Dusk 3.7b - Crashdown: Part 1
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
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Dusk 3.7b - Crashdown: Part 1
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You are Jet.
On the High Revenge, the deck is abuzz in response to Rakky's command.
"Kelpies on the exit! First and second units, get ready t' coordinate cloud cover on my mark!" she shouts. "Third unit, batten down the hatches, then stand by f'r orders! We're driftin' with the current and headin' straight f'r a clean jump. By the Esser-three, y're gettin' outta this with yore tails intact!"
In near perfect sync, a score of crewmembers jumps to tying down every item that could shift with the movement of the waves.
How will cloud cover help? you wonder. Sure, if kelpies are known to sink ships, they're worth hiding from. But they're water creatures—won't the keel be visible from below? And how will letting the wild corridor currents take control help? Aren't speed and maneuverability one's greatest assets if one is trying to avoid a predator in an area with little to no cover?
It's not like you can change anything, so you return to Crow's task: finding Alacria and Vespian. Why does that family only have V or A names? Could that be what Rakky meant by "First Blood namin' tradition"? If it is, then no wonder people think you should be reacting differently to introductions. But… does this really change how you'll treat people you meet? So far, these "scions" don't seem different from normal humans, and neither Arond nor Rakky demand more regard than their authority commands.
...You'll wait and see. Perhaps those last two don't display typical scion mannerisms.
You don't expect much from searching for the rest of the draconic family, knowing so little about in comparison to the information you've learned about Vitarrow, but the thirst for knowledge is irresistible. With a fortifying exhale, you reach for the stars yet again.
Alacria. Of wind. Of… wait. Arond takes after his mother, hates his father. Arond Windor, so Alacria Windor? The guess rings true and clear when you strike it against her name. Phase of day unknown, star… Nire, the second star that appears at dawn? She's of the morning, then, like Vitarrow.
"How are Alacria and Vitarrow related?" you wonder aloud.
"Siblings," Crow replies.
Siblings—so they are the Firstborn of the Morning Sky. Alacria is the wife of the Black Dragon and is Arond's mother. Missing, according to Crow. Arond is chasing Vitarrow—his own uncle—and is in turn being shadowed by the Black Dragon. And Crow is hiding his identity even from Arond, though he considers the man family. "Considers." Arond in turn doesn't seem to know who Crow is. Something doesn't match up. What are you missing?
Anyway, you have your formula. Morning Sky, Alacria-Nire-Aria-location—nothing. Nothing? Wait, no, she's alive, is somewhere, not just empty nothingness likewithMoram but where? You can't tell. Not how far or what direction. She just… exists. You had no trouble finding her brother, so what makes her different?
After a few more failed attempts, you rub your eyes tiredly. It's no use. You can't find Alacria.
You set her formula aside and try again with Vespian: of wind, phase of day unknown. Espian. Windor? No, not Windor. Then, he must have the Black Dragon's surname. Viperilon's name. A sliver of wariness creeps in, but your interest is too high to stop now. He's a son of morning and midnight, on the borderline of the two quadrants. Season unknown. He relates to the crown star of the Black Dragon constellation: a blue sparkle so faint that it can only be seen in the darkest and clearest of moonless nights. Vespian, crown star-blackdragon, Aria-loca—oh. Nothing. Again, nothing.
The Vespian formula won't budge no matter how many times you turn it over. Both he and Alacria remain hidden from your mind, as if the stars themselves can't find them. Could you be wrong about one of their factors? Could your lack of information be hindering you?
To test the first, you recall Nyla's unmistakable formula (noon, summer, Eness-brightstar-Aria-location—waters-near-Florialis) and alter it: noon, summer, Eness-lightstar-Aria-lo—
Spears of fire lance through your eyes. You drop the botched formula with a silent cry. It takes a good minute for the pain to die to an itching throb. It doesn't fade completely.
"Stare at the stars too long, fool boy, and you'll burn out your eyes."
Again, that memory? …Well, your mentor is right. You'll be cautious about messing with formulas in the future. Your information about the dragons must be true, then, but you can't figure what's blocking your sight. You bite your lip, the coppery taste of failure resting on your tongue. Hopefully Crow won't be too disappointed.
Preliminary task complete, you turn to the artist to relay your limited findings. "Alacria is—"
The diminutive watcher's hand flashes into a clenching motion, and your voice suddenly goes silent, though you haven't stopped talking.
!
Your hand goes to your throat. No, you can breathe—only the sound is gone.
"Careful," Crow mutters, unaffected. "Not… not here. Not where. Is she… alive?"
You nod.
"And… him? Wher—"
You nod again, impatiently, burred by your aching eyes. Crow's hand flinches back as if burned.
You hum. To your relief, your voice is back. "Don't… don't do that!" you demand. "Would you like it if someone took your voice?"
The artist doesn't answer, instead staring off into space. Is he shaking?
"Hey." Irritation fades into concern. "Are you alright?"
He nods hesitantly. You wait, and when he makes no further action, you turn your attention to the fast-approaching exit of the water tunnel.
Blue on blue, sky on sea… the tube has narrowed to the point that the wind and water sailors are straining against the press of gallons upon gallons of ocean. Fatigue is written in the slump of their necks. One man, overwhelmed by the weight of the task, slumps to the deck, unconscious. His partner reaches him before you can think of helping. You glance at Rakky. Her freckled face is just as determined, unwavering.
"Cutting it close… full speed sharpish, all a' ye!" she calls.
Alright then. Nothing to worry about?
The tunnel quivers and shudders, and the water at the outside of the bubble is streaming down, casting spray against the windbloods' efforts. Rivulets become rivers. The sailors are visibly struggling against the tunnel. Another man falls to the strain. The exit is close. They'll make it. Rakky believes you'll all make it. Her hands are white on the wheel, and her teeth are bared in an odd half-smile, half-grimace of concentration. Your cheeks hurt, and you find you've been mirroring her expression. You stop immediately.
The pale blue exit expands as the tunnel contracts, blue on blue, merging… merging. Cloudless, swirling. The heavy breath of the wind and the scour of the surf rise and pulse in time with the muted song in the back of your head.
Shhhh… sahhhhhh… fshhhh… ahhhhh…
Whap!
You lash out reflexively, the back of your head still stinging from Crow's slap. He ducks, and your blind swipe barely ruffles his hood. He straightens and crosses his arms.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you accuse.
Crow shrugs, but he's probably smirking under the cloth mask. Lisen is a bad influence on him.
"Did you. Mean it?" he murmurs, serious once more. "Is h— are they… ali—safe?"
"It's what you asked for, right?" you reply, matching his volume. "I don't know about safe, but if there's anything I learned today, it's that I can't find dead people."
He is silent for a long moment. "So you… know?"
Know where they are? "No. Something's blocking their location from my knowledge. But they're alive."
"You… Jet. Are you. Certain?"
"Sure as the stars shine," you affirm.
You're not sure what to make of Crow's wide-eyed expression. Perhaps when he said "missing," he meant "most likely dead"?
"Yeeeaahahaw!" Rakky whoops, breaking the moment. "Drop currents and up cover, now!"
The ship had passed the exit while you were distracted. Both you and Crow are blindsided by a white flash of unfiltered sun on the surface, which throws darkness into eyes adjusted to aqualight (and stinging from your botched experiment). A ragged cheer rises from the crew. They're weary and beaten down, with some fallen to the strain, but they've passed one more danger.
The next is just ahead.
Blinking hard to regain your bearings, you catch a glimpse of the massive basin ahead. It fills your range of vision, causing you to turn your head to see the full stretch of the steeply-sloped sea wall, pouring into rough, spiraling riptides, with the clear sky above, the light of evening shining upon the whitewater below: a cauldron set to boil. The deck bucks and heaves like a fish leaping from the sea to escape a predator below. Only your preparedness allows you to keep your footing. The scent of lavender mingling with the salt breeze grows stronger by the second, becoming as cloying as calming; you see… something ahead, in the center of the foamy seascape, maybe ten shiplengths away: a lump of something huge and pale, surrounded by smaller dark shapes. Kelpies.
Then a cloud whips up from the sea like a forming hurricane with the ship as its eye, and the return of the surf is deafening in your ears and your heart as the sound-dampening air bubble dissipates. You can see no more past the rails.
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You are a brilliant Northern seadog… sometimes. Cover cloud, cloud cover—Maelstrom, this was a bad idea!
Cloud cover (to be accurate, cloud cylinder) was adapted from a devastating storm technique from way back in the First War—thank you, war-scholar Vello Naskyn Graysmith. Slow the rotation, widen the eye of the storm, downsize the cloud to the users, and there you go—instant nonlethal cover! You don't like it. You hate this kind of cold. Northern cold is much more inviting than this fake-as-fishballs kind. Tsk.
The diameter of the huge "glass bowl" arena is around 23 or so times the length of the High Revenge, with the edges near two times its height. The ship is at the southwest edge. You need it at the east. While slanted enough for a jump, the walls are steep, 60 degrees at your eyeball, too difficult to take at this crawl without a large risk of a crashback. Your choice to hide from the known danger rather than dash will cost you.
The wheel tugs contrary to your hands, the wild currents testing your strength, the strength of one of the brightest Northseas. That short glimpse of the feeding frenzy before the cloud rose made your instincts crawl like mudfish. There's more of the omnivorous stealth-horses than you'd guessed. A potentially deadly miscalculation.
"Crow, get Eis here, now!" you order. "All able a' the day shift should be on deck—we're gonna make the jump outta here, quickfast sharpish, sure as a silver run!"
The blackbird flashes off almost before you've finished speaking, and almost before a tencount, Eis is hurrying to your side.
"Rakela," the disgraced First Mate greets curtly. The mischief-maker of a Torchhead must've been giving him a whale of a fun day.
"Take the helm awhile, cuzzy," you order. "This waterdog needs t' play sounder and watcher and make it happen yesterday!" Can't leave this to newbies, even if Jet shows some promise with his star-searching-scrying-hunting ability. Besides, by the frequency pattern of those headaches, he can't locate anything close by. Search and sight are usually related. Maybe his ability only works on creatures outside his range of vision? Oh, why didn't you pick up current research on essence-related skills?
Entrusting the wheel to your cousin without further word, you dash for the mast and bound up the rigging till you clear the top of the cloud cylinder. In the high air, the wild winds whip at your freckles, stinging like frostnettles. You haul yourself up into the 'nest, grab the spyglass rolling on the floor ("'Scuse me," you tell the green-gilled sailor groaning on his back), bring it to your eye, and pause, seeing your task all too clearly.
"Blood a' earth!"
It's not the kelpie migration or mating season, thank the Esser, or the High Revenge would be reenacting the comic tragedy of the infamous Captain Horen "Horsefeed" Mimore. But the sight ahead to portside is enough to cool a fireblood's heart.
The whiskered carcass of a colossal ivory-plated catfish, only a smidge shorter in length than the High Revenge, lies in the dead calm center of the arena. Four faded-emerald mares and a colt bearing the silvery underside of youth tear at their prey with jaws built to crush bone and rip muscles. Two young males sport nearby, splashing in the surf, whalelike tails flicking and slapping against hides and flanks, teeth nipping in play. There's one big stallion—the herd leader—on watch, ears pricked and nose pointed into the wind, his smooth, near-onyx skin gleaming with the green iridescence of age. Your head would reach his shoulder, maybe.
There's more underwater waiting their turn, you note, catching the flickers of dark shadows. You know better than to underestimate iceberg-type predators; the number you can't see may be twice or more than those you can. A kelpie you don't know is there is one that'll eat the deck from under you. And they're nigh indestructible at liquid temperature. At least coldsteel is an option, you think, a hand grazing over a hidden pocket.
Flames to boil their flesh like water,
Ice to freeze their chilling gaze,
Coldsteel blade to end their slaughter,
Firestone to end their days.
But what truly catches your eye is the cause of the platefish's death—kelpies are notorious hunters, but the killing blow had not been dealt by their jaws. No… A single slice bisects the formidable armor from gills to tail, neatly revealing the length of its vertebral column. The kelpies show no quarter in savaging the wound. No doubt this is part of Efric's plan, an "Eelfric escape special", and he'd gotten his captain to assist him.
You bite your lip. "This'n's a smidge dangerous f'r a distraction, dear cuzzy Effy."
That deep, surgeonlike cut through that armor, hard enough to deter a snagglefang's piercing teeth, could only come from the edge of a blade of First War make, Vengefall Graysmith's craftsmanship, or you're no war-scholar. A peerless windstone sword in the hands of a blademaster: Vitarrow's hands. But when the Morning Sky was thrown into the Labyrinth Deep, he'd been wielding Thelassa, crafted by Eithanael's hand. Thelassa, a Gentle Blade—and that was in the fight against old Peril. If he has unsheathed Mylstrydr after all these years…
Your blood runs as cold as the Winter. Not since the First Age has the first son of Wind had cause to bear his personal weapon. Not since the days where the skies burned and the seas were Sundered and the blood of Earth flowed free. What happened to Vitarrow in the Labyrinth Deep? What did the steadfast Pathfinder see in the place where Earth is said to lie in slumber? And why—
"Why were ye on the Uncharted side a' the Sunderin', Vitarrow?" you mutter. "If'n ye wanted t' continue the fight, ye would'na do anythin' else but t' regroup with Remoriam and m'lady Miragua… 'specially if'n Remoriam's really gone and died and returned t' the Inferno, an' I do feel it 'n my tailflippers. What're ye really after, and what foolish soul 'd dare t' get in yore way?"
No wonder the risk of this mission was so high.
He has no need to run.
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You, Jet, peer up at the circle of blue at the top of the cloud formation, where the shadows of three gulls hover, buoyed by the winds. With Crow out of sight, having disappeared into Arond's cabin to report, you're hearing the ocean's song again. It's been quieter, or… less concentrated, since you exited the corridor; the strains are less closely wound and less compelling, yet its rhythm still beats alongside your heart, swells with every breath like a third lung.
Shhhh… sahhhh…
You need to focus on something else. Your star-searching helped before, didn't it? And you did want to look for Altiria and Viperiel.
"Fool boy. Don't do this."
Should you really do this? It backfired on you before.
…You'll be far more cautious when looking for the dragon siblings. Catching the interest of yet another dragon isn't what you want. Arond had been intense enough before adding Vitarrow to the list. With a momentary apology to Crow, you place a cool, seawater-dampened hand over your sore eyes and begin your hunt for Altiria and Viperiel.
Altiria. Tiria. Of wind, season unknown, image known, daughter of morning and midnight. Her star is the first claw of the Black Dragon. Altiria-firstclaw-blackdragon-Aria-location.
You hiss a breath and whirl around, almost expecting to see her on the horizon behind the ship. But you're blind behind the cloud cover, and you're suddenly aching to know more. Rakky, where's Rakky? Right—up in the crow's nest. She'll need to know what you've found! But before you tell her, you need to know if Viperiel is also nearby! The curiosity is eating at you!
Name. Viperiel. Periel. Of wind, morning and midnight. Is he Windor? Yes. No. What? But wait, his star? The thought flickers in uncertainty. The second claw of the Black Dragon. No, the eye. It's definitely the eye—no, but it has to be the claw. Right? The contradiction twists your mind around. You cover your aching eyes and sigh, leaning into the soothing cool your sea-soaked skin provides.
You decide to try each star separately, though as the moment lingers, your interest slowly wanes to boredom! But wait, you've never heard of anyone that could be one of two stars. How could you be bored? This is fascinating. Are the young dragons ally or enemy to the High Revenge? It'd be interesting to find out. If enemy, you can take them down easily! It doesn't matter who they are! Arond's siblings or not, children of the Black Dragon or not, you take pride in your strength—your fists and knife are more than enough to take them down with you!
…What did you just think? You can't fight a dragon—you'd barely had a showing against Lisen. Besides, analyzing stuff is more your thing.
The claw (the eye), you try first, fixing the black drakeling's image in your mind. Viperiel-secondclaw-blackdragon-Aria… nothing. There's nothing. Wait, there's—no, still nothing. No, there's—something? But he is—he is but isn't at all. He exists—doesn't exist—is alivenotalive. What? A spike pushes through your temples, and you immediately drop the search, though reluctantly. You'll come back to it later, maybe.
Then you try the eye (the claw). Viperiel-eyestar-blackdragon-Aria-nothing-something no location alive-notalive-is-not-is-Viperiel.
Black.
You blink back to consciousness, flat on your back with the planks soaking into your borrowed clothes, with two hot coals in your eye sockets boring holes into your skull. All you can feel is contempt! You're a waste of time! Why did you ever think searching for the siblings was a good idea?
A charcoal-smudged hand blocks your vision of the sky. You move to slap it aside, but it grabs your wrist, and Crow levers you up—he's stronger than his slight frame suggests. You open your mouth to thank him and then your mind burns!
Suddenly, you're standing over his downed body, one fist extended. You do not allow him time to rise, dropping to pin him with your weight the way Jard once showed you, and your hand fixes at the coward's throat, searing rage locking your fingers over the lifegiving veins. The winds spring up and fall as quickly as Crow struggles under your greater mass. Sparks of anger and fear shine in gray eyes.
"Y-you!" he chokes.
"Yes," you growl. "You're going to pay tenfold for—!"
For…?
Your grip slackens. What did Crow actually do to you?
Something wrenches you back by the collar, ripping you away from your enemy! The ever-running coward immediately flees toward the main mast, as he did when you first met! The hand at your collar spins you to face—
"Eis!" you snarl, struggling against the man's hold.
The odd healer smiles thinly. "Yes." With his foot trapping the wheel in place, he grasps your head in both hands. "Those are not your eyes, stowaway. Let me see."
You struggle harder. "I'm fine! Let go of—!" Logic halts your tongue, overcoming emotion. Why did you attack Crow? You could've killed him! There's something very wrong with you. Eis knows or seems to know what is. You don't need help, but you do.
"Do it," you say quickly.
"Your permission is noted but unneeded." With that, the cool of water seeps into your head, and something—something changes, confusion fading into sureness. Eis' expression is piercing as one of his knives. "Gray, now brown. Manipulator, but which one?" he mutters. "Tell me, stowaway; how long have you been experiencing uncharacteristic mood swings or unprovoked flashes of emotion tending towards violence?"
Violence? Rage. You've never felt an emotion that hot. Like acid in your brain. Hot, not cold. Not cold like the anger you've felt from yourself. Unfamiliar. Not yours. Not— "Now. Just now. What's happening? What's wrong with—?"
"There's nothing wrong with you or your eyes," Eis says firmly. "Now, I know boys your age are emotionally inept and largely self-centered, but you must have noticed the beginnings of such obvious changes. Tell me how long it has been."
You brush off a spike of irritation. How does he expect you to… wait. "About five minutes." Five minutes. Five minutes of the odd feeling of being off balance in your own head. Five minutes ago, when you were searching for Altiria and Viperiel.
"No experienced manipulator would show their hand like this for anything. Gray eyes, young and hotheaded. It could not be either of Pyresong's. An unrecorded Tugodeep? A hybrid line? Wait—the twins. Altiria. Could it be one of them? But why would Viperilon reveal one of their abilities now, after all this time? Or is it…" The First Mate clenches a fist. "Maelstrom! The flight risk will never let me forget it if someone on the outside is the spy. But Bloodwind is already shadowing us. What does Peril gain from this? What does he—no. It wasn't his style then either. At Jeketstrait." Eis pronounced the word with such hatred that your innards roll with unease.
"Wait, the twins? Altiria?" You hadn't mentioned anything to Eis, but he came to that conclusion somehow! Was that… were the conflicting decisions you experienced from Viperiel or Altiria? Your heart nearly stops. "Was… was one of them in my head?!"
Suddenly, one of the wind sailors stiffens, turns on her fellow, and tackles him to the deck with a shriek of rage. A third turns to pull her off but is in turn bowled over by a gust from behind as a second windblood attacks, a snarl contorting his lips.
A man further for'ard draws a knife and stabs the water sailor in front him. The latter falls, but before he does, a shallow wave answers his call, sending his assailant tumbling over the soaked floor. Blood mingles with the receding seafoam, quivering on the planks around the injured man's body.
"Soro!" A female sailor runs over. The drenched attacker rises, dazed, and is immediately decked by the woman's fist. "So much for peace, traitor!" she shouts.
Heads turn.
"Traitor?"
"Traitor?"
"Knew we couldn't trust him!" snarls an older man at the woman's side. "Never trust a Bledform!"
"It's Graysmith! An' it's better a Bledform than an Endinfall or a Swifthand like you!"
"Graysmith or Bledform, you're Vengefall's spawn! Servant of the Black Worm!"
A short and stocky man, bald and brown-bearded, plants himself firmly between the shouting crewmembers. "Back in position, all of you, or we die here! Jella, get your unit back in order! D'you forget the ship-eating kelpies just 'yond the cloud cover?"
"Go to the Tempest, Flincolian, you Perilous dog!" spits the woman, Jella, raising an arm high. The ship creaks and leans a degree to starboard as she calls forth a high but narrow wave to crash down upon the unfortunate Flincolian. But before it can fall, the concentrated attack halts, quivering, and splashes harmlessly over a hastily-formed guard.
Beside you, with one hand outstretched and the other back on the wheel, Eis' face could've been carved from a glacier. "Enough!" he snaps. "We cannot be fighting in these seas! Return to your posts!"
As if the First Mate's interference was a signal, an opportunistic wind sailor hurls a concentrated wind at knee-level, felling water and windbloods alike. The waterbloods tense to respond, and a second wave builds from behind the wind sailors at starboard, building, rising to visibility over the rail—and collapses back into the sea.
"Control problems?" Eis smiles. "Let me take care of that for you."
You had expected a return attack, but the water sailors only stare back, aghast. Some of the younger waters make empty motions in the air. Nothing moves in response. Not a single drop of water.
"You—you cannot do that!" shouts the older water sailor. "I've been honing my waves for decades. How—you cannot do that!"
"You forget," the First Mate of the High Revenge replies, "I'm Winter born! And by the Sheer Winter, my head was marked from birth. I did not run from the sunless day. Not when all the world was still. Not when time itself was void. Not when the Rising Three were felled. When strength meant nothing, I survived! What were you doing then, Swifthand?"
The legendary Rising Three, defeated? The Firstborn alliance that stood against and defeated the Black Dragon in tales, felled? How?
Jella rallies. "He's Waterstone. Of course he's one of them! Honorless traitors! Traitors to their bloodline, traitors to their Firstfather, to Eithanael! They killed the Twilit Sea!"
You sense more than see the gray man tense at the accusation.
"Eis—"
And then a heavy wind blasts into the clustered water sailors from behind as an enraged windblood makes his presence known, breaking the poisonous atmosphere. You let out a breath.
Eis suddenly hunches over the wheel, his knuckles whitening with the strength of his grip. "It's… about to get dangerous, stowaway."
"What did you do?" you whisper harshly.
"A powerful enough son of water can sink a ship by himself, if unopposed. What do you think a half-shift of berserk waters could do?" He exhales. "What do you think the wind half would do in response?"
It's not a straight answer, but what were you expecting? But as you glance around the irate crewmembers, you understand. It's not that the waterbloods aren't drowning the deck… they can't. Eis has control. And the winds take full advantage of the gap. Soon the whole main deck is in the throes of chaos as the windbloods attack, frigid winds sheering across the deck, showering the planks with foam and frostflakes. The waterbloods, their waves held back by Eis, can only take cover or be blown overboard or smashed to the ground. Sheltered behind the First Mate, you take it all in with horror pushed to the forefront. This is—this is what happened to you! This is why you attacked Crow!
You started this by calling the attention of a dragon of unknown allegiance. It's... all your fault.
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"What 'n the blazin' heart a' th' Inferno!"
You are a displeased youngish storykeeper of a seadog. When the first yell reached your ears and you sensed Eis' waves crashing into and overwhelming Jella's, and then his seizing of all the waves within his radius, you were down the main mast like a greased eel. This was hardly what you expected to find. Winds throwing winter breezes like fishfood, waters alternately hiding or charging their crewmates, fists or knives or makeshift weapons in hand—
"What d' ye think y're doin', ye sons a' seagulls 'n seaweed? Get back t' yore positions!" you roar.
Only a few crewmembers on the outskirts have been spared; even if they hadn't been distracted, they're not enough to keep the cloud cover steady. Your first defense against the deadly water horses is wavering, no longer sustained by the coordination of wind and water sailors. Your mind flits from one possibility to another. Mutiny? Sure, Arond's crew had… issues between family lines, but they were hardly enough to bring to breaking point! A suicidal survivor of the Winter? You hope not. Is Blackie's agent (whoever it might be) acting now? Could be, but why now? Far as you can tell, Arond remains loyal to his father, and old Blackie doesn't tend to axe his loyal followers. Outside of that, although Val is a veteran of the Sheer Winter, he has surprisingly few enemies. Outside influence? Influence? Could it be—
The deckwater vibrates as someone approaches you from behind. Relatively heavy, male. Your senses sharpen as you draw your focus close, focus on the movement of the water soaking his clothes and skin—
Now.
You half-step to the left and grab the wind-boosted arm that whooshes above your shoulder, pull the man bodily forward, and heave him over your back with a yell. "Haaah!" He crashes back-first to the planks before you, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, and blinks up as if seeing you for the first time.
You bend over and grab the tall water sailor by the shirt. "You. Wazyorename, Trivvy?"
"R-Rakela! I—"
"That's m' name, don't stutter it! Trivvy, then. What could possibly give ye the gall t' attack me?"
"For the last time, it's Triven!" he snaps, angry gray irises flashing. He recoils. "No, no! Rakela, I didn't mean—you never use my proper name, you filthy old librarian! You—!"
Oh, that's quite enough of that.
Smack!
"Run that by this filthy ole librarian again, Vinstrom?" Your open palm curls into a fist in front of his face. Yes, that was the name. Triven Vinstrom. They're usually a nice, neutral, classy bunch, Vinstroms. Where did this one go wrong?
He cringes back, shaking his head like an anchovy in a whirlpool, blue eyes wide. "Ok! I'm ok now, I swear it!"
"Say it."
"War-scholars aren't librarians! They're battlefield storykeepers, not Tempest-be-cursed librarians! By the Esser, you slap like my grandmother!"
"This Northsea is one a' the best storykeepers a' all time, and don't ye forget it!" You yank Triven to his feet by his collar and smack him solidly on the back, making him wheeze. "This'n can do more'n that love-tap if'n ye get Influenced again. Get yore unit back in line! This's a manipulator attack!" Louder, you call, "Manipulator attack! Ye sons of seaweed, think 'fore ye skelp yore allies! Manipulator attaaaack!"
The question is whose attack, you think as you hurry back towards Eis, a harsh battle-breeze battering your shoulders (but you've experienced worse in the Winter—this doesn't stagger you. Much.). Who could be a manipulator strong enough to affect the crew and be foolish enough to make the effects obvious? The advantages of most manipulators, after all, lie in being undetected.
But it might not matter if their Influence is this strong.
Dodging and sliding around battle-glazed crewmembers, you reach where Eis clutches at the wheel with Jet close behind, the poor boyo appearing shell-shocked by the chaos of conflict. Your little cousin is holding down the water all across the waterline, keeping any Influenced waterbloods from washing the ship to the abyss. To the observer, he is steady, but under the surface, there's a tiny but telling shiver in his waves. He can't hold everyone's waves back, keep the wild currents from taking the ship off course, and defend the crew from itself. Good thing he has you. Surveying the situation, you engulf the waves at the farther half of Eis' radius and bring them under your control. He relaxes almost immediately and greets you with a nod of thanks as you draw level.
"Manipulator," he answers without question. "Standard manipulator weaknesses most likely apply. Healing clause is in effect. Water works as a cleanser, but fire would be… more effective." He hisses a breath. "This is… this is just like—like Jeketstrait! The records had to have been wrong about the attacker then. It was not Peril, but one of his children!"
Jeketstrait. The unexpected mention sends alarm through your fingertips. Even with the passage of time, you cannot help but shake with remembered fury.
"I'll confirm the head-knock clause works, f'r a bit." You pause. "But 's a serious leap, from manipulator t' Jeketstrait t' the children of Peril."
"Gray eyes are characteristic of Viperilon and Alacria's scions, are they not? Jeketstrait was attributed to Peril, yet your scholars agree it was not among his known abilities. It fits."
You know better than to touch the hatred in those two words. Jeketstrait. You'd been on the crew that received their distress call. Too late. Near enough to retrieve cuzzy Erran's echo-shelled words, but not near enough to keep them from being his last. You're not putting much stock into the connection yet, but if Eis is right… if he's right—!
"'Twas the last fortress a' resistance in Waterstone territory," you elaborate for Jet's benefit, a growl building in your chest. "A secret location, or so we thought. They were Northsea fighters, mostly, and refugees: some a' the last free Waterstones. They all went mad. Turned on their own people… slain t' a man and near sank the Halved Islands. The Bloodwind 's on record as bein' in those waters. Now, the manner a' strikin' wasn't in ole Blackie's known skillset, but who else could it a' been? 'S so few known manipulators alive 'at this'n could name 'em all and still have claws t' hold a tankard, and fewer are that strong—thank the Esser f'r small favors! Mind ye, Eis-boyo, Jeketstrait was almost 20 years ago. Peril's three little mysteries woulda been barely old enough t' walk!"
"Improbable, but it is possible," Eis insists. "What other manipulator would have gray eyes?"
"Vespian did 'fore he was killed," you say solemnly. "And this could be a hybrid bloodline, ye know. But y're right—we never did find out if'n his siblings had similar abilities." Your mind shifts to a certain gray-eyed artist, who is noticeably absent. The little blackbird had sworn to Val the strongest oath of loyalty any living being could make. Kid couldn't be the manipulator, could he? Could Eis be right about him being Peril's spy? "But this'n cannot see Peril havin' 'em do this. To Jeketstrait, sure, but to Val? Here? Now? Don't get too fixated on yore one hypothesis, kiddo."
You scan the deck warily with your waves on hair-trigger. The waters, their waves neutralized by you and Eis, have largely taken shelter from the free-for-all. Only Triven's unit of windbloods has a semblance of order, but it won't last if this manipulator is as strong as they seem. What anchors this manipulator's Influence? Is it anger? Desire? Prior offense? By what means and from where are they working? Not by voice, you think, and it's not well-directed... but it is targeted. At whom?
You breathe out. "Maelstrom, this would be another manipulator we do not know how t' full-counter!"
"Which is why their abilities have been kept hidden," Eis notes. "He or she could be days away on the Bloodwind or right under our noses."
Though you're not sold on the "children of Peril" hypothesis, it looks more attractive whenever you eye it. Certainly less daunting than tracking an individual with a hybrid bloodline ability. But the closest route is not always the right one. Still, if Eis is right, it would change a significant record on Viperilon's abilities and a major post-Winter event. But the motivation is what makes the idea suspect. Why would Blackie send Arond on a high-risk mission and then follow him to take him out? Does he think Arond turned traitor?
The ship rocks and dips as a wiseguy windblood tries to smash the for'ard deck underwater with a yell of, "Maelstrom drown you all! I didn't even want to be a sailor!"
"Will-driven, emotion-blinded idiots! Can they not control their impulses?" Eis' deft hand on the wheel and your quick stabilizing upswell are all that keep the ship on course. Some crewmembers jump on the windy fool to take him down. Good on them. But the High Revenge has all but stopped completely, with only you and Eis keeping her from wandering.
"Mira's whiskers!" you shout. "We won't be sailin' anywhere but into the mouths a' voracious stealth-horses if'n we don't counter the manipulator! Much as it'd make a great story, this waterdog does'na really fancy tryn'a get us up that wall alone, 'specially if'n I have t' watch my back doin' it!"
Eis' grip tightens. "Whatever you decide to do, Rakela, do it fast!"
This trip is going to the kelpies. Hopefully not literally. With kelpies to the port side, and a manipulator somewhere around Influencing the crew to self-destruct, you need to defend on two fronts, and you need to do it without the crew becoming too exhausted to make the jump. You and Eis have the waterbloods on lockdown to keep them from sinking the ship outright, but the windbloods have almost free reign. You'd like to have both to make a safe jump.
How shall you position your people?
1. Crew priority—what will the crew focus on when not under the Influence? Pick two:
[]Manipulator defense
[]Kelpie defense
[]The jump (getting to the eastern sea wall and out)
2. Manipulator defense:
[]Do what works. Smack heads whenever someone acts out. Harder if they repeat.
[]Think smart. Get the information needed to keep the manipulator from reusing their ability.
3. Kelpie defense:
[]Stealth. Try to repair the cloud cover before it falls completely.
[]Forget stealth. Just keep those ravenous omnivores away from the ship.
[]Attack them before they can attack you.
4. You (Rakky): To what will you lend your strength?
[]Kelpie defense: You are both a capable waterblood and an authorized carrier of coldsteel.
[]Manipulator defense: Your training as a war-scholar makes you one of the least Influenceable individuals aboard.
[]The jump: Gonna be waaay difficult to do without the crew on your side, but it's not impossible.
-
5. You, Jet, think you drew the attention of Altiria or Viperiel. Will you tell Rakky and Eis what you did?
[]Yes. It could help them narrow down who the manipulator is.
[]No. You'll probably get in even worse trouble.
-
You know that feeling that you're forgetting something? o.o
No promises on the timing of the next one, but have fun everyone, and thanks for waiting!
Dusk 3.7b - Crashdown: Part 1
-
You are Jet.
On the High Revenge, the deck is abuzz in response to Rakky's command.
"Kelpies on the exit! First and second units, get ready t' coordinate cloud cover on my mark!" she shouts. "Third unit, batten down the hatches, then stand by f'r orders! We're driftin' with the current and headin' straight f'r a clean jump. By the Esser-three, y're gettin' outta this with yore tails intact!"
In near perfect sync, a score of crewmembers jumps to tying down every item that could shift with the movement of the waves.
How will cloud cover help? you wonder. Sure, if kelpies are known to sink ships, they're worth hiding from. But they're water creatures—won't the keel be visible from below? And how will letting the wild corridor currents take control help? Aren't speed and maneuverability one's greatest assets if one is trying to avoid a predator in an area with little to no cover?
It's not like you can change anything, so you return to Crow's task: finding Alacria and Vespian. Why does that family only have V or A names? Could that be what Rakky meant by "First Blood namin' tradition"? If it is, then no wonder people think you should be reacting differently to introductions. But… does this really change how you'll treat people you meet? So far, these "scions" don't seem different from normal humans, and neither Arond nor Rakky demand more regard than their authority commands.
...You'll wait and see. Perhaps those last two don't display typical scion mannerisms.
You don't expect much from searching for the rest of the draconic family, knowing so little about in comparison to the information you've learned about Vitarrow, but the thirst for knowledge is irresistible. With a fortifying exhale, you reach for the stars yet again.
Alacria. Of wind. Of… wait. Arond takes after his mother, hates his father. Arond Windor, so Alacria Windor? The guess rings true and clear when you strike it against her name. Phase of day unknown, star… Nire, the second star that appears at dawn? She's of the morning, then, like Vitarrow.
"How are Alacria and Vitarrow related?" you wonder aloud.
"Siblings," Crow replies.
Siblings—so they are the Firstborn of the Morning Sky. Alacria is the wife of the Black Dragon and is Arond's mother. Missing, according to Crow. Arond is chasing Vitarrow—his own uncle—and is in turn being shadowed by the Black Dragon. And Crow is hiding his identity even from Arond, though he considers the man family. "Considers." Arond in turn doesn't seem to know who Crow is. Something doesn't match up. What are you missing?
Anyway, you have your formula. Morning Sky, Alacria-Nire-Aria-location—nothing. Nothing? Wait, no, she's alive, is somewhere, not just empty nothingness likewithMoram but where? You can't tell. Not how far or what direction. She just… exists. You had no trouble finding her brother, so what makes her different?
After a few more failed attempts, you rub your eyes tiredly. It's no use. You can't find Alacria.
You set her formula aside and try again with Vespian: of wind, phase of day unknown. Espian. Windor? No, not Windor. Then, he must have the Black Dragon's surname. Viperilon's name. A sliver of wariness creeps in, but your interest is too high to stop now. He's a son of morning and midnight, on the borderline of the two quadrants. Season unknown. He relates to the crown star of the Black Dragon constellation: a blue sparkle so faint that it can only be seen in the darkest and clearest of moonless nights. Vespian, crown star-blackdragon, Aria-loca—oh. Nothing. Again, nothing.
The Vespian formula won't budge no matter how many times you turn it over. Both he and Alacria remain hidden from your mind, as if the stars themselves can't find them. Could you be wrong about one of their factors? Could your lack of information be hindering you?
To test the first, you recall Nyla's unmistakable formula (noon, summer, Eness-brightstar-Aria-location—waters-near-Florialis) and alter it: noon, summer, Eness-lightstar-Aria-lo—
Spears of fire lance through your eyes. You drop the botched formula with a silent cry. It takes a good minute for the pain to die to an itching throb. It doesn't fade completely.
"Stare at the stars too long, fool boy, and you'll burn out your eyes."
Again, that memory? …Well, your mentor is right. You'll be cautious about messing with formulas in the future. Your information about the dragons must be true, then, but you can't figure what's blocking your sight. You bite your lip, the coppery taste of failure resting on your tongue. Hopefully Crow won't be too disappointed.
Preliminary task complete, you turn to the artist to relay your limited findings. "Alacria is—"
The diminutive watcher's hand flashes into a clenching motion, and your voice suddenly goes silent, though you haven't stopped talking.
!
Your hand goes to your throat. No, you can breathe—only the sound is gone.
"Careful," Crow mutters, unaffected. "Not… not here. Not where. Is she… alive?"
You nod.
"And… him? Wher—"
You nod again, impatiently, burred by your aching eyes. Crow's hand flinches back as if burned.
You hum. To your relief, your voice is back. "Don't… don't do that!" you demand. "Would you like it if someone took your voice?"
The artist doesn't answer, instead staring off into space. Is he shaking?
"Hey." Irritation fades into concern. "Are you alright?"
He nods hesitantly. You wait, and when he makes no further action, you turn your attention to the fast-approaching exit of the water tunnel.
Blue on blue, sky on sea… the tube has narrowed to the point that the wind and water sailors are straining against the press of gallons upon gallons of ocean. Fatigue is written in the slump of their necks. One man, overwhelmed by the weight of the task, slumps to the deck, unconscious. His partner reaches him before you can think of helping. You glance at Rakky. Her freckled face is just as determined, unwavering.
"Cutting it close… full speed sharpish, all a' ye!" she calls.
Alright then. Nothing to worry about?
The tunnel quivers and shudders, and the water at the outside of the bubble is streaming down, casting spray against the windbloods' efforts. Rivulets become rivers. The sailors are visibly struggling against the tunnel. Another man falls to the strain. The exit is close. They'll make it. Rakky believes you'll all make it. Her hands are white on the wheel, and her teeth are bared in an odd half-smile, half-grimace of concentration. Your cheeks hurt, and you find you've been mirroring her expression. You stop immediately.
The pale blue exit expands as the tunnel contracts, blue on blue, merging… merging. Cloudless, swirling. The heavy breath of the wind and the scour of the surf rise and pulse in time with the muted song in the back of your head.
Shhhh… sahhhhhh… fshhhh… ahhhhh…
Whap!
You lash out reflexively, the back of your head still stinging from Crow's slap. He ducks, and your blind swipe barely ruffles his hood. He straightens and crosses his arms.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you accuse.
Crow shrugs, but he's probably smirking under the cloth mask. Lisen is a bad influence on him.
"Did you. Mean it?" he murmurs, serious once more. "Is h— are they… ali—safe?"
"It's what you asked for, right?" you reply, matching his volume. "I don't know about safe, but if there's anything I learned today, it's that I can't find dead people."
He is silent for a long moment. "So you… know?"
Know where they are? "No. Something's blocking their location from my knowledge. But they're alive."
"You… Jet. Are you. Certain?"
"Sure as the stars shine," you affirm.
You're not sure what to make of Crow's wide-eyed expression. Perhaps when he said "missing," he meant "most likely dead"?
"Yeeeaahahaw!" Rakky whoops, breaking the moment. "Drop currents and up cover, now!"
The ship had passed the exit while you were distracted. Both you and Crow are blindsided by a white flash of unfiltered sun on the surface, which throws darkness into eyes adjusted to aqualight (and stinging from your botched experiment). A ragged cheer rises from the crew. They're weary and beaten down, with some fallen to the strain, but they've passed one more danger.
The next is just ahead.
Blinking hard to regain your bearings, you catch a glimpse of the massive basin ahead. It fills your range of vision, causing you to turn your head to see the full stretch of the steeply-sloped sea wall, pouring into rough, spiraling riptides, with the clear sky above, the light of evening shining upon the whitewater below: a cauldron set to boil. The deck bucks and heaves like a fish leaping from the sea to escape a predator below. Only your preparedness allows you to keep your footing. The scent of lavender mingling with the salt breeze grows stronger by the second, becoming as cloying as calming; you see… something ahead, in the center of the foamy seascape, maybe ten shiplengths away: a lump of something huge and pale, surrounded by smaller dark shapes. Kelpies.
Then a cloud whips up from the sea like a forming hurricane with the ship as its eye, and the return of the surf is deafening in your ears and your heart as the sound-dampening air bubble dissipates. You can see no more past the rails.
-
-
You are a brilliant Northern seadog… sometimes. Cover cloud, cloud cover—Maelstrom, this was a bad idea!
Cloud cover (to be accurate, cloud cylinder) was adapted from a devastating storm technique from way back in the First War—thank you, war-scholar Vello Naskyn Graysmith. Slow the rotation, widen the eye of the storm, downsize the cloud to the users, and there you go—instant nonlethal cover! You don't like it. You hate this kind of cold. Northern cold is much more inviting than this fake-as-fishballs kind. Tsk.
The diameter of the huge "glass bowl" arena is around 23 or so times the length of the High Revenge, with the edges near two times its height. The ship is at the southwest edge. You need it at the east. While slanted enough for a jump, the walls are steep, 60 degrees at your eyeball, too difficult to take at this crawl without a large risk of a crashback. Your choice to hide from the known danger rather than dash will cost you.
The wheel tugs contrary to your hands, the wild currents testing your strength, the strength of one of the brightest Northseas. That short glimpse of the feeding frenzy before the cloud rose made your instincts crawl like mudfish. There's more of the omnivorous stealth-horses than you'd guessed. A potentially deadly miscalculation.
"Crow, get Eis here, now!" you order. "All able a' the day shift should be on deck—we're gonna make the jump outta here, quickfast sharpish, sure as a silver run!"
The blackbird flashes off almost before you've finished speaking, and almost before a tencount, Eis is hurrying to your side.
"Rakela," the disgraced First Mate greets curtly. The mischief-maker of a Torchhead must've been giving him a whale of a fun day.
"Take the helm awhile, cuzzy," you order. "This waterdog needs t' play sounder and watcher and make it happen yesterday!" Can't leave this to newbies, even if Jet shows some promise with his star-searching-scrying-hunting ability. Besides, by the frequency pattern of those headaches, he can't locate anything close by. Search and sight are usually related. Maybe his ability only works on creatures outside his range of vision? Oh, why didn't you pick up current research on essence-related skills?
Entrusting the wheel to your cousin without further word, you dash for the mast and bound up the rigging till you clear the top of the cloud cylinder. In the high air, the wild winds whip at your freckles, stinging like frostnettles. You haul yourself up into the 'nest, grab the spyglass rolling on the floor ("'Scuse me," you tell the green-gilled sailor groaning on his back), bring it to your eye, and pause, seeing your task all too clearly.
"Blood a' earth!"
It's not the kelpie migration or mating season, thank the Esser, or the High Revenge would be reenacting the comic tragedy of the infamous Captain Horen "Horsefeed" Mimore. But the sight ahead to portside is enough to cool a fireblood's heart.
The whiskered carcass of a colossal ivory-plated catfish, only a smidge shorter in length than the High Revenge, lies in the dead calm center of the arena. Four faded-emerald mares and a colt bearing the silvery underside of youth tear at their prey with jaws built to crush bone and rip muscles. Two young males sport nearby, splashing in the surf, whalelike tails flicking and slapping against hides and flanks, teeth nipping in play. There's one big stallion—the herd leader—on watch, ears pricked and nose pointed into the wind, his smooth, near-onyx skin gleaming with the green iridescence of age. Your head would reach his shoulder, maybe.
There's more underwater waiting their turn, you note, catching the flickers of dark shadows. You know better than to underestimate iceberg-type predators; the number you can't see may be twice or more than those you can. A kelpie you don't know is there is one that'll eat the deck from under you. And they're nigh indestructible at liquid temperature. At least coldsteel is an option, you think, a hand grazing over a hidden pocket.
Flames to boil their flesh like water,
Ice to freeze their chilling gaze,
Coldsteel blade to end their slaughter,
Firestone to end their days.
But what truly catches your eye is the cause of the platefish's death—kelpies are notorious hunters, but the killing blow had not been dealt by their jaws. No… A single slice bisects the formidable armor from gills to tail, neatly revealing the length of its vertebral column. The kelpies show no quarter in savaging the wound. No doubt this is part of Efric's plan, an "Eelfric escape special", and he'd gotten his captain to assist him.
You bite your lip. "This'n's a smidge dangerous f'r a distraction, dear cuzzy Effy."
That deep, surgeonlike cut through that armor, hard enough to deter a snagglefang's piercing teeth, could only come from the edge of a blade of First War make, Vengefall Graysmith's craftsmanship, or you're no war-scholar. A peerless windstone sword in the hands of a blademaster: Vitarrow's hands. But when the Morning Sky was thrown into the Labyrinth Deep, he'd been wielding Thelassa, crafted by Eithanael's hand. Thelassa, a Gentle Blade—and that was in the fight against old Peril. If he has unsheathed Mylstrydr after all these years…
Your blood runs as cold as the Winter. Not since the First Age has the first son of Wind had cause to bear his personal weapon. Not since the days where the skies burned and the seas were Sundered and the blood of Earth flowed free. What happened to Vitarrow in the Labyrinth Deep? What did the steadfast Pathfinder see in the place where Earth is said to lie in slumber? And why—
"Why were ye on the Uncharted side a' the Sunderin', Vitarrow?" you mutter. "If'n ye wanted t' continue the fight, ye would'na do anythin' else but t' regroup with Remoriam and m'lady Miragua… 'specially if'n Remoriam's really gone and died and returned t' the Inferno, an' I do feel it 'n my tailflippers. What're ye really after, and what foolish soul 'd dare t' get in yore way?"
No wonder the risk of this mission was so high.
He has no need to run.
-
-
You, Jet, peer up at the circle of blue at the top of the cloud formation, where the shadows of three gulls hover, buoyed by the winds. With Crow out of sight, having disappeared into Arond's cabin to report, you're hearing the ocean's song again. It's been quieter, or… less concentrated, since you exited the corridor; the strains are less closely wound and less compelling, yet its rhythm still beats alongside your heart, swells with every breath like a third lung.
Shhhh… sahhhh…
You need to focus on something else. Your star-searching helped before, didn't it? And you did want to look for Altiria and Viperiel.
"Fool boy. Don't do this."
Should you really do this? It backfired on you before.
…You'll be far more cautious when looking for the dragon siblings. Catching the interest of yet another dragon isn't what you want. Arond had been intense enough before adding Vitarrow to the list. With a momentary apology to Crow, you place a cool, seawater-dampened hand over your sore eyes and begin your hunt for Altiria and Viperiel.
Altiria. Tiria. Of wind, season unknown, image known, daughter of morning and midnight. Her star is the first claw of the Black Dragon. Altiria-firstclaw-blackdragon-Aria-location.
You hiss a breath and whirl around, almost expecting to see her on the horizon behind the ship. But you're blind behind the cloud cover, and you're suddenly aching to know more. Rakky, where's Rakky? Right—up in the crow's nest. She'll need to know what you've found! But before you tell her, you need to know if Viperiel is also nearby! The curiosity is eating at you!
Name. Viperiel. Periel. Of wind, morning and midnight. Is he Windor? Yes. No. What? But wait, his star? The thought flickers in uncertainty. The second claw of the Black Dragon. No, the eye. It's definitely the eye—no, but it has to be the claw. Right? The contradiction twists your mind around. You cover your aching eyes and sigh, leaning into the soothing cool your sea-soaked skin provides.
You decide to try each star separately, though as the moment lingers, your interest slowly wanes to boredom! But wait, you've never heard of anyone that could be one of two stars. How could you be bored? This is fascinating. Are the young dragons ally or enemy to the High Revenge? It'd be interesting to find out. If enemy, you can take them down easily! It doesn't matter who they are! Arond's siblings or not, children of the Black Dragon or not, you take pride in your strength—your fists and knife are more than enough to take them down with you!
…What did you just think? You can't fight a dragon—you'd barely had a showing against Lisen. Besides, analyzing stuff is more your thing.
The claw (the eye), you try first, fixing the black drakeling's image in your mind. Viperiel-secondclaw-blackdragon-Aria… nothing. There's nothing. Wait, there's—no, still nothing. No, there's—something? But he is—he is but isn't at all. He exists—doesn't exist—is alivenotalive. What? A spike pushes through your temples, and you immediately drop the search, though reluctantly. You'll come back to it later, maybe.
Then you try the eye (the claw). Viperiel-eyestar-blackdragon-Aria-nothing-something no location alive-notalive-is-not-is-Viperiel.
Black.
You blink back to consciousness, flat on your back with the planks soaking into your borrowed clothes, with two hot coals in your eye sockets boring holes into your skull. All you can feel is contempt! You're a waste of time! Why did you ever think searching for the siblings was a good idea?
A charcoal-smudged hand blocks your vision of the sky. You move to slap it aside, but it grabs your wrist, and Crow levers you up—he's stronger than his slight frame suggests. You open your mouth to thank him and then your mind burns!
Suddenly, you're standing over his downed body, one fist extended. You do not allow him time to rise, dropping to pin him with your weight the way Jard once showed you, and your hand fixes at the coward's throat, searing rage locking your fingers over the lifegiving veins. The winds spring up and fall as quickly as Crow struggles under your greater mass. Sparks of anger and fear shine in gray eyes.
"Y-you!" he chokes.
"Yes," you growl. "You're going to pay tenfold for—!"
For…?
Your grip slackens. What did Crow actually do to you?
Something wrenches you back by the collar, ripping you away from your enemy! The ever-running coward immediately flees toward the main mast, as he did when you first met! The hand at your collar spins you to face—
"Eis!" you snarl, struggling against the man's hold.
The odd healer smiles thinly. "Yes." With his foot trapping the wheel in place, he grasps your head in both hands. "Those are not your eyes, stowaway. Let me see."
You struggle harder. "I'm fine! Let go of—!" Logic halts your tongue, overcoming emotion. Why did you attack Crow? You could've killed him! There's something very wrong with you. Eis knows or seems to know what is. You don't need help, but you do.
"Do it," you say quickly.
"Your permission is noted but unneeded." With that, the cool of water seeps into your head, and something—something changes, confusion fading into sureness. Eis' expression is piercing as one of his knives. "Gray, now brown. Manipulator, but which one?" he mutters. "Tell me, stowaway; how long have you been experiencing uncharacteristic mood swings or unprovoked flashes of emotion tending towards violence?"
Violence? Rage. You've never felt an emotion that hot. Like acid in your brain. Hot, not cold. Not cold like the anger you've felt from yourself. Unfamiliar. Not yours. Not— "Now. Just now. What's happening? What's wrong with—?"
"There's nothing wrong with you or your eyes," Eis says firmly. "Now, I know boys your age are emotionally inept and largely self-centered, but you must have noticed the beginnings of such obvious changes. Tell me how long it has been."
You brush off a spike of irritation. How does he expect you to… wait. "About five minutes." Five minutes. Five minutes of the odd feeling of being off balance in your own head. Five minutes ago, when you were searching for Altiria and Viperiel.
"No experienced manipulator would show their hand like this for anything. Gray eyes, young and hotheaded. It could not be either of Pyresong's. An unrecorded Tugodeep? A hybrid line? Wait—the twins. Altiria. Could it be one of them? But why would Viperilon reveal one of their abilities now, after all this time? Or is it…" The First Mate clenches a fist. "Maelstrom! The flight risk will never let me forget it if someone on the outside is the spy. But Bloodwind is already shadowing us. What does Peril gain from this? What does he—no. It wasn't his style then either. At Jeketstrait." Eis pronounced the word with such hatred that your innards roll with unease.
"Wait, the twins? Altiria?" You hadn't mentioned anything to Eis, but he came to that conclusion somehow! Was that… were the conflicting decisions you experienced from Viperiel or Altiria? Your heart nearly stops. "Was… was one of them in my head?!"
Suddenly, one of the wind sailors stiffens, turns on her fellow, and tackles him to the deck with a shriek of rage. A third turns to pull her off but is in turn bowled over by a gust from behind as a second windblood attacks, a snarl contorting his lips.
A man further for'ard draws a knife and stabs the water sailor in front him. The latter falls, but before he does, a shallow wave answers his call, sending his assailant tumbling over the soaked floor. Blood mingles with the receding seafoam, quivering on the planks around the injured man's body.
"Soro!" A female sailor runs over. The drenched attacker rises, dazed, and is immediately decked by the woman's fist. "So much for peace, traitor!" she shouts.
Heads turn.
"Traitor?"
"Traitor?"
"Knew we couldn't trust him!" snarls an older man at the woman's side. "Never trust a Bledform!"
"It's Graysmith! An' it's better a Bledform than an Endinfall or a Swifthand like you!"
"Graysmith or Bledform, you're Vengefall's spawn! Servant of the Black Worm!"
A short and stocky man, bald and brown-bearded, plants himself firmly between the shouting crewmembers. "Back in position, all of you, or we die here! Jella, get your unit back in order! D'you forget the ship-eating kelpies just 'yond the cloud cover?"
"Go to the Tempest, Flincolian, you Perilous dog!" spits the woman, Jella, raising an arm high. The ship creaks and leans a degree to starboard as she calls forth a high but narrow wave to crash down upon the unfortunate Flincolian. But before it can fall, the concentrated attack halts, quivering, and splashes harmlessly over a hastily-formed guard.
Beside you, with one hand outstretched and the other back on the wheel, Eis' face could've been carved from a glacier. "Enough!" he snaps. "We cannot be fighting in these seas! Return to your posts!"
As if the First Mate's interference was a signal, an opportunistic wind sailor hurls a concentrated wind at knee-level, felling water and windbloods alike. The waterbloods tense to respond, and a second wave builds from behind the wind sailors at starboard, building, rising to visibility over the rail—and collapses back into the sea.
"Control problems?" Eis smiles. "Let me take care of that for you."
You had expected a return attack, but the water sailors only stare back, aghast. Some of the younger waters make empty motions in the air. Nothing moves in response. Not a single drop of water.
"You—you cannot do that!" shouts the older water sailor. "I've been honing my waves for decades. How—you cannot do that!"
"You forget," the First Mate of the High Revenge replies, "I'm Winter born! And by the Sheer Winter, my head was marked from birth. I did not run from the sunless day. Not when all the world was still. Not when time itself was void. Not when the Rising Three were felled. When strength meant nothing, I survived! What were you doing then, Swifthand?"
The legendary Rising Three, defeated? The Firstborn alliance that stood against and defeated the Black Dragon in tales, felled? How?
Jella rallies. "He's Waterstone. Of course he's one of them! Honorless traitors! Traitors to their bloodline, traitors to their Firstfather, to Eithanael! They killed the Twilit Sea!"
You sense more than see the gray man tense at the accusation.
"Eis—"
And then a heavy wind blasts into the clustered water sailors from behind as an enraged windblood makes his presence known, breaking the poisonous atmosphere. You let out a breath.
Eis suddenly hunches over the wheel, his knuckles whitening with the strength of his grip. "It's… about to get dangerous, stowaway."
"What did you do?" you whisper harshly.
"A powerful enough son of water can sink a ship by himself, if unopposed. What do you think a half-shift of berserk waters could do?" He exhales. "What do you think the wind half would do in response?"
It's not a straight answer, but what were you expecting? But as you glance around the irate crewmembers, you understand. It's not that the waterbloods aren't drowning the deck… they can't. Eis has control. And the winds take full advantage of the gap. Soon the whole main deck is in the throes of chaos as the windbloods attack, frigid winds sheering across the deck, showering the planks with foam and frostflakes. The waterbloods, their waves held back by Eis, can only take cover or be blown overboard or smashed to the ground. Sheltered behind the First Mate, you take it all in with horror pushed to the forefront. This is—this is what happened to you! This is why you attacked Crow!
You started this by calling the attention of a dragon of unknown allegiance. It's... all your fault.
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"What 'n the blazin' heart a' th' Inferno!"
You are a displeased youngish storykeeper of a seadog. When the first yell reached your ears and you sensed Eis' waves crashing into and overwhelming Jella's, and then his seizing of all the waves within his radius, you were down the main mast like a greased eel. This was hardly what you expected to find. Winds throwing winter breezes like fishfood, waters alternately hiding or charging their crewmates, fists or knives or makeshift weapons in hand—
"What d' ye think y're doin', ye sons a' seagulls 'n seaweed? Get back t' yore positions!" you roar.
Only a few crewmembers on the outskirts have been spared; even if they hadn't been distracted, they're not enough to keep the cloud cover steady. Your first defense against the deadly water horses is wavering, no longer sustained by the coordination of wind and water sailors. Your mind flits from one possibility to another. Mutiny? Sure, Arond's crew had… issues between family lines, but they were hardly enough to bring to breaking point! A suicidal survivor of the Winter? You hope not. Is Blackie's agent (whoever it might be) acting now? Could be, but why now? Far as you can tell, Arond remains loyal to his father, and old Blackie doesn't tend to axe his loyal followers. Outside of that, although Val is a veteran of the Sheer Winter, he has surprisingly few enemies. Outside influence? Influence? Could it be—
The deckwater vibrates as someone approaches you from behind. Relatively heavy, male. Your senses sharpen as you draw your focus close, focus on the movement of the water soaking his clothes and skin—
Now.
You half-step to the left and grab the wind-boosted arm that whooshes above your shoulder, pull the man bodily forward, and heave him over your back with a yell. "Haaah!" He crashes back-first to the planks before you, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, and blinks up as if seeing you for the first time.
You bend over and grab the tall water sailor by the shirt. "You. Wazyorename, Trivvy?"
"R-Rakela! I—"
"That's m' name, don't stutter it! Trivvy, then. What could possibly give ye the gall t' attack me?"
"For the last time, it's Triven!" he snaps, angry gray irises flashing. He recoils. "No, no! Rakela, I didn't mean—you never use my proper name, you filthy old librarian! You—!"
Oh, that's quite enough of that.
Smack!
"Run that by this filthy ole librarian again, Vinstrom?" Your open palm curls into a fist in front of his face. Yes, that was the name. Triven Vinstrom. They're usually a nice, neutral, classy bunch, Vinstroms. Where did this one go wrong?
He cringes back, shaking his head like an anchovy in a whirlpool, blue eyes wide. "Ok! I'm ok now, I swear it!"
"Say it."
"War-scholars aren't librarians! They're battlefield storykeepers, not Tempest-be-cursed librarians! By the Esser, you slap like my grandmother!"
"This Northsea is one a' the best storykeepers a' all time, and don't ye forget it!" You yank Triven to his feet by his collar and smack him solidly on the back, making him wheeze. "This'n can do more'n that love-tap if'n ye get Influenced again. Get yore unit back in line! This's a manipulator attack!" Louder, you call, "Manipulator attack! Ye sons of seaweed, think 'fore ye skelp yore allies! Manipulator attaaaack!"
The question is whose attack, you think as you hurry back towards Eis, a harsh battle-breeze battering your shoulders (but you've experienced worse in the Winter—this doesn't stagger you. Much.). Who could be a manipulator strong enough to affect the crew and be foolish enough to make the effects obvious? The advantages of most manipulators, after all, lie in being undetected.
But it might not matter if their Influence is this strong.
Dodging and sliding around battle-glazed crewmembers, you reach where Eis clutches at the wheel with Jet close behind, the poor boyo appearing shell-shocked by the chaos of conflict. Your little cousin is holding down the water all across the waterline, keeping any Influenced waterbloods from washing the ship to the abyss. To the observer, he is steady, but under the surface, there's a tiny but telling shiver in his waves. He can't hold everyone's waves back, keep the wild currents from taking the ship off course, and defend the crew from itself. Good thing he has you. Surveying the situation, you engulf the waves at the farther half of Eis' radius and bring them under your control. He relaxes almost immediately and greets you with a nod of thanks as you draw level.
"Manipulator," he answers without question. "Standard manipulator weaknesses most likely apply. Healing clause is in effect. Water works as a cleanser, but fire would be… more effective." He hisses a breath. "This is… this is just like—like Jeketstrait! The records had to have been wrong about the attacker then. It was not Peril, but one of his children!"
Jeketstrait. The unexpected mention sends alarm through your fingertips. Even with the passage of time, you cannot help but shake with remembered fury.
"I'll confirm the head-knock clause works, f'r a bit." You pause. "But 's a serious leap, from manipulator t' Jeketstrait t' the children of Peril."
"Gray eyes are characteristic of Viperilon and Alacria's scions, are they not? Jeketstrait was attributed to Peril, yet your scholars agree it was not among his known abilities. It fits."
You know better than to touch the hatred in those two words. Jeketstrait. You'd been on the crew that received their distress call. Too late. Near enough to retrieve cuzzy Erran's echo-shelled words, but not near enough to keep them from being his last. You're not putting much stock into the connection yet, but if Eis is right… if he's right—!
"'Twas the last fortress a' resistance in Waterstone territory," you elaborate for Jet's benefit, a growl building in your chest. "A secret location, or so we thought. They were Northsea fighters, mostly, and refugees: some a' the last free Waterstones. They all went mad. Turned on their own people… slain t' a man and near sank the Halved Islands. The Bloodwind 's on record as bein' in those waters. Now, the manner a' strikin' wasn't in ole Blackie's known skillset, but who else could it a' been? 'S so few known manipulators alive 'at this'n could name 'em all and still have claws t' hold a tankard, and fewer are that strong—thank the Esser f'r small favors! Mind ye, Eis-boyo, Jeketstrait was almost 20 years ago. Peril's three little mysteries woulda been barely old enough t' walk!"
"Improbable, but it is possible," Eis insists. "What other manipulator would have gray eyes?"
"Vespian did 'fore he was killed," you say solemnly. "And this could be a hybrid bloodline, ye know. But y're right—we never did find out if'n his siblings had similar abilities." Your mind shifts to a certain gray-eyed artist, who is noticeably absent. The little blackbird had sworn to Val the strongest oath of loyalty any living being could make. Kid couldn't be the manipulator, could he? Could Eis be right about him being Peril's spy? "But this'n cannot see Peril havin' 'em do this. To Jeketstrait, sure, but to Val? Here? Now? Don't get too fixated on yore one hypothesis, kiddo."
You scan the deck warily with your waves on hair-trigger. The waters, their waves neutralized by you and Eis, have largely taken shelter from the free-for-all. Only Triven's unit of windbloods has a semblance of order, but it won't last if this manipulator is as strong as they seem. What anchors this manipulator's Influence? Is it anger? Desire? Prior offense? By what means and from where are they working? Not by voice, you think, and it's not well-directed... but it is targeted. At whom?
You breathe out. "Maelstrom, this would be another manipulator we do not know how t' full-counter!"
"Which is why their abilities have been kept hidden," Eis notes. "He or she could be days away on the Bloodwind or right under our noses."
Though you're not sold on the "children of Peril" hypothesis, it looks more attractive whenever you eye it. Certainly less daunting than tracking an individual with a hybrid bloodline ability. But the closest route is not always the right one. Still, if Eis is right, it would change a significant record on Viperilon's abilities and a major post-Winter event. But the motivation is what makes the idea suspect. Why would Blackie send Arond on a high-risk mission and then follow him to take him out? Does he think Arond turned traitor?
The ship rocks and dips as a wiseguy windblood tries to smash the for'ard deck underwater with a yell of, "Maelstrom drown you all! I didn't even want to be a sailor!"
"Will-driven, emotion-blinded idiots! Can they not control their impulses?" Eis' deft hand on the wheel and your quick stabilizing upswell are all that keep the ship on course. Some crewmembers jump on the windy fool to take him down. Good on them. But the High Revenge has all but stopped completely, with only you and Eis keeping her from wandering.
"Mira's whiskers!" you shout. "We won't be sailin' anywhere but into the mouths a' voracious stealth-horses if'n we don't counter the manipulator! Much as it'd make a great story, this waterdog does'na really fancy tryn'a get us up that wall alone, 'specially if'n I have t' watch my back doin' it!"
Eis' grip tightens. "Whatever you decide to do, Rakela, do it fast!"
This trip is going to the kelpies. Hopefully not literally. With kelpies to the port side, and a manipulator somewhere around Influencing the crew to self-destruct, you need to defend on two fronts, and you need to do it without the crew becoming too exhausted to make the jump. You and Eis have the waterbloods on lockdown to keep them from sinking the ship outright, but the windbloods have almost free reign. You'd like to have both to make a safe jump.
How shall you position your people?
1. Crew priority—what will the crew focus on when not under the Influence? Pick two:
[]Manipulator defense
[]Kelpie defense
[]The jump (getting to the eastern sea wall and out)
2. Manipulator defense:
[]Do what works. Smack heads whenever someone acts out. Harder if they repeat.
[]Think smart. Get the information needed to keep the manipulator from reusing their ability.
3. Kelpie defense:
[]Stealth. Try to repair the cloud cover before it falls completely.
[]Forget stealth. Just keep those ravenous omnivores away from the ship.
[]Attack them before they can attack you.
4. You (Rakky): To what will you lend your strength?
[]Kelpie defense: You are both a capable waterblood and an authorized carrier of coldsteel.
[]Manipulator defense: Your training as a war-scholar makes you one of the least Influenceable individuals aboard.
[]The jump: Gonna be waaay difficult to do without the crew on your side, but it's not impossible.
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5. You, Jet, think you drew the attention of Altiria or Viperiel. Will you tell Rakky and Eis what you did?
[]Yes. It could help them narrow down who the manipulator is.
[]No. You'll probably get in even worse trouble.
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You know that feeling that you're forgetting something? o.o
No promises on the timing of the next one, but have fun everyone, and thanks for waiting!
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That's pretty far from Eragon XD