FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Thirty-One: A Path Well Traveled

Sitting in the small, flat-bottomed boat, the stench of fetid flora fills their nostrils. The water is a sickly green, tainted with foul algae and the decay of plant matter. It ripples around the craft as it’s pushed steadily along by the oarsman. The older Falmun man looks around at his silent passengers; two humans, one of each gender, a Helngar male, a Jaliscan female, and a child-like Falmun woman. They stare straight ahead, their eyes unmoving. It’s as though they’ve been hypnotized by an object in the distance, though there’s nothing but swamp ahead of them. Unnerved by their silence, the oarsman clears his throat.

“So, which one of you is it?” He finally speaks.

His passengers glance toward each other. Some return to staring straight ahead, looking for the cabin, while the Helngar turns back to face him.

“It’s none of us.” Steingar eventually replies.

“I don’t understand... You’re here for the healer, aren’t you?”

“We are, but he’s too weak to bring with us.” Kirsta replies.

“We were hoping this healer would come to him.” Valan interjects.

“That bad, huh?”

The group silently nod. The oarsman now understands why they are so silent; for their friend to be too weak to make this journey, he must be at death’s door.

“Well, if there’s anyone that can help him, it’s Lutala. Woman’s a miracle worker; a real gift from the Seraphs!” The oarsman chirps, hoping to ease their minds.

“I certainly hope so...” Steingar murmurs, looking straight ahead.

They return to form, sitting in silence and watching as the oarsmen pushes the boat along the swamp, traversing a slow-current river. They turn a corner and their hearts begin beating faster at a pleasant sight. Several hundred yards away and directly ahead of them sits a small cabin nestled deep within the swamp. As they draw nearer, Steingar can feel his body tremoring from a combination of excitement and anxiety. Will this “Lutala” be able to save the dying Trellan? He turns his head and glances down at a shivering arm, doing his best to control the spasming muscle.

It would only unnerve the others to see such a powerful and capable warrior struggling to cope, so he reaches a hand across his body and grasps his arm with a clawed hand, giving the muscles a squeeze. He returns his gaze to the cabin. The sandbank of the tiny isle that it sits upon is only meters away. Thinking back as the boat inches toward the soft berm, Steingar dwells on what brought them to this very moment.

“Feeling any better?” Steingar asked.

He stepped inside of Trellan’s cabin, eager to spend time with the old Vizheki man. Barely an hour earlier, he hadn’t yet been shot, and only moments ago, Irzain had tried in vain to summon his Halcyon powers to repair Trellan’s body. All he was able to do, however, was seal the wound and stem the tide. The middle-aged scribe, missing many of his memories, has only limited control over his powers. Even though Irzain hadn’t saved the old Vizhek, the young, powerful Helngar bloodforge was hopeful. Perhaps he would no longer be suffering as he had?

To his horror, however, Trellan slowly writhed atop his bed, groaning in obvious agony. It caught Steingar off guard, the oxygen solidifying in his lungs and throat. It took him a moment to collect himself enough to speak.

“Is that a ‘no’?” Steingar asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I can’t believe... How much this hurts...” Trellan spoke with a weakened voice.

“At least you stood in battle. You fought as well as I ever could have.” Steingar said as he sat beside the old elf’s bed.

“You say that... Like I should be glad...”

“I’m just saying, if this is ‘it’, then you went out like warrior.”

“Rrrr-that’s... Nothing to... Be proud of!” Trellan growled through his pain. “After all of my years... Serving the Crown as a solder... Thirty years of my life... I was never wounded.”

“Not once?!” A stunned Steingar asked.

“Not once...”

He caught his breath as his pain briefly subsides. Trellan turned his head, staring into Steingar’s glowing, golden eyes. His expression was fearful, bothering the Helngar all the more.

“When I finally got out, I’d hoped to go the rest of my life without ever shedding blood again, least of all my own... All I wanted since then was to avoid violence, the rancid stench of blood and death... I never wanted to die like this... Like all of those young men... Boys... They lay strewn in the dirt, crying for their mothers... Begging the Seraphs for an act of mercy; to spare their lives, or kill them quicker and be done with the pain. There’s no honor in that! ... My death was supposed to be peaceful, and in my sleep...”

Steingar was left speechless, unsure of what to say or do. He sat in a frozen stupor, watching his friend and mentor as he very slowly perished before his eyes. Tears began to form, not just from his own anguish, but from Trellan’s. He wasn’t just suffering physically; his heart was as broken as his body.

“I suppose it’s true what they say... Us soldiers don't get to have peace, not after the lives we've lived... Thirty awful years... Don’t make my mistake. It’s not too late for you. You have a good soul, Steingar; don’t taint it."

With his pain returning in full force, Trellan groaned in agony before finally passing out. That wasn’t the conversation that Steingar had envisioned having with his friend and mentor. A resolve filled him, reaching down to his very bones. He became driven, consumed by a single-minded goal that superseded everything else. It was then that he remembered her, Lutala, the healer of Owegal. It was over a year ago, back when he was still a loyal soldier to the Crown. A Lieutenant had taken ill. It quickly became serious, and the end looked near.

However, the General of their fleet, an underling to Einyr ‘Icefang’, was also this Lieutenant’s father. Under his order, his son, the Lieutenant, was escorted to the island called Owegal, where a powerful healer, known only as “Lutala”, lived and plied her trade. Visiting with her, Lutala healed the Lieutenant, returning him to perfect health overnight. Steingar had served on that Lieutenant’s ship for a time, and though he hadn’t been to that island before or met the healer himself, the story was well-known among that ship’s crew. It wasn’t long before he knew enough to find her, though the information was of no use to him until that moment.

Unfortunately, it’s Trellan’s only hope for survival, and it’s this same hope that’d kept the Helngar going, avoiding food and rest ever since the incident. Leaving Trellan’s bedside, he departed from the cabin and raced back up the stairs to pilothouse, situated above the Captain’s quarters. There, he reclaimed control of the helm, determined to direct them to Owegal, which he’d found in one of Trellan’s maps. With any luck at all, they could maintain full speed and reach the island within a day, finding Trellan the help that he so desperately needs. After many hours, Steingar found himself staring down a storm. However, a storm wasn’t going to delay them...

Lying atop his cot and staring at the ceiling, Irzain had failed to sleep. Like everyone else, his mind dwelled on the dying old man, but he was also troubled by his own failure. Why couldn’t he summon the powers he’d used to heal Kirsta’s broken ankle or Valan’s torn flesh and shattered nose? Could it be that’s the extent of his powers, or is there something missing in him, something that he’s yet to unlock? As his mind wandered, he was jolted from his cot, nearly thrown to the floor. Stumbling to his feet, he turned toward the porthole, seeing the ship turning to face head-on the towering waves of a storm.

He rushed into the hall, passing several opened doors. The others looked toward him as he raced by, but they didn’t rise to follow him. They all knew about the growing storm, visible in the distance through their windows, and the dangers of traversing it. It’s often considered too dangerous to pass through such storms, even with ship’s the size of Arona. However, as he reached the stairwell alone, Irzain knew that they likely understood what was happening; they didn’t follow or protest, as all would rather see Trellan survive than have him perish while they sit comfortably in their cabins.

He passed through the watertight hatch and climbed onto the main deck, sealing it behind him just before a wave crashed over a portion of the deck. Irzain held on tightly. As it washed over the ship, he scanned his surroundings. The Arona-Dahl rocked violently as the bulky hull cut a swath through the ocean’s waves. He stumbled, reaching out and grabbing whatever he could to steady himself. As soon as the vessel hit a calm patch, he made his move, scurrying across the deck and clambering up the stairs.

Bursting into the pilothouse, he held on tightly to the frame as the ship crashed into yet another wave; she moved against the wind, her steam powered engine screaming as smoke billowed from the stack rising from the center of the deck.

“I know you want to save him, but if you keep this up...”

Irzain paused, looking at the grief-stricken Steingar. He clutched tightly to the wheel, as he had been ever since they’d returned to the ship. Narrowly escaping capture at the hands of Captain Kristoff Mayweather, they’d been racing toward their goal; anywhere that Trellan could find proper treatment. Only the storm delayed them, but now even that won’t stand between them.

“Steingar? ... Hey, Steingar!”

Finally hearing his voice, the Helngar warrior looked away from the windows before the helm. He turned his head, his glowing, golden eyes staring right through Irzain. His expression was beyond gloomy; he appeared to be mourning the death of his own father. Tears welled in his eyes, causing the soft glow to appear muddled, as though he were behind a plate of glass.

“J-just try to take it easy. We want to get there alive... Don’t we?”

Again, Steingar didn’t answer him. He merely turned his head toward the windows and sniffled. Irzain stepped into the pilothouse, closing the door behind him. He approached a bench built into the corner and took a seat.

“Do you need a hand?”

“... No.” Steingar finally replied, speaking in a low growl.

“Are you sure? You’ve been at it for hours, and we didn’t get good sleep on Nirthen. You could use the rest.”

“I can sleep when Trellan is well...”

“Are you sure? I mean, I can always-”

“Irzain?” Steingar interrupted him.

“Yeah?!”

“Get out...”

Realizing that there was nothing more that he could do for the distraught Helngar, the middle-aged human subtly nodded his head and rose to his feet. Perhaps being alone was the best thing for him? The door opened and closed, and the scribe’s footfalls grow ever quieter as he raced back to the safety of the lower decks. Staring straight ahead, Steingar’s hands clenched tightly to the horns of the wheel. They began to tremor as he recalled his last conversation with the elderly Vizhek, who lay wounded in his cabin, directly beneath his feet.

“Don’t worry, Trellan...” The Helngar sniffled, a tear running through the gray fur of his cheek. “I won’t fail you.”

Stepping away from the staircase landing and walking through the hall, Irzain thought back on what he’d seen. Never before had Steingar showed such emotion. Perhaps that was the real reason he asked Irzain to leave? Traversing the hall, he turned his emerald eyes toward an opened door to his left. There he found Mairlynn and Kirsta, still seated atop Kirsta’s cot and playing a betting game, using a collection of colorful rocks from a shoreline as make-believe currency. Though they tried to focus on their game, bother appear distracted. It was not the thrashing of the ship that held them captive, but Trellan’s fate.

Continuing through the hall, he glanced into another opened cabin on his right. Peering inside Jarae’s room, he watched for a moment as Draeolynn sat with Jarae, showing her slips of paper with oversized letters of the alphabet and their accompanying sounds written on them. Though they also tried to lose themselves in their studies, it was clear that they too were preoccupied with their dark thoughts. Irzain took a few steps toward his own cabin when suddenly he heard a noise. A groan emanated from the lounge, behind him and at the very rear of the ship.

He turned back and approached the lounge. Once again passing Jarae’s cabin door, he glanced inside as he heard another groan. Both Jarae and Draeolynn looked concerned. Draeolynn set aside the slips of paper and rose from the cot. Making her way toward the door, she stumbled and grabbed the frame as the ship rocked with another wave. Jarae soon followed, and the two women accompanied Irzain as he approached the lounge. Passing by Kirsta’s cabin, she and Mairlynn also heard the sounds, but neither decided to check on the source.

Poking his head into the lounge, Irzain saw Valan in the dining booth, asleep and with his head resting on a forearm. How was he not awakened by the movements of the ship?! His fingers twitched and the arm resting before his face jolted for a brief moment. Stepping further inside, Jarae and Draeolynn peeked through the archway as they stood behind him. Valan suddenly let out a soft cry of pain, his hand twitching as he slept.

“How could you do that?!” Indana gasped.

“Sorry. It just felt too good.” Cicera cooed.

Pulling Valan by his collar, Indana stared with widened, ruby eyes at the deep, bleeding bite mark on his right shoulder. She turned her head toward her underling, who lay on her back, legs spread and her loins oozing the human’s seed. She propped herself up by her elbows, a sinister grin spread across her bloody lips.

“You need to be careful with our pet. You don’t want to damage him too badly.” Indana warned.

“Don’t I?” Cicera giggled, wiping the blood from her lips with her palm.

“... No, you don’t.”

“Yes, my Zak’Rana.” Cicera sighed, a hint of irritation in her voice.

Indana looked between the weakened human, covered in several fresh bite marks and scores of deep scratches, all of which were made by her underling. Never had Indana seen her timid and formerly virginal underling, Cicera, behave in such a carnal, even animalistic manner. It was as if she were merely a beast. Moving Valan aside, she pushed him onto his back. He fell atop the straw mattress, crunching the fibers with his bulk and lying beside Cicera. The green and gold Lahnyt turned her head, looking over the abused human, her sinister smile growing as she scanned his naked and bloodied body with her orange eyes.

“We should let him rest before-”

“I’m not done with him yet, my Zak’Rana!” Cicera growled.

Swiftly rolling over, she forced herself upon the human, who groaned into his leather half-mask as her body knocked the wind out of him. Indana gasped and took a step back, startled by Cicera’s sudden show of dominance. She brought a clawed hand to her gaping maw, her ruby eyes wide as her underling used the human for her pleasure once more.

“Nnn... Rrrr...” Valan released a pained groan as he slept.

Reaching out a hand, Irzain touched Valan’s right shoulder, but before he could shake him, Valan sprang awake.

“Ahh!” He exclaimed, opening his eyes and sitting upright.

A startled Draeolynn and Jarae jumped back, reaching out and resting their palms against the wall as the ship rocked yet again. Meanwhile, Irzain swiftly pulled his hand away, looking curiously at Valan. He winced and reached an arm across his chest, placing a hand atop his right shoulder and gently rubbing it.

“What do you want? I only just got to sleep.” He growled at them.

“We came to check on you...” Irzain began.

“We, uhm… We heard you...” Draeolynn added.

“Heard me sleeping?” Valan raised a brow.

As the trio looked between each other, it quickly became clear to them that Valan didn’t realize his unconscious cries. Before they could say anything, however, he rose from the booth, sliding out and stretching as he stood up. As the Arona-Dahl jolted in the waves, Valan seemed unphased, moving with he ship as if he were a part of it.

“So, are we there yet? Wherever there is...” He asked.

“I’m not sure.” Irzain replied.

“You don’t see any islands on the horizon?”

“It’s too dark.” Jarae answered.

Looking over his shoulder, Valan peered through the row of windows at the very rear of the ship. He raised his brow in surprise when he saw that it was pitch black outside. Only the faintest trickle of pink light was glowing over the horizon, the harbinger of dawn.

“Huh... I didn’t realize. I guess I was out longer than I thought.” He murmured.

“I tried to wake you up hours ago, but you were exhausted.” Draeolynn remarked.

“That explains some things.”

As Valan stretched his stiffened muscles once more, his stomach promptly growled. He walked into the galley, with Jarae and Draeolynn in tow. Somehow, he managed to prepare a simple meal even with everything rocking and swaying to match the ship. Valan left a meal in the largest pot in the galley, so that it wouldn’t spill. Rather than eat there, though, he prepared himself a bowl and then another, before heading for the hallway.

“Where are you going, Val?” Draeolynn called out to him as she slid out of the dining booth.

“I’m going to see if Steingar wants to eat.” He replied from the hallway.

They raced to collect their own bowls from the galley and follow behind, doing their best to balance as Steingar continued to race through the storm, toward their destination. Reaching the main deck, the seas had finally begun to calm; they’d entered the eye of the storm. Off in the distance, the morning sun peered over the shimmering waves. Valan climbed the steps to the pilothouse before letting himself inside.

He stopped and stared, startled by the sight of Steingar seated with his back to the helm, his head in his hands as he wept like a child. Turning back, he could see the others had yet to make their way from below deck, though he knew they’d be close behind. Valan rushed to Steingar’s side, setting down the bowls of food.

“Come on, buddy. Get up.” Valan urged him.

“It’s all our fault. He never wanted any of this. Now he’s dying and it’s our fault.” Steingar whimpered through his tears.

“Nothing is going to happen to him, now get up!”

Steingar didn’t respond. All he did was pull an arm away from the human before angrily waving it, behaving as a temperamental child does. Looking back at the door, Valan grumbled angrily to himself before turning back to the weeping Helngar. Drawing his arm back, he swung and smacked Steingar cross the face.

“What the-?!”

“Stop crying like a little girl and listen to me... Trellan isn’t going to die, unless you lose your grip and break down like this! Focus, soldier!”

Rising to his feet and holding out his hand, Valan glared at Steingar with a sternness that reminded him of his first Commander. Sniffling and wiping away his tears, the Helngar nodded his head. Taking hold of his hand, Valan pulled the Helngar to his feet.

“You’re right, Val... I’m sorry, I-”

“Shut up, take this, and man that wheel.” Valan interjected, handing him a bowl.

Chuckling, Steingar shook his head and smiled. It was the first time he had since Trellan was shot, yesterday morning. By the time the others had caught up to Valan at the pilothouse, Steingar was standing at the helm, his fur dried of his tears and his strength returned to him. It was then that Steingar revealed Lutala, and his plan to visit her, for Trellan’s sake. With calm seas ahead, the Arona-Dahl puttered toward the little island, which soon came into view. Many hours of travel under steam power had paid off, though it used a considerable amount of their fuel, the somewhat rare and expensive Pitania infused coal.

Reaching Owegal, they deactivated the engine and dropped the anchors, before preparing to make their way ashore. They gathered many vasariks and loaded all of their weapons before heading down to the skiff. Steingar even brought along his prized wheellock pistol, ornately decorated with gold leaf and stolen from Gozik Romos. The shore party, consisting of Steingar, Valan, Kirsta, Jarae and Mairlynn, used the skiff’s spring powered motor to zip to the island, leaving Irzain and Draeolynn to watch over Trellan.

Stepping into the skiff as it sat, bobbing gently in the water behind the anchored Arona-Dahl, each of them glanced at Trellan’s bloodstain, which had discolored the wooden beams of the floor. The human and the youthful looking Falmun watched from the railing of the main deck as the small craft zoomed away at full speed, leaving a white, frothy trail behind it. With the small boat quickly shrinking into nothing, Irzain glanced toward Trellan’s cabin only a few meters away. He’d hoped to recover his abilities, trying to focus on his Halcyon magic, and so he volunteered to stay behind.

Truthfully, the others would’ve insisted upon it, as Irzain’s status as a wanted man is a liability on a mission of such importance. Draeolynn, fearful of another violent conflict, offered to stay and act as a nurse to Trellan. While the others made their way to shore to search for Lutala, the pair headed for Trellan’s cabin. Upon reaching the island, Steingar released the spring tension from the skiff’s mechanical motor, before the others climbed out of the craft and tied the vessel to several empty cleats along the edge of the humble, wooden docks.

None bothered to sit behind and wait; every last one of them wished to see this through. Exploring the small town at the edge of Owegal, they found it to be a modest fishing village, with little in the way of economic or strategic value. Reaching a building that appeared to be a tavern, they asked around for the healer called “Lutala”. It took only a few seconds before they had an answer. Apparently, she is so sought after for her skills that the villagers have made maps to show the sick and the desperate where to find her cabin nestled deep in island’s the swamps.

Unwilling to risk getting lost, they paid a man with an appropriate craft to take them to the healer. It took them little more than an hour for their Falmun guide to paddle his flat-bottomed boat through the stagnant river, reaching the decrepit cabin on a tiny spit of land. To the crew of the Arona-Dahl, it appeared to be the home of a witch from any number of horrific tales told to frighten small children. Would the healer prove to be equally grotesque?

“Here we-”

The oarsman didn’t even have time to finish his sentence. The boat struck the sandbank, and within seconds the crew had jumped out of the craft. Racing toward the house, they slowed to a walk as they approached the rickety steps leading up to a simple porch. The entire structure appears to be hand-crafted, but not by a skilled carpenter. Looking toward his friends, Steingar clears his throat.

“I guess this is it...” He murmurs.

Knocking on the door, they wait for a moment.

“Come in.” A somewhat deep yet feminine voice calls out from within.

Opening the door, Steingar is the first to enter the structure, immediately followed by the others. They look around at the strange assortment of herbs, spices, and many alchemical tools that decorate the interior of the home. A large, black cauldron bubbles with a strange, off-green liquid, heated by a fire beneath it. Standing in a corner, her side facing the crew, Lutala examines a massive tome placed atop a pedestal. A table between them obscures her form from the waist down, while the rest of her body and head are covered by a set of hooded robes. The outfit is similar to that of a monk’s, made of wool that’s dyed a rich brown, like loamy soil. It’s a scene out of a fairy tale.

“Ahem... We, uh... We’ve come seeking your help.” Kirsta finally speaks up.

“Really?! I never would’ve guessed!” Lutala softly chuckles.

Turning her head, the others are startled by her vivid eyes, salmon pink in color, with fiery, red-orange irises. Experiencing a brief flashback, Valan subtly shakes his head, keeping himself grounded in the present. Turning back to her book, Lutala turns the page of her tome, reaching out with a clawed hand. Her flesh is dark, like the crushing depths of the ocean.

“So, who’s suffering from what?” The healer casually asks.

“It’s none of us.” Kirsta replies.

“Oh?”

“We have a friend, an elderly Vizhek.” Jarae begins.

“I’m afraid prolonging a life beyond it’s natural course is not a service I can offer.”

“That’s not it.” Kirsta shakes her head.

“He was wounded... Shot... He’s weak, probably dying. We couldn’t risk bringing him all this way.” Steingar interjects.

“And so you’d like me to go with you?” Lutala asks, turning toward the others.

“Please!” Mairlynn steps closer.

Her orange eyes scan the crew for a moment.

“Then I take it you have a ship?”

“We do!” Jarae nods.

Sighing and lifting her clawed hands, Lutala grasps the edges of her oversized hood, pulling back the fabric and revealing her features to them. The crew are frozen in shock. Lutala is a Lahnyt, and a most beautiful creature at that, who couldn’t possibly be older than her mid-twenties. Her skin is smooth but dense, like all Lahnyt’s, but hers seems different; this creature is wholly without blemishes and imperfections. Her hide is also of no less than three shades of blue – darker blue around her lips, lower jaw and neck, leading to her chest, teal atop her snout and brow, and medium blue covering her head like a cowl – with orange flesh that seem to serve as eyebrows.

Moving around the table, her robes only faintly reveal an exceptionally feminine frame, though it’s still noticeable. Her long, tapering tail sways gracefully behind as she approaches them, her sandals making only the faintest of sounds as she steps across the wooden beams of the cabin floor. Valan takes a step back, something immediately noticed by Jarae, as well as Lutala herself. She turns her eyes toward the human, flashing him the warmest of smiles.

“Am I the first?” She asks him.

“What?”

“The first of my kind that you’ve seen.” She clarifies.

“No...”

His companions turn toward him. In the time that they’ve been together, they were able to learn of each other’s pasts, and some more than others. They wonder to themselves when Valan could’ve ever met a Lahnyt without them knowing about it.

“I see... I will attempt to help your Vizheki friend.” Lutala turns to the others.

“That’s wonderful!” Kirsta exclaims.

“Name your price!” Steingar chirps.

“I don’t need vasariks. I have only one request...”

Making her way toward another table, Lutala opens a small drawer and retrieves a letter. With the wax seal broken, the wrinkled paper appears to have been opened several times. She turns back to the crew and steps closer.

“My family live on another island, not far from this one... Ogden... It’s perhaps a two-day trip. If you take me there, I won’t ask for a single vasarik.”

The crew are stunned, but none question her. As a rule, healers never offer their services for anything less than a small fortune; this and their growing scarcity are the very reasons that alchemists and doctors even bother to continue their practice.

“Done!” Steingar happily agrees.

“But, Lutala!” The stunned oarsman approaches. “What about the town?! What about your trade?!”

“I’m sorry, Vrenin, but this is something I must do. It’s important.” She somberly replies.

“Alright... I’ll break it to the town...”

Lutala takes a moment to pack only the necessities; a tome, a collection of herb seeds in sealed jars, and other odds and ends that seem important to her. Within a matter of minutes, she’s ready to go.

“Alright. We’d better head out, before the other half of that storm catches us.”

Vrenin motions for them to follow before leading Lutala and the Arona’s crew back to his little boat. It’s clear from the change in his demeanor that Lutala was a vital member of their village. Perhaps she was the only reason to draw others to Owegal? Lutala herself doesn’t appear eager to leave, either. Whatever the reason that’s drawing her back to her home must be severe. After what feels like an agonizingly long trip back through the river, the crew lead Lutala to the docks, while Vrenin heads to the tavern to call a town meeting.

Boarding their craft, Lutala pays no attention as Steingar winds the unique, spring powered motor and sets the sails. She doesn’t seem to notice the startling speed at which the skiff travels, either. Instead, she focuses all of her attention on Owegal as it slowly shrinks behind her. Reaching the Arona-Dahl, the healer immediately notices the strange piping and the onyx plates that are littered throughout the interior of the one-of-a-kind ship. She briefly glances at the amber light that glows from what appear to be charged crystals, and yet the young Lahnyt woman says nothing of them. She merely asks to see her patient.

Collecting her pack, Mairlynn stows it in a remaining cabin, used only as a storeroom, and with hardly anything in it. Meanwhile, Steingar and Kirsta lead the woman to the main deck, taking her directly to Trellan’s cabin. Only Valan and Jarae remain in the hallway together. Valan glares at Lutala as she follows the human woman and the Helngar up the steps and through the watertight hatch.

“Valan?”

“Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing...” He grumbles.

“It’s not nothing... Please, Val...”

Reaching out, Jarae gently rests her clawed hand on his cheek, forcing him to turn his head and look at her.

“What’s wrong? Is it because she’s a Lahnyt? Is that who hurt you on Bremen?” She asks again, speaking very tenderly.

“Just forget it, alright!” He takes a step back.

“Rrr... Don’t do that, you asshole! I’m trying to help you!” She snarls, burning with anger at his rejection.

“There’s nothing to help, so don’t worry about it.” He replies.

Storming off, he heads for the stairwell and makes his way to the main deck, leaving Jarae by herself in the hallway.

“... Idiot.” She grumbles.

“Are you alright?” Mairlynn asks, peeking into the hallway.

“I’m fine!” Jarae growls before returning to her room and slamming the door behind her.

Standing over the unconscious Trellan, Lutala opens his shirt and examines him. His blue flesh, already a darker shade than most, is even darker than usual around his abdomen. She turns her head, placing the hole of her hearing port to his chest. Closing her eyes, she stands tall.

“You said he was shot?”

“Yes.” Steingar nods.

“When?”

“Yesterday morning.” He answers.

“We’ve been sailing as fast as we could ever since we got him back to the ship.” Kirsta continues.

“Has anyone stayed with him for long?” Lutala turns to the group.

“I have.” Draeolynn steps forward.

“How has he been since you’ve cared for him? What are his most visible symptoms?”

“Well...” Draeolynn brings a fingertip to her bottom lip as she thinks. “I’d say his most visible is the vomiting and the groaning. He also urinated what looked like blood...”

“By the Seraphs.” Kirsta gasps.

“When he was awake, he complained that his arms and legs tingled, and that his head and stomach hurt.” Draeolynn continues.

Lutala lowers her head and rests a hand over her brow.

“I’m so sorry. I rarely say this, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Nothing?!” Irzain gasps.

“But you’ve healed so many! My old Lieutenant, who was dying of Scarlet Fever!” Steingar steps forward.

“This man has acute lead poisoning, and he’s been bleeding internally for hours. That’s why his skin is so discolored. If I was here when you first brought him aboard, and had you removed the ball instead of leaving it inside of him for his body to absorb, then your friend would be fine. At this stage, it’s simply too late. Even if I stop his internal bleeding with my Halcyon powers, the lead will slowly kill him.”

“There must be something you can do!” Steingar whimpers.

“I would need a special potion to counteract the lead in his system, and even then, he’d suffer the effects of the poisoning for the rest of his life. Debilitating pain, memory loss, weakened muscles and bones...” She explains.

“Well, what do you need?”

“To pull the lead from his body, I’d need to make a potion of five Golden Bulbs, and a dozen Vaspanian blue roses, and he would need to drink it by tonight...”

Steingar hangs his head while Draeolynn covers her mouth in shock. Kirsta and Irzain turn to them, unfamiliar with what Lutala is asking for. Seeing their confusion, Draeolynn clears her throat.

“Vaspanian blue roses cost fifty vasariks per flower, and only grow on the inland mountains. Golden Bulbs are unique to the marshes of the mainland, so we’d have to buy them from an importer for who knows how much.” Draeolynn explains.

“I once knew a General who cultivated rare flowers. He made a month’s salary selling two live Golden Bulbs to an alchemist.” Steingar adds.

They turn toward Trellan, watching as he appears to sleep rather peacefully. Steingar walks over to a table, planting his palms atop the furniture before growling in a rage and flipping the table over.

“This can’t be how it ends...” He murmurs, looking back at Trellan once more. “He was supposed to die of old age... In his sleep and in that bed... Not like this.”

“I’m sorry. If there was anything I could do, I would.” Lutala steps closer, speaking softly.

Steingar glances over his shoulder, looking back at her. His scowl softens, turning into a look of pure melancholy. Closing his eyes and hanging his head, he takes a deep breath and slowly exhales.

“I left the maps in the pilothouse... Show me where your family lives and we’ll take you home, to Ogden.” He murmurs.

Lutala follows along as he leads her outside and up the stairs, to the pilothouse above them. Kirsta turns to Irzain and Draeolynn, who takes a seat beside the dying Trellan. She reaches out a hand, resting it on the scribe’s shoulder.

“You did everything you could... We all did... There’s no shame here.” She says, giving him a comforting squeeze.

“... Isn’t there?”

Trellan groans, and the trio turn their heads. The old Vizhek slowly opens his weary eyes, before methodically turning them toward the three faces that float around him.

“Trellan?!”

“How are you feeling?!”

“Is there anything we can do?!”

They crowd around him.

“Bring me...” He takes a moment to gather his strength.

Emerging from the pilothouse, Steingar plots the course, a skill he learned from Trellan. Meanwhile, Lutala scans the deck, looking at the unique mechanics of the craft. Spotting the human who’d been so hostile toward her, Lutala makes her way down the steps. She approaches Valan as he stands at the bow of the ship, leaning against the wooden railing.

“Pardon me.”

“By the Seraphs!” Valan gasps as he spins around.

Standing behind him and within arm’s reach is the strange Lahnyt. With a pleasant smile spread across her lips, her red-orange eyes scan his face.

“Valan, is it?”

“It is...” He murmurs.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Looking her over with narrowed eyes, he gently nods his head.

“Why do you dislike me when we’ve never met before today?”

“I don’t dislike you...”

“Oh?”

“I just don’t know you, and I don’t care to...” He grumbles.

“If I’m going to be here for a few days, I’d rather you not be so hostile toward me, even if it’s only passively.”

“Listen, Lutala... You aren’t going to be here for a couple of days, so why don’t you just sit in your cabin and wait the few hours it’ll take while we bring you home.”

Furling her brow, she’s visibly confused. Suddenly, a strange noise is heard from below deck, drawing her attention. As she turns, smoke begins to billow from the stack that protrudes from the center of the deck. She stumbles as the ship abruptly lurches, the steam engine pushing the ship along with the sails still bundled.

“Valan!” A voice calls out to him.

“Yeah?!” Valan turns toward Draeolynn, who stands in the doorway of Trellan’s cabin.

“He’s asking for you!”

“I’ll be right there! ... Goodbye, Lutala.” He glares at the healer.

Racing toward the redheaded Falmun, Valan flashes her a smile and lovingly strokes her cheek before stepping inside of the cabin. Smiling back, Draeolynn watches him for a moment before turning her cobalt blue eyes toward the staring Lutala. After a pause, she backs into the cabin and closes the door, leaving the healer on the deck, by herself.

“Valan...”

“Yeah. I’m here, old man.”

“I picked you, you know... Because you’re smart.”

“And all this time I thought it was my dashing good looks.” Valan quips.

“Shut up for a second...” Trellan weakly chuckles.

Valan sits at Trellan’s bedside, waiting for him to speak. It takes him a moment, as he struggles with his wound. Kirsta and Irzain stand in the background, watching intently, while Draeolynn rests her dainty hands atop Valan’s shoulders.

“I picked you because I saw how clever you are... Those inventions of yours... I thought you might be the only one capable of understanding Arona like I do... You didn’t disappoint me... You learned well, but Arona has one last secret.”

“What’s that, old man?”

“In the engine room... There’s a compartment... Between the turbine and the boiler... Secondary intake pipe... Look beneath it and bring it back.”

“What’ll we find?” An intrigued Valan leans closer.

“Bring it... Bring it back hh-...” Trellan once again falls unconscious.

He turns to Kirsta, who shrugs her shoulders before glancing at Irzain. He’s equally dumbfounded. Leaning in, Draeolynn kisses Valan’s cheek.

“Let’s go look, Val.” She coos.

None of them know what to expect, but they’re determined to find out. Leaving Trellan’s cabin, they race down the stairs and turn the corner, heading for the lowest deck. Soon, Valan, Kirsta, Irzain and Draeolynn crowd into the engine room, the heat from the boiler bringing them to a sweat within seconds. Valan is careful not to touch the intake pipes, lest he burn the flesh right off of his bones. He looks around for only a moment before he sees it. Set into the floor, beneath the secondary intake pipe, Valan finds a trap door. He lifts the door, sized to fit perfectly beneath the pipe. His eyes grow wide as he stares inside of the secret compartment.

“What is it?!” Draeolynn asks him, leaning closer.

“I don’t know...”

Reaching inside, Valan produces a large stone. Shaped like a diamond from Kirsta’s deck of cards, the stone is polygonal and bulbous. It’s as black as tar but with a glossy, polished sheen. At eight inches from tip to tip, and four inches around at the mid-section, the stone is substantial in both size and weight. The stone is cut, with eight flat segments on each hemisphere, sixteen in total.

“Is that obsidian?!” Draeolynn gasps as Valan lifts up the stone.

“I don’t think so. It’s feels too heavy. Maybe onyx?” He replies.

“I think it’s black spinel.” Kirsta interjects.

“Is that rare?” Irzain turns to her.

“It’s very rare. All I know is what I learned from Elder Matius; it's often used in magic... Haze magic.” She glances at him with her sapphire eyes.

Carrying the stone very carefully, they bring the artifact to Trellan. Growing increasingly concerned that he won’t live to tell them what it is, they gently shake him awake. The weakened Vizhek becomes instantly relieved at the mere sight of the stone. He motions for them to come closer.

“Keep it safe. When the healer comes, she should know what to do with it.” He chokes out.

No sooner than he finished speaking his message, Trellan passes out once again. The crew waste no time. Leaving Draeolynn and Irzain with the dying elf, Valan and Kirsta race to find Lutala. They find her in her room, sitting on the hammock that hangs near a corner and trying to adjust to the speed of the strange ship. They only need to ask her to follow them and Lutala stands to her feet. Returning with them to Trellan’s cabin, they present the strange stone to her. Lutala’s eyes grow wide, staring intently at the black gemstone.

“You know what this is?” Kirsta asks.

“Yes... What do you intend to do with it?” She asks them with visible apprehension.

“We don’t know. He asked us to find it.” Kirsta begins.

“It was hidden in a secret compartment in the lowest portion of the ship.” Valan interjects.

“When we brought it to him, he asked for us to show it to you. He said you’d know what to do with it.” Kirsta finishes.

“I certainly know what to do with it, though why he would ask for it is beyond me.” Lutala remarks.

“... Well, what is it?!” Kirsta asks, growing impatient.

“It’s a soul shard... And a very large one at that.”

Immediately, the others realize why Lutala was so concerned. Kirsta turns back, wondering why Trellan would ever request the use of a soul shard. Reaching out her clawed hands, Lutala collects the soul shard from Valan, examining it closely.

“Hm... This shard is empty. It has no power.” She turns to them.

“Then what would he want it for?” Irzain thinks aloud.

Glancing between them, the others all seem readily aware of the answer. Do they know something that he doesn’t?

“This is a substantial shard, and if I’m to use this, I may need some assistance... Who here was the magic user?”

Everyone looks to Irzain, who takes a step back. Extending a hand, Lutala motions with her fingers for him to approach.

“B-but, I can’t control my powers!”

“That’s alright. So long as you aid me, I should be able to draw energy from you. Just do exactly as I say.”

Nodding, a nervous Irzain follows the Lahnyt woman, who swiftly approaches Trellan’s bed. On her instruction, Valan, Kirsta and Irzain pull the bed away from the wall, with Trellan still lying atop it. Lutala stands beside the unconscious Vizhek, directing Irzain to stand on the other side, directly across from her. Extending her hands, which hold the soul shard, Irzain does the same, placing his hands on the opposite side, their fingers interlocking. Speaking in a low whisper, Lutala’s eyes roll back as she begins a chant.

Black mist radiates from the soul shard, with thick patches forming shadowy tendrils. The tendrils curl and wriggle, slithering over Trellan’s body. Suddenly, his eyes shoot open and his mouth widens, as if he were screaming. Instead of sound, however, a golden haze rises up. As the golden cloud escapes from Trellan’s mouth, the black tendrils coil around it, pulling the shimmering smoke into the very body of the black gemstone. Trellan’s body briefly convulses atop the bed, horrifying Kirsta and Draeolynn.

As he falls limp, eyes and mouth open, Trellan’s head rolls. Stepping back, Irzain stares in horror at the sight. Lutala moves away from the Vizhek, clutching tightly to the now glowing soul shard, a vibrant light swirling within what appears to be the hollow body of the black stone. Approaching his bedside and reaching out a tremoring hand, Valan feels Trellan’s neck. After a moment, he pulls his hand away, hanging his head.

“H-he... He’s dead...” Valan sniffles.