On the Border of Desperation and Futility

[A Passenger]

"Whad'ya mean there ain't another ship?" sneered the burly man, his dirty fists wrapped tightly around the collar of his counterpart. "Ain't got the time to wait!"

The victim of his frustration, a wiry, spry-looking aide to the port authority, seemed to sink into the ground in the shadow of his captor. Each syllable from the angry man spat venom into the worker, his face glistening with stressful sweat in the dawning moonlight. Behind them the Hiploaniffin bounced in the water, tied securely to the creaky construct that was the harbor.

"Tickets 're all out!" the teen squawked, his eyes darting in a pleading dance for some help. "Port authority ekes out just enough for capacity 'n they all sol-" glurk!

Casey, like others in the breeze-pampered vicinity, watched the drama unfold with a sort of detached interest. The stalker had learned moments ago that he'd missed the last ship out of Corone toward Fallien, and had uttered a mere awright in reply before retreating back toward the city proper. A young, nearby tree served as his spot to lean as he gazed out over the sprawling ocean.

Ridley had been on the last ship to Fallien. The stalker's thorough method of inquisition had taught him this much, and a mirage of eroding memories gave him reason to believe that he was only a few hours late; he could smell the remnants of the man who fled him drifting from out at sea, mocking.

He might have driven himself mad with fear - fear of losing Ridley, fear of the trail going cold, fear of not knowing how soon he could arrive on the sunburned coast of the desert lands - if not for decades of careful practice beforehand.

It would simply not do to wait until daylight and the next day's voyages. And so Casey already clutched the small yellow slip of a ticket between his grease-stained fingers, while some poor traveler bound for the drylands spent the time before the ship's departure in blissful ignorance of his theft.

And so when the call came to board the final ship out of Corone for the evening, Casey Coulton marched purposely past the furious port-trenched man and his helpless victim, muttering something too low in volume for anyone but the loudmouth to hear. It was enough to rip him from his tirade mid-sentence, but Casey was already midway up the plank leading to the ship.

He removed the ancient hat from his brow and ran a free hand through dirty, tangled black hair, Garland nestling itself deeper into his shoulder with the movement. It would be a long voyage, but several hours of rest could only do good for a man who's entire life was consumed with the need for pursuit.

[Itera]

Itera Naymuul liked to fancy herself a traveller on account of being the person who has travelled the furthest from her homeland, out of everyone that she knew. Even after she had arrived in this land, she continued to travel, sometimes rather haphazardly, like the time she surprised a matron in the privy of a coaching house and the poor dear fainted dead away from shock. Itera took her coin purse. However, these occasions were somewhat rare because she much preferred to stay in one place, be entertained, and have things brought to her.

Tonight, her inherent laziness had lost the battle and was reeling in full retreat under the assault of her boredom. She had never been to a sea in Tenger Jerhel and wasn't sure that there was a sea in the first place. The overgrown, misty lake with its fanciful little boats were dwarfed by what she saw here at the wharves. You couldn't see the other side of the sea. To be fair, you couldn't see the other side of the misty lake, either, but the sea here didn't have all that mist in the way of the seeing. Therefore, she got the idea into her head to go and see the other side of the sea.

For a little while, she observed the Hiploaniffin tickets being sold and worked out the complicated process of actually getting to see the other side of the sea. Ships, they called them. You gave the man some coins and he gave you one of the bits of paper. Tickets, they called them. Then you took your ticket to your ship and they let you onboard.

At first, Itera was of the mind to simply step on that ship where and when nobody was looking, because that was what the whole convoluted business eventually led to. After asking about how long it would take to actually get to the other side, she changed her mind. Sure, she could hide on the ship for all that time, but there wasn't much enjoyment to riding on a ship if you had to do that and she meant to enjoy this first and last sailing trip to the the other side of the sea.

So she did the next best thing. Itera waited a bit until mid afternoon, when the ticket-master went and and took a break. She watched him stand up with the packet of tickets in hand. She watched him go into the Hiploaniffin's cabins. She watched him close the door, lay the tickets down on the little ship's desk, and turn to get out a wrapped bit of ham. The tiny little rift above the desk widened, a hand delicately reached through it to take one of the tickets, and the rift disappeared.

The ticket-holding girl, her white-and-purple outfit shining in the moonlight, strolled past a fuming, burly man and went up the gangway - if one can be said to stroll with the respectable, sturdy boots clunking along on the planking. She hid a proud smile for herself behind her opened fan, her left hand easily swinging her closed, pink parasol. Between the edge of her fan and the edge of her cap, two golden eyes intently studied all the new, interesting things happening.

This ship thing was a lot more complicated than the boats back home. The brig's yards were already shipped, the braces humming, and the sheets put through their blocks. What few lines that were still missing were either being carried aloft by the topmen or hauled back on deck. As Itera watched, the foretopmen swung down daringly to fast the jib stay, eliciting a small gasp from her.

Then some rude person elbowed her in the back and told her that she was blocking the gangplank.

[Luned]

That elbow belonged to Bleddyn. Cantankerous as ever, he wasn't exactly pleasant company on such a journey, but his fellow passengers would have to deal as the old man hobbled up the gangway and jabbed the girl who was blocking the bridge to the vessel. "Move it," he ordered authoritatively, then proceeded to board the ship like he expected to be treated like the first class patron he was. His old-fashioned robe, made of a slightly moth-eaten and dusty gray-blue fabric, didn't do much to hint at his status, nor did the scruff of the silvery beard that was only there because shaving was unnecessary time away from the library. When he finally found himself safely aboard his constant state of agitation relaxed for a brief moment, an expression pinching his wrinkled face that clearly stated that he was getting too old for this.

Shortly behind him was someone who could be assumed to be an assistant of sorts. A woman in her mid-twenties, laden with boxes and parcels much like a pack mule, trudged her way up and brushed past Itera much more politely than her teacher had. Her dress was cut from the same stock as Bleddyn's robes, but much better cared for and slightly more stylish. Luned had recently returned from her first voyage outside Corone and was all the better for it, having traversed much of the main continent and experienced the wonders and dangers of such places as Salvar (where she hoped never to visit again), and her teacher had immediately found use in her new state of fitness upon her return. After spending her few weeks home exhaustingly as handy-woman, delivery-person, and carrier-of-heavy-things, the trip to Fallien was to be a well-needed respite. In spite of it all she was a good sport and did well enough with their luggage, her steps light as she found footing on the Hiploaniffin's deck.

Bleddyn had busied himself with inspecting the boat, gray eyes magnified comically through the spectacles on his crooked nose, giving his previously regal face comparable appearance to that of an insect. He seemed generally pleased by what he saw, though Mr. Coulton earned a rather judgmental sidelong glance.

"Remember, this is not a social excursion," the curmudgeon warned Luned in a harsh not-quite-whisper.

The younger scribe simply shrugged.

"This way, sir," an attendant spoke up, and Bleddyn allowed the uniformed man to lead him below decks to his cabin. Luned followed, sparing an apologetic smile in Itera's direction before disappearing down the wooden steps.

Settling in went as expected: Bleddyn, winded from the trek across the city, was dead to the world as soon as he sat for a breath on his cot. Luned made quick use of her newfound liberation by dumping their possessions unceremoniously on the floor and going back up to the deck to watch them cast off. She reemerged and found a perch at the rail where she could watch the docks, a quiet moment soon interrupted by a shout from land.

"I hope you all bloody sink!" The voice originated from a younger, taller girl of Fallien descent and garishly colorful dress that showed like a beacon in the dusk light. The phrase was hollered with a smile and no small amount of enthusiastic hops and waves and so was likely meant in the most friendly way possible, but a couple nearby passengers didn't seem amused as they glared and shuffled off to their cabins. Luned ignored them and waved back.

[Itera]

Itera fumed silently to herself as she looked at the ruffled patch with the bit of a smudge on it. It didn't look too bad, so she reached forward and wiped it as best as she could with a white kerchief. That was a very rude person and rude people were the most interesting ones to watch because they were so much less restrained when provoked in the slightest.

Good. She had been a little worried that trip was going to be boring

A tiny twitch closed the small, purple-lined rift after Itera was sufficiently satisfied with the cleanliness of the back of her dress. Nobody seemed to have looked between the ship's boats to spot her doing unorthodox things, so nobody had to be sworn to silence. That left the matter of the shouting that was going on from shore. Not just any shouting, since there was quite a lot of shouting in general on a wharf and even more of it when the ship was casting off its mooring lines. This very particular shouting seemed to be wishing the best of luck to the dearly soon-to-be-departed.

This was curious. It wasn't often that Itera met anyone sharing her own outlook on things. She's never been in a sinking ship before. Falling house, yes. Exploding gigantic tureen of pudding, yes. Sinking ship, no. So she strolled over to the shoreward rails, ducked the arm of a waving girl on the way, and looked over the side and down at the pier below. Some sort of enthusiastically-dressed young woman - Itera assumed that this was a human based on not having that particular, teeth-tingling sensation that she gets when meeting with fairies and because she can't tell the difference between them all that well - was exchanging waves and wishes with the person who had almost clobbered her on the hat a moment ago.

So, friends. Best friends. Possibly even mortal enemies.

A pair of sailors thudded past on their way to somewhere important. Someone shouted, "Make more sail." Someone else shouted something complicated about jibs and spanking. The Hiploaniffin groaned a bit under the new pressure and shifted away from the docks under the direction of the harbor pilot.

Now that she was no longer in danger of being introduced, Itera turned towards Luned and asked from behind her fan, "A good friend of yours?"

[1] A spanker is a type of sail.