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Dusk 3.6 - Watery Tunnel Vision
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You are Rakky, certified awesome storykeeper, historian, navigator, and overall the best person to have at the helm when a fizzy corridor passage is about to collapse around everyone's ears.
Hold that thought. The blackbird's feathers are up—best nip that before he bolts. Mira, the edge of his air circle is frosting over!
"Sit down, Crow-boy, and calm yoreself!" you command. "Information on Vitarrow s'not t' be bandied 'round—Cap'n Arond's orders."
The kid's eyes—the only visible part of him—flick between you and Jet. In your ire, you turn half around and reveal the barest tip of one canine. "Both a' ye. If'n ye spread this'n around and the wrong twitchy ding-dong hears, we'll be five fathoms sunk 'fore ye can yell, 'Mutiny!'"
Nearly half the crew is comprised of humans Val rescued from the prisons of the Whirlwind Isles. The second son of Peril has their respect, but their first loyalties do not lie with him (and he knows it). Without a doubt, if those who fought at Vitarrow's side knew Val's true mission, they would stop the High Revenge from chasing the Red Herald. That's not what Lady Miragua wants, or she'd have instructed you to act in more than in your capacity as a field historian.
No, it's best to keep those hotblooded loyalties thinking this is a simple pirate hunt. For now.
"Why?"
The question doesn't come from Jet, as you'd halfway expected, but from the taciturn little watcher. You allow the coolness of water to settle in your core as you enforce your answer with your will—the inherited power that flows through your veins—so he cannot mistake your words for fluttering half-truths:
"'Cause if'n we devolve t' revolts, 'specially now, then Val—yore oathkeeper—will lose everythin' he holds dear."
After a tense pause, the artist lowers himself to a squat. He remains on a hair-trigger, and prior observation informs you that he can flee from that position at nearly any angle, but he's stood down. His loyalty to Val, while perplexing in its intensity, is no secret.
"Jet?" you prod verbally.
You wonder if the boyo will give you an answer before the ship hits the beginning of the alley (two minutes). The once wide corridor is already slimming down with each passing wave.
Jet baffles the mind. You're almost certain he's a student of Remoriam, because "Moram"? Heh, those who go by tradition don't usually deviate far from their birth names when choosing one for their human forms. This'd be an almost creative iteration from an already odd bird.
Beyond the name, not any lone fireblood could defeat a fire mountain without losing ground; and if anyone could teach a son of earth a skill associated with fire, it'd be Remoriam. But Jet's… lack of certain common knowledge is more than odd. If Remoriam did teach him, would he leave such a glaring hole in his student's instruction? Perhaps the Sundering Seas are more effective a barrier between the Eastern and Western Oceans than you'd thought, or the kid's attention wavered at the boring bits, or his mentor had hidden the knowledge from him (or, maybe, a combination)—but for what purpose?
For Jet to be this oblivious, the kid not only would have had to be a hermit on a small but well-populated island, but he would have had to consistently ignore the same lessons. When put that way, it's far easier to believe his knowledge gap was purposeful. But why?
Ignorance leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but maybe you were too harsh on him. You don't know the whole story, after all.
"I… I'm not one to look for trouble," Jet says at last. Good. He's mostly sane, then. "And anyway, now's not the time for storytelling," he continues pointedly. You click your tongue—surely your terms weren't terribly unreasonable—and reluctantly forgive him his choice. "More importantly, if you're following the Red Herald, you're off course. She should be that way, maybe three quarter's-day out."
He's indicating a point several degrees off starboard, at a clear diagonal to your charted course.
Your interest rises, warring with dismay for dominance. By that angle, the Red Herald couldn't have been in the corridors for more than a half a day, but that doesn't account for how close they are. If your hunch is right, their course will place the Red Herald at near equidistant angles between the High Revenge and the Bloodwind, assuming the latter doesn't follow you into the corridor.
What're Efric and Vitarrow thinking? Are they trying to lose both you and Blackie, or does Efric know you'll catch on? Does he think deception plus the natural barrier of the Sundering Seas will buy him enough distance for Vitarrow to accomplish… whatever his goal is? You're still unsure what in the Uncharted Seas would draw that old dragon the opposite direction of his home.
Still, they surfaced on the Charted side. Does that mean Vitarrow already achieved his objective, or is he retreating until he's in a more advantageous position?
Ah, but that's a question for later. All you want to do is catch up.
Without Jet's star locating-hunting-scrying-whatever skill, you wouldn't have caught Efric's deviation early enough to capitalize on it. If you want to keep on Vitarrow's tail and find out what he's doing, you'll have to make the jump out today. Mira, you want to stay longer…
But duty before pleasure and all that.
You peer at Jet from the corner of your eye, watching him shift nervously under your silence. Or—you sight his line of attention—maybe it's the closing walls of the corridor. Psh, you have it covered.
A skinny, bendy neck in the corridor lies ahead, the walls constricting and wobbling, the brink of the shimmering cliffs leaning in like good old mates having a talk over grog. They're near enough to touch, merge, smoothen into the ceiling of an ever-shrinking tunnel. And they will. You feel it, as sure as you have your senses poised on the water's pulse.
This whole passage had been fizzy from the start. Fizzy, unstable. The narrow bits fall in first, so with a bit of luck and a few racing knots, you'll reach a wide bit after. Maelstrom, this tub will be cutting it close!
"There's more," Jet says suddenly. He has an odd way of breaking into your thoughts. "While I was looking for Vit—while I was looking, I… got an impression of someone staring back. Someone with very blue eyes."
Is that right, now?
"Someone?" you echo. "Are ye certain?"
He nods.
Huh. Vitarrow's awareness triggers on this scale? Interesting. You'll have to record that, just as soon as you make the jump back out.
" 'S alright it was him," you assure him. "That man always had an odd… hm, battlefield sense when it comes t' stuff directed his way, but don't ye worry yore dyed-black head about it. He's not usually one t' retaliate without question."
Jet stares, aghast. "Usually? You mean he might make an exception if he finds the one who led his hunters right to him?"
You admire the restraint in volume, and you'd take steps to allay his fears, but it's been two minutes.
The passage is collapsing.
"Hold that thought, matey. This alley's short, but a bit tight—ye miiiight want t' hold on." A shift in the wheel guides the ship a touch starboard until the High Revenge is positioned dead center of the converging blues.
"All winds 'cept Crow, airbubble and hold it on my mark!" you bark out above the waterfalls. Crow shrugs a shoulder your direction. He had better be thankful—you'd rather he not lose control while Val isn't in play. "All waters, conform all lateral speedcurrents to the alley on mark two! We're goin' t' clear this stretch like Danro the Intrepid through the Clashin' Cliffs!"
"He got squashed, waterdog!"
You roll your eyes. "Oh, go boil yore gob, Flinky, and read past the first chapter! He survived by divin' under!"
There arose such a clatter of crew feet on wood deck that the cacophony drowns out Flincolican's reply.
The wheel locks down under your sure grip as your will slides into the sea with nary an echo. The waters shift under your gentle touch, on the surface recognizing the claim of your blood and lineage. But a deceptively calm surface conceals a treacherously swift current.
The domain sings to you of home and rightness, a melody that harmonizes with the deepest parts of your being. The song of the Esser holds a profound and lingering sadness, a hint of nostalgia, that draws you in. It is with the ease of years that you acknowledge the longing as one would a dear friend who has since departed… and accept what you are: born of water and marked by earth. Today is not your day to cross over the horizon, and if you have anything to say about it, none of this crew will pass either.
You open your eyes. It's a good day for a concerted flow redirection.
Another crew might brute-force their way through a water tunnel, but that process is inelegant, unrefined, and rude. Destruction is too easy to be fun—nothing to brag about. You prefer the art of finesse. With a bit of luck, this passage won't close fully while you're inside it.
With the ancient embrace of your blood-domain washing at the corners of your mind, you wait.
The sun's light dims to a mirrorlike echo as the shimmering peaks curve overhead, casting the coolness of the sea over the deck, playing soothing patterns of bright and shade across the sails. You feel more at home already. Underwater ambiance, wrapped by the tides, is oceans more comfortable than an atmosphere with no barrier to soften the burn of Fire's domain.
The hardened sailors perform admirably as the seas meet overhead—three times over the height of the Revenge—not crashing, merely folding, blending together into a seamless ceiling with a shower that pelts the sodden deck.
You're proud of how much better they're handling this jump than the one you made passing into the Uncharted Seas.
"It's closing on the highfold!" an idiot screams, sending a startled murmuring that reveals the restlessness of less experienced crewmembers.
Thought too soon.
"Hold yore position!" you snap back, wishing certain members of the crew were more like Jet, who can reign in his panic responses. These people have all traversed the Sundering Seas before. What's their excuse?
You breathe deeply and sharpen your focus to a needlepoint, letting petty noises blur into the background—a simple trick to speed your perception. Here, timing is the difference between sunk and surviving.
The ceiling buckles, and when it sinks to about five Rakky-heights from the 'nest—
"Winds! Steady… Now!" you command.
All at once, the air stills, leaving a silence broken only by heavy breathing and the creaking of boards—a drastic shift from the roar of the falls, now muffled, distant. The sails lie slack. The narrowing corridor bends around a perfect half-sphere, giving way to the ship, leaning away from its sides. The azure walls halt their approach near enough to reach out and touch, and between sheets of waterfall, the surface gleams smooth as bluish obsidian, held in place by an invisible boundary.
Deceptively calm. The corridor's still collapsing, slowly but surely.
"Steady yore footing!" you shout, your voice carrying in the hush like a tolling bell.
The wild currents shiver in your mind's eye as you immerse, while all around, you sense the ripples and dimples of waterbloods testing the lines. You're gratified when none stray from the depth of safety; they've learned their lessons well.
You sense the supporting streams in the walls degrading from neutral to agitated and know that with the collapse of this passage, another, larger one is being born somewhere else. The corridors are never constant, whether within or without, and their changes affect the currents for miles around. Small wonder many scholars think the Sundering Seas are connected to the Labyrinth Deep.
Though your mind is split between sky and sea, you don't miss the shudder, the grumbling shift of the pressing walls as the waters below release a torrent of bubbles.
Time.
"Waters, ready up… Now!"
Beneath, the wild currents bend, straighten, and curve together at the wills of your distant kin, merging into a single force that seizes the High Revenge. The ship jerks forward like a caged shark set loose, accelerating abruptly through the part-formed water tunnel. With a nudge, you correct a near-disastrous eddy when one crewmember stumbles, losing control in the shock of speed.
"Don't ye slack now, ye sons a' skittles! Bend yore backs! Don't ye dare drop those currents if'n ye want t' see sunfall!"
It's the oddest sensation, moving at this many knots with no wind beating at your face: the feeling of movement while remaining still, in silence where there should be the roar of falls. There's nothing like going tubular to remind you where you are!
You grin and quickly pat a current in the wall, redirecting a school of jumbo needlefish to swim overhead. Their long shadows flit over the deck, cast by the scintillating aqualight. Phew. Would've been a disaster if those deadly nightmares speared through someone.
You're occupied with controlling the wheel, monitoring the integrity of the crew's speedcurrents, and throwing the occasional sounding wave to sense the ripples of dangerous natives, but you manage to keep half an eyeball on your mystery boys' reactions.
Crow glares all around, hunched protectively over the sketches in his dry circle. You can't resist a giggle. He's maintaining his air pocket within the greater air pocket, the silly blackbird! That's a redundant action if the windy sailors do their job right (you're sure the statement is lost on him past "if").
"...So clear." The murmur conveys wonder and fear; a tilt of your head reveals Jet's expression, awestruck, almost dazed at the sight. Seeing that mixture on a fresh face is worth the dangers of a fizzy jump.
You're content to let both boys be, sitting in silence and drinking in a sight only the bold or desperate enjoy.
And so you can't be blamed for missing a progression that you would've noticed on any other sea: a progression you'd never have allowed.
Jet's total silence after his single utterance was the first clue. He should've been asking questions the way he does, filling in mystery gaps in his "real-or-myth?" understanding.
Looking back, you'll wonder if you misread his expression. Had it been awe, or had he been transfixed, eyes glazed, like those tragic prisoners who'd been kept from their blood-domain for years? But in the present, you only notice when he rolls to a crawling position and, wobbling on limbs made unsteady from sitting, stumble-runs to the portside railing with the grace of a half-drunk lizard. Mira, but that kid can move over ground!
He stands, using the railing as support.
The second clue was the prickling of the hairs on your scruff. But with your eyes and senses on the sea, the crew, and the corridor, you couldn't know what was setting off warnings.
When you find out, it's too late. He's already leaning out.
Jet's hand lifts, rising towards the sea wall an arms-length away.
Your head snaps fully in his direction.
"Jet!" you call in alarm. "Stop! Don't touch the water!"
He doesn't stop. Does he have the seaweed in his ears, in a flipping airtight bubble? Maelstrom! You can't leave the wheel! And if you destabilize the wrong current while trying to wash him back, you'll all go down! That leaves—!
"Crow!"
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You are Jet.
You… can hear it. The song of the horizon has ever been at the back of your mind, but now, it rushes around you in tides, in the air, shivering in time with your heartbeat.
Heartbeat.
Heartbeat.
Your blood roars in your veins, deafening in the artificial silence of the overarching air bubble, and drowning out the muted roar of the corridor's fall.
It's clearer now. Clearer than it's ever been.
The knot in your chest wants to burst out under the weight of nostalgia and longing that fills your mind and heart until you can barely breathe.
What… is it? What does it mean?
You hear the song like vibrations through a glass: clearer, but imperfect in quality. You can almost understand it. Something… something in your gut cautions you, but it's a small tug against the pull of your fascination. So you close your eyes and press your mind's ear to the nonexistent glass:
Echo on echo, ripple on ripple. The song is an unending harmony, reverberating from the horizon, from you, from the distance, from inside, until you can no longer tell the origin.
The ripple breathes a lyric, with the murmuring of an indistinct voice—no, three: three voices so entwined, they could be one. But the harder you listen, the more different they sound, until you wonder why you ever thought them the same. The eerie whistle of a mountain's flute… the ponderous beat of a sailing drum… the tremulous strains of a wandering lyre. Yet… the tones don't strike you as discordant or chaotic. They are familiar yet strange: a melody you've heard countless times before… but for the first time.
What does the song mean? Why do the voices yearn with such sorrow?
It's a promise. An oath. A dirge… a call.
... Something's missing.
Something's wrong.
Why can you hear any of this? Isn't this what Nyla hears? You've never heard of any son of earth experiencing the same.
If you knew who you are… would you know why the horizon calls?
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
You imagine your reflection staring back from the immaterial, his pristine hair belying the deception of your dark-stained locks: gauging, assessing, as you do the same.
Jet. Your name is Jet, and you are a son of earth. You're different and always have been, set apart by your hair… by an invisible barrier. You know no parents or relatives or even when you were born; Moram's family was all you knew.
You were a wanderer content to remain upon a dot on the map, only uprooted by chance (or destiny, if you were to believe Arond).
You are a beaconmaster with no beacon to guide you home.
...You don't have enough information to find yourself. The stars have never carried answers. But maybe… they don't have to? Maybe the sea, the horizon, maybe it calls you for a reason; and a call begs for an answer, doesn't it? What if the answer isn't out there, but inside?
You glance at your reflection and see a boy playing at independence, being neither strong nor weak: a masterless apprentice, with his body turned wiry from mundane repetition and exaggerated battles with windblown pests.
You want answers.
You reach out to your image, and he reaches back.
It's so clear.
"Jet! ...n't… touch… 'ater!"
Huh?
A pang of doubt makes you falter. A hint of danger.
"Fool boy, stay away from the edge!"
Something's not ri…
Something should be there, but it's not.
…Why was this a good idea?
Something calls. You… think you want to answer. But do you really? If it's the same as with Nyla, she had to resist the pull of her blood-domain.
Resist. She had to resist. Why? Because the power of the sea could consume her.
Your blood runs cold. What if it is the same call? Has the desire to wander ever been yours? The sea-longing: was it you, or was it the song's influence? This whole time, did… was leaving the island really what you wanted?
You want an answer, but to what question?
You hesitate.
"—row!"
A vice seizes your other wrist and jerks you backward, shattering your reverie and your balance. You stumble into the body behind you.
On reflex, your body twists half around, and you catch a glimpse of two piercing gray eyes before you and your companion crash to the deck, your arm scraping painfully on the wood.
The circular scars on your torso twinge once against the planks, eliciting a grunt from your chest. You shake your head as if coming out of a dream, but the feeling of nostalgia remains, and so does the song in your mind. But it's quieter now, muffled. What happened?
Your wrist creaks at the strength of the hand around it, and you follow the arm to its owner's face. Crow is near flat on his back beside you, glaring apologetically—is that possible?—and doesn't let go. When you roll yourself to your feet, he remains attached, using you as a lever. You quickly brace before he can pull you down again.
"Are you doing this?" you ask quietly. You're close enough to be inside Crow's personal air bubble. You know windbloods can affect sound, but can they affect one you're not hearing with your physical ears?
The watcher shrugs, but you can tell he's smirking under the cloth mask.
"What're ye all lookin' at? Stow the gossip-eyes and set yore faces for'ard, ye sons a' scallops!"
You look up at Rakky's voice and twitch at the many eyes quickly turning away.
What did you do? What did they see?
You run your free hand self-consciously through your blackened hair, and, wrenching your mind towards more pleasant thoughts, put up little resistance as Crow tugs you to Rakky's side.
"D' ye think I give orders f'r kicks?" the helmswoman growls into your face. "Ye coulda gotten yoreself killed! Or if'n ye didn't, ye coulda lost a hand! What was that?"
"I didn't hear you," you mutter, marveling that she cares so much, even for the short time you've been acquainted.
"Didn't?" she echoes, softer.
You shrug uneasily. "I was… listening to something else."
"Somethin' like…?"
"A song."
Her gaze sharpens. " 'S the first time this happened t' ye?"
"I've heard it for as long as I can remember," you reply, "though it was loudest from the clifftop. But never like this. It's… so clear here."
"What's it sound like?"
A pause. "You don't think I'm crazy?"
The wheel shifts a touch to port. "If'n ye are, best figure it now rather'n when the only thing 'twixt ye and death is two miles a' air and an invisible flyin' lizard what pretends t' forget seals can't fly."
"...Fair enough." You hem for a moment, finding the words. "It's… It's a song. I don't think I'm hearing it, not with my ears at least. It's not words—just meanings. Feelings. A feeling that something I've been looking for is just beyond the horizon. It calls me. Always has. It's as familiar as breathing. We called it sea-longing, but now… I think… it's been… influencing me, like how the domains influence the newly Gifted. That's why I…" You trail off.
The helmswoman appears troubled. "I usually trust my senses, matey, but… ye shouldn't be hearin' that song. Are ye really a son a' earth? Ye're actin' like an old gen scion with a case a' domain-separation!"
"I think I'd know if I had the Gift," you say dryly. "No Gift, no blood-domain, no separation. Can't be separated from what you never knew."
She sighs. "Ye don't make sense half the time, ye odd earthie. Really wish I could spare half my brain t' pick yours… We'll have t' leave the rest a' this discussion f'r calmer waters. You, don't ye listen t' the song. Keep yore mind on the here and now. Crow-boy." The artist perks up. "Keep that bubble up 'round Jet—it seems t' help—and keep him distracted. Feed him yore sketches or somethin'. Jet-matey, till we get outta this corridor, sit down and exercise yore star locator scryin' thingy. And don't either a' ye stray from my sight, ye hear?"
Crow seems faintly murderous at that order, a lick of wind agitating his cloak, but he doesn't drop your wrist like you'd halfway expected.
You look at Rakky incredulously, but she's staring far for'ard into the water tunnel.
"Standard protocol, mateys. Can't be overcautious. Jet, start by findin' me. I want t' see if I can sense ye tryin'."
Fair point.
And so you find yourself in an increasingly familiar position, sitting on the deck of a ship hurtling through a collapsing tunnel of water, a pile of paper in your lap and the stars in your head. The one addition is the taciturn bundle of attitude permitting you into his personal space bubble.
…Maybe if you search quickly, you won't get a headache.
Ok. Rakky. Mirakela. of the North Seas. Winter-winter-water-phase? Triangulate-midnight? MustbetheNorthernCross-relate-Aria-Girdle-third star—yowch!
"Anything?" you grit out, cradling your head with your free hand.
Rakky shrugs. "Not a thing. I'll give ye a tentative go-ahead t' find scions at yore own risk, but be cautious 'nyway, boyo. That headache doesn't invite confidence."
"Scio—?"
"Short answer, anyone what can transform t' human form without a cloak a' Earth. Commonly children of the Firstborn." Her brows tighten, and the ship gives a startling lurch before stabilizing.
Glancing upward to the liquid ceiling washing around the shipwide air bubble, you decide to leave her to her task. And so you find yourself beside Crow, as far away in front of Rakky as possible (at Crow's tugging insistence), with both your backs to her (you occasionally feel her eyes boring into your shoulders).
Your attention is captured for a while by the constant stream of sea creatures Crow shoves your way. Some you recognize, like barracuda and salmon, sword-rays with their poisonous tailblades, and emberfish like the school that landed you in the arms of a krakenspawn. Others are wholly strange to you, like kelpies—aquatic omnivores with the body of a horse and the tail of a whale instead of hind legs—that blend their nebulous forms into the waves.
The oddest had to be the Leopard-spotted Sea Carpet. The mass of cilia is carnivorous, Crow assures you. You have no idea how. It doesn't seem to have a mouth…
"It. can engulf… a small skiff." The artist helpfully sketches a small boat beneath the much more intimidating sea slug.
…Drawings don't always give a good sense of scale.
Wonder and uneasiness mingle in your gut as more and more unfamiliar sealife crosses the stars nearby, and familiar fish trail off into the distance, with salmon and herring being replaced by deepfins and sweetgills. You're beginning to realize how far away from your clifftops you are.
You've been fortunate thus far to meet people who aren't wholly antagonistic to you. Rakky, you decide, is probably trustworthy. She hasn't done anything contrary to her word, and she genuinely seems to care about your safety; from now on, you will put more weight to her suggestions and commands.
Eis is an enigma who hates fire and has the worst bedside manner. Merry could teach him a thing or two. Guiltily, you suddenly have a great desire to see that happen. Merry's had to deal with rowdy customers before… You regard him as neutral.
Now, about Lisen. You've never met a more chaotic man. For someone who claims to want life, his recklessness is self-destructive (and his actions self-serving). He cares in his own way, having given you advice about the night shift, but you'd not leap at calling him an ally. But he's not an quite an enemy…
You'd forgotten to ask about his headband before; the similarity to Moram's cannot be coincidence. You'll ask next time you see him.
Then… the captain. Arond is courteous at least, but the shadow of the unknown keeps you from casting your lot with his crew. He possesses depths that conceal a wildness that urges caution, and with his parentage, Arond may very well be a dragon in human form. Scion, Rakky said.
A thrill steals your breath. Scions! To think formshifters exist other than the Firstborn! If Rakky is a scion, and Arond too, then you've met living legends!
"Stare at the stars too long, fool boy, and you'll burn out your eyes."
Your mentor's remembered saying dampens your mood abruptly. If Rakky's right, Moram was himself a shifter. Firstborn. If. If. Why wouldn't he tell you something that big? Why did he always hide his past?
The Firstborn are guardians of the natural order, so what happens when one dies, anyway? (howcouldhedie) Wouldn't the world break? You resolve to ask Rakky as soon as she gives the "all clear."
Although, if your mentor could shift, that means you've met a formshifter from each domain! You resist the urge to jump around with a mad grin on your face. What you wouldn't give to observe a transformation! Maybe you could ask Rakky—
The grip on your wrist tightens, and you return your attention to Crow.
"You. got lost," he mutters. "Focus."
"Thanks," you reply, and he passes you another sketch. Hm, royalback tuna. You tried it once, years ago, on Jard's birthday. It's a rare delicacy on the island (royalback-water-twilit-Aria—west, a day out).
The short-worded Crow is still a mystery. Of the people you've met on the High Revenge, his motives are as concealed as his covered face. Maybe he's one of the people Lisen talked about, who seeks only freedom? You wonder at the artist's true black hair and its meaning, his connection to Arond. The little watcher is as flighty as the wind. Can you trust him?
"Can you. Find… anyone?" Crow says suddenly.
Your finger twitches, and you put the question away for the moment.
"If I have the information, I think so," you allow.
"Can I… Crow. Can I trust. you?"
He can't read minds, can he?
You reply jokingly, "Can I trust you not to get me in trouble with whatever you're going to say next?"
He shakes his head without a pause.
That's… less than comforting, but at least he's honest. You might as well see what he wants.
"Yeah," you say, curious. "You can trust me."
Crow slips his charcoal behind one ear, reaches into the folds of his cloak, and withdraws a metal tube the length of his forearm. An etching of scales spirals from one end to the other, ending with a wolflike head acting as a cap.
It bears a strong resemblance to a Florialin image of Miragua.
Crow twists the cap off and lets go of your wrist to receive the tube's contents: a single piece of parchment. He handles the rolled piece with a quiet gentleness. But when it is unrolled, you see that an entire corner has been torn away, belying the care in the young artist's movements.
The scene on the page would be a normal family picture but for the shape of the subjects; they are unmistakably dragons—reptilian in form, scaled from snout to tail to the claws on their four feet, with wolflike heads wreathed with feathery manes. No wings, unlike some popular interpretations. Somehow, it makes sense that the embodiments of wind wouldn't need assistance to fly.
…Oh dear. It seems your first instinct was right—the statue of "Miragua" was indeed draconic. The artists on Florialis have been modeling their "seals" on dragons! No wonder you couldn't find her!
You quickly blank your face, feeling that Crow wouldn't react well to you appearing to laugh at a picture he clearly cherishes, and refocus.
In the picture nestle six dragons. Four are black as the new moon, while the remaining two are silvery like the sun glinting off the sea. You examine the picture's torn corner critically and, as you halfway expected, find a ragged edge of black scales.
A warning rushes through your veins, for what could this be but the family of the Black Dragon?
…Focus.
The largest dragon coils in a semicircle around the other five, front claws poised elegantly under the graceful arch of shimmering neck, with eyes as gray as an overcast sky and scales that—under the artist's detailed hand—shine like mirrors, silver with a hint of blue, matched by the silver-blue of the feathery mane and back ridge.
Mirrors! With a start, you remember the marvelous scale hidden in your clothes. Could it be that Nyla had found a dragon scale? If so, whose?
Whose. Who… is a good question. Making assumptions could get you in trouble.
"Who are they?" you mutter to Crow.
In a barely perceptible whisper, he replies, "They are… family. My. Family."
Your eyebrows rise to the limit. "How are you related?"
The artist completely ignores the question and gestures first at the large, gray-eyed dragon that most resembles the so-called statue of Miragua.
"Alacria." Arond's mother?
He holds up one finger and jabs it at the biggest black dragon, who, though smaller than Alacria by a quarter, crouches confidently at her left side.
"Vespian… Espian. Eldest." Two names again. You're beginning to see a pattern.
A second finger. "Arond. Second." Your mind clicks at the gray eyes and serious posture, belied by a single mischievous claw poking into Vespian's side. The artist certainly captured a more lighthearted side of the man—well, dragon. The captain of the High Revenge must be much younger here, you realize.
"Siblings?" you ask.
Crow nods and indicates a circle encompassing all except Alacria.
So Arond is the second child of five. This… really is his family. And Crow's? How is he related?
A third and fourth finger. "Altiria. Tiria. Only sister." He hesitates for a long moment, as if arguing with himself. "...Valicors. Cors. They. Shared an egg."
The two are maybe half the length of Alacria, with whom Altiria shares silvery scales. Altiria's and Valicors' necks are playfully twisted together, their heads are vying for dominance, their colors contrasting like the moon and the night sky. Thumb war with necks? Sounds painfully fun. Wait—
"They're twins?"
A shrug.
How interesting. How large are dragon eggs, if even the towering Arond hatched from one? ...It's hard to imagine him small.
Fifth finger. Crow again hesitates, longer, pointing at the final drakeling, dark as an eclipse, who, draped carelessly over Arond's back, peers from the portrait directly at you. He looks identical to Valicors in both length and form. You would've thought those two to be the twins.
"...Viperiel. Periel. Youngest."
You exhale all at once. So these are the sons of Peril (well, sons and daughter). They're not so intimidating on parchment. In fact, there's an air of innocence about the picture, with Alacria shepherding her brood. You can't read reptilian expressions, but you'd bet she's looking on with pride in her gray eyes.
It makes you wonder if your parents would've looked at you the same. Would they be proud of the person you are now?
"You want me to find all of them?" you ask quietly.
Head shake. Crow points at Alacria, then Vespian.
"Why just them?"
The artist glares back defiantly, then huffs. "They are. missing. Are they… alive? I… Crow. want to… find out."
Your forehead creases. Does Arond know his mother is missing?
Will you help Crow by looking for Alacria and Vespian?
[]Yes. You know how it feels to wonder about your family.
[]No. If Vitarrow isn't an exception, you could add more targets to your back.
Crow's given you some interesting information. Despite the potential risk, it might be useful to know where the children of Peril are. Will you look for any of the others?
[]No
[]Yes
-[]Altiria
-[]Viperiel
-[]Valicors
Whatever you do, Crow returns the image to its container and stows it back in his cloak. He falls into a relaxed silence and doesn't return to grabbing your wrist.
You sit in the stillness, and when the muffled song of the horizon hums at your mind, you quickly riffle back through the stack of sketches and begin to commit them to memory.
Your knowledge of Sundered and Charted Sea predators and prey increases greatly.
After a while, you take a moment to properly appreciate the water tunnel and the skill of the sailors in holding the walls back. The sheer scale of their coordination and effort must be exhausting, yet barely do any falter. They're rushing through a collapse of immense proportions at speed, with death literally hanging above their heads, and not flinching. This course is absurd, defies anything you know to be possible, and probably almost got you killed, but somehow… you're not scared.
You're… not scared. Maybe the danger hasn't sunk in. You peer back over your shoulder. Rakky's fingers are nearly gouging holes into the wheel. Maybe you should be a little frightened?
"Kelpies! In the Maelstrom drown it all!" Rakky shouts suddenly. "We're gettin' t' the other side, but we're not outta the boil! Stand by, and prepare t' fight or sail like the Kraken itself 's on our tails!"
"Kelpies? How does she know?" you ask Crow.
He taps his nose. "Lavender."
You sniff the air experimentally. Sure enough, above the sea salt, you detect a hint of the calming plant.
"So, what's the deal? You didn't mention they were dangerous."
Kelpies-water-morning-Aria-closest? Ah. So they're just ahead. Close, but not close enough to see. No headache. Hm, could sight distance be the key trigger factor?
"They are… always. Always. Hungry," Crow replies ominously. "They will eat. Almost anything… they see. And…"
"And?"
"They can. Wreck ships."
Ahead, the opening in the tunnel approaches, bright against the dark blues.
Will you stay on deck, or will you take shelter in the sickbay?
[]Stay on deck.
[]Return to the sickbay.
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You are Rakky, and you need to decide what to do—fast! The ship will clear the tunnel in bare minutes at this speed. Drown it, with everything going so smoothly, of course something had to go raindrop-shaped!
You've been throwing out sounding ripples since the first whiff of kelpie breath entered your nose. The High Revenge will exit into a shallow region of the corridors—a "glass bowl", they call it, where the edges slope outward instead of inward. It's the ideal place for a jump out, but your echoes also return a picture of an enormous shape in the middle of that expanse. You'd guess it to be a giant fish, the length of the Revenge, but you're an imprecise hammer with sounder techniques—Miragua's best sounders could probably pick up the number of scales and teeth.
The shape is likely prey, fallen to a herd of kelpies. There's never only one of the voracious equine shadows, and all that gives them away to your echoes is a silky twist in currents that should be straight.
Kelpies possess the speed and stamina to chase down dolphins, but they prefer swimming near the surface, where they can leap to surprise aerial prey. They've been known to take chunks out of ships' hulls, and the Sundering Sea is one of the worst places to get wrecked.
Weaknesses… They're peculiar hunters, relying on sight, and will halt the chase if they cannot see their prey. Of course, the intriguing research of hunter-researcher Yale Ainsworth hypothesizes that herds possesses a shared field of vision, which could negate the weakness under the right circumstances. You'll have to take that into account.
Maelstrom! You're taking the chance, kelpies or not. If the ship makes the jump out in one piece, Vitarrow and your cousin Efric will be just over the horizon!
Still, there's no reason to skin a shark barehanded. What are your orders?
[]"Crew, prepare t' fight!" If the kelpies are defeated, you can take your time calculating the jump.
[]"Crew, we can lose those beasties! Full speed and prepare t' jump!" The High Revenge has a good crew; it just might be fast enough to lose the creatures completely.
[]"Flinky, pick some men and defend! Everyone else, prepare t' jump!" Trade some speed for defense.
[]"Full cloud cover, and drift with the current!" If the herd is feeding as you suspect, you won't likely draw the herd's attention, but the jump will be more difficult without speed.
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Note: Due to real life, the voting time limit is changed to be active up to two weeks from posting.
Quote: "Votes made after two weeks from the posting of the active vote will not be counted unless to break a tie."
