Muse stares at what's left of Kazad Gravr for long minutes.
Though it's only been a few days it feels altogether too much to him like those few days mark a clean break with his past, like they divide his life into a before and an after. The frenetic battles in the dark, the panic and adrenaline, the exhaustion after and between life and death struggles where he could barely keep his feet under him, the feeling of metal sliding through his innards and pulling them outside him, pushing himself past what he thought were his limits again and again until for sure he thought he would die - these things will stay with him forever. And yet they barely seem to matter, next to all the rest of it. Next to the memories of Kazad Gravr that he'd stewed in. That he'd lived these past few days. That he now wore around his feet and carried in his pockets, so that he'd never be free to forget them - they say to study history or find yourself repeating it, and there are more important things in this world than blissful ignorance. And next to the friends he'd descended into hell alongside, and who'd all suffered so immensely that he feels positively ridiculous moping about on his own behalf.
None of them were the same people that they'd been, entering Kazad Gravr. And while he'd been pushed past his limits until they were wee little specks on the horizon behind him, he wished he could say he was a stronger person for the ordeal. But in truth he felt less sure of himself than he'd been since he was a little child, unsure of his place in the world and unsure of what steps he should take next. Fitting, he thinks, that I started this walking inland of my own volition, and I end it with someone else walking me to sea. Maybe it says something symbolic of what happens when I go about broadening my horizons.
Here's to you, he thinks, raising an imaginary flask to imaginary lips. And he turns his back on Kazad Gravr.
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As they left, Kazador began to softly sing an old Dwarven song.
”Oh son of stone!
Busy yourself with your work,
For with fire we test the gold,
With gold we test the servants.”
He didn’t look back, instead he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the helmet that he held in his hands.
”Oh son of stone!
Busy yourself with your work.
Though wishes for gold,
I wish thy freedom from it.”
He took a deep breath, composing himself.
”Oh son of stone...” He sang, weakly.
”I busy myself with my work.
I bestow the mountains on your clan.
I craft your soul on my forge.”
Having finished, he lapsed into silence. But when he walked it was with his head up high. This time born not from pride, but from being tempered by the flame of adversity.
——-
”Careful.” He said, watching Legacy with a wary eye. ”That isn’t our lad. Whatever it does, it does to his body. Say naught to offend yon spirit, for the only price that is paid will be done by Brolin.”
Halak startles at first when addressed in the secret tongue then seems to relax somewhat.
"My warriors have the strength of the desert. They will continue without fail." He pauses to consider the personal question. "Yes the Concordat deceived me. It was Mel and a man, Vors Falchen, father of the one who journeys with you, that showed me the truth. Vors was a strange man. He had strength like an orc and understood our honor and our ways. But he also was a man of peace... I learned much from him."
Brolin Muse pays little attention to his friends' quiet inquiries, merely replying "I am well."
Back at the boat, you begin arranging accommodations and preparing to sail.
"I lived near a port. Technically, I know how sailing works and I did see ships prepare to leave. I believe I should be able to oversee the necessary preparations, but it would probably be wise if one of you acts as the liaison with the orcs - and I don't really know what to do once we're ...afloat? If one of you has more experience in the matter, I'll gladly follow instructions!"
Túrion makes sure the ship is indeed intact and seaworthy, neither damaged not sabotaged - at least not obviously.
He picked up some things, but without actually being trained for the task, there are also many things he does not know or understand the importance of.
"Well, I may not know much about sailing the open seas, but there was a river at home and we used to run boats on it," Mel says. "Just ignore the sails and rigging for now. The current will take us downstream, and in time to the sea. All we need to do is avoid the shallows. Brolin can show people more once he is ... feeling more himself."
Fyrtor in speaking with Halak is careful to chose his words wisely. He pauses frequently as he speaks.
Do you follow any gods Halak? I know you are a nature brother, but some of us so worship higher powers. What about your warriors? I follow the Everlight and walk the way of Light and Truth. She is a good mistress. She fights for peace by the edge of her sword, and so I do as well."
Both Kazador and Algric pointedly ignored the orcs.
They were, however, completely useless when it came to figuring out how the ship worked. Algric especially who didn’t seem alltogether at ease in his stomach with how it moved. But still, they were glad for the quiet that came with watching for shallows.
Fyrtor sits quietly at the stern of the boat keeping watch with Mel. His thoughts cycle between his conversation with Halak earlier, his worries over his village, and the difficulties of their current situation. Still he notices Mel seems to have something on her mind. "Mel, is something bothering you?" he asks quietly.
Mel rouses from her thoughts. "Oh! Fyrtor. Yes ... I was just thinking about the fight with the Magister. That was quite a struggle. With just a little more luck on his side, that Magister might have killed us all."
"Afterwards, I felt ... many things. Relief. Sorrow. Thankfuless. But there was something missing. Something I should have been feeling and wasn't. I've been turning that over in my head, trying to puzzle it out."
Fyrtor listens quietly and when Mel finishes there is a moment of silence that passes as he thinks. "Well, I don't see anything wrong with those feelings. Some might have felt triumph or excitement for achieving such a victory, though it does not seem to me that that would be true for you. Hmmmmm... The Magistar, he was a great leader for your people... A people from whom you are now estranged. A people who betrayed your ideals.... I suppose it would be easy to revel in striking back at your people through the Magistar, or to feel shame at the at turning against your own. Does any of that help?"
Mel looks out into the darkness of the wastelands. "Does it help? Not really," she says. "But I think I know what was missing."
She runs one hand along the railing at the edge of the ship -- a Concordat ship, lovingly shaped and sanded smoothed by elven shipwrights and carpenters. Mel wonders briefly if any of them knew to what purposes their work would be turned.
"Remorse."
"Does that bother you?" Fyrtor's tone is deliberately neutral as he asks, there is no perceivable judgement in his words.
Mel thinks a moment. "I am bothered that it does not bother me, if that makes sense," she says slowly.
"I think so. You expect to feel remorse but aren't feeling that way. It leaves you disconcerted. Like waking up and seeing a green sky, it's out of place and seems wrong. Something like that?"
Halak shakes his head at Fyrtor with a shrug.
"We follow our tribe's ways and the ways of our ancestors. Strength and success lead us. Not gods."
Night falls soon as you take watches. In the morning, Brolin wakes up with a headache but in control of his body again. You reach the mouth of the river without incident.
"No, nothing so unnatural. And quite the opposite, in fact."
She thinks for a moment. "Have you ever gone swimming and gotten water in your ears? And then everything sounded muffled for a while. That's what my life has been like since discovering that one of my own was responsible for Brookside. Muffled. Distorted. So terribly unclear."
"But eventually the water seeps out, and then you can hear normally again. The absence of remorse over that man's death felt like that: the return of clarity."
"And it bothers me, because I never wanted to be the Mel who isn't bothered by killing one of my own people's greatest magicians. And yet ..." she flutters a hand through the air. "Here I am."
Fyrtor sits quietly trying to understand what it would be like to be in Mel's place. At length he says, "I'm not sure what to tell you Mel.... Please don't take what I am about to say the wrong way.
In general, I would say that not feeling remorse in killing is indeed a bad thing. A person who kills without care is like a rabid dog, dangerous, and in need of being put down. But Mel, that's not who you are. You don't kill for fun or without thought. You've shown time and time again that you hate killing.
So why is the Magistar's death different? There are times when I think killing is justified, needed even. When I was a shepherd I loved my sheep, but we still slaughtered a few each fall to eat during the coming winter. Did I feel remorse at their deaths? Yes and no. I didn't enjoy killing them, but it was what needed to be done.
Other times killing is necessary to remove evil from this world. Should we feel sorrow at the execution of a murderer? I suppose in a way yes. Sorrow at the potential lost, and for what could have been. But does the executioner stay his hand?
Mel, why did you fight to kill that man?"
Mel interrupts Fyrtor when he starts talking about sheep, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop the flow of words. "It's all right, Fyrtor; be at ease. I know I am. Killing will never be something I take lightly. But I have made my peace with it, I think."
"If there is anyone I'm worried about just now, it's you. You seem ... off balance. Sometimes you are thoughtful and steady; other times you charge headlong into danger with apparently no thought. It's like you're two different men, almost. What's going on?"
Túrion, meanwhile, dreams below deck - sleeping away the remaining pain.
You seem...different.
Maybe because I am?
In a good way or a bad way?
I am not certain. I meant to bring Gael to justice and learn why they were here. But by this Magistrates death, I got involved and entangled in plots and events beyond my direct control. I dislike that.
Why? Control is not fun. Fall freely and dance with the rainbow.
I would, but death is more permanent here...
Not to you, it isn't.
But to others I care about. I fear people close to me may become endangered.
That does not sound fun. They should not do that.
That is how this world works. Unfortunately.
So bring me there. Let me help you. It can be like old times.
I will. It is not easy to breach the veil - but I will figure it out soon. You know I always wanted to do that, and you were a big reason for that...even when I was not sure if you were real or imagination.
Turning slightly, he drifts off into another phase of deep sleep.
"I am glad that you have found peace Mel. I believe we are doing the right thing.
As for myself... I don't know. I've worried that I'm trying to do too much. We've talked about it some before." Fyrtor pauses recalling the conversation they'd had before "You see, fighting in a group is something that I've rarely done before this. I fought goblins near Woodsale with my father when I was young, but that was usually just my father and me, and occasionally a family friend. After my father died, I stayed with the druids, and they rarely fought. After that I spent most of my time on my own traveling around doing missionary work. During that time I tried not to fight, though sometimes bandits would think a lone traveler an easy target.
Now things are different. While I learned some about group tactics from my father, knowing something, and actually doing it are two very different things. I know I should not over extend myself. But when we are fighting and I see friends in so much danger I just... I can't just stand by. I have to do something. Even if I know that that isn't the way it's supposed to be done."
"Wanting to protect your friends and allies is a good and noble thing, Fyrtor," Mel says. "And I think you should continue doing so. It's a question of how. Like it or not, we're probably going to continue to face dangerous situations. The next time you see one of us in danger, take a deep breath and ask yourself: is rushing directly to their side really the best thing I can do to help them? If the answer is yes, then go!"
"But if not, then do something else. Perhaps you one of the rest of us will be better able to help, and you can clear a path for that person. Or perhaps you may be able to hinder our assailant in some way. Or draw them away, lead them to attack someone who can endure the assault better. There are many ways to help your allies in the midst of combat. Take action instead of reacting, and we'll all be better off for it."
Halak shakes his head at Fyrtor with a shrug.
** spoiler omitted **
Fyrtor tries to discern if Halak is opposed to the worship of Gods, or if it is simply foreign to him.
"Wanting to protect your friends and allies is a good and noble thing, Fyrtor," Mel says. "And I think you should continue doing so. It's a question of how. Like it or not, we're probably going to continue to face dangerous situations. The next time you see one of us in danger, take a deep breath and ask yourself: is rushing directly to their side really the best thing I can do to help them? If the answer is yes, then go!"
"But if not, then do something else. Perhaps you one of the rest of us will be better able to help, and you can clear a path for that person. Or perhaps you may be able to hinder our assailant in some way. Or draw them away, lead them to attack someone who can endure the assault better. There are many ways to help your allies in the midst of combat. Take action instead of reacting, and we'll all be better off for it."
"I know. You are right, and I am trying to do better, but Mel, I'm afraid. I know that every time I'm in a fight there's a chance that the unexpected happens and I get hurt. I know that. I made my own peace with that already. I don't want to die, but I don't exactly fear it either. But when I see you, my friends, in peril... It's hard to think straight. Mel I can't simply choose to do what makes sense. "
At this point emotion chokes off Fyrtor's words. It takes a minute before he's able to speak again, even then it's obvious that he's having a tough time getting the words out.
"When we were fighting the Magistar. I watched Turion die right in front of me. And at the end young Kelian, he's barely more than a boy, yet when he couldn't escape the tenticles he told me to run, to leave him behind knowing that that meant his death. I... I can't... get the image of him... standing there just waiting to die out of my mind.
I know that in the end Turion lived and we were able to save Kelian, but it was sooo close. Who will it be next? The slightest mistake and it could have ended with all of us dead. I failed Mel. If I had just hit mage sooner with the sphere things could have gone so much better. I almost ruined everything. I always fail when it matters most..."
Mel eyes him sharply. "But we didn't fail. We won. Admittedly, Túrion would have been lost had it not been for the dryad's charm -- but this isn't really about Túrion or Kelian, is it? Or it is, but that's not the root of it. That's not the failure that really matters to you."
"What was it, Fyrtor? What is it that gnaws at you so?"
Fyrtor stares back at Mel for a long moment before turning away his head hung down. He says nothing and silence stretches between them. After a few minutes he pulls out his bag of herbs and begins slicing them with a small knife. A short time after he begins the work he stops with a sigh. Not looking at Mel he begins quietly. "I was sixteen...." Resuming his work his voice grows in volume, though it has a somewhat distant sound. "My father and I were deep in the hills near our little farm looking for one of the goats we kept that had strayed. I don't know how much you know about the hills near Woodsdale, but they are more like mountains. The ground is broken and rough, many of the the valleys lie between sheer cliffs. It was one of the reasons we kept goats; they didn't mind the rocky terrain the way sheep would have. Anyways we were walking along the rim of one of those valleys when we saw the goat we were looking for grazing below.
It was early afternoon and climbing down into a valley like that is not something you can do in the dark, so we started down trying to get down as quick as we could. But it's hard to do. Unless you are at a place where you know a specific path you constantly come to dead ends where what looked like a way down abruptly cuts off with a sheer drop, it can be incredibly frustrating. A twenty or thirty foot drop is too small to see from up above, but it stops you just as well a two hundred foot drop. Well, after several hours of trying to work out way down we were about half way when we came to another drop off. There was a narrow ledge that rounded a bend. We thought that around the bend there might be a sloped portion we could scramble down."
Fyrtor stops working again. His face a mask of pain he stares straight ahead seeing again the nightmare he's relived countless times. At length he continues, "My father he. He was in front. We started to follow the ledge around when... when he slipped. I caught his arm as he clawed at the rock trying to find a hold. But I... I couldn't hold him. I couldn't hold him Mel. I saw in his eyes when he realized. When he realized that I. That I wasn't. Strong enough."
With a ranged breath he wipes tears from his face. "He fell. If I'd been stronger or faster he would have been fine. But I wasn't and he fell. It took me half an hour to make my way to him. When I found him he was still breathing, but I couldn't rouse him. He'd fallen around twenty feet. One of his legs was obviously broken and he'd struck his head. I picked him up and climbed out as fast as I could. It was hard going though and it was well past dark when I got him back to our house. I laid him in bed and ran to find the druid who was our friend.
Old Birch was grim when he saw my father lying there. He cast some spells on him, mending the leg and any sign that my father had been hurt, but he didn't wake. Birch stayed that night with me. In the morning, when my father still wouldn't wake he said we would have to take him to the other druids.
He helped me take my father there, and managed to get the leader of the Grove to agree to try to save my father. They failed though. I watched as weeks went by. My father never woke up. He just, wasted away."
Fyrtor's voice is hollow as he ends his tale. Turning his attention to the herbs in front of him, he realizes that he's cut them so many time's they are little more than powder. Sighing he puts then in a flask.
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Mel allows the silence to stretch for a moment as Fyrtor puts away his powdered herbs. She leans both elbows on the railing, peering out into the night.
"... and if by leaping to a friend's defense you give up your own life, that will atone for your failure. Is that it?" she says at last.
She turns to face him, catches his eyes with hers.
"Priest of Sarenrae, that is not a path the Dawnflower would bless. You have held this darkness in your heart; and it has brought you nothing but needless suffering. Take your sword and lay it at Brolin's feet. Ask him to conjure your father's spirit, that you may speak with him. Ask your father's pardon for this imagined sin; for it is clear to me that only your father can grant you the forgiveness you seek."
She lays a hand on his shoulder. "This I ask you to do, in the Dawnflower's name, even though I am not of her faith."
And with that, she gives his shoulder a squeeze and walks softly away, leaving him standing in the dark of night and looking for the dawn -- as he has ever been.
Brolin wakes as himself the next morning. Finding yourself with open sea before you, it's time for some navigation.
Having fallen asleep early the last night, Túrion raises before sunrise.
Stepping up on deck, he attempts to use the Firmament to deduce their current course and location based on how long they have spent traveling and the strength of the wind.
Nelly relaxes on the Aftercastle, enjoying the sea breeze in her fur.
Besides looking marvelous, she also keeps watch. Both on all those bipeds working on the ship, and on the horizon, in case someone else showed up.
Mel spends the day scampering about the rigging, adjusting ropes and knots according to Brolin's instructions.
Kelian spends the day taking a tally of the food and water supplies aboard. There are ledgers of all of these things, but his inability to speak Elven renders them useless to him. So instead he quietly surveys it himself, relying on his familiarity with common domesticated plants and animals to identify the contents of assorted barrels, bags and jars.
Fyrtor stood, leaning on the rail, looking out into the night. It had been hard for him to tell the story, to relive those memories. Yet when he had finished it had felt good. That was until Mel had spoken. Her words had struck him hard. He did not bear her any ill will, they had been said with kind intent, but it was hard to face the truth that she declared. That he was a hypocrite. A part of him had always known that, though he preached Sarenrae's mercy, that he didn't really believe that he could be worthy of it.
After some time had passed he shook his head. Drawing his sword, he casually lit one of the nearby belay pins, and sat down to examine it. He knew every inch of it intimately, the worn leather of the grip, dark from where his hands and his father's before him had held it, the simple hilt, nicked and scratched, the dull grey of the sinuous blade, unmarred by time or abuse. It connected him to his father. Until meeting Brolin he'd supposed that connection was simply sentiment and memories, now it seemed there was more to it.
Mel says to have the Captain channel my father's spirit and then he can give me his forgiveness. But Brolin said that they aren't really spirits, they are more like memories. What does that mean really? What does it matter if a memory of Dad give's me its forgiveness? ... I wish I really could tell you how sorry I am Dad. ... I suppose this will be as close as I'll ever get. But it's not even really you. So what does it even matter?
Fyrtor continued to sit and ponder what to do, his mind running in circles. At length he stood taking his sword in a firm grip and began to slowly move through the sword forms he'd learned as a boy, grateful that there is enough space on deck with most of the crew below sleeping. At first he his motions were deliberate. He knew the drillls by heart, recalling them without thought, but he went through them slowly, focussing on precision in the mortions. Once he began repeating forms he increased the speed until he was sweating from the effort. Throughout he tried to clear his mind. He did not want to think anymore, he wanted to forget. Forget the pain, the loss, the shame. But a part of him would never forget. This sorrow was a part of who he was. It had shaped his whole life since that fateful day. It was why he was who he was.
He continued that way, moving fluidly across the deck until the the glow of approaching dawn interrupted his reverie. Knealing he began to say his prayers, thank his god for granting him a new day. Though he wasn't sure when, sometime during his meditation he'd decided something. He would do as Mel counciled. Though he did not know what would come of it in the end, she was right, he was a priest of the Lady if Mercy. He should do as he preached and seek mercy, whether he deserved it or not. He would speak with the Captain as well. Perhaps he could explain better just what he would be aski g forgivness from really was. In his prayers he asked for the Dawnflower's blessing and as always her forgiveness. He arose as the light of first dawn streamed across the horizon, his soul lighter now that he had decided his course.
As the party and crew prepare to set sail on open water Fyrtor does what he can to help out. He explains that he can use some minor magical to cleanse water and food and ensures that the helmsman knows which way North lies. He also tries to make small talk with the orcs, trying both common and goblin.
Later that day he asks Brolin, "Captain, when we first met you explained some of what it is that you do, that you speak with spirits, but that they are not really spirits, something more like memories. Can you tell me more? I want to understand it as best I can before... Well, do you remember that right before we fought the pirates I asked if you could see if my sword carried the spirit of my father? And it did... Well now that we have some time I'd ask if you can do so again. But, before you do, if you're willing that is. Before you do I want to really know who or what it is that I'm speaking too."
Muse wakes up to the rhythmic rocking of a boat, which feels really damn good after so long on land - and under it. He's almost skipping as he makes his way to the deck.
Seeing the sorry condition the boat is in after being left for days to the elements almost dampens his mood. But he's in his own element, and he'll have this ship in it's own soon enough. "All hands on deck, get on the deck!" he jubilantly shouts. "We need to get this ship ship-shape if we're going to sail it back to Helm!"
Muse wants to tell someone to fetch a broom and sweep the deck, because things are crunching beneath his boots and that is a thing that should not be. Unfortunately, no one on this boat is actually under his command. His comrades are the only ones he really trusts to do anything particularly important, and he doubts any of the orcs would appreciate being told to do such a menial task, at least not before he's earned their trust. Such is the burden of leadership, he thinks, turning his own anytool into a broom - he was already planning on pacing up and down the deck telling people what to do and how to do it, so he might as well knock some dirt and leaves into the deep while he's at it. Cayden knows he's not going to keep stepping in it, like some kind of slob.
Addressing the assorted orcs and landsfolk in languages they know, Muse gives everyone some version or other of the following speech - "I want the each of you to feast your eyes on the drink around us. I don't mean to be melodramatic, but that's your grave. It's already been dug, and it's a hell of a lot deeper than six feet. If you pitch over the side you'll be following millions of pioneers to the watery depths of hell, and if you capsize us I'll hold you under until you drown and float to safety on a raft I made of your bloated corpse. The ocean is a dangerous place even to old hands, and I want all new hands to regard it like they would a monster so big it's insatiable maw stretches from the Iustia to Avinoax - the long way around. Don't let our current good fortune and clear weather fool you! You're in a war zone fighting a war unlike you've ever fought before, and if you want to live long enough to learn the ropes you'll listen to the veteran sailors on board. Of which there's approximately just the one. So if I tell you to do something that doesn't make sense to you, you do it anyway and I'll explain why when we aren't in immediate pressing danger. And, hey, when you've lived as long as I have you'll get to boss around landsmen too. Which is always fun."
With that he assigns the varied crew to varied tasks, manning the tiller and trimming the sails and running the pumps and striking the flag and checking the ropes and cooking food and scrubbing the whole damn thing with soapstone and lye. Muse himself winds up doing a little bit of everything, a whole lot of teaching, and some loaning out of his anytool since he doesn't know where anything is on this boat do these elves have any organizational system at all oh thanks Kelian you're a lifesaver. He takes note of who all among this motley crew responds the fastest and grasps new ideas the quickest, and organizes teams so that he has at least one reliable person on every absolutely vital task. By the time the boat's smooth sailing on the open ocean (though still within sight of land - and making sure the landing boat was ready to drop was pretty much the first thing he did) Muse is utterly exhausted. He'd console himself saying that at least the groundwork is laid and things will be easier going forward, but the ocean's unpredictable and that isn't at all certain.
Fyrtor comes up to him, fresh from a shift at the pumps (Muse isn't particularly concerned with the amount of water the ship's taking on but he's altogether upset with the amount that it's taken on, there aren't any major leaks he can find but there's still a few days' brackish backlog to work through) and the ship's cleric asks the captain a question.
"I call them ghosts or memory spirits, but I'm not insistent on terminology, seeing as I made most of it up myself. When a mortal dies their souls move on to the afterworlds, but there memories are left behind. Sometimes these memories congeal into one being, sometimes they scatter but I can pull them back together. More powerful mages can reunite memory, soul and body . . . which raises a philosophical question. Who are you if not your thoughts, emotions, and experience? If someone loves and hates all the same people as you do, has all the same hopes and dreams you do, how at all can they be a different person? You could put me in a different body, and it wouldn't change who I am. Some philosophers disagree, but I think that if you somehow replaced my soul with someone else's, the person with my memories would have a better claim to being me, even if an angrier me or a more pious me, than someone with my admittedly fantastic soul and their own comparatively lackluster mind. So, who is the spirit that I'd summon from your sword, with all your father's opinions and memories and mind? It's your dad."
I see. Well, if you say so I don't have any reason to believe otherwise. When you have some time, maybe this evening after we set anchor, can we go somewhere private and you.. do your... Fyrtor waves his hands in an imitation of spell casting.
"This isn't a pleasure cruise - I don't plan on setting anchor until we reach Helm. We've got a crew of twenty-two able hands, albeit mostly inexperienced ones, and most of us see better in the night than in the day. Once everything is sorted and things are moving well enough without constant oversight, we'll all start sleeping and working in shifts. Tonight, though, I plan to summon your father's spirit, and Algric's son."
Halak raises an eyebrow at Fyrtor's question. From his demeanor, Fyrtor can read that this type of question isn't typically considered much by Halak or his people. Having this question pushed on him for the first time, Halak shrugs in disinterest. "Why think about that? Nobody see or feel that."
When Brolin tries to train the orcs to become seamen, they grumble and seem disinterested. But when he describes the sea as a great monster, they nod in agreement and shuffle nervously, eyeing the water all around them. But despite this, they don't set to the tasks Brolin provides until Halak grunts a few words in orcish at them. After that, they work reasonably well.
After a day of capable sailing, you are well out of sight of land catching a trade breeze and heading toward Helm as the sun sets.
Each of these realms has incredibly powerful and old beings that rule them. We call those beings gods. They live forever fighting for the ideals of the kingdoms they govern. They search for strong souls that have proven themselves, that they trust to aid them in their quest. You see Halak there is a war that is being fought everyday by the gods. The forces of good seek to preserve life and the forces of evil seek to destroy it. My mistress, her name is Sarenrae, though she has many other titles as well. She stands in opposition to the forces of evil, most especially she leads the fight against the Rough Beast, a terrible unnatural entity who seeks to consume all of existence. Whether we realize it or not are a part of this eternal conflict. There have been time when this war has come to a head and the greatest of battles have been fought. We have records that speak of these great battles of the past, but each day the war is fought, small amounts of power being gained or lost by each. If we prove ourselves in this fight we can become one of the servants of the gods, fighting as long as the world stands, until the war is won, and evil destroyed." Fyrtor's voice swells as he tries to paint an image of endless glory for the orc.
"Can I share with you and your warriors one of these accounts?"
Fyrtor spent the first day sailing the open sea anxious due to a combination of worry over what would come of his conversation with his father's "spirit", and being so far from land. The time he spent trying to work with the orcs helped him ignore the way the ship rose and fell beneath is feet. He also worried about the dwarves. He tried to speak to them when he could. To Kazador he said. "How are you doing? I hate the way the ship is constantly shifting and rolling. I'd thought when we left that we'd be staying near the coast and anchoring at night. Shows how little I know of sailing. This being so far from land... it's unsettling."
He also asked the Captain when he would have time to speak.
After the sailing is well under way, Aglric approaches Kazador. "So what's it going to be? Are you going to help deliver those weapons to our folk in Iustia or am I doing it alone?" The growl in his voice implies that there is no question about whether or not the crated weapons are going to the Iustian Dwarves.
Halak blinks slowly as Fyrtor embarks on a long, flowery description of things far beyond what Halak normally considers important or thinks about at all. Then he shrugs "Fine. Tell story to me and warriors. Maybe good story. I translate."
In Muse's traveled opinion, there's nothing in civilization or nature like a sunset over the sea. He's seen so many paintings that try and capture it, even tried his hand at making one himself (as a practiced illusionist, he's got a rather excellent visual memory and is good at drawing things from it - but he's no good at all at the mixing of paints and ultimately the painting didn't turn out how he wanted it to). But nothing compares to the actual thing, and after all these years they can still take his breath away.
As the light fades, Muse ties himself to a chair in a private room beneath the deck of the ship. Fyrtor with his sword stands in front of him. Algric waits outside.
"Alright," the captain says. "Let's begin."
Algric shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ”So...I get to ask questions? Is that it. And me boy will answer? I...ask him. Ask him if he knew that I loved him. Ask him if he can forgive an old fool for waiting until he was dead to say so. Ask him if he is at the Forge. Ask him if it is as they say, and she is there too.” He was shaking slightly, unable to look the captain in the eye. ”That’s...that’s it. Can he hear us?”
Fyrtor stood there for a moment hesitant. He was unsure of what he really wanted to say. He knew some of what he wanted to say, but it was hard to do, and he wasn't sure of the spirit or echo or whatever it was he was going to speak to even if Brolin was. "Dad? Are you able to see what's happening around you? Have you been watching?"
Brolin receives the following answers to Algric's questions:
"Yes father, I knew. I forgive you. It is the way of our people not to be flowery with our feelings like humans or halflings. I am at Torag's Forge and it is beautiful. She is here as well."
With the sword linking him to Fyrtor's father, Brolin receives a stronger connection this time.
"Yes, Fyrtor, I have been watching and I've seen you become strong. Far stronger than I ever was. These are troubling times you find yourself in."
Algric stood silent, his eyes closed. He nodded his head, turned, and quickly walked out. At that moment he desired naught but to be alone. There was much to think about. Both of the past and the future.
When Halak agrees to allow him to share the stories Fyrtor pulls out his worn copy of "The Birth of Light and Truth." Looking it over he considers a moment before choosing a story he thinks will appeal to Halak and he begins to read, stoping occasionally to offer commentary, and answer any questions the orc has.
"Things are not as easy as they were back in Woodsdale, that is for sure. Though I doubt I've become stronger than you were. I remember practicing with you, I still don't know if I'll ever be that good with a blade." Fyrtor takes a deep breath. He had to know if this was really his father, or at least something of him. He'd been pondering how he could prove it to himself. The first question had been a part of the plan. If this spirit really had been watching him it would know of things Brolin could not, things only a few people in the whole of the world could. "Dad, are you with Mom? Tell me again about her." His father had told him many times how beautiful his mother had been, and how kind. He'd never known her, but Fyrtor knew how his father would describe her, that he'd heard many many times.
How are you doing? I hate the way the ship is constantly shifting and rolling. I'd thought when we left that we'd be staying near the coast and anchoring at night. Shows how little I know of sailing. This being so far from land... it's unsettling."
Kazador had been silent throughout the journey, keeping to himself as much as possible. But when Fyrtor sought him out, he found it impossible to avoid conversation.
”Aye, doesn’t feel right. But what does?” He responded. ”But yer a Druid, aye? Well. I’ve been thinking. About a lot. But this which may be up yer alley. Ye’see. I’ve been taught all me life that the world was made on Torag’s Forge. Offensive, I know, to those who don’t believe, so I apologize if ye find it so. But for what it’s worth I believe it. Me people revere the mountains, for that is where we are from. But why should that be any less holy then the rivers, or the ocean? It is like...praising the axe blade while ignoring the shaft. What is one without the other? So while I may not be used to the way the water rolls, I am trying to appreciate it, for it came from the Forge just like everything else. Just the way I’m starting to see those who are not children of stone. Am I making sense?”
The orcs don't love Fyrtor's choice of story but it's a small ship and there isn't much to do so perhaps they will give him another choice of story the next night.
Brolin receives answer again without delay. "Ah no... Helen isn't here in the sword. Both our souls are with Sarenrae though. Ah yes... your mother... She was the world to me. She dragged me out of my cups or I might have drunk myself to death. I loved tucking her hair behind the tips of her ears, with their slight points..."