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Omake IV: Song of the War-scholar
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Deleted scene, cut for time. Canon, takes place during Dusk 3.9 after Rakky speaks to Eis.
Lightly edited. Inconsistencies may exist.
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You are Rakky. With a silent apology to Miragua and Eis, you grab the ship's side and hurl yourself overboard, and with a twist of will and water, you stretch, flexing, burying human flesh deep inside and trading it for something older, wilder. No time for a slow change to indulge in the glorious halfway sensation between the lines. And then you are a seawolf amongst the predators. Nine armlengths of pure speckled Northsea fur and muscle, sleek and supple over a form well-suited for the aquatic hunt. Your waves breathe with the call of the sea.
All eyes fix upon you. Your teeth bare in a toothy grin to bury the twinge of unease. This isn't the first time you've been surrounded, but there's more of them than you sensed. More than threescore dark manes toss beneath the foam, deforming and reforming from the water like smoke, both to the eyes and your senses. Between the deep emerald flanks, the steel-blue, razor-edged hides of Greatsword Sharks slink about like underwater jungle-cats. Their ripples swish past the nothingness of the kelpies. Among them, the leader of the kelpies stares, unmoving, with the voids in his face reflecting the emptiness of his gullet.
They're closing in from above—move, move, move!
Ice coats your wake as your tail speed you towards a gap in the formation. The coldsteel claw rakes deliberately down the side of the nearest kelpie and flash-freezes it to the core. Two try to outsmart you with a scissor ambush from above and below. A barrel-roll takes you to safety. Tempest and Maelstrom, this is a tight spot! You could be in deep trouble if they get you cornered.
You slash with your right flipper and push your waves outward in an arc of supercooled water, buying you some much-needed space. The kelpies, spooked, withdraw slightly, swimming in wary circles at this spiky newcomer to their feast. At the second's breather, the water frosts instantly around your flipper. You shake it like a wrigglefin eel before solid ice can trap you, then dash once more, chipping at their numbers a couple scales at a time.
As you swim and leap and dive through air and sea, freezing a shallow ramp and dodging a snapping wave of wood-chomping teeth, you give voice to a short old fight-song of the war scholars.
{Ooooh, I am no dusty scholar
From the south at Sel Kalorey
Or the ashes dead in Lindenleaf
Or the snoots from Altamori,
For this'n is a 'keeper
On the fields a' blood an' violence;
A storykeeper of Miragua
'S never one for silence!
I pluck my quills from arrows,
Squeeze ink from the red tide,
Take fire to erase my blots
An' cut parchment from yore hide!
I write 'cause I outlive my foes
An' cause their ends to be,
'Cause all that's read's read better in red
With the blood a' enemies!
So draw in close t' this'n
If y're dyin' t' make history,
An' I'll make it known t' all the world,
Ye've met this ol' Northseaaaaaaa!}
Ending your name-tag, you charge again with a tight tail-corkscrew and a roar of challenge.
I am kinda ashamed that it is only now that I got time to finally sit down and read it. Well, that, and I was afraid of what would happen... and for a good reason, it turns out.
Worry not, a fire dagger to the brain is only mostly fatal! And it's not like Jet used his often!
But Eis has commented on how we were going rigid like a corpse, so we are at least mostly dead, and I suspect that barring the bloodline shenanigans we are likely to remain so. I do expect shenanigans though, simply for the fact that our esteemed QM refused to confirm it one way or the other, and the entire lineage plotline remains unresolved.
And Eis was preoccupied, and conveniently couldn't come and check on us. Compromising the doctor's statements is the oldest trick in the book. If a book is a mystery novel. Which this quest is not. Dammit, and I just got my hopes up!
Well, if we don't vote we'll never find out, so let's get to that!
Let's see... The first choice is tricky. Crow sworn his life to Arond, so he'd sooner die than crash the ship. I'd like for Eis to extend some trust on Arond's behalf. But then he promised Crow that he would knock him out if things go awry, and now they did. The responsibility to judge the situation is on him, and however diminished the crew are, they are more predictable and reliable than the kid.
[x] You wait! You trust Crow to hold on a moment longer.
...where is Arond? It's been a while, so I forgot what our captain has been doing.
In comparison, Nyla's choice is easy.
[x] Despite everything, you pity him. Pull him aboard.
Is it strange that I sympathize with Brand? Yes, he's been nothing but an asshole, and mocking the dead is low, and his jokes are stupid (and dangerous). In any other story he'd be a bully. But here, he is the one who gets bullied - by a bird, no less! - or tricked into thinking he ate something poisonous, or nearly strangled atop a cliff. He is... kinda pathetic. Makes me wonder what he is like when he doesn't have much room to be unpleasant, if only for fear of being thrown overboard.
Plus, he may or may not come from the Rekavok bloodline, which may or may not be important.
*ahem* All hail our new protagonist, Pineapple-haired Doomseer Scion!
...nah. Not a protagonist material, that one. I secretly wonder if he was jealous of Jet and that's what got him twisted.
On an unrelated note, Rakky is badass. A proper Navy Seal through and through.
I forgot what Rakela's lineage is (besides Northsea), but I think there is no Ice bloodline? And not even awakening in Winter can change the way one's blood expresses itself. Is this the way to refer to her artifact's effects?
Your eyes widen. Iced. Coldsteel! The power of a winter wind, bound to metal. A relic of the Frozen Firefields that immediately freezes any water it comes in contact with. To kelpies, with bodies composed mostly of water, it is deadly. How long had Rakela been carrying that restricted trinket?
A curious piece indeed. I don't think it's anything like the Light of Dawn, Breath of the Center, and whatever it is the water artifact is supposed to be, because I would expect Miragua to hold on to that... and the freezing power seems pretty mild compared to what we've seen others do. But what is it? And how many relics of this kind are out there?
Just a testament to how little we know about the Frozen Firefields.
I will probably need to revisit some of the previous updates to put whatever happened in context.
Ah. An unfortunate oversight of wording. That goes to the more "literary" meaning of "ice in your veins," as in getting the chills from fear.
I admit, there's not as much layering on in this segment as in others, but I otherwise made some deliberate word selections that re-readers may notice. Except times like that, when I got lazy. Heheh, probably bad to do in such an elements-centric quest.
Ngl, even if it's a clear vote, I'm glad y'all haven't all gone cynical and can believe in my poor beleaguered childes.
Also, before I forget to put this in the Dusk 3.9 summary,
- First use of Nyla's surname
- First use of Brand's surname
- First full on-screen shift (Rakky: human -> seal kin)
Edit: - First official use of coldsteel
The interest in coldsteel is not necessarily in its strength but in its utility-to-size ratio and the danger in using it. Double-edged weapon? Eat your heart out, Eis. Good thing Rakky is crazy enough and more than willing to risk it.
Ah. An unfortunate oversight of wording. That goes to the more "literary" meaning of "ice in your veins," as in getting the chills from fear.
I admit, there's not as much layering on in this segment as in others, but I otherwise made some deliberate word selections that re-readers may notice. Except times like that, when I got lazy. Heheh, probably bad to do in such an elements-centric quest.
I did think it was literal up until I found out that frost got its own color, and it is separate from water, then I started doubting, especially since it is unknown where and how Rakky came into possession of the coldsteel claw.
As an aside, I did not expect it to be literal steel that is just supernaturally cold. I blame this on cold iron.
Is that the same as Jard's surname? I kinda assumed that she took her adoptive family's name, but I suppose it might be different in the world where bloodlines are so closely tied to power... and I don't remember what happened to her parents, only that they died about 15 years ago.
Is that the same as Jard's surname? I kinda assumed that she took her adoptive family's name, but I suppose it might be different in the world where bloodlines are so closely tied to power... and I don't remember what happened to her parents, only that they died about 15 years ago.
Welp, since Nyla gets so little screentime, I guess no one would remember that Nylan (Nyla's father) was Jard's brother (also, Pirra [Nyla's mother] was Merry's sister). At least... I'm 85% sure I mentioned it in a Nyla segment. Hmm...
Haha, I save my naming creativity for other things. Waterstone, firestone, coldsteel? I have to make item naming easier on myself, or I'd never get this updated.
Seriously, Day 1.0 almost died before it got posted. Why? At least partially because of Cors. A name y'all ultimately didn't pick anyway. 😅
Fun fact: all the starter names are homophones to types of fast movement.
- Jet -> to jet
- Reis -> to race
- Cors -> to course
Welp, since Nyla gets so little screentime, I guess no one would remember that Nylan (Nyla's father) was Jard's brother (also, Pirra [Nyla's mother] was Merry's sister). At least... I'm 85% sure I mentioned it in a Nyla segment. Hmm...
Moram's side of the family must have dwarfed whatever legacy came from Jard's. The first introduction Nyla got, back in the very second update, was "the daughter of Merry's sister and a waterblooded farmer", and it was only reinforced from there, with Merry unlocking her Gift, and not Jard. The first and only indication that Jard is also related to her by blood came only in 2.6a, and was mentioned off-handedly:
Jard sighs. He's been doing a lot of that today. "Because I don't want you to end up like Moram. Water drown it—I know he's yours and Jet's hero, but he spent years of his life chasing ghosts. Manning the beacon by night, searching the waters by day… Nylan and Pirra never would've wanted that for him. I miss my brother. I do. There's few things I wouldn't do to see him again. So many questions... What if he and your mother hadn't gone out that day? What if we hadn't offered to watch you? But I never took it to Moram's extent. He was obsessed. If he'd still been alive today…" His brows furrow with past concern. "He'd have killed himself searching for the dead. Death was always hard for him to take."
Moram's side of the family must have dwarfed whatever legacy came from Jard's. The first introduction Nyla got, back in the very second update, was "the daughter of Merry's sister and a fireblooded farmer", and it was only reinforced from there, with Merry unlocking her Gift, and not Jard. The first and only indication that Jard is also related to her by blood came only in 2.6a, and was mentioned off-handedly:
I may have dismised it for "my brother-in-law".
As an aside... I went back to the beginning, and this is what stares at me from the front page:
Admittedly, we've been in so many heads lately that it's hard to say which "you" it might apply to.
What can I say? Genetics are weird, and Moram isn't exactly forgettable.
I once half-jokingly tried calculating the probability of certain Firstborn genetics on a Punnett square, and my brain got tied in knots trying to explain trait inheritance.
Conclusion: Using science to explain fantasy is questionable.
Heeeeeey stop digging up the rulebook! Someone might get hurt. o.o
So I was planning this for a while, and thought to make a Christmas gift out of it, but the sudden revival caught me off-guard, and then I thought, "it's like Christmas came early, why wait"?
And so I present you this:
Art commissioned from: LavraDark
It's sort of a mish-mash between the Day 2.4 - Live On! and Dusk 1.3 - Daughter of the Sea. The events take place on different parts of the island, and at different times of day even, so stitching them together was a bit of a challenge.
Surprisingly, it was Nyla that gave me the most trouble. All I knew about her was that she has cinnamon hair, and a skin "tanner than Jet's could ever be". I didn't even know what color her eyes are supposed to be, only that they were "dark". In the end, I went with the green ones to match the island palette... it's not like she is a Scion, so it probably won't have much bearing on the story. The exact pose and positioning also took several attempts to pin down.
We went from this:
(discarded - too much of Nyla was obscured from view)
to this:
(discarded - was too neat for the emotion it tries to convey)
to this:
which was eventually accepted as the final draft and made into this line art:
The coloring was also debated. I briefly considered making Jet and Nyla use mirroring colors, blue and brown:
But the idea got discarded as the entire drawing started to feel a little drab, with no contrast between the inviting warmth of the sunny island and the icy cold of water on a stormy night.
I hope you like what we ended up with!
...and yes, I remember the beacon is not an actual lighthouse, but was supposed to be a platform carved into the cliff. I had absolutely no idea how that would even work, and the picture was getting pretty abstract already, so I just went with whatever felt plausible to fall into the sea from.
So I was planning this for a while, and thought to make a Christmas gift out of it, but the sudden revival caught me off-guard, and then I thought, "it's like Christmas came early, why wait"?
Flippin' dude, I have no words! Talk about an unexpected Christmas gift!
I love the interpretation, and I'm a huge fan of color theory and symbolism.
Huge thanks to you and the artist, and Merry Christmas! <3
Your commitment to sifting my writing for detail astounds me. (I see that bright feather. o.o) Makes me feel like you have a spreadsheet somewhere or are an absolute master with Ctrl+F. I bet if I'd updated sooner, you'd have added the exact shape of Jet's knife too. Ha, but artistic liberties are to be expected to fill in my imagery gaps. I don't tend to regard clothes as a thing to put much description effort into unless it's specifically character-relevant, world-relevant, or potentially plot relevant, so my apologies. 😅 I really should work some of this stuff in in the future.
Flippin' character designs, yesss! Nyla is gorgeous, Jet's cool as ice, and the starry night sky vs. daylight juxtaposition...
Shows that they are indeed worlds apart.
My neighbor probably was wondering what the fangirl squealing and cackling was about.
Funny how close you could get image-wise to Nyla's dream/nightmare sequence from the Dusk finale with just a couple of color and expression tweaks.
Nyla! For the love of the wind and waves, he's right there! Save him!
I laughed for a good few minutes at Jet's "Ok, so my life is underwater now" expression. Also, it's super uncomfortable to wear shoes underwater. My kid-self in survival swimming class empathizes greatly. I guess I never mentioned Jet's island footwear--most likely sandals, too, since I believe Nyla and Moram were mentioned with sandals at one point (or probably just Moram). They'd be the kind you fasten on so as not to be carelessly lost whilst running at top speed.
...Either that or they'd be wearing an islandwear variation of moccasins.
The cliffs on Florialis are imaged from the ones on the island of Terceira, where I briefly lived. Wish I could find my old pictures. These ones aren't bad, though. Terceira cliff 1 Terceira cliff 2
I specifically chose not to use a lighthouse in this setting because I associate lighthouses with a more modern era that has guns (even if that's not necessarily historically true), but I totally get that a stone platform on top of a cliff isn't that picturesque at a lower angle. Really, the only thing that would be visible from below/from a distance would be the light from the fire.
Color randomness: I never mentioned it (though perhaps I should've), but I picture Nyla generally wearing deep oranges and/or lighter buckskin shades. Cinnamon is her hair color tag because of the reddish tones in real life cinnamon hair. I personally wouldn't choose green as her eye color unless it was a lot closer to hazel than true green, because green eyes tend to be immediately associated with Rekavok Ferralong's descendants (though y'all currently only have one example in Lisen). But hey, color is good to have in visual art, and pink+green is a striking combo that doesn't make her or the feather disappear into the background.
Jet's clothes' colors, on the other hand... haha. Um. In the quest, they... don't really exist, far as I can tell. 😅 My reasoning for not describing it at the time was... Who actually takes the time to describe the clothes they're wearing? I don't think I once mentioned his starter pack colors other than Moram's super-dark fur coat, which means Jet's base clothes were probably just ambiguously brown. Then he changes to the black hair and gray seafaring tunic/breeches look later, which is far more description than I gave him in the beginning...
Heh, I could probably do a full description on Moram, though. His design is quite similar to Snake/Big Boss from the Metal Gear Solid games (specifically MGS3), which I have never played, but when I saw that character while web-surfing, he looked almost exactly like my mental image of Moram. More-or-less change the headband and hair colors, add feather-hair, roll back the style and tech levels a few centuries, and you've got him.
tl;dr - If a person's coloring or clothes aren't specifically mentioned, my mind probably said "ambiguously brown-somethingsomething-seafaring" and blithely continued on to other things.
Also...
Jet: I don't have a brother?
Seriously Nevill, this really made my day. Thanks so much!
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Man, talk about late to the party but just in time! You're all due a nice long update this week. Maybe tomorrow, if I can get these last three sentences to work out. Thinking about making the voting period shorter while I still have time to write again.
Man, talk about late to the party but just in time! You're all due a nice long update this week. Maybe tomorrow, if I can get these last three sentences to work out. Thinking about making the voting period shorter while I still have time to write again.
To tide you all over for the next few minutes while I reformat... the whole freaking mess that is the dialogue in Night 1.1, here's a sketchy-sketch sketch of a certain auburn guy at your first encounter.
Even from atop the barren surface of the Underspire, a towering column of limestone shooting from the sea just on the east side of the Longitude of Midday, the stirrings of fallen leaves reach your nose all the way from the mountain-island Lukannan, three leagues west. Over the past few minutes, your foreclaws have scratched deep furrows into the soft rock. The man facing you across the spire has undoubtedly noticed, even from within the sphere he raised to control every noise in its perimeter—ever the prodigy of fine control.
—the scent of cirrus-salt-parchment-freshwater—brother!
A slim human silhouette, his frame tightly muscled from training for intense speed, hair dark enough to blot the sun at its zenith—Vespian! He is clad in the night-blue gambeson of the war-scholars of Kalmeri, belted at the waist with the emblem of the three-branched coral. It lacks the embedded star sapphire of a master scholar, but not for long, you wager.
As you ponder with watchful senses, Vespian holds his hands up in offering (not empty, a wrapped object, solid, as large as a firkin, concealed within a cloak of Earth [a chest?]), up to the one above him.
The Morning Sky. Mother!
The silvery-blue mane of Alacria Windor flows with the breeze, wispy as the clouds at dawn. Her serpentine coils shimmer like the sun striking off a thousand diamonds as she hovers in the air, body curling and undulating with limitless grace, reluctant to set claw on the ground. She has chosen to present her splendor in a smaller form to meet with your brother; at this size, her slender, wolflike head reaches a hand longer than a full armspan, and her length is comparable to the High Revenge. The true dimensions of the ancient Skies are not insignificant. Mother must have used your size as a rough reference. Nevertheless, even when suppressed, her space, her presence, is the first morning breeze and the song of spring leaves, invigorated with anticipation; yet it exudes a sense of calm, tinged with the breath of wistfulness for a time long past. She is unmistakably the wind, the sky, of morning.
Your brother tilts his head higher, but neither wind-voice nor mind-call from him, nor a word from Mother, reaches you. Therein lies the source of your unease. Vespian excluded you from his sound field from the moment he finished projecting his formal greetings. Why? He could always trust you. Unless… has your long separation eroded your bond?
Suddenly, scales ghost against your scales—someone else is in my space! You startle, jerk your head back, but see nothing. —no scent no sight no—
—An awesome, all-encompassing sphere briefly nudges—a flash of starlight—
—rare recognition—Aunt Anna?
It is strange to feel both relief and consternation. She is no stranger or enemy. —Why is she here?
—realization—Could that cloak of Earth be hers? What is in it? What is Ves hiding?
In your distraction, Mother plucks the object from her son's hands with jaws as gentle as thistledown: the same jaws that once supported her brother's relentless attack in the First War. She floats back, slightly beside you, light as any cloud. Vespian bows once, long and deep, in respect and gratitude, as is suitable for a son of Skies. Their conversation seems to have ended.
Your brother's gray eyes flicker over, and suddenly he re-opens his space to you, his familiar voice sounding in your sky, as free and wide as the wingbeats of an ocean condor on a windless day.
:{Rekavok Ferralong came to me last sunhigh with a message. He told me that he had Seen a choice before me. I could turn my back on my path and live, maybe gain more renown, maybe even… start a family…}: His smile takes a bitter slope. :{...or I could keep on, reach my goal, and then my life will end.}:
Your heart falls. —shock-denial-fear-anguish-denial—no brother not you—
But his words remain engraved in the wind. Words spoken in the domains, in the essence, can never be spoken with uncertainty.
"Why?" The word is sharp and cold between your teeth, but your brother reads your heart well. He knows you know what he has chosen.
:{I can't stop my research now. I'm too close to an answer. I must return to Kalmeri. I'm sorry, Val, but… I won't be coming back.}:
Then his next words leave you speechless. :{Don't tell Father.}:
Is that why he chose midday to meet, and at this location? The time where Midnight is the least… —Why not tell him? Father loves you, Ves!
:{I'm sorry.}: his mind-voice echoes to you, to Mother.
The Morning Sky nods at her oldest child once, deeply, with a long, slow blink. She accepts it so easily. True, she is not human, but to accept that her son has chosen to die—
Mother twists away, turning toward a patch of empty air that could be Aunt Anna. Together, they descend to the ocean's height and disperse. You feel the space of their departure as the wild cliff winds fill where they had been. The wind does not like to stay still… —Why would she let this happen? What is the power of the Sky for?
You turn to face the sea and edge one claw over, placing your brother out of sight. You do not need to see him to tell where he is. Not when your spaces overlap this much. —resolved—How can he smile—
It is fitting to meet on this rock, for it was once used to host gatherings in memory of the dead. You wonder if Ves chose it for that reason, as some twisted form of funeral while he still lives. Does he think you will forget him? You tremble from the weight of some unfamiliar emotion. —Not even if my core was broken and the pieces scattered… I would remember.
Your brother is at your side in a blink, bringing the scent of freshwater-cirrus-salt-parchment mingled with the scent of far-off fallen leaves.
His mind-voice is as heavy as rain clouds. :{I don't know what my— what my absence will cause. He—They'll need you, just as you'll need them. It'll all settle in time.}:
Your claws rake the stone into chalk dust. "You cannot know that! I could fly straight from here, right now, and tell Father everything!" —the scent of freshwater intensifies oversalt-cirrus-parchment—
Fear. You immediately regret having put that expression on his face.
:{You won't. He can't know. He's not ready, and he never will be. Not even in this life.}:
His certainty rings in your space, in your sky. The certainty of one who is old enough to have seen the fall of Viperilon. Who bears his name as if it were a shackle.
"I did not mean it," you mutter.
:{I know,}: he replies. One ink-stained hand brushes over the scales of your eye ridge, then travels to the back of your neck, where it rests reassuringly in the feather-light strands of your mane. :{No matter what, I'll complete my life's work before the end. You'll see— It'll be the dawn of a new age, brother! An age where earth will no longer be abandoned, where no bloodlines will be lost!}:
"But yours will be. As you always wished it…"
He lets out a soundless sigh. :{Val, you know I no longer seek death.}:
"Your actions speak otherwise," you retort, gashing another line into the rock.
:{It's where the path of Wind leads me.}:
"Those are Uncle's words. Do you spend time with him every day?"
Ves speaks aloud, as he rarely does, and alters the wind to emulate the renowned baritone of the Morning Sky.
"You do not wish to be in my way… that you do not. But should your path join mine, I will ensure you see the dawn at my side." His chuckle shakes his body. :{Did I manage the ageless and mysterious look?}:
You snort, throwing your left foreleg over his shoulders. "With that pale imitation? Never. Besides, the world only needs one of him. I was not complimenting you."
:{It sounded like it to me.}:
You shove him off the cliff— :{Heeeeey!}:
—but miss the black-scaled tail that coils around your flanks and yanks you into open air. You take it in stride, twist straight up and back, slither out of his hold, then immediately loop around, interlocking your side-scales underneath the tips of his much larger back-scales. He promptly rolls over with a full-body whip-snap that shakes your bones. His viper-wolf head flashes overhead with a joyful laugh. His snout is blunter than Mother's yet nearly as streamlined—so similar to yours. He gives you just enough time to regret starting this before he winks one slitted eye, snags your tail between his fangs, and shoots straight down to the ocean below. You yelp and shake out of the forced tail-dive before he can drag you below the surface.
The conversation devolves into a playful bout of sky-wrestling, trading growl for growl, biting with softened jaws, trying to push the other into the sea. To disentangle is to concede, for if you truly let go, Ves will change the game to wind-chasing tag… and you will never, ever catch him.
Midday threatens to dip into evening before you both slow. Shedding your scales, you lie down on your brother's back and bury your face in his mane as he flies. —Could this go on forever?
—Brother, please do not leave…
Vespian returns to the Underspire in silence, and you slide off his back as he, too, regains his human form. Even when he is clad in armor, and you in plain cloth, Ves appears small beside you—a half head shorter, and as wiry as a vine. Despite his age, his stature and clean-shaven face make him easily mistaken as the younger one. He always jokes that you stole all his bulk, and you reply that he makes up for it with his overgrown dragon form, to which he points out that he is your much older brother, thank you very much, and had to show that somehow.
He is the bamboo to your oak. The coyote to your wolf.
He is too much like Uncle. He… never would have stayed.
You sit side-by-side, legs swinging over the edge, as you often had in your younger years. The approaching evening casts a somber shadow over your brother's face. :{I know you have questions, but I won't be answering them. Not without an oath.}:
"Why?" It must be true then, that you have lost his trust somehow, if your word is not enough.
Your brother reads your expression well. :{It's not that I don't trust you. I do, always. But you act on your emotions too much, Val. Today is too important to leave to chance. Even for your sake.}:
"Can you not tell me even a little?"
He pauses. :{You saw what I did today. What you didn't hear was… I asked Mother the same. To swear an oath of protection. Aunt Anna also swore it before.}:
"Protection?" You pause. "That thing you gave to Mother… What is it?"
:{A priceless treasure.}: Since when did he care about treasure? :{It may cost you more than you're willing to give to know what I've given up. I don't doubt you will find out what it is in time, but if you don't wish more sorrow, don't ask me.}:
—What knowledge could cause more grief than your death? What else could I possibly lose? What treasure could be worth this?
"What happens if I do not take an oath?"
He shakes his head. :{Then… You would hear about my passing the same way Father will. We would've said farewell here, then… nothing.}:
—no no no, I cannot lose more of Ves, what could be worse than losing time memory life—
"That is cruel." Resentment boils. "You would really manipulate me by threatening to take what I hold most dear?"
He does not deny it.
:{Will you protect my treasure?}: he asks simply. You wonder what he has already sacrificed, to not come up with justification.
"Esser and blood, I will do it," you burst out. You grab him by the shoulders. "But only if you promise that you will not go to your death without fighting to live!"
Ves appears resigned but unsurprised. :{After I reach my goal, if the Esser see fit to give me a chance to avoid the Lonely Path, then I will seize my life with both hands. I promise.}: You let your arms fall. Even though fate is inexorable, his words are a comfort. Bittersweet, but written into the wind. Perhaps sensing you have no further word, Ves curls a wind that ruffles your night-hued hair, then extends his hand. :{I am Vespian Kellinan, first son of Viperilon and Alacria. In the sight of the Esser-three and by the blood of Earth, let this oath be heard. Valarond Peniron, my brother, will you swear to act in defense of the treasure I have resigned to our mother, Alacria, to obey her directives concerning its safety, and to keep its identity secret from all others as long as you are able?}:
You accept the gesture. "I swear!"
:{Should Alacria and Annacondra, the Midnight Sky, be unable to continue their guard, will you swear to protect my treasure in their place until you are no longer needed?}:
If that treasure is so important, that could be a long time. "I swear!"
:{Should all precautions fail, and my treasure is lost or taken, do you swear to retrieve with all of your capabilities and keep it from destruction?}:
"I swear!"
:{Then in the name of the Esser-three and by the blood of Earth, let it be signed.}:
"Let it be signed," you echo, then yelp as your brother pulls you into a crushing embrace, breaking the solemn moment. —the scent of freshwater-salt-cirrus-parchmentbecomes saltwater-cirrus-parchment—
—becomes saltwater-cirrus—
—then just saltwater… "Not on him." You think he murmurs something into your shoulder, but it the wind is strong. "Esser and blood, on my head be it."
-
"Arond, Arond Windor, respond!"
Water splashes over your head, jerking you out of your mind with a gasp. Eis Waterstone—and his signature soap-lemonwater-steel scent—is bearing down on you with the full intensity of a healer trained to counter manipulators. And suddenly, you remember what you were doing. Where you are. The High Revenge, with night pressing in from the east.
Behind your first mate, windbloods and waterbloods, Cold Navy and Dawn Alliance alike, lie in a double row across the deck, stretched out like the bloodied catch of the day, with varying healers of the Northseas and Endinfalls from the combined shifts tending to the wounded. At the farthest end lie the quietest ones: nine crewmembers whose faces are covered by strips of cloth (and one more). A full third of the day shift lies injured or dead, and for no purpose you can discern.
Eis had been performing triage on the worst cases, and that is where you found him. You had been in the middle of debriefing him when you caught the thread of a half-forgotten memory… heard Vespian's voice, and impulsively chased it down.
The note of panic in Eis' voice was telling. How long had he been calling?
Doubly aware now of observers, you test the integrity of your sound-isolating sphere, which you had raised for discussing more sensitive matters. It is but a pale reflection of Vespian's skill. Still, the technique has not faltered enough to be worrisome—a little unraveling about the edges, but not enough to let clear words slip through. Eis' swift actions have not gone unnoticed. Kir Dansteppe (scent of seawind-wood), one of your more zealous young recruits, has dropped her armful of sailcloth and unsheathed her dagger with clear intent to spring on your first mate from behind. You wave the brunette windblood off with a sharp arm motion, but she either misinterprets the motion or refuses to heed it, and dashes forward with the characteristic lightfooted grace of her Firstmother. The sound bubble mutes her approach from Eis' ears.
"Behind!" you snap, and Eis pivots, a thin blade sprouting at his fingers, his water following the motion in a narrow, dense stream ready to strike.
But before Kir can enter his range, one of Eis' healers steps in, grabs her wrist, and disarms her with a skillful twist. Surprised, you recognize the dimly lit cast of the man's weathered face: Din Endinfall (scent of soap-pepperdust), a member of the Dawn Alliance, a veteran of the Winter, handpicked for the twilight transition—half night shift, half day. Din appears to say something, to which Kir argues back, pointing at Eis. The brown-haired Endinfall responds by jabbing his chin in your direction. Kir meets your eyes in question, and you nod. She glares at Eis, then turns away, yanking her dagger out of Din's hands. The man nods at you and Eis, a self-deprecating smile on his lips, before returning to his healing task.
"By the four directions, you chose that Endinfall well," you comment to your first mate. "Three steps more, and Dansteppe would have broken my sound block."
Unfortunately, the incident was not enough to deflect Eis. He is not pleased.
"You reckless fool! You're just as bad as the flight risk. You know you get stuck in your head when you try to reach for memories in the essence," he hisses. "When the foremost healer in the world tells you not to force it, you don't force it, Windor!"
If he had not been in the role of Eis your friend now instead of First Mate Waterstone, you would have had him disciplined for the blatant disrespect. But he has the right of it, and he scolds you out of worry, not spite. Nevertheless, the healed memory replays like a broken echo. I had forgotten my own brother's scent.
"It was not a lost memory. Broken, now healed." ["Your core and body will mend, and your memories will repair themselves with time, but I know you little—I cannot tell who you are!"]
Your jaw tightens at the reminder. "An oath, to my brother, but I had forgotten the exact words until now." But it is for that oath that you are on this mission. Why his words ring true. You may have to give up…
Eis has nothing to say to that. He knows the importance you place on memories, and as a protective brother himself, he knows, or has guessed, what you would do to repair any memories concerning Vespian. He exhales, re-conceals his knife, swirls his waters, rakes his fingers through them with a harsher than normal flick to remove impurities, and lowers himself to place his hands back on the patient he had been healing. Calm on the surface once more.
"You don't make oaths lightly," he observes, "and you've gone this long without knowing the specific words. Remember what the Morning Sun said. Your memories will be fully restored in time. Don't chase them."
You nod at the advice, though the talons of impatience dig in worse than knives. "Another time, then. Do n—I will not chance it without you by my side."
Asking Eis not to worry is sure to have the opposite effect. Even so, from his face, he is not pleased with your partial concession.
"You overestimate my skill in mind-healing. I'm not Reyzan Redtail. I cannot bring you back if your core shatters and your sky crumbles because you wouldn't listen," he says bitterly, as if being unable to achieve that miracle was a personal shortcoming.
"I do not expect to get to that point." ["I'm sorry that I have caused you such distress," a gentle voice murmurs. "Forgive me. Would that I could heal this damage any other way!"]
"You didn't expect it before either," he returns, tone sharp, snatching a roll of clean bandages.
"You go too far, Waterstone," you say warningly.
He pauses. "…My apologies."
"Forgiven."
You must have worried him more than you thought, for him to bring up your weakness. You are keenly aware of the healing flame that keeps you alive. [An endless field of red grass blazes in a shattered sky just before dawn. The living blades pierce through your core, spearing each fragment, ancient fire searing into wind. It is the worst level of intrusion, violating even as it purifies. You are cauterized together, the cracks filled with fire, like a weapon reforged. You cannot speak. All you can do is lie on the ice, helpless, surrounded by allies and enemies alike as Winter rages at every level of the atmosphere.]
One day, daylight will tip the balance of that flame and end your life. But today is not that day, though Eis always thinks up the worst scenarios. Despite your friendship—or because of it—Eis can be a difficult subordinate when he believes he is in the right: even more so when the matter concerns your wellbeing. You are a man of many regrets. Counting Eis Waterstone as a friend is not one of them. Nevertheless, sometimes you wonder if Father was right—that given a choice, one should not choose a close friend as a second in command.
To think it had begun with you caring for him. You could never forget finding him alone in the Winter, time-frozen as a child of ten, surviving by catching fish with his waters. That he had chosen to follow you instead of allowing you to return him to his family was unexpected (the understanding came far later). That he would become the only man you know of who has suffered essenflay and survived… If Vespian were here, he would never have let your friend go. The same might be said of the other scholars of Kalmeri, where Miragua holds power. Perhaps it is for the best that Eis had asked you to blame his idiosyncrasies on an early Awakening. The truth is less believable.
"Arond."
You know that tone. The "say something, I'm not really a mind-reader even though I know what you're thinking" tone. "We can speak of my problems when times are less demanding. Let us speak of other matters," you insist. "I would hear your opinion, Eis, if convenient. Do you think my father ordered this attack?"
The lines of your first mate's face reveal his reluctance to change topics, but he complies.
"If Viperilon sought to weaken you, he picked the best time to do so." Eis' hands and water move lightly across the gash in his patient's thigh. You recognize the motion as part of the procedure for cleaning wounds. "This was an attack at our most vulnerable moment. A cheap strike. It would've succeeded, were it not for some quick thinking and reckless gambles by young stowaways."
Crow… and Jet. You wish you had spoken with the son of earth from Florialis more than those two times. Whether by fate, wishful thinking, or chance of crossed facial features… seeing him with his ink-dyed hair had thrust you back to the time you met the twins, with them looking so much like Vespian that it hurt to speak. The void left by your brother was too near even then. The unexpected similarity was…
It had been an illusion. You have come to terms with the impossibility of Jet—woodfire, seawater, northeast wind, scent heavy with another's fire-steel-sand-ash—being a blood relation. For one, you know all of your close kin. Altiria has only lately come of age, and Vespian had been married to his studies, striving to use ink to wash the blood from the name Kellinan. As for you, none of your children have ever survived to their first breath. Even if, by strange circumstance, such a child lacked scales, no child of Peril would ever be left without their winds, so far from family. Blood is blood, and there are few enough descendants of Alacria and Viperilon.
Fewer still… If I believe the rumors, you think grimly, mind flickering to that old message about the twins.
The loss of Jet had hurt more, somehow, than that of your other crew members. A young life cut short, a potential never to be realized…
If I had set him on his island as he wished, would he still live?
Yet your feelings toward the young one are as clouded as the air over a simmering sea. Although the crew may well owe Jet their lives, to thank him is adjacent to thanking him for harming your only sister. At best, Altiria is down with a raging headache. At worst, mindscarred—trapped in her head. Esser, please, not that. Have I—have we not lost enough in this life?
You breathe, shaking the thought away. Do not wander. Eis will worry more.
"Father never acts without a goal or reason. This attack could not have stopped me from proceeding. What could he gain from removing my crew?"
Eis grimaces. "A worthy question. As you well know, the direction of the wind may change on a whim. Maybe now, our deaths serve his path better than our lives."
If Father had truly ordered Altiria's attack, he has betrayed you… but would he?
If the corruption was not fully removed from him, as Ves hypothesized, then perhaps…
But past evidence is against him seeking to assassinate you, although in darker moments, you have questioned it.
"If I could know why Altiria attacked, then I could better guess Father's intentions," you muse. "The strike carried a sense of impulse, but Father would have trained such a reaction out of her years ago. You said she was burned?"
"So it seems. There is enough evidence that the stow—Jet's firestone knife is what ended her attack. From appearances, he baited her into manipulating him and chose to take her down the only way he could perceive to work. His actions were… too calculated to be wholly an act of chance," Eis notes reluctantly.
Firestone. She was directly mindstruck with fire, wind's opposing essence, driven by the will of a young man resolved to sacrifice the flame of his life. Tempest, Blood, and Water, Jet. With the tiredness of stress, you funnel the shards of emotion inward into the cold. This is not the time to grieve a sister who may not be lost.
"I see," you murmur. "Then there should be no further attacks from her before she recovers." If she recovers. "Crow did well to capture her servants. She cannot reach us with a broken chain."
You share no close bond with Altiria, but your interactions have been mutually respectful and cordial. She has always carried a deep hatred for traitors and cowards, and your strained relationship with Father is no secret. Would she act against you on her own if she suspected you had betrayed Father? Would she ignore shared blood to end your life?
"Why must it be Altiria?" Eis asks. "Could it not be another manipulator?"
"There is no other manipulator like her under Father's command. Her range is far greater than I knew, but the ability is within her ken."
Altiria's seagulls had confirmed it when questioned, though the morning screech dialect is strange enough to translate. Just as strange as Crow knowing the details of your sister's ability well enough to counter it. Altiria's birthright is not hidden, but neither is the knowledge sown like salt on the seas. Perhaps Crow had been one of your sister's training partners? In that case, it would fit for him to be a descendant of Vengefall and Aunt Anna. His presence is quiet enough. He would be of the first generation, then, and at his age would have mastered shifting between forms. But that cannot explain his dismal control of his blood-domain. You had originally attributed it to a possible early Awakening, but if he is a first—
"What of Viperiel and Valicors?" Eis specifies. The tips of his water-coated fingers slowly clear his patient's lacerated flesh, drawing the edges together. It is his nature to be thorough in all things.
A shadow passes over your thoughts. "No. Father has never brought the twins away from the Whirlwind Isles. Besides…"
"There's those rumors that his youngest was killed." Eis voices the very words that you have tried to push to the back of your mind. "I know you don't think he did it. Yet did your nightgull not tell you that a black dragon had been seen leaving the area around the rumored murder?"
You still cannot confirm the information you received from Kruaa those weeks ago. You cannot confirm that either of the twins had been harmed.
"It is true that there are few black dragons in this world, and nearly all of them serve Father. Which of them would dare harm a young drake of his blood?" you ask rhetorically. "Father would not be responsible for the death of one of his line. People would willingly follow a monster, but most would desert a willing kinslayer. He knows this. He is not a fool, to risk losing allies by destroying his own family."
Eis says darkly, "He has enough servants to keep his scales clean."
You ruthlessly squash the surging in your chest before it can destabilize the layered sound bubble, but a chill still surfaces in your reply. "Do not speak unfoundedly about his character. I cannot find justification or defense for Father's actions during the Winter or the oath he forced upon your people, but since ages past, he has never been the first in line to turn against his own."
"You." Eis nearly rises, and by the set of his jaw, he looks as if he will draw his sharp tongue against your comment about his people. Instead, he says, "Arond, you—earlier, you said the twins. Altiria and the twins."
You blink, blindsided by the abrupt change of topic. "Yes. What of it?"
His reply grinds out like stone on stone. "It… occurs to me that, somehow, though I have known you for most of my years, I know so little of your family. It truly doesn't make sense that Viperilon would keep the… twins out of play… unless something has gone wrong. Evidently he has not held your sister back."
The night grows just a mite colder. Eis is sure that the rumors are true. He is rarely wrong whenever he feels certain about something. But you do not have evidence.
"I could tell you very little, for I have only once met the twins face-to-face," you deflect. "Father must have kept them away from me whenever I disembarked." Perhaps he feared you would gain the courage to follow Vespian's lead—to leave, and take your people with you. If he cared just enough. Perhaps…
For a moment, you revisit the fantasy of departing the Whirlwind Isles with Justicia and the twins, unquestioned. At night? Never. In sunlight? You might end up dying from your weakness first. Beyond that, the boys would have been raised to be loyal to Father. They could choose to stay with him rather than go with you, a virtual stranger. Uncle's lessons cut true; how can a bird choose to fly free if he cannot see the bars of his cage? At least the brothers had been… are safe on the Isles. That was all they needed: to be safe, to be together.
I cannot confirm that either have been harmed. Not yet.
"Their ages cannot be far from your sister's," Eis thinks aloud. "Regardless of their potential bloodright, they're sons of Peril. They wouldn't lack in ability, and they would have full control of their shifting and at least some over winds by the traditional age of Awakening. I doubt he would fail to secure the best training for his children."
"No. He would not." Which is why he sent you and Vespian to Uncle for your earthen martial education, though to Father's displeasure, neither of you took to the sword.
"Then they would be strong—together, perhaps strong enough to bar entry to the Whirlwind Isles." Eis snaps his fingers. "But are they truly needed while the Evening Sky holds watch there? Would Viperilon entrust his youngest children to Vengefall? If he cannot, it's more logical than not for them to accompany him."
The bond between Evening and Midnight Skies, between Vengefall and Father, has endured since the First Age, waxing infamous during their corruption, but now… that last question is difficult to answer. Otherwise, the observation rings with sense. The twins would be around Jet's age. They should have performed the customary solo flight by now. What reason, then, would Father have to keep them aground? Could he think them not strong enough?
You sigh. "Speculation of these matters will not help us now. Aside from me… my suspicions on the attack… there are more critical matters at hand. I require you in the night shift awhile." It will be difficult for him, but he is capable.
Eis takes a moment to bandage his patient's wound, ruminating over your order. After a long beat, he says, "You'll want Flincolian to take my place in the day, then. You expect a night uprising. Mutiny."
"Perhaps." You gesture at the crew, the damage, the rows of casualties. "The Bloodwind has played a card that I cannot overturn. We must reconsolidate our strength, for I cannot conceal our path from the crew any longer. They will unavoidably know that Uncle is our true target. He is just over the horizon, and our paths will cross, for good or ill. Can I count on your support?"
A breath. "You know you can."
Although you did not expect him to refuse, his agreement is a weight off your shoulders. It is good to have his strength behind you, no matter his diminished state.
"Then I shall confirm it—the High Revenge will no longer distance herself from the Red Herald."
"You have decided, then, to reach him at last." His tone is as featureless as a dark pond.
"Yes. My decision will stand after tonight."
"As an enemy?"
The question gnaws at your innards. "I confess… If there is a way to retrieve the objective without a fight, I would wish for it."
"There is a non-zero chance that you could meet Tarrow Mylston without bloodshed," he says, an unreadable expression on his face.
Non-zero. That phrase would be bleak coming from anyone else.
A smile crosses your lips. "Careful. Your optimism is showing."
"Optimism?" Eis scoffs. "I speak of reality. The crew might throw me in the brig as a disguised Naskyn for displaying optimism."
"None outside the touch of the Winter might notice if you were a Naskyn." Except, perhaps, Crow. Few others in your crew have likely ever had the training or experience to spot Aunt Anna or her children.
He shrugs, turning his head. "Perhaps. Arond…"
That is the third time today. "I know. You do not need to remind me again like an overbearing old woman."
"Shouldn't I?"
"I know the lives I am risking, and so will everyone else after tonight."
"When?" he challenges. "At the last moment? What would you trade for the chance that Mylston still holds the—the thing he wants?" He exhales and taps the area over his lungs pointedly. "Is the cost less than that of making peace? Remember the Frozen Firefields. It's Vitarrow or Viperilon. One may be your death. You cannot follow both!"
"I am aware. The choice will be up to Arond Windor, not Eis Waterstone," you say firmly.
Your first mate's eyes blaze near cerulean. "As it should be."
By the northeast, the last time he displayed this type of positive intensity was before his last encounter with his mother. You marvel at how far he dares push you today. Perhaps something in the daytime had re-awoken his old self? Hope curls in your chest.
"Have I addressed your concerns?" you say lightheartedly.
A sigh. "That remains to be seen."
"That will do for the moment. Besides, there is one more issue to address. Waterstone, once your patients are out of immediate danger, collect Flincolian and Seffon and bring them to my quarters immediately. I would hear counsel from all three of you. It is long past time that we discuss what our next moves shall be."
Your first mate straightens. "Seffon!" Consternation tinges his voice. Understandable.
You blink slowly once. "Yes. With Rakela gone, you are the next best mediator between us."
Although Rakela (scent of parchment-saltwater-ink-copper-rum) could not match you for raw power, she—as one of Miragua's ranked historians and storykeepers—had commanded the respect of the Dawn Alliance-aligned waterbloods, particularly the Northseas, Swifthands, and Bluefinns, many of whom had endured harsh captivity. You are more than thankful that she made a call that saved many lives, but maintaining the tenuous peace will be difficult without her.
It takes a moment for the idea to set in. A near-soundless groan escapes your first mate. "Maelstrom, you're serious."
"It would be necessary even if Rakela had remained. Unless you know how to conduct final ceremonies at sea?"
"Unfortunately, ceremony was not one of my fields of study." He clicks his tongue. "Seffon…"
"It is still in the later hours of evening," you note. "You may catch your quarry still abed if Water favors your hand. There is no need to be discourteous, but… use force if necessary."
A tight smile of steel answers you. "Understood, my captain. Is there anything else you desire? A cup of your favorite tea, all three Jewels of Essence, old Ferralong's head on a platter?"
A surprised chuckle leaves your lips. It is strange, now, that of those three categories, a proper cup of snowmelt cloudberry tea may be the most difficult to obtain. "Perhaps another day." You clasp one hand to your chest and incline your head a touch, friend to friend. He returns the gesture. "As you were, Waterstone."
With a thought and a hand twist, you disperse the sound channel. The rush of returning sound is momentarily disorienting. Kir and Din still linger nearby. The Dansteppe turns her wary eye away from your first mate and salutes, and the Endinfall nods at you with a half-smile. You nod in acknowledgment as you sweep past.
It is rare that a talk with your first mate leaves you with more mysteries than answers. Despite yourself, your mind hesitates over that restored memory. Because of the Winter, it is more than obvious what your brother's treasure is, that Mother and Aunt Anna had failed in their oaths, and that some (like Eis) have realized why the Sheer Winter was so powerful... how it affected them more than any storm could. It now falls to you to find what was lost, though once you retrieve it... well. That is a problem for if you succeed.
You cannot understand why Ves would want to keep his impending death secret from Father. He would have listened to Vespian, or at least heard him. How many lives would have been spared from the Sheer Winter had it been your brother, not you, who stood between him, Miragua, the scholars of Kalmeri, and the elite of the Cold Navy at the crossing of the Midnight Meridian and the Blue Parallel?
The natal night with the waxing moon-claw provides a joyless background that matches your mood.
Despite the damages, crew morale is not crushed, but only dampened; however, the looks of suspicion between past and current enemies have only grown harder. No fights have broken out. Good—they still have the presence of mind to keep to your rules and bounds. Yet the bitter embers have been stoked anew. You, too, have received a greater number of challenging glares from former Dawn Alliance members when they think you cannot see.
A total disaster, if not for the crew's decisions. I brought them here on this quest, risking their lives for an oath they did not make… Am I fit to command them? Am I truly saving them from a miserable fate, or merely ensuring their doom?
Returning to familiar winds and waters should have been assuring. No, assurance is absent because of the morning. To hear a firsthand report from Eis had been one thing, but seeing what had been wrought in your isolation… That truly destroyed all semblance of comfort.
Under the light of clear-burning lanterns, a mix of ash-blond Graysmiths and Bledforms and a couple Vinstroms and Dansteppes are moving the worst of the spars and debris into jagged piles. The tallest stack has already grown to the waist height of an average man. None of the masts had been significantly damaged, thank the Esser, though the waterbloods are still assessing the damage to the hull.
The crew gives the shattered area near the helm a wary berth. Crow—who is almost scentless, a hint of north winds, old feathers, fallen leaves—had stood there, bearing the winds in the corridors against the pull of gravity. The joinings of the deck had warped, cold-seared to their shatterpoint—a testament to the raw power within the young one. The frost around the ragged gash has barely finished melting.
I could easily perform the same feat, but I am of the first generation. He is far too strong to be less than the same.
Your eyes track easily in the dark, and you find the hooded young one quickly, lying at the far end, still recovering from his life-saving maneuver. He has not moved from the side of Jet's body. Had they formed a bond in that short time? A stab of guilt nudges you back.
Though Crow had refused to speak of his bloodline—and you are loath to force him to after the unthinkable trust he offered you on your first meeting—perhaps he will answer now. Exhaustion loosens many tongues. What danger does he face by revealing his identity?
[]Ask Crow about his true identity.
[]Do not ask just yet.
Time flows. You must continue overseeing your subordinates, the twilight shift change to night, and the delegation of repair duties. Later, though… There is something else you can do before meeting with your officers—communicate. There is more than one way to find answers. Of course subterfuge is an option, but perhaps there is no need to skulk around like a criminal—after all, you did nothing wrong. Perhaps Father will humor you. If Altiria's strike was, indeed, an attempt on your life or your crew's lives, then what else could he do? Cast aside all pretense? You scoff.
((Your following decisions may affect loyalties and current/future alliances.))
Should you contact your nightgull spies aboard the Bloodwind?
[]No, the Bloodwind may be on high alert if Altiria truly is down.
[]Yes, they may have some important information.
Should you draft a message to send to Father?
[]No
[]Yes (Choose one or more.)
—[]Ask about the purpose of Altiria's attack.
—[]Ask about Altiria's status and health.
—[]Ask about the twins' status and health.
—[]Tell him about your memory concerning Vespian.
—[]Write-in
A message to Uncle may produce fruit as well. Although he is unlikely to turn to meet you, he might slow down if he considers you part of his path. That… is a dangerous niggle of hope. The prospect of meeting fills you with equal parts longing and dread. What does Uncle think of you now? Would the Morning Sky be the same after his time in the Labyrinth Deep? Would he resent your stance during the Sheer Winter? Would he meet in peace if he knew the details of your mission? Would he think you a coward for having some of his allies aboard to blunt his sword? More importantly, would he know where Mother has gone? If so, would he answer, or would he draw his peerless edge against his nephew, his last living pupil?
Best be polite.
Draft a message to Uncle?
[]No
[]Yes (Choose one or more.)
—[]Request a peaceful meeting.
—[]Tell him the details of your current mission.
—[]Ask about Mother's location.
—[]Tell him about your memory concerning Vespian.
—[]Write-in
-
-
You are Eis.
After Arond leaves, you exhale. What a mess. Due to the day's events, you'd been far too emotional during the debrief and the following conversation (couldn't have predicted him impulsively memory-chasing now of all times). Your assumptions about his family structure were overturned. Serving fully on the night shift… You're weary of it, for more than one reason. Seffon…
"Din Endinfall," you speak aloud.
The brunet healer straightens and turns to face you. "Yes, sir!"
You pull him aside. Although the man appears to be in his mid forties, he's actually younger than you. He'd entered the Sheer Winter rather late.
"Endinfall, you're in charge of the rest. I have my orders," you tell him.
He salutes. "Leave it to me. It's about time you stopped, anyway. You've been running the healing cycle nonstop since sunhigh."
"That's no concern of yours," you say coolly. Just because you personally selected the Dawn Alliance waterblood for his healing experience does not mean you're friends. That he was released from labor on Lesser Obsidian was a side effect. That he's right about the exhaustion seeping into your bones… is irrelevant. "Just keep our people breathing, and be prepared—the captain may need you to switch to the day shift after tonight."
"They're not your people," a scathing voice chimes in. "Leave him be, Din, and maybe he'll do us a favor and work himself to death."
"Tsk! Show respect to your superiors, Kir!" Endinfall's disappointment in the girl is evident.
Humorous. The two, with their brown hair and furrowed brows when serious, could easily pass for a father and his teenage daughter. Their interaction does nothing to dissuade that appearance.
The girl throws one hand in the general direction of the others in the shift transition. "Do you think I'm the only one who thinks this? The Revenge ran hunt missions just fine before he became first mate, then on this trip, everything goes wrong. Running aground on sandbars, scraping the keel on reefs that suddenly appear, mysteriously rotted sails, kelpies in the cursed Sundering Seas—all the bad luck at once! What else could it be? Either we've been cursed, or Waterstone sold us out to the dawnlovers!"
"I'm a dawnlover," Endinfall reminds her, gesturing at his bare right shoulder, tattooed proudly with the linked sun tri-rings of the New Dawn Alliance.
You also know that, hidden by his weather-worn tunic, he has a stylized claw-flipper-tail triangle over his heart, symbolizing the old Rising Alliance. A true follower of the Rising Three.
"Sir, with all due respect, you're an Endinfall," she says, as if his bloodline rewrites his allegiances and defines his whole identity. "Waterstone has more than enough reasons to turn traitor!"
You shrug. "Think what you want. My loyalty lies with Arond."
Even if you'd shared enough information with Rakela to slow the pursuit of Tarrow Mylston—wading with the waterdogs, as the flight risk called it—you would never betray Arond the way you betrayed Lisen years ago. Besides, he knew that there was inevitably going to be some information exchange with Rakela (though he doesn't know every detail of your interactions). Delaying Arond from taking action before he makes a clear decision of his alliance is hardly joining yourself to the paths of the Rising Three. It's worrying that he has yet to definitively choose a side. Perhaps the day's events will force his hand.
"Prove it," the girl challenges. "Swear it on—"
"—the Esser?" You smile at her with feigned warmth. "No. I do not need to prove myself to you."
The autumn-born child's opinion doesn't matter, and certainly not at that ridiculous price. She lacks Lisen's ability to twing your strings. She did not endure the Winter.
She desperately wants to stab you with her dagger. Perhaps only her respect for Endinfall holds her back. "Faithless dog. The captain is not the whole crew! Captain Arond may trust you, but we can't trust someone who refuses to demonstrate his loyalty."
"Then you are blind," says Endinfall, taking a step between you and the girl. "Do you think I was joking when I said he's been healing since sunhigh? Triage and deep-knit wounds, all while you slept in peace! There's trained healers who'd drop after two hours of superficials. If you have an issue with the man who's saved the most lives today, settle it in sparring time!"
His defense is unnecessary but extremely gratifying, especially since the truth forces her into a grudging contemplation.
"Fine," she agrees. "There's no honor in—"
"—an unsanctioned fight. How astute," you note.
"Stop that!" the girl snaps. "So be it—I'll see you in the round tonight, Waterstone! Then everyone will see the substance of your character!"
Endinfall sighs and shakes his head.
Your smile sharpens.
[]"Your efforts to gain character development through failure are utterly inspiring. Let me help you with that."
[]"My character? Come back when you're strong enough to be part of my training arc."
[]"Be sure to bring a waterblood with you. I cannot mop the deck with hot air."
To her credit (and possibly her surrogate father's watchful presence), she doesn't jump at you. It seems there is capacity for growth. A week ago, she would not be so self-restrained.
A nod to your fellow healer. "Endinfall."
He holds his head with water-gloved hands. Relatable.
You turn on your heel and stride away, ignoring the last retort the girl aims at your back.
She's but a symptom of the bigger problem.
-
You withdraw with grace to the sickbay.
Thankfully, Lisen had left your territory sometime in the morning while you were busy on deck. The small room, with your comforting array of medical supplies, books, and vials, is devoid of all but the worst-off patient: a windblood whose left leg had been crushed by a crate that some fool had failed to batten down (amputation will not be your only option if you have anything to say about it). A dose of extract of abyssweed glazes his eyes with the gauze of painlessness.
It is your time now.
You retrieve two apples from your stash and devour them quickly, washing them down with a cup of lemonwater. A poor substitute for proper rest.
Water healing, above other works of essence, desires a mind that matches the temperament of blood—the patient's blood. Water seeks equilibrium, normalcy, the middle ground. You have a moment to think, to philosophize. To resharpen. Heh.
First to go are the scalpels in your kit and belt, then the small knives in the bracers under your sleeves, then the stiletto daggers at your left leg, right boot, left arm, and back.
Maintaining your knives is a meditation. The soft cloth in your left hand absorbs the last moisture from the corridors, removes the salt of sweat and the sea. The scalpels, the throwing knives, the stilettos… The waterstone steel whispers like silk under your care. (Like death.)
Shhff… shhff… shing!
These blades aren't named. Not once. Not by their creator, nor by you, nor by others. Unlike you, thrice named, once… resigned. Does the name make the named, or the named make the name?
Now that's a question for the philosophers and onomatologists. Most follow one side or the other to various degrees. Arond ascribes to the first school of thought, for his entire life and sense of purpose revolves around his names. You hold with the second, for your name, Eis (First free), rebelliously chosen, might've saved your life.
Are we our names in essence, or does the essence define our names?
There's a reason why they aren't to be played with—why the stowaway should never have been testing a name-based essence ability. Names are tied too closely to blood. To the essence of the Gift. To the core.
Shhff… shhff… shhff… shing!
The core… When Arond chided you, you hadn't missed the look in your captain's eye. The one that shows he hasn't forgotten the price you paid for two to sidestep his father's oath. A sardonic smirk crosses your lips.
The price of freedom for one is steep. For more than that? Moreso.
Maelstrom, it was enough that Arond had seen you at your worst—somehow Lisen had noticed too (as you cut off his final escape). When Arond finally was able to remove him from the Bloodwind, you'd been successful in dealing only with business with the flight risk before he baited you out with Jet.
…You are not going to blame the dead for your problems.
Well. All those alive are still dying, and those who are dead are done trying.
Heh.
You loathe each failure with every drop of your waves. It never gets easier. So what do we do to avoid failure?
We prepare.
Shhff… shing!
Your scalpels gleam, immaculate. Instead of placing them back on your person, you lay the tools in a molded carrier case in a locked box hidden in a secret compartment in the underside of your table. You remove a small vial from the box before shutting it once more. The vial contains your personal paralytic cocktail: an infusion of concentrated krakenspawn ink (newly harvested) and waspfin venom, bonded with extract of kelp.
Despite your misgivings, you do not intend to fail Arond's order. If he wants Seffon in his council, he will have Seffon—gift-wrapped, if necessary. Waves are your least concern, but catching the second mate asleep would be ideal for avoiding a wave struggle. You would win, but the High Revenge cannot take a dedicated water control battle in her condition.
The last paired blades before you are as familiar as they are priceless, forged by Eithanael Waterstone himself: two knives, a principal and a spare, of the highest quality of the eponymous metal. You are thorough in priming your weapons. Each careful wipe of poison on metal increases the success percentage of your task… should Seffon be disagreeable. The sooner you get it out of the way, the better. Thus prepared, you replace your tools, re-arm yourself, and reach for the door of the sickbay, ready to confront one of your demons.
Then Lisen Ferralong Redtail flings the door open and shoves past you, nearly bowling you over, green eyes as wild as you've ever seen them. He ducks your instinctive punch, tugs the sheet off your patient and snatches a bottle from your desk, pivots on a limpet, and shoots back out the door, slamming it in your face.
"Flight risk!" Blood running high, you reopen the door and start after him out of reflex, then halt, conflicted.
His expression had not been unlike that of a fox trapped in a deep hole, and the paleness of his face had matched the sheet, making his auburn hair stand out like blood on snow. Your suspicions rise. For one thing, he's awake at night, when his strength is in the daylight hours (closer to midday). For another, he'd completely avoided a confrontation with you. For yet another, you'd known him for nearly all the years after the Sheer Winter. He'd endured hardships that you would not wish on an enemy, yet very few things could turn his cocky smirk upside down (and you are one of them). What in the three waking domains could shake that troublemaker?
You are of two minds. What action do you prioritize?
[]Follow Lisen and question him on his doings.
[]Follow Arond's orders to bring Flincolian and Seffon in to counsel him on his next moves.
—[] Find Seffon belowdecks first, then speak to Flincolian.
—[] Flincolian is on the upper deck. Speak to him first.
-
-
You are Nyla, which means you're not an idiot. The idiot is at the other end of the boat, shivering miserably. You'd threatened Brand into compliance with your untrained waves and the power of your untamed nightgull. The now-shirtless pimply pineapple of a Graysmith is trying and failing to dry out, scattering water droplets every which way. Tsk. The guy is too soaked and afraid to ask for help from you, the waterblooded healer's apprentice who pulled him out of the sea.
The sea. Esser, the sea! Who are you kidding? You know nothing about the deep sea! Its presence is the opposite of comforting. The radius of your waves reveals little more than a nearby current, but you don't know how to read it.
They'll wake up and see you gone. They'll look everywhere, and they won't find you. Uncle Jard will be depressed for months. Aunt Merry will be crushed. Earth bleed it!
You can't show weakness in front of your unwilling companion. You're controlling him now only through fear and his discomfort, but he's a windblood who has a year's worth of experience over you in getting to know his blood-domain. In your past encounters, you've only come out on top due to circumstance, surprise, and rudimentary tussling experience. Who knows what Brand will be like after he's calmed down?
Water, please help me keep my head straight!
You breathe. In… out. In… out. Sssh… haaa… sssh… haaa…
It helps.
Now what? You don't know how to use stars for navigation, but you know the winds a bit. You know that there's at least one wind stream that sailors ride back to Florialis. There's a small wind blowing from the east. It might lead somewhere, or at least help you get somewhere else.
What will you do first?
[]Follow the wind.
[]See if Brand has any ideas.
[]Take inventory.
[]Try to burn your bright feather. (one use)
-
-
Confirmed perspective in the next segment?
[]Eis
[]Lisen
[]Nyla
Since its important to the safety of the crew now, sorry crow.
[x]Yes, they may have some important information.
Gut says no, but...
Should you draft a message to send to Father?
[x]No
Duck him
Draft a message to Uncle?
[x]Yes (Choose one or more.)
—[x]Tell him about your memory concerning Vespian.
—[x]Request a peaceful meeting.
[X]"Be sure to bring a waterblood with you. I cannot mop the deck with hot air."
To me, this sounds like the most Eis insult of the three
You are of two minds. What action do you prioritize?
[x]Follow Lisen and question him on his doings.
My argument is that it is obviously an upsetting thing, and you cant be having something an unpredictable lisen rushing around so soon after we've nearly faced destruction...ic. OOC, if it happens to be about Jet, I want Eis to be there.
What will you do first?
[x]Take inventory.
This is always a good step, and personally would do this before any of the other options, to plan better and get my barings.
finally...id...like to vote for both
[x]Eis
[x]Lisen
Id really like to see Lisen's pov tbh, but if he doesnt win, Eis would be a good second for me, but really only if he's following behind Lisen
Mine dudes, this should be interesting. Y'all do want answers, but to whose questions? Hmmmm. Guess it's time to take notes.
There's at least one mystery that can be answered/inferred already, but I so do hate handing out answers.
It sure is good to see y'all again. Super touched by the loyalty haha.
-
Omake V: Choosing Lisen (Dusk 3.9 alternate) (non-canon)
-
Lightly edited (lacks detail). Very much non-canon. These are some scenes of what could've happened in Dusk 3.9 if you chose to go after Lisen for that vote instead of committing to being the bait and hook (all other votes are the same, hence the same outcome for Rakky). Notably, Jet doesn't make the sacrifice play.
-
You, the consummate Ferralong Redtail, have nearly finished rummaging through all of Waterstone's stock. Interesting stuff, you would think—nah, he's just as bland as you would expect: medicine, dried herbs, bandages… nothing new from the last few times you've done this.
You regard the cup of water in your hand, take a sip, and smack your lips appreciatively. Waterstone would've filled it from the freshest of the water barrels, which are always stuffed with lemon peels. He'd think what you're intending is a waste of good lemonwater, but you digress; amusement is the finest spice of life, but indulging your curiosity is a close cinnamon second.
The door slams open, and the recent object of your curiosity enters the room. Ooh, his pattern is a conflicted sunrise if you ever saw one. Guilt, fear, self-doubt, anger… ah me, you don't like that combination in him. It muddles the 'scape of his brilliant, wine-feathered sky to a roiling reflection of blood on permafrost. You shudder. That sight is all too familiar, and the juxtaposition too close to home.
Blood on the snow. Red on white. Life on death. Empty, patternless husks, spreadeagled, dulled feathers edged with ash. Ash, blowing in the wind. Please wake up! Will the sun rise again in this endless winter? From the Inferno they came, to the Inferno they—
"—need you out there, Lis!" Jet's been talking. Whoops.
You slide on a grin. "'S nice t' be needed, bucko, but who needs a fireblood on this pile of floating matchsticks?" You hear out his explanation and watch him carefully, never once losing sight of his undulating pattern. "Kelpies, ey? And Altiria, that curl-tailed ball of adolescent angst? Ya think I could see her emotions? 'Course I can, me. Never fought her, but ya can't miss that snowcap. She's a daddy's girl through and through, manipulating others t' get her way. I'm in! But first—"
You throw the cup of lemonwater over the kid's head. Jet's pattern instantly blooms back into that wonderful shade of carnelian and rich red grape, like the rising sun chasing away the crimson sky of a sailor's warning. "What was that for?" he sputters, wiping his face fruitlessly with a sea-dampened sleeve.
"You needed some brightening up, bucko. No need t' thank me—no, really, ya don't." He's already paid your curiosity. With a bit of time and a rub or two, one more question about his bloodline may be answered.
When you step out from Eis' domain, you're immediately gassed by the cloying scent of lavender—you hate lavender—a sure sign of kelpies. Your one uncovered eye catches the dissipating wisps of a fallen cloud cover. Like the fallen wisps of the Sheer Winter. They part to reveal the thundering walls of a corridor arena, with the ship favoring a course towards the east side. They're going for the jump out. Your very bones know it. And good luck to them! The patterns of agitated and raging sailors swirl around your sight. The day shift is in shambles, injured and drawn side-to-side, split near cleanly between wind and waterbloods—a testament to that girl's use of her fearsome bloodline-inheritance. At least two bodies lie stretched out, their patterns gone. Dead.
Cursed Midnight Sky! Bloody children of Peril! Tempest take the lot of them!
Jet halts and begins to tie his lifeline short to a nearby splintered crate. "I'll stay here, try to distract her. Go help Rakky!" His pattern reveals he's in deadly earnest.
"How're ya gonna do that?" you ask, amused. How can a scrappy kid like him distract a fully trained scion?
"Star-searching!" he calls.
Ooh, does he mean what you think? There's not much else that'd fit both those words. How did a kid from the backwaters of the Uncharted Seas learn that skill? You never could get it when Captain Redtail was teaching the navigators.
…Eh. You'll find out later. Now! You throw Waterstone a casual two-fingered salute as you pass, enjoying the shrike's response of jade-spiked irritation. "Sorry, Eissy! Can't talk, got a lady t' save!"
That old seal granny, where is she? Ah, there. Portside, gray-goose hair and freckles. Her watchful stance is highlighted by blindingly bright violet whirlpools of focus on an endless sideways waterfall. You slide your eye away from her dizzying pattern, feeling faintly queasy. The war-scholar calls out directions as she and five others work with nets tied with chunks of stone and wood from the damaged deck, throwing them overboard in a parody of fishing, while four windbloods keep up a stagger of rolling winds. Outward, downward.
You draw near just in time to witness as the blue-cornflower'd sailor closest to the rakkety seadog suddenly flares with the white-hot of the untouched, glacier-covered summit of a young mountain… a mountain that erupts with liquid ice. You recognize that pattern even with your one uncovered eye.
That's enough of that!
A solid smack on the back knocks the breath from her body, and her pattern near immediately reverts back to a cornflowerish, cloth-textured lake. But that white rage is gone. Confusion remains.
"W-what was—?"
The old seal grabs the girl's shoulder, eyeing you with a thankful exasperation represented by a swirly light-purplish upwell. You look to the side to avoid throwing up.
"By me, Jella. Keep on throwin' those winds! 'S no good on us if'n one kelpie takes th' wrong bite!"
"Need help, ya old waterdog?" you call.
"Fat load ye can do! By the flipper, this'n has t' keep the water 'round here locked down or a single emotion-blinded fool could drown ye all! And then there's them!" She hefts a rope tied around a hunk of wood as big as your head and hurls it overboard. You scan its track and whistle in surprise as it crashes right through the cranium of a young male kelpie. The creature falls into formless puddle of dark liquid, which flows away and reforms: the head, then the body and front flippers, then the tail. Before the waterdog can reel her weapon back in, the creature pounces (if a legless horse could pounce) on the improvised projectile and crushes it in his strong jaws. Four other shadows wait and watch with only the tops of their heads peeking from the sea, sheltered from the windbloods' layered tirade. A hunter's intelligence lies behind their liquid black eyes.
"Maelstrom! That'n was too good a piece t' throw away!"
You grin. You'd only ever seen kelpies from a distance. "Indestructible water ponies. Like t' get one of those with legs, me, just t' run the length of the Crimson Plains in the territory of the Morning Sun. Do they come in fire flavor?"
"If'n they did, they went extinct just t' spite ye! Now how many d'ye count out there, farseer?"
Animals have stranger, much simpler patterns than humans. Kelpies, now they have a weird not-there smoke-like monotone that varies little. Hive mind, maybe? With your sharp sight, you count thirteen within five standard armspans of the surface, give or take light distortion. Above—you whistle. Whew, that's a nice-sized diamond-plate whiskerfish they've been chewing on, could make decent armor, or a fancy house—eight and a half. Mini versions count as half.
A finger-snap. "Herd of at least twenty-one—wait, no, there's another—maybe twenty-two and a half. Might be more 'n that under this floating wreck. Strike me, but I hope ya have something t' boil or ice 'em!"
The old girl is tying her rope around another piece of wood, a jagged spar the length of your forearm. "'S just Arond or Crow capable a' that, here, and this'n would not risk them freezin' our way out. I wouldn't trust yore control t' boil them out and not torch this tub. Other'n that, nonvolatile active firestone is rarer'n cloaks a' Earth, and refined coldsteel's worth its weight in jewel-grade windstone in most territories, outlawed t' the rest."
Coldsteel, huh. "That hasn't stopped ya from taking a sample!" You laugh, bashing a dagger-wielding waterblood to unconsciousness. He'd been flaring white, you swear it!
"Don't ye drop them cold!" scolds the waterdog. "We'll need them for the jump!" But you don't miss the tiny glint of ice-blue metal as she moves her hand out of your line of sight. Ha, you knew it!
"Aye-aye, bossy-boss. Sure, and tell me, doesn't this remind ya of the second clash of the Winter? A circling cloud formation, a seal keeping all the water locked, a dragon or two sowing chaos, and the token fireblood popping in for a looksee?"
"If'n this storykeeper remembers right, and I do, ye Torchheads were not there t' see that battle!"
"I know! I read your memoirs and journals. Very bracing, they were—ah, whoops, there! That one!"
"Ye did what, ye little scamp? Stay outta my unfinished records!" she yells, hurling a glob of packed water at the white-flared man you pointed towards before whirling and throwing her wood spar through another water horse.
By this time, more of the kelpie herd has detached. They peer up at the waterdog with intelligent onyx eyes. Nigh-unkillable water horses in front, a half-berserking crew behind. Even sharp-actioned Rakela is going to run out of things to throw.
You take a palm-sized splinter, blow a little ember into it as the bright laugh of Captain Redtail flashes through your mind, and lob it at one of the low-lying sneak critters. The horse snorts, blowing steam, and submerges fully to extinguish the spark. Well.
"Push them out a bit, why don't ya?" You suggest. "Can torch 'em all, me, but they're too close for keeping the bridges unburnt!"
" 'S no use if'n ye cannot do it yoreself. Only winds give 'em pause. Waters..." The waterdog flicks a wave up and sends it rushing at the steadily approaching predators, but the water breaks over them as if they're made of stone. They're unmoved.
"Immune t' water—immune t' currents. Never knew that, me. Huh." You cast a side glance at the scattering of windy sailors on either side of the waterdog. They're already running ragged from the corridor run, like one of their own winds could knock them over. "Well, there goes that idea. How about this? You an' your minions go and focus on the monsters out there, and I'll beat up the hotheads over here."
"Y're barely recovered. Can ye handle that?"
"Try me."
She barely needs to think. "Feels like 'm settin' a shark inna salmon stream. Fine! Have it yore way, mischief-maker!"
You grin. "'S music t' my ears!"
-
-
Altiria-firstclaw-location!
You, Jet, stand near Eis with your lifeline tied short in case you succeed in your task and repeat your action towards Crow. Your heart pounds in your ears with every repetition of Altiria's formula. The sea-spray has collected on your face, and you feel it dripping hot trails down your chin.
"Stop doing this, fool boy!"
Altiria-firstclaw-location!
You've long since dropped the distance parameter, keeping only the direction. You don't want to know how close she is. Everyone will die if you can't distract her, and it'll be your fault.
Altiria-firstclaw-location!
Something behind your eyes stings, as it has ever since the sixth repetition. No change. Why isn't she turning her attention to you?
Altiria-firstclaw-location!
It burns as if you've been staring for hours at the noon sun without blinking.
Altiria-firstclaw-location!
"Stowaway, I care not what Rakela says; you are no use out here. Go back to—Maelstrom's edge!—your eyes!"
At Eis' shout, you dash one hand across your face. It comes away bloody. The understanding dawns with a sinking feeling.
"Stop it now, whatever you're doing, foolish boy!"
His voice is an echo of your mentor's.
"But Rakky told me to—"
"Forget what she said! She is powerful, canny, and well-respected, but far from infallible. Stop now! I will not heal your self-destructive actions if you get blood on my clothes."
Logic tells you to stop before your emotions, your sense of obligation, hurt you more. Yet… your arrogance caused this. You've done your best to alienate Crow. Lisen lives for amusement, and Rakky is helping clean up your mess. Eis is Eis, and though complicated, he… cares, in his trademark "I don't care" way.
Your mentor is right. Eis is right. You have to stop.
You've already decided to stay on deck, not hide away. But what's left to you? Mentor… what would you do?
"Stay still. Lean against the rock, and you will have the strength to weather storms."
Nostalgia near takes your breath. That was one of your first lessons on the beacon cliff. Alright. You can do that. The crate at your back is a solid comfort as you close your sore eyes.
And then the ship lists alarmingly.
-
-
She knows where you are, crow. She knows! She's coming to kill you!
Calm down. You knew it would happen sooner or later. More importantly, where's the next bird?
As you dash about the rigging, flinging yourself through the air in a parody of flight, you spot a flash of scarlet and auburn below. Lis? Did they let him out of the sickbay? Did he let himself out? Is he alright? Did Waterstone do his job properly? You'd better check for yourself. With that, you land by the Torchhead in a rush of displaced air.
"Crow! There you are, ya flighty flyer! What's with the flying rats?" Lis asks, nodding at the longdarts in your hands. The first has two seagulls speared through the wings, alive and squawking angrily. The other has yet to taste blood.
You shrug. "S-servants. Of her." You'll clarify if you have to.
"Wait, hold—really? The prickly princess has little animal friends?"
She is hardly a princess.
No, she kind of is.
"Crow, really have t' ask this, me. Don't look at me like that! 'M on a dare from Eis. Are you a spy?"
You stop short, as befuddled as you've ever been, and ponder the audacious question. That's Lis, a man as reckless as his mind is free.
Free in all but reality.
How would Lis answer? Mind made up, you point at yourself, then at the ground, then back at yourself. I am Me.
Lisen has two default states of existence: amusement and boredom. The in-between state is quite a new look.
"Ha, are you serious? Come on, ya gotta give me more than that!"
You level a flat stare at him, knowing he can see how much you care to respond to that. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. That over, you poke two fingers towards Lis' eyes, then to yours, asking for assistance. The Torchhead nods in agreement. You waste no time aligning your sight with his. The next moment, you're seeing yourself—rather, seeing your own emotions: cobalt blue on steel frostflakes spinning through the vault of a clear sky. Your breath catches. Sliding into Lis' perspective, seeing what he sees, never loses its potency. He alone (and you, through him) can view masterpieces that will never be painted, colors that can never be mixed. Through Lis, you see your strength, your weakness, and his utter lack of doubt in your will. It's humbling how much he believes in you.
Cobalt is all you. The sky is freedom, and you are obsessed with freedom.
But steel fits. You were pretty cloak-and-dagger with your failed escape plan.
Failed.
It would have been flawless if you didn't bungle it.
You should really get on destroying Tiria's relays!
You tap the side of your head and point up. Lis takes the hint and scans the air above the sails with a gaze far sharper than your own. Every pass is pure pleasure to your artistic side, as his peripherals pass over Arond's crew. Your fingers itch to take a brush to record each and every deepness, every dimension of the core of humanity.
"Her. Pattern?" you ask instead.
"White mountain peak, boiling with eruptions of liquid ice."
You nod. "Mark… all gulls."
"Sure, I can do 'at, me."
Suddenly, the auburn-haired man lunges forward and grabs the front of your clothes, a snarl on his lips. With that, her eyes glare into yours for the second time today.
In that moment, you see triple:
Through Lis, your whirling, startled pattern, diamond dust scattering cobalt shards to the skies;
The gray and white back of a seagull in flight, lit with the stark pattern of an erupting liquid glacier, hovering high above the High Revenge; Your hateful figure, the eyes of a murderer!
Lisen cocks back a fist, aiming for your face, and the hatred in her gray eyes sends frostbite to your core. You glare back in defiance, refusing to back down this time, readying to smack some sense into your friend. Altiria took you by surprise before. Now—
With a cry, the Torchhead swings and punches himself in the face.
"Dahh! Girl thinks she can interrupt our thing?" Lis groans, and you relax at the sight of chagrined green irises. "Well, she has another thing coming! 'S time t' get serious, Crow!"
That's Lis for you. Relief and sheer admiration overwhelm the uncertainty and anger, and with your respect for him rising ever higher, you flash a hand for'ard.
The Torchhead's voice lowers. "Thought I saw something then. That was you, wasn't it? You, looking through me, looking through her, at her bird's feathered behind? 'S that how it feels t' borrow my eyes?"
You gesture a question his way.
"Yeah, saw what you saw. Now, Crow, me old bucko, no one gets that hot for no reason. What in the Inferno did y' do t' get her that enraged? My core fires went near freezing, let me tell ya!"
It's your fault.
No, it's not.
You shrug, then hold up a hand in check as your parallel vision snags on your target. A point of white hovers just past the prow. White, with lava-like flows of glacial ice.
"Steady," you mutter, fitting your free dart to the curved launcher in your hand. You don't need the winds for this. Aim… exhale. And… throw!
You're after your dart with a bound as it falls from the reaches of the high rigging, and with a quick snatch and grab, you have another captive. Three gulls.
You switch directions to return to Lis, ready to refresh your sight.
And then the ship tilts, sending you both to the deck.
-
-
You are Rakky.
"Maelstrom 'n' Miragua take it!" you snarl.
The manipulator's damage has been done. Playing defensively had bought time, but not enough. The kelpie herd's on the hunt, surrounding the ship on nearly every side; once the gap closes, you're in for a wreck. You can't see them in this churning water.
Suddenly, your touch on the water screams a warning. You sense it before it hits.
An upswell!
The ship lists to starboard dangerously, and only your seafaring balance keeps you upright as startled sailors and anything not tied down scatters to gravity.
You dig your sense deeper and, expression freezing, immediately release your hold on the for'ard waters to defend below!
Thoom!
The second impact sends the crew tumbling like crabs at a gull fest. It was stronger this time. Only your hasty defense redirected the attack to blunt impact instead of sheering insta-death.
The first was an experimental wave. This one—this was a full-on deep charge, the weight of a kelpie herd combining their speed and strength behind a concentrated water strike. The cursed horses aren't preparing—they're on the hunt! The High Revenge can't take many hits like that. What to do? Maelstrom, the crew is in no shape to face this kind of enemy! Maybe if you'd been more careful and Jet hadn't called in the dragon… Everyone but you is sunk unless you do something drastic.
But Miragua wanted you here, didn't she? Well, that might've been mostly you. But Arond's mission has to go on for now. Can't happen if everyone's drowned. Family? You can catch up with Efric some other time… if he doesn't die. No, that eel won't die easily. Then there's Eis, another cousin. He'll be alright. He's survived worse. And then there's Crow and Jet. The walking mysteries.
Your coldsteel claw burns cold in your hands. You've always done what you thought was best for each moment. Besides, you came prepared, didn't you?
You grab the auburn-haired Torchhead by the collar. "Tell Eis I'm off the ship. Take the jump. I'm sacrificin' a flippin' awesome story for ye, troublemaker! Ye know where my records are. Take them and keep them safe, or this'n will be comin' after ye ferra long time and show ye what it means t' have a red tail, got it?"
Lisen Ferralong Redtail meets your eyes, then looks away quickly like he always does, staring at a point above your shoulder. "Yes, marm! Sure thing, marm!"
With that weak concession, you turn and run for the rail, and with a mighty leap, you're airborne, high above the waves. With a twist of roles, you draw your human form deep inside yourself and flex, donning the strength of water and fur, before immersing fully in your blood-domain. Alone, with the ship at your back, you face the herd, your teeth bared in a wide grin backed by a sinuous form, pound-for-pound a powerhouse clad in pristine gray fur. You imagine the waterlight chasing your speckles as you swim. Chasing, never catching. A sliver of coldsteel gleams on the second claw of your right flipper. It'll be enough for this. Just gotta be careful you don't cut yourself.
"Well, ye sons a' seaweed? Can ye face down these flippers a' mine? I was born in the teeth a' the coldest of Winters and cut my eyeteeth on black ice! I wrote my earliest books with the quills a' nightgulls in the heart a' the whitestorm! I record the fates a' those who fall, 'cause I'm the last one standin'! None c'n stand 'tween me and my prey! Come t' this Rakky and show yore bellies, horses a' the deep! Sing yore death-songs!"
With that, you charge forward with a fearsome roar!
You're older now, just thirteen, now a cabin boy of the Sunflare; before you, the outer cloud wall of the Sheer Winter looms white and sinister, a testament to the power of the stolen Breath of the Center. At this distance, the cold creeps past clothing and flesh to your bones, but the presence of Captain Reyzan casts heat as a lamp casts light, banishing the chill.
Which in itself is likely one of the three Jewels of Essense, just like the Light of Dawn. What's the last one?
We've seen them capable of amazing feats, but what do they exist to do?
I think we should not contact Bloodwind for now, though I'll try to sort through the whys later.
[x]No, the Bloodwind may be on high alert if Altiria truly is down.
Should you draft a message to send to Father?
[x]No
Mylston holds something of ours. Something that we gave an oath to protect. The question is, protect from what?
Well, our Father, obviously, but what caused the disagreement?
Draft a message to Uncle?
[x]Yes (Choose one or more.)
—[x]Request a peaceful meeting.
—[x]Tell him about your memory concerning Vespian.
...should we inquire about the fate of our mother? It is possible to get the answer out of him, since she is a part of our oath, the one Ves entrusted with the Jewel, and we have sworn to follow her directions... but it is unlikely he'd tell us before we make our choice.
[x]"Be sure to bring a waterblood with you. I cannot mop the deck with hot air."
Now that's a burn worthy of Lisen. Speaking of...
[x]Follow Lisen and question him on his doings.
I am constantly surprised how the little things that you wouldn't pay much attention to - compared to everything else that's going on - can change the flow of the story so drastically. Perhaps the order will matter here as well, though I can't yet see how.
Clearly, Lisen has just found out Jet's fate and identity, but... how? Unless he has a habit of pouring lemonwater on freshly dead stowaways, he didn't have a chance to look at the hair or see him star-searching, so he should have less of an idea than in the non-canon omake.
[x]Take inventory.
Kruakk is inventory, right?
We know the winds, and if all else fails, he can make them. It's not guaranteed he'll take us back to Florealis, though.
[x]Nyla
That one is on me. Now that Jet has been incapacitated, I find myself wondering about Nyla's storyline and how it can possibly connect to the events that take place so far away from her.
I'll keep this post for speculations and questions I want answers to. Not necessarily ones that I want answered here and now; just something to put my thoughts in order.
How many lives would have been spared from the Sheer Winter had it been your brother, not you, who stood between him, Miragua, the scholars of Kalmeri, and the elite of the Cold Navy at the crossing of the Midnight Meridian and the Blue Parallel?
Vespian was one of the scholars of Kalmeri, who answer to Miragua.
He sided with Vitarrow during Sheer Winter, and was "killed" for it. Frozen to death, his body never recovered. It happened 15 years ago.
Was Arond's and Ves' last meeting before the disagreements between the factions boiled over? What caused the conflict? When did these events happen, and in which order?
What happened to the Breath of the Center? How did Viperilon recover it? Is it why Arond's mother is missing?
When Vitarrow broke the Sheer Winter and got banished to the Labyrinth, did he take BotC with him? Has he been on the run ever since?
What is she talking about; Crow didn't murder anyo--
"Three of five still live… that I am aware of. As you know, the eldest was slain in the Winter for siding with Vitarrow. Arond is here, the twins are wherever their cursed father sends them, and the youngest—" a flash of a grimace "—unaccounted for, presumed dead."
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."
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.
Fewer still… If I believe the rumors, you think grimly, mind flickering to that old message about the twins.
[...]
"You." Eis nearly rises, and by the set of his jaw, he looks as if he will draw his sharp tongue against your comment about his people. Instead, he says, "Arond, you—earlier, you said the twins. Altiria and the twins."
Did he kill him in the arena? Was it because of the lack of control? Or perhaps the lack of control was caused by the trauma of kinslaying?
He'll probably be dead before nightfall. Least, you've never fought the same person twice. Losers die in the pit: if not by your hands, then someone else's. (They say the monster sends his bloody twins down when beasts and captives can't amuse him. Inferno, rumor says he devours the losers. You never want to find out if that's true.)
Was it an accident? Father's orders? Is this why Crow desires freedom above all?
Edit: ah, I forgot Crow's interlude.
If only your brother hadn't chosen that morning to rebel in his own stupid way. (Why didn't he tell you? You would've helped. Avoided this situation.) Now, you're relevant. Now, you're more wanted than you've ever been in your whole life. Even from this distance, half a day away from Greater Obsidian, you imagine you can hear the rage of a dragon and the members of her Flight tearing the city apart to find you.
Tempest, couldn't you keep it in for ten minutes under pressure? You're not there anymore! You. Are not. Dying!
The Tempest roars, and all your strength is nothing. The electrifying scent of the storm fills your nostrils, and you are unmade, everything you are… dissolving away like the morning mist. No, nononono! Help! Someone, please help! I-I don't want to die! Help me, brotherrrr!
So... not the arena, not an accident, and definitely not Crow's choice, but it is still unclear how Valicors died and why Altiria blames his brother for it.
It was some kind of punishment for the rebellion by their father, but what exactly happened there?
I'll keep this post for speculations and questions I want answers to. Not necessarily ones that I want answered here and now; just something to put my thoughts in order.
