The Wandering Isle

[Warpath]

They’d done this once before, but this time Flint was ready.

The exorcist threw a wild right hook, and Flint narrowly ducked his head under it. He felt displaced air on the back of his neck, and his breathing went shallow as a fresh rush of adrenaline sent a visceral shock through every nerve. This woman was dangerous – taller and stronger, and her hate was almost a physical thing. That would be enough to give the brute pause, but she also had the ability to rip his spiritual essence from his body with nary a thought.

She was a worthy opponent, his equal or better, and he wanted her hate as profoundly as he wanted Luned’s acceptance.

Flint attempted a sharp jab at her ribs, but she caught his gauntleted forearm and yanked hard, sending him stumbling past her off-balance. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist coming after him – knew she wouldn’t choose caution, not with him, not now. He planted one foot hard, then twisted at the hips with a shout and swung his arm in a vicious backhand. When his knuckles met the right side of her face her head snapped brutally to one side, and her body followed it, but she didn’t fall.

When she raised her head her lip was split, and there was a fresh line of angry red on her chin. “First blood!” Flint shouted, gloating with his arms held out high to the sides.

The word ‘blood’ was cut short when Resolve put her foot firmly into Flint’s abdomen, forcing him to wheeze and double over, and then she shoved his head downward while raising her knee up to meet it. He tensed his bruised abdominals to stop his descent and used his metal-clad forearms to intercept her knee, and then he shoved forward and up, slipping his arms between their bodies. It was unexpected – pushing closer to her rather than away from her – and the shock of it gave him just enough time to put his arms around her.

Resolve looked at him somewhere between rage and disgust, and then he lifted her up off of her feet and he squeezed, and her expression quickly shifted toward dismay. Flint’s broad, disturbingly well-muscled back, shoulders, and chest apparently lent themselves well to bear-hugs, and the young exorcist thought for a certainty that she could feel the blood being forced outward toward her head and extremities. Her ribs steadily shifted, and the air was long gone from her lungs.

And then she set her jaw, and she resisted, pushing outward with her arms. Sweat beaded on Flint’s forehead and he growled, veins straining against skin, but the immutable fact remained: the girl was still stronger. He redoubled his efforts, determined not to be overpowered, but Resolve wasn’t interested in proving herself. She threw her forehead into his nose, and he immediately let her loose, stumbling away with a strangled groan. Blood rolled over his lips in freshets, and made long, shimmering lines in his beard.

“Who’s bleeding now!” Resolve shouted.

They were mere seconds into only their second clash, but Resolve and Flint had a basic understanding of one another: she was angry, fierce, and unstoppably strong, and he was tough, experienced, and controlled. So when Flint’s eyes registered an abrupt and overwhelming fury, the exorcist was understandably put off, if only for a fraction of a second.

He came on in a flurry of swings, and Resolve turned the first few aside before one caught her in the jaw, and then another in the stomach, and then Flint grabbed her by the throat. Before her mind registered what was happening, he lifted her bodily off of her feet and into the air. She had only begun to react to this when he curled his fingers into her sari just above her hip, and then he near-effortlessly lifted the rest of her body up over his head. He was poised to dash her body on the ground and while it wouldn’t be a long drop, it wasn’t likely to be a pleasant one.

The exorcist’s moment of panic was woefully short-lived. Robbed of her reckless violence, she resorted to calculated skill, grabbing hold of Flint’s wrist with both hands, and then she rolled toward his back. He went down backward with a frustrated roar, and when they hit the ground their fight dissolved into a messy struggle, all kicking legs and ungraceful lashing, tangled black hair and torn cloth and flashing teeth. Ultimately Resolve caught Flint’s right arm, and then wrapped her body around it in a vicious lock. He panicked, struggling against her attempt to hyperextend his elbow and shoulder.

Fear granted him strength and he lashed, twisting and spinning like a disadvantaged crocodile, kicking up dust and crushing the lilies until he managed to get his feet beneath him. With a savage grunt, he lifted himself to a standing position, but Resolve did not relinquish her hold on his arm. Determined, she pulled with all her might, doggedly trying to pull his arm right out of its socket.

Flint tensed his back and his stomach and he lifted, pulling Resolve right up off the ground and into the air again, and the sensation was just enough for her to loosen her grip on him. Satisfied, he dropped her again and she landed on her back with a cruel, rib-crunching impact that once again forced the air from her lungs. The brute lunged up over her, fist raised, but she got her legs between them and kicked hard.

As if he weighed nothing, Flint went airborne, limbs flailing. He struck the wall of the library hard enough to rattle the nearby window pane and his head cracked against the brick, dazing him. He stumbled, but Resolve was suddenly there, shoving her forearm up under his chin and then she pushed. She pinned him to the wall and lifted him, slowly crushing his windpipe. And he could only think, her forearms looked so delicate.

“Say something else,” Resolve said, baring her clenched, bloodstained teeth at him, panting hard. “Where are your words now?”

Flint struggled lamely, raising his hands to try and shove her away, to scratch at her eyes – anything – but she used her free hand to shove his hands down and aside. The corners of his vision closed in, and he heard and felt his heart pounding hard, and the pressure grew behind his eyes. She was going to kill him. Again.

[Luned]

"Are you feeling alright?" A low voice rose the scribe from her sleep and she looked up to see Muir standing over her, deep green eyes narrowed in concern. Remnants of a hangover mussed his hair, clothing, and complexion; she quickly determined he must have recently returned from Resolve's.

Nodding, Luned sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Yeah, I… sorry. How embarrassing," she said sheepishly, words slurred from grogginess.

Her brother frowned as if he didn't believe her, but he let it be. "When's that meeting, again?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. And hey, I… there's someone you should meet. I think he's downstairs." She peeled herself off the couch, blinking herself awake as she smoothed her hair over her shoulder and wrinkles out of her clothing. "Come on."

The kitchen was empty when they arrived but the window was open, allowing some of the contents of the courtyard to creep in: curling tendrils of ivy, drops of rain collecting in a pond on the sill, and the disconcertingly threatening tone of a familiar voice.

"Oh, no," Luned gasped, rushing to the narrow door and opening it into the garden. She and Muir stepped outside into the mist just as spots of asphyxiation began to dance before Flint's eyes, threatening to wash over him in darkness. The scribe's command rang clear, bouncing off the stone walls until it was lost into the sky, echoing in his dizzied ears. "Stop!"

Resolve's death grip loosened; Flint saved himself some dignity by slumping back against the wall instead of forward onto the ground, though his weakened knees struggled to hold him upright through vertigo. He allowed himself a long moment simply to cherish breathing as the situation played out: Luned questioned the exorcist, then there was arguing and a sharp clang of metal as Resolve stormed out through the wrought-iron gate toward the street. Muir quickly followed, and soon the two were alone again.

The little scribe came into focus as she approached her injured friend, his vision still recuperating from the hit to the head and lack of air. "Oh, Flint," she sighed, the words laced with a combination of disappointment and pity. "Let's get you out of the rain."

With the patience of a saint, she waited for Flint to compose himself, taking his arm and leading him back into the kitchen where she sat him on the stool in the window. She inspected his bloodied face, gentle fingers resting briefly on his cheek as she tipped his head toward the overcast light. "She's vicious, isn't she?" Luned commented quietly, more matter-of-fact than anything. She turned away for a short moment to rinse a clean towel in cool water, and as she handed it to him, Flint began to laugh.

It started as a quiet chuckle but rose into a roar, the kitchen filled with his guffaws as blood continued to pour from his nose and down his chest.

[Luned]

The evening was surprisingly calm and pleasant, in spite of the rocky start. Luned made dinner and they talked casually about the places they'd been, Flint offering tales of Akashima, Luned describing the ghost city of Eluriand in haunting detail. Bleddyn joined them in the kitchen for a few minutes, cordially invited Flint to a chess game in the morning, and then departed with the usual request to take his meal in his study.

It was strange how easy it was to fall into old routine again. Flint contemplated this as he sat alone in his old room later that night, the scribe having gone to bed early to avoid repeating the earlier embarrassment. He ached all over from his skirmish with the exorcist, particularly his nose, and he anticipated the swelling would reduce to something flatteringly black and blue by morning. Yet, as he sat by lamplight flipping through some books from the Salvar regional section of the library, the alien comfort of something feeling like home washed over him. Last time, the decision to leave had been a difficult one, and he silently wondered if it would get harder or easier each time.

There was movement in the hallway and Flint tensed, but he relaxed somewhat when a figure stepped out of the darkness and into the threshold of his room. It was someone he'd never officially met, but heard much about.

"Flint, I presume?" Muir greeted him, leaning against the doorframe with his hands tucked in his pockets.

The freckles and traces of Fallien gave him away. "Muir," Flint said, and his speculation was correct.

The young man's expression was unreadable. "Rez explained what happened. Not just today, but before. The tournament, Lune's trip to Alerar…" He sighed. "But honestly, I don't really give a shit. Rez is brash, I'm sure she earned it, and my sister's an adult, she can make her own damn mistakes. But she asked me to come talk to you, so here I am."

Flint wasn't sure whether he should have felt grateful Muir wasn't to be yet another person in Luned's life who disliked him, or disturbed by the boy's apparent apathy. In an effort to turn the conversation toward the friendly, Flint gestured to an untouched bottle of whiskey on the table before him, as well as the empty chair on the other side. The refreshment had been left for him wordlessly, perhaps a consolation prize from Luned after the beating he'd taken that afternoon, but he didn't drink. "Then let's talk."

Muir sauntered over and grabbed the bottle, but didn't bother sitting. "What is there to talk about? Enjoy your visit, then when you fuck off maybe the girls can get on with their lives and get over all that annoying fucking drama." And then, like a champ, the young man swigged back nearly half of the liquor in one draught without batting an eyelash.

In company like this, Flint began to understand how someone like Luned could stand to be around someone like himself. "It is unfortunate," he agreed, "What happened with their friendship, I mean. Luned talks a lot about both of you, and only good things."

"Well, she doesn't talk about you," Muir said. It was without malice, but it stung just the same. "I wonder what that means?" He pondered thoughtfully for a moment, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth, and then he drained the rest of the whiskey, leaving a measly amount of backwash for his new acquaintance. The young man set the bottle back on the table and turned to leave. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Flint," he grinned slyly over his shoulder, and then he stumbled off to his own room to sleep.

The encounter was concerning on multiple levels and Flint sat in still silence for several minutes, hazel eyes fixed on the nearly empty bottle in front of him. But it was late and he was too tired for his thought process to do anything but run circles. Eventually he shook his head, closed his book, and stood to get into bed, himself… and, as he did so, he noticed something rather peculiar.

The aches were gone. And, when he checked himself in the mirror the next morning, there would be no trace of damage done.

[Warpath]

Flint slept well despite troubling dreams, and he woke with Muir’s words fresh and instant in his mind: Well, she doesn’t talk about you. He quickly dismissed his growing anxiety and instead focused on the pleasant parts of what was, for him, an exhausting day. A full day of travel would have been enough, but socializing was taxing even at the best of times. He was thankful for easily-goaded Resolve, for the fight had given him some semblance of normalcy, which in turn made it easier to feel at home. He wanted to feel frustrated at his loss and near-death at her hands, but ultimately couldn’t do it. He liked knowing she was still out there, still unsurpassed, still beautiful in her uninhibited anger.

And then there was the mystery of Muir and the blessed lack of bruise or pain or any other sign of yesterday’s exertion and violence. Flint pressed on his nose and flexed his stomach, back, and arms experimentally, but felt nothing amiss. In fact he felt good, far better than he would have expected even after a full night’s rest at the library. He tried to think back on what the strange man had done, but that brought back memories of what he’d said, so the line of thought was abandoned. He’d have to ask Luned about it another time.

It was early enough that the library was empty when Flint dressed and quit his room, walking slow and gentle to preserve the sanctity of near-dawn silence. He made himself a cup of tea from the dried herbs left over from his last stay, and cut the foul taste with a generous spoonful of honey. He was still stirring when he arrived at Bleddyn’s door, and with a gentle knock he entered.

Flint judged the world a strange place chiefly because he counted an ancient librarian of indeterminate age his most kindred spirit. Bleddyn sat in his morning robe with a steaming cup of tea at hand, and was in the process of setting up the chess board. The window was open to the dewy morning and there was a neat line of birdseed on the sill. Every few seconds a daring finch would appear in a flash of yellow to steal a single seed and then disappear again, and Flint knew this would go on for some time. There was a routine here: equilibrium as timeless as trees. The brute had to pause a second and savor it.

“Good morning,” Bleddyn said.

Flint grunted his greetings and sat himself down on the opposite side of the board. “This is a new set,” he said.

“An old one, in fact. A very old gift from a friend. Luned and Resolve brought it back from Raiaera.”

“How thoughtful,” Flint said.

“You’re not good at pretending to be bitter,” Bleddyn said, with the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. “You may take the first move, if you like. I’m not sure what color these pieces were originally.”

Flint moved his pawn. “No reason to pretend,” he said. “You’d see through it. I started the fight.”

Bleddyn shrugged, sipping his tea while he made his own move. “It’s none of my business. You realize it’s not you she hates.”

Flint nodded. “It wasn’t, anyway. A few more rounds and she might start hating me.”

“Maybe,” Bleddyn said. “She’s not a dumb girl, though. Maybe she’ll realize a fistfight is just another chess match to you.”

“Presumptive,” Flint said, grinning.

“Just an observation,” Bleddyn said, and then pointedly looked at Flint’s nose. “I see you’ve met Muir, too.”

“Yes,” the brute said, reaching up to touch his nose absently. “I meant to ask about that.”

“So did I,” Bleddyn said, making a show of thinking about his next move. “Let me know what Luned says.”

Flint grunted, amused. He figured the old man already had some idea about Muir’s unique attributes, but he didn’t push the subject. Bleddyn would share what he wanted to share.

“Your mind isn’t on the game,” Flint said.

“No,” Bleddyn admitted, “but don’t let that worry you, I think this game is mine even so.”

“I suppose you ought to share your mind, then, if you’re hoping that whatever’s distracting you will distract me more.”

Bleddyn chuckled dryly into his mug. He took a sip and then held it on his tongue, and then he swallowed. “I’m organizing a bit of an expedition, as Luned may have let slip.”

“Only a bit,” Flint said, “but with everyone coming and going I figured there was something exciting on the docket.”

“I’m putting a little crew together. I gather that your visit was unexpected and you’ve probably got prior engagements, but I’d like to hire you if you’re available.”

“I’ve spent a great deal more time on the dockside of ships and almost none sailing,” Flint said. “I’m not sure how much use I’d be to you.”

Bleddyn shook his head. “The transportation arrangements are quite satisfactory already, though I’m sure they can find some use for another set of hands. No, my needs are suited for the talents you were demonstrating to Resolve yesterday.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Keep an eye on Luned for me,” Bleddyn said, moving a rook without taking his eyes off of Flint’s. “Get everyone home safe and sound, and as much themselves as they will be able to be after what they’ll encounter.”

“You’d send her somewhere dangerous?” Flint said, cocking an eyebrow.

“No,” Bleddyn said, and then he thought about it. “Yes, and no.”

“You know she’s more than she was,” Flint said. “There’s something like me in her, otherwise I’m not sure I’d be here.”

“It’s your move,” Bleddyn said.

Flint stared at the board for a long time, and then made his move. Bleddyn made his own play in silence, and then took a sip of tea.

“I know,” the librarian said at last. “She’s my…apprentice. I know.”

“You think she can’t handle herself where you’re sending her?”

“Oh,” Bleddyn said, “I know she can. I think you misunderstand me. I’m not sending you for her sake, though I think your presence will help.”

Flint narrowed his eyes. “You’re being more enigmatic than normal.”

“You haven’t said no.”

“I’ll go,” Flint said.

Bleddyn nodded almost imperceptively, then reached over and pulled a thin book from the edge of a shelf. He took a long, quiet moment flipping through the pages, and Flint sat back in his chair to watch the finches, who must have thought themselves the best and luckiest thieves in all the world. Finally the old scribe found an envelope, which he opened, and from it he produced a crisply folded sheet of paper, yellowed with age.

Bleddyn seemed to hesitate for a moment before sliding the paper back into the envelope, and then he set it down beside the board and pushed it toward Flint’s side. His fingertips lingered on the paper and his eyes never left it, even after he convinced himself to let it go. When Flint reached for it, he was hesitant. He feared the old man would change his mind.

“That’s called a Mark,” the librarian said. “A powerful spell contained in a single image…a colleague once likened it to ‘freezing’ magic, preserving it like a piece of fruit. Once it’s applied, the spell is continually cast for as long as the canvas remains whole. A perpetual ritual.”

“What is the canvas?”

“Luned.”

Flint raised his eyebrows, glancing from Bleddyn to the envelope and back. “What does it do?”

“What it was meant to do, and nothing more, and you’ll apply it when you need to apply it and not before.”

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” Flint growled. “Assume I just tear this up.”

“Assume that, and you get on that ship? You’ll die, maybe, along with the rest of the crew. I know I’m asking a lot, but this is a job, and I’m sure you’ve done jobs knowing less. I need to know if we can depend on you.”

“No,” Flint said, “you can’t depend on me.”

“But you’ll go.”

Flint nodded, and Bleddyn sank into his seat a bit with a tired sigh. He considered the board for a long moment, and then he looked out at the finches.

“It’s your move,” Flint said.

[Luned]

Luned was scarce for the morning as she rushed about her work, having much to do in preparation to leave. She stopped by the courier to check correspondence from the libraries she'd contacted for Aurelius, tied up loose ends on projects, and organized a schedule for the library's few staff in advance, as she didn't trust her mentor to keep up with the more mundane tasks in her absence.

By the time she arrived at the meeting, conversation was already underway. A startlingly larger number of individuals than usual occupied Bleddyn's study, some faces familiar, some not. They encircled a long table in the back, a piece of furniture she'd only ever seen a handful of times in her tenure at the library as typically it was obscured under piles of books, documents, and artifacts yet to be archived. The fact that it had been cleared, assembled with seating, and even perhaps dusted was nearly shocking, though such a novel thing was lost on the others present.

Bleddyn occupied the head of the table from which he beckoned the newcomer, then gestured across from him to the elf at the opposite end. "Aeril, this is Luned, she will act as my proxy on this voyage. Luned, this is Captain Aeril Esgarel. I believe you are familiar with the rest." Indeed, she was, as one long side boasted Muir and his friend Gasper from Fallien, and opposite them sat Flint.

The scribe strolled over to Aeril and offered her hand for a firm shake. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Same," the Raiaeran grinned, professional but warm. Luned liked her already. Aeril was mature, something difficult to tell in an elf, but the corners of her amber eyes crinkled when she smiled under the wavy fringe of her short, dirty blonde hair. Well-suiting her profession, she wore something which could only be described in comparison with a naval uniform, though obviously custom. The jacket was a deep navy blue, lined in white piping with broad shoulders, with a plain white blouse tucked into smart trousers underneath. Even sitting, it was apparent that she was quite tall, and there was something no-nonsense about her that the scribe could appreciate.

Once properly acquainted, Luned assumed the free seat next to her, the combination of Bleddyn's belated spring cleaning and Flint's unexpected presence tempting a little smile of pleased astonishment.

"I suppose it is time for the reveal," Bleddyn muttered beneath his white beard, motioning to Gasper. The young man, built nearly as dense as Flint but a few inches taller and clad much brighter, unrolled a large piece of parchment to expose a meticulously marked-up map. Group effort pinned down the curling edges with random weights around the table –– candlesticks, books, elbows –– and all parties leaned in to inspect.

The destination, encircled in red ink and clearly marked, appeared to occur in the middle of the ocean some distance north of Dheathain. This earned many expectant stares in Bleddyn's direction, in which he basked for a wickedly long moment of suspense.

"I do not blame you if you are not interested after hearing this, Captain Esgarel, but your destination may or may not exist. The first part of the mission is to determine which."

Muir and Gasper took the reveal in stride, smirking with a mutual glint of mischief after Muir clarified in hushed Fallien, and Luned glanced to Flint, the girl already appraised of the situation in much more elaborate detail. The man was surely mystified, but kindred spirits as they were, he was inclined to trust Bleddyn before giving into the old man's theatrics.

At the opposite end of the table, Aeril's brow crinkled with intrigue, just like her eyes. "Well, you have my attention now, you old codger."

Luned stifled a snort of laughter under her hand.

Bleddyn seemed disappointed at the lack of scandal he'd caused, emitting a curt little sigh through his nostrils, but he continued all the same. "Carcosa is a unique location in that it seems to manifest randomly at various points in time and space across Althanas. With some help, I have accounted for its past several appearances in other worlds and determined a pattern. If our calculations are correct, it is currently there," he nodded to the map, "And we have but a short time to find it before it moves on."

"A wandering isle?" Aeril summarized.

"Not necessarily an isle," Bleddyn replied cryptically through steepled fingertips.

Many career seafarers would have found that discouraging, but the elf considered it a challenge. They were beginning to see why she came so highly recommended by Resolve's mother, a modestly successful merchant with a vast network of contacts. "How will we know when we find it?" Aeril leaned in, bracing her chin in thought.

"Luned has been trained to seek it out. You will simply go look, see what is there, record what you find, and return. If there is nothing –– unfortunately, a distinct possibility –– I may have wasted your crew's time, but everyone will still be paid in full." Bleddyn leaned back, settling back into the comfort of his armchair and layered, gray-blue robes.

"Now, I can tell you enjoy playing the enigma in games like these, but as I am responsible for people's lives, I need to know in plain words: are there any particular dangers you anticipate outside the norm? Theoretically, what do you suspect we will find, if it does indeed exist?" Aeril was appropriately shrewd.

Bleddyn was a firm believer in that the most intelligent man admits when he does not know something, so he answered with a hapless shrug. "I really could not tell you, but I do guarantee that whatever it is, it would be fantastically interesting." He said this with the wistful smile of someone about to be left behind on the very best of adventures. "And while I can not attest to the potential dangers, I assure you wholeheartedly that I would never put Luned in a situation I did not believe she could handle."

Something in the way he worded that statement caught Flint's attention, ominous after their chess game, and the man's gaze drifted briefly to the girl next to him. Luned simply sat, demure as usual, her silence affirming her status as an extension of her mentor. Flint realized just how much influence the man had over her, but not in any way that diminished her as her own person; it simply explained so many things about her unspoken philosophies. Her quiet acceptance of the brute mirrored Bleddyn's, and he suddenly felt he might owe the "old codger" some level of gratitude.

"That's a long gods-damned trip," Muir spoke up as he leaned back in his chair. "It might seem dandy from here to send a bunch of folks to fuck around looking for some fictional fairy land in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, but after a few weeks at sea, everyone will be at each others' throats with cabin fever if we don't find anything. It's not exactly like you're asking us to go for a little stroll around the park."

"Ah, actually, I have some insurance for this voyage which may further convince you." Bleddyn went on to explain the mysterious Agnie who, coincidentally, had helped Flint reach Corone from Salvar so fast. She was an otherworldly fairy princess who, in short, had a unique teleportation ability which would ensure the ship had constant fresh supplies and offer crew members a way out if anything unseemly were to happen. This satisfied most of their remaining anxieties and pleased Muir in particular, who began a list of his required amenities on the spot. It was agreed that they would still depart day after next, as scheduled, and with optimistic tidings, the guests dispersed.



As Flint and Luned walked back to the residential quarters of the library, the man couldn't help but wonder. "Does he really trust that fairy?"

The scribe shook her head, hands clasped behind her back. "No. Did I mention she left Resolve and me without supplies when we went to Eluriand?" When she caught Flint's concerned expression, she smiled encouragingly. "It was fine, it was only for a couple days and Iarion helped us. And since then, Bleddyn has fool-proofed his fey bribery system. I think it'll be fine."

"Alright, then." Flint didn't seem convinced, but the scheming pair of scribes seemed to be confident in their plans, even if he wasn't privy to most of them.

"By the way, I'm sorry for abandoning you all morning," Luned said. "I hope you weren't too bored, stuck with Bleddyn."

Flint smirked. "Of course not. Who do you think moved all that furniture?"

[Warpath]

“Well, I think it’s exciting,” Luned was saying.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t excited,” Flint said. “I’ve just never had the…opportunity to take such a long voyage.”

The scribe caught his meaning. “I’m sure we’ll find ways to keep ourselves amused.”

The pair were walking the docks at a measured pace, perhaps enjoying these last few minutes on land. Flint was carrying a large duffle full of new supplies and clothes, recently purchased especially for the trip. He’d opted to leave most leather behind in favor of tough but quick-drying cloth, better suited to life at sea. He was already dressed in rugged, twill fabric trousers covered in pockets and colored a drab olive, tucked into his heavy and obviously well-loved boots. He wore a thin, simple white cotton shirt tucked in, and the color was entirely new on him and thus novel. Until that day, Luned wasn’t sure he could wear anything but brown and black.

“Yes, well,” Flint said, “you will have no trouble, at least. Did you leave any books for the rest of the library?”

“It’s not all books,” Luned said. She looked over her shoulder to regard the chest she’d packed. Flint had helped her put it on a little wagon, which she was drawing along behind her. “If you can think of anything to do besides reading,” she said a little too casually, “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Bleddyn let me borrow his old chess set,” Flint offered. “Not the Raiaeran one, the newer one. The one he was using before.”

“I got it,” Luned chuckled. “I’ll consent if you can restrain yourself.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve seen the way you play,” Luned said. “I am not going to stare at the board for twenty minutes before making a move.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect so,” Flint mused. “I grant you that my experience is somewhat limited to life-and-death situations, but making impulsive moves seems your style.”

Luned affected offense, raising her hand to her chest and gasping at him dramatically, hair tossed over one shoulder. He regarded her from the corner of his eye, betraying only the slightest hint of amusement. “I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” she said. “In fact, you were always right behind me.”

“That is where I prefer to be,” Flint said.

Luned looked up at him, eyebrows raised in pleased curiosity.

“It’s safer there,” he explained. “It’s important to keep something between oneself and giant sewer creatures, as a general thing.”

Luned laughed, and Flint cracked the slightest smile.

“So,” she said after her laughter died down. “You never said, why did you sign up for this?”

“I didn’t,” Flint said. “Bleddyn hired me on.”

“Oh,” Luned said after a moment’s hesitation.

Flint cocked his head, glancing over at her again. Something was off. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said with a shrug, and she reached up to readjust her hair over her neck. “I just thought maybe…well, it’s not important.”

“He was enigmatic about it,” the brute said thoughtfully. “I was surprised; I had expected a lecture about Resolve.”

“Resolve?”

Flint nodded. “I thought he might have some misgivings about our…dynamic.”

“I wasn’t aware you two had a dynamic.”

“Unstoppable force and immovable object,” Flint explained. “I think she fancies me.”

He peeked over at her, expecting more laughter at the absurdity of his joke, but instead Luned just turned her eyes downward, a tiny smile frozen on her lips. The brute frowned a bit, annoyed with himself: what had started as a pleasant conversation was now ruined, marred by an uncomfortable reality. He had specifically crafted himself to be a hulking destroyer – an ugly thing – and the comfortable continuation of his friendship with Luned required avoidance of this immutable fact. Nobody wanted to think about him like that: one can be accepted as a lover or a killer, but never both.

“Here,” Flint said, thankful for the opportunity to move on from the subject. “You’re not getting that chest up the gangplank. I’ll carry it.”

Luned started to protest, but Flint hoisted the chest up out of the wagon and onto his shoulder before she could stop him. He was too busy navigating the ramp to see the frown on her face, and that was for the best.

[Luned]

Introductions to the crew were brief and scattered, an inconvenience forgivable as they dove into their work like the dedicated professionals Resolve's mother claimed them to be. If Luned and Aeril had been anyone else, there may have been tension between the women as conflicting authorities, but fortunately the scribe was more than happy to assume the simple role of passenger. The Raiaeran claimed the captain's space adjacent to the grand cabin, and Luned and Flint gladly accepted the pair of officer's rooms across the narrow hallway.

The accommodations were somewhat better than they expected. It was cramped, but Flint acknowledged there was some advantage to being of relatively short stature as willowy Aeril stooped to pass through doorways. Having been used prior for mercantile purposes, the living spaces of the ship were comfortable and well-furnished. Everything was of quality from the sheets on their beds to the elaborate decor in the grand cabin, and even the chamber of hammocks meant for the rest of the crew seemed surprisingly cozy. That, in combination with the promise of Agnie's regular supply drop-offs, was enough to suggest the weeks ahead might actually be tolerable.

After some help moving in her things, Luned settled into her tiny but functional space. Her room and Flint's were furnished identically, from the small chests of drawers and mirrors to the drop-down desks positioned on the walls at the ends of the narrow beds. She couldn't help but allow herself a touch of optimism as she busied herself with finding homes for her possessions. The distraction kept her from dwelling too much on how she embarrassed herself with Flint and she resigned herself to contentment with the status quo once more. After all, how could she have possibly thought they had potential? Men like him had no interest in women like her. If Resolve was on his mind there was nothing she could do about it, save acknowledge that it sort of made sense; the exorcist was a striking individual inside and out while the scribe was, well, average. Painfully so, perhaps even boring. Even if she knew Resolve would never be interested, it didn't change the fact that Luned could never hope to compete with her.

After some time alone, Luned decided to check out the rest of the vessel to prevent herself from falling victim to the weight of her insecurities. Exploration of the ship at large was short-lived for the scribe, however. Within a couple hours of castoff, Luned appeared a little green, and by late afternoon she was nowhere to be found. Naturally, Flint investigated, going directly to her room.

He knocked twice before he received an answer. The door creaked open just enough to reveal a pale, sullen face, utterly unenthused to see him. "What?"

Flint frowned. "You're seasick."

"I know," Luned snapped, then her sour attitude swiftly washed away as the ship pitched over a swell. Her stomach lurched with it and she braced herself against the frame with a look of panic, then slammed the door in his face.

The brute sighed, thought for a moment, and went to find Muir.

[Luned]

He was easy to find. Instead of participating in chores with the rest of the crew he sat down in the galley, already half in the bag with a drained mug in his hand. He grinned when he noticed Flint and leaned back in his chair, white teeth stark against his tanned skin. "Welcome to paradise. How do you like it so far?"

"Better than expected," Flint said neutrally. The air was filled with smoke and delicious things, and he eyed the dwarf who was preparing their evening feast. It smelled surprisingly good for ship fare and the squat person hurried about preparing things, offering little more than a curt, bearded nod over the shoulder in greeting.

"Don't let it fool you," Muir rambled on, tipping his seat precariously. "In a week it'll feel like a fucking dungeon, or at least I imagine it does. You'll have to let me know." It was clear he believed Flint to have much more experience in the matter than himself.

Flint suppressed a sigh and brushed it off, still standing at the foot of the stairs. "You might wish to pay your sister a visit."

The boy laughed, his voice loud and harsh in the confined space. "I knew she wouldn't last long. But hey, how'd you figure? About me, I mean." His shrewd, green gaze aligned with Flint's and, for a brief moment, he didn't seem intoxicated at all. The brute couldn't help but wonder if it was simply a very convincing front.

"I believe that is fairly obvious," Flint said, getting impatient. "Luned asked you to talk to me that night on purpose."

"Yes, I know," Muir smirked, then sighed. "Now, I suppose I have a wretch to aid." He stood suddenly, the feet of his chair clattering against the floorboards, and he brushed past Flint to stagger up the stairs.

Only then did the cook speak, husky figure swamped under something that resembled a white chef's coat. It was a bit absurd looking with the dwarf's intricately braided, strawberry blond locks and bare, calloused feet. "He's a good lad, jus' a bit strange. Don't hold it against him."

As far as Flint was concerned, it was either a compliment to Muir or a strike against the dwarf to have such an opinion of their first mate. Only time would tell. "You're one of Captain Curie's, as well?" he asked casually, resisting the temptation to look over Muir's shoulder as he tended to Luned.

"All of us are, save the cap, that Gasper fellow, you, and the miss. The ol' broad wouldn't recommend we bunch 'less she was equally confident in all of us," the cook said, chatting while turning to extract something from the oven. "Though we has to admit, we're all a touch curious jus' where the bloody hell this babe's headed. A bit odd to run a ship on trust rather than information, if you catch my drift." The dwarf cut the heel off the fresh loaf of soda bread, halved it, and walked over to Flint, offering a portion. The manner of its presentation, extended on an open palm, insinuated some sort of peace offering; perhaps the cook was seeking more details and thought Flint had them to share.

"I agree," Flint merely replied. Betraying no inkling of disappointment, the dwarf returned to work and the brute tried the bread. Pleasant notes of molasses and ginger reassured him that the food would be as quality as the furnishings, and as he finished his snack, Luned's hollering interrupted them from above.

[Luned]

Meanwhile, Muir had let himself into Luned's room, where he found the girl nearly drowning herself in her wash basin as she sprawled with her head hanging over the edge of her bed. "Go away," she groaned, more out of mortification than anything.

"You need fresh air," he declared, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat as he stared down at her. "Come on."

She might have shaken her head in defiance, but it was hard to tell in her hunched position. Her hair, tied in a loose braid over her shoulder, obscured her face.

"Fine." Without ceremony, Muir bent over and grabbed around her middle. He hoisted her up under his arm and carried her, with no small amount of kicking and thrashing from the victim, toward the door.

"Stop! Muir, please!" Luned shouted, fighting tooth and nail until he dropped her without fuss at the threshold. She caught herself and stood, frazzled and angry.

Insistent, he reiterated. "Fresh air. Or else." Threats seemed to be the extent of his brotherliness as she fell for his age-old torture-until-she-gives-in scheme.

She glared but cooperated, halfheartedly fixing the lay of her knee-length skirt as he pushed her up the stairs.



Flint soon found them standing together at the bow, pirate and scholar conversing as the wind tossed their hair and clothing with the waves. When he approached, Luned noticed him over her shoulder and stopped speaking.

"Don't be an idiot," Muir warned her, then stepped away.

The scribe smiled sheepishly. "Sorry if I was rude," she said, searching Flint's face for forgiveness. Luned leaned heavily against the polished railing with crossed arms and was a bit disheveled, blouse half untucked from horseplay, but otherwise seemed fine. The wind put some color back in her cheeks and it was safe to assume that brief contact with her brother was all she needed.

"It's fine," Flint said, facing the water as he stood next to her. The endless blue was nearly enough to turn him agoraphobic. After a moment of consideration, he finally broached the subject he'd put off for days. "How does he do that?"

"Muir, you mean?" Luned thought for a moment, watching the water as well. The sun was still warm and the wind still pleasant, though it would only be a couple hours before the evening chill set in. "He studied Varmakkalai in Fallien –– it combines martial arts with healing –– and I guess he was a natural. It sort of became a part of him, now he does it without even meaning to."

It was difficult to picture that strange young man as a natural healer, so all Flint offered was a soft "Hmm."

[Warpath]

Flint had endured relatively short voyages on ships larger than this one, but those trips hadn’t been like this. Normally he would have locked himself up in his cabin and occupied himself while counting down the days like a man under siege. This time, he settled into a routine alongside the crew – unexpectedly, he found himself becoming part of a family. He felt like the black sheep, to be sure, but his inclusion was undeniable.

Those first few days were strange and uncomfortable as he became accustomed to his cramped living situation and his unfamiliar neighbors. In time Luned’s persistent seasickness became less so, and Flint did not need to encourage Muir to alleviate his sister’s discomfort again after that first time. Soon she found ways to cope on her own – it turned out that staring at the horizon for ten or fifteen minutes helped – until the girl got her sea legs.

Flint, in turn, amused himself with little obsessions. The first and most prominent was Muir and his healing presence. The brute would visit Luned and ask if he might borrow some of her books, and then he dug through the miniature library looking for any reference to Fallieni martial arts. The subject proved to be a little too limited in scope, and Flint was frustrated. When Luned asked him if she could help him find anything, he lied and told her he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. She gave him a look every time he said it, a look that said she knew he was just being difficult, and he didn’t know how to feel about that. He had always thought of himself as such a good liar.

He refused to betray his interest by asking Luned or Muir any more about Varmakkalai directly, so the wisdom of others was out of reach. Thus, he resorted to experimentation over the course of a few days. He would spend hours exercising to complete exhaustion, and then he would create excuses to hang around Muir for varying lengths of time until the fatigue faded, and then he’d do it all over again. At first the pirate was put off at Flint’s insistence to take his meals in the crew’s company while contributing nothing to the conversation, but in time his silent presence came to be expected. The experiments stopped being experiments and just became another routine.

The brute’s increasingly observable physical activity did not go unnoticed by the crew at large, and eventually it inspired curiosity. One of the general sailors – a young human named Roberson – began asking questions and spending more and more of his off time watching Flint. One morning, the crew woke to find Roberson and Flint exercising side-by-side, with the latter offering advice to the former. For a few days this created tension with Aeril, but then Flint started pitching in with the common duties and harmony was restored.

The days gradually gave way to weeks. A second crewman joined Flint and Roberson for lessons on combat, but Muir remained frustratingly aloof and would offer none of his unique insights. Luned, to Flint’s surprise, expressed interest in these lessons, at least as an observer.

“Why did you let him hit you?” she asked once.

“Because it hurts less to get hit in the forehead,” Flint explained, “and taking the hit allowed me to exploit an opening.”

“That’s strange,” Luned said, musing. “You’d think it’d be more important to protect your head than to hit somebody in the gut.”

“I think the ability to take a hit is more important than the ability to cause damage,” Flint told her. “When I was a child, nothing demoralized me more than trying as hard as I could to hurt somebody only for it to seem as if I’d done nothing to them.”

Luned nodded thoughtfully at that. “I can see what you mean,” she said. “But wouldn’t it be better not to get hit at all?”

Flint groaned. “You sound like an Akashiman,” he said. “They do this stupid…let me show you.”

He adopted a pose he’d learned during his long visit to Akashima, and that pose flowed naturally and slowly into another, and then gradually into a third. Luned was familiar with the concept of combat routines, and had read of Akashiman katas, but the immense physical control and fluid nature of the movements were uniquely intriguing to witness. It was like watching him fight invisible foes in slow-motion, deflecting their blows and dancing gracefully away from all attempts at violence.

Luned was delighted, and not five minutes later he was teaching her, and then Roberson joined in, and then another member of the crew. Half an hour later, Aeril emerged from her cabin to find that the dwarven cook had joined the lot of them, and she broke the training session up and sent everybody back to work. The next morning they met again and resumed, and by the end of the week a regular group of practitioners formed with the captain eagerly among them.