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Marine Misadventures of a Magicless Kind
- Thread starter Lithos Alto
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
- Location
- Location Location
[x]Do as Eis says.
-[x]All of the above. Might as well be a proper fool.
Let's have some fun with this.
-[x]All of the above. Might as well be a proper fool.
Let's have some fun with this.
Jet - ver.1
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Sorry about the wait--yep, making up songs ain't my speed, though it's fun. Expect the update later today or early tomorrow. Coin toss has it, you majorly-dance-and-sing-type-fuzzlebuckets!
Meanwhile, have a barebones prototype lineart portrait of how I think Jet looks like. Semi-demi-cartoonish-not-quite-realism... eh. Hence why it's technically not the final version. Also, the real reason I've been absent. Also, the first technical lineart I've ever made (pen is really unnerving to use). I might color it eventually and update the profiles with it. Mind you, if you want me to make any more drawings, that's time that I'm not writing. Anyone actually curious what some characters look like? Thoughts on the image?
Meanwhile, have a barebones prototype lineart portrait of how I think Jet looks like. Semi-demi-cartoonish-not-quite-realism... eh. Hence why it's technically not the final version. Also, the real reason I've been absent. Also, the first technical lineart I've ever made (pen is really unnerving to use). I might color it eventually and update the profiles with it. Mind you, if you want me to make any more drawings, that's time that I'm not writing. Anyone actually curious what some characters look like? Thoughts on the image?
Last edited:
Dusk 2.2 - The Fool of the Sea
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
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Dusk 2.2 - The Fool of the Sea
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You grasp the mop handle and sit up. Eis' lip twists, and he points to a folded set of clothes at the foot of the pallet. "Put that on. Your clothes are in a dreadful state—it's a wonder they're holding together."
You look down and pull your shirt forward. It's no longer brown, but ragged and blackened with a bluish stain creeping into the seams, some seeping into the holes where toothed tentacles had pierced in and torn. "I don't suppose this'll come out with a good wash?"
"Krakenspawn ink stains cloth nigh permanently, and hair until it grows out. The time and effort to remove it isn't worth the execution, as it results in the destruction of the item in question."
"Fine."
You have no real attachment to your old clothes, but you're a little reluctant to owe more to people who've essentially abducted you, no matter how well-meaning.
"I will be outside. Do not keep me waiting."
The odd healer exits, giving you the room to examine the clothes—a tunic and breeches of the same gray as Eis'. You shift your legs off the pallet and make to stand—toofast vertigo!—and groan, every muscle protesting the movement, but stand you do, using the wall for support.
You'll get used to it.
You quickly change, setting aside Nyla's gift and the firestone knife, and leave your castoffs on the floor. Eis can deal with those. Your muscles feel sore but not torn, and true to the odd healer's word, your flesh is healed but retains circular, pink scars that cluster where the creature's tentacles had bitten you.
It could be worse. As it is, Eis seems to be as skilled as his captain claimed. You're fit enough for anything that comes your way—even beacon duty… or deckswabbing.
You check your reflection in the marvelous scale to see if you have any scars on your fa—aah!
Your hair is as far from white as midnight is from noon. You hadn't noticed in the dark, but in the light of day, it's clearly an inky black with strains of dark blue. You must've been completely soaked in ink—it's nearly as dark as Arond's seemed to be. You're not sure it's an improvement, but that puts suspicion on your thought that Eis' dislike is based on your hair color.
Would he act differently if he knew? That's something to consider, but you've taken enough time. You slip the scale under your new clothes, loop your knife's strap over your head and under your shirt, and exit the sickbay, mop in hand.
Eis stands near the door with his arms folded and a smile barely hovering over his lips. He tilts his head in an exaggerated once-over. "It fits. How… fortuitous. That is one of my spares—ensure that you do not treat it like your old set."
Gullfeathers! You don't need to owe him more.
Clatter. "Here. A bucket. Stay on the main deck unless I instruct you otherwise."
No threat about being under watch? When he climbs some stairs next to the room you'd just been in, you realize why. The sick bay is but an offshoot of the main cabin, the deck from atop which Eis can see every plank, barrel, and rope from stem to stern.
"I am not a statue to admire," the first mate announces, barely a tone above his usual drawl, but with the boost in height his voice carries into the open air. He turns and glares far past and over your head. "So this ship should be sailing like Viperilon himself is in our wake. Unless you wish for me to treat half of you for sparring wounds later."
You turn to the sound of scrambling and stamping of feet and get your first look of the main deck of the High Revenge. Three masts rise into the sky, bearing great gray sails. [A frigate, equipped for battle.] The ship is not as large as you recall the Red Herald to be, perhaps holding a crew of… maybe 300 men? But while that crew had looked haggard and worn, this one seems quite lively, with gray-clothed men—no, there's some women too—hurling wind at the sails in a constant stream. A flag waves from the crow's nest, but the sun's angle steals the image from your eyes.
...There's probably significance in all the gray.
You'd better get started before Eis' attention shifts back this way. Now that you think of it, he's given you awfully free reign for a stranger he doesn't like. Huh.
And so you dunk the mop into the bucket and push the thing around, feeling the squelch with every swipe.
Squelch. Splat. Squelch. Splat.
Just you, the endless sea, the boundless sky, and a couple seagulls. Land is near but not close.
Squelch. Splat. Sploosh. Splat.
The planks sure are straight. You don't recognize the swirling grain, a striking cream on darkwood, and you admire its foreign character.
Squelch. Sploosh. Splat. Squelch.
There'll be halibut out tonight, somewhere under the third star of the Arrow. Will Jard be there? Hm. If not, the mackerel are still running. Salmon? Hm. Only school of that is far gone. The ship's faster than you thought. You're at least a week away from the island by walking speed.
Not that you can walk on water.
Hm-hm-hmmm, hm-hm-hmmm, hm-a-hm ha-hm.
This is boring.
You get lost in the repetitive strokes and start singing under your breath a few verses of a silly little shanty your mentor used to sing when he thought you weren't listening:
"Stow the oars and shut the doors
And pass the lad a flagon,
And don'tcha shout as I tell about
The phoenix and the dragon.
The phoenix and the dragon, sir
The phoenix and the dragon,
Think I'm lying? You'll be flying
Headlong off the wagon!"
You edge your way amidships and edge around the sailblowers, who, intent on their task, are content to ignore you. They are pale of skin—likely coming from the same land as their captain—and you wonder how they don't burn under the sun.
"I tell you true, my bonny crew,
He was a bonny blade,
With the ever-dread and plumage red
No hotter bird was made!"
You punctuate the line with a slap from the mop. You're behind the wind-throwers now, and—an invisible force hits you in the chest, throwing you to the ground!
"Stay away from me, creeper!" snaps the wind-wielding woman (without turning around!).
"Sorry," you mutter, picking yourself up, dusting off the scrapes, and trudging with bucket in hand to the much calmer port side of the ship. Ah, fewer people. Enough room to move, maybe even…
No. You only do that when you're alone at the beacon. The only time you did when someone was around, Nyla nearly fell off a tree laughing.
...Then again, you want Eis to believe you're not dangerous. If he thinks you're a fool, that'll work, right?
Worth a shot.
You spin yourself and the mop around and almost lose your balance, still unused to the pitch of the waves, and continue under your breath:
"But to the east, a ravenous beast
Of wind had claimed the blue,
That black old worm unleashed his storm
And darkness spread anew."
A hopskip, followed by a jig that, according to Nyla, looks like a fish grew limbs and tried to fly. But she loves to exaggerate if she can get a reaction, so you believe—
"What...is he doing?"
"Don't care. He's a crazy fool from crazy island, and crazy morning-captain picked him out of crazy ocean."
"Don't let First hear you talking about him like that, you crazy?
"Who you calling crazy, crazy? The Eis-cold creeper is too busy to care about a conversation, let alone a guy who's imitating a grounded electric eel."
—that she was being completely truthful this time. You force down your growing embarrassment and quickly switch to a different gait, rocking back and forth, alternating feet in time with your mop rhythm.
"There lies no word," said the firebird,
"For this dreadful, fearful night."
And so swore he, by the Esser-three
To set the wrong to right!"
Stomp-right, stomp-left, jab mop backwards, swipe! Rinse mop, stomp-right, stomp-left, twirl!
"Fire flew, and through and through
He sent the lizard packing,
A scar to eye, to teach him why
His muscle sure was lacking!"
You take a breath and sneak a peek. At least the others aren't looking at you anymore, deeming their work more important. Chances are that if they thought you a harmless insane, so will Eis. The thought makes you happy enough to jump and try clicking your heels… and you bang your shin against the mop.
Your one-legged hopping has nothing to do with dancing. You grit your teeth and gamely groan out the last couple verses.
"So now, me men, remember then
To never spout black air,
'Cause phoenix ears are like their tears—
They burn with just one flare!
The phoenix and the dragon, sir
The phoenix and the dragon
Think I'm lying? You'll be flying
Headlong off the wagon!"
"Are ye drunk?"
"!"
You whirl around to see… no one.
"Down here, swabbie."
You look down where the port side of the ship meets the deck. Sure enough, the speaker is lying parallel to the wall, staring up at you with badly-suppressed amusement that threatens to spill out in tears. She—'cause no way that high alto is man—lies neatly hidden between two barrels, and is snugly cocooned in a large… speckled? gray cloak until the only part of her you can see is a freckled face, split into the widest grin you've ever seen.
...How long had she been watching you?
"So, are ye drunk or what?" she repeats.
"Ah… no?" Your cheeks are burning up without the sun's help, let alone alcohol.
"Shore about that, cully? Ye be stumblin' about like a babe that's found dry land for a' first time, that ye are. So's I said t' meself, 'Rakky, ya never seen that'n aboard, like a fish outta water, that he is.' Then, says I, 'But he be on the water, fishhead! More like a sky lizard in deepwater.' That's drunk, ye great deck-walloper."
"I'm not drunk!" you protest, feeling every inch the fool you're trying to seem. "I was just… dancing."
"Hwahahahaw! If that's how ye dance, I want t' know how ye get with a coupla glugs a' the ol' sea brew in ye! Prob'ly draw crowds, with ye stompin' like a great grounded gust-eater!"
You're flaming like the island beacon with pure embarrassment, but "Rakky's" laugh is infectious, and soon you're grinning ruefully.
Laughs subside to chuckles and then to satisfied sighs. She twists her head inquisitively. "Ye don't wheeze a bad note with those pipes, bully boy, even if ye dance like a flamin' chicken at a weddin' party. Never thought I'd hear that tune hereabouts. Who taught it t' ye?"
"I… heard my mentor singing it. I don't think he knew I was listening."
"That so? Sounds like an interestin' fellow. Wouldn't mind meeting him meself."
"Can't. He… died a few years ago."
"Ser'sly? Shame, that. How'd he die?"
She's the second person to ask that in the past couple days. "Why'd you want to know?"
"A guy what dares sing 'The Phoenix and the Dragon' while Blackie still lives is a fool or a wobbegong hero. Maybe both."
"Blackie?"
"The big, bad dragon what lives under the kiddies' beds."
"You mean the Black Dragon."
"That'd be him, yeah, the ol' windbag chuffer. Terrible brother-in-law, lemme tell ye!"
"...You're not saying he's alive alive, right?" You can't help the incredulous note, and your companion doesn't look particularly… normal. The Black Dragon is a dead legend. The last corrupted Firstborn of Wind.
"'Course he is. The Firstborn don't die that easily, firehead."
"But he fell to the Rising Three many ages ago. His bones should be dust on the wind."
No enemy could survive a wartime pact of comradeship between a dragon, a phoenix, and a selkie.
"Yeah, they killed the ol' lizard. He got better." She shrugs, the mass of fur following the motion. "Ye should know that much if'n ye be on this crew."
"I'm… kind of a stowaway, if you believe Eis. I mean, you guys are the ones who picked me up—I didn't mean to end up here, so I don't… The captain just said something poetic about the path being perilous and capturing the morning sun."
"Oho! Capture? Huh. Good luck wi' that," she chortles. "Ye really have no idea, do ye?"
You're realizing quickly that you're in the dark about many things. You… really don't like the feeling, and from the sound of it, you're in a bad position to be uninformed.
"I don't suppose ye—you will fill me in on what I'm missing, will you?"
She sits up, somehow managing to stay completely wrapped, looking like a furry, gray tree trunk with a human face and no branches—not even a hair pokes out from the cloak. "Information's freshwater in this domain, matey, but I'll give ye a drip for free. Ye shouldn't be singin' that plug on this tub. Least, not where anyone can hear. Ye got lucky I'm the only one reaaaally payin' attention."
"Why's that?" The pieces aren't quite fitting together, but the key revolves around the why and who. Does it relate to Eis' deep dislike of fire?
"Now that'd be tellin' if'n ye don't know already. Fair trade, stowaway."
"What do you want?" You don't have much to give, but asking doesn't hurt. You do need information, and you doubt Eis' willingness to help in that area.
"Ye could tell me that story a' yore cool mentor. If'n yore new hereabouts, ye prob don't know anythin' more interestin' t' trade."
You hesitate, then realize you've stopped mopping. You quickly resume, but she's noticed your reluctance.
"Hey, if yore mentor's passin' is a sore point, no need t' tell me, inkhead. I was just curious. Information could save yore life. Or end it. Eh, that's all fishbones. I'll even do ye a free one this time and swear silence t' whatever ye say. Secrets don't leave this'n, no sir!"
"Rakky" seems weird, but the information you need could, as she says, be vital. She implied that your song choice could've ended badly for you, after all. This is a trade. What will you give, if anything?
[]Tell her about Moram, but only if she swears not to tell anyone.
[]Lie and hope she doesn't call you on it.
[]Don't tell her anything.
-
-
You are Nyla, and you're leaning on the wall outside the house, listening. Just listening. Not that it's hard to hear the raised voices inside.
"No, dear. Medical knowledge is far more important than learning to fish."
"She wants to be out there! You can't deny her blood domain, Mer. It's all she can talk about. You've heard her!"
"And she can learn from you after her training is finished. Would you rather send her out in dangerous waters with subpar healing knowledge?"
"I'd be preparing her to avoid having to use healing techniques. She was born to swim, not burn. Waves dash it—! I was younger when I struck out."
"Young and reckless, yes. I want her safe, Jard. I can't… I can't lose anyone else."
They've been at this all day. You could break it up with a single sentence, but you don't know what to do. You want to go far, far away from this island, but you don't want to leave your dear aunt like this. Your own mother's death cracked her. Old Moram's nearly shattered her. Jet's might be the broken fragment before the last. If you were next…
What would Jet do?
Oh, wait. Belay that thought. He'd probably not notice they were arguing and bewilder them so much that they forget to make him choose. Then, he'd stay anyway and take forever to leave.
What do you want? Either way, you're getting on a boat and leaving… eventually.
[]Choose intermediate sailing.
[]Choose advanced healing.
Dusk 2.2 - The Fool of the Sea
-
You grasp the mop handle and sit up. Eis' lip twists, and he points to a folded set of clothes at the foot of the pallet. "Put that on. Your clothes are in a dreadful state—it's a wonder they're holding together."
You look down and pull your shirt forward. It's no longer brown, but ragged and blackened with a bluish stain creeping into the seams, some seeping into the holes where toothed tentacles had pierced in and torn. "I don't suppose this'll come out with a good wash?"
"Krakenspawn ink stains cloth nigh permanently, and hair until it grows out. The time and effort to remove it isn't worth the execution, as it results in the destruction of the item in question."
"Fine."
You have no real attachment to your old clothes, but you're a little reluctant to owe more to people who've essentially abducted you, no matter how well-meaning.
"I will be outside. Do not keep me waiting."
The odd healer exits, giving you the room to examine the clothes—a tunic and breeches of the same gray as Eis'. You shift your legs off the pallet and make to stand—toofast vertigo!—and groan, every muscle protesting the movement, but stand you do, using the wall for support.
You'll get used to it.
You quickly change, setting aside Nyla's gift and the firestone knife, and leave your castoffs on the floor. Eis can deal with those. Your muscles feel sore but not torn, and true to the odd healer's word, your flesh is healed but retains circular, pink scars that cluster where the creature's tentacles had bitten you.
It could be worse. As it is, Eis seems to be as skilled as his captain claimed. You're fit enough for anything that comes your way—even beacon duty… or deckswabbing.
You check your reflection in the marvelous scale to see if you have any scars on your fa—aah!
Your hair is as far from white as midnight is from noon. You hadn't noticed in the dark, but in the light of day, it's clearly an inky black with strains of dark blue. You must've been completely soaked in ink—it's nearly as dark as Arond's seemed to be. You're not sure it's an improvement, but that puts suspicion on your thought that Eis' dislike is based on your hair color.
Would he act differently if he knew? That's something to consider, but you've taken enough time. You slip the scale under your new clothes, loop your knife's strap over your head and under your shirt, and exit the sickbay, mop in hand.
Eis stands near the door with his arms folded and a smile barely hovering over his lips. He tilts his head in an exaggerated once-over. "It fits. How… fortuitous. That is one of my spares—ensure that you do not treat it like your old set."
Gullfeathers! You don't need to owe him more.
Clatter. "Here. A bucket. Stay on the main deck unless I instruct you otherwise."
No threat about being under watch? When he climbs some stairs next to the room you'd just been in, you realize why. The sick bay is but an offshoot of the main cabin, the deck from atop which Eis can see every plank, barrel, and rope from stem to stern.
"I am not a statue to admire," the first mate announces, barely a tone above his usual drawl, but with the boost in height his voice carries into the open air. He turns and glares far past and over your head. "So this ship should be sailing like Viperilon himself is in our wake. Unless you wish for me to treat half of you for sparring wounds later."
You turn to the sound of scrambling and stamping of feet and get your first look of the main deck of the High Revenge. Three masts rise into the sky, bearing great gray sails. [A frigate, equipped for battle.] The ship is not as large as you recall the Red Herald to be, perhaps holding a crew of… maybe 300 men? But while that crew had looked haggard and worn, this one seems quite lively, with gray-clothed men—no, there's some women too—hurling wind at the sails in a constant stream. A flag waves from the crow's nest, but the sun's angle steals the image from your eyes.
...There's probably significance in all the gray.
You'd better get started before Eis' attention shifts back this way. Now that you think of it, he's given you awfully free reign for a stranger he doesn't like. Huh.
And so you dunk the mop into the bucket and push the thing around, feeling the squelch with every swipe.
Squelch. Splat. Squelch. Splat.
Just you, the endless sea, the boundless sky, and a couple seagulls. Land is near but not close.
Squelch. Splat. Sploosh. Splat.
The planks sure are straight. You don't recognize the swirling grain, a striking cream on darkwood, and you admire its foreign character.
Squelch. Sploosh. Splat. Squelch.
There'll be halibut out tonight, somewhere under the third star of the Arrow. Will Jard be there? Hm. If not, the mackerel are still running. Salmon? Hm. Only school of that is far gone. The ship's faster than you thought. You're at least a week away from the island by walking speed.
Not that you can walk on water.
Hm-hm-hmmm, hm-hm-hmmm, hm-a-hm ha-hm.
This is boring.
You get lost in the repetitive strokes and start singing under your breath a few verses of a silly little shanty your mentor used to sing when he thought you weren't listening:
"Stow the oars and shut the doors
And pass the lad a flagon,
And don'tcha shout as I tell about
The phoenix and the dragon.
The phoenix and the dragon, sir
The phoenix and the dragon,
Think I'm lying? You'll be flying
Headlong off the wagon!"
You edge your way amidships and edge around the sailblowers, who, intent on their task, are content to ignore you. They are pale of skin—likely coming from the same land as their captain—and you wonder how they don't burn under the sun.
"I tell you true, my bonny crew,
He was a bonny blade,
With the ever-dread and plumage red
No hotter bird was made!"
You punctuate the line with a slap from the mop. You're behind the wind-throwers now, and—an invisible force hits you in the chest, throwing you to the ground!
"Stay away from me, creeper!" snaps the wind-wielding woman (without turning around!).
"Sorry," you mutter, picking yourself up, dusting off the scrapes, and trudging with bucket in hand to the much calmer port side of the ship. Ah, fewer people. Enough room to move, maybe even…
No. You only do that when you're alone at the beacon. The only time you did when someone was around, Nyla nearly fell off a tree laughing.
...Then again, you want Eis to believe you're not dangerous. If he thinks you're a fool, that'll work, right?
Worth a shot.
You spin yourself and the mop around and almost lose your balance, still unused to the pitch of the waves, and continue under your breath:
"But to the east, a ravenous beast
Of wind had claimed the blue,
That black old worm unleashed his storm
And darkness spread anew."
A hopskip, followed by a jig that, according to Nyla, looks like a fish grew limbs and tried to fly. But she loves to exaggerate if she can get a reaction, so you believe—
"What...is he doing?"
"Don't care. He's a crazy fool from crazy island, and crazy morning-captain picked him out of crazy ocean."
"Don't let First hear you talking about him like that, you crazy?
"Who you calling crazy, crazy? The Eis-cold creeper is too busy to care about a conversation, let alone a guy who's imitating a grounded electric eel."
—that she was being completely truthful this time. You force down your growing embarrassment and quickly switch to a different gait, rocking back and forth, alternating feet in time with your mop rhythm.
"There lies no word," said the firebird,
"For this dreadful, fearful night."
And so swore he, by the Esser-three
To set the wrong to right!"
Stomp-right, stomp-left, jab mop backwards, swipe! Rinse mop, stomp-right, stomp-left, twirl!
"Fire flew, and through and through
He sent the lizard packing,
A scar to eye, to teach him why
His muscle sure was lacking!"
You take a breath and sneak a peek. At least the others aren't looking at you anymore, deeming their work more important. Chances are that if they thought you a harmless insane, so will Eis. The thought makes you happy enough to jump and try clicking your heels… and you bang your shin against the mop.
Your one-legged hopping has nothing to do with dancing. You grit your teeth and gamely groan out the last couple verses.
"So now, me men, remember then
To never spout black air,
'Cause phoenix ears are like their tears—
They burn with just one flare!
The phoenix and the dragon, sir
The phoenix and the dragon
Think I'm lying? You'll be flying
Headlong off the wagon!"
"Are ye drunk?"
"!"
You whirl around to see… no one.
"Down here, swabbie."
You look down where the port side of the ship meets the deck. Sure enough, the speaker is lying parallel to the wall, staring up at you with badly-suppressed amusement that threatens to spill out in tears. She—'cause no way that high alto is man—lies neatly hidden between two barrels, and is snugly cocooned in a large… speckled? gray cloak until the only part of her you can see is a freckled face, split into the widest grin you've ever seen.
...How long had she been watching you?
"So, are ye drunk or what?" she repeats.
"Ah… no?" Your cheeks are burning up without the sun's help, let alone alcohol.
"Shore about that, cully? Ye be stumblin' about like a babe that's found dry land for a' first time, that ye are. So's I said t' meself, 'Rakky, ya never seen that'n aboard, like a fish outta water, that he is.' Then, says I, 'But he be on the water, fishhead! More like a sky lizard in deepwater.' That's drunk, ye great deck-walloper."
"I'm not drunk!" you protest, feeling every inch the fool you're trying to seem. "I was just… dancing."
"Hwahahahaw! If that's how ye dance, I want t' know how ye get with a coupla glugs a' the ol' sea brew in ye! Prob'ly draw crowds, with ye stompin' like a great grounded gust-eater!"
You're flaming like the island beacon with pure embarrassment, but "Rakky's" laugh is infectious, and soon you're grinning ruefully.
Laughs subside to chuckles and then to satisfied sighs. She twists her head inquisitively. "Ye don't wheeze a bad note with those pipes, bully boy, even if ye dance like a flamin' chicken at a weddin' party. Never thought I'd hear that tune hereabouts. Who taught it t' ye?"
"I… heard my mentor singing it. I don't think he knew I was listening."
"That so? Sounds like an interestin' fellow. Wouldn't mind meeting him meself."
"Can't. He… died a few years ago."
"Ser'sly? Shame, that. How'd he die?"
She's the second person to ask that in the past couple days. "Why'd you want to know?"
"A guy what dares sing 'The Phoenix and the Dragon' while Blackie still lives is a fool or a wobbegong hero. Maybe both."
"Blackie?"
"The big, bad dragon what lives under the kiddies' beds."
"You mean the Black Dragon."
"That'd be him, yeah, the ol' windbag chuffer. Terrible brother-in-law, lemme tell ye!"
"...You're not saying he's alive alive, right?" You can't help the incredulous note, and your companion doesn't look particularly… normal. The Black Dragon is a dead legend. The last corrupted Firstborn of Wind.
"'Course he is. The Firstborn don't die that easily, firehead."
"But he fell to the Rising Three many ages ago. His bones should be dust on the wind."
No enemy could survive a wartime pact of comradeship between a dragon, a phoenix, and a selkie.
"Yeah, they killed the ol' lizard. He got better." She shrugs, the mass of fur following the motion. "Ye should know that much if'n ye be on this crew."
"I'm… kind of a stowaway, if you believe Eis. I mean, you guys are the ones who picked me up—I didn't mean to end up here, so I don't… The captain just said something poetic about the path being perilous and capturing the morning sun."
"Oho! Capture? Huh. Good luck wi' that," she chortles. "Ye really have no idea, do ye?"
You're realizing quickly that you're in the dark about many things. You… really don't like the feeling, and from the sound of it, you're in a bad position to be uninformed.
"I don't suppose ye—you will fill me in on what I'm missing, will you?"
She sits up, somehow managing to stay completely wrapped, looking like a furry, gray tree trunk with a human face and no branches—not even a hair pokes out from the cloak. "Information's freshwater in this domain, matey, but I'll give ye a drip for free. Ye shouldn't be singin' that plug on this tub. Least, not where anyone can hear. Ye got lucky I'm the only one reaaaally payin' attention."
"Why's that?" The pieces aren't quite fitting together, but the key revolves around the why and who. Does it relate to Eis' deep dislike of fire?
"Now that'd be tellin' if'n ye don't know already. Fair trade, stowaway."
"What do you want?" You don't have much to give, but asking doesn't hurt. You do need information, and you doubt Eis' willingness to help in that area.
"Ye could tell me that story a' yore cool mentor. If'n yore new hereabouts, ye prob don't know anythin' more interestin' t' trade."
You hesitate, then realize you've stopped mopping. You quickly resume, but she's noticed your reluctance.
"Hey, if yore mentor's passin' is a sore point, no need t' tell me, inkhead. I was just curious. Information could save yore life. Or end it. Eh, that's all fishbones. I'll even do ye a free one this time and swear silence t' whatever ye say. Secrets don't leave this'n, no sir!"
"Rakky" seems weird, but the information you need could, as she says, be vital. She implied that your song choice could've ended badly for you, after all. This is a trade. What will you give, if anything?
[]Tell her about Moram, but only if she swears not to tell anyone.
[]Lie and hope she doesn't call you on it.
[]Don't tell her anything.
-
-
You are Nyla, and you're leaning on the wall outside the house, listening. Just listening. Not that it's hard to hear the raised voices inside.
"No, dear. Medical knowledge is far more important than learning to fish."
"She wants to be out there! You can't deny her blood domain, Mer. It's all she can talk about. You've heard her!"
"And she can learn from you after her training is finished. Would you rather send her out in dangerous waters with subpar healing knowledge?"
"I'd be preparing her to avoid having to use healing techniques. She was born to swim, not burn. Waves dash it—! I was younger when I struck out."
"Young and reckless, yes. I want her safe, Jard. I can't… I can't lose anyone else."
They've been at this all day. You could break it up with a single sentence, but you don't know what to do. You want to go far, far away from this island, but you don't want to leave your dear aunt like this. Your own mother's death cracked her. Old Moram's nearly shattered her. Jet's might be the broken fragment before the last. If you were next…
What would Jet do?
Oh, wait. Belay that thought. He'd probably not notice they were arguing and bewilder them so much that they forget to make him choose. Then, he'd stay anyway and take forever to leave.
What do you want? Either way, you're getting on a boat and leaving… eventually.
[]Choose intermediate sailing.
[]Choose advanced healing.
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Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
It looked kinda boring with a plain hair mass. I have an Arond in the works (on a whiteboard, heh), so no promises on that. Might stick to writing for a while.Brought to you by NVIDIA HairWorks.
I am interested in what the captain looks like.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
Yeah, I winced the moment I heard the opening verses. Of course we'd only know what Moram had to teach us. It's a blessing in dusguise that we managed to pretend to be properly insane and no one has paid us any mind.
(or did they? I would not put it past Eis to observe us and say nothing)
Also, Freckles is instantly likeable. Congratulations on writing a great cast!
Well, it confirms what we came to suspect anyway. The Dragon is a corrupted Firstborn, it's alive - or at least 'got better' - and we are on his ship. I bet there is also a connection to Peril in there somewhere, and maybe to the undead?
And somehow the one Moram served managed to kick his ass, and the hostilities have not ceased since.
Yeah, that's what I meant. Her attitude is contagious.
I dunno. I mean, I like Eis, but I would rather not tell him anything. Not that he doesn't suspect it anyway. Freckles here, though, seems like a decent fellow, and does not appear to hold Blackie (
) in a particularly high regard, nor the mission of this ship. She has also warned us that we are treading on thin ice when she didn't have to. I think we could trust her with this one. Somehow I don't think she'll feel compelled to rat us out. She's likely to find the situation amusing more than anything.[x]Tell her about Moram, but only if she swears not to tell anyone.
As for Nyla, I have no idea what would be more useful on our journey. However, since she already has a bird pet...
[x]Choose intermediate sailing.
...now we only need an eyepatch. (on a more serious note, it strikes me as a more pro-active skill, which is how I imagine her)
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- Location
- Scotland
[X]Tell her about Moram, but only if she swears not to tell anyone.
[x]Choose intermediate sailing.
[x]Choose intermediate sailing.
Dusk 2.3 - Seashell, Hear Shell
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Dusk 2.3 - Seashell, Hear Shell
-
The sound of the sailors cycling wind through the sails hides words from prying ears, and no one is near enough to listen in. You nod in acquiescence. "Alright. Swear you won't tell, and I'll tell you how my mentor died."
Rakky shrugs. "I'll take that. What kind a' oath do ye want?"
"The strongest you're willing to give."
"Hm, strongest is strong, but not all-encompassin'. Rather do one I won't die breakin' on accident. Mind, if'n I swear not t' let a word get t' anyone a' the Perilous Ones—instead a' everyone—that's pretty strong already. That work for ye?"
"Perilous Ones?"
"Includes Blackie, his children, his servants, and his sympathizers. Everyone on this ship and then some. I lose nothin' by throwin' a huge blanket from Blackie t' nightgullies, false ruler t' swabbies, getcha?"
"Ah. I getcha." Mostly. It covers everyone you don't want to know, anyway. "I'll accept that."
"Thank ye kindly. Here we go. I, Mirakela o' the Northern Sea, swear on the name of me lady Miragua that this story, told t' me by my drunk matey—er, whatsisnameagain?"
"Jet. I'm not drunk." Mirakela? Guess no one would actually name their child "Rakky."
"—Jet, of ink-covered hair, definitely an earthie—shall not be known by anyone from or belongin' t' the Perilous Ones because of me. In return for me not givin' any a' Jet's grand ol' story t' the mentioned people—who won't appreciate it anyway—I'll make sure he knows… what'd ye want t' know, cully?"
"Everything you know about this ship and crew," you joke seriously.
"Ye would get along with me aunt splendidly," she deadpans. "Nah, ye would forget all I told ye at a bubble's pop. Not worth yore time or mine."
"I'll settle for anything you've got about Arond Windor and Eis Waterstone." You pause. "And how everything relates to the… Black Dragon." You're still a little skeptical about his resurfacing, but you'll hold judgement until you have more information. Weirder things have happened than old legends coming back to life.
"Mn, fair's fair. In return, I'll give me new matey Jet the info he needs t' be aware a' the utter mess he's fallen into an' how t' steer clear a' the flotsam an' jetsam."
"Flotsam and jetsam?"
"Er… not t' stomp on aggravated flippers? Ye know. Stuff that'd get ye thrown off a cliff into blackwater. That's me done, 'less there's anythin' else ye want t' add?"
You carefully decide not to mention your experiences with that. You turn the words of her oath over in your mind and don't see anything that could backfire on you terribly. In her quirky way, she's covered everything you care about.
"I, Jet, accept this agreement."
"I agree with his agreement. May Water be witness t' the strength a' me word in meanin' and in spirit."
Strong oath indeed. You'd be hesitant to break an Esser-bound word, considering the weight behind it. And that you're floating on Water's domain with no land in sight. Still, "Why go so far for a story about a man you've never met?"
She squinches one eye, freckles following the motion, and shrugs. "Storykeeper here. A good tale I've never heard is worth more'n pearls, 'specially if'n it be true. 'S a fact a' life. The eternal is priceless, and words don't die unless ye let them, ye know, and the stuff that outlives ye is what's worth some kind a' sacrifice. Now, earthies are a nice little mystery. I don't meet many a' you, and I never know where ye come from, so a story from ye is worth a word I wouldn't break anyway, ye know?"
An unexpectedly sober idea from your cheerful companion. You've not thought much about your far future, let alone leaving a legacy, but something in her words resonates with truth. Sacrifice. What would you give up for your goals?
Something conical and very, very pointy is pressed into your hand, tapering and whirly, hard and… hollow? Rakky's moved back when you were distracted. You didn't see even an arm shift out of her cloak. In your palm rests a spiraling shell that contours easily to your fingers, lightly ridged, the color of dry sand. Its hole is plugged with a spongy cork. When you raise the shell to eye level, the spearlike point positioned far away, you feel liquid sloshing on the inside.
"This's an echo shell. Ye uncork it, put it near yore mouth, and tell it what ye want me t' know. When yore done, ye stopper it up again—tightly, like that, or it'll leak yore message. Little one like this'n might take a short ten, fifteen minutes t' fill, so speak fast if'n it be a long tale. Now, I'd like nothin' better'n t' listen t' the story from yore own face, but ye see, when an Eisberg's a-driftin' in the current, nightgullies can't throw pineapples."
"Huh?"
"Losers can't be choosers. Not that I'm a loser, mind."
Ah. Makes sense. You eye the seashell with interest. You know the Gifted possess incredible abilities, one of which is imbuing some items with elemental properties, but other than knives and other such tools, you hadn't encountered many examples. Could this shell really hold a copy of your voice? Well, ten minutes of it.
...She must really love talking if she thinks ten minutes is short.
"How does this thing work?" It feels solid enough to not shatter at a flick. Might hold the weight of a mango or three. Or a pineapple.
"Water storage. Ye pour the message into yore ear so no one else hears it. One use only for not-waters. It'd take too long t' properly explain. Stow it quick—some guys know about 'em."
You do so, sliding it into your tunic at your back, above the strip of cloth that acts as a belt. It'd pass a surface inspection. If not, you're confident you can ditch it somewhere safe or crush it to pieces in a pinch.
"Can you at least give me a clue now? I'm not exactly the most-liked person around here. I don't want to… stomp on a flipper."
"Obey Eis, and don't be smart about it, 'specially if yore on his bad side. Otherwise, while ye be on this ship, don't mention anythin' that even hints about Fire. Backstory stuff. Hard for ye, with yore strong bond with someone a' Fire. Not many'll catch that, but I'm not surprised Eis did—he's a strong one. Still, ye got a little room t' wiggle since Val says yore untouchable, barrin' strong exceptions. Yore prob'ly not one a' those, 'less yore reaaally unlucky."
"Val?"
"Valarond. Don't call him that—he hates his dad. Dunno why he's here and not... He chose t' take after his mother, Alacria. Daughter a' the Mornin' Sky. Nice lady. I miss her." Her smile softens as if she's recalling a far-off memory.
Arond mentioned someone like that in his introduction, though you'd thought Alacria to be his father's name. Arond. Val-arond. Valarond. A shortened name. "If Arond hates his father, why does he call himself 'Windor' instead of 'Arond of the Morning Sky'?"
"...Yore jokin', right? Please tell me ye are." Your questioning expression doesn't change. Rakky groans. "Thought it was odd that an earthie could be so calm talkin' t' Val. Ye don't know First Blood namin' tradition! What did yore mentor teach ye?"
"I might've been dozing during that lecture," you admit sheepishly. How were you supposed to know that ancient lineages are still relevant? It didn't seem to matter on Florialis—most people there identify by parentage rather than blood ancestry. Well, Moram had a surname, but he didn't pass it to Merry. And you don't know either your parentage or your blood, so…
She sighs, falling over with a soft fwump of fur, a freckled cheek squishing into the deck. "Fine, I'll add that info t' yore shell. Ye gave me enough t' cover it."
Rakky looks far past you and straightens abruptly, a strange sight done horizontally. Her tone drops to a whisper. "Now, listen, this girl's gotta get back to work 'fore Waterstone catches up. Sometimes I think 'e hatched and became a flamin' hen, the paranoid little puppy! I'll try t' be here 'round the same time tomorrow. We can trade up then. Now, hurry, get back t' proper deckswabbin', swish-swash-blah and all that, chase off the 'gullies and try not t' stay up late, don't fall off the edge, etcetera—tally-ho!"
"Tally… ho?" you echo, caught flatfooted at the sudden farewell. Did she call Eis a mother hen and a baby dog in the same breath?
A hand clamps onto your shoulder. "Stowaway, even fools are not allowed to slack off."
"!"
You flinch around to see the first mate's unimpressed smile. Where did he come from?
"Eis." You clench the mop in your fist and wonder how the odd healer would react if you didn't restrain your instinct to swing sticks at dangerous creatures. "I was just… thinking about you." His mother hen version, anyway. Rakky had to leave that image last. It won't leave anytime soon. Somewhere in your mind, you're laughing hysterically.
You look back to where the freckled woman in her fur cocoon had lain, but in the blink it took to make eye contact with Eis, she's vanished, spotted cloak and all. She's fast.
"If your thoughts included a river of wine and a one-legged leaping lobster, do ensure that I never feature in such a... drunken imagination," speaks the unflappable healer.
Not like you can keep him out if he shows up like this all the time. And why does everyone think you're drunk? You haven't been near a drop of alchohol in months! ...And now you're thinking about wine and lobsters and—
Nope. Stop—stop that thought riiiight there. He can probably read your mind.
...You're suddenly painfully aware that you probably don't want to be caught with the "echo shell" if Rakky's caution is any clue.
"Got it," you agree, resisting the urge to turn more fully. Eis' hand hasn't moved.
"For someone who should've covered half the deck by now, you were having quite a rousing conversation with someone who was conveniently blocked from my line of vision. I should dearly like to know who else is shirking their duties." That smile does not bode well for the one for whom it is intended.
By his tone, he's issued a command, not a statement. You have to say something. "I was just talking to—"
[]Rakky. I don't think she's a fool.
[]Myself. I toe the line between genius and insanity.
[]A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
-
[Inventory updated: acquired echo shell, destroyed "the clothes on your back," and added Eis' clothes. Lol]
Dusk 2.3 - Seashell, Hear Shell
-
The sound of the sailors cycling wind through the sails hides words from prying ears, and no one is near enough to listen in. You nod in acquiescence. "Alright. Swear you won't tell, and I'll tell you how my mentor died."
Rakky shrugs. "I'll take that. What kind a' oath do ye want?"
"The strongest you're willing to give."
"Hm, strongest is strong, but not all-encompassin'. Rather do one I won't die breakin' on accident. Mind, if'n I swear not t' let a word get t' anyone a' the Perilous Ones—instead a' everyone—that's pretty strong already. That work for ye?"
"Perilous Ones?"
"Includes Blackie, his children, his servants, and his sympathizers. Everyone on this ship and then some. I lose nothin' by throwin' a huge blanket from Blackie t' nightgullies, false ruler t' swabbies, getcha?"
"Ah. I getcha." Mostly. It covers everyone you don't want to know, anyway. "I'll accept that."
"Thank ye kindly. Here we go. I, Mirakela o' the Northern Sea, swear on the name of me lady Miragua that this story, told t' me by my drunk matey—er, whatsisnameagain?"
"Jet. I'm not drunk." Mirakela? Guess no one would actually name their child "Rakky."
"—Jet, of ink-covered hair, definitely an earthie—shall not be known by anyone from or belongin' t' the Perilous Ones because of me. In return for me not givin' any a' Jet's grand ol' story t' the mentioned people—who won't appreciate it anyway—I'll make sure he knows… what'd ye want t' know, cully?"
"Everything you know about this ship and crew," you joke seriously.
"Ye would get along with me aunt splendidly," she deadpans. "Nah, ye would forget all I told ye at a bubble's pop. Not worth yore time or mine."
"I'll settle for anything you've got about Arond Windor and Eis Waterstone." You pause. "And how everything relates to the… Black Dragon." You're still a little skeptical about his resurfacing, but you'll hold judgement until you have more information. Weirder things have happened than old legends coming back to life.
"Mn, fair's fair. In return, I'll give me new matey Jet the info he needs t' be aware a' the utter mess he's fallen into an' how t' steer clear a' the flotsam an' jetsam."
"Flotsam and jetsam?"
"Er… not t' stomp on aggravated flippers? Ye know. Stuff that'd get ye thrown off a cliff into blackwater. That's me done, 'less there's anythin' else ye want t' add?"
You carefully decide not to mention your experiences with that. You turn the words of her oath over in your mind and don't see anything that could backfire on you terribly. In her quirky way, she's covered everything you care about.
"I, Jet, accept this agreement."
"I agree with his agreement. May Water be witness t' the strength a' me word in meanin' and in spirit."
Strong oath indeed. You'd be hesitant to break an Esser-bound word, considering the weight behind it. And that you're floating on Water's domain with no land in sight. Still, "Why go so far for a story about a man you've never met?"
She squinches one eye, freckles following the motion, and shrugs. "Storykeeper here. A good tale I've never heard is worth more'n pearls, 'specially if'n it be true. 'S a fact a' life. The eternal is priceless, and words don't die unless ye let them, ye know, and the stuff that outlives ye is what's worth some kind a' sacrifice. Now, earthies are a nice little mystery. I don't meet many a' you, and I never know where ye come from, so a story from ye is worth a word I wouldn't break anyway, ye know?"
An unexpectedly sober idea from your cheerful companion. You've not thought much about your far future, let alone leaving a legacy, but something in her words resonates with truth. Sacrifice. What would you give up for your goals?
Something conical and very, very pointy is pressed into your hand, tapering and whirly, hard and… hollow? Rakky's moved back when you were distracted. You didn't see even an arm shift out of her cloak. In your palm rests a spiraling shell that contours easily to your fingers, lightly ridged, the color of dry sand. Its hole is plugged with a spongy cork. When you raise the shell to eye level, the spearlike point positioned far away, you feel liquid sloshing on the inside.
"This's an echo shell. Ye uncork it, put it near yore mouth, and tell it what ye want me t' know. When yore done, ye stopper it up again—tightly, like that, or it'll leak yore message. Little one like this'n might take a short ten, fifteen minutes t' fill, so speak fast if'n it be a long tale. Now, I'd like nothin' better'n t' listen t' the story from yore own face, but ye see, when an Eisberg's a-driftin' in the current, nightgullies can't throw pineapples."
"Huh?"
"Losers can't be choosers. Not that I'm a loser, mind."
Ah. Makes sense. You eye the seashell with interest. You know the Gifted possess incredible abilities, one of which is imbuing some items with elemental properties, but other than knives and other such tools, you hadn't encountered many examples. Could this shell really hold a copy of your voice? Well, ten minutes of it.
...She must really love talking if she thinks ten minutes is short.
"How does this thing work?" It feels solid enough to not shatter at a flick. Might hold the weight of a mango or three. Or a pineapple.
"Water storage. Ye pour the message into yore ear so no one else hears it. One use only for not-waters. It'd take too long t' properly explain. Stow it quick—some guys know about 'em."
You do so, sliding it into your tunic at your back, above the strip of cloth that acts as a belt. It'd pass a surface inspection. If not, you're confident you can ditch it somewhere safe or crush it to pieces in a pinch.
"Can you at least give me a clue now? I'm not exactly the most-liked person around here. I don't want to… stomp on a flipper."
"Obey Eis, and don't be smart about it, 'specially if yore on his bad side. Otherwise, while ye be on this ship, don't mention anythin' that even hints about Fire. Backstory stuff. Hard for ye, with yore strong bond with someone a' Fire. Not many'll catch that, but I'm not surprised Eis did—he's a strong one. Still, ye got a little room t' wiggle since Val says yore untouchable, barrin' strong exceptions. Yore prob'ly not one a' those, 'less yore reaaally unlucky."
"Val?"
"Valarond. Don't call him that—he hates his dad. Dunno why he's here and not... He chose t' take after his mother, Alacria. Daughter a' the Mornin' Sky. Nice lady. I miss her." Her smile softens as if she's recalling a far-off memory.
Arond mentioned someone like that in his introduction, though you'd thought Alacria to be his father's name. Arond. Val-arond. Valarond. A shortened name. "If Arond hates his father, why does he call himself 'Windor' instead of 'Arond of the Morning Sky'?"
"...Yore jokin', right? Please tell me ye are." Your questioning expression doesn't change. Rakky groans. "Thought it was odd that an earthie could be so calm talkin' t' Val. Ye don't know First Blood namin' tradition! What did yore mentor teach ye?"
"I might've been dozing during that lecture," you admit sheepishly. How were you supposed to know that ancient lineages are still relevant? It didn't seem to matter on Florialis—most people there identify by parentage rather than blood ancestry. Well, Moram had a surname, but he didn't pass it to Merry. And you don't know either your parentage or your blood, so…
She sighs, falling over with a soft fwump of fur, a freckled cheek squishing into the deck. "Fine, I'll add that info t' yore shell. Ye gave me enough t' cover it."
Rakky looks far past you and straightens abruptly, a strange sight done horizontally. Her tone drops to a whisper. "Now, listen, this girl's gotta get back to work 'fore Waterstone catches up. Sometimes I think 'e hatched and became a flamin' hen, the paranoid little puppy! I'll try t' be here 'round the same time tomorrow. We can trade up then. Now, hurry, get back t' proper deckswabbin', swish-swash-blah and all that, chase off the 'gullies and try not t' stay up late, don't fall off the edge, etcetera—tally-ho!"
"Tally… ho?" you echo, caught flatfooted at the sudden farewell. Did she call Eis a mother hen and a baby dog in the same breath?
A hand clamps onto your shoulder. "Stowaway, even fools are not allowed to slack off."
"!"
You flinch around to see the first mate's unimpressed smile. Where did he come from?
"Eis." You clench the mop in your fist and wonder how the odd healer would react if you didn't restrain your instinct to swing sticks at dangerous creatures. "I was just… thinking about you." His mother hen version, anyway. Rakky had to leave that image last. It won't leave anytime soon. Somewhere in your mind, you're laughing hysterically.
You look back to where the freckled woman in her fur cocoon had lain, but in the blink it took to make eye contact with Eis, she's vanished, spotted cloak and all. She's fast.
"If your thoughts included a river of wine and a one-legged leaping lobster, do ensure that I never feature in such a... drunken imagination," speaks the unflappable healer.
Not like you can keep him out if he shows up like this all the time. And why does everyone think you're drunk? You haven't been near a drop of alchohol in months! ...And now you're thinking about wine and lobsters and—
Nope. Stop—stop that thought riiiight there. He can probably read your mind.
...You're suddenly painfully aware that you probably don't want to be caught with the "echo shell" if Rakky's caution is any clue.
"Got it," you agree, resisting the urge to turn more fully. Eis' hand hasn't moved.
"For someone who should've covered half the deck by now, you were having quite a rousing conversation with someone who was conveniently blocked from my line of vision. I should dearly like to know who else is shirking their duties." That smile does not bode well for the one for whom it is intended.
By his tone, he's issued a command, not a statement. You have to say something. "I was just talking to—"
[]Rakky. I don't think she's a fool.
[]Myself. I toe the line between genius and insanity.
[]A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
-
[Inventory updated: acquired echo shell, destroyed "the clothes on your back," and added Eis' clothes. Lol]
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Unseelie
(Verified True Fae)
- Location
- Tír fo Thuinn
Rakky was great before but now I really like her.
[X] A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
(Probably not even too far from the truth.)
[X] A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
(Probably not even too far from the truth.)
Was he demoted?
- Location
- St. Petersburg
He is the first, the second, and the ship's only mate.
Not naming names, but not deviating too far from the truth either. Though we were told to obey Eis and not be smart about it. I wonder if that qualifies.
[x]A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
Ah, I suppose it makes sense Rakky isn't a crew member, the way she talks. Though Eis mentioned something about avoiding the wrath of the seal kin - I wonder on what terms they are with each other.
Not naming names, but not deviating too far from the truth either. Though we were told to obey Eis and not be smart about it. I wonder if that qualifies.
[x]A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
Ah, I suppose it makes sense Rakky isn't a crew member, the way she talks. Though Eis mentioned something about avoiding the wrath of the seal kin - I wonder on what terms they are with each other.
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Wooh nice catch, I'll have to go back and fix those later.
Edit: done.
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- Location
- Scotland
[X] A sea spirit… I think. I didn't know they were real. Am I going crazy?
Dusk 2.4 - (Absolute Certainty)
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Dusk 2.4 - (Absolute Certainty)
-
"—a sea spirit. I didn't know those existed. Am I going crazy?"
...That was bad. Who's going to believe that old trick?
Without warning, Eis grabs the back of your head, spins you to face him, and—
"Hold still and don't squirm, or you'll lose an eyelash."
—pulls down your right eyelid. You yelp and flinch back, but his grip holds firm.
"I'm sure you didn't have a head injury when I healed you, but certainty is worth an extra look. You are peculiarly hardy," he explains conversationally, staring into your eye. Seeming satisfied, he switches to your left, and repeats the action.
"Do describe this… sea spirit," he mutters. "Perhaps I know what manner of creature you actually encountered."
Not having found anything in your eyes, the odd healer's taken your shoulder again and seems content to not let go. Weird. He seemed all kinds of not wanting to touch you before. You're not about to escape or anything.
You're not about to give Rakky away, not when she was good enough to help you when you expected nothing. You still don't know what to make of that, what with her casual references to Arond, his family, and his first mate. Well, the strange woman had told you to obey Eis, and you're not the best liar, so… truth it is.
"Furry," you blurt. "It was covered in gray fur, no limbs I could see. Just a—a kind of big, fuzzy caterpillar-like thing."
"A… caterpillar." He rolls the word as if tasting its quality. "Quaint. How did it speak?"
"It had the face of a woman," you mumble, knowing how ridiculous the truth sounds. You couldn't see anything else.
"One would stop working at the sight of a pretty face."
"No, she told me I was drunk."
"There do tend to be spirits around when one is inebriated. What makes you think this was a spirit?"
"She disappeared. That's what spirits do." Still true.
"You didn't tell this… being anything, did you?"
Your heart skips a beat, the echo shell a heavy weight at your back, and you're glad that nothing important was actually exchanged between you.
"I told her I wasn't drunk. We disagreed heavily."
Eis stares in silence, his irises a steely blue in the morning sun, and lets you go. "I wouldn't say you are crazy, but you are unfortunate," he says, crossing his arms.
You're almost afraid to ask. "Unfortunate?"
He brushes it off with a half-tilt of the lips. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
"I'm worried that you said that."
Eis is almost cheerful when he replies, "Did you not know? If you can talk to dead people, you're close to death yourself!"
"Wha—?"
He claps you on the shoulder with an almost sympathetic smile. "Work does not wait even for dead men walking. Get back to swabbing, stowaway."
Before you can get another word in edgewise, Eis turns to leave.
You balance the mop against your chest and rub your abused lower eyelids gingerly. He was kidding, right? Anyway, Rakky's no spirit. She couldn't hand you a solid object if she had no body, right?
And then the bucket's liquid contents rise in a mini wave in front of your face. You have just enough time to blink, then—
Foosh!
—you stand stock-still, a deluge pouring from your head to the deck, dripping from your hair and ears and soaking in between your toes, utterly flabbergasted as the odd healer lets out a quiet noise suspiciously similar to a chuckle.
Did he just prank you?
...Eis has made no secret of his dislike, but the action shows a softer side to the playfulness you've been on the scalpel-edge of. Now that you think about it, he's in a much better mood than you've seen him. What changed?
[]Follow him astern. Might as well start over from the beginning.
[]Stay amidship. You're already here—why move?
[]Head for'ard. You may see something ahead.
-
-
You are Eis Waterstone: from your mother, you are of the fourth generation in an unbroken line of water from Edom of the Midnight Sea, father of the Northseas; from your father, you gained the proud legacy of Eithanael of the Twilit Sea, ancestor of the seas' greatest imbuers: Waterstone!
The boy's drenched spluttering brings a curl of petty satisfaction to your lips, but you do not mean to be cruel, so you dip into the waves of your soul the touch of a comforting hand, the essence of blueberry pie crumbling by the hearth and flick the thread of your power tying liquid to cloth.
Return.
Without looking, you feel the lost water streaming back into its previous container. Too kind? Perhaps. You should've left the bucket empty to keep him further occupied. (You don't need him—after all, you already cleanse the decks daily with barely a thought.) Still, you do derive equal parts amusement and frustration from his inept mop-swinging.
Sometimes you think Arond advises you more than you do him; a good night's sleep and a lent clothes did wonders. You are still troubled by the boy's presence, but standing near him, touching him, doesn't trigger your anger like when you pulled him from the blackwater. Every thread of his borrowed tunic is imbued with water—the potential to suppress a connection to a blood-domain—not as completely as a cloak of Earth, but it's enough.
You are painfully aware that such meticulous threadwork is reserved for the powerful, not for a son of earth (who should have no presence, let alone a twisted mixture of dread and Fire). Without a dampener, the boy would be a beacon to Miragua's sounders. The High Revenge cannot yet risk detection.
You meant what you told the boy. He holds danger and secrets that even he does not know, and until the blacking fades from his hair, you won't have even a shred of a hint about any of them. He could be a distant cousin, a friend of a friend, a murderer by inaction—!
Calm. (The flame. Isn't. His.)
Even if he was of Fire, the boy mightn't have been born by the end of the Sheer Winter. He did not prolong the suffering of your kinsmen. (He's not the subject of your rage.)
The smile slips. Still, he was talking to someone—someone of flesh and blood. (Only the living can touch the domains, and you felt the stirring of Water.) Maybe a crewman skipping work, maybe a… another spy from That Abomination Of A Father. The boy isn't one, and you'd isolated the lackey, but what if there's another?
You focus on the ship's wheel and twitch. Speaking of skipping work—
"Did you think I missed the straw figure tied to the wheel on your shift?" you address the woman at the helm. To the eye, she is your contemporary, in the prime of adulthood, but blood is deceptive. (She'd been grown when you were a child.)
The helmswoman shrugs with her whole body, gray locks (like yours, born in the teeth of the Sheer Winter) brushing her cloak, as ever immune to your ire. "Always a first time, Firstie! 'S not like the course has changed or will be changin' now, is it?" she says with a grin.
Oh, Rakela. You tap the wheel with a sigh. "If I noticed, others may have. Tell me you did not do anything foolish."
"Ye must be jokin'." She gestures at the circulators, hard at work pushing the ship to new speeds. "Them? Pay attention? Nah." A finger point upward to the lookout. "Him? Nope. Who sees what they don't expect?"
You acknowledge her point, but she should not tempt fate. Sometimes you think you are older. "I hope your idleness was worth the span of heartbeats it stole from me."
A flash of bright molars. "Ohhh, yeah! Definitely worth it! I'm feelin' out another story—it's gonna be a great one this time, I can tell!"
No enthusiasm can outshine a story hunter on the scent. "Fascinating. What… historical individual caught your attention this time?"
"Oh, just me new matey Jet. Ye prob'ly know him inside and out already with all the drugs ye stuffed into him. Dancin' mad, he was."
The tension drains from your shoulders even as interest rises. No other spies, then. Just a history-keeping navigator (who could easily dissolve the mission to foam if so inclined). Caution is best, but she won't tell a word until the story is complete and written, no matter how you question her. You've never been able to make her do anything.
You might need to have a proper conversation with the stowaway, without the threats. You can acquire a bedside manner in a pinch, no matter what your crew thinks. Rakela plus her antics equals sea spirit—an easy mistake or a twisted truth-not-lie on the part of the stowaway. A talk to put your wariness to rest, if nothing else. (The flame isn't his.) Or you could strand him on the nearest island. Hm…
"I do not drug my patients," you reply calmly. "I induce in their bodies a state of unconsciousness or localized numbness."
"And that's s'posed t' make me feel better?"
"In measured doses, yes."
"Rather ye keep yore medical mitts off this'n. I like these livers just the color they are, ye lily-livered lemonade-drinker."
You twitch. Says the nearly-scurvy sea dog. "Stay out of Arond's wine cabinet." Knowing her, she snuck into his cabin the moment the night shift rotated (which means anyone can. You need to rectify that).
"What Val doesn't drink, he'll never find out."
"And stop calling him that. The last thing we need is a small-scale Whitestorm."
"Stay chilly, cuzzy. I knew that'n from day one."
"For the third time, we are not cousins."
"My great-great-whatever-grandpa, Eddy a' the Midnight Sea, yore great-and-so-on grandpa, so there."
You pause and think back. (...truth.) Fine. Even if you disagree, you do not possess the fortitude to stop Rakela. With that, you change the subject to more productive threads.
"Course check, helmsman."
Heel click, mock salute. "Runnin' up, ship-shape, and straight as an arrow, sir!"
"Eis."
She continues as if you hadn't spoken. "This'n sails like a dream a' crystallized strawberries and breaks the waves just as sweet—steady as she goes and all that. Ye would think this tub's abso-flippin'-lutely becalmed with all the action in this shift! Sailin' is no fun this smooth. Don't s'pose ye want t' relieve me yet, do ye?"
Hopeful seal eyes. You don't know what's more disturbing: that she can pull them off at her age, or that they actually work on occasion. Fortunately for her, it's about that time of day. You nod.
"I'll take over after your report. Distance—what progress?"
"Why, thank ye. The Herald picked up a few wavelengths since yesterday. We're about a day and a half out, but that space'll close fast if'n ye keep the circulators flyin' at the sails, Firstie."
"I haven't forgotten. Keep me updated, helmsman."
"Whatever ye say, Eis-boyo!"
"Eis. Just Eis." Why must people add syllables?
"Ye were a lot more fun as a tyke. Now, 's like ye became an Eis-sculpture of yoreself. What'd ye do in the last twenty years?"
"It's called 'growing up'. Even the Firstborn change, given time." You reduce your tone to a conversational mutter. "What of the Bloodwind?"
"A week or four days as the crow flies, fewer if'n His Windbagness gets off his throne. He's gettin' impatient—ye heard that poor kid screamin' in the blackwater the other night. Sound takes time t' travel."
You nod. The chilling sound woke you just before you were called to dive into ink-dark waters. Not your favorite memory... or your worst.
Rakela spreads her hands wide. "Can't delay forever, ye know. We're pushin' it t' the limit."
"We do not require forever, but time is not on our side." You eye the passing seagulls with suspicion as they perch in the rigging. (Never trust a bird.)
"No luck with a listenin' lizard?" she asks sympathetically.
"Arond must commit to one course. This is no capture mission, no matter what he wants to think." You pause. "If, in the end, he chooses Mylston's death, I would rather not fight you."
(But you know I will.)
A freckled arm slings across your shoulders, but you twitch it off reflexively. "Hey, hey, it's gonna be fine, little Eis. He'll choose right, and I'll be here t' help if'n everythin' goes t' the nor'easters."
"Can you fix the Sundered Seas?" Her silence is telling. "Legends say only the Esser can reattach pieces severed from a domain. I know what lies ahead if I fail. You know what follows if I succeed."
(Failure is not an option.)
She squints at you with her unnervingly perceptive eyes. "Then why'd ye board this ship at all? Never figured ye for a deathwish."
"I got here the same way you did." You smile grimly, taking your place behind the wheel. "I volunteered."
How do you proceed?
[]Full speed ahead. You're not suicidal.
[]No change. Steady as she goes.
[]Slow down. Drop a wavelength or two, no more. You're not suicidal.
Dusk 2.4 - (Absolute Certainty)
-
"—a sea spirit. I didn't know those existed. Am I going crazy?"
...That was bad. Who's going to believe that old trick?
Without warning, Eis grabs the back of your head, spins you to face him, and—
"Hold still and don't squirm, or you'll lose an eyelash."
—pulls down your right eyelid. You yelp and flinch back, but his grip holds firm.
"I'm sure you didn't have a head injury when I healed you, but certainty is worth an extra look. You are peculiarly hardy," he explains conversationally, staring into your eye. Seeming satisfied, he switches to your left, and repeats the action.
"Do describe this… sea spirit," he mutters. "Perhaps I know what manner of creature you actually encountered."
Not having found anything in your eyes, the odd healer's taken your shoulder again and seems content to not let go. Weird. He seemed all kinds of not wanting to touch you before. You're not about to escape or anything.
You're not about to give Rakky away, not when she was good enough to help you when you expected nothing. You still don't know what to make of that, what with her casual references to Arond, his family, and his first mate. Well, the strange woman had told you to obey Eis, and you're not the best liar, so… truth it is.
"Furry," you blurt. "It was covered in gray fur, no limbs I could see. Just a—a kind of big, fuzzy caterpillar-like thing."
"A… caterpillar." He rolls the word as if tasting its quality. "Quaint. How did it speak?"
"It had the face of a woman," you mumble, knowing how ridiculous the truth sounds. You couldn't see anything else.
"One would stop working at the sight of a pretty face."
"No, she told me I was drunk."
"There do tend to be spirits around when one is inebriated. What makes you think this was a spirit?"
"She disappeared. That's what spirits do." Still true.
"You didn't tell this… being anything, did you?"
Your heart skips a beat, the echo shell a heavy weight at your back, and you're glad that nothing important was actually exchanged between you.
"I told her I wasn't drunk. We disagreed heavily."
Eis stares in silence, his irises a steely blue in the morning sun, and lets you go. "I wouldn't say you are crazy, but you are unfortunate," he says, crossing his arms.
You're almost afraid to ask. "Unfortunate?"
He brushes it off with a half-tilt of the lips. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
"I'm worried that you said that."
Eis is almost cheerful when he replies, "Did you not know? If you can talk to dead people, you're close to death yourself!"
"Wha—?"
He claps you on the shoulder with an almost sympathetic smile. "Work does not wait even for dead men walking. Get back to swabbing, stowaway."
Before you can get another word in edgewise, Eis turns to leave.
You balance the mop against your chest and rub your abused lower eyelids gingerly. He was kidding, right? Anyway, Rakky's no spirit. She couldn't hand you a solid object if she had no body, right?
And then the bucket's liquid contents rise in a mini wave in front of your face. You have just enough time to blink, then—
Foosh!
—you stand stock-still, a deluge pouring from your head to the deck, dripping from your hair and ears and soaking in between your toes, utterly flabbergasted as the odd healer lets out a quiet noise suspiciously similar to a chuckle.
Did he just prank you?
...Eis has made no secret of his dislike, but the action shows a softer side to the playfulness you've been on the scalpel-edge of. Now that you think about it, he's in a much better mood than you've seen him. What changed?
[]Follow him astern. Might as well start over from the beginning.
[]Stay amidship. You're already here—why move?
[]Head for'ard. You may see something ahead.
-
-
You are Eis Waterstone: from your mother, you are of the fourth generation in an unbroken line of water from Edom of the Midnight Sea, father of the Northseas; from your father, you gained the proud legacy of Eithanael of the Twilit Sea, ancestor of the seas' greatest imbuers: Waterstone!
The boy's drenched spluttering brings a curl of petty satisfaction to your lips, but you do not mean to be cruel, so you dip into the waves of your soul the touch of a comforting hand, the essence of blueberry pie crumbling by the hearth and flick the thread of your power tying liquid to cloth.
Return.
Without looking, you feel the lost water streaming back into its previous container. Too kind? Perhaps. You should've left the bucket empty to keep him further occupied. (You don't need him—after all, you already cleanse the decks daily with barely a thought.) Still, you do derive equal parts amusement and frustration from his inept mop-swinging.
Sometimes you think Arond advises you more than you do him; a good night's sleep and a lent clothes did wonders. You are still troubled by the boy's presence, but standing near him, touching him, doesn't trigger your anger like when you pulled him from the blackwater. Every thread of his borrowed tunic is imbued with water—the potential to suppress a connection to a blood-domain—not as completely as a cloak of Earth, but it's enough.
You are painfully aware that such meticulous threadwork is reserved for the powerful, not for a son of earth (who should have no presence, let alone a twisted mixture of dread and Fire). Without a dampener, the boy would be a beacon to Miragua's sounders. The High Revenge cannot yet risk detection.
You meant what you told the boy. He holds danger and secrets that even he does not know, and until the blacking fades from his hair, you won't have even a shred of a hint about any of them. He could be a distant cousin, a friend of a friend, a murderer by inaction—!
Calm. (The flame. Isn't. His.)
Even if he was of Fire, the boy mightn't have been born by the end of the Sheer Winter. He did not prolong the suffering of your kinsmen. (He's not the subject of your rage.)
The smile slips. Still, he was talking to someone—someone of flesh and blood. (Only the living can touch the domains, and you felt the stirring of Water.) Maybe a crewman skipping work, maybe a… another spy from That Abomination Of A Father. The boy isn't one, and you'd isolated the lackey, but what if there's another?
You focus on the ship's wheel and twitch. Speaking of skipping work—
"Did you think I missed the straw figure tied to the wheel on your shift?" you address the woman at the helm. To the eye, she is your contemporary, in the prime of adulthood, but blood is deceptive. (She'd been grown when you were a child.)
The helmswoman shrugs with her whole body, gray locks (like yours, born in the teeth of the Sheer Winter) brushing her cloak, as ever immune to your ire. "Always a first time, Firstie! 'S not like the course has changed or will be changin' now, is it?" she says with a grin.
Oh, Rakela. You tap the wheel with a sigh. "If I noticed, others may have. Tell me you did not do anything foolish."
"Ye must be jokin'." She gestures at the circulators, hard at work pushing the ship to new speeds. "Them? Pay attention? Nah." A finger point upward to the lookout. "Him? Nope. Who sees what they don't expect?"
You acknowledge her point, but she should not tempt fate. Sometimes you think you are older. "I hope your idleness was worth the span of heartbeats it stole from me."
A flash of bright molars. "Ohhh, yeah! Definitely worth it! I'm feelin' out another story—it's gonna be a great one this time, I can tell!"
No enthusiasm can outshine a story hunter on the scent. "Fascinating. What… historical individual caught your attention this time?"
"Oh, just me new matey Jet. Ye prob'ly know him inside and out already with all the drugs ye stuffed into him. Dancin' mad, he was."
The tension drains from your shoulders even as interest rises. No other spies, then. Just a history-keeping navigator (who could easily dissolve the mission to foam if so inclined). Caution is best, but she won't tell a word until the story is complete and written, no matter how you question her. You've never been able to make her do anything.
You might need to have a proper conversation with the stowaway, without the threats. You can acquire a bedside manner in a pinch, no matter what your crew thinks. Rakela plus her antics equals sea spirit—an easy mistake or a twisted truth-not-lie on the part of the stowaway. A talk to put your wariness to rest, if nothing else. (The flame isn't his.) Or you could strand him on the nearest island. Hm…
"I do not drug my patients," you reply calmly. "I induce in their bodies a state of unconsciousness or localized numbness."
"And that's s'posed t' make me feel better?"
"In measured doses, yes."
"Rather ye keep yore medical mitts off this'n. I like these livers just the color they are, ye lily-livered lemonade-drinker."
You twitch. Says the nearly-scurvy sea dog. "Stay out of Arond's wine cabinet." Knowing her, she snuck into his cabin the moment the night shift rotated (which means anyone can. You need to rectify that).
"What Val doesn't drink, he'll never find out."
"And stop calling him that. The last thing we need is a small-scale Whitestorm."
"Stay chilly, cuzzy. I knew that'n from day one."
"For the third time, we are not cousins."
"My great-great-whatever-grandpa, Eddy a' the Midnight Sea, yore great-and-so-on grandpa, so there."
You pause and think back. (...truth.) Fine. Even if you disagree, you do not possess the fortitude to stop Rakela. With that, you change the subject to more productive threads.
"Course check, helmsman."
Heel click, mock salute. "Runnin' up, ship-shape, and straight as an arrow, sir!"
"Eis."
She continues as if you hadn't spoken. "This'n sails like a dream a' crystallized strawberries and breaks the waves just as sweet—steady as she goes and all that. Ye would think this tub's abso-flippin'-lutely becalmed with all the action in this shift! Sailin' is no fun this smooth. Don't s'pose ye want t' relieve me yet, do ye?"
Hopeful seal eyes. You don't know what's more disturbing: that she can pull them off at her age, or that they actually work on occasion. Fortunately for her, it's about that time of day. You nod.
"I'll take over after your report. Distance—what progress?"
"Why, thank ye. The Herald picked up a few wavelengths since yesterday. We're about a day and a half out, but that space'll close fast if'n ye keep the circulators flyin' at the sails, Firstie."
"I haven't forgotten. Keep me updated, helmsman."
"Whatever ye say, Eis-boyo!"
"Eis. Just Eis." Why must people add syllables?
"Ye were a lot more fun as a tyke. Now, 's like ye became an Eis-sculpture of yoreself. What'd ye do in the last twenty years?"
"It's called 'growing up'. Even the Firstborn change, given time." You reduce your tone to a conversational mutter. "What of the Bloodwind?"
"A week or four days as the crow flies, fewer if'n His Windbagness gets off his throne. He's gettin' impatient—ye heard that poor kid screamin' in the blackwater the other night. Sound takes time t' travel."
You nod. The chilling sound woke you just before you were called to dive into ink-dark waters. Not your favorite memory... or your worst.
Rakela spreads her hands wide. "Can't delay forever, ye know. We're pushin' it t' the limit."
"We do not require forever, but time is not on our side." You eye the passing seagulls with suspicion as they perch in the rigging. (Never trust a bird.)
"No luck with a listenin' lizard?" she asks sympathetically.
"Arond must commit to one course. This is no capture mission, no matter what he wants to think." You pause. "If, in the end, he chooses Mylston's death, I would rather not fight you."
(But you know I will.)
A freckled arm slings across your shoulders, but you twitch it off reflexively. "Hey, hey, it's gonna be fine, little Eis. He'll choose right, and I'll be here t' help if'n everythin' goes t' the nor'easters."
"Can you fix the Sundered Seas?" Her silence is telling. "Legends say only the Esser can reattach pieces severed from a domain. I know what lies ahead if I fail. You know what follows if I succeed."
(Failure is not an option.)
She squints at you with her unnervingly perceptive eyes. "Then why'd ye board this ship at all? Never figured ye for a deathwish."
"I got here the same way you did." You smile grimly, taking your place behind the wheel. "I volunteered."
How do you proceed?
[]No change. Steady as she goes.
[]Slow down. Drop a wavelength or two, no more. You're not suicidal.
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Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
I've been out matching characters with music themes (not writing), oh dear. Might update the profiles with them... or just seed them throughout updates. The latter, definitely. Maybe.
Unseelie
(Verified True Fae)
- Location
- Tír fo Thuinn
My first idea when you said "sea spirit" was "selkie". This didn't help.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
...a helmsman and kin. Well, we knew Eis was Waterblooded, but it still surprised me.
I get the feeling of competing agendas, but can't figure what they are. I mean, catching up to the Herald could mean Arond's death? Because of his 'Father'? He will have to choose what to do with 'Uncle', and both Eis and Rakky are hoping that he'll choose 'right'... but then Eis is saying he might end up fighting her. What for? I am sure it'll make sense eventually, but for now it's a bit too tangled.
At least we have confirmed our suspicions that there are more ships in this race.
[x]Head aft. You may see something ahead.
[x]No change. Steady as she goes.
I get the feeling of competing agendas, but can't figure what they are. I mean, catching up to the Herald could mean Arond's death? Because of his 'Father'? He will have to choose what to do with 'Uncle', and both Eis and Rakky are hoping that he'll choose 'right'... but then Eis is saying he might end up fighting her. What for? I am sure it'll make sense eventually, but for now it's a bit too tangled.
At least we have confirmed our suspicions that there are more ships in this race.
(Damn right, comrade Eis. I knew we would find something to bond over with.)
[x]Head aft. You may see something ahead.
[x]No change. Steady as she goes.
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