ahead, where the corridor "floor" is beginning to narrow into a single dangerous, focused current.
To your silence, Rakky clicks her tongue and elaborates:
"Long version, we break the deal off, and ye find a nook and listen t' what ye have. Short version, I summarize, we continue 'sperimentin' with yore ability, and ye give me back my stuff. Otherwise, we don't talk about it, ye keep testin', and ye promise t' listen later. 'S nothin' worse'n ignorance t' cook yore tail off!"
She's talking about the echo shell. You desperately need that information, but is now the best time?
[]Long version. Listen to the shell now. End testing.
[]Short version. Lose the shell. Continue testing.
[]Neither version. Listen to the shell later. Continue testing.
