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Night 1.2 - What Remains?
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The night is still.
In the Uncharted Seas, not so far from the cusp of the legend Vitarrow's sword slashed into the oceans, a small fishing craft called
Slipstream follows the east wind as Nyla Deepheart, a little descendant of dear Malariel, uses her rudimentary knowledge of winds to direct the boat. Shivering at the other end is Brand Graysmith, an... unfortunate child of a Ferralong and little Banter. The child, to the shame of his Firstfather Vengefall, is the hapless perpetrator of the party's lostness. And finally, a pitiful young nightgull by the name of Kruakkk, with the tickling given name of Fuffles, lies prisoner on the deck between them, caged and covered by a cloak of Earth, from which he cannot escape.
{Stay patient a while longer, child of wind, and you may find your own escape.}
The little one squawks in surprise before settling. The awe in his fluttering is delightfully adorable. Perhaps
this child can learn?
Together, the trio drifts towards destruction... or toward other living creatures. Perhaps both.
I find myself most amused by their predicament. They are a welcome distraction from the waters of time, the endlessness of space, the song of the far-off horizon that calls to the void.
Hmmmm... To where shall I allow the night winds to take them?
[] Toward the nearest intelligent creature
[] Toward the nearest landing spot
[] Toward the nearest boat or ship
[] What if I gave them swimming lessons instead?
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[
A while before crashing Waterstone's sickbay…]
You're Lisen Ferralong Redtail. Normally, you would be searching for a dark corner on the lower deck to grab some shuteye (or is it shut
eyes, since they're both shipshape again?), but the drive to
know what happened during your involuntary sick leave stokes you to wakefulness.
Out and about for a quick look-see. Just the same, let's not get held back 'cause of any Torchhead-opposed airbrains.
You shrug your shirt up and bunch the collar around your chin and forehead to cover your colors under an awkward approximation of a hood—never can be too careful of who has decent night vision. A purposeful scurry while carrying a wood spar, combined with the uneven lighting, lets you easily slip past the lackeys
actually on shift.
The atmosphere on deck is thick with the murmuring bustle of a lost battle. The colors of the twilight transition crew reflect the mood, more somber and dull shades of resignation, resentment, mourning, and regret seeping into half-vibrant valleys and seascapes. Rightfully so, you find, as you trail the aftermath of destruction with a sense of dark awe. What looks like a full third of the day shift is laid out, their patterns erratic with pain, slowed in exhausted slumber, or… empty. Blending into the background like an ice floe beside a glacier. They are objects: things without a pattern of emotion, of
life. No amber-dawn fields, no lavender-soft cloth, no lakes of plum glass…
You acknowledge the first motes of horror and squash them with learned ease. You don't care a jot of a sword-tip who those people had been—they're not family or anyone you wanted to side with.
S'pose death happens with or without me being there to see it, huh.
It took you more time than you liked to pick Crow out from the crowd, right at the end of the line of sailcloth-wrapped corpses. Throwing aside the plank, you crouch by his ever-hooded head, which is propped up by a bundle of rags. Cast in the glow of a nearby lantern, the visible bit of his face between his eyebrows and nose would make any normal-sighted person think he, too, has gone to walk the Lonely Path. The kid sparks with a startled pale-blue at your approach; then he rolls back toward the covered body to his right.
"Fire
burn me, kid," you curse, getting a more thorough look at him, "Didn't ya ever learn not t' exhaust your core like that? Ya look like shrikespit!"
His frostflake pattern is alarmingly dull compared to his usual storm, with an almost matte shade over the strange dual blue swirls and iron-flakes. It's why he'd been hard to find even with your sight. What could make him crack the lid he has on his power? What else could affect Crow's stubborn will so strongly?
{Go away,} Crow signs, flicking his thumb out of a fist. His hand shakes with overcast weariness, and his whole being is shot through with neutral iron and an undercurrent of gray-blue sorrow.
You plop down cross-legged. "Belay that, don't think leaving's in the cards. What in the life a' me went on out here?"
You expect to spend time bantering before he tells you what you want. To your surprise, Crow doesn't bother with even a rude gesture; instead, he begins to sign. You realize that he's relaying the events of the morning. He's been talking a lot more these last few days, even
audibly, instead of letting your sight do the heavy inference-lifting (not because of anything you did). But this is… uncharacteristically open of him.
He's drained down, will and all. Burn and salt, what did you all have him do? No wonder he's lying around the stiffs. But why aren't ya getting him watched
, Waterstone?
You think about it briefly as you follow Crow's signing.
Did the shrike skip the healing course on the observable relation of inhibition loss to will/domain interaction, or are we really
that short-crewed? Or… did the kid out-stubborn him while exhausted
and on the bloody healing table? Really,
he's an open information hazard!
...Which is fine by you. You're not a good enough person to not take advantage of a vulnerable information source. The kid's not in any immediate danger of being overheard by anyone but you, with how the crew is avoiding the dead as if a cadaver could spring up and drag them into the ice water like Lamiferry Sorsca's undead horde. Hah. Superstitious airbrains, the lot of them. They'd probably throw themselves overboard if they ever passed by the
real Frozen Firefields.
You relax your body language further, leaning back to observe Crow's slow, fumbling narration and the diminished swirl of blue and iron as it flips through undulations of guilt, sorrow, anger, and frustration. You hum at the right places to encourage him when he falters. All the better to fill your brain's yawning hole of ignorance (all the more to figure out what's wrong with him).
You get far more than you expected.
Kelpies, the manipulation of that murdering little snake Altiria (you'll not soon forget her pattern of white erupting ice-mountains), the
High Revenge leaping out of the corridors, and now the deck is half splinter and half spars, and everyone's short one rakkety old seadog lady. That Crow, who rarely uses his winds, had volunteered to use his power to jump everyone out… that's one for the history records. The kid's downplaying it, but from the sound, you all would've sunk without him. You
saw that hole in the deck! He's more than a little powerful. The stuff of legends, and you'd come out too late to see it.
Should've gone out earlier... But really, kid—battling against a blood-domain that's eager to pour into your mind, while wrestling it into pushing a ship up a waterfall against
Earth's pull? That can't be easy even for a scion.
The old seadog would immortalize that deed once she returns to her college, you'd bet on your life and sign your affidavit. Least Crow's sorry state makes sense now.
Who were the scions of wind born post-Winter, again? The most recent three children of Peril, something-Naskyn-something-Bledf—
No. He's either Perilous or Naskyn, with
that hair (
has to be Naskyn). Beside that, by the
south, why didn't Eis call you outside instead of leaving you to lolly back? Fire is one of kelpies' natural deterrents—he should've
known that! For another… Rakky. While she and you didn't gel like seaweed and spice, the Torchheads who fought had supported Miragua's people in the Winter. That old seal's rank under the Midnight Sea's banner and her strength as a scion had checked anti-Alliance feelings, which included anti-
you sentiments.
Your pool of allies is draining so fast, they're jumping ship into predator-infested waters!
At this rate, might actually
have to properly make nice with Waterstone, me. He's horizons more predictable than Seffon. Less weird too.
Weird. Ha. Understatement. You've never understood followers of the Lucid Path. Desiring a closer connection to one's blood-domain is natural, but what
those zealots do to reach that connection is far from natural. It's barely three steps down from
essenflay, an act best left to dusty history. Your toes twitch in an emotion between pitying and appalled, and your eye twinges with phantom pain (right, still haven't figured how to pay the shrike back for injuring you).
As one who wasn't involved in the Winter, Seffon is a good neutral party in crew leadership… on paper. But Mirakela Northsea had been the real buffer between the "former" prisoners of Viperilon and the Midnight Sky's willing followers. With her gone, Seffon might reinforce the shaky peace, or he might throw wood on the fire. That'll depend on how and when Cap and the shrike decide to handle him.
You hope they get to him before he gets around them.
Blood and Inferno. Is that who I'm down to get beside? Waterstone, his wave-rippling weird uncle, or Peril's spare of a second son? 'S can't
be all
my options for getting a good night's sleep.
Crow's hands fall in the middle of your mental crisis. Silent. He watches you wearily for a reaction, flecks of grayed blue flittering in sadness and guilt. He hasn't told you everything, or he's lying about something. He's felt guilt all throughout his tale, especially in the part about Altiria. Why? What did he do, or what does he think he caused?
You take a moment to re-center, resting your cheek on a closed fist propped on your knee.
"For someone who's supposed t'
gather information, ya give it out far too freely. Are y' really a spy, kid?" you ask, affecting a dry, joking undertone.
The melancholy blues in the little scrap's pattern split into flurries of wistfulness, affection, and a wave of pride mingled with cast-iron jealousy as he mumbles a response. Jealousy? Huh, that's a different shade for him.
"…'m my aunt's. Nephew," he mumbles.
Your eyebrows rise clear under your headband. Crow usually flat-out
ignores your personal questions, no matter how casually phrased. Volunteering real information, and aloud? That's…
Earth, I thought his will was just drained
from pushing his winds and from all the death, but is he actually
dying?
An involuntary series of sparks
snap in your palm as you edge a half-armslength closer to extend your senses to
check his temperature as Reyzan's spread wingfeathers cast sunrays over your face, raising your spirits. A mite too cold, he is. You don't trust your fine control to fix that. At least whoever healed him dried him off. Waterstone's assistants are… able to follow his instructions. You'll still steal a blanket from him later.
At least you're assured Crow just needs rest. His pattern is drained-dull, not broken-patched-dull like Waterstone's.
You change your tone into something more conspiratorial while maintaining a humorous undertone. "Your aunt's a spy? Haven't heard that one before, me."
Make it sound like you don't believe a person, and they will do their best to convince you of the truth or dig their lie deeper, and give you enough information to figure out which it is.
If Crow's deadpan expression isn't a clue, unamused bluesteel flurries show he's not joking. He perks up slightly, pattern flashing brighter as he slashes a negative, points up (left-handed) with a tap from the opposite middle finger, then taps the pointer finger of a V-sign.
{Negative. Sky-at-midnight, she is (of).}
She is… of the Midnight Sky?
Knowing that the left hand is the base of feminine signs is what keeps you from an embarrassing reaction. He refers to Annacondra of the Midnight Sky, not her infamous brother, the Black Dragon.
Makes more sense if he's a Naskyn scion. Crow could very well have an aunt of Annacondra Naskyn's name. Naskyn, the mother of reconnaissance, Knower of Secrets. The origin of many techniques of infiltration and… well… spying. Naskyn, who has remained utterly neutral throughout the ages. Neutral to all but those who interest her. It's rare she even makes her presence known, content to let the renown of her sky spread through rumor and the actions of her students. But for her and Bledf—
Vengefall's numerous offspring slithering around the skies and wreaking havoc and mischief, one might wonder if she had released her cloak of Earth and vanished into the sky.
"Must be a canny one, your aunt, if she's one of moon-eyes' blood," you muse.
A snort, accompanied by a gray-blue shower of amusement. Crow negates, points up with a middle-tap, twirls the pointer finger in a semicircle, forms a circle with all five digits, then
double-taps a V-sign for emphasis.
{Negative. Sky-at-midnight, part-and-whole, she is.}
She
is the Midnight Sky.
Your heart skips a beat. "Looks like my signing is a mite rusty. '
She is'?" You mirror the sign.
Even from his sideways position, he levels a perfectly even gaze backed by utter certainty.
She
is the
Midnight Sky.
Naskyn. I can live with a Naskyn.
More confident now, you leap a few questions forward. "What was it like, being her student?"
Did he actually learn from the bloody Lady of Many Faces? Ha. Really. Is the shrike actually
right?
Crow shrugs, but the vibrant cobalt flakes rising in affection, pride, and amusement, clashing with iron indignation and jealousy (toward himself?)—that's confirmation. Woah.
" 'S no way," you mutter below the level of the sea waves. "Inferno, he'll be
insufferable."
Waterstone's Crow-is-a-spy hypothesis was one of his dumber ideas, but really? The Esser must hate you. Doesn't mean
your theory about the information leak is wrong, though. Why suspect the kid when a much more obvious alternative in Rakky existed? Unlike Eis,
she had no qualms with associating with Seffon.
Blood and fire. I forgot to check for that! You focus on the deck sharply. Darkwood planks. Startlingly dry (water-leeched for patients' health, looks like). No significant puddle within twenty steps. Nearest water sources held by healers.
Whew. Still asleep, is he?
Crow can't have been fully trained, or he would never have been caught in the beginning—unless he planned that—and certainly would've been prepared for your type of information-digging, no matter his exhausted state. He's been trained to fight, no doubt about it. But infiltration experience at his age? Forget that. If the Winter taught you anything, it's never to assume people's abilities by appearance or apparent age.
…He
has fooled most of the crew into thinking he's not worth noticing, despite being caught as a stowaway
and using a false name. Got himself protected by Arond so no one could question him. Crow's oath was real, sealed in the essence. Still, Crow's warm blue affection toward Naskyn shines as clear as glass—enough that his exhausted pattern is slowly regaining color proper.
Wait—hold.
Aunt. Not Mother or Firstmother. You freeze.
…Bloody earth. I hope aunt
is a substitute for ancestor
. Waterstone will be the abso-bloody-worst
if all
his stupid ideas are true! And I—
Shrikespit. What'll you do if Crow is
actually Perilous?
"Hey, can ya do that—" you wave your hand in front of your body— "that disappearing thing?"
Only direct descendants of Naskyn could have that ability. If he doesn't—
Are you stupid? Crow's eyes and pattern indicate flatly.
"Ne-phew," he stresses, thumb-tapping twice in exclamation.
All of his pattern spells truth.
Nephew. With Eis, you'd
joked that your little friendly was the Cap's brother. Otherwise, you'd known his colors were a sign of Naskyn or Perilous ancestry.
He's no joke, though. He's a son of the Blackest Sky.
A first generation son of Peril.
The fire in your core
flares.
No. Let no sign out. No change in breaths, no flickering expression. You are ice.
It takes all your control to keep your expression neutral.
Cursed children of Peril. Is he Viperiel of the bloody twins, or the youngest, whom no one ever sees? Crow's appearance does fit the age range… You'd been content before to not know, not find out his true background, if it meant your camaraderie could go on. The kid had grown on you fast. But if he's already a blooded killer—or an assassin with Naskyn's skills—or worse, a murderer who helped hunt down your people—then is
sentiment worth seeing his inner pattern stay lit?
Your scarred cheek twinges. You can't help but
remember.
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Your newly-Awakened fire screeches in your soul like a scab torn wide open by a hot poker. But you don't cry out. Not when your father is already mourning the Awakening he was forced to give you. At twelve. Inferno, you were way too young.
"No, Dad! I can help!"
" 'S nothing more you can do! Get t' the forest. Find your mother and sister on the foraging trail—Bledform's soldiers 're after the children of Rekavok! No—no, no, Lisen Ferralong Redtail, run yourself now. Don't stop. Don't ya look back once, son. Go now—run!"
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Your fingers curl in the shadow. Is Crow really your ally? If he's good enough to fool the rest of the crew, to get close to you too, maybe your sight isn't as foolproof as you think.
The flames in the nearest lanterns flicker as they meet your will. Scion or not, greater strength than human or not, they still bleed. It would take one movement to take his life. One. A single knife-swipe
right under the chin.
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"Ahh, I remember now! You're the one that the braid-bearded Ferralong sent away." One dragon-clawed hand lashes out from below, catching you under the chin. The claws pierce skin and anchor there, forcing you still, to look up into rust-colored irises formed into an expression of false concern under bluish, cast-iron forelocks. The suddenness of the Bledform's strike turns your yell into a choking gasp. "He said to let you go, because you were all Redtail with no legacy from Ferralong. But with those eyes? Only his were more repulsive in hue. I suppose Ferralongs really do lie long."
"D'n' talk 'bout m' dad, worm!" you grind out, the pain in the movement causing your brain to swim. Fear further clouds your thoughts. The claws are lodged far too close to an artery. With a scion's strength at that distance, your life could end with a finger-flick. If only you weren't low off your last fight! You'd burn that smile off. Where's the bloody warden? Did he
let this murderer in?
"Heheh." That horribly familiar
pattern of sickly butter-yellow curls in amusement. "Oh, you. So spirited—so innocent even here, a prisoner. I could tell your father loved you very much, lucky boy." The expression softens until it's almost friendly, but for the true colors underneath. "How's this? Convince me that he was truthful. Honor his sacrifice. Deny that you are Ferralong; cast off that cursed name, and I will set you free. I won't even tear out your disgusting eyes. Why, I'll even sail you to the port of your choice. Safe."
Your blood boils. Suggesting that you'd betray your bloodline's name to save your skin, in the guise of honor—! You'd rather die. Even Peril with all his deceptive words might stay behind that line. This isn't a person
. This yellow-hearted vermin
is deceit itself… and loves it. Revels in it. Takes pleasure in ripping your heart-wounds open.
"G' back t' the Chasm, earthson! An' y'r mud-hearted father too!"
In one movement, the claw-points flex, their tips scratching bone, and slash up at their owner's will, carving bloody trenches into your face. A derisive chuckle answers your screams.
"A good dodge. I was aiming for your eye, lucky boy. Let this be a lesson about watching your language around your masters. I will test you next time."
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Your hand relaxes.
They're not the same. Not even close. Crow has never shown positive feelings related to the Black Dragon, nor does he have a bone of cruelty in his body. He might be flighty, with the oddest changes in mood, drastic shifts in demeanor, and a streak of dark mischief, but never have you seen him deliberately hurt
anyone.
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"Ya really don't want t' get mixed up with me, kid. Sooner take care of myself than anyone else. 'Sides, the 'nest 's mine—get y're own perch. Don't need another daywatch up here, me."
A blank look. The odd, cloth-masked kid holds up an apple, spins it in on a finger, then chucks it at your head at close range. You impale it on your knife blade, a spark of inner warmth adding sincerity to your grin.
"Suit yourself. Warned ya, I did."
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For the sake of the Crow you know, you'll give him a chance.
"The Cap doesn't know anything about you, does he?" you murmur.
Of course he doesn't, or you all would be back at Greater Obsidian. No one enters a crew in disguise without a reason. And if it's a family matter, Arond would've
had to turn back.
Hesitation. A fist grasped at the mouth. {Secret.}
"Why?" you ask sharply, then bite your tongue. That came out a little harsher than you wanted.
Gray eyes close. Blue-metal frostflakes subside into that current of sorrow until he looks like a churning whirlwind of
sad. He won't talk about it even now.
He's making it much harder to think of him as malicious. But wasn't Peril good at that too?
You sigh, then quirk a smile that feels as bitter as a salt crust atop a sea-wall.
Pebble, toss.
"So. Aunt, was it? Her brother's your father, then. You the youngest of his, or what?"
Iron and cobalt bloom together in a storm of revulsion, washing away the dull shades: a strange cocktail of cerulean resentment-loss and steely anger-relief-loss-
longing that makes your breath catch.
"He's not—
:{He's not my father!}: Crow snarls. Metallic crystals of both colors create a whirlwind of diamond dust within his form. He
blazes despite his condition.
Your eyes dart to the nearest crewmembers for anyone who might've heard, then rake the deck once more. Though you see nothing and no one glancing over, you can't help but remain on edge. Nevertheless. Denying Blackie not only aloud, but
in the essence. South, he's a traitor 'gull indeed! Looks like you won't have to erase him from your increasingly short list of friendlies just yet.
Inferno, yes.
"No, yeah. Gotta agree with ya," you placate, hands raised in a soothing motion. "Nothing like him at all, y' are."
That's good enough to keep it friendly, isn't it, Captain Reyzan?
At your affirmation, Crow slowly, slowly sinks back down, brighter sky-flakes of gratefulness riding atop the deeper worries. Subsiding, but no longer dying down to that listless matte sheen. If he's deserted Peril, that explains the disguise and alias. Crow must not want Arond to get caught between loyalties. But why did the kid leave the Whirlwind Isles? Where did he get that scar—?
Your fire sparks. "He did that to you, didn't he?" You motion at Crow's neck, where he keeps his scar covered.
Steel-gray surprise, and shame mix with an undeniable swirl of deep cobalt guilt at the kid's shoulder. Not a confirmation, but the implications are worse. Crow believes the deadly wound was
his fault.
You can take a guess. The kid gets into a situation that leads to one of the Midnight Sky's underlings striking him down. He survives by a miracle and hitches a ride with Arond, the most decent of his living-and-not-absent family, and hides his identity to keep the guy from choosing between family members. Almost gets kicked off when discovered, but since he wants to
escape, even to the point of swearing an oath of servitude—
Freedom at any cost, even at the cost of freedom. Not quite your philosophy, but you can admire its unorthodox nature.
Haaaaah. Long and slow. "Who, then?"
To your dismay, Crow's steel-showers nearly engulf the cobalt. He outwardly curls in on himself like a wilting leaf. Inferno—whatever happened cut him deeper than the wound itself.
Hate it when the simplest option is the real answer.
"Don't answer that," you say quickly. You can infer the true situation from that reaction. Makes you feel like a bloody lathspit for bringing it up.
Freedom at almost
any cost. 'S not worth facing the Tempest too early, kid.
{Thank you,} Crow signs, making you feel even worse.
But not bad enough to refrain from digging more.
So you change the subject back again.
"Ya know, 'm the youngest in my whole family. 'S how it is." You shrug. Mother, Father, Dena-sissy… Captain Reyzan… Commander Remoriam… all the Torchheads… always the youngest. "How about you?" you try asking again.
Confusion. Uncertainty. Contemplation. Cobalt denial clashes with iron certainty.
Huh. He doesn't know. How does he not know?
You look around carefully once more before leaning in close. "You're a twin, aren't you?"
He huffs once, your sight confirming the truth.
Viperiel, then. Burn and salt it, you still don't know how to react.
Emotions are a trap for good action. What do I know?
Crow is nothing like Altiria or her cruel older cousin, or he's better at hiding it. You'd seen Viperiel before, hadn't you? Standing beside the silver-scaled white-mountain brat on the sidelines—he'd been all branching steel then, like a metal sapling swaying in the wind. The two had complemented each other. You've never seen a pattern change form or gain another color, just change hues. Could you have seen him wrong the first time?
Chuckle. "Heh. Bet no one ever had trouble telling you two apart."
Iron confusion.
You shrug. "No offense to your skills, but ya can't pass for a girl without help. 'Specially not
that girl. Color's all wrong. Attitude too."
Confusion melts into sudden, cobalt realization.
Your sight flickers. For a split second, you see double. Crow's gray stare and iron-colored panic. Your own scarred face, looking haggard with orange s—
Your eyes snap shut.
Bloody. Flipping. Earth.
"Told ya not t' do that without warning!" you scold. "Thought we agreed on that!"
Crow makes a noise that might've been an apology, but you're not keen to hear it.
The feedback loop that comes with you both making full eye contact with Crow borrowing your sight… that's bad enough. You don't need to see your own pattern again. Even your careful emotional control has limits. Earth, you need a distraction before you set your smoke on fire. Before you make good on your half-formed and conflicted thoughts of violence.
You count eight of your heartbeats, tilt skyward, then reopen your eyes to the night.
Can't leave him now. Not just yet.
Distraction, distraction, you need one… or a bloody pint of strong fizz.
Your hand trembles.
Why'd he have to go and do that? Can't hit a person who's still healing.
Hah.
Distraction.
Now.
Right. There's one pattern you haven't tracked since emerging from the sickbay. That wine-rich sunset, topped with a thatch of dyed-black mystery. Truly a distracting puzzle.
You smile tightly. "I'll forgive ya
a little if y' can help me find that bucko, Jet. Haven't seen him yet. Got a couple of things t' say to him, me." To discuss the favor you'd amusedly owed him, and to deliver a cup of lemonwater with his name on it.
Crow tenses, eyes flickering to the side at the body nearest him, then back. Your heart drops, following less the motion than the trail of blue sadness in it. So
that's what he left out. You transfer weight to your hands and knees and scramble sideways. Crow's pattern puffs out in a cloud of cerulean-peppered shards, the fluttery fragments extending with the bend of his outstretched arm as he tries to stop you.
" 'S'earth, no… no, no, no, bucko." Easily batting aside the kid's weak flailing, you snatch at the sailcloth covering the body and tug it down.
Schist—not another one.
You can barely recognize Jet as the same person without the pattern of a burgeoning sunrise brimming up from every corner like the finest vintage. Even a sleeping man's pattern doesn't subside to nothing. This vessel—this one is empty. A knife thrust straight through the forehead. Both hands on the handle, too. You didn't peg the stray to be a suicide risk. He
seemed to be taking the trip well.
Shows that your sight has limits.
I couldn't care less about most of the others, but you—you had no part in our war. Blood and Inferno. You shouldn't have been here.
Your hand rises, touches your forehead over your headband, then lowers to rest at your sternum in salute.
Inferno, Tempest, Maelstrom… whichever… receive him well. Even if he ran to the last. Jet, whoever you were, hope you found it in the end… some kind of peace.
Crow calms, stirring light flurries in his inner storm, but his gray eyes track your face with a heightened suspicion that hadn't been directed at you for weeks. Normally it would be amusing, but this time it makes you uncomfortable. Did he think you'd attack him (would you?)... or has he finally regained enough lucidity to recognize your brute-force digging at his secrets, or does he think you'll disrespect a dead person's memory?
" 'S no use ribbing the dead, Crow, no more than trying t' anger a stone. Can't joke with an empty eggshell. Can't argue with someone who isn't at home and'll never come back."
Truly a shame. But now, respects paid, that empty shell won't need weapons anymore. Good steel is hard to find on the seas, but this one… You marvel at what little of the blade you can see, embedded in the skull. Looks almost like the weapon Commander Remoriam commissioned from the Twilit Sea, Eithanael Waterstone himself.
It looks… very similar. It's—
Shock floods your core. No. It's not just similar. You recognize it!
You'd heard that Commander Remoriam had cut a piece from his own cloak of Earth to get the blade forged. A literal piece of the Morning Sky's earth-touched form—he would never have parted from it. Why did this bucko have it?
How could he have it? You immediately grasp at the knife to pull it out, but in vain. You're no weakling, but the body's hands around the hilt are a vice, and the stiff arms lock it in place. You're not willing (yet) to sacrifice discretion for force.
A near-voiceless cry reaches your ears, and you squash a flash of guilt. From the look of it, if Crow hadn't been as weak as a newborn chick, he would be wrestling you off the body. Regardless of his feelings or tonight's revelations, though, you can't let anyone else get their hands on the only sign of the Torchheads—of Commander Remoriam—you've seen since the Winter.
You consider breaking the corpse's fingers or cutting them off with your own knife. The dead don't need fingers anyway.
As if in response to your thoughts,
threads of gold fire fork like lightning from the blade, striking like a snake of light and intent—searing your hand, flashing up your arm, and lancing straight for your core!
"Earth—!" you yelp, stumbling back, clutching your hand.
It burned you! You, a son of fire! Inferno, if you had let go an eyelash-flick later, you'd be dead or worse!
Crow doesn't react as you would expect, his cobalt-and-steel storm flurrying with a weird mix of longing, grief, and mixed anger, indignation, and concern for
your reaction. Which meant…
He can't see it?
No, he can see
something. The
glow of the knife shines off his eyes, but it's a steady orange, not the lashing of ribboning gold. Ahh. The blade is no longer empty steel, but firestone. Dangerous stuff on its own. Impossible to miss in the dark. But if Crow can't see what you're seeing…
Reflections don't show people's patterns.
A knife, as an empty vessel of earth, can certainly be imbued with the essence. But never have you heard of a fire, water, or windstone blade holding emotion and will—holding a
pattern. It goes against anything you've ever seen or learned. Only the living have a pattern! Yet in defiance of that, gold threads flicker around, within the blade, inside its earth-flesh receptacle:
Joy-sorrow-love-rage-desperation-hope-resolve-neverbetrayyournewmaster!
"Inferno," you breathe. Is it because he used his own earth for the blade?
Commander Remoriam!
You resist the urge to touch your forehead in respectful salute, now hyper-aware of the pinion tucked into the folds of your headband. Even the feather, imbued by the Commander's own spark, doesn't carry his will. It's like he's right in front of you, but... staring at the knife makes your head hurt with its intensity, the intent of a fathomless lifetime shining with the light of the sun at dawn. It's him, but not him. Him, with all his emotions raging. Far from the controlled leader you know.
But if it is
his pattern, his will, how could it be separate
from him?
A dawning dread curls its hair. You know it in your heart, in your core, what must have happened.
You hadn't known that you had kept a spark of hope that someone, no matter how distant, had made it. Had circumvented prophecy. The disappearance of that crutch leaves you feeling poured out, your chest like stone, your throat like the tiniest bottleneck.
Captain Reyzan's kind face flashes through your mind's eye as he stands on the deck of the
Sunflare, with Commander Remoriam looking gruff and stern beside, with that undefinable wild ember shared between them. Your distant aunt Lizel Redwill, who had taken your mother and sister under her wing after your father's death (where are they?). The others, each Torchhead with their courage and deeds of excellence written in their names, whose backs you could never hope to reach. Even Cooky, who dealt enough pecks to your shoulders as you ran off with an extra slice of his fish pie.
But the foretelling of your unfortunate Firstfather, Rekavok, had caught up with them all. The oathbreakers are gone. The fires are out. The brave scions of fire and their glorious leaders are ash on the wind.
I am the last Torchhead.
The world had never felt so cold before. Yet your face is warm, beading sweat as if in a battle, without the comforting rush. There is nothing to fight.
Your burned hand twinges, sending shockwaves up your arm, and you examine it with a surge of frantic energy.
Commander Remoriam never let anyone touch
his weapons. Not even Captain Reyzan. Yet this bucko is protected by the commander's will? Who are you, Jet? His nephew? A son?
Neither would explain why Jet wasn't Awakened when you met.
The light in the nearest lantern
dims and dies at your bidding. It's sheer luck that Waterstone hadn't the chance to reclaim his meticulously self-woven, water-imbued clothing. Nothing else beyond a cloak of Earth would've hidden that outburst of the Commander's will.
You're not done trying. Good thing you know a thing or two about the essence and about your secondary mentor. His inner fire hadn't emerged until you intended to harm Jet. So—
I will do no harm right now, Commander, you swear in the essence, reaching for the body once more. But not for the knife. The blazing golden threads of the Morning Sun's will... They don't withdraw, but they remain docile as you pat the clothing down with practiced ease, feeling for anything Jet might've kept in the folds.
Looting the body gives more questions than answers. Crow hums in surprise. The drop in your chest grows with each finding.
A filled echo shell?—a palm-sized dragon scale, of the colors of the Morning Sky?
Which one? Alacria had vanished just before the Sheer Winter ended, and Vitarrow? Ha. He was in no place to shed scales after the Winter. You place the mirror-like scale over one eye and inhale sharply. It's properly imbued! What's a son of earth doing with a lower artifact of water and upper artifacts of Wind and Fire? For a kid who lived in a place so far from the Winter, how can he carry two pieces so closely connected to its players?
Either he's a thief, or…
Was he so important, Commander?
Ignoring Crow's signed question, you lurch to your feet and scamper for the communal water barrel someone hauled on deck, snatch the dipper, fill it, and dash back. Water laced with lemon juice sloshes over your hand in your haste. You hiss at the sting of lemon on your burns.
With impatience and held-back desperation, you pour that lemonwater over the corpse's head with all the care of a shower bucket, then grab the edge of the sailcloth to rub out the stains. With each pass, the black ink slithers off like oil, gradually exposing the true colors of those strands. Dark blue? No, blue-gray? You
snap a spark near.
'S a little too light for—!
You drop the dipper. "Fire blind me! Blood and Corruption, Earth!" Your dire curses leave Crow staring as if you'd summoned Peril himself. Then he points to his eyes in warning, takes a breath, and
sees what you see.
Your horror is reflected in Crow's pattern as blue loss-grief-guilt mingles with a touch of iron fear.
White. His hair is white.
White, like the depths of the Sheer Winter.
White, like untouched snowfall. Like empty clouds. Like the hottest fire.
White, the color of all domains combined as one.
You remember the tales your father told you of the First Age: tales that your Firstfather, Rekavok Ferralong, had passed down. Tales of the first humans. Tales of the ones who cursed the land and caused Earth to sink into the sea. Tales of
monsters with unlimited control over all the domains.
'A thousand fortunes at their side, ten thousand curses at their right hand.' Dad, it can't be true, really?
The blue-black remains of the bucko's involuntary disguise, which had likely saved his skin, are still staining your fingers… saved the skin of one whom the Morning Sun had wanted to protect—no, is
still protecting.
There's no way those Kalmeri scholars weren't involved in this! Blood of Earth, were they trying to break the covenant of the Gift, breaking the boundaries between domains? Were they performing human experiments to do it? Chasm and Abyss—Commander, you sure have a lot of explaining to do!
You can't help but admire Commander Remoriam's sense of humor—or irony—or spite, in protecting someone whose very existence might see even the
reformed, uncorrupted, scholarly Viperilon Peniron empty out his garrisons—to destroy an individual whose existence should be
impossible.
"Stay here," you tell Crow unnecessarily.
You stand, lurch unsteadily with the wave-balance as blood resumes proper flow, and throw yourself into a half-hurried lope for the sickbay. Skirting around the crew is just as diverting. Their colorful patterns are just as vivid to your eyes in the guttering shadows as in daylight. But you have no time to appreciate them.
Kalmeri… those scholars're Miragua's people. There's nothing they do that Miragua doesn't know of. If they really were trying to break the barriers between domains, to forcibly recreate the ancient paths of access, would she let it happen? Would the Midnight Sea go against the will of the Esser? Would any of the Rising Three?
Even if the scholars were
acting against her will, did our people know what they were fighting for? Were we helping the right side, Captain Reyzan? Our healers took no sides, but Commander Remoriam's warriors…
Inferno, it doesn't make sense!
We thought Peril was corrupted again. Thought he'd resumed his old schemes, destroying the colleges. But if that was wrong, if Kalmeri was researching the forbidden, and he found out they were trying to forge the monster… to revive the sons of Earth…
You can't help one terrifying thought.
What if the Black Dragon's attack was justified?
With a final surge, you fling the sickbay door open. The moment you made eye contact with Waterstone, you knew it was a mistake. Your eyes dart to the bottle of ink on his desk. Snatch! Remembering Crow, you grab at the bedsheet draped over the drugged-to-the-gills patient, then make a quick turn, racing out the door, heart pounding.
Shrikespit, you didn't figure Waterstone to be in his den yet! You should've had your emotions under wraps—he's after you!
It won't take long to ink the bucko back up, yeah? Get the colors back on. If I distract Waterstone a bit, could buy enough time. Sure, enough time to burn it all
off if the ink doesn't stick. Gives me enough time to think!
The cool glass of the ink bottle is a balm on your burned hand as you dodge around the nighties going about getting the ship back shipshape.
Am I running hot enough to heal it?
Your loyalty belongs to the Torchheads, to those scions of fire who fought against the night to their last flame, knowing they would die. To your Firstfather, who holds your oath. To the Morning Sun, whose dawn may no longer rise. To all of the scions of fire who fought. Then, there's Jet. He carries the will of Commander Remoriam lodged in his head. Every fiber of you says to follow it—to follow the command of your second mentor. You can't shake the image in your mind's eye: the bucko's body, its visible eye half-lidded, glaring like burnt orange glass. Admonishing. Judging. But for the first time… there's a sliver of doubt toward the Morning Sun.
Captain Reyzan, those who chose to attack with the commander instead of defending… They weren't wrong, were they?
They can't have been.
Waterstone has almost caught up. Eis. Freaking Eis. How would he react to the cluster of fire-bombs you've uncovered tonight? Would he keep it all inside in his weird way of protecting Arond by leaving him in the dark (hah,
in the dark), or would he tell the son of Peril everything? Not very predictable in that wise, he's not.
You weave between debris piles, skip over tangled rope, and dodge a mast as you zigzag back. You're in easy throwing distance to where Crow lies beside the incriminating body.
You make a split-second decision.
[] Toss the ink to Crow and conceal the action. He'll know what to do.
[] Hold onto the ink. You won't entrust the dye job to anyone else.
[] Offer the ink back to Eis. Play your theft off as a joke.
[] Explain to Eis exactly why you need the ink.
The sure bootsteps come to a halt behind you.
You turn to face the gray shrike and his pale green shards, each piece turning into jagged facets in his smile. The lanterns carve dark, grotesque shadows into the corners of his lips, making them look like the sickly gums of a jungle cat on the hunt. He'll say your name, you decide, then say something like… "What is the meaning of this?"
"Lisen Ferralong Redtail," Waterstone drawls, blue eyes glinting, "What is the meaning of this?"
Too bad you can't take pleasure in being right again. This spot of the deck isn't nearly as dry as you would like (is Seffon awake now?). Any choice you make could change who you're aligned with. Any choice can be the difference between a chance at more information or a chance to lose it. A chance to build up an alliance or a chance to destroy one.
Your blood is running hot.
(Fight or flight; great emotional stress: Control heightened, no accidental fires)
Firstly, should you involve Waterstone in your discoveries at all?
[] Somewhat. Show him only the two items you pulled off Jet, but tell Waterstone you found them in Rakky's belongings.
[] No. Offer to help him with whatever task he's on, but avoid sounding like you want to help him.
[] No.
Blind him with a fire-flash and kick him in the face in return for him injuring your eye. Then run.
[] Yes. Show him Jet's undisguised hair, but don't mention the items you took.
[] Yes. Show him Jet's undisguised hair and the items you took.
[] Yes. Show Waterstone Jet's hair and items and explain Commander Remoriam's knife.
Then, what should be done about Crow?
[] Reserve. Don't tell Waterstone anything you found out about Crow.
[] Deflect. Scold Waterstone for not getting Crow watched as a potential information leak (and for skimping on the blanket).
[] Inform. Tell Waterstone that Crow is a spy from Annacondra Naskyn.
[] Obey all orders. Tell Waterstone that Crow is a Naskyn spy and that he's a son of Peril.
Finally, what should be done about Jet? You'll be taking Commander Remoriam's knife the moment you can.
[] With Remoriam (Lamiferry's brother) involved, you can't be too careful about the old tales of the walking dead. Use fire and any necessary tools to
turn the body to ash from a safe distance.
[] Stow the body somewhere else as soon as possible. Shouldn't be too hard to hide contraband that big, ey?
[] Don't bother moving the body. You'll have at least the night to get that knife before they chuck him over the side with the others.
[] Write in.
-
Main perspective next segment?
[] Eis
[] Lisen
[] Nyla
-
Lost: Marvelous scale -> Lisen
Lost: Echo shell -> Lisen
[[Added:]]
Official M3K Playlist (theme labels in the playlist's description) (aka 90% Two Steps From Hell; 10% other)
