"Sailors also go down with their ships," Aerys barks, tucking a bottle of grog unti a sack. "Let's not join them. Anyways, liquor's mine. Consider it payment for saving your arses."
While Vorya and Aerys pull food (and alcohol) from the larder's shelves, Ishirou drags the bodies into the great cabin. Next to the bodies go the salvaged food in neat groupings of like-minded objects: salted meats; fruits, vegetables, and perishables; legumes, flour, liquor. Laid out on the floor, it will be more than the three of you can carry in one trip. Aerys huffs, frustrated, while Ishirou kneels at the bodies.
"Look at this," the swordsman says, pointing to two small pinpricks on the neck of the cook's assistant, the skin around which is rotting, blackened, inflamed. "This is what killed him. Now, look this." Ishirou holds out his own bruised wrist. Wiped somewhat clean on a kitchen rag, the bites-marks there have stopped bleeding and are numerous, almost human-like punctures, shallower and numerous. "That thing in the larder did not kill the boy. And here," Ishirou turns on his heels, pointing to punctures in Devers' armor. "I know the blade of a sword when I see one. He was stabbed before the eel-woman got him. Likely a rapier, or an epee, or perhaps the end of a longblade." Ishirou's eyes meet Vorya's as he says the word rapier, and he quickly looks back to the corpse.
The storeroom, predictably, turns out to be locked, but after a few kicks from Aerys, the frame of the door splinters and it swings inward, creaking on rusted hinges. Originally, the castaways' weapons and gear were stored here for the length of the voyage (excepting Ishirou's sword). Though the castaways' gear had been removed and stored in the pile on the beach, the storeroom still contained supplies that could be useful in building a secure campsite: a block and tackle, three large canvas sheets, two fishing nets, a grappling hook, two bullseye lanterns, twelve flasks of lantern oil, 150 feet of hempen rope, and five shovels.
Aerys stretches and casts a glance around the room. "Lots here. How we getting it all back?"
Vorya has, so far, not given much thought to the actual shipwreck and stranding. Up to now, the swashbuckler had been too busy surviving and getting his bearings. Still, it seemed foolish to just ignore such obvious signs.
"I wonder what happened..." Vorya says out loud. What had happened? Mutiny? Monster attack? Some sort of mind control? But how to account for the foorprints on the beach? Something was going on here. Maybe they would find out later.
"Maybe we'll find out later, " Vorya replies to Ishirou and only then catches the man's eye. The atheist glances down at his own weapon and shrugs, "If you think I did that, well, my best evidence is me here with you. Why would I kill people just to strand myself on this island? Strange hobby."
Shaking his head, Vorya turned his attention to the pile of supplies. Rather large pile actually. It made sense that a full ship would hold quite a lot of gear but just how much had never occurred to him. Far more then they could carry, let alone struggle up the cliffside....
Vorya glanced through a broken chunk out of the wall, onto the churning bubbling water. Maybe they wouldn't have to carry it.
"I have an idea. We keep the most valuable and fragile items in our bags, the rest we lash together and make a simple raft of barrels and wood. Lower it all in the water and hope it washes up on the beach or rocks below? Beats letting it sit here to be bashed to pieces by the waves. At least we might be able to save some of it."
He grinned, "Ishirou, I assume your sword will go on the raft?"
Ishirou's hand goes reflexively to his sword; he doesn't grip the hilt as if to draw it, but rather places his hand over the place where the scabbard meets the katana's pommel hilt, a small disk, wrought of blackened iron in the shape of two grasping dragons. "You first, Vorya." Ishirou's brow is creased, face clouded. "But then, I'd hate to deprive you of your murder weapon." Ah, a little sunshine then.
Vorya, Aerys, and Ishirou make their way up to the Captain's cabin, finding themselves once more standing topside. Using their swords, Vorya and Ishirou pop the door from its tilted frame, and pulling it open, find the captain's cabin -- or most of it. The back left corner of the cabin is gone, smashed again and again against a rock outcropping, which now juts into the room and holds the shuddering Jenivere barely afloat. Captain Kovak's cabin was once well-appointed, though much of finery now lays tattered; the four-posted bed is splintered, sheets soiled. A cabinet, bolted to the far wall, sits with its doors splayed, the clothes that once lied within scattered about the floor. Dried blood spots the floor, with one dark splash indicating a great deal of it exited someone near the door.
The top drawer of an overturned desk holds a ring of keys, while another holds a grouping of star charts and maps and a large, leatherbound tome embossed with the word Log.
A lower desk drawer is locked. Kneeling, Ishirou draws his sword once again, and instead of using it as a pry, tips his scabbard; a scroll tube, roughly one foot long, tumbles out the end, and Vorya realizes something that had been tugging at his mind since he first saw the sword ; the scabbard was long, much longer than the blade of Ishirou's sword.
Opening the scroll tube, Ishirou gently unfurls a few small maps and lays them to the side; in the middle of Ishirou's maps - mostly hand-drawn in ink, from a glimpse Vorya is able to gather - lies a small pouch, which is itself unfurled, revealing a few gleaming tools; picks, spatulas, and a small set of pliers. Thieves' tools.
A couple of minutes more and the desk drawer lock clicks open, Ishirou letting loose a satisfied sigh. The inside of the drawer is padded, preserving the contents within: a bottle of fine brandy , claimed instantly by Aerys, a darkwood model of the Jenivere in a glass bottle , and a small pewter coffer containing a mish-mash of currency from different countries . Also in this lower drawer is a long black leather satchel that contains a dozen potions for emergency use, each neatly labeled in precise Taldane: four potions of "lesser healing" one potion labeled "healing" , four potions of "lesser restoration," a potion labeled "for disease" , a potion labeled "breathe water," and a last potion labeled "walk on water."
Finally, a footlocker leaning against the desk contains a box labeled "Jask Derindi," inside of which are a masterwork dagger, suit of leather armor, two vials containing liquid , a spell component pouch, and a holy symbol - or so Vorya assumes - a carved deep mahogany amulet depicting a winged serpent twisted into a circle, eating its own tail.
Voyra picks up the black leather satchel. "This, I think, makes the cut for the bag." he stuffs it in with some of the foodstuffs, "Useful for our situation." He eyes the maps for a moment, "Any of them for this area? It would be great to know where we are and if other ships are likely to pass here? Surely we can't be that far off the shipping lanes...right?"
The money, the thieves tools, and the armor are much less vital. "Fit for the raft, you think? At least isn't isn't heavy armor, it might float itself. Funny, that money is at the bottom of the list right now."
Vorya takes the small ship model in his hands, holding it up to catch the light. It sparkles. "Ah, I think this ship served him well. Let's let it go down with the ship." The swashbuckler places the glass bottle down gently, only for the entire shipwreck to give a lurch.
"And I think we need to get going?"
A quick glance over the maps before they go into the bag bolster Vorya's hopes. There are a multitude of navigational aids in the stack, with one worn and yellowed map showing the plotting of the Jenivere's course, a plan repeated over numerous trips over numerous years. Aerys traces her finger along the route, a small frown crossing her face. "How long were we... asleep? Surely not too long. We would have been in or nearing Desperation Bay the night we all blacked out. Can't have been too far, right?"
Oh well, that was a question for another time, a problem for the future. For now, it was time to construct the raft and send the less important items - weapons, armor, money, perhaps some tools - toward the shore and hope it caught a current.
Back home in Rahadoum, days were hot, but even so, Vorya finds this island's muggy heat and the overhead sun punishing. Azir, being located on the west coast of an arid nation enjoyed a dry heat and gentle breezes off the sea. Here, on this unknown island, humidity sat in the air almost like moist blanket. Vorya's armpits, back, scalp and crotch were all soon fecund swamps; sweat dripped off of the swashbuckler like rain from one of Azir's colorfully painted rooftops. The castaways soon began to work inside the confines of the ship, stripping the Jenivere of rope of lumber and then hauling it up into the sunlight for assemblage.
A few hours later, the raft is finished. Pulling it to the side of the Jenivere, the castaways find that the tide has gone out, and a string of slippery rocks lead from the ship to the shoreline. With care, they could be traversed to the sandy shore of the beach. Cursing silently under his breath, Ishirou shrugs and then grins. "Well, maybe we could make the raft a sled? Pull it down the beach?"
And so, Vorya, Aerys, and Ishirou eventually find themselves on the beach with their supplies intact, and begin the arduous process of pulling the raft/sled back to the others. Staying close to the waterline where the sand is wet and firmer proves advantageous; the castaways' feet sink less into the ground and the sled is easier to pull. Still, it is painful work. Rope burns the castaways' hands and wrists, sweat pours from their bodies, sand flies flit about their necks, rapacious.
Eventually, the afternoon sun high in the sky, the threesome arrive at the castaways' beach. Smoke from a cooking fire curls into the sky. Set high above the fire, the meat from the dead eurypterid sits impaled on a stick, curing in the campfire smoke and sun. The beginnings of shelters have cropped up on the beach. Lytte struggles with a makeshift lean-to erupting from a nearby dune while Bellet watches from the shade of her broken parasol. A driftwood "tent" is under construction near the cookfire.
Sasha and Gelik, meanwhile, huddle together near the treeline, analyzing a covering built from sticks and leaves.
The sun beats down, the humid air offers no respite. If this day is any indication, afternoons on this island will be brutal.
Heat exhaustion was something every Rahadoumi is familiar with. Everyone had seen a slave or beggar collapse in the street with a cramping shudder. Faintness, dizziness, oddly cool skin. Vorya knew the signs and marked a few of them in himself and his new found fellow strandees. They would have to be careful not to overdo it in this hot, sticky air.
So it is with relief that Vorya lets go of the improtu-sled near the makeshift lean-to. It had been a great deal of work (and a fair bit of horror) , but the supplies were worth it.
"Water?" Vorya croaks out, rolling the knots on his sweaty back. "Has anyone found water? This island is pretty sizable and with trees, should be water. We found some booze on the boat, but Aerys is planning to swim in it, I think?"
The rest of the report can wait until he has had a drink...
Water? Vorya's question ripples across the beach, returning only silence. Moments roll by, like the dry desert scrub that would blow across Azir's streets. The comparison brings a memory to Vorya's mind - or more a montage of memories - the herders' market, every Starday. The herders would make the trek to the eponymous Herder's Square, traveling miles from the city the day before with select animals - mostly cattle and camel raised on the grasslands of the fertile Ute, but also occasionally goats and sheep from the sierras farther away. The goats were always particularly fascinating to Vorya. The young goats -- kids, Vorya recalls -- would be tender and were a delicacy in Azir, and nobles and chefs alike would pay a pretty silver for them. The herders separated the kids from their mothers, with the mothers staying behind with the herd, and the kids were pitiful by the time they had arrived at market. They bleated incessantly, and in absence of their parents, the little goats stayed close to the herders that would ultimately be their demise...
Gelik's eyes widen, and the dandy gnome nods towards the expanse of green beyond the beach, now nearly silent in the mid-afternoon swelter. "D-do you think it is safe? Safe to go in there?" Pilts casts another eye towards the supply raft, his face pinched. "Probably not enough there to do more'n wet our whistles, but at least we won't die o' thirst tonight. If ye' brought anything like that o' course."
Before Vorya can answer, the Jenivere's cook, Pilts, points to the sand-covered supplies Vorya, Ishirou, and Aerys have drug on their rope and wood sled up the beach. "D'ya have pots, glasses, other things that can catch rainwater in there? We can do like we'd do on the Jenny, 'n catch the near daily storms blowing off'n the Eye. O' course, if we're still close to the Eye, that is."
Sure enough, to the northwest, dark clouds begin to cover the place in the horizon where sky meets sea. As Vorya knows, storms can gather quickly in this part of the world. There will likely be rain soon.
The only thing Vorya was jealous of, when it came to god-worshippers, was their ability to swear fluently. The skill to call upon the divine to curse was something he really wished he had right now, confronted with this people.
Vorya was a city boy, and he knew it. The swashbuckler hated getting dirty, bad smells and enjoyed the finer things in life. Soft beds, good food, the company of charming ladies. He was not, despite cultural stereotypes, a badawī of the high desert, living in camel and tent. He admitted, even to himself, to having lived a somewhat coddled life and things handed to him. No desert wolf.
But compared to these people, he was Saadet Akoujan herself, who lived as a hermit in the Napsune Mountains alone for forty years. They had been here for hours, hours! and had not even looked for a spring? Stars and sand, they were sheep! No one, not even the most cosseted dandy of his home country would do more. What, did they expect the Gods to come and assist? Maybe they should sit around and pray?
His faint glow of success over the plundering of the Jenivere's stores is quickly replaced by despair.
"Safe to go in there..." Vorya says, closing his eyes and looking up at the sun, as if asking that great blazing ball to smite him down. He raised his voice, addressing the whole assembled group.
"Are we...perhaps unware of the situation here? We are shipwrecked on a isolated, probably deserted island. We have no food, no water, no supplies except those washed up on shore. There is no prospect of rescue except, perhaps, by slaving pirates. And you are asking how safe the forest is? By the Mekhum's forgotten spirits, are you serious. We will all die here, if we don't act! Right here, on this beach, with gulls to pick our bones!" Vorya paused, gathered breath but his outrage was still so full, it seemed to stop his mouth, like a bung in a barrel.
All that came out was, "Fools!" And with that, without looking back, he stalked off toward the trees, hoping to find water.
Fuming, Vorya charges towards the jungle. He moves at a hurried clip straight towards the closest treeline directly to the south. Sand kicks up behind him, coating the back of Vorya's legs, drifting into his shoes. The swashbuckler stumbles through a patch of small green cedums with bright pink flowers, rage clouding his thoughts, and storms into the expanse of greenery beyond, barely noticing the buzzing insects alighting on his sweat-soaked skin. Still enraptured in rage, Vorya draws his rapier and stabs impotently at a nearby tree, and then calming a bit, uses his blade to push aside vines and shrubs and move - slowly - further inland. Vegetation, mostly in shades of green, is thick here, and Vorya squints in the darkness given by the canopy of trees above him, and marvels at how quickly the environment has changed.
Gone is the punishing sun, the bright blue sky, the sandflies. In their place, a damp and dreary dimness surrounds Vorya. His feet kick through piles of dead leaves fed upon by fungi. From the leaves sprout small plants - wiry, spiky bushes; delicate, frondlike ferns, creeping vines, and dotting one nearby fallen tree, strange cuplike fungi, orange and bristly, stretched in a meandering line across the log's bark. The occasional orchid and spiderplant attach themselves to winding tall trees which stretch skyward towards the jungle canopy. Under the trees, the air is fetid and wet. Sweat slicks Vorya and beads of moisture line plants. Vorya suspects if he were to devote enough time to it, he could lick enough water from the nearby plants to satiate his thirst.
But, in the presence of the bugs, this seemed at best an even trade. The forest practically murmured, a pulsating, insectoid communication all around. Mosquitoes bit at Vorya's arms and ankles, gnats flew at his sweat-soaked brow, and a large, lumbering bug the likes of which Vorya had never seen before buzzed angrily around the castaway's head.
Pushing more of the underbrush aside, Vorya pressed deeper, noting that the elevation was steadily rising. Besides the humming of the bugs, Vorya heard other sounds - birds mostly, bright chirps associated with flashes of color - emerald greens, crimson, azure - as the birds took flight. Occasionally, a growl or yip would find its way to Vorya's ear, the only sign of a nearby animal unseen in the underbrush or low branches of the emergent tree canopy above him.
Rubbing some sweat - and gnats - from his brow, Vorya pauses, uttering a small curse of frustration. He'd been pushing through the jungle for tens of minutes now with no sign of water - other than the slick jungle all around him. No signs of fresh, flowing water at least.
Sighing, Vorya turned back to the beach, spying a press of trampled greenery climbing around a large boulder and out of site towards the ridgeline. A game trail, which meant perhaps water, perhaps food. Perhaps something that would find Vorya himself a snack. Did the swashbuckler dare follow it?
Bugs. Of course there were bugs. Vorya homeland, despite being hot, was a dry desert wafting by sea breezes. It was generally a hostile place to insects and their population was, thankfully, low. Clearly this fetid, tropical island was quite the reverse.
Vorya slapped at his arm, and his palm came away smeared with red, his own blood. Urgh.
Still, both the biting bugs and enervating heat did sap away his anger. It wasn't their fault, he slowly reasoned, trying to be charitable. It was not their way, to step up and take charge of their own fates. Could one really blame sheep, that had lived their whole lives safely in corral for being confused when the walls came down? No, one could not. Besides, some had tried. Indeed, Aerys had done better then he on the ship. Perhaps her had been hasty.
But they did need water, and soon. Vorya had the feeling this island would not cool much over night. Pilts hadn't been wrong, coming rainstorms would help but would it be enough for such a sizable crowd as those that gathered around the beach?
Vorya eyed the game trail, weighing his choices. Going alone was dangerous of course, the opposite of common sense. Who knew what dangers lurked ahead? Setting aside the exotic fears of ravening beasts, the more mundane problems of getting lost or tripping over a branch could be deadly alone.
On the other hand, they needed to explore this land. They needed water, shelter and perhaps signs of locals. For all he knew, their was a village of happy fisherman just on the next beach.
Vorya slowly nodded. He would climb...a bit. Until he felt too tired.
Decision made, Vorya climbed the game trail. It meandered a bit but headed mostly upwards, at times almost straight up, as if the creature(s) that made it were able climbers. Vorya cursed quietly, sweat ran into his eyes, mosquitos bit into the back of his neck. And still he went, up the trail. He was close to turning around, when he heard it, hidden behind the pulsating sounds of the jungle's insects: the bubbly sound of running water!
Picking up pace, Vorya climbed further and picked himself up and over a rock and there it was, as fine a site as anything on this near murderous day; a small fall, slicking over a hillside and collecting among the rock outcropping Vorya now stood upon before running off the other side of the rocks and back into the jungle.
Vorya's mouth watered, his self-awareness - the smell, oh his smell - assaulted his senses alongside his thirst. A bath and drink then? Or a drink and then a bath?
With a bit of a vantage from the rock outcropping, Vorya found himself looking out over an expanse of sea, darkened by the gathering stormclouds. Below him, a few hundred feet at least, was a spit of sand that wandered to the west. Likely the east end of the castaways' beach, which meant the Jenivere was more or less below him, though unseen. He had wound his way around to almost the top of the ridge by which he'd been earlier in the day, just much, much higher this time.
A nearby bird shrieked, perhaps angry at the intrusion of a larger creature at its watering spot, and Vorya looked up to the trees. The hillside climbed up, nearly vertical, but there may be a way around, further to the east. And though judging distances could be difficult when traversing topography with the features of a crumpled sheet of vellum, there was likely the ridgeline not too far away. Perhaps there was a vantage of what lay on the other side?
Water! Sweet, delicious water.
And yet, long training restrains him, as parched and thirsty as he is. Despite the danger signs of heat strain that are evident even to his muddled and battered brain, wisdom floats to the surface. A stream, even one seeming to be clear and free, can hold nasty surprises. Make you sick, puke your guts out for days. Obviously any water is better then none, but he was close to the top of the ridge. The water must be coming from a spring, not very far away.
He would try. If the way got too steep, or he got lost, he'd have the stream to follow down. And, of course, drink from if he had to. Besides, the idea of seeing the other side of the ridge was quite tempting. Visons of that happy fishing village danced in his mind. Food, shelter, other people....it was possible, wasn't it?
Or was it just his version of hoping the Gods would magically save them?
Ah well, Vorya climbed.
Putting aside his thirst, Vorya began climbing again, the ascent growing more vertical. The stream - a trickle really - meandered away to the west.
Vorya plunged back into the jungle, huffing in the humid darkness, his hands slipping on rocks as he pulled himself up the ever more steep hillside. The undercanopy grew dark, darker than before, and time fell into an almost medative rythm marked by a hand on this rock here, a foot stepping over this branch there, and then eventually, ahead, another clearing.
Vorya was vaguely aware he was headed down as he stepped into it, and the mountainside gave away to an impressive vista. Vorya found himself in a barren stretch of mountain, the foliage around him blacked and burned away. Trees, burned off to the base stretched down the mountainside for a hundred or more feet, and for a moment Vorya was reminded of the great dockside fire of Azir a decade past, where a merchant ship caught fire while docked and the pier around it burned. Five ships were lost, burned to the waterline and sunk. But the dock was burned as well, and when low tide came, the remainders of the pier stretched like blackened fingers from the sea. The industrious Rahadoumi rebuilt the dock within a month, and the city absorbed the tragedy as his people did, like a new scar layered atop many others. Here, the forest was in the process of doing something similar. Shoots of green - small trees, vines, and shrubs bent under Vorya's foot as he jockeyed closer to the downslope to get a better view.
Vorya had come over a comparatively low ridge, a spine of mountain that stretched to the south and east rising as it went, obscuring what Vorya could see from his vantage. A sweep of coast mirrored the mountain ridge, curving south and east and eventually all the way around, nearly a circle, like the blade of a sickle. In between the coastline, a bay, its water the color of coal, reflecting the gathering stormclouds overhead.
Vorya estimated the bay to be a few miles across, and he could see no evidence of friendly fishermen along the coast, nor could he see any evidence of river deltas meeting the bay. Perhaps his fishermen sat on a different coastline. To Vorya's west, the mountain spine dropped further until it met the sea in a rounded peninsula, with a few small islands gathered just offshore. Across the mouth of the bay, two larger islands sat, rocky protrusions jutting from the dark, frothing sea around. The southernmost of the two islands looked not so different from the land Vorya currently stood upon: jungle-covered rock leading to water, either in plunging cliffsides or less often, coves and beaches. The northernmost island, however, was different. Where the rest of the nearby land was verdant and green, even under the darkness of the stormclouds, the northernmost island was grey, as if the island's spindly trees had been sapped of their vitality; the island sat reminiscent of a tumor sprouting from an alley dog's head.
Overhead, the stormclouds were fat and grey, and one fat drop of water, and then another, fell upon Vorya's sunbaked head.
Vorya finds a fallen log and, after carefully wiping away the rotten detritus and f crawling insects, sits down. The air is hot and heavy, humid enough to nearly choke the swashbuckler. Above the clouds swirl into a congealed mass, promising rain but probably little relief. Vorya gets the feeling the humidity never lets up. If anything, dousing everything in rainwater will probably just make things even worse.
Still, at least he had found water and seen more if the island. No fishing villages yet....could this place really be empty? Save those from the shipwreck of course......
His anger had run out by now, replaced by the usual Rhadoumi usual mix of rugged optimism and practical realism. They all had work ahead of them, if they wanted to stay alive. And, Vorya at least, wanted to.
The swashbuckler headed back down, hoping to strike the stream and take a long drink before it got too fouled by the rain burst that was surely coming.
The rain falls, a veritable miles-wide waterfall. Ducking back into and under the cover of the jungle canopy, darkness clouds Vorya's vision, though the rain is at least manageable under the trees towering over Vorya's head, their tops now lost in the shadows. Other than the constant rush of water all around, the forest is silent as a tomb; no birdlife, no croaks, no strange crashing sounds in the distance.
The walk back goes quicker than the assent up the ridge line, if much messier. More than once, Vorya slips in the mud and ends up on his rump; a few times the swashbuckler nearly slips and falls from a precarious spot, only to catch himself on a nearby vine or branch. And still the rain comes down only starting to lessen when Vorya sets foot back on the beach.
The castaways have retreated to their lean-tos, the cookfire is out, the half-smoked remains of the eryptid cold and slick. Vorya can just make out the forms of the Lady Bellet and her servant, hovering under a soaked blanket, their lean-to collapsed in the storm, watching the swashbuckler as he approaches what he's begun to think of as Castaway Beach. Close to the now extinguished fire, Jask Derindi lays, covered in wet sand, eyes closed, but with hands freed from his manacles. The only sign the man still lives is the chattering of his teeth.
Like a candle flickering in the wind, the rain lessens, and then stops, and a few moments later the sounds of birdlife and buzzing insects resumes, as if the storm had never come. The beach smells earthy, pungent. Like a fresh-dug grave.
All that anger, that frustration Vorya had felt only a short time ago...was washed away. Either by rain or by exercise. Or maybe justt he pitiful sight of Jask shivering in the wet sand, his life probably slowly ebbing away.
In stories they tended to talk about the painful ravaging of thirst or the slow wasting of hunger, but rarely mentioned that being exposed in the wild was a death sentence. Your life slowly being sucked out of you by cold or heat. Even in a tropical place like this, water and wind could freeze a heart.
They all needed shelter, and they needed it fast. Which was not great because Vorya had, so far, not found any. The ridge behind him, that he had just climbed, had no sign of caves or even helpful rocky overhangs. Besides, it looks like the place turned into a giant sluice when it rained.
Well if the world (or another man might have said 'the gods') did not provide, he would have to. The swashbuckler looked up and down the windswept, damp beach and saw little.
Well, little except the wooden sledge they had dragged from the wreck. Perfect. Without a word, Vorya went to work.
First he turned the sledge pointing away from the beach , out of the ocean breeze. Then, he started to dig under it. First a small hole in front, just near the timbers. Slowly it grew, down and actually under the haphazard raft. Soon the rough boards formed a ramshackle roof over a small sandy cavern, bit enough for a few people to sit or lie down. It wasn't exactly a house, but it was out of the wind and rain and with some improvements would do.
Waterproof the top with sails and branches, drag some rocks for a firepit out of the rain, maybe some castoffs for a bed, an ever-burning torch in the back...it was a start.
Shivering and teeth chattering, Jask goes under the makeshift shelter for the evening, his eyes focusing on Vorya for a few intense moments until he mouths the words thank you, weak, dank breath barely reaching Vorya's nose. Later, Vorya hears some stronger words coming from the former prisoner... a prayer, repeated again and again judging by the cadence, though the words are difficult to make out. Eyes closed, Jask sweats and prays, and eventually falls asleep.
The castaways for the most part are quiet, or at least around Vorya, who they give a wide birth. When Pilts leaves Vorya his dinner, the large cook scratches his stubble and looks to the treeline. "Likely will need to forage some wood tomorrow. And build a shelter in the treeline, keep it dry from the rains." Dropping a small dinner - cold, previously smoked cod and shaped parsnips, with an unpeeled orange, all wrapped with leaf, Pilts ducks out of the shelter, on to deliver the next person's meal. Perhaps it is the days' exertion, the danger, the lack of a future, but Vorya swears the meagre meal is one of the best he's ever had.
The sunset is quick, a few minutes at most, and the castaways watch in silence as yellow turns to a fiery orange and then is snuffed out like the end of a dragon's breath, darkness dropping over beach, only kept at bay with the few everburning torches salvaged from the Jenivere, which cast their glow against the night all around, a futile fight edged in shadow and the sounds of night bugs.
Of which there are plenty. They loop and buzz Vorya and Jask's shelter, bite at the Rahadoumi's ankles, back, neck. Vorya turns in the sand, half-in and out of a fitful sleep, and wakes sometime in the dark night to find a new, strange light almost to the beach: the waves crashing against the shore are infused with their own radiance, a pale green, which ebbs in and out with the surf, the effect almost as if it were faintly glowing.
When he hears the litany of divine supplication coming from the shivering Jask, Vorya is tempting to simply throw himself into the sea. Typical worshipper. A man builds them a shelter, through sweat, luck and daring. Literally makes up a home out of whole cloth and who gets the credit?
The Gods.
The same all-knowing Gods that, apparently, stranded them on this island in the first place! It was enough to make one laugh...or weep.
Vorya is too tired for either so instead he sits in the sand, doing his best to stay warm. Pilts is right, he thinks as he chews down the last of the salty cod. They would need better environs tomorrow. A roof, some walls, and a fire. A big roaring fire.
Fire held an important symbolic place among the Rahadoumi. The light of wisdom, the burning away of lies. What was that line from that old boring poem everyone learned?
'Fire is to represent truth because it destroys all sophistry and lies; and the mask is for lying and falsehood which conceal truth'
But here, fire would serve a more practical purpose. For one thing, it would kill them warm and alive. Second, they could cook food on it. Third, it would signal to any passing ships there were humans here who might need saving (or attract cutthroat pirates but one problem at a time). Yes, a very large fire is important.
The swashbuckler was still thinking about this as he watched the waves rhythmically sweep in and out. The heartbeat of the world some sages said.
Vorya recalled his boyhood in Azir, many late nights spent atop the walls of the old city, beyond which on one side laid a short beach and then the crash of the estatuary waves where the Jodin river met the Azure sea. Occasionally, mostly on warm nights during the dry season, the estatuary would alight with flickering blue-green light, as if sheet lightening tossed about in the surf.
The walls were always a place for refuge from the city: thirty feet wide in parts, with stone worn smooth from thousands of years of passage across them, they were a gathering place for Azirees wanting to get away from the noise and smell of the city: young lovers hoping to escape their guardians for a few intimate moments; flayleaf pushers with their dangerous goods hiding in the shadows; and those, like Vorya, that enjoyed the moments of peace and contemplation that came from listening to the waves fall upon the shore in the darkness.
In those moments where the sea-lightening came, however, the walls became a gathering place for what seemed the whole of Azir. Families, touts, wedding parties, streetcart kabob vendors, and seemingly the rest of the city would gather in a carnival-like atmosphere to take in the light under the waves.
Here, wherever it was that Vorya was now, there is something just the slightest bit off about the glowing surf. Rather than the crackling blue-green lightning under the waves, this glowing was paler, greener, and more constant. Interest piqued, Vorya wandered toward the surf, the steady roar of the ocean drowning out the sounds of the jungle behind him. And that was not the only thing drowned. There, in the surf, for a moment -- a limb. An arm or leg, it spasmed! The limb was indistinct, its form wavered, and one moment seemed to be clothed in rags, the next mere bone tumbling in the sickly glowing green water. Then it was gone, pulled back under the surf. Vorya could swear he heard, just under the sound of the crashing waves, a moan, long and low and discomfited, not so different from that of his grandfather's last moments before he succumbed to the wasting disease some thirty years before...
So much for the calming sea....
At first Vorya thought the strange display was merely some appendage lost in the shipwreck, some human detritus being reclaimed by the sea. It was hard to see details by only the glowing water. Was it- Yes. It was human flesh and then bone, in an instant.
His blood chilled. What had it been? Illusion? Undead? Whatever it was, best to get away. Without delay the swashbuckler left the waterside, clambering up the sand toward his makeshift 'shelter'. He glanced up and down the beach to make sure no one else was on a late night stroll.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully, though Vorya has trouble sleeping, and it occurs more than once to the swashbuckler they castaways would be wise to institute some sort of guard watch during the night. One fitful eye cast towards the sea, Vorya sees the greenish glow fade to darkness about an hour before sunrise, and then, soon enough the sun breaks over the horizon and with it, the temperature steadily climbs, and the nits, gnats, and biting sandflies return, the insects much more well-rested than Vorya.
The camp stirs with the morning light, and eventually the castaways make their ways from their shelters, eyes bleary, faces pinched and drawn. Pilts manages a sputtering fire, and soon, a warm breakfast is ready, simple but nourishing: plantains, smashed and fried in tallow, and then fried again, and served over cornmeal grits blended with a shaved hard cheese popular among the Chels.
Talk turns to the glowing surf from last night; it seems Vorya was not the only castaway that saw it. Lytte awoke to relieve himself and searched along the glowing surf for a few minutes, though he saw no spectral limbs or anything untoward. Gelik, however, swears he saw a maiden with dark hair and luminescent skin rise briefly from the surf, one strained, grasping hand reaching towards the gnome's ramshackle lean-to, before being pulled - as if a top on a string, the dandy notes with a spinning gesture of his hand - back into the ocean. Gelik's face turns taut and drained, and the dandy picks at his cornmeal, his flourish of a story trailing off into a frown.
After breakfast, most of the castaways work at their shelter, with Pilts gone into the treeline in search of drier wood, and Aerys wandered up the beach, bottle of grog in hand. Vorya begins as well on his shelter, pulling the overturned sled away from the shivering Jask, the man's eyes still closed, teeth still chattering, breakfast sitting untouched atop a large leaf next to the former prisoner. Grunting, Vorya leaves the man to his god's care, and lifts the sled into a bush just inside the treeline. The swashbuckler uses his sunsilver rapier as a poor axe, eventually forgoing it completely to pull at the brush under the sled with his hands. The Rahadoumi finds the work difficult; the brush - largely consisting of one bush with flexible, tough woody stems and three-leaf clusters drooping with red berries - proves to be stronger than Vorya had first assumed. The morning passes and by then Vorya - no survivalist by training - has cleared his bush house from under the sled. The Rahadoumi's hands are lashed with small scrapes and welts, and Vorya can once again smell himself in the damp, still jungle air, but with a little patching on the roof and the addition of a couple of sides, the swashbuckler will have himself a right hovel.
Lunch comes - more cornmeal, this time sans plantain - and most of the castaways retreat to the shade of the treeline or their shelters for the afternoon. The air is still and hot, and in the distance, a booming noise echoes across the beach, once, and then again. The Jenivere crumples, like a house in a mudslide, and sinks beneath the surf, guaranteed to never sail again.
Vorya had not worked this hard since....well, he had no idea. His muscles ached even as he stopped for lunch, sweat pouring off his body. His rapier made a poor axe and the brush was springy and refusing to cut easily. The high heat and humidity of course made everything worse. On top of it all, he was spattered with tiny blotches of blood as he slayed endless hordes of biting insects.
Disgusting. the swashbuckler felt never been clean again.
His spirits, already somewhat low, sink farther as he watches the Jenivere finally give in to the crashing waves, vanishing below the waves. There had never been hope of sailing on her again, but it still a blow watching it go. Another connection to the outside world, severed.
He saves a bit of his lunch and puts it down in front of the still barely awake Jask. "Eat it, keep your body going."
His list of chores was simplfied.
Start a small fire.
Take a quick ocean swim (avoiding whatever weird undead or fey creatures lived there apparently!)
Call a general meeting and start actually planning to survive.
Jask's eyes flutter open, and the priest's gaze focus on Vorya for a moment, watery pools, almost entirely pupils, dilated black. Vorya notes the sweat slicking the man's stubbled cheeks, his forehead, even his sand-coated arms. Jask reaches out, the motion a seeming eternity, and pulls the food towards him, though he does not eat. His breathing is shallow, his eyes once again lose what little sharpness they had.
After lunch Vorya calls the meeting. In short order, the castaways gather on the beach - excepting Aerys, who seems to be gone. Sitting around the cookfire, the castaways look to each other. The air is still, the fire's smoke rises into the air, little curl to its path. Even the ocean's surf seems tame, quiet, as if waiting in anticipation.
"Well, I'll start!" Pilts ventures, his voice edged, like an echo off a stone wall. "I've gathered our food, put it off the ground in some shelving in the treeline. But we need a better system, unless the birds - an' worse - come for it. And I cook for you alls, and build our larder, but I've got no time for my own shelter. I spent last night on the forest floor..."
The big man tails off, his fists rubbing unconsciously across his belly, before he turns to Vorya. "Anyways, you called this moot. Speak!"
Vorya looks over the hungry, tired and more then slightly confused group. Shipwrecked, starved and battered by the elements. This was his material to build survival with. How could he move them, unite them?
Lead them?
"I am no priest or king." The Rahadoumi starts, invoking the ancient tradition on how to start an important public speech. A promise and assurance tot he crowd, not that he expected anyone here to understand the reference. Still, that ounce of familiarity lets him gain strength.
"Pilts was already started." Vorya goes on, "And Speaks the truth. We are alone out here, lost and forgotten. It may be weeks, months before someone else comes along able to save us. In the meantime we must save ourselves." Vorya stands up, starting to pace, planning melding into his talk, "We must work together, it's the only way. Still, we are not without luck. The island is big, with water, plants, animals. There is the stuff of survival here. I am sure the peasants of our homelands make do with worse. At least," A small smile, 'We won't be competing with anyone else."
"Still, we need to focus and work as a team. I think our first priorities should be shelter, and a fire. Without them, we'll freeze, here here. Exposure can be deadly, and it'll sap our strength."
Then he waited, to see what reaction he engendered. Agreement? Anger? neglect?
Silence settles over the beach, drawn out, like a midsummer's sunset. A steady wind blows off the sea, and as if giving credence to Vorya's words, the campfire flickers, and flickers again, before again gaining strength. Smoke wafts over Vorya, stinging his eyes and bringing a strange scent to his nostrils, the scent of foriegn wood burning perhaps.
Pilts harrumphs, his voice smashing through Vorya's musings about wood like a hammer on glass. "That's all well an' good, but where am I going to sleep? I spent tha last day--"
"I'm no priest or king myself." Bellet interjects, her voice as rigid as her posture. The other castaways had chosen to sit, some on empty crates, or logs, or even just the beach, but the lady had remained standing for the moot, her posture commanding, even in her soiled longdress. "Merely a noblewoman. But I know something about societies. Assessing priorities is well and good, and I agree that shelter and a fire are important. But, we should not tumble about, like drunks leaving a tavern, lacking direction. We should work as the bees do, with clearly defined roles. Some of us can build shelter. You--" the Lady waves one hand in Pilts' direction "--can tend a fire, and I don't know, bunk with our loquacious swordsman here, his sledhome is rather spacious all things considered. But we should not limit ourselves to just these two things. Food should be gathered, or hunted, or fished..."
Gelik Aberwhinge stands, and sensing a pause in Bellet's speaking, jumps into the vacuum, the pitch of his voice high, rising as he talks like the fire's smoke curling into the air. "How do we know we're alone? That there's no competition? That we're safe? What do we do if we're injured? The half-dead one, he's a priest, right? Getting him on his feet again could be good for all of us. And anyways, again, how do we know we're alone here? Should we have guards at night?"
Sasha Nevah, the ginger-haired, pinky-missing, tattooed woman, has been uncharacteristically quiet - compared to her demeanor on the ship, at least, which Vorya found to be borderline manic most all the time. Often never still, Nevah had spent the meeting up until now lounging with her feet pointed to the fire, propped up on her elbows. She draws up slightly, looking into the treeline rising up the ridgeline. "Some of us should range," she mutters, her gaze drawing down the beach and lingering. "See if we really are alone. We can hunt while we explore."
"No. No way." Aberwhinge pounds one small fist into another, a puff of sand spilling from the back of one hand. "We should stay together. Safety in numbers."
Silence again draws over the beach. Gently, Ishirou clears his throat. "We need to figure out where we are. We have maps. And the captain's logbooks. I'm. I'm not much of a reader..."
It might have surprised a bystander but Vorya felt a flicker of joy and hope flare in his gut. Even if these people are grumbling or prattling on without much sense they are starting to think as a group, a team. At the very least, they seem to care about their predicament and the dangers around them.
Might not be a esprit de corp, but selfishness was a place to start.
"I agree with Lady Bellet," Vorya starts. His people have no issues with nobles, just kings. "We do all need to work as a team, diving up labor based on our needs and skills. There are quite a few of us and while that does have downsides, it has a major advantage of being able to spread out the labor. "
At the idea of ranging, Vorya looks pensive, "I'm not sure Sasha. I agree that we very well may not be alone, that was part of the reason I went a bit into the back country yesterday. That and to find water. For all we know there is a fishing village or pirate cove on this island, only a few miles away. It is tempting to look for it but..." The swashbuckler shakes his head, "It is dangerous. What if the person sent out gets lost, or gets hurt? Forget cannibal islanders, or even animals. A twisted ankle could kill them. I think we should stick together, at least until we have a suitable base of operations here."
At Ishirou's words Vorya nods, "Also a good idea. We need to assess and see if passing ships are likely. If we are close to a shipping lane, we can concentrate on being visible from a distance. Fires, smoke and all that."
Vorya paced a bit talking out loud, "Still, I think our first priorities are obvious. Food, fire and shelter. The first will be the hardest since I don't know if any of us really know the local flora and fauna very well. Fishing might be the best bet, you can eat pretty much any fish. " He glances at the ocean, trying not to think of crawling decomposing arms.
"And, most critically, I am worried about Jask. he is obviously unwell and like Gelik says, he could be a useful asset if revived. I'm not a healer but the obvious things first. We need to keep him warm, fed and watered. Someone will need to focus on that, while the rest of us work on the other jobs."
Vorya looks around, "Ok, any volunteers for anything? I know it's not going to be fun, but it beats dying of thirst out here on the sand. if we work together, and work hard, we can survive out here." The swashbuckler shrugs his shoulders, "At least I am willing to try my hardest. I won't ask anyone to do something I won't."
Bellet seemingly stands even straighter, her deep violet eyes twinkling, her expression lifting a little around them, a shifting of her crow's feet. She's pleased perhaps, at the deference that Vorya has given? "I will volunteer half of Lytte's time to tending after the convict, as displeasing as it may be. My slip is a fine caretaker, and will no doubt have mister... Jask, it is? Mr. Jask on his feet in no time. We shall of course not share our shelter with a convict, and Lytte, you are not to talk with the convict; there is no doubt he was squirreled away on that ship for good reason." Those violet eyes land on each of the castaways, a few moments spent in silent appraisal, before the noble waves her hand in the direction of Pilts. "The cook can care for the convict the rest of the time. If nothing else, he will be nourished."
The slight - the dismissive wave, the way the lady doesn't refer to Pilts by name - is not lost on the sailor. He stands, fists clenched, rosy-hued face growing even redder by the moment, until, with a flourish, Sasha kips up from her languid pose, a graceful fluid motion that Vorya, who has practiced such things, would find hard to replicate. "Glad that's settled. Regarding the watch, we should have two to a watch, for a couple of hours for each shift, with those of us with some skill at arms staggered across watches. So that's..." It is Sasha's turn to look around the beach, "Myself, Vorya, Ishirou, and Aerys."
"Ahem." Gelik mutters, his fake cough carrying a tinge of annoyance. Ishirou shrugs, and turns towards his shelter, small puffs of sand rising behind him as he sprints towards it, one word drifting over his shoulder. "Maps!"
"And Gelik of course," Sasha smiles, her warmth not quite reaching her eyes. "How could I forget your tales of bravado? We'll be able to have a sword-arm on each shift at the least."
"I'm a decent fisher," Sasha continues. "Who else?" Blank stares all around. "Well, we'll need to learn. Anyone interested, we'll spend the day working at making spears and salvaging any netting we can find."
Ishirou scampers back to the fire wearing a large crooked grin, holding his sword aloft in one hand, a few books tucked under his other arm. "Maps! I have maps. And the captain's logbooks."
Voyra frowns at Bellet's obvious attitude. It is one thing to be nobility, it is quite another to treat your fellow man as lowly servants. Vorya was used to it, of course (he himself was not immune) but not was not the time. This was a time for survival, to pull together as a team. Not for putting each other down. But what was the swashbuckler to do? Harangue an old lady?
Best to boost morale in another way, at another time.
Well, maybe he could say something now.
So instead he nodded thanks, 'Good, that is a start." he glanced at Pilts, "Assuming you agree. As the cook, you are one of the most important people here. Without food, this whole thing comes screeching to a halt and I doubt anyone else wants to eat fried grass and boiled water."
Sasha's words need no reinforcement. Even discounting pirates or other survivors, just a wild animal could be a problem. Best to stay sharp.
"I'll take a hand at fishing," Vorya offers, if only to set an example. The thought of actual handling a slimy, squirming fish (let alone gutting it) sets his teeth on edge. Still, it beat starving.
Ishirou's excitement was so obvious, Vorya couldn't say no. Besides, it probably was a good idea to get an idea where they are. Was this stay likely to last days. Weeks?
Months?
Pilts nods, a slow, measured bob of his head, his eyes on Vorya, directly not looking in Bellet's direction. "Aye, I'll keep watch over 'em. Though if he's sick, and I catch it... yerselves'll may need a new cook."
Tension diverted (for now), Ishirou drops to his knees and pulls the maps from his false-bottomed scabbard, laying a curled stack of them to the side. "These ones are mine. But these charts and maps, they're from the captain's cabin. Oh, and I'll fish as well."
The first map Ishirou lays on the beack lies flat easily -- apparently it saw regular use and was never stored in a tube or folded. It is in fine condition, if a little soiled; relatively new, lacking in creases tears. The map shows the coast of Garund, and plots the Jenivere's path along a series of stops. There is little shown on this map - its focus being the coastline of Garund after all - of outlying islands. It occurs to Vorya that perhaps they are not on an island after all, but rather some remote stretch of the southern continent, some forsaken and hostile expanse of Mwangi jungle. Which, in a way could be a blessing and curse.
Other maps and charts are unfurled one by one. Some show Avistan, others the whole of the Inner Sea, with blank spaces drifting off towards the end of the great plains that connect the kingdom of the east with Avistan. One chart maps the celestial bodies, and another, strangely, is a small atlas of the cities of the River Kingdoms. Nothing provides much context for where the castaways may be stranded.
Last, Ishirou uncoils an older map, one of the Fever Sea and its numerous, often unnamed and uncharted small islands. There, Vorya spies an island that could be where the castaways are marooned, judging from the swashbuckler's foray to the ridgeline yesterday. The land's peculiar curvature -- like the blade of a scythe, and the bay to the south of it match. The island lies roughly 35 knots to the southwest of the last known spot they were on the plotted course, and judging from the map's scale, is a descent size, perhaps sixteen miles from north to south (with about half of that being taken up by the bay), and another twleve or so miles east to west. Many of the islands in the Fever Sea have no official names. Pirates may know them by any number of names informally, or even more likely, most of the islands are mere spits of land, not worth anyone's attention. This island, however, with its sweeping scythblade coming to almost a pincher with its western side, with two smaller islands floating just offshore, and its dense, mountain and forested southern half, has an official name. Printed in small lettering just off the eastern coast: Smuggler's Shiv
Vorya leans over the map, his nose almost touching the worn paper. He was surprised and pleased that not only could they identify their current island but that it had a name. After confirming this, the swashbuckler sat back on his haunches and looked around.
"Smuggler's Shiv. Not the most promising name." Vorya said to the assembled group, partly for the benefit of any illiterates. Rahadoum valued education highly but Vorya knows not all nations did.
"That suggest two things, one good and one bad." The swashbuckler went on, thinking out loud. " The first is that clearly people must visit, at least sometimes. That's good for our chance of rescue. On the other hand, smugglers and pirates might not be the most friendly group."
Vorya swept his eyes across the group, "That said, even pirates are probably preferable to starving on this beach." He shook his head and asked the assembled people, "Do you folks agree? Should we still prioritize being rescued? If a ship appears, do we do our best to signal it?"
"Well, I appreciate you gathering for this meeting. Planning will be our tool against the wild. We have to work together and it starts today. " Vorya glanced at Sasha, "For the fishing. What do you want for bait? I plan on making more shelters and improving what we have, I can keep an eye out whole I'm out collecting branches. "
At the mention of contagion, Vorya does a quick physical assessment. He'd been through two fights and came out alive, but injured. And of course, poisoned or drugged - intentionally or not - and washed up on a beach. Bitten by insects, underfed, and spent most of yesterday in the sun. But diseased or sick? Well, bugs carried disease, and perhaps Euryptids and eel-women did as well. Was that a tickle, just the faintest hint of a sore throat?
"Oh, tha's not good," Pilts mumbles, jabbing a finger at the outline of the island on the map. "The Shiv is a right ship's graveyard. It's not named for tha sickle-shape of the coast, though tha's an assumption yer could make. It's called tha Shiv 'cause it makes a habit of wrecking ships that draw too near. Only smugglers, slavers, and pirates are fool enough to try and land here."
"Or Chels," Bellet whispers, her voice soft as a lace curtain. "I remember the lessons well. They weren't fools of course. Just righteous colonizers. When Sargava was first settled, our engineers built a lighthouse here. It was to be the first building in the colony, and a place to jump waypoint for westward expansion. The first resupply ship arrived to find it abandoned, our people gone."
"And that wasn't the last time my people were here. Some seventy years ago, a Chelish ship wrecked here, part of an attempted re-invasion of our restive and sometimes breakaway colony to the east. The explorer Maximilus Verade - a close personal family friend, I should add - noted the remains of the Ninth Rule on a visit to this island some thirty years back. His expedition account is... fantastical at times. He notes rumors of cannibals, the remnants of that shipwreck. Haunts and curses too. But unverified by Verade himself."
Bellet pauses, her voice more forceful, her arms wrapped around herself as she was steeling against a wind. "This spit of land has been a disaster for my people. Amibition's graveyard. Like an infected thorn attached to a lion's paw."
"There's tales others have tried settlements here too," Sasha says, waving a hand towards the surf. "Mwangi nations, Bloodcove, even Bonefist tried in his younger days. So its said. Its also said that the Shiv is haunted by the ghosts and ghouls of those who have died on those jagged reefs and rocks..."
Silence falls over the beach, and Vorya finds himself gazing out to the sea, watching the waves come in and out. Ishirou flips the captain's log open, the books cover hitting the sandy beach with a emphatic smack, breaking the silence.
"Well, let's see if the Captain knew anything about it." Ishirou shrugs, his face turning a slight shade of red. "I uh. It will take me a while. Not the best with words."
The captain's log is filled with precise writing and barebones facts. Early entries are -- again, precise -- in recording progress and events along the way, and barebones in structure, with little emotion or florid writing. Commonly, Kovak would record the weather, progress, supply issues or needs, staffing changes, and ship's repairs needed or completed, and little else, barring any unusual events, of which there were few: Kovak, by the interpretation of his logbook, was a fine captain, and the Jenivere a swift boat, able to evade trouble even through difficult waters.
Yet, as Vorya reads further, the less regular the entries become, and several days are missing entries all together. Kovak's handwriting also loses its precise edge, wandering along the page in uneven lines, and unclear, hastily written penmanship. What entries do appear are strangely short on details important to the passage, and increasingly, as they voyage drew closure to the fateful day of the shipwreck, focused more and more solely on one passenger: the Varisian scholar Ileana. Several entries are nothing more than poorly written love poems to Ileana, while others bemoan Kovak's inability to please her or catch her attention.
Near the end, the entries grow more ominous: Kovak complains that other members of the crew are eyeing "his Leana." In particular, Kovaks suspects the first mate is in love with her, and Kovak notes in one looping scrawl punctuated with slashed underlines that he wishes Devers would just "have an accident."
The last entry of the log before the crash reads:
Changed course for the Shiv. I hope, no, I know we can make a home there. A family. No one will look for us. The passengers are oblvious, but the sailors... they're asking questions. Especially Devers, that bilge-sucker. Yes. Something may need to be done about the crew.
"B-but, but" Gelik stammers, his voice growing high, agitated. "Ileana? She's so plain!"
Vorya had not dwelt much on the actual shipwreck itself, which might have surprised a person from another nation. Rahadoumi by nature did not dwell much on bad luck or happenstance. Such things happened and should be accepted, then overcome through hard work or simply endured. It was the way of the world, and you should get used to it.
So the swashbuckler had mostly shrugged off the strange things he had seen that chaotic night, and assumed it had been bad weather or some strange creature that had caused the boat to wreck. Ill chance, as they said and no use getting upset over.
The log dispelled all such thoughts. Here it was, in the Captain's own words, his slow descent into obsession and growing willingness to sacrifice all of them for some brain-addled romantic vision. A bizarre fantasy. Nearly killed them all for the sake of a twisted fairy-tale.
Actually, still might have killed them.
It made Vorya angry enough that the ledger shook in his hands. The idiot! This wasn't a mistake or accident. It was cold blooded lunacy! If he wanted to be insane, fine, go row off in your own boat, don't drag the rest of us down here with you. Vorya allowed himself half a minute to imagine what he'd do to the good Captain Kovaks.
And then, he suddenly realized. Kovaks and Ileana were not here, not among the castaways. Had the man actually got away with it, and spirited his unwilling soul-mate to some other part of this island? Right now, was he conjuring up a dreamscape of a happy home? Perhaps not that far away either....
At Gelik's words, Vorya is brought back to reality. "He was mad, Gelik. Look at the notes, he barely said two work to her on the whole trip. It wasn't about her, it was about his own strange delusions. Ileana could have been half-troll for all it mattered."
Sighing heavily, Vorya stood up, away from the scribbled notes, "Well, we now know who to blame, not that it matters much. Kovak may very well be on this island, but it could be many miles and over rough terrain. I'm tempted Sasha, at ranging, but I still think we need to place survival first."
"One things seems clear, human habitation is not unknown on this island. I'm not too fazed by the stories of cannibals. What island isn't reputed to be the home of blood-crazed savages? But other castaways and explorers....well, we may not be alone here. Best to keep our guard up and our eyes open."
Sasha's gaze again wanders down the beachline, her emerald eyes focused on the darker green scrabble of jungle stretching out of view. "I think it is a mistake," she says, blinking and looking back to the castaways. "Not to range I mean. Best know what is here and plan accordingly, than to be surprised."
A gust of wind blows the cookfire smoke into a stretching cloud, and it whips about the castaways. Sasha blinks again, and annoyance flashing across her face, steps to the side. "But, I'm not doing it alone. As to your bait question, Vorya: look for insects. Beatles, fat grubs, worms. If you can find them -- Rovabugs. If you are not familiar, they fly in looping circles, with a loud buzz. Poor fliers and easy to catch. Quite harmless."
"If you can't find any Rovabugs or grubs, any insect will do. Barring insects, vines. We can cut them into slender lines that will cast about in the water as if they are small fish."
"I'll start with building some netting, lines, and spears. Hopefully we can be fishing tomorrow."
The moot concluded, the castaways break away to their afternoons, most to continue working on shelter, Lytte to sit vigil with Jask, and Sasha to her fishing-related tasks.
As Vorya heads into the treeline, he finds Ishirou at his side. The Tien grunts as he pushes a spiderweb aside, peering into the dim light filtering from the jungle canopy. "Aerys been gone all day? Think she's alright? Also, I've got something to show you. Let's take watch together tonight."
Vorya looks at Sasha, "Let's talk about it tomorrow. One day or two of good survival under our belts will help, no matter what we decide to do." As tempting as it was to go out, find Kovaks and string him up on the nearest coconut branch, it wasn't s useful wish at the moment. Too many other things needed doing. Vengeance was poor sustenance.
"I'll look for bait today. I'll cut some more branches for some shelters, and keep any eye out. You need anything for the fishing gear?"
At the word about Aerys, Vorya is uneasy. It would be all too easy for someone to wander off and get hurt in this situation. A twisted ankle, a case of heatstroke, simply getting lost among the jungle trees would be a death sentence. "Did anyone see which way she might have went?" Vorya asks Ishirou. "A clue, maybe? I don't want anyone going off on their own little adventures, like I said with Sasha. Too dangerous."
He agrees to meet up with the Tien man that night, curious what was ins tore.
That evening, in the dim light of the cookfire's glowing orange embers, Ishirou and Vorya sit at watch. The lights in the surf have returned, and Vorya scans the wave line, catching an occasional glimpse of a body - sometimes rotting and dead, sometimes seemingly fighting against the surf - tumbles within the sickly sea light. Still, the evening lingers on and nothing emerges from the surf, and eventually Ishirou's attention wanders.
The Tien man once again pulls his katana forth and removing the blade, tips the scabbard and spills forth his stash of maps. Flipping through the maps and tossing one and then another and another to his side, Ishirou smiles and spreads the map out on the sand in front of him. Scrawled in shaky ink sketching is what has become a familiar outline. A scythe-like spit of land bends downward, heading almost due south before again curving inward. Just above that southerly curve, atop a drawing of a hill and surrounded by simply drawn jungle trees, an X. The coastline is easy enough to reconcile now that the castaways have seen the Captain's maps - the northern end of land is the "scythe-blade" of the Smuggler's Shiv where Castaway Beach is located. One could, in theory, follow the coastline south and come very close to the hill and X, marking whatever was there. Scrawled in jagged Taldane, on the other side of the parchment is the following:
1. Summit the hill
2. Wait for sunrise
3. Find the sun between the two spindle-rocks looking east
4. Dig
5. (a symbol that looks like a backwards "J")
"This is the treasure map of Free Captain Lortch Quellig," Ishirou smiles, jabbing one sandy finger down onto the drawn hill. "X marks the spot. I won this map in a game of Conqueror, but I never could figure where this land was supposed to be. The whole island isn't drawn, and I didn't even think it was an island to be honest, but rather a bit of the mainland. But when I saw the map of the Shiv I just knew. I knew. We can get rich, you and me. We just have to get there, and dig. There's even a couple of shovels have been salvaged from the Jenivere. What do you say? Want to get rich? Dig up Quellig's treasure and we get off this island, you can buy a ship of your own with your share. Go wherever you want to go in this world." Ishirou's dark eyes sparkle in the fire light, greed and possibility dancing in the embers reflected there.
Vorya listens to Ishirou quietly, without judgement. Around them, the quiet night noises of the island resound. Waves swelling over sand, night birds calling, droning of blood seeking insects. It is a dark, dark night with (as yet) no Moon. Above, the stars shine as bright as pirate's loot, glittering gemstones set in velvet blackness.
'Small world." Vorya says finally, "That you, of all people happen to have that maps." The sheer unlikely nature of that chance makes Vorya wonder, but for now, he accepts it.
"I'm not opposed to getting rich Ishirou but there is one little problem with your plan. You can't eat gold. We could have a dozen fortunes sitting on the beach in front of us, and it wouldn't do us much good. If we had a way off the island...then yes, I have to admit I'd be tempted. But right now? I'd rather that map showed a field of corn, or even better, a harbor nearby."
Vorya glanced at the Tian man, "But like I said, if we do find a way off.....we could make a stop at that point and do a bit of digging..."
Ishirou shrugs, seemingly not concerned with Vorya's gentle rebuke, as he rolls the map and places it inside the others, and then back into the protective embrace of his scabbard-end. "I agree that a field of corn or a harbor is of more immediate use. But still... I own five treasure maps. This is the first one that I've come even close to figuring out. Desna provides a spark of luck when needed. Or perhaps, Besmara? I give my respect to both."
"There will be a ship, eventually, and while food is more pressing, if we make our way south at some point... perhaps in order to look for food? We should seize the opportunity that has been placed in front of us."
=============
Day Three
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Dawn creeps with the rising sun over the waves, and still no Aerys. She spoke none of her intentions to none of the castaways before she left, and no one saw her leave to boot.
Other than the woman's absence, which lingers around the castaway camp, dark and ominous at the edge of thought, the day passes productively and uneventfully. Jask's condition remains more or less the same; the man sweats and murmurs and passes in and out of delirious wakeful periods, followed by longer sleeps, filled with shallow breathing and more sweating.
By the end of the day, the castaways' shelters have largely been constructed and are sound; and Sasha's fishing gear is finished; a line of spears and salvaged netting line the beach, as well as some poorly built reed and stick baskets, to hold anything caught. A few rods, strung with unraveled ship's rope, sit next to the spears, and bait - a small sack filled with bugs collected and killed by Vorya during a day spent working in the treeline on shelter sits inside one of the wicker baskets.
The fishing equipment is a good thing, Pilts notes, as the survivors will likely run through their food tomorrow.
That night, the ghosts do not appear; no bodies tumble in the surf. But, other ominous things occur. During his watch, Vorya feels as if eyes are studying him from deeper in the jungle and for a moment the swashbuckler swears he can hear the flapping of leathery wings high above him the darkness of the night sky.
Aery's loss weighs on the swashbuckler, like a heavy anchor around his neck. Already one castaway lost, and gone without more then a murmur. Vanished, without a trace, into the jungle. What had happened? Had the drunk wandered off and fallen off a cliff? Thrown herself off? Eaten by some animal?
Or was it more sinister? Random, unwanted fears roamed in his mind. Thoughts of cannibal islanders, stalking them. Of Kovaks coming back to finish the job. Or worst of all. A killer among them? What was hiding behind these faces?
Vorya does his best to submerse his fears in work. The swashbuckler throws himself into shelter construction, if nothing else at least no one is sleeping exposed to the weather, bugs and sky. A small thing but a shelter and a fire go a long way to keeping the terror at bay.
Or at least it would if thoughts of flying creatures didn't fill his mind. Bats, he hoped, but he guessed something much larger. Dragons? Hopefully not...
=========
Day Four
=========
The morning meal is meagre, just hard tack and filtered rainwater; the castaway's supplies have run through. It is a fortuitous thing then that Sasha's fishing gear is ready: lining the beach is an assortment of cobbled-together nets, spears and rods. Today, the bulk of the castaways will work at refining their shelters, but Vorya and Ishirou stand sweating in the morning heat, watching as Sasha goes through the ins and outs of the equipment. Ishirou shifts on his feet, his face clouded. It occurs to Vorya that he may know as much as Sasha, and that this training is really for the Rahadoumi. Or perhaps Ishirou's mind is preoccupied; Aerys has still not returned, and Vorya recalls that the Tien man showed a sweet side around her on their trip to the now-underwater Jeniviere.
While there was work to be done, the days had more or less settled into a rhythm. The early morning would see a flurry of activity from the forest in what Vorya had begun to think of as behind them; bird trills and squawks, buzzing insects, and the occasional roar or chitter or crash. By mid-morning, the heat would be oppressive, and the jungle would quiet to the merely pulsating sounds of insect life. Most of the castaways would retreat to shelter during this time and wait out the heat amid the throngs of insect life, slapping and scratching. With late afternoon or early evening, the rainstorms would roll in and bring with them a welcome respite. After an hour or so, the heat would return with a vengeance, only to calm slightly with the setting of the sun. At night, during his watch, the sea would alight with the tumbling spirits of the island's victims. And then, with morning, everything would happen again.
Vorya could not guess at whether the weather patterns would hold year-round, and the swashbuckler had little desire to run that experiment. Hopefully it was a matter of mere hours before they were discovered.
Regardless, fishing. And despite the heat and Vorya's inexperience, the fishers do well. Perhaps it is her time spent continuing instruction once the fishers wade out towards the breakline, but Sasha pulls in little; merely a couple of small tinfish, little more than a large meal. Ishirou does better, spearing a heavy ray, and in the ensuring bloody struggle, a small, toothy shark. Vorya, however, pulls in a haul, enough for many people to eat for the day. His nets seem to find schools of silver-white cloakers, and towards the end of the day he lands a large mackerel. The Rahadoumi man struggles with the makeshift rod and rope line, and for a few frantic moments it looks as if the mackerel may pull free, until Sasha grabbed the wriggling longfish and hauled it ashore - wooden hook still trailing blood from the fish's mouth.
Vorya followed the fish in and watched, mesmerized, as the fish flopped and gasped on the beach, its gils and mouth undulating in synchronous movement, as if a performance. A twinge of--
From the beach, motion and a shout. Looking up, Vorya blinks and blinks again: four strangers - three men and a woman, rangy and tanned, with deep black hair, the men with braided beards, stand just out of the treeline. The one farthest out of the treeline, maybe ten feet from the undergrowth, a long, curved sword, pitted with rust, hangs from his belt, and slowly lets his foot fall to the sandy beach as if he were surprised mid-step. The man opens and closes his mouth as his eyes dart across the strand of sandy beach, taking in the cook area and Pilts, who's begun descaling the cloakers, his back turned. The man's eyes drift towards the gathering late-afternoon stormclouds, Jask's leanto, and the fishers, sweeping over Vorya. Most of the castaways, are in the treeline for their afternoon respite, and judging from the first man's expression not yet discovered. A small silver lining, Vorya thinks, even as the man's mouth opens and closes again, not unlike the now-forgotten mackerel flopping at Vorya's feet.
The woman behind the lead-man barks something, her words thick with an accent, and vaguely Taldane as they drift across the sand, Vorya picking out a few bastardized words. Shipstruk. YaGo! And Klorak the Red? The last man, still partially obscured from view and shorter than the rest, ducks into the treeline while the first man scrambles into action, his hand grasping at something on his back.
Fishing
Jask