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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.
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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.