Chapter 5- Part 3

Pienna scrubbed the pots in the stream that ran past Ama’shay’s little cave. It was late in the morning, almost noon on the 25th of Aryth. They’d been up late, scouring the woods at Ama’shay’s urgings. The orc could not believe that a mere goblin had successfully stalked and killed a dolgaunt, and the elderly druid had insisted that what Bresbin had killed had been a mere decoy.

Eventually, Ama’shay had to give in. He did not say that he believed the goblin, but Pienna knew that he did from the begrudging way that the old orc had finally suggested that they get some sleep. Through it all Bresbin had been patient, oddly so. Pienna was used to the little goblin by now, and she was fairly certain that only Bresbin’s great respect for the Gatekeeper sect kept him from becoming angry with Ama’shay.

They’d slept, finally, and Pienna had arisen late. Ama’shay, being nocturnal, was still asleep (as was his companion), but Bresbin had been up, fishing in the stream. The goblin had caught a trout or two, and fed one to Missy. The great cat had gotten up when Bresbin did, keeping an eye on the goblin, and seemed most content with things. Pienna had made gruel for the both of them.

Now she was washing the pots, with the aid of a small, friendly water elemental, while Bresbin smoked a couple of deboned trout nearby.

“Lady Pienna,” Bresbin said, after a very long silence.

She turned to look at him. “Yes?” she asked.

He pursed his lips, then turned from the trout to stare at her. His eyes were big and mournful. “Something more is happening here, yes? Something bigger than Brezzy helping Pienna against the unthings?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked. “It’s big, Brezzy, very big. Big as the world.”

The goblin seemed to consider this for a moment, and nodded. Pienna could tell that the moment’s consideration was a front. The goblin was terribly, terribly curious. He wanted to know very badly, and was trying to hide it. He probably feels like he belongs to something for the first time in his life, she thought.

“Brezzy wants to know,” the goblin said. “Brezzy takes the risk on himself.”

“There is a prophecy at work,” she explained. “The world stands on edge, perhaps deeper into war, perhaps away from it towards peace. Forces on high are poised, forces that we don’t understand. We must follow a path.”

“What path?” Brezzy asked. “Which kingdoms will this help?”

“All of them,” she told him. “Eldeen and Aundair, Breland and Cyre, Darguun and Valenar, Thrane and Karrnath.” She saw something flicker in his eyes when she said Breland, but she didn’t understand it, so she pressed on. “I sent three individuals on a path, a path where they were supposed to find a fourth, then find a riddle, then become three again. If they don’t bring the riddle back, we have no hope of stopping chaos.”

“Where did they go?” he asked her. “Your three, where did they set to?”

“To Oalian,” she told him.

“Then why do we not go see the great tree?” the goblin asked, puzzled.

“I have,” she said. “He told me that they went to the Demon Wastes.”

Bresbin hissed and made a warding gesture. “They do not come back then, my Lady Pienna,” he said, shaking his head.

“Oalian thinks that they might,” she said. “He told me that if they would survive, they would return, and that I could not go looking for them, they would find me. He told me to tend to my tasks.”

The goblin stared at her. A long silence passed in the sunlight.

“And Pienna went to her tasks, fighting the Aundairians,” he noted. “Pienna’s task was Aundair, but not it is being a Gatekeeper? Brezzy does not understand.”

She chewed her lip for a moment, unsure of what to say. “A druid of my order noted that as well, and told me that my tasks were wrong,” she finally said. “Do you think my tasks were wrong?”

“What the Lady does is not Brezzy’s place to say right or wrong,” he shrugged. “Brezzy fought Aundair because they attacked the land in which he stayed. Brezzy fights the unthings because he was raised to believe against them. Are Brezzy’s tasks wrong?”

“You aren’t a sworn priest,” Pienna sighed. “And some think that my fighting Aundair is distracting from my Gatekeeper duties. Some think that it makes it seem as if I favor one nation over another.”

“Pienna fears what other nations think,” Bresbin noted.

“Pienna thinks that she should not ignore it,” the druidess responded. “I felt that I did what was right against the Aundairians, and certainly there is plenty of druid magic being brought against the proud wine-drinkers, but the bottom line is that the Gatekeeper sect is different than the other sects. We must be apart from this conflict, else we cannot do the work that we must do.” She sighed. “The seals against the daelkyr are mostly in Eldeen and the Marches, but some exist everywhere. Can you imagine trying to hold back the forces of Khyber in Breland if the Dark Lanterns thought the Gatekeepers were taking sides?”

Bresbin’s face was oddly blank. Finally he spoke.

“Bresbin believes in Pienna,” he said. “Bresbin thinks that Pienna is right, and he wants to help her in her quest.”

“Thank you,” she smiled.

He turned his head to the side and began rotating the fish over the smoke. “So, who is the one who thinks Pienna had her tasks wrong?”

“Don’t worry,” she smiled, finishing with the pot. “No one that you are likely to meet.”

Chapter 5 – Part 2

The dolgrim squealed in pain as the byeshk-covered end of the club hit the misshapen thing across both of its mouths, knocking yellow teeth and black blood in a wide fan. The squat little aberration hoisted its two spears and stabbed blindly at its attacker, but got nowhere. The aged orc was already bringing the club around again on a backswing, and the dolgrim’s skull cracked mightily. The spears fell to the ground from numb hands. A second later the dolgrim itself hit the ground with a sound like a rotten apple falling.

“More stragglers that way!” Ama’shay roared in the druidic tongue to the hawk that was circling overhead. It was dark out, but there were enough moons showing to give the bird of prey some light with which to see where the orc pointed. The hawk squawked a response, and wiggled its talons with magic. Seconds later fire rained down on the smarter dolgrims, who had fled the massacre of the rest of the warband.

The orc grinned as the hawk landed and transformed in Pienna. “I think we got all of them,” she said. Her oak circlet glowed as she murmured a spell, giving her something more to see by. “I saw Missy and your companion corner the archers.”

“We haven’t seen the dolgaunt yet,” Ama’shay warned. “And you should find a form that gives you blessed orc nightsight.”

“The dolgaunt must not be around,” she said. “My detection of aberration spells did not show a presence for him, just the dolgrims.” She peered at the night sky. “It is well past midnight, it should have showed itself by now.”

“Two hundred dolgrims and more!” roared the orc, pumping a fist into the air. “So many over the last week that I have lost count! Not in years has my beloved club smashed in so many foul, twisted little skulls! If only you had been here to see my earlier victories!” He paused, letting his exultations settle into a frown. “But the main foe has not been found. A dolgaunt commands them, I tell you, why else would they come forward in so many waves?”

“Then we hunt,” Pienna said. “We cannot let our guard down. The dolgaunt, or some other who commands them –”

“Dolgaunt,” Ama’shay insisted.

“Cannot return to Khyber with any information to report,” she concluded. “But hwo do we find the thing if our spells do not register, if not one of our charmed animal servants have spotted it?”

“Excuse me,” a soft voice said in the Common Tongue.

Both Ama’shay and Pienna whirled around, startled. For all their woodslore, the speaker had snuck up behind them. A short figure with green skin, a bow on its back, stepped into Pienna’s light.

“The sneak,” Ama’shay grunted dismissively. The orc no longer spat when the goblin spoke, but he did not carry a civil tone with the goblin. Of course Ama’shay still spoke in Druidic, so theoretically the goblin did not understand the orc.

“Brezzy, where have you been?” Pienna asked. “I was so worried!” Her face showed real emotion, and it was obvious to Ama’shay that the human woman really liked the sneak for some reason.

“Hunting,” the goblin said, grinning a big, stupid grin. He held up his left hand and tossed something forward. It rolled on the ground and stopped near Ama’shay’s foot. Raw flesh of a head with no eyes and covered in fine cilla.

The dolgaunt’s head.

Ama’shay grunted in shock. “Pienna, how did your sneak do this?” The orc looked at the goblin with new eyes. For a moment he thought he saw cloaked rage, but only for a moment.

Pienna’s response was not an answer, but to kneel and hug the goblin forcefully. “Oh Brezzy, what would we do without you?” she whispered.

“Brezzy is happy to stop the daelkyr-made unthings,” the goblin said. He smiled now, staring at Ama’shay.

Oddly, the smile did not seem to touch the goblin’s eyes.

In Which They Celebrate The Holidays

Delegado awoke, stretching and snorting. He felt a bit stiff, as he was used to sleeping otuside, not in a bed.

Stumbling out into the main room, the half-orc found the warforged staring at the decorated tree by the chimney.

"Did you stay up all night waiting to see if he would come down the chimney?" the half-orc asked, forcing a small grin.

"Maybe," Iron Orphan said, in a manner that betrayed a low Charisma modifier to untrained Bluff checks. The warforged reached into a pile of presents and handed one to the half-orc. Delegado could see Orphan's neat, precise handwriting on the card near the bow. "I got you something."

Delegado raised an eye and pulled on the ribbon to open it. He then lifted the box lid to find a pack of birdseed for Feather, and a gift certificate to Arrows R Us. "Aw, Orphan," the half-orc said, geuninely touched. "You shouldn't have."

The warforged affected a shrug, which was always an odd motion to see as he had no clavicles. "I wanted to."

Delegado then reached down and pulled his own box out of the pile. "I got this for you," he told the warforged.

"For me?" Orphan asked, surprised. He opened the ribbon (which wasn't tied well, Delegado spent his skill points on other things) and lifted the box lid to find a can of WD-40 and a stuffed red heart-shaped plushie from Dorothy's Shtick-o-rama. "Del, how did you know?"

"Happy Holidays, Orphan," the half-orc said, donning a red hat with a white tassel.

"Happy Holidays, Del," the warforged said. He paused. "So he's really not coming down the chimney then?"

Delegado shook his head in bemusement and went off to find some eggnog.

Brief Hiatus

Hello everyone, I'm sorry to announce that I have to take a brief hiatus from posting. I'm happy to announce that it is due to my new baby boy.

I've got the plot lines sketched, but there's gaps in the intermediate bits, especially with the Pienna-Bresbin storyline. I'll get them flushed out, trust me.

The storyline will continue on December 29, with the usual Mon & Thurs updates, plus some bonus postings in early Jan.

Thanks for being such a great audience.

Chapter 5 – Part 1

FALLING MASKS, BROKEN THOUGHTS

Deep within the Eldeen Reaches, shortly after midnight on the twenty-fifth of Aryth, 993 Y.K.

The dolgaunt moved with a grace was that beautiful and sickening at the same time. He felt full, good, and strong. A dolgrim had failed, and allowed the druids to catch a patrol unawares, so the dolgrim had become his food. It had twitched wonderfully as it died.

The dolgaunt stopped, peering about. It waved to the thirty dolgrims that still remained, sending them out in two flanking waves. It could feel, could sense quite far. The druids would no doubt be laying spells to catch his forces, expecting them to come down the middle of the valley that hid the device that the dolgaunt sought to control.

You will find its exact location, the mind flayer had told the dolgaunt, speaking directly to his mind. You will have your servants dig, and then place this Khyber dragonshard in the crook of the fork.

To destroy it then? The dolgaunt’s mental question was answered only with a psionic blast of pain, which had forced the dolgaunt to its knees.

You will follow instructions, or you will suffer beyond imagining, the mind flayer had told him coldly. We seek to make the device our own, not to destroy it!

The dolgaunt had promised feverishly to obey. He feared the mind flayers greatly. They were closest to the Great masters, and they brooked no failure.

Lights and sounds came from over three hundred feet away, ahead and to his right and ahead and to his left. The druids were attacking his two groups of dolgrims, their power spent on the unimportant, while he, the silent and dangerous monastic warrior, crept directly towards them.

The dolgaunt grinned with a toothless, red mouth. He knew everything around him, with perfect sight even in the dark. The scilla on his tentacles, the perfect biological devices grown by his masters, told him everything, let him know of everything.

Which is why the dolgaunt was quite shocked when a goblin that he’d neither seen, smelled, nor heard put three arrows into him. One penetrated the dolgaunt’s neck, one his groin, and one into his eye and then his brain.

The twisted creature fell, dead before it could think of attacking the goblin that had caught it so badly by surprise.

Chapter 4 - Part 14

The young brass dragon was cleaning his pipe. He would have been smoking it, but the old copper who currently led them - which was not the right word, not with a group that was considered proud even for dragons - had expressed displeasure at it. The brass was not about to lessen the slightest impact that his words might have when debating.

"You did well, darling," the young green said, sliding his way to the angry gold female who had been concentrating on the crystal.

"I did nothing!" the gold snapped at him - literally, she swung her teeth near his neck and he barely flinched away in time. "I focused out power, true, but I merely held a window in the timestream. The Captain, or maybe the half-daelkyr, they found it."

The brass frowned, then tucked his pipe away. "So where are they, then?" eh asked patiently.

"More importantly," rumbled the old copper. "When are they?"

"I don't know," the gold said, the admission paining her.

"They're back, and they're within two hundred miles of their departure point," the brass said suddenly. They all turned to him. "The Crimson Ship moves the universe around itself. That means it came back not far from where it left, as it focuses itself as a central point. Giving drift for tides and Eberron's magnetic field, like so..." He summoned his innate powers, and a floating translucent graph of equations apepared above them. "So they would be within this circle."

"And the fiends may still get them," hissed the green, for once his mind off of his mating instinct.

"The Captain's price is conflict," the copper mused. "There is someone in the southeast corner of that circle. A hobgoblin mage who fused himself with certain elements, long ago."

They all were silent for a moment.

"Say it already!" the gold hissed. "It's not like we aren't in deep enough debt to the druid already!"

The copper sighed. "Contact the white druid," he ordered. "See his price for finding the Cold Mage."

Chapter 4 – Part 13

The wood attacked the monk as he cleared the last step. He tumbled, rolling into a somersault, and easily escaped the curled planks that reached like fingers. As he left them, they fell flat again.

The deck was rippling as if it was water, not wood. There was sun, and sky. And plenty of sea. A quick look in all directions showed that they were nowhere near land.

A fined lay unconscious near a ship’s wheel. Delegado lay prone on the deck, gripping the hilt of his sword, which was embedded into the deck. The rippling was keeping the half-orc from getting to his feet. Orphan could see the great composite longbow further on down the deck, very close to the railing.

He wanted to call out to Delegado, but a loud explosion near the front of the ship distracted him. Seconds later the ship began to list.

“Delegado!” he called out. “What’s going on?”

“Damn you’re a sight for sore eyes!” the half-orc called out. “Cast me a rope, I have to get up!”

Instinct took over, as the Orphan felt a drop in pressure behind him. The warforged ducked, and something, a spinning ball of liquid so frozen he could not credit it, blew over him.

The freezing liquid ball hit the mast, and blew apart a yardarm. Ropes once taut now whipped about, and splinters mixed with tiny shards of ice. The Crimson Ship, already listing with damage near the waterline, began to spin lazily to starboard.

The warforged turned, ready to fight, his last two shiruken in his hands.

A figure sat atop a column of moving water, some twenty feet aaway fromt eh ship and fifteen feet above it. The top of the column had fashioned itself into a shimmering, throne-like chair. The figure sitting in the chair was humanoid. In fact it was the spitting image of a hobgoblin. Unlike a hobgoblin it had blue skin, a deep dark blue that seemed partially translucent. Orphan could also make out gills on the water-hobgoblin’s neck, and frills of fins. It seemed naked, but at the same time clothed in sheets of water.

“What a prize,” the water-hobgoblin burbled. It spoke in Aquan, and the warforged’s ring translated. “The Crimson Ship itself. And it was thought gone and disintegrated weeks agone.”

The warforged threw his shiruken, but the water-hobgoblin waved his hand lazily, not even stirring from his throne, and a wave of water rose up to knock the spinning blades aside.

Orphan jumped, grabbing a loose rope from the shattered yardarm, and swinging over to Delegado’s bow. “Can you stand?” he yelled to his half-orc companion.

“Trying!” the half-orc snarled. But his boots could not get purchase.

“Feed this ship to the Devourer I shall,” chortled the water-hobgoblin in Aquan. “And a pretty price for the corpses shall the rakshasa pay.”

The water-hobgoblin reached a hand into the column of water that held it aloft, and drew out another frozen ball of liquid. Still laughing, it threw the missile again, this time at the trapped half-orc.

Chapter 4 – Part 12

Thomas staggered forward, his head swimming, visions of magical force floating in his eyes, his mind. He had to walk, to find food, to prevail in the hunt. His senses were overloaded now, and he relied on instinct.

With the vestiges of his rational mind he set up a pattern of movement on the deck. It would move in a series of concentric circles, to keep everyone off their feet, and certain spots were set like traps, ready to grab with great wooden fingers.

The ones above would therefore stay above, and he would peruse the below at his leisure. To find succor.

A door stood in his way. His door. They’re all my doors! The whole ship is mine!

He wanted to go. He would go. He willed it, so it would be.

The door exploded outwards, smoking splinters flying in all directions, peppering the hallway and open door across from him.

His stormstalk lay dead on the floor before him. A bloody shiruken still stuck in the thing’s body.

The stalk is dead. Orphan did it. Which betrayed me first?

He looked out, into the other room, Delegado’s room. He felt the boards wriggling from his neck and shoulder twitch.

The changeling was there, lying facedown, unmoving. Electrical burns were on her skin.

She was naked.

Mine.

She was paralyzed, her nerves damaged by the stormstalk.

Succor.

He’d seen it before. His loyal stormstalk.

Want.

He was barely cognizant of shedding the last of his clothes as he crouched behind her. Suddenly, viciously, enjoying the pure physicality of it, he flipped her over.

He was rewarded with awe in her eyes. Awe or terror.

“Thomas,” she gasped, barely able to speak. “You-your face.”

Mine.

He grabbed her, and she tried to scream, but he did not care.

Take what is mine.

Chapter 4 - Part 11

Delegado grunted as the deck ceased movement. Through the blood running into his eyes he saw the captain slump over, and fall to the deck.

The half-orc pushed himself up on one arm, still gripping his sword handle. He smelled ozone. Trying to ignore what that might mean he wiped his forehead, gritting his teeth against the pain of his scalp wound.

Have to find a bandage, stop the flow so I can see, the half-orc thought. But he also wanted to get to his feet and find his bow. Whatever was attacking the ship, he didn’t want it to get to close. He said ‘he’ would take control of the ship again? Who is he? Delegado wondered. It was likely another fiend, a stowaway, a harpy that he had missed.

The ship boards started rippling again, and he fell on his stomach. Gripping the sword handle even more tightly, he saw that the entire deck was acting like the surface of the ocean.

At least it’s not attacking me, the half-orc thought. Still, he could not get to his feet. The rippling wood kept him from finding purchase.

Then he heard three things, each right after the other. Running feet – warforged feet, followed by ripping wood, which was then followed by a loud booming sound.

Following which the entire ship began to tilt.

Chapter 4 – Part 10

Orphan woke up. It was a nearly novel experience, since he had only lost consciousness a handful of times. A warforged’s handful, as it had only been three times.

It was a warmth in his foot, a sensation of rocking, and then he opened his eyelids (technically semi-organic composite eyesight shaders). He’d been expecting a stone or metal room, a torture chamber back in Ashtakala. He was on a ship. He quickly jumped to his feet, taking in the ambient light – recognizing that it was late afternoon, and that the ship that was adrift in the ocean somewhere.

Ois was sprawled out on the floor, naked. This surprised Orphan, given the little he understood of gender relations. A moment later he took in the electrical burns on her skin – and the stormstalk, wriggling into the room, getting ready to discharge again.

Intuition and instinct flooded through Orphan. In less time than it took for a human’s heart to beat he realized that his senses were sharper than they had been before he passed out. The headband of the Balanced Palm was around his head, no doubt put there by Delegado from the shape of the knot that Orphan could feel. And its power – it boosted him somehow, in a similar way that the monk’s belt that he’d inherited from his sensei did.

His hands were already moving. The shiruken spun through the air. One, two, then three. None were byeshk, but they were sharp enough.

The stormstalk blasted the first shiruken with a bolt, spinning it aside. The next two slashed it to pieces, gouging its eye and slitting the length of its body, releasing a vile mess of orange pus and bright sinewy tubes.

Orphan was ignoring the stormstalk, knowing that it was dead. He crouched next to Ois, checking her breathing and the bloodbeat in her neck.

“Fine,” Ois croaked out. “Just – paralysis.” She coughed, barely able to form words. “Get Delegado.” A swallow. “Hurry.”

The monk nodded, and took off. Delegado could heal, he’d seen the half-orc hold Pienna from the edge of death and bring her back. In a flash he was in the corridor, looking around. To the left, the hallway went to a door that was open a crack, and the warforged made out pots. A galley. Ahead, a cabin door, firmly shut. He could hear Thomas muttering behind it. Thomas was speaking in another language, daelkyr, from the twisted edge to it.

Iron Orphan hesitated. If Thomas was in there, then the warforged should not have killed the stormstalk. The half-daelkyr would die without a symbiont.

Orphan looked back, Ois was lying face down, her back and the backs of her thighs showing blackened, burnt spots. She needed Delegado. What could be done about Thomas, and how the stormstalk had managed to get free, that had to wait.

To the right, a ways down, a cabin door. He was there in a second, door open, and it was empty. It had a knocked-over wash basin, little else.

Farther down the corridor, light, sea sounds.

The warforged bolted. It had been less than seconds since he’d killed the stormstalk. He heard Delegado topside, felt the wood moving strangely.

The deckboards tore upwards, grabbing at him, holding him like a giant wooden fist.

Chapter 4 – Part 9

Thomas smirked. He had won. The Captain had attempted to renege, and now the fiend was taken out. The half-daelkyr detached himself from the Crimson Ship, but not completely. Two writhing strips of lumber stayed attached to him.

He focused, sliding and twisting more wood. Now the deck was shut off. Delegado would not get below, not quickly. It would have been better to hurl him over the side, but no matter. The ingrate swamp bully was doubtlessly congratulating himself at surviving, but at the same time the half-orc would dare not draw the blade free. The deck was quiet now, but for all Delegado knew it could erupt at any moment. The half-orc would have to hold on and whimper.

“How dare he attack me, call me names, threaten me,” muttered Thomas. “I plucked them all from oblivion. Me. Thomas.”

His daelkyr half was muttering mentally about rearranging the limbs of his friends. Another voice told him that they weren’t his friends. Another insisted that they were, and that he had damaged his mind with his mental interaction with the Crimson Ship.

He ignored this distraction. His mind was whole. He knew it because he knew. He knew that Delegado was an ingrate, that Ois was a hypocrite, and that the Captain was an enemy.

Thomas sneered, and caressed the Crimson Ship mentally. He slowly wound its magic down, letting it drift as a normal ship in the ocean. In return it seemed to caress his mind as well, or at least partly. There was a spot in his mind that he could not feel. Fatigue, that was it.

Unnoticed by him, a thin stream of blood was issuing from his nostrils, and another from his left eye.

Later, I will learn more of this ship’s secrets, he thought. He was not aware that the left side of his face was sagging, the muscles unresponsive. For now bring it gently down, then find out where and when I am. He knew they had leaped forward through time but he didn’t know by how much.

He was hungry, ravenous in fact.

He inhaled. Succor would be had. But prominence before nourishment. He meant to let everyone know. As soon as the ship was settled. He would make sure that they all knew.

The part of his brain that was filling with his own blood failed to register that his impulse control was fading.

If not gone.

Chapter 4 – Part 8

Ois sat up, her stomach settling, perspiration covering her body and reality came back. The naked changeling staggered to her feet, trying to get her bearings.

She saw the stormstalk a split second before its beam hit her square on.

Electricity sizzled through her nerve endings, burning her skin. She felt staggered, slowed down. She recognized temporary nerve damage as her reflexes slowed.

When you are in a place that you cannot defend, you run, and you attack what evil you can reach, an instructor had told her once. The Silver Flame does not expect its paladins to defend the indefensible, when evil needs to be attacked elsewhere.

Before the start of the Great War, the attitude of the Silver Flame theocracy to paladins retreating had not always been so broad-minded. Necessity adjusted ecclesiastic thinking faster than debate could.

She ran, or more accurately lumbered, towards the creature. She didn’t have time to go hunting for her sword. It was free, which probably meant Thomas was dead, and she had to go next door to tell Delegado. Betting that it had no teeth or stinger to make an opportunistic attack on her as she ran by it, she trundled through the doorway and turned left.

She was right about the lack of physical defenses, but the tiny aberration was able to recharge before she could get into Del’s room. Again her flesh sizzled, and only clenched teeth kept her from howling in agony. Again her limbs gre leaden, the damage to her coordination slowing her tremendously.

Thomas’ cabin was to her right. The wood was buckled, and strange lights flashed from around it. Delegado’s door was ahead and to the left. She hoped he was there.

This is your sin, she told herself hysterically. You wanted him to be your lover, to find you nude, and initiate the love-making. You made yourself a harlot, and the Flame withdrew its protection from you.

She scrabbled at the door, finally getting it open. He wasn’t in. She saw a rumpled bed, some bags, rolled up, and the body of the warforged, lying as if at rest. She tried shutting the door behind her.

She was not fast enough. The next bolt of electricity hit her left leg, just under her buttock. She twisted, the leg giving out, her body no longer responding. Choking out pain, she fell, slamming into the deck, paralyzed with electrical damage to her nervous system.

And as she fell, her hand fell on the warforged’s foot.

Even unmoving, she could summon the Flame. She laid on hands through the merest touch. Though the construct side of Iron Orphan’s body cut her efficiency in half, she sent every scrap of healing that she could into the warforged’s body.

Chapter 4 – Part 7

Boards unraveled from the deck, tearing and curling around the startled half-orc, even as a blue sky slammed into view. Gravity returned, and a salt spray crashed over the side of a ship that displaced a piece of ocean, midday.

Delegado hesitated for a moment, he senses reeling with the return of the world. A moment was all that was necessary.

The moving ship planks snared the half-orc like a fish in a net. He grappled with the mobile wood, but unsuccessfully. They beat at him, raising bruises, bringing a gash over one eye which nearly blinded him with his own blood. His bow was snatched from his hands. Furiously the half-orc fought, trying to free himself.

The Captain suddenly stood, staring into Delegado’s eyes. The swirling colors captivated the half-orc.

The fiend then reached in, and shoved the boards aside. They balked a moment at the fiend’s touch, they slid back into the deck with a slapping sound, and became inert.

The Captain pulled Delegado free. “Now do you believe me?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“What the galig just happened?” demanded the half-orc snatching up his bow and whirling about. The ship’s deck was quiet, still, as if it had never attacked him. Blood slid down his face from his scalp wound.

“We were, then we weren’t, now we are again,” the Captain told him, a hoarse urgency in his voice. “I need your help, before he takes control of this section again.”

Delegado didn’t get a chance to ask what the thing meant, because the deck suddenly came to life again. It didn’t peel itself into tentacle-like boards this time, instead it bucked and rolled as if it were the liquid waves that surrounded the ship. Delegado fell, as did the Captain, and the deck jumped and bulged, pushing them to the rails.

The Captain cursed, and managed to flip himself around the moving bulges. He was aided by the fact that the wood that he touched seemed to obey him briefly. He made it to the ship’s wheel, grabbing it with both hands. A nimbus of discordant light began to appear around him.

Delegado let his bow go, hoping he would not lose it. Half-prone on a deck that refused to be flat, he drew his sword and slammed it into the deck point-first, piercing the wood harshly. Desperately the half-orc held on to the hilt as the adamantine blade became his anchor.

Delegado thought for a moment he would be fine, hanging on. Then he heard a horrible sound. Looking up he saw that the light around was a dancing red and black, and that the vessel’s former master was screaming in pain.

Chapter 4 – Part 6

Their minds met. It was a brief encounter, long enough to exchange ideas so clear and articulate that they were almost words.

The Captain showed Thomas that they would perish, unless they worked together.

Thomas showed that he did not care, if he, Thomas, was not to be the master. Thomas made it clear that he was tired of others dictating his fate to him.

The Captain reluctantly agreed to cede control of the Crimson Ship to the half-daelkyr, if only briefly, but Thomas would have to keep the half-orc from firing the great bow.

It was an instant. Technically it wasn’t even that, as there was no way to record the time. But it was all that was necessary for an agreement of necessity.

Their minds joined. The fiend submitted his control to Thomas, but led, like a tiny tugboat pulling a great barge.

The Crimson Ship seized, then rippled, and then became actual.

Chapter 4 – Part 5

Delegado hesitated.

Half-orcs were instinctual creatures, but Bartemain had always taught his son to think ahead. Intelligence was a valued asset to Bartemain, and his children, wholly human or only partially, were taught to think.

Bartemain was dead, his body a bag of skin barely held together by dust, wrapped up tenderly in a saddlebag below decks. By Delegado carried his father’s wisdom with him.

There was a limit to the fiend’s hypnosis, and Delegado should be safely beyond it, at the other end of the ship, taking advantage of range. Further, the fiend had his eyes closed, and was looking down at the deck. Finally, he knew that he had hit the thing, and then right afterwards reality had dropped away.

He might need this thing to get back to – to get away from wherever they were.

“Keep your head down!” barked the half-orc, slowly walking towards the Captain. “You pick your head up or open your eyes then more arrows get into you!” Time was still dancing, for a moment he felt it run backwards, and listened to the reverse sounds go back into his mouth, but then it went normal again. Things were still bad, he could not look at the nothing outside the ship, but they were somewhat better.

“I’m not your enemy!” gasped the fiend. “I am trying to get the ship back!”

“Back to the Demon Wastes?” The half-orc was close now, the arrow sighted at the fiend’s head.

“Back to TIME,” the Captain insisted. “One of your friends below is trying to manipulate the ship’s magic, but it got away from him! We are close to ceasing existence completely!”

Delegado held his arrow tight, wondering if he could believe the fiend.

Chapter 4 – Part 4

Ois fell, barking her shin. She could not describe what was happening, her mind rebelled. She rolled across the floor, stopping at the wall, feeling the wood rub against her bare skin.

What happened to the world?

She realized in an instant that something was wrong, and that she could not make sense of it. The thief turned holy warrior moaned. Naked and scared, she shut everything out and prayed to the Silver Flame.

Chapter 4 – Part 3

What happened? What happened? You did this! I did not, I could not!

Thomas’ mind was being ripped in two. The daelkyr side gibbered, trying to understand where the flesh was, if only it could manipulate some flesh, it could find the fix. The other half of his mind saw things that even a daelkyr would find insane. Before was after, after was before, never was now, later could never come.

Thomas howled, and the strips of wood that plugged into him danced like a great spider. The half-daelkyr barbarian grabbed reality through the Crimson Ship, grabbed with every bit of strength in his self, his sheer force of personality, grabbed, and demanded reality to stay.

It failed. He was falling, his fingers grabbing for support on a slick wall that laughed at him.

A presence came, and the wall formed a ledge. The presence was above decks, where the loss of reality was worse. It was the Captain, and he was trying to show Thomas how to calm the ship down.

The half-daelkyr laughed, feeling sweat creep painfully into his shaving cuts. A moment ago, lifetimes ago, the Captain had been fighting the half-daelkyr. Now they were working together. Pain hit the Captain, and his mind faded, then came back, insisting that Thomas push the Crimson Ship like so, to calm it down.

Thomas began to understand. Time was gone. The Crimson Ship was outside of time. It carried a little time with it, but the reality was slipping. They had maybe seconds to act, or centuries, it was hard to tell right now. They had to bring the Crimson Ship back.

You can do it without him, Thomas thought to himself, coldly. Don’t trust him, he wants to retake the ship. That was his own mind speaking, he knew that. His daelkyr side seemed to have been reduced into gibbering fear.

“Too much madness even for you, eh?” laughed Thomas. He flexed his mind, and the ship wrenched itself, its material following his commands. Mentally, he forced the Captain’s mind back, and then tried to manipulate the Crimson Ship like so, but by himself, only him.

It didn’t work. The entire ship buckled, and Thomas screamed mentally, without a sound exiting his physical mouth.

Chapter 4 – Part 2

The Captain winced, trying not to feel the arrows that hadn’t hit him yet, or the ones that already did. Time was unraveling, although no doubt worse for the hybrid archer. The passage of time was always relative to the viewer, and the ultraloth was more central to the Crimson Ship than any other.

Except for the intruder belowdecks, trying to take it over.

Another arrow hit, then didn’t, then did again. This one had no energy discharge at least, just an enchantment that allowed it to bypass the Captain’s damage reduction. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The punch from the hybrid’s bow was significant.

Control of the ship slipped, and another veneer of molecules was stripped away as the Captain’s concentration wavered.

He wasn’t sure what happened, even he did not know the Crimson Ship completely, but he knew it had gone awry. The Crimson Ship could function like a regular sailing vessel, but its main mode of locomotion was actually to move reality around it, to make space fold and end up where it was needed.

One of the drawbacks to being an immortal outsider was that you were a slave to your nature. Uncounted millennia ago, the Captain chose travel on the seas as his nature, rather than the domineering, pain-inflicting, evil ways of so many of his kind, or the stalwart, heroic-cause-bearing ways of the coutal and angels who opposed the fiends. He had never regretted his choice, and he had happily bonded with this artifact.

Only now, he had taken on passengers who had attacked him. This had happened before, and he had dealt with it easily. But these passengers had one of their number who could manipulate magical devices in an uncanny fashion. The Captain had had artificers on the Crimson Ship before, but none as skilled as this. And, in a juxtaposition that could only please the Traveler, these passengers had been picked up from the land of his birth.

So, he had been busy finessing the hag sent as an ambassador, and the passenger who manipulated magic had struck. Then, while he had been trying to re-establish control, the half-orc had made it on deck, and had begun shooting the captain with his own arrows.

Caught by surprise twice, the Captain had lost control of the Crimson Ship, and below, whoever was trying to manipulate the Crimson Ship’s magic, had generated an incredible mishap, a surge in the reality-adjuster.

“Please stop shooting,” gasped the Captain. He grasped the ship’s wheel in one hand, trying to calm the magical surge. The mishap below had thrown the Crimson Ship forward, and too hard. They were out of the timestream, riding above it almost, and if they did not fall back in correctly, they would be scattered to nothingness.

The fiend closed his eyes, and focused, feeling the pull of the magics. Below, the one who had caused all the trouble was now working with him, trying to save the ship from disintegration. The Captain reached out with his mind, trying to show the other how to calm the surge.

But if another arrow hit, he would not be able to guide the other, and they would all be lost.

Chapter 4 – Part 1

TIME IS BUT A STREAM I GO A-FISHING IN

In a place where time has no meaning, at a time that never existed.

The world ran riot in Delegado’s ears, his mind, through his pores. He saw sound, heard vision, felt change, sweated seconds, breathed minutes, fell forever, and never moved.

Get control of yourself, you are one with the natural world, the half-orc told himself. You can feel, see, you can –

“Trust your senses, son,” Bartemain told him. Delegado was barely nine years of age, hunting in the Shadow Marches.

“It makes no difference now,” the woman said. She looked a lot like her aunt, Pienna, even with blood running down her face from her ruined eyes. Artificer’s tools fell from her hands as she begged Delegado to find what she needed. But Delegado was an old man, with white hair, and racked with a withering cough that came with advanced age.

Time ran unfettered. It was a river that had overrun its banks, falling where it might, be it forward, backwards, or both.

“I’m in Xoriat,” Delegado said aloud. The Gatekeepers told the children that if they were bad they would end up there, a place of eternal mental pain, where nature would never give succor.

“No you aren’t, not yet, anyway,” came a voice. The voice belonged to a fiend, with glowing eyes, the one who had tricked him, tried to –

Teeth bared, he fired the arrow. It traveled years, miles, forever, then hit even before he fired it, scorching the fiend who called itself Captain.

“Don’t do it!” the fiend said. “If you shoot I won’t be able to –” The fiend died, peppered with arrows. The fiend stood over the hypnotized half-orc, and brought its sword down viciously. The fiend threw Delegado off of the boat, and they both fell to shreds of nothingness.

NO, Delegado thought. I. WILL. BE. He closed his eyes, and then opened them. Whatever he saw, had to be sight. If he saw sound, he would ignore it.

The ship came into view. He saw the wooden planks beneath his feet, but he could feel no waves. He looked up, and then regretted it. There was no sky, no ocean, there was nothing. Seeing nothing was…disturbing to the mind. He forced his gaze downward, to what was real.

“For now,” called the fiend. Raising his eyes just slightly, Delegado could see the Captain slumped on the deck. The fiend had skin like iron, but the magical arrows had gotten through somewhat, and several of them had cast forth flame, lightning, or other energy when they hit. “We barely exist, we are elsewhere, in a non-space that is shrinking. You have to put your bow down, not shoot, let me rescue us with the Crimson Ship’s power! But you have to not shoot!”

Delegado regarded the thing. A fiend. One of the ones who had tortured his father, Bartemain. Who had nearly killed Ois and Orphan. Who could change its appearance.

Who could do mind-tricks with its eyes.

The half-orc raised the bow and drew.

Chapter 3 – Part 7

Carl wiped his brow as he threw the last shovelful of earth on the last makeshift grave. Some commanding officers wouldn’t do the physical work. As far as Carl was concerned, it was the least he could do.

And I may be the commanding officer, but I’m only a corporal, Carl reminded himself. Just a corporal.

Carl stepped back, and Henry came up behind him to quietly take the shovel. “You need to speak,” Henry whispered.

This Carl did not want to do, but he had known that he would have to do so, so he made no protest. He turned away from the almost two dozen graves to face the ten remaining men in blue who waited for him to give them an order, to make some sense of everything.

As Carl hesitated, Henry coughed behind him. Carl saw unease in the eyes of the Brelish soldiers. No doubt they wished Henry was their commanding officer.

“You want words from me to take away your pain,” he said, finding inspiration in bluntness. “I can’t. You probably want words to bring our comrades back, or some part of them. I can’t do that either.” He gestured to the pile of enemy dead. They still smoldered, having been tossed into a large pyre instead of being buried with markers as were the Brelish. “Maybe some of you want me to tell you that the shifters and irregular infantry who came at our south flank while we engaged the Aundairian light foot were really Aundairian soldiers, and not opportunistic Reachers who hate us as much as they hate their former masters.” Carl gritted his teeth. “I can’t do that either. We all know that there are plenty of Reachers who don’t want to be our ally, who don’t want to listen to their own leaders.”

Carl swallowed, and ran his hand through his hair, being careful not to touch the bandage on the side of his head. A shifter’s fangs had come very close to piercing his skull. “I can tell you this, though. Lieutenant Fromlay didn’t get a chance to tell me everything about our purpose here, but he told me enough. Yes, we were part of the larger alliance, but we also had a delivery to make, a special mission.”

“Something for the druidess?” one of the men asked. He was their best archer, and his eyes had gone very hollow since the battle. Physically he was untouched, but the man looked like he might crack with grief and fear at any moment.

“Possibly,” Carl said. “I don’t know for certain, and if I knew I couldn’t tell you.” He swallowed. “I do know that from the way Lieutenant Fromlay described it, it has the potential to –” He hesitated, not wanting to lie. “It may end this war.”

The men looked at each other, some skeptically, some hopefully.

“Forgive me, sir,” Henry said suddenly. “I actually know a bit more than you, Lieutenant Fromlay told me in case something happened to you.” Henry cleared his throat. “It’s true,” he told the men. “We’re not just another squadron.”

“So we have to keep moving, and join up with other Brelish forces,” Carl said, confidence sneaking into him. “But before we go,” he had to pause as he got choked up. “A moment of silence for the departed.”

The men bowed their heads. All were quiet, thinking of their lost comrades.

Carl was thinking of the spoiled rations that Bresbin Delavane had stolen, and apparently used to make a trail for a carrion-eating monstrosity. It did not make him feel better to know that the three who died were Aundairian.

After a moment’s time, the men picked their heads up again.

“Company fall out!” Henry called.

“Weapons ready at all times,” Carl said loudly.

He turned and began to walk northeast through the forest, heading to Riverweep.

Chapter 3 – Part 6

Bresbin tried to keep his dumb face on at the same time as he strained to listen to the conversation. The druids considered their language secret, but the Dark Lanterns had long been slowly compiling lists of words.

Two years ago that list had grown considerably. Coincidentally at or around that time the Dark Lanterns had captured one of the Children of Winter druids who had been attempting to infect a Brelish peace delegation sent to Oalian with some truly disgusting disease. The official report said that the druid in question had been dispatched quickly. Unofficially, over drinks, a senior agent had told Bresbin that he’d heard through someone who had heard through someone that they’d tortured the Child of Winter for days, getting him to give up a nice chunk of Druidic before he’d finally died.

Bresbin wasn’t sure if he believed the story. The higher-ups in the Dark Lanterns liked to let their agents believe such things in order to keep everyone in line and focused. However a half-elf named Parnain d’Medani had been involved in preventing the attack on the Brelish delegation, and if there ever was anyone stone cold enough to torture a man for vocabulary’s sake, it was Parnain.

And the Child of Winter in question had been a changeling, a race that Parnain was known to be obsessed with hunting.

Whatever the source, the amount of Druidic that Bresbin had been able to absorb was letting him know that Pienna was getting heat for fighting in the war, and that some elf named Aruunis was pretty ticked off about it.

Bresbin knew the name Aruunis, but he couldn’t remember how he knew. He’d read so many files before going deep-cover that he hadn’t hoped to retain even half of it. But if Aruunis’ name had been in a file it must have been important.

So he followed, trying to listen to the raspy-voiced orc discuss how many dolgrims he’d seen, trying to figure out the words he didn’t know from the context of their use.

And trying to figure out if it would be worth it to put an arrow through the withered old tusk-face’s kneecaps if the druid kept calling him a sneak.

Chapter 3 – Part 5

Pienna frowned. From what she had observed of the stars before the sun had risen, she figured she was roughly three hundred miles northwest of the town of Cree. It was an exceptionally thick part of a great forest in a land that was almost all thick forest.

She didn’t want to be here, she wanted to be in Cree, readying weather spells against any naval vessels that Aundair was sending out onto Lake Galifar. The Aundairians had not been having much luck in land battles, but they’d successfully landed raiders on several parts of the Lake’s shores.

But she was here, waiting to speak to a druid that she had not seen in eight years about a seal that she had not visited. She was here, supposedly fighting a larger war across dimensions, when her mind was on a battle that legally speaking was not hers.

“It is really only the twenty-second of Aryth?” Brezzy asked, his eyes wide as he stared around. “We came so far so fast?”

“Our trip was instantaneous,” Pienna told the goblin, forcing her impatience down. She found Brezzy too dear to allow herself to be gruff with him. “Many druids do not have the power, but I can transport myself and a few companions any distance on the planet through common vegetation.” She smiled and stroked Missy’s head. The great cat rewarded her with a rumbling purr. “Missy and I have used the spell many times, it is harmless.”

The goblin nodded. A brief time passed as they waited, and finally Bresbin asked “How many times can Pienna use that spell?”

For a moment she thought that question a tad too eager, but then she realized that Brezzy was likely very nervous in this part of the forest, so far from all civilized places. “At most twice a day,” she answered. “I would have to prepare it properly, and choose that power to be channeled rather than others that may be more useful. I only prepared it once this morning, shortly before I used it.”

“Twice?” the goblin asked, astonished.

Pienna smiled. “I have been growing in power rapidly, Brezzy. I have been honing my skills constantly, and as a result that have been getting sharper.”

Brezzy looked away, almost as if he did not want her to see his eyes. Maybe he was afraid of her.

She felt ashamed. Bresbin was looking to the Gatekeeper faith for comfort, and she was coming across as arrogant, maybe even like the monsters of Droaam that he had had to flee as a child. She began to lift her arm, to touch him, comfort him somehow.

“Pienna!” came the call from across the meadow.

“Ama’Shay!” she responded, walking forward to greet the other druid.

Ama’Shay shuffled forward. The druid squinted at the sunlight, trying to stay in the shadows of the trees. He was a full-blooded orc, and like all orcs he found bright light painful. Pienna was shocked to see that his hair had gone full white, and a great deal of it was gone. Only eight years ago he’d had a thick head of gray and white, and a full if hesitant gait. His jutting tusk-like teeth, once powerful, were now withered and yellow.

Pienna knew that time passed quickly for an orc. They had far shorter lifestyles than humans. But still, it saddened her.

She walked forward to meet him in the shade, so as not to force him into the light. Missy trotted at her side, and Brezzy cautiously stayed behind her. She hugged him fiercely as they met, and he hugged her back hard enough to make her take notice. At an age when a human would scarcely be able to force open a stuck cabinet, Ama’Shay could crack a rib if he wasn’t careful.

“Who is this with you?” he asked her. He spoke in the language of druids, having never bothered to learn Common.

“This is Missy,” she said, petting the head of the great cat. “I released Slither from my service about a year after we last met. And this young fellow behind me is Bresbin.” The goblin perked up a bit at the mention of his name, it being the only word that he could recognize.

“This is Filcher,” Ama’Shay said, gesturing as a monkey dropped down from a high limb. The monkey was an orangutan, with long orange hair and deep eyes that expressed sorrow and care for his aging orc master. “Why is the sneak with you?”

Pienna sighed. There were many orcs and goblins that hated one another, but she had hoped Ama’Shay wasn’t one of them. “His family were secret Gatekeepers in Droaam. He knows a little of our faith, and wished to accompany me.”

Ama’Shay scowled. “No one in Droaam is a Gatekeeper except for some orcs in the west, near the Shadow marches. The sneak lies to you.”

“I am good at reading lies,” she told him. “And he had an heirloom, an arrow of slaying aberrations. He shot and killed a carrion crawler of exceptional size that excreted acid. I trust him.”

The orc shrugged. “If you trust him then I am find with him. Come, I need to show you the seal, for I will not be long in this life to guard it. Then I need to show you a nest of dolgrims that are gathering themselves to try and take possession of it.”

“They know where it is?” she asked as he turned back the way he came and she followed.

“Not yet,” he told her. “They are looking in circling patterns. I sense a dolgaunt guides them, and a clever one. We must cleanse them completely, no survivors.”

“Of course,” she said.

“We are too few, we Gatekeepers,” coughed the orc. “Too old and too few to watch all the seals. We must do what we can, stay far from distraction, true to our duty.” He turned to look at her sharply. “And stay out of the wars of the remains of Galifar.”

She almost missed a step. “What do you mean?”

“Merylsward,” he told her. “A brother of ours has been saying that the attack on the town was due to you. That Aundair is hunting for you.”

“Is this brother named Aruunis?” she asked, biting her lip.

“I heard it was an elf that thinks he knows more about being a Gatekeeper than any other,” grinning Ama’Shay. “Like all elves, he knows better than whoever is not an elf.”

Pienna nodded, hoping that Ama’Shay’s bigotry would keep him away from the subject. “Tell me about the seal,” she requested. “It is still a column rooted in the ground?”

“Fifteen feet of it shows above ground, although we have hidden it with growths of moss and nearby trees over the long years. Our histories say that there is another forty feet below ground, and that it forms a great tuning fork stuck in the earth, holding back one of the paths that Xoriat may try to follow…”

Chapter 3 – Part 4

Bresbin waited patiently in the tall grass by the end of the pond. He shifted his muscles slightly now and then, to prevent stiffening, but other than that he made no movement. He was patient, as he always was. For now, he was one with his surroundings. He had done this many times before, and if he was patient and careful as he always was, he would do it many times again.

Of course this time he wasn’t waiting to catch someone unaware, to ambush and kill in the name of the Crown. Now he was simply waiting for Pienna to come out of the pond, to return to him so that he could continue the charade.

He was not totally hidden, of course. The great panther knew exactly where he was, she could smell him. Even now as she appeared to be merely relaxing in the cold, wet grass that surrounded the pond, she was keeping an eye on him.

Missy did not trust him. In some ways the cat was wiser than its mistress.

After an hour of waiting, a great brook trout jumped out of the pond, landing on the muddy ground before it grew and transformed into a human woman of late middle years.

Missy let out a soft mewl of protest until Pienna reached out and rubbed her between the ears. The great panther rumbled with pleasure like a pampered housecat. “Brezzy?” she asked, looking around.

The goblin put on his dumb face, and stepped out of the grass. “Brezzy is here, sister to nature. Is Pienna’s seal holding?”

“I did not make the seal,” she told him with a smile. “But yes, it still holds. More importantly it does not seem to have been visited since the last inspection.” She ran her hands through her hair, and settled the oak circlet she always wore – even when sleeping – into a more central place on her head. The file that the Dark Lanterns had on Pienna said little about the circlet, save that it was magical and that it increased the woman’s abilities somehow.

Bresbin nodded, keeping an eager, dumb grin on his face, keeping his conscious thoughts in persona.

You have to believe the cover story, one of his first instructors had told him. More than your target, more than the mark that you tail, more than whoever you may be eavesdropping on or interrogating, YOU have to believe the lie that you hide behind. If you do, the mask will stay, and you will live. If you don’t, they’ll find the crack in the mask, and tear it off, and then you’re dead.

Bresbin had taken that lesson to heart. To him it had just been another way of hiding. He’d worked very hard to become the best liar in the employ of the Crown that he could. He’d succeeded, too.

But Pienna’s file had been marked three time, by three different operatives, noting how intuitive the woman was. Few could slip a lie past her, much less live a lie with her every day.

Droaam duty hadn’t seemed this dangerous.

“Come,” Pienna said. “I have more Gatekeeper duties, and we must travel quickly through some dangerous territory today.”

“Brezzy follows,” he said, hefting his shortbow.

Chapter 3 – Part 3

“So tell me,” the man said, his words slurring from too much ale. “Why should I re-up? Hm? I did three tours, what’d it get me?” Three old scars marked his face, one cutting up into his receding hairline to touch the line of short-cropped white and gray hair on the top of his head.

“Somebody shut the drunk human up,” snarled a shifter at a nearby table. That hairy worthy was so smashed that he could barely move. Earlier in the evening, when, admittedly, the evening had still been rather late, he’d polished off an entire bottle of whiskey after killing a halfling who’d started a fight. He’d bitten the halfling’s throat out with fangs that he’d caused to grow a good four inches.

“You shut up, shifter,” snorted the heavyset halfling who ran the tavern for House Ghallanda in this part of Varna. The little humanoid stood atop a reinforced stool behind the bar so that everyone could see the wand in his belt. He’d used the wand against the comrades of the throat-torn halfling, setting two on fire. His business meant more to him than any racial loyalty, and the shifter hadn’t started it – then. The eyes of the wand-toting Ghallanda operative said that given a chance he’d dish the same out to the drunk shifter who still had blood on the corner of his mouth. “He can drink and run his mouth so long as he pays.”

“Exactly!” The scarred, grizzled human banged his fist on the bar, and then threw down a few more coins. “Gimme ‘nother, please!”

The Ghallanda barkeep shrugged and refilled the man’s cup with something that gave off smoke as it came out of the bottle. It was called lungmist by Varna’s inhabitants. It was cheap to make but had a nice kick that lasted.

“How about I pay a little more and he goes to sleep upstairs,” asked an exasperated human male in a recruiter’s uniform. He’d been trying to get people to join the Reacher forces for several hours now, and until the grizzled, scarred man had come in shortly before midnight, he’d been doing rather well. “What do you say, gramps, comfortable bed and hot oatmeal in the morning, my treat, eh?” The people who had been listening to him had already started to drift away.

“Took money and offers from his type once!” the scarred man exclaimed. “Look where it got me, look!” A lean woman with a crossbow who had been listening to the recruiter now frowned and went up the stairs to her room on the second floor.

The doors to the tavern – which should have been locked – were opened, and a figure in a hooded cloak came in.

The recruiter came up to the bar, teeth gritted. “Please, take the offer, you’re hurting the Eldeen.”

“Ah shut up,” the scarred man grumbled, putting back his lungmist in one swallow.

“Shut the door!” barked the halfling, gripping his wand. “And lower your hood, I don’t take kindly to strangers hiding their faces this late at night!”

“It is cold,” said the hooded man said. He lowered his cowl to show that he was a half-elf. Chain shirt armor showed underneath his cape, and he wore a longsword on one hip and a shortsword on the other. “The hood was to protect me from the cold.” The half-elf walked closer to the bar, and scanned the room with hard, blue eyes.

The recruiter turned, and a smile fit easily onto his face as he sized up the newcomer and his weapons. “So friend, I don’t suppose you would consider protecting liberty against the butchers of Aundair, and the –”

“Save it,” the half-elf said. He pulled a piece of folded leather from a pocket and displayed it. It said his name was Parnain d’Medani, and the badge attached to it proclaimed that he was a Master Inquisitive with writ from the Wardens of the Wood. “Like the barkeep, I serve no country or crown. I’m here on work.”

“I don’t need more of this noise,” the scarred man said, moving away from the bar with a bit more agility than a man in his cups normally had. “You two can play who has the bigger one without me.”

Parnain grabbed the arm of the scarred human as he attempted to walk past. “I’ve been looking for you, actually.” The Medani’s eyes were without pity, without hesitation.

“Let go of me,” the scarred man said. His voice was no longer slurred, and he yanked hard.

Parnain yanked harder, and the scarred man fell to the floor.

“Hands off the paying customer, half-elf,” snapped the halfling, taking his wand out and pointing it square at the Medani inquisitive. “You may have a badge but you don’t have a warrant.”

“I don’t need one, according to my writ from the Wardens,” Parnain pointed out, somehow watching both the scarred man and the halfling. The scarred man seemed to be trying to figure out where his best chance of survival was as he carefully and slowly rose to his feet.

“This is Ghallanda territory,” the halfling said, his grip on the wand tightening. “And I say you need a warrant.”

“I don’t need a warrant,” Parnain d’Medani said, slowly withdrawing a packet from a belt pouch. “Not to arrest a changeling agent provocateur in the service of Aundair.”

“What sort of bilge is this?” asked the scarred man. “I’m Grinno of Havenglen, ask anyone! I didn’t serve two tours of duty to get accused by some House-kissed popinjay!”

The Ghallanda operative’s eyes narrowed at the word ‘House-kissed.’ “I thought you said that you served three tours of duty,” the halfling noted carefully, lowering his wand.

The scarred human who called himself Grinno of Havenglen ran for the door. The Medani inquisitive punched him, sending him staggering backwards. The recruiter, no doubt seeing a propaganda advantage, kicked the back of the scarred man’s knee, toppling him with a sickening sound of tearing cartridge.

Parnain threw the packet in his hand, and it exploded as it struck the prone man. Dust arose around him, glowing briefly with a discharged spell. The dust settled on his skin. The scars faded, the color faded, the hair shifted, and the man’s limbs grew skinnier, more elongated.

What was left was a humanoid with pale and gray skin, and thin hair. A changeling. Considerably younger than the human it had been pretending to be.

“Is Grinno of Havenglen still alive, then?” the recruiter asked. The look of satisfaction on his face was savage.

“It’s the least that he has to answer for,” Parnain told him. “Your assistance was appreciated. Now back off.” The recruiter read the Medani’s tone and stepped well clear.

“I work for Thrane, not Aundair,” the changeling said, gripping his knee while wincing in pain. “Please, you have no beef with Thrane, right?”

Parnain d’Medani produced a set of manacles. “I already know who you work for,” he said, approaching the prone man. “Even though I bet you don’t.”

The changeling spy, who actually did think that he was reporting to Aundair, flinched as the manacles went on.

Chapter 3 - Part 2

Festa buzzed over the treetops, keeping himself invisible with his inherent arcane energy as the leaves rustled slightly in the breeze. It was a soft breeze, barely noticeable to the bigger folk, but Festa – who weighed barely four pounds – had to bank hard to the left to avoid being shoved down into the branches.

A sparrow burst upwards, nearly colliding with the pixie that it could not see. Festa restrained himself from speaking a naughty word, and swung downward to hug the nape of the ground. The pixie liked flying high because the view of the Reaches was better, but he was less likely to have a collision near the ground.

The thought of flying while visible so that the birds could see him was not an option. One of his uncles had been eaten by a hawk.

The pixie curved upwards, over a gassy knoll, and then came to a halt, hovering in mid-air.

Festa recognized the elf, mostly because he first recognized the eagle sitting on a nearby tree limb. It was the Gatekeeper druid with the stern face. The cranky elf was casting a spell to determine what magic had been used in the vicinity. The pixie could follow that sort of thing. He didn’t know how he did it, he simply did. Festa was on the serious side, for a fey creature, but he was by no means introspective.

“What was slain here?” the druid wondered aloud.

The pixie flew forward, but slowly, keeping an eye on the eagle’s sharp beak. Many of the big folk had died in this area, this was where Pienna and the Reachers had fought back the snooty people from across the river. Festa wasn’t sure how long ago it had been, not a week, but longer than yesterday, that he knew. He had been planning on flying past Chubat’s grave to put a flower petal on it. He wondered if the elf meant Chubat.

The druid was pursing his lips, studying a slightly burned area in the grass. Upon seeing the burn, Festa suddenly remembered.

“A carrion crawler!” cried the delighted pixie, popping into view.

The elf jumped back and swallowed what probably was a naughty word. The eagle spread his wings and yelled, causing the pixie to make himself invisible again.

“No, no do not go!” the elf commanded, rather sternly. He waved his hands, muttering magical words, and Festa found himself wreathed in blinking purple colors, fake flames that stuck with him no matter how he flew. They did not burn, or provide any heat. But they made his invisibility useless.

“Brother of nature do not let your bird eat Festa!” the pixie begged, noting that the eagle’s eyes were locked on his form.

“No, no, he will not,” the elf said in a more conciliatory term. “I apologize, for you startled me. One of the aberrations was here?”

“Yes,” Festa said, spitting. “Daelkyr-worm. Fagh! Bresbin killed it.”

“Bresbin?” The elf seemed confused.

“Aye,” Festa said.

“Please elaborate,” the elf said, moving a step forward, holding a smile on his face.

“Well, on the morning after they buried Chubat,” Festa said. “You know Chubat?”

“Focus,” the elf said. “Before the Reachers moved south and west to Varna and the Brelanders went north. What happened?”

“Carrion crawler,” Festa said. “Big one. Very big, more than others, hard chitin, acid tentacles.”

“A horrid animal, but a twisted thing,” the elf said, grimacing. “But Pienna did not slay it?”

Festa shook his head. “Crawler sprang without warning, no one was sure what brought it here. An air spirit told me yesterday that someone left a trail of food for it, but –”

“What happened here?” the elf pressed, his patience growing more false.

Festa swallowed, and considered flying away, but he wanted the elf druid to remove the fake flames around him so he decided to do as asked. “Crawler killed three men,” the pixie explained quickly. “Arrows and swords did not hurt it. Pienna was trying to stop it, Bresbin popped out of nowhere. Shot it. Carrion crawler keeled over dead, they burned it.”

“Who is Bresbin?” the elf asked, stepping forward again.

“Goblin archer, good at hiding, comes out of hiding from nowhere and shoots you,” Festa answered, moving an inch or so backwards.

“And killed it with one arrow?” the druid demanded.

“Said it was a family heirloom,” Festa explained, finding himself whining and not sure why. The elf made him nervous. “Arrow of slaying also holding other enchantments. Killed the crawler right away.”

“Family heirloom?” the elf frowned.

“Goblin say he’s a Gatekeeper, too,” Festa explained.

“The goblin is from the Shadow Marches?” The elf seemed very skeptical.

“Droaam. Then here, the Eldeen.” Festa flew a foot higher. “Druid, can you remove the flames?”

The elf held his hand out. “You need to sit in my palm to do it,” he said.

Festa frowned. He didn’t think the elf was being truthful. “The Gatekeeper is sure?”

“The goblin went with the Reachers?” the druid asked, ignoring Festa’s question.

“No, with Pienna,” Festa said. “She wanted to go by herself, she did, but Bresbin promised he was a Gatekeeper follower, so she took him with her.”

“Where did she go?” the druid asked, a cold desperation entering his voice.

“The flames?” Festa asked.

The elf was quiet for a moment, then stepped forward and cast a spell. The pixie relaxed, but then wondered why it seemed that the druid was casting an earth spell.

A stone jutted upwards, flowing like a candle melting in reverse, grabbing the pixie by his feet, sliding around his legs and thighs like cold snakes. Festa shrieked, trying to wriggle free, but to no avail. While he wriggled, the druid cast another spell, and the cold flames around Festa vanished along with his invisibility. In seconds the rock was a hard, solid prison around the lower half of Festa’s body, and the pixie was exposed for all to see.

The elf stepped forward, and glared down at the pixie. Cold, sickly fear spread through the pixie’s body.

“Where is Pienna now?” the druid asked, a sick, hard desperation in his eyes.

“Nature-brother, Festa is a fey, not a twisted flesh!” the pixie exclaimed. “Festa is not the Gatekeeper’s enemy!”

The druid leaned down. “Where. Is. Pienna?”

Festa began to shiver. Needing to fly, needing to flee, but being unable to. He fought back tears. “Festa promised not to tell,” he said, trying to sound big.

The elf withdrew a very sharp needle, half as long as Festa’s body, from a pouch on his belt. The needle was made of cold iron, making Festa’s flesh crawl just by looking at it.

“Festa will tell,” the druid said, leaning forward.

No one but Aruunis and his eagle heard the pixie’s screams of pain. It took almost an hour, for Festa was braver than even Festa knew, but in the end the pixie talked.

Chapter 3 - Part 1

THAN DREAMED OF IN YOUR PHILOSOPHY

Two hours before sunset on the 19th of Aryth, 993 YK, on the banks of the Wynarn River.

Pienna was in the form of a hawk. Aside from liking the plumage, she found the animal’s sharp eyesight perfect for keeping an eye on potential enemy forces at a distance. At the moment those potential enemies were a pair of Aundairian light cavalry scouts. The horsemen stayed well to the east of the river, and seemed to be concerned with defense, not offense. Pienna watched them from her perch atop a tree who roots were half in the river that had been a bustling route of trade before war had come here.

They finally galloped off, and she flew to the ground, changing to her normal, human form as she landed. That made he wince somewhat. She was no longer young, or even nearly young, and such stunts were better left to younger druids.

But even younger druids knew better than to appear to have chosen sides in this war. Aruunis’ accusations of partisanship still stung her. Especially since they were true.

Had you seen Merylsward, Pienna thought to herself, if imagining directing the comment to the stern elf, had you seen the bodies of the children, you may have felt differently. She had not raised that argument with Aruunis, hadn’t really debated with him, instead preferring to let the man vent and then give half-truths and assurances that she would never give Aundair cause to target the Gatekeeper sect.

And it hurt her to have to give such assurances, because she knew that Aruunis had been right. Aundair was willing to do whatever it took to win, even if it meant fireballing children or targeting those who kept the world safe.

Or leading carrion crawlers to us, she thought. No sane person trafficked with the daelkyr creations, but desperation made many consider the insane. And Aundair was desperate now. Chubat’s Battle, as they were now calling it, had blunted a drive meant to split the Reacher forces in twain. The loss of so many powerful wizards had made the former masters of the Eldeen back away from their rebellious western province (as they saw it), and focus their attention elsewhere.

She closed her eyes, trying not to remember the screams of men torn apart by the hulking thing. Unlike other carrion crawlers, it had been big, ferocious, and bloodthirsty. It had struck the other side of the camp from her, killing three men in less than a minute. More would have died if not for her new traveling companion’s quick actions at the time.

“Miss Pienna?” came a soft, dutiful voice.

Pienna turned to see the goblin leaning on his shortbow. “Don’t worry, Brezzy,” she said. “We’re moving on.”

The goblin nodded and smiled. She smiled back. Brezzy was such a simple creature, and his simple happiness was infectious.

Pienna walked past him, gesturing for him to follow. She did not see the sudden shift in his eyes, the calculation that replaced the guileless act.

Chapter 2 - Part 15

“No, no, no,” the elderly tiefling said, scattering the runestones again. “No!”

Pellhomno snorted, his hooves pawing at the ground. “I grow impatient, seer,” he said. I have heard many promises within the past few days, but I have seen no results.”

“I have results,” she said. She swallowed. “They are – gone.”

“Gone where?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “There is no answer to what you ask. They have no where. They are more than dead, for even if they were dead, the matter that made up their bodies, even if…There’s nothing.”

“I gave you something that you desired, witch,” Pellhomno reminded her. “You said I would have answers within the hour. That was how many days ago?”

“They were and now they are not!” she said. “They simply are not!”

Pellhomno stared at her, then realized that she wasn’t lying. “Did they travel to another plane?” he asked.

She slowly shook her head. “Even then, even then there is a trace, for all the planes are tied to one another, and while many diviners would not be able to find them, I should be able to…” Her voice trailed off. “They’ve – they’ve been obliterated.”

Pellhomno compressed his lips, then he turned and galloped off. The Chamber needed to be informed that their last hope had vanished.

Chapter 2 – Part 14

Thomas laughed. The fiend driving the boat had been winning, had come very close to throwing Thomas’ control off, but something had jerked it away. What that something was, Thomas cared not. What was important was the win.

Now my trump card, the half-daelkyr thought. He gripped the startled body of the stormstalk and yanked it from its roots in his flesh. Pain and weakness hit him as he lost blood and tore nerve endings, but he was prepared for it, and his concentration on the ship did not waver.

The stormstalk hit the floor, and twisted around in terror to stare at its former master. Thomas ignored it, closing his eyes and grabbing with his mind.

The walls behind him buckled, and then peeled away. The wall was still there, but thinner, as he mentally forced the now-pliant wood into long, twisting strips.

Space and time, the Crimson Ship moves space and time, Thomas realized, grinning, finally understanding what he held.

The strips of wood, still connected to the ship, lurched forward and burrowed into the spot near Thomas’ neck where the stormstalk had been. Power and awareness flooded Thomas’ mind and the ship became his fully.

The Crimson Ship had been built to be adaptable. It wasn’t a symbiont, but Thomas could make it behave like one.

“I claim thee,” Thomas said, speaking the guttural, twisted language of his father’s people. “I CLAIM THEE!”

The stormstalk, realizing that it was no longer needed, blasted the door jamb, and then escaped through the newly-opened crack. Its former master ignored it.

Thomas opened his eyes, light emanating from them. He could still see, but he did not bother, not with his eyes. He saw with his mind. He saw the latticework of dimensional warping, the power behind the ship, the forces that –

That were surging unfettered, beyond his control.

“I CLAIM THEE!” he shrieked. But it was a panicked cry, not the triumphant utterance of a few moments before.

White light filled the world, and the Crimson Ship – along with its occupants – ceased to exist.

Chapter 2 - Part 13

The Captain gripped the wheel, trying to identify the source of the rebellion. For the first time in centuries a sweat broke out on his brow, and he was grateful that the hag was not there to see it.

“This cannot be,” he gasped. Someone would have to be an expert at manipulating magical devices in order to –

The wheel jerked a bit, and he jerked it back, snarling. He expanded his senses, using his powers. Below decks? He was shocked. A hunter, a paladin, a warforged, and a barbarian, how could one of them do this?

“The half-daelkyr,” he realized aloud. Some symbiont was doing this for the spawn of the twisted ones. It mattered not, the Captain’s focus was far greater, he had centuries of experience, and –

The Captain’s concentration shattered like glass when the first arrow pierced him, gouging a slice from the side of his neck. He had rock-hard flesh and magical damage reduction, but the composite longbow in the hands of the half-orc staggered him and sprayed the ship’s wheel with dark, black blood.

And worse than the physical wound, his mind had slipped.

Chapter 2 - Part 12

Ois tightened the lid on the chamber pot, twisting its seal into place. As she set the pot into a slight depression under her bunk, she admired its craftsmanship. Many chamber pots were made to seal away the smell of waste, but few fit so perfectly, even those in Ghallanda inns.

She stood and turned to the mirror that she had found. It had been in the drawers, and was now propped up on a ledge that probably had been meant to serve as a desk.

She picked up a small sponge and dipped it into a pitcher of scented water. She did not know if Delegado had used his House’s powers to find these things or if they came with the cabin, but she thanked the Flame for them. She had not had anything near a proper grooming since the Festering Holt, and she had not bathed in any fashion since she’d passed through Varna. Her race’s ability to shapeshift helped with grooming, but only somewhat. Accumulated sweat was accumulated sweat, and the cosmetic malleability of her flesh could only cover ragged hair, not even it out in truth.

She stared at her reflection briefly. She was nude, holding the dripping sponge as she studied her grayish-whitish skin. Her form was her own now, and she could see the darker gray spots that were bruises, and thin white lines that were scars. She had healed much in the previous two days of sleep, but the infiltration of the demonic city and the escape from it had left many a mark on her.

And of course she had the scar on her face from Droaam. She tried not to think about that, afraid that she would again project bitterness onto Delegado.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she told herself in the mirror as she began rubbing the sponge on her neck, her arms, and her breasts. “I cannot blame him.”

Memories came to her as she bathed while standing upright. All changelings practiced with mirrors when they were young, using them to master their abilities. After she had passed through a difficult adolescence she had used her abilities to give herself a more attractive form.

Delegado had wanted to see her true form. He had refused to make love to her until she had shown him.

I want to make love to him again, she thought, a tear flowing quietly from one eye as she washed herself. Surely the pleasures of the flesh are not evil, even with a non-believer. And he may even believe a little bit. And anyway, I have confounded the fiends, beaten them in their own city. Surely I am entitled to some happiness?

She set her teeth, and walked to the cabin door. Still unclothed she cracked the door open, just slightly. Now when he came to the door he would ‘accidentally’ see her.

Smiling a bit, she returned to bathing, only now careful to hold her posture so that she was no longer slouching, so that her form best attracted.

Surely I am entitled to some joy.

Chapter 2 – Part 11

Delegado entered his cabin. He had no desire to stay in the corridor where he might accidentally hear – well, he had no desire to stay in the corridor. And as he also had no desire to knock on Thomas’ door and strike up a chat, that left his cabin or the mess, and he wasn’t hungry.

His cabin was set up much as Ois’ was, and probably as Thomas’ was, too, although he had not seen the inside of the cabin taken by the half-daelkyr. The major differences were a bird stand, on which Feather was resting, and a mirror bolted to the wall. Ois’ room had a mirror, but it was in her drawers. He probably should have taken it out, but he hadn’t thought of it when he was in her room. It had been enough of a relief to see her awaken, and there had been so many details to tell…

Something bothered him, and he pushed the thought away. He had trouble focusing on the Captain. He remembered the glowing eyes, and how the thing had a way of making sense, but about the other details he recalled little – no, he could recall, but his mind would not focus.

Irritated without knowing why, Delegado unzipped the long bag and checked his father’s body. It had dried fairly well, and aside from its shriveling through loss of dust, it was whole with no decay.

The bag was similar to ones used by the armies of Khorvaire to pick their dead soldiers off of the field. Body bags.

Like the hawk stand, it just happened to be in his cabin.

Delegado wanted to wonder about that, but he didn’t. Instead he turned to Orphan’s body, which lay on the floor next to the half-orc’s bed. Other than brush Orphan off, Delegado could do nothing for the warforged. The half-orc had no tools, and he was no smith in any event. He had no idea where to begin with the cords and cracks and things.

He’d tied the headband that they’d taken from the demon city around Orphan’s head. At least he could wear that which the Balanced Palm venerated.

Delegado stopped and peered into Orphan’s eyes, nodding in satisfaction when he saw the dim glow. It had neither faded nor grown. Warforged did not heal by themselves.

“Well, not unless they’re monks like you that can fix themselves,” Delegado whispered aloud. “Of course you have to be awake to do it.”

As his mind drifted to how he could fix Orphan, he felt it suddenly surge back to taking care of Ois. That had happened several times since they’d come on board.

Delegado frowned, and sat on his bunk. Something was wrong.

He closed his eyes, breathed in and out, and let his mind go blank.

Stay below, popped into his head. Take care of the female changeling.

The half-orc opened his eyes. The impulses to stay below when an outdoorsman like himself should be wanting to go topside…he hadn’t questioned it when he was taking care of Ois, as he had not questioned the impulse to attend to the woman he loved. But why was he thinking of her as ‘the female changeling,’ and why had those thoughts jumped into his mind when he was thinking of nothing?

He pondered, and then saw glowing eyes.

Why should you fight me when you will lose, the Captain had said. It is enough that I am here, enough that I am the Captain. You need not ask questions.

Why should we trust you, you are one of them! demanded Thomas.

The eyes had burned brighter. Be calm, you have no reason to fight me. And they had calmed and lowered their weapons. Half-orc, stay below and take care of the female changeling. Delegado had nodded, put his bow on his shoulder, and then picked up Ois without thinking. Half-daelkyr, bring the bodies down below, you’ll take care of them.

One is dead and the other is a construct, Thomas had said, returning his greataxe next to the staff in the sheath on his back. They need not my attention.

Then bring them below and you stay below, the Captain had said, again his eyes burning more brightly. If you have naught to do then stay in your cabin and think about life. He seemed irritated. Hurry, both of you, I have to get away from the Wastes.

“And we went along like small children who don’t know how to ask questions,” Delegado said aloud, grabbing his bow as he stood. He still had a few arrows. He snapped his fingers and Feather woke up, the hawk’s eyes blinking and questioning. “He did a mind-f’test on me!”

Feather squawked a small query.

“Topside, old friend,” Delegado said. “And quiet. I have to steal some more arrows. I have no intention of letting this galig-eater see me coming.”

Range doesn’t just beat numbers, Delegado thought, stepping out of his cabin with a quiet woodsman’s walk while he gripped his bow. I bet that mind-magic of yours won’t have the range to get me from a hundred feet away.

He thought of getting Ois or Thomas, but rejected the idea. If the fiendish Captain saw all three of them, it would know that they meant battle, whereas if it only saw Delegado the half-orc could pretend to just want to see the ocean.

Of course the plans were to not let the damned thing see anything until several arrows had perforated its internal workings.

The half-orc snarled quietly, jutting his lower teeth while he crept to the stairs that led up to the deck.

Chapter 2 – Part 10

The sky overhead was mostly clouds, but in a few places blue showed, and the sun’s light peeked through. All around was a cold sea, calm for now, but brooding with promise.

The Crimson Ship was heading due west, almost alone on the cold ocean. Its sails were full, and its wheel and rudder fixed, even if its master was not currently attending to the wheel – not physically anyway.

The Captain stood at the port railing, in discussion with a woman who hovered next to the ship. She maintained her speed with the ship, although she stayed next to it, not dare hovering over it (or worse, landing on it) without the Captain’s consent.

She was not beautiful by the standards of the common races across Eberron. In fact, she was hideous. Her skin was the deep blue and violet of a bruise. Pustules, blisters, and open sores decorated her skin. Her hair was scraggly black wire, barely covering upswept horns. Her clothes were the finest linen, but covered in bloodstains and interwoven with bones from various bodies. Her eyes radiated a reddish light, although she kept them downcast as she spoke to the Captain. Her mouth, full of needlelike teeth, was kept in a respectful shape as she addressed him.

“You know that they see themselves as your brethren,” she began. “These are not strangers trying to unjustly meddle in your affairs.”

“Putting aside that I am a wholly different genus that those who sent you, I took my own path apart from those who battled the dragons millennia ago,” the Captain noted wryly. “Your attempts at appealing to racial loyalty are clumsy and beneath a diplomat of your caliber.”

“I only meant to remind you of the respect that they have for you as brethren,” the night hag told him.

“They respect naught but power,” the Captain responded. “And if their respect was true and not desperate, they would have sent Kyrale.”

“Kyrale was not your lover once,” the hag said with a breath, daring to look up into his glowing eyes.

“Do not presume that the sensual experiences of my youth give you any advantage with me,” the Captain told her with a tone that fit the weather. “I listened to you out of recognition of who sent you, true, but I am not to be drawn into the plans and battles of the Lords of Dust. Nor any other group on this planet. I serve Eberron and Eberron alone, and this is known to rajahs.”

“The dragons pointed you towards our beach,” she said. The words were accusing, but the tone was deferential, and she had dropped her eyes again.

“Is it ‘our’ beach then?” he asked her. “You stand proud on your role as a negotiator, but you claim proprietary interest?”

“The mortal races ought not intrude!” she said, unable to keep the heat out of her voice.

“Tell that to the Carrion Tribes,” the Captain retorted. “Tell it to the orc paladins that defeat the agents of the rajahs time and time again. Tell it to the criminals, the prospectors, the riff-raff, and the deranged that come to the shores of that land.” He shook his head. “My passengers may have trespassed and angered –”

“And stolen,” she interjected.

“And stolen,” he agreed. “But I care naught. They are my passengers, and you may exert your claim on them after they disembark. That you interrupt my journey is an affront. You and your masters –”

“Clients,” she interjected again.

“Clients then,” he agreed, although this time with less patience. “You know my rules, the laws that I govern and that govern me. Track them down after they make landfall.”

She did not dare ask him his destination, but instead she played the card that she had been paid to play. “You let the Argonnessen Wyrms direct you,” she accused. “Your own rules have been violated. You were not headed to our beach, not initially.”

He smirked. “For so many years of planning and study you know so little. The Wyrms directed your forces so that when my passengers would choose to flee based on the opposition’s weakest lines, they would flee to my next area of travel. After that I was called by the nature of the beach.”

“No one's blood hit the water!” she objected. “The last battle fought with them –”

The ship shuddered, and the Captain had to catch himself on the railing to keep from falling. His elongated head swiveled towards the ship's wheel, which was now turning to port.

“You need to leave,” he told the hag with gritted teeth.

“I had nothing to do with this,” she sputtered. “I respect your sanctum and your –”

“LEAVE!” he barked, a black ray of negative energy flashing from an upraised hand to pass within inches of her head.

He had missed on purpose and she knew it. She turned and flew westward, wanting to be our of is earshot before she sent her report via a sending spell.

Chapter 2 – Part 9

Thomas sat cross-legged, his eyes shut, finding his center.

The half-daelkyr was naked save for a loincloth. His clothes lay in a pile atop his armor and weapons and few remaining possessions. To his right was a bowl that held the residue of his last meal, eaten almost 24 hours before. It had been porridge, the same kind that Delegado was feeding Ois.

Thomas was not thinking of Ois. He had purged her from his conscious mind. She was a distraction.

Thomas’ body was lean, but well-muscled. His fingers and feet had calluses, and several of his fingernails and toenails were cracked. His body sported several scars, some old, some new. There were many new bruises as well, including a long, ugly one across his back where the harpy had struck his armor.

Thomas’ eyes were closed. His stormstalk, normally a weaving and bobbing thing, lay limply on one shoulder. Its eye was shut as well, and its small brain was quiet. Thomas had spent his first several hours in the cabin re-establishing his dominance over the symbiont.

Thomas had been nervous about how the stormstalk, after many years of being his mute servant, had suddenly grown from transmitting images and feelings to actually speaking to his mind in complete sentences. The stormstalk had not ‘spoken’ like that since Thomas had first exiled himself to the Icehorns.

Thomas would not let it speak again. He could not.

A trickle of sweat dripped from Thomas’ brow, stinging one of the fresh scratches on his body. Thomas had taken his dagger and shaved all of the hair on his body; head, eyebrows, armpits, nether regions, chest, everything. It was a way to let things go, remove them from himself.

Thomas’ early life had been about finding power in rage, then subtlety, and then finally in manipulating the miniscule ticks of magic that empowered so much of the world. The half-daelkyr was able to instinctively activate and manipulate powerfully contained magicks.

Like now.

At first Thomas had been simply trying to remove his mind from the chaos. He both loved the promise of the Silver Flame and he hated it. He both respected Ois for what she had done, and he hated her for lying to him. He venerated clergy and despised changelings.

And he loved her. As a bugbear even.

That was a true irony. It had been harder to love a goblinoid than a changeling. The goblins had been his father’s enemies, so long ago. The orc druids had been dismissed, ignored even, while the goblinoid armies had been the focus of the conquering daelkyr.

That had been a tactical error, needless to say.

But Ois did not know that, would not know it, would not understand. Neither she nor Delegado had realized how carefully he had held the greataxe away from her. The large weapon was enchanted with a bane magic against goblinoids, left over from an interplanar was millennia ago. Thomas had been so careful with it around Flamebearer.

And it turned out that Flamebearer was not a goblinoid at all, but a changeling. A race born to deviousness and lies.

If the Silver Flame was stability, then how could it be represented by a changeling?

These had been his thoughts. Emotional chaos, piling on top of his second daelkyr mind constantly trying to figure out how to refit flesh, piling on top of his stormstalk becoming more mentally aggressive, left him…needing a shave.

Needing a challenge.

Needing a purpose and a distraction.

Needing to let go of one thing and start another.

It had been easy doing that, out in the world. He accomplished that by simply moving. He’d never really owned more than he could carry, so he would just move on to some other place that caught his fancy.

Not possible to do here, he was on a ship. A ship whose master, a powerfully magical being in his own right, had specifically limited to Thomas and the others in terms of areas of access.

Thomas had then realized, somewhere in the depths of his first night, that the entire ship was one device. Like a wand, a ring, or the staff that Oalian had lent to him, the entire Crimson Ship was a singly-contained magical unit with multiple functions.

And now, after nearly an entire day, he finally had found its trigger.

Thomas’ eyes – all three, including the stormstalk’s – opened suddenly as he felt the control flow through him.

The Crimson Ship was his.

He was no longer dependent on the Captain, or Delegado, or the Silver Flame, or anyone.

A grim smile, with no humor whatsoever, spread across Thomas’ face as he stood.