Marine Misadventures of a Magicless Kind
- Thread starter Lithos Alto
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Thank you for remembering the vicious attack-gulls! I hope you live through this—it's literally only Day 2.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
It is good that we remember our priorities even at death's door. Of all the reasons to live, this must be the strongest. Damn you, nightgulls! Terrible vengeance will be ours, just you wait!
[x]Resist. Try to swim against the waves toward the beach.
I am tempted to go with the flow in hopes of being washed ashore, but a man trained by the Fireblooded mentor would not submit to water that easily!
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- Location
- Location Location
[x]Resist. Try to swim against the waves toward the beach.
Trying to swim against the ocean is nearly impossible, but it's the best option there. Also, let's hope the beacon goes out. If people see that they may realise we're in trouble.
Trying to swim against the ocean is nearly impossible, but it's the best option there. Also, let's hope the beacon goes out. If people see that they may realise we're in trouble.
Day 2.4 - Live On!
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Day 2.4 - Live On!
-
You catch your breath and focus, accepting it. Accepting your situation. You're calm. You refuse to die before you've done anything worth dying for. And so, catching your bearings, you start fighting.
The cliff juts out from the island, serving as a break for the beach at its southern side. You've fallen off the north edge with nothing but unforgiving rock to guide you, worn smooth and jagged by the forces of two domains, and you'll have to pass around the tip before you get a shot at the beach.
The beacon turns from a taunt to the guide it was intended to be, the light silhouetting the cliff edge giving you a checkpoint; you'll be oriented as long as it burns. You shored it up just before you fell. With luck, it'll stay lit until you round the promontory, past which scattered light from the beach, docks, or village will take up the torch.
You'll have to swim against the waves to clear the point without getting dashed to pieces; then, you'll be treading open water, fighting the receding tide. If you're really, really lucky, there'll be some boats out. If not...it's a long way to the beach. You don't know the currents well enough to take advantage of them or to avoid the harmful ones.
Come on, old man. I'll take any advice.
You close your eyes and picture your old mentor lounging atop the rock you're clinging to. He's dressed in his old coat of sleek fur (and you're glad you left it on the cliff, or he'd smack you for losing it in the water), his graying locks fluttering over a crimson band tied around his forehead. Grim of face, with a sharpness like firelight on a needle's tip, he rolls his eyes skyward.
"What did I tell you about falling into a domain before receiving your bloodright?"
"Not to do it," you mouth. Oh, do you ever remember this conversation, which occurred the second time you fell off the cliff.
"Exactly! Only a fool would trespass on lands he has been banished from!"
You shrug. "Well, say it happens, and I'm stuck with no one around. What do I do?"
"You do the smart thing, fool boy. Think! What is the nature of your obstacle?"
You'd quoted his words back at him that time: " 'Water is clingy and wants to love you, but unless you are a Gifted child of water, her love is deadly.' "
He gives you a sharp grin. "Heh, maybe you have been listening. Alright then, I shall give you something. Look upon these waves; they are as adolescent females in the presence of a handsome young phoenix at a wedding party—they want you, and if you fail to duck and dash, they will be smothering you before you can say 'The best man is an elder dragon!' So what should you do?"
"Duck and dash?"
"That is the question, certainly. As a proud son of Fire, I shall be grateful for the opportunity to dive into the territory that naturally opposes my blood, all to save your earthbound snowflake self."
"...Duck and dash it is."
"Good. Keep it up, and you might just man the beacon yourself someday. Now stop slacking and get those logs!"
You open your eyes and tighten your grip, waiting, feeling. An inhalation, a sucking breath, and the blackness pulls at your lower body. But when the curl crests against the rock, you've already dove down, and the downswell drags you away.
A gasp of air behind the first, and you duck again, resurfacing a little farther, a little less likely to die. The next snarl drags you back, and you dive, swimming deep, deep, towards its origin. Your hands scrape rock bottom—you find a grip and lunge for survival.
Your back faces the cliff as you slowly, painstakingly edge into the open sea. You repeat the duck and dive with each wave, submerging when you're suspicious of a trick, a chop that could spell your undoing.
Your constant battle pays off, and after a lifetime of blind swimming and more than a few near-misses, you're clear of jagged death; and to your good fortune, when you glance over your shoulder, the beacon still burns your way to safety.
With a start, you realize you've cleared the edge! You'd been trying for a diagonal against the waves, but in the wash, you'd thought you were closer down the cliff. Still, the ordeal took nearly all the strength you had. The waves have pounded your body numb with cold and salt and the weight of its domain.
Your heart sinks as you scan the surface for lanterns. Your prediction was right—no boats are out in this hour. Or if they are, they have no light by which to see you. The shore feels distant, with the glow from the village a pale shadow in your eyes.
Something slaps by your leg. You freeze, hoping fervently it was your imagination. Fell beasts haunt black seas, and with a sky to match—
Smack!
You sputter and spit—a fish had slapped you in the face!
Splish-splosh-ploosh!
Before you can blink, you're in the middle of a shoal, scaly bodies flashing an eerie red when they impact each other and you. Emberfish. For a minute, you're visible as a glowing spot of red on the surface. Then, just as quickly as they came, they're gone.
You let out a breath and resume your swim with a grim set in your jaw.
Without warning, something cold coils around your injured leg and yanks you under, drowning your scream of pain.
A tentacle, you think, horrified, feeling little teeth breaking skin.
Krakenspawn! The emberfish must've been fleeing the voracious predator, the vicious child of a corrupted sea-guardian. You shut out the pain and rip your leg free, bubbles escaping your mouth. More tentacles explode from the dark, wrapping your right arm, squeezing, constricting, suckers piercing flesh.
Its main body is probably no bigger than your torso, but that won't keep it from tearing you apart.
You feel more than hear its hissing breaths, half-submerged.
Sssahssssssshahhh!
You lunge for the surface against the grasping hold and manage a gulp of air before the monster in the dark reels you in like the catch of the day.
Screaming. Someone's screaming. The ocean roars. But all is silent underwater.
In your mind's ear, you hear a cry: "Help! Help me—brotherrrrrrr!"
In your semi-conscious terror, it could've come from you, but…
I don't have a brother?
You unsheathe your firestone knife with your left hand and cross-slash over your right, trailing a hiss of coal-hot light. The suckers remain embedded in your skin, but you're free! You kick for the sky and gasp, lungs burning, and swipe out beneath the waves.
The cursed seaspawn's eyes shine balefully just under the surface, topped by a cone of ghastly flesh. It won't let you go. You're exhausted and battered, closer to death than you are the shore, and this monster blocks your way. But you're not going down without a fight.
You dunk under, stab for the nearest luminous eye, and—
"Aaaaaaaaghhh!"
—miss, startled by a scream that definitely wasn't yours. Someone else is out there. Someone in pain.
Your moment of distraction costs you, and the krakenspawn rams into your torso, wrapping two limbs around your chest.
With the sea crashing over your head, your mouth filling with saltwater, and that horrible scream ringing in your head, you dive in with a snarl on your lips and your knife searing arcs of orange into the waters. The last thing you can see in the gloom is three tentacles, severed and cauterized, sinking in the dull glow cast by your weapon.
Then...
Everything goes black in the wide-open ocean.
Above it all, a flame on a clifftop flickers in the dark, a paling beacon for a ship at sea. Just before sunrise, it dims and surrenders to the winds.
Continue?
[]Yes (Day 3.1)
[]Kruawww!
[]No (Reload 2.2)
-
[A save file retains the decisions made on that post but allows you to make additional choices, but only for the given Day section.]
Day 2.4 - Live On!
-
You catch your breath and focus, accepting it. Accepting your situation. You're calm. You refuse to die before you've done anything worth dying for. And so, catching your bearings, you start fighting.
The cliff juts out from the island, serving as a break for the beach at its southern side. You've fallen off the north edge with nothing but unforgiving rock to guide you, worn smooth and jagged by the forces of two domains, and you'll have to pass around the tip before you get a shot at the beach.
The beacon turns from a taunt to the guide it was intended to be, the light silhouetting the cliff edge giving you a checkpoint; you'll be oriented as long as it burns. You shored it up just before you fell. With luck, it'll stay lit until you round the promontory, past which scattered light from the beach, docks, or village will take up the torch.
You'll have to swim against the waves to clear the point without getting dashed to pieces; then, you'll be treading open water, fighting the receding tide. If you're really, really lucky, there'll be some boats out. If not...it's a long way to the beach. You don't know the currents well enough to take advantage of them or to avoid the harmful ones.
Come on, old man. I'll take any advice.
You close your eyes and picture your old mentor lounging atop the rock you're clinging to. He's dressed in his old coat of sleek fur (and you're glad you left it on the cliff, or he'd smack you for losing it in the water), his graying locks fluttering over a crimson band tied around his forehead. Grim of face, with a sharpness like firelight on a needle's tip, he rolls his eyes skyward.
"What did I tell you about falling into a domain before receiving your bloodright?"
"Not to do it," you mouth. Oh, do you ever remember this conversation, which occurred the second time you fell off the cliff.
"Exactly! Only a fool would trespass on lands he has been banished from!"
You shrug. "Well, say it happens, and I'm stuck with no one around. What do I do?"
"You do the smart thing, fool boy. Think! What is the nature of your obstacle?"
You'd quoted his words back at him that time: " 'Water is clingy and wants to love you, but unless you are a Gifted child of water, her love is deadly.' "
He gives you a sharp grin. "Heh, maybe you have been listening. Alright then, I shall give you something. Look upon these waves; they are as adolescent females in the presence of a handsome young phoenix at a wedding party—they want you, and if you fail to duck and dash, they will be smothering you before you can say 'The best man is an elder dragon!' So what should you do?"
"Duck and dash?"
"That is the question, certainly. As a proud son of Fire, I shall be grateful for the opportunity to dive into the territory that naturally opposes my blood, all to save your earthbound snowflake self."
"...Duck and dash it is."
"Good. Keep it up, and you might just man the beacon yourself someday. Now stop slacking and get those logs!"
You open your eyes and tighten your grip, waiting, feeling. An inhalation, a sucking breath, and the blackness pulls at your lower body. But when the curl crests against the rock, you've already dove down, and the downswell drags you away.
A gasp of air behind the first, and you duck again, resurfacing a little farther, a little less likely to die. The next snarl drags you back, and you dive, swimming deep, deep, towards its origin. Your hands scrape rock bottom—you find a grip and lunge for survival.
Your back faces the cliff as you slowly, painstakingly edge into the open sea. You repeat the duck and dive with each wave, submerging when you're suspicious of a trick, a chop that could spell your undoing.
Your constant battle pays off, and after a lifetime of blind swimming and more than a few near-misses, you're clear of jagged death; and to your good fortune, when you glance over your shoulder, the beacon still burns your way to safety.
With a start, you realize you've cleared the edge! You'd been trying for a diagonal against the waves, but in the wash, you'd thought you were closer down the cliff. Still, the ordeal took nearly all the strength you had. The waves have pounded your body numb with cold and salt and the weight of its domain.
Your heart sinks as you scan the surface for lanterns. Your prediction was right—no boats are out in this hour. Or if they are, they have no light by which to see you. The shore feels distant, with the glow from the village a pale shadow in your eyes.
Something slaps by your leg. You freeze, hoping fervently it was your imagination. Fell beasts haunt black seas, and with a sky to match—
Smack!
You sputter and spit—a fish had slapped you in the face!
Splish-splosh-ploosh!
Before you can blink, you're in the middle of a shoal, scaly bodies flashing an eerie red when they impact each other and you. Emberfish. For a minute, you're visible as a glowing spot of red on the surface. Then, just as quickly as they came, they're gone.
You let out a breath and resume your swim with a grim set in your jaw.
Without warning, something cold coils around your injured leg and yanks you under, drowning your scream of pain.
A tentacle, you think, horrified, feeling little teeth breaking skin.
Krakenspawn! The emberfish must've been fleeing the voracious predator, the vicious child of a corrupted sea-guardian. You shut out the pain and rip your leg free, bubbles escaping your mouth. More tentacles explode from the dark, wrapping your right arm, squeezing, constricting, suckers piercing flesh.
Its main body is probably no bigger than your torso, but that won't keep it from tearing you apart.
You feel more than hear its hissing breaths, half-submerged.
Sssahssssssshahhh!
You lunge for the surface against the grasping hold and manage a gulp of air before the monster in the dark reels you in like the catch of the day.
Screaming. Someone's screaming. The ocean roars. But all is silent underwater.
In your mind's ear, you hear a cry: "Help! Help me—brotherrrrrrr!"
In your semi-conscious terror, it could've come from you, but…
I don't have a brother?
You unsheathe your firestone knife with your left hand and cross-slash over your right, trailing a hiss of coal-hot light. The suckers remain embedded in your skin, but you're free! You kick for the sky and gasp, lungs burning, and swipe out beneath the waves.
The cursed seaspawn's eyes shine balefully just under the surface, topped by a cone of ghastly flesh. It won't let you go. You're exhausted and battered, closer to death than you are the shore, and this monster blocks your way. But you're not going down without a fight.
You dunk under, stab for the nearest luminous eye, and—
"Aaaaaaaaghhh!"
—miss, startled by a scream that definitely wasn't yours. Someone else is out there. Someone in pain.
Your moment of distraction costs you, and the krakenspawn rams into your torso, wrapping two limbs around your chest.
With the sea crashing over your head, your mouth filling with saltwater, and that horrible scream ringing in your head, you dive in with a snarl on your lips and your knife searing arcs of orange into the waters. The last thing you can see in the gloom is three tentacles, severed and cauterized, sinking in the dull glow cast by your weapon.
Then...
Everything goes black in the wide-open ocean.
Above it all, a flame on a clifftop flickers in the dark, a paling beacon for a ship at sea. Just before sunrise, it dims and surrenders to the winds.
Continue?
[]Yes (Day 3.1)
[]Kruawww!
[]No (Reload 2.2)
-
[A save file retains the decisions made on that post but allows you to make additional choices, but only for the given Day section.]
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- Location
- St. Petersburg
Okay, this is weird.
What would the choice to continue even entail? Are we to become the next Krakenspawn? That's not how I imagined us leaving!
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Whoever said you lost? (._.)?
Dramatic chapter endings may very well be my undoing. I'm far more used to traditional narrative chapters.
Edit: I don't do "random" worldbuilding stuff for nothing, let alone foreshadowing...which would be totally useless if you were dead. So each option is fully valid. Lol
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- Location
- St. Petersburg
The choice to not continue normally does not appear unless there is a reason not to. Is there a reason not to?
Usually it's a sign of a BAD END, DEAD END or both.
Which is why I asked what it would entail, because it's not obvious why they are there, let alone what they are. But hey, I'll take your word for it.
[x]Kruawww!
Just in case it lets us play as a nightmare seagull and ruin the days of beaconmasters until the seas run dry!
Or maybe Kruakkk's gloating alerts Nyla and she'll nurse us back to health.
Or the Black Dragon comes personally to claim the soul of his sworn enemy!
On second thought, you are right. Mystery options are the best. Kruawww!
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Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Tbh it's 'cause I honestly don't know what "options" to put if you're unconscious/unable to make a conscious decision, and it'd be really weird putting a POV change right there.The choice to not continue normally does not appear unless there is a reason not to. Is there a reason not to?
Usually it's a sign of a BAD END, DEAD END or both.
Which is why I asked what it would entail, because it's not obvious why they are there, let alone what they are. But hey, I'll take your word for it.
[x]Kruawww!
Just in case it lets us play as a nightmare seagull and ruin the days of beaconmasters until the seas run dry!
Or maybe Kruakkk's gloating alerts Nyla and she'll nurse us back to health.
Or the Black Dragon comes personally to claim the soul of his sworn enemy!
On second thought, you are right. Mystery options are the best. Kruawww!
- Location
- Location Location
[x]Kruawww!
Let's see where this takes us.
Let's see where this takes us.
Day 2.5 - Son of the Winds
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Day 2.5 - Son of the Winds
-
A single nightgull flies in the moonless sky, its heat-seeking eyes finding purpose in something other than fire. Other… because something is far more pressing than that hatefully hot byproduct of the domain of the sun.
"Kruawww!" "For we were not born to warmth! For the Black Dragon!"
A ship approaches the island tonight, guided by the beacon, glowing comforting shades of blue in the bird's eyes. But its target is the lavender light standing at the prow, gazing up at the flickering flame at the clifftop with an unidentifiable emotion in his gray eyes.
You.
You are Arond Windor, captain of the High Revenge, and you are here for supplies and a patch-up for the ship.
You receive your visitor with all the grace of a gentleman.
"Kruawww." "I have returned, I, Kruaa, from speaking with my brethren ashore."
"Welcome back, little sister," you say, sliding a plate of freshly-caught mackerel towards the nightgull. You let her snap up a few choice morsels before continuing, "so what can you tell me about our new passenger?"
Two hours hence, in the dark of night, the lookout had sighted a crimson glow upon the waters and, briefly, the illuminated form of a human. At your command and aided by the winds from you and fellow wind-sons, the High Revenge changed course from the docks to the struggling form, for no one should swim in seas as dark as Earth's cooled blood.
Your crew had picked up a young man near drowning, bearing fresh marks of a krakenspawn attack; in his hand, he gripped a knife of firestone, which no one could pry from his grasp. And with his whole body drenched in the black of kraken ink, none could make out his appearance. Nevertheless, he'd fought a corrupted child of water in its own domain and won.
You listen to the feathered dragonchild's story with equal parts interest and astonishment.
"A keeper of fire?" Your eyes trail back to the glow on the cliff. It was terribly high up. "He fell from that and swam this far and still lives after being clutched by one of those monsters?"
Remarkable.
"Kruawww." "Indeed. Every night, he does battle with the children of the Black Dragon to light and protect the thrice-cursed flame."
You laugh. "He wards off scions of the Perilous Brood with nothing but a stick?"
"Kruaw." "He uses cunning and sheer fury to compensate for his muted blood."
"A powerless son of earth, then," you murmur. "A shame. I would offer him a place on my crew in a heartbeat even were he a son of fire."
"Kruaw!" The little lady snaps at you in disgust and spears a mackerel to show her ire.
That retort stung even more these days. Your lips peel back from your teeth in displeasure.
"I am no traitor, nor have I lost my mind. Only a fool would pass over a man with that strength of will! Still, I do not wish him to be fire's son."
You can't help but remember how dark his hair had been in lantern's light, covered by ink.
"He is the right age. You cannot suppose he is one of mine?" you muse before shaking your head. "Impossible. I have never been that fortunate. When have my children ever lived? ...But perhaps Father—"
No. Not Father. You bare your teeth in a snarl. The previous nightgull had told you that not minutes before the impromptu rescue, the beast had thrown one of his rowers overboard with the chum and made his brother watch what followed.
Your very blood trembles in revulsion and helpless fury. It takes all your willpower not to blast the sea with your frostbreath, an unseemly action in front of your faithful messenger. In this and in everything involving Father, you are powerless.
But at least you saved one life tonight. You hope to get the chance to hear his side of the story. Still, you did not stop here for pleasure.
You return your attention to the nightgull.
"What can you tell me of Uncle?"
"Kruawww." "They say he stopped here a moon past and left at the beginning of sunfall, to the northeast."
The northeast. What could he be after there?
Tarrow Mylston was as smart as the stories say—he had stolen back his Flight and slipped out a day's sail ahead on the swiftest of the ships, the Red Herald, crewed by nearly half of the rowers of the Bloodwind. How he freed that many is a mystery.
But if you know one thing about Uncle, it is that he never acts without purpose. If he has changed course, knowing you have been sent after him, he has a reason.
Maybe if you were truly brave, you would have joined Uncle instead of chasing him down, but you're not. You fear Father more. If you ran, he would hunt you to the brink of the sea and beyond.
So you think the information over carefully. "We might yet close the distance if we leave before sunhigh—certainly, if we do not stop here as Uncle did."
It would be dawn when you reach the docks.
[]Drop off your passenger, resupply, and leave; you should not lose track of Tarrow.
[]Resupply at the island and wait for the brave young man to wake; your medic says it should be soon.
[]Risk the pursuit on your current supplies. Take your passenger with you—he can't argue if he's unconscious.
Day 2.5 - Son of the Winds
-
A single nightgull flies in the moonless sky, its heat-seeking eyes finding purpose in something other than fire. Other… because something is far more pressing than that hatefully hot byproduct of the domain of the sun.
"Kruawww!" "For we were not born to warmth! For the Black Dragon!"
A ship approaches the island tonight, guided by the beacon, glowing comforting shades of blue in the bird's eyes. But its target is the lavender light standing at the prow, gazing up at the flickering flame at the clifftop with an unidentifiable emotion in his gray eyes.
You.
You are Arond Windor, captain of the High Revenge, and you are here for supplies and a patch-up for the ship.
You receive your visitor with all the grace of a gentleman.
"Kruawww." "I have returned, I, Kruaa, from speaking with my brethren ashore."
"Welcome back, little sister," you say, sliding a plate of freshly-caught mackerel towards the nightgull. You let her snap up a few choice morsels before continuing, "so what can you tell me about our new passenger?"
Two hours hence, in the dark of night, the lookout had sighted a crimson glow upon the waters and, briefly, the illuminated form of a human. At your command and aided by the winds from you and fellow wind-sons, the High Revenge changed course from the docks to the struggling form, for no one should swim in seas as dark as Earth's cooled blood.
Your crew had picked up a young man near drowning, bearing fresh marks of a krakenspawn attack; in his hand, he gripped a knife of firestone, which no one could pry from his grasp. And with his whole body drenched in the black of kraken ink, none could make out his appearance. Nevertheless, he'd fought a corrupted child of water in its own domain and won.
You listen to the feathered dragonchild's story with equal parts interest and astonishment.
"A keeper of fire?" Your eyes trail back to the glow on the cliff. It was terribly high up. "He fell from that and swam this far and still lives after being clutched by one of those monsters?"
Remarkable.
"Kruawww." "Indeed. Every night, he does battle with the children of the Black Dragon to light and protect the thrice-cursed flame."
You laugh. "He wards off scions of the Perilous Brood with nothing but a stick?"
"Kruaw." "He uses cunning and sheer fury to compensate for his muted blood."
"A powerless son of earth, then," you murmur. "A shame. I would offer him a place on my crew in a heartbeat even were he a son of fire."
"Kruaw!" The little lady snaps at you in disgust and spears a mackerel to show her ire.
That retort stung even more these days. Your lips peel back from your teeth in displeasure.
"I am no traitor, nor have I lost my mind. Only a fool would pass over a man with that strength of will! Still, I do not wish him to be fire's son."
You can't help but remember how dark his hair had been in lantern's light, covered by ink.
"He is the right age. You cannot suppose he is one of mine?" you muse before shaking your head. "Impossible. I have never been that fortunate. When have my children ever lived? ...But perhaps Father—"
No. Not Father. You bare your teeth in a snarl. The previous nightgull had told you that not minutes before the impromptu rescue, the beast had thrown one of his rowers overboard with the chum and made his brother watch what followed.
Your very blood trembles in revulsion and helpless fury. It takes all your willpower not to blast the sea with your frostbreath, an unseemly action in front of your faithful messenger. In this and in everything involving Father, you are powerless.
But at least you saved one life tonight. You hope to get the chance to hear his side of the story. Still, you did not stop here for pleasure.
You return your attention to the nightgull.
"What can you tell me of Uncle?"
"Kruawww." "They say he stopped here a moon past and left at the beginning of sunfall, to the northeast."
The northeast. What could he be after there?
Tarrow Mylston was as smart as the stories say—he had stolen back his Flight and slipped out a day's sail ahead on the swiftest of the ships, the Red Herald, crewed by nearly half of the rowers of the Bloodwind. How he freed that many is a mystery.
But if you know one thing about Uncle, it is that he never acts without purpose. If he has changed course, knowing you have been sent after him, he has a reason.
Maybe if you were truly brave, you would have joined Uncle instead of chasing him down, but you're not. You fear Father more. If you ran, he would hunt you to the brink of the sea and beyond.
So you think the information over carefully. "We might yet close the distance if we leave before sunhigh—certainly, if we do not stop here as Uncle did."
It would be dawn when you reach the docks.
[]Drop off your passenger, resupply, and leave; you should not lose track of Tarrow.
[]Resupply at the island and wait for the brave young man to wake; your medic says it should be soon.
[]Risk the pursuit on your current supplies. Take your passenger with you—he can't argue if he's unconscious.
Last edited:
- Location
- St. Petersburg
Man, this story took off in an unexpected direction really fast after a somewhat slow beginning. Now that seemingly random pieces are coming together, I can finally appreciate the potential scope of the quest.
The hatred of Fire suggests a connection to some Firstborn, possibly one of the Twisted. I wonder how the captain and his crew look.
I struggle to connect the dots of the story in the latest updates, though. Someone threw a crewman overboard (?) and the waves washed him all the way to Jet's island? But it didn't happen on Arond's ship. Is there a third ship captained by Father? But I get the vibe that Arond is the only pursuit after Tarrow. Then what was it that Jet has heard?
Bonus points if we still chose to work on the beacon under Moram.
Well, maybe we still can!
[x]Risk the pursuit on your current supplies. Take your passenger with you—he can't argue if he's unconscious.
I really like where this is going.
Alright, that answers that. But who is Father, and most importantly, where is he?
The hatred of Fire suggests a connection to some Firstborn, possibly one of the Twisted. I wonder how the captain and his crew look.
I struggle to connect the dots of the story in the latest updates, though. Someone threw a crewman overboard (?) and the waves washed him all the way to Jet's island? But it didn't happen on Arond's ship. Is there a third ship captained by Father? But I get the vibe that Arond is the only pursuit after Tarrow. Then what was it that Jet has heard?
Okay, how does that even work..? But I guess we could have been one if we had chosen Cors at chargen? Heh, unusual heat absorbtion, who'd have guessed what that means!
Bonus points if we still chose to work on the beacon under Moram.
I knew we should have visited that boat!
Well, maybe we still can![x]Risk the pursuit on your current supplies. Take your passenger with you—he can't argue if he's unconscious.
I really like where this is going.
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Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
What hasn't been said is what makes the difference with the rower-throwing, because any limited narrator of mine has their own perception of "normal" or "usual" and therefore won't think to mention the "abnormal" even in their thoughts. Ohhh yes, do I ever love the small things.
So many things could've happened with chargen. They'd be spoilers all on their own!
Glad you're enjoying this bit.
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- Location
- Location Location
[x]Risk the pursuit on your current supplies. Take your passenger with you—he can't argue if he's unconscious.
What's the worst that can happen?
What's the worst that can happen?
- Location
- Upon the back of the Great A'Tuin
[X]Drop off your passenger, resupply, and leave; you should not lose track of Tarrow.
This is a marathon, not a sprint. Resupply is critical to ensure that we can keep up the chase. We can also ask around to see if any of his men mentioned anything that might shed light on his course change.
This is a marathon, not a sprint. Resupply is critical to ensure that we can keep up the chase. We can also ask around to see if any of his men mentioned anything that might shed light on his course change.
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
If no one breaks the tie or changes their vote by 12 am EST, I'll be throwing the tiebreaker dice.
Dusk 1.1 - Smiling Steel
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Dusk 1.1 - Smiling Steel
-
You are Jet; you wake to a ceiling of wood and an unfamiliar creaking—prone, lying on a pallet of some kind, in a room illuminated by rays peeking from between the curtains on the walls. The space is tiny; even the desk at the opposite wall makes the room seem smaller, even without a chair...but the scent of dried herbs tingles with familiarity.
Close quarters. Seems like someone shares your liking for small sleeping areas.
...But seriously, you're alive. You didn't expect that. You ache as if a giant grabbed your body and squeezed it to jelly (not too far off), and it tastes like a fish died in your mouth and rotted away, but you don't feel shattered. Actually, you feel quite good for someone who went ten rounds with the ocean and three more with a monster.
"How unusual—you wake at high sunfall."
Startled, you instinctively roll towards the voice to the right, just behind your head… but fail, discovering that your left arm is tied down. At your sudden flinch, all your muscles come alight with a bone-deep soreness that brings a groan to your lips.
You eye the speaker warily as he spins a blade—a scalpel?—between his fingers, barely two feet from your head, all without his sharp blue eyes leaving your face. He's not much older than you, maybe ten years at most, but his wolf-gray hair and stubble ages him (though you're not one to talk about hair color), and he sits on the missing desk chair with an air of self-confidence that speaks of experience.
Experience in what?
"Relax. Why would I harm a patient?" he says, stopping the blade mid-spin. You can't help feeling a chill for his bland smile—it doesn't help that his facial features, sharp and angular, are atypical on your island. Unfamiliarity breeds suspicion.
You say nothing and look to your left hand, finally realizing it's still clenched around your firestone knife. Your fingers bear a deep, blue-black stain from the krakenspawn's ink, but the blade is pristine, having burned away all traces of being used.
The man follows your gaze, and he shrugs. "You refused to let go of your weapon. I tied your arm down in case you struggled in your sleep."
You nod in acknowledgement as you force your grip to loosen, ignoring your muscles' protest for leaving the position they'd so faithfully held during your ordeal. You use your free hand to return the blade to its sheath...but not before running the edge across your binds. They fray and burn with a touch.
All the while, the man watches with that unnerving smile. Gray. You'll call him Gray if he doesn't introduce himself; he's asking for it, wearing that gray tunic with gray hair and a gray expression.
You open your mouth to ask—
"I am Eis Waterstone, first mate of the High Revenge, and when required, healer and medic," he tells you, flicking the scalpel into a blur of wavy silver.
Barring a second where you lie there with your mouth open like a fool, you recover admirably.
The name sounded familiar. "Waterstone?"
He flips the blade in the air, and you twitch—had he missed the catch, you'd be missing the tip of your nose.
"My family is known for imbuing stone and metal with water properties," explains the...self-designated healer. "Our smiths are the only forgers of waterstone, the ore of the Gentle Blades, which cut only what the wielder intends!"
It's evident he takes pride in his family, because a sense of real emotion fills his voice rather than the bland amusement from before. You don't blame him. It sounds… kinda impressive. Jard's new knife must be worth far more than its use as a fish cleaner.
"...Okay," you try, "Sir—"
"Eis."
"...Eis. Where am—"
"On a ship. Specifically the High Revenge."
"I was in the water."
"Yes, and now you are not."
"I… shouldn't be alive," you admit to yourself quietly.
"No, you shouldn't be, but you're in my care," he says with a bare hint of arrogance. Or maybe that was experience talking. You're not sure which.
...Is he messing with you? Because with you so off-balance, it's working. You push aside your irritation at his manner with an effort of great willpower.
Recollect. Breathe. You'd fallen off the beacon cliff, tried to swim to shore, and gotten attacked by a krakenspawn. Killed the cursed monster, then—
"...I almost drowned. Was drowning," you mutter.
"Drowned, actually," the odd healer says matter-of-factly. "Krakenspawn ink is a wonderful natural stunner, and you were covered in it till you could've passed for any cursed son of Peril."
He sounds almost fond. You shudder on the inside and make a note avoid meeting anyone of that designation. Peril hardly sounded good for your health.
"Stunner. Right." You shift nervously. "So, I lost consciousness. Who got me out?"
"That would be the captain of this fast-moving vessel."
The captain? You feel a measure of relief that it wasn't the odd healer who saved you. Seriously. If he starts licking that knife, you'll jump overboard yourself.
...Wait. He said… Oh. Oh, no. That unfamiliar creaking, the sensation of rocking—
"We're moving?" you shout, sitting sharply, soreness ignored. The odd healer reads your intent and rises from his chair. He's a bit shorter than your full height, but he's more muscled. An intimidating figure in such close quarters.
"Stay," he says calmly, stilling his blade—probably waterstone, knowing his name. "I wish not to undo the work I've done. If you rebreak your bones before I finish sealing them, I don't care what Captain says—I will refuse to heal you further. There's no cure for recklessness."
Without prompting, he slides apart the curtains on each wall to reveal the view of two opposing windows (portholes, he corrects), the afternoon sun washing the little room twice over. Your heart sinks. You see nothing but water and sky in either direction.
You feel like you're back at the bottom of the cliff, right when you knew no help would arrive: that cold moment when you knew you'd lost everything.
"No—I have to go back!"
Eis' voice cuts your desperate cry. "We are half a day's windsail away from your island. Even were you a son of water, you could not alone match the distance of a ship crewed by children of wind."
He's right, and you don't even have that, Giftless as you are.
You need to go back. You have a responsibility, a debt to repay (no matter what Jard says). You can almost taste the bitterness of your mentor's disappointment. And you'd left his coat out there, up on the clifftop. You're half-convinced Moram's spirit could possess your knife and burn you through its sheath for breaking that promise.
And Nyla… you're breaking your word to meet her today. When you don't appear and she finds your coat up there without you in it, would she assume the worst, the most obvious reason? The thought stabs at your heart until you can't breathe.
But… calm. You're calm. Or you will be. It's understandable, you rationalize. Florialis is all you know. Everything about life beyond the island came to you in tales and legends, and you have no way of separating fact from fiction.
Uncertainty. It's a bitter taste that's all too familiar.
You can deal with familiar. Right?
...Well, you do possess knowledge of stars, so you'll never lose orientation. Stars rise far away of the island. And now, you're far away too. But you don't want to think about never returning.
"I need to talk with your captain." Your voice shakes but holds. You refuse to panic.
"He is asleep," says the medic, resuming spinning the scalpel.
"In early afternoon?"
"He dislikes sunlight."
What, is he a humanoid nightgull? you wonder sarcastically.
"Then who's in charge during daylight?"
Eis pauses and pins you with his blue gaze.
"You must not know the first thing about crews if you ask that, boy."
"Jet," you grit out, "My name is—"
"Boy. I am the first mate on this vessel—that means when the good captain is absent, I carry his commands."
He appears considerably unimpressed by you.
Figures. You kick yourself for the stupid question; he'd given you the answer in the beginning. You already owe him for healing you; you shouldn't annoy the strange, irritating, intimidating healer. With that in mind, you again reel in your mounting temper and breathe.
"I don't know why your captain kidnapped me—it was kidnapping—the shore was close enough to swim for… but I don't belong here. Is there anything I can say to convince him to take me back?"
For what purpose did he take you? Convenience? Timing? Impulse? Why take literally the least useful person on the island?
Eis shrugs. "Perhaps, but Arond's reasons are his own. I wanted you put ashore, but it is to him you owe your life—he could have left you to drown in darkness."
You can't deny that. Your debt has increased by two more people—yes, even the odd healer—but you're holding onto hope that you can still pay off the last. You can't help but resent this "Arond" for his choice, even if he did save your life.
"I was already working off a life-debt on that island," you murmur.
"Then discuss it with the captain," was the dispassionate reply.
You figured that'd be the answer. "When will he wake?"
"With dusk."
"That's hours from now." Hours in which you're sailing farther and farther away.
"Would you risk waking him?" Eis asks rhetorically.
You're silent, and the healer takes it as a negative. "Then wait."
You both sit in tense silence. You lie back down, and the man relaxes marginally, lounging back down in his chair.
"You had no vital injuries and miraculously no broken bones," Eis says at last: "plenty of cracks and fractures, especially around your right wrist, and I shudder to think what you did with your feet and legs—jump from a cliff into hard water? Not to mention multiple bruises, abrasions, punctures, all over your body."
You blink, slightly wide-eyed. You remembered pain, sure, but it hadn't been as bad as the healer's implying.
"All of which I healed," he continues absently, "though your body is currently making up the difference. Do not ask me to heal your scars; I will refuse."
Scars? Ah. It dawns on you, and you lift your right hand again to focus on a fragment of the image. Your wrist is ringed around with pink circles where the monster's tentacle had grasped instead of the bloody mess you'd expected. You suspect more line your leg in those symmetrical double-rows, and that's without accounting for your scrape with the cliff.
"I'd refuse if you offered," you reply. Why erase a reminder of a battle you survived?
Eis considers your face and shrugs. "You are still suffering from exhaustion, and your bones are still sealing, so you will not stand without my permission, understood?"
He's serious.
"Understood, sir—"
"Eis."
"Eis."
When acting as a healer, the man acts like a less emphatic version of Merry. Just as forceful. You can handle that.
"Good. Your self-preservation hasn't deserted you." He stands, walks over to the desk, and retrieves the cup of water there. You accept it without prompting when he holds it out...and drain it dry. You hadn't realized how thirsty you'd become, and at the very least, you think you can trust the healer not to harm a patient.
"I confess even I have never seen the like of your knife," Eis muses, taking the empty cup. "Firestone—such a volatile material. From where did you acquire such a blade?"
You grip the sheath under your shirt protectively. "It was a gift."
"A gift from no common man, I wager."
You don't answer. He's not wrong.
He shrugs and continues, "I was studying it as you slept. Some say a warrior can tell much about a man by the weapon he wields."
You're a little curious, and Eis seems happy to oblige to the unasked question. Almost eager.
"A double-edged short blade, guardless, wielded in one hand. Its wielder is unafraid of closing in. A man of action, not words, who prefers to do the job himself. But he stands alone, living a life of risk, with a free hand for adapting to any situation." His voice darkens. "Forged of firestone: unassuming at first glance, it burns those who come too close and is undiscriminating in what it damages, including the wielder if his grip loosens."
His eyes spear into yours with an intensity that frightens you. "I do not know why Arond took you. It's a wonder he saved you when even I can sense the flame on you. Perhaps you are just a son of earth, Giftless, lost by your blood, but I do not think for one second that you are safe. I hope I am wrong, but give me one reason to think you are a danger, and I will make sure you never again have to worry about life debts."
You're shocked at his assessment, the sudden dark turn, his very real threat.
He's just met you. What cause does he have? You know you're not that reckless, and you wouldn't hurt anyone without cause. This man… he doesn't know you. He's wrong about you, just like the others on your island who refuse to see past your hair color.
It's just a knife, a last gift from your old mentor. It's not like you picked it yourself.
Eis smiles again, that bland facade slipping into place, and stands. "Now that you're awake and somewhat informed, I have other duties to attend. Stay. You are not a prisoner here, but I am still responsible for your health, and others may not be so welcoming."
"Wait," you say, and he pauses.
[]Ask what to expect from the captain.
[]Ask why Eis thinks you're dangerous.
[]Ask about the destination.
[]Ask about food.
[]Write in.
With that, the odd healer leaves and shuts the door behind him, the meaty tap of his boot soles trailing down the deck.
You're alone.
What do you do?
[]Sneak out.
[]Rest and wait until dusk.
-
[Inventory updated. Lost: Moram's coat, satchel, bedroll.]
Dusk 1.1 - Smiling Steel
-
You are Jet; you wake to a ceiling of wood and an unfamiliar creaking—prone, lying on a pallet of some kind, in a room illuminated by rays peeking from between the curtains on the walls. The space is tiny; even the desk at the opposite wall makes the room seem smaller, even without a chair...but the scent of dried herbs tingles with familiarity.
Close quarters. Seems like someone shares your liking for small sleeping areas.
...But seriously, you're alive. You didn't expect that. You ache as if a giant grabbed your body and squeezed it to jelly (not too far off), and it tastes like a fish died in your mouth and rotted away, but you don't feel shattered. Actually, you feel quite good for someone who went ten rounds with the ocean and three more with a monster.
"How unusual—you wake at high sunfall."
Startled, you instinctively roll towards the voice to the right, just behind your head… but fail, discovering that your left arm is tied down. At your sudden flinch, all your muscles come alight with a bone-deep soreness that brings a groan to your lips.
You eye the speaker warily as he spins a blade—a scalpel?—between his fingers, barely two feet from your head, all without his sharp blue eyes leaving your face. He's not much older than you, maybe ten years at most, but his wolf-gray hair and stubble ages him (though you're not one to talk about hair color), and he sits on the missing desk chair with an air of self-confidence that speaks of experience.
Experience in what?
"Relax. Why would I harm a patient?" he says, stopping the blade mid-spin. You can't help feeling a chill for his bland smile—it doesn't help that his facial features, sharp and angular, are atypical on your island. Unfamiliarity breeds suspicion.
You say nothing and look to your left hand, finally realizing it's still clenched around your firestone knife. Your fingers bear a deep, blue-black stain from the krakenspawn's ink, but the blade is pristine, having burned away all traces of being used.
The man follows your gaze, and he shrugs. "You refused to let go of your weapon. I tied your arm down in case you struggled in your sleep."
You nod in acknowledgement as you force your grip to loosen, ignoring your muscles' protest for leaving the position they'd so faithfully held during your ordeal. You use your free hand to return the blade to its sheath...but not before running the edge across your binds. They fray and burn with a touch.
All the while, the man watches with that unnerving smile. Gray. You'll call him Gray if he doesn't introduce himself; he's asking for it, wearing that gray tunic with gray hair and a gray expression.
You open your mouth to ask—
"I am Eis Waterstone, first mate of the High Revenge, and when required, healer and medic," he tells you, flicking the scalpel into a blur of wavy silver.
Barring a second where you lie there with your mouth open like a fool, you recover admirably.
The name sounded familiar. "Waterstone?"
He flips the blade in the air, and you twitch—had he missed the catch, you'd be missing the tip of your nose.
"My family is known for imbuing stone and metal with water properties," explains the...self-designated healer. "Our smiths are the only forgers of waterstone, the ore of the Gentle Blades, which cut only what the wielder intends!"
It's evident he takes pride in his family, because a sense of real emotion fills his voice rather than the bland amusement from before. You don't blame him. It sounds… kinda impressive. Jard's new knife must be worth far more than its use as a fish cleaner.
"...Okay," you try, "Sir—"
"Eis."
"...Eis. Where am—"
"On a ship. Specifically the High Revenge."
"I was in the water."
"Yes, and now you are not."
"I… shouldn't be alive," you admit to yourself quietly.
"No, you shouldn't be, but you're in my care," he says with a bare hint of arrogance. Or maybe that was experience talking. You're not sure which.
...Is he messing with you? Because with you so off-balance, it's working. You push aside your irritation at his manner with an effort of great willpower.
Recollect. Breathe. You'd fallen off the beacon cliff, tried to swim to shore, and gotten attacked by a krakenspawn. Killed the cursed monster, then—
"...I almost drowned. Was drowning," you mutter.
"Drowned, actually," the odd healer says matter-of-factly. "Krakenspawn ink is a wonderful natural stunner, and you were covered in it till you could've passed for any cursed son of Peril."
He sounds almost fond. You shudder on the inside and make a note avoid meeting anyone of that designation. Peril hardly sounded good for your health.
"Stunner. Right." You shift nervously. "So, I lost consciousness. Who got me out?"
"That would be the captain of this fast-moving vessel."
The captain? You feel a measure of relief that it wasn't the odd healer who saved you. Seriously. If he starts licking that knife, you'll jump overboard yourself.
...Wait. He said… Oh. Oh, no. That unfamiliar creaking, the sensation of rocking—
"We're moving?" you shout, sitting sharply, soreness ignored. The odd healer reads your intent and rises from his chair. He's a bit shorter than your full height, but he's more muscled. An intimidating figure in such close quarters.
"Stay," he says calmly, stilling his blade—probably waterstone, knowing his name. "I wish not to undo the work I've done. If you rebreak your bones before I finish sealing them, I don't care what Captain says—I will refuse to heal you further. There's no cure for recklessness."
Without prompting, he slides apart the curtains on each wall to reveal the view of two opposing windows (portholes, he corrects), the afternoon sun washing the little room twice over. Your heart sinks. You see nothing but water and sky in either direction.
You feel like you're back at the bottom of the cliff, right when you knew no help would arrive: that cold moment when you knew you'd lost everything.
"No—I have to go back!"
Eis' voice cuts your desperate cry. "We are half a day's windsail away from your island. Even were you a son of water, you could not alone match the distance of a ship crewed by children of wind."
He's right, and you don't even have that, Giftless as you are.
You need to go back. You have a responsibility, a debt to repay (no matter what Jard says). You can almost taste the bitterness of your mentor's disappointment. And you'd left his coat out there, up on the clifftop. You're half-convinced Moram's spirit could possess your knife and burn you through its sheath for breaking that promise.
And Nyla… you're breaking your word to meet her today. When you don't appear and she finds your coat up there without you in it, would she assume the worst, the most obvious reason? The thought stabs at your heart until you can't breathe.
But… calm. You're calm. Or you will be. It's understandable, you rationalize. Florialis is all you know. Everything about life beyond the island came to you in tales and legends, and you have no way of separating fact from fiction.
Uncertainty. It's a bitter taste that's all too familiar.
You can deal with familiar. Right?
...Well, you do possess knowledge of stars, so you'll never lose orientation. Stars rise far away of the island. And now, you're far away too. But you don't want to think about never returning.
"I need to talk with your captain." Your voice shakes but holds. You refuse to panic.
"He is asleep," says the medic, resuming spinning the scalpel.
"In early afternoon?"
"He dislikes sunlight."
What, is he a humanoid nightgull? you wonder sarcastically.
"Then who's in charge during daylight?"
Eis pauses and pins you with his blue gaze.
"You must not know the first thing about crews if you ask that, boy."
"Jet," you grit out, "My name is—"
"Boy. I am the first mate on this vessel—that means when the good captain is absent, I carry his commands."
He appears considerably unimpressed by you.
Figures. You kick yourself for the stupid question; he'd given you the answer in the beginning. You already owe him for healing you; you shouldn't annoy the strange, irritating, intimidating healer. With that in mind, you again reel in your mounting temper and breathe.
"I don't know why your captain kidnapped me—it was kidnapping—the shore was close enough to swim for… but I don't belong here. Is there anything I can say to convince him to take me back?"
For what purpose did he take you? Convenience? Timing? Impulse? Why take literally the least useful person on the island?
Eis shrugs. "Perhaps, but Arond's reasons are his own. I wanted you put ashore, but it is to him you owe your life—he could have left you to drown in darkness."
You can't deny that. Your debt has increased by two more people—yes, even the odd healer—but you're holding onto hope that you can still pay off the last. You can't help but resent this "Arond" for his choice, even if he did save your life.
"I was already working off a life-debt on that island," you murmur.
"Then discuss it with the captain," was the dispassionate reply.
You figured that'd be the answer. "When will he wake?"
"With dusk."
"That's hours from now." Hours in which you're sailing farther and farther away.
"Would you risk waking him?" Eis asks rhetorically.
You're silent, and the healer takes it as a negative. "Then wait."
You both sit in tense silence. You lie back down, and the man relaxes marginally, lounging back down in his chair.
"You had no vital injuries and miraculously no broken bones," Eis says at last: "plenty of cracks and fractures, especially around your right wrist, and I shudder to think what you did with your feet and legs—jump from a cliff into hard water? Not to mention multiple bruises, abrasions, punctures, all over your body."
You blink, slightly wide-eyed. You remembered pain, sure, but it hadn't been as bad as the healer's implying.
"All of which I healed," he continues absently, "though your body is currently making up the difference. Do not ask me to heal your scars; I will refuse."
Scars? Ah. It dawns on you, and you lift your right hand again to focus on a fragment of the image. Your wrist is ringed around with pink circles where the monster's tentacle had grasped instead of the bloody mess you'd expected. You suspect more line your leg in those symmetrical double-rows, and that's without accounting for your scrape with the cliff.
"I'd refuse if you offered," you reply. Why erase a reminder of a battle you survived?
Eis considers your face and shrugs. "You are still suffering from exhaustion, and your bones are still sealing, so you will not stand without my permission, understood?"
He's serious.
"Understood, sir—"
"Eis."
"Eis."
When acting as a healer, the man acts like a less emphatic version of Merry. Just as forceful. You can handle that.
"Good. Your self-preservation hasn't deserted you." He stands, walks over to the desk, and retrieves the cup of water there. You accept it without prompting when he holds it out...and drain it dry. You hadn't realized how thirsty you'd become, and at the very least, you think you can trust the healer not to harm a patient.
"I confess even I have never seen the like of your knife," Eis muses, taking the empty cup. "Firestone—such a volatile material. From where did you acquire such a blade?"
You grip the sheath under your shirt protectively. "It was a gift."
"A gift from no common man, I wager."
You don't answer. He's not wrong.
He shrugs and continues, "I was studying it as you slept. Some say a warrior can tell much about a man by the weapon he wields."
You're a little curious, and Eis seems happy to oblige to the unasked question. Almost eager.
"A double-edged short blade, guardless, wielded in one hand. Its wielder is unafraid of closing in. A man of action, not words, who prefers to do the job himself. But he stands alone, living a life of risk, with a free hand for adapting to any situation." His voice darkens. "Forged of firestone: unassuming at first glance, it burns those who come too close and is undiscriminating in what it damages, including the wielder if his grip loosens."
His eyes spear into yours with an intensity that frightens you. "I do not know why Arond took you. It's a wonder he saved you when even I can sense the flame on you. Perhaps you are just a son of earth, Giftless, lost by your blood, but I do not think for one second that you are safe. I hope I am wrong, but give me one reason to think you are a danger, and I will make sure you never again have to worry about life debts."
You're shocked at his assessment, the sudden dark turn, his very real threat.
He's just met you. What cause does he have? You know you're not that reckless, and you wouldn't hurt anyone without cause. This man… he doesn't know you. He's wrong about you, just like the others on your island who refuse to see past your hair color.
It's just a knife, a last gift from your old mentor. It's not like you picked it yourself.
Eis smiles again, that bland facade slipping into place, and stands. "Now that you're awake and somewhat informed, I have other duties to attend. Stay. You are not a prisoner here, but I am still responsible for your health, and others may not be so welcoming."
"Wait," you say, and he pauses.
[]Ask what to expect from the captain.
[]Ask why Eis thinks you're dangerous.
[]Ask about the destination.
[]Ask about food.
[]Write in.
With that, the odd healer leaves and shuts the door behind him, the meaty tap of his boot soles trailing down the deck.
You're alone.
What do you do?
[]Sneak out.
[]Rest and wait until dusk.
-
[Inventory updated. Lost: Moram's coat, satchel, bedroll.]
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- Location
- St. Petersburg
This is getting better by the minute.
Wait, Peril? Is there a connection to Perilous Blood the nightgulls mentioned?
Ah, who am I kidding - if she has any reason to suspect we might not have drowned and that there was a ship passing by the island that night, she might very well depart from home in search of confirmation of our life and death. Besides, it would be a giant narrative waste to leave the granddaughter of Moram on the island instead of letting her think the enemies of the Fireblooded people took their revengeby kidnapping her childhood friend.
Be careful what you wish for, Jet, the captain may very well be a humanoid nightgull.
Damn, I am pumped to see where this is heading!
[x]Ask why Eis thinks you're dangerous.
[x]Sneak out.
I am curious why Eis called us dangerous. Surely, the knife alone couldn't have caused such a reaction. But the man seems to have some weird sixth sense that works almost as precognition. Is there something he senses on us?
Sneaking out is probably ill-advised, but I want to see what he meant by others not being very welcoming.
I like this guy.
I really like this guy. Anyone who can smile fondly at the mention of Zombie Island is a man worthy of respect.
Wait, Peril? Is there a connection to Perilous Blood the nightgulls mentioned?
Okay, forget it, with this the first mate of High Revenge has officially made it to the character top, narrowly displacing Kruakkk.
Hey, look at the bright side - imagine the relief she'd feel when we make it back. If we make it back.
Ah, who am I kidding - if she has any reason to suspect we might not have drowned and that there was a ship passing by the island that night, she might very well depart from home in search of confirmation of our life and death. Besides, it would be a giant narrative waste to leave the granddaughter of Moram on the island instead of letting her think the enemies of the Fireblooded people took their revengeby kidnapping her childhood friend.
Be careful what you wish for, Jet, the captain may very well be a humanoid nightgull.
Damn, I am pumped to see where this is heading!
[x]Ask why Eis thinks you're dangerous.
[x]Sneak out.
I am curious why Eis called us dangerous. Surely, the knife alone couldn't have caused such a reaction. But the man seems to have some weird sixth sense that works almost as precognition. Is there something he senses on us?
Sneaking out is probably ill-advised, but I want to see what he meant by others not being very welcoming.
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