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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Twenty-Eight: Salvation

Sitting and laughing as they eat their feast, the men and women enjoy what precious time they have together. Bantering back and forth, a long-haired human throws a bread roll at the Helngar that sits across from him. It bounces off of his bicep, landing on the plate of half-eaten fish belonging to another human. It knocks his fork from his hand and splashes his side of beans into his face.

“Hey! Watch it!" He growls, pushing the bread roll aside.

“Aww, we're sorry, little man." The Helngar mockingly coos, reaching over and ruffling his hair.

“Is wittle Kwistoff angwy?" The human taunts him.

“Hey, I'm a Captain, same as you guys!" Kristoff exclaims.

“Was that a whimper I heard?" The human laughs.

“I think it was! Captain Mayweather's chest hairs must finally be coming in!" The Helngar laughs.

The Helngar sticks a clawed finger behind Kristoff's breastplate. He pulls it gently forward, leaning over as he pantomimes peeking beneath it.

“I think I see a single hair under here!"

“Quit it, you asshole!" Kristoff pushes him away.

The Helngar is shoved hard enough that he plants a clawed hand atop the table and uses his long, tapering, prehensile tail to help steady him. He glares with his glowing, red eyes.

“Woah! Respect your fellow Captains, Captain!" The human exclaims.

“How did you even get promoted anyway? You were only just suckling on your mother's tit, weren't you?!" The Helngar growls.

“I'm twenty-four!" Kristoff defensively replies.

“I think that's how long I've done this job." Another human remarks.

“And what kind of name is 'Kristoff Mayweather' anyway?!" A Falmun laughs.

“It's a normal name on the mainland. I could easily say the same thing about you and your strange, elven names."

“Horse shit!" The Helngar scoffs.

“Back off, Bozak!" Kristoff retorts.

“Well now! Someone's looking for a fight!" A Falmun chuckles, watching from his end of the table.

“Indeed!" Bozak chirps, eyeing Kristoff.

“This might call for a preemptive strike. What do you think?" The first human Captain remarks.

Glancing between each other, the men share sinister grins. They turn their eyes toward Kristoff Mayweather, who rises from his seat and steps back.

“Oh no..."

“Come here, you!"

Marching through the long hall, boots thud and the plated armor clanks. Soldiers salute as he walks down the hall, lit only by the many ensconced torches that cover the old, gray stones. Reaching a set of heavy wooden doors, reinforced with iron, he grasps the handles, depresses the latches and shoves them open. The Captains all stand around a corner of the room, pausing as soon as their superior enters. They move away from the wall, standing at attention and saluting the older Helngar.

“Sir!" They shout in unison.

Marching slowly before them, the blue and white furred Helngar narrows his glowing, ice-blue eyes. With a two-tone patter, white fur covers his snout, neck, chest and belly; blue fur covers the rest of him. The addition of blue waves, hanging like icicles from the top of his snout, appear like sharp teeth; two exceptionally large waves, one on either side of his snout, look like enlarged, fang-like canines. He pauses and stares at Bozak and the human Captains who stand on either side of him. Einyr 'Icefang' snarls, baring his teeth.

“Are you ready for a real assignment, soldiers?!"

“Sir, yes sir!" They exclaim.

“Good! King Vashalak himself has commanded you serve the Crown in an important mission! A fugitive is on the loose, and we need you to head to Sector Nine to search for him." Icefang instructs.

“Sir, yes sir!"

“We're looking for our priority target; you're all familiar with him, I'm sure. If you're not, all pertinent information is easily accessible at the Warrant's Office, and should you be in a hurry, that same information has been handed over to the Guild of Bounty Hunters; you may find a guildhall there and commandeer some posters. He's the one with the bounty that could buy an island." Icefang continues.

The soldiers all smirk or chuckle.

“The only thing I can add is the description of the ship. It's a strange cross between a Galleon and a Frigate, with the typical design features of both. There seems to be some sort of chimney in the center, possibly for a workshop. No name has been given, but with that description, do we really need one? Anyway, as soon as you're able, you're to-"

Walking along the row, Einyr Icefang pauses at a telling sight; there's a gap in the line. He knows that someone's missing. He looks to the left and to the right.

“Who stands here?!" He demands, pointing at the empty space.

The Captains look amongst each other, barely containing their grins as they remain silent. After a moment, however, several Captains, including Bozak, stand aside. Icefang's eyes grow wide before narrowing with rage. There, mounted on the wall by his armor, Kristoff Mayweather hangs like a painting.

“H-hi sir..."

He sheepishly waves at his Chief-General, his arms outstretched as he hangs by his armpits. Intended to suspend iron chandeliers by their rings, which have yet to be installed, two chains with large hooks are slipped through iron hoops mounted high up on the wall; each hook is tucked beneath a shoulder strap of his armor. Growling in frustration, Icefang storms up to the human. At six-foot-six, Icefang stands eye level with the fair-haired human. At five-foot-six, Kristoff's feet dangle a foot above the stone floor, the heels of his plated boots clanking against the wall.

“What's the meaning of this?!" Icefang demands, turning back and glaring at his other Captains.

“Well, sir, you see-"

“Shut up!" Icefang snaps at Kristoff.

“Yes, sir!"

Captains snicker in the background, once again drawing Icefang's attention. He looks back, glaring at them.

“If I may, sir..." Bozak steps forward.

“Speak..."

“Kristoff graciously offered to stand guard as we ate, and as short as he is, we thought he could use a boost."

The Captains can no longer hold back. Laughing aloud, even Icefang can't help but chuckle, however silently. He waves Bozak and a few of his fellow Captains over.

“Get him down." Icefang casually orders.

“Yes, sir."

As they pull the smaller human from the hooks, he adjusts his armor, clearly made uncomfortable from the metal of his breastplate digging into his armpits. Einyr Icefang waves his men away, standing before Kristoff Mayweather and glaring down at him.

“Uhm... Captain Mayweather reporting... Sir."

“I can see that... Son! ... I have a special assignment for you..."

“Oh?!" Kristoff chirps, his face lighting up with excitement.

The other Captains take notice, watching intently.

“Yes! While these will be forced to scour Sector Nine, I want you to do something more important."

“I'm at your service, sir!" The human chirps.

“In Sector Eight, there's an island. On that island is a temple, a temple of great importance. Go to the map room and look for Nirthen. I'm sure you've heard of it. I want you to collect your crew and make your way there as soon as possible."

“... And do what, sir?"

“Guard it." Icefang coolly replies.

The men in the background snicker, some of them covering their mouths as they try not to reveal their amusement. Every Captain has heard of Nirthen and what's transpired there. After King Vashalak issued his purge order, it's common knowledge; the island is currently uninhabited.

“Oookay..." Kristoff raises a brow.

“It's a very important island, son, and it's likely that you'll need to be on your guard." Icefang rests a clawed hand on Kristoff's shoulder. “Be vigilant. This is a big job I'm giving you."

Einyr Icefang's sternness is easily mistaken for sincerity by the inexperienced Captain. He smiles wide and nods, barely able to contain his own excitement.

“Right away, sir! I won't fail you!"

With that, Kristoff dashes away, racing out of the dining hall and heading straight for the map room.

“... Idiot." Icefang chuckles.

With his mission accomplished, Icefang dismisses his more competent Captains, allowing them to carry out their new assignment. Now that they have a lead, it's time they hunted down their missing scribe. Leaving the barracks, Icefang walks through the capital city, moving along the outer edge, near the harbor. He passes a row of stakes, pausing to look them over. With a twisted smile, he admires the severed heads which decorate each stake. Continuing on his way, he eventually reaches the palace, returning to his King. He finds him seated in a throne, a leg dangling over an armrest as he drapes himself over the immensely expensive seat.

“So?! Is it done?!" King Vashalak asks with childlike excitement.

“Yes, my Lord. It's done."

“Good!" He springs out of his throne. “I can hardly wait to have him! This is so exciting!"

“I still don't know why you want me to send someone to Nirthen. There's no way he'd ever go back there. Not if he has a brain, anyway." Icefang remarks.

“It's a gut feeling, Einyr. I remember how often I heard you and the late King Euralian say that you should always trust your gut... Perhaps Euralian was slipping..."

“Perhaps." Icefang murmurs.

“I mean, if he wasn't, I wouldn't be on the throne right now!" King Vashalak laughs. “Anyway, you didn't really lose anything! I did say to send your weakest link; whomever you dispatched to that graveyard is no one of significance!"

“I suppose..." Icefang murmurs, collecting his silver goblet and pouring himself some wine. “Still, though... We could use even the weakest among us to search for him."

“Don't worry, Einyr! We'll find him, one way or another."

Opening his eyes, Irzain rolls over on his cot. The light trickles in through the porthole. He listens to the waves lapping against the hull of the ship, and the creaking of her wood. Unable to sleep any further, he sits up in bed, running his fingers through his hair. After taking a moment to collect himself, shaking off the drowsiness, Irzain washes with his basin and cloth, dresses himself and steps out of his cabin. The Arona-Dahl and her crew are quiet; the past twelve days have been startlingly uneventful. Walking along the hallway, Irzain's eyes scan the cabin doors, most of which are still closed. Valan's door is open, however; his room is empty.

That's not exactly unusual, as of late. After returning to the ship from Bremen, Valan was often heard suffering through nightmares. He wakes at odd hours of the night, unable to maintain regular sleep. With nothing but his thoughts, the gunman spends increasingly more time in a workshop near the vessel's boiler room. Established by Trellan, who saw his potential as another visionary inventor, it provides the human's only escape. At first, Irzain was eager to help him, but Valan's hostility and the crew's indifference quickly dissuaded him. Even Jarae, the most distressed by Valan's change, only occasionally bothers to venture into the lower decks to check on him.

“Hey."

“By the Seraphs!" Irzain whirls around.

He turns toward the staircase that leads to the watertight hatch and the main deck. With a clawed hand resting against the wall, Steingar stands near the corner, watching the scribe with his glowing eyes.

“I'm sorry if I scared you."

“That's alright... What're you doing up so early? Getting breakfast?" Irzain asks.

“No." Steingar approaches him. “Actually, I was going to wake everyone else. The island is just on the horizon; we'll finally meet Mairlynn's mysterious friend."

“Finally!" Irzain exclaims.

“Breakfast sounds good though; I haven't eaten yet. Care to join me?"

“It's a date." Irzain jokingly replies.

“Don't call it that... Ever... Let's go."

The duo prepares their meals in the galley, cooking tin cans of meat and steaming vegetables purchased from a brief stop at an outlying island. Trellan suddenly appears, as if attracted by the scent of cooking food. He leaves the pilothouse empty, trusting Aron-Dahla to pilot herself. By the time their meals are ready, Kirsta, Jarae and Mairlynn have awoken and joined them. It's a pleasant meal, as they often are, with lighthearted banter.

“You know, the one thing I just can't get over is how boring it is on this ship. I can handle everything else, but boredom is the worst!" Steingar complains.

“You could join us in our games." Kirsta remarks, motioning between herself and Mairlynn. “That always helps me."

“Or you and I could pass the time in your room." Mairlynn winks.

“A lovely offer, but... Erm..."

“Oh, come on! You must be growing tired of using your hand, and I come with my own lubricants!" Mairlynn exclaims, her frustration evident in her glare.

“Settle down." Kirsta interjects.

“Ugh..." The Falmun grumbles.

“But you were a soldier, weren't you?" Jarae swiftly changes the subject. “Aren't you on ships for even longer periods?"

“We were at sea for weeks or even months at a time. Half our hold was food. That was different though. Those ships aren't anything like Arona. She doesn't need much help, whereas the Galleons and Sloops and what-have-you require scores of men to handle the rigging, raise the sails, maintain the ship. Hell, this ship's coating is so strong that I don't even have to swab the decks! I worked so hard as a soldier I hardly noticed my time at sea, but now I need to exercise just so I don't overeat for entertainment..." Steingar rants.

“By being nearly autonomous, Arona allows people to enjoy their free time. If you're bored, perhaps that just means that you're a boring person?" Trellan quips.

“Perhaps... Maybe I will try your little games next time." Steingar glances at Kirsta.

Finishing their meals, the women clear the tables while the men head to the main deck. Valan, however, has been decidedly absent. Preparing a plate of now cold food, Jarae leaves Kirsta and Mairlynn to find the gunman below deck. Making her way down the steps, she finds herself in the lowest level of the ship. The amber lights, powered by the steam turbines, are unlike anything she's ever seen before, but after a time they're now very familiar to her. She carries the plate along the hall, passing the boiler room and finding Valan's workshop. Clank, clank, clank. Poking her head inside, she finds him hammering away at his latest project, sweat running along his face and soaking his clothes.

“Hi." She speaks softly.

Valan pauses mid-strike, holding the hammer above his head. He turns, glancing over his shoulder at her as she steps into the room. His blue-green eyes turn toward the plate she carries.

“Is it morning already?" He asks, setting the hammer beside his project.

“Yeah. You couldn't smell it?"

With a little smile, he taps a blackened finger against his thin, pointy, human nose.

“I keep forgetting... You know, you should really have a window in here."

“This room is below the waterline."

“Right. Trellan's been teaching you a lot about the ship, hasn't he?" She asks as she approaches him.

“This ship is a complex machine. He may have built it himself, but it's too much work to maintain alone, especially at his age. He needs someone else to help him."

Setting the plate atop his workbench, she looks over his project. Leaning against the workbench, Valan uses a rag to dry the sweat from his face and neck. Jarae picks up a strange block of metal, rectangular in shape, but slender and with seven holes drilled partway through it. As she examines the strange device, she regularly turns her shimmering eyes away, clandestinely watching the human. He flexes an arm, wincing from the pain; his muscles are sore from continuous labor.

“How long have you been down here?" She finally asks, setting the block aside.

With eyes closed, he flexes his muscles. In response to her, he merely shrugs his shoulders.

“You're always working; we never see you anymore." She comments.

“Did they finally notice?" He angrily snickers.

“They've always noticed, especially Mairlynn."

“It figures she would... And yet, I'm all alone down here."

“They don't know what's going on with you, and neither do I."

“You know, I... I never did thank you for buying these clothes for me." He begins.

“You're welcome." She smiles.

“When I woke up, Mairlynn took credit for it."

“Of course she did, but Valan?"

“Hm?"

“Please, don't change the subject."

Sighing in frustration, Valan collects his tools and moves away from the workbench. Making his way toward a wall of hooks, he hangs the tools that he'd been using. He doesn't answer her.

“Is it because of your nightmares? Is that why you're always down here now?" She asks, speaking sweetly to him.

“Why do you care?" He quietly asks, staring at the tools.

“Huh?! Wh-who says I do?!" She flushes beneath her fur.

“Aside from Trellan, who's teaching me how the Arona-Dahl works, you're my most frequent visitor. This is the fourth time in however many days it's been that you've come down here to bring me food. Irzain came down here twice to talk to me, and everyone but Kirsta has visited me once. That's probably because I smacked her... I do regret that, you know! I'm only saying that it just feels like you care more than the others do; if not for you, I may have already starved to death beside that workbench."

The Jaliscan hangs her head, her shimmering, pink eyes staring at the floor between them. He turns to face her, then takes a step toward her. Jarae reaches across her body, grasping her bicep with a clawed hand as she contorts her lips. Her brow softens and her long, rabbit-like ears, usually quite perky, slowly sag. It's a strange expression. He takes another step closer. Seeing the toes of his boots in her peripheral view, the only articles of his original clothing that Indana and Cicera hadn't destroyed, her long, whip-like tail ceases its swishing, hanging limply behind her.

“Jarae?" He speaks in a soft voice. “Are you okay?"

Glancing up at him, she looks him in the eyes, her short, felinesque snout still pointed diagonally at the floor. Gritting her teeth, her thin lips peel back. It's almost as if she's snarling.

“I'm fine... I'm only down here because Trellan asked me to check on you." The Jaliscan woman growls.

“Oh..."

His expression changes, the hope draining from his face. With a blank stare, he walks past Jarae and approaches the workbench, looking down at the plate. He glances back at her. The look on his face seems to question why she'd even bother bringing him food.

“... He wasn't sure if you were eating... After what you did, Kirsta doesn't care either way, and neither Steingar or Mairlynn want to risk coming down here and getting blown up by whatever nonsensical thing you're conjuring."

“I don't know magic, especially Haze." He remarks.

“Don't get cute with me!" She snaps. “Anyway... Irzain wasn't up for the task, so I agreed. I'm not here because I want to be, okay?! It's not like I care. This isn't how I'd like to spend my free time."

“Then don't!" He snarls.

“Wha-?!" Her brow raises in shock.

“If you dislike me so much then get the hell out of here and leave me alone! Maybe if I felt like people gave two shits about me, I wouldn't be down here, burying my anger and pain into my work!"

She steps back, startled by his sudden outburst. He's never sounded so angry at her before; even when they'd left him with Sovik, he targeted Steingar, Kirsta and Irzain for his wrath.

“All you do is come down here berate me and all I do is sit here and take it! Well, I'm done with that! If you can't at least act nice and pretend to care, then tell Trellan he can visit me himself! I won't be your burden anymore!"

Jarae is speechless. She feels herself trembling as she wonders how to handle the situation. He turns away from her, resting his hands atop the workbench. Picking up a long, octagonal tube, he seems to examine it for imperfections.

“T-Trellan wanted me to tell you that we're about to hit land... H-he wants you to come up." Jarae speaks softly, fearful of incurring another outburst.

“Fine... I'll be up shortly." He grumbles.

Unable to think of anything else to say, she walks slowly toward the door. With an icy sting in her chest and her bottom lip quivering, Jarae steps out of the workshop and into the hallway. She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, trying to calm her frazzled nerves. Glancing back, she peers into the room and watches Valan picking at the food on his plate, the octagonal tube in his other hand. With the back of her furry hand, she wipes away a single tear that escapes from her eye. She never meant to upset him. Reaching into a pocket, she retrieves her whittled lump of coal, looking at the hand-carved figures before turning her eyes back to Valan.

As she slips the little carving back into her pocket, he seems oblivious. With any luck, he won't try to confirm her hastily constructed story with Trellan. Reaching the main deck, Jarae finds the rest of the crew standing near the railing. There, barely a mile away, is the island where Mairlynn's friend, Draeolynn, supposedly lives. All are curious as to who this woman is; Mairlynn hasn't spoken at length, and when asked directly, went out of her way to give vague responses. No one even knows exactly what she looks like, or even how old the woman is, only that she's Falmun.

Steingar and Kirsta, ever the mindful soldiers, are on edge. They keep their weapons at the ready. Irzain, however, is excited to the point of anxiously pacing on the deck of the ship, tapping his fingertips against the wooden railing. Jarae notices something strange about Mairlynn, however. She cocks her head as she watches the Falmun for a moment. The diminutive elf's expression is solemn, even a little fearful. Does she not want to be here? Trellan brings the Arona-Dahl closer and closer. He's also uncertain about the visit, desiring to remain in control of the ship.

To their surprise, the little island sports a harbor, albeit a small one. With the Arona-Dahl's steam engine at the lowest possible setting, Trellan creeps the ship toward the harbor. The ship eases into the harbor, opposite another craft, a Sloop that likely belongs to Draeolynn's family. The carved nameplate on the rear of the ship reads “Korzika-Sihl". With the Arona-Dahl moving at her slowest speed, Trellan pulls the control lever and disengages the drive shaft from the engine. With the sails bundled and the steam engine no longer powering the ship, she lumbers into the wooden harbor.

The old Vizhek reaches for another lever, the wrinkled flesh of his hand pulled taut as he grips the wooden and brass handle. Suddenly, he gives the lever a yank, releasing the ship's anchors. They fall into the water with a loud splash. The crew on the deck know what to do next; Irzain pull the levers concealed within the control box, extending the mechanical gangplank and swinging open the robotic gate that prevents anyone from stumbling overboard. Racing down the gangplank, Valan, Kirsta and Jarae heave the heavy hemp ropes that sit coiled atop the dock.

Collecting them as fast as they can, Irzain and Mairlynn lock the thick ropes into the mechanical, quick release claws that line the side of the ship, just within the boundary of the railing. With the Arona-Dahl securely tied to the large cleats, everyone makes their way ashore. Even Trellan accompanies them, more curious about Mairlynn's friend than he is worried about a quick getaway. They walk away from the harbor and immediately find a trail that heads inland. It winds through the dense jungle, snaking around various tree trunks and boulders that decorate the landscape.

Irzain marvels at the change in scenery; the further they sail in this direction, the warmer the weather and more tropical the flora and fauna. Passing through the modest jungle, they find themselves standing into a large field of tobacco plants. Marching through the untended field, it's wild and overgrown. Once a working plantation, now the farm seems wholly abandoned. Where it not for the solitary monument to civilization, they'd doubt the validity of Mairlynn's story. Deep in the field and encircled by the unfettered crops stands a large manor. Well maintained, it's made of exquisitely carved wooden boards and painted entirely white. It sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the tropical greenery.

“So, this is how nobles make their fortunes?" Kirsta wonders aloud.

“I think you mean 'made'." Steingar retorts, carefully eying the tobacco plants.

“Indeed. Once, this must've been a very profitable place, but now? ... Still, there're many more ways that nobles can earn a good living through the sweat and tears of their subjects." Trellan replies.

“What did your family do, Valan?" Jarae glances to him.

“Fishing and whaling, mostly, and we also owned a small coal mine. My father had a dozen netting boats and a single, large ship that was often at sea for months at a time."

“That doesn't sound very illustrious." Mairlynn remarks.

“Well, the fish market and coal provided a steady income, but whenever the whaler came in, the ambergris and oil were worth the entire year's fish and then some. Besides, Widoval wasn't exactly a prized island. The castle was actually an old fort that existed long before my family took it over. My forefathers just restored it and claimed it for themselves. Since it wasn't worth anything to the Crown, nobody cared." Valan explains.

“How noble of your family." Steingar quips.

“They're all dead, and I'm not a noble." Valan grumbles.

Pushing through the overgrown tobacco plants, Steingar's glowing eyes shift to the left and to the right. As they wade through the flora, he reaches out a hand and cuts away a few large leaves with his claws. Stuffing them into a pocket on his trousers, the leaves crinkle loudly. Irzain looks back. Steingar clears his throat and points toward the manor.

“Ahem... Hey, is that a person over there?"

“Where?!" Irzain turns away, using a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“There! Don't you see them? They're right there." Steingar insists.

Turning back, he rather hastily cuts away a half dozen more plants, filling his pockets with the prized flora.

“I can't see anything!" Mairlynn whimpers, jumping up and attempting to look over the tobacco plants that loom over her.

“I see them." Trellan chirps.

“... What?" Steingar asks with surprise.

In the distance, a figure emerges from around a corner. Stopping in their tracks, the woman raises her hand to her brow, staring intently at the strangers.

“Oh! I see her!" Jarae remarks.

“What's going on! Is it Draeolynn?! Talk to me, people!"

“By the Seraphs..." Steingar sighs in frustration.

Reaching out, he grabs hold of Mairlynn, scooping her into his arms.

“Eee!" The startled Falmun briefly shrieks.

With little effort, he rests Mairlynn atop his shoulders, his head against her belly and her legs running over his chest. She reaches a hand down and scratches his head, running her nails through his soft fur.

“Mmm-you like picking me up, don't you? You like manhandling me, big guy?" She coos.

“Hey." He repeatedly snaps his fingers. “Focus."

“Right! ... Hmm... ..."

Now with an exceptional view, she narrows her ruby eyes, looking closely at the woman on the wraparound porch of the manor. She takes a few steps down the front stairs, a look of recognition on her face. Mairlynn's expression changes in kind, her eyes lighting up and her mouth agape in an elated smile.

“HAI DRAE!!!" Mairlynn abruptly screams, waving frantically.

“By the Seraphs!" Steingar jumps.

“Mair?! Is that you?!" The surprised woman gasps.

“IT'S ME, SISTER-WOMAN!!!"

“MAIR!!!" Draeolynn exclaims.

Leaping off of the front steps and racing toward them, the crew breathes a collective sigh of relief. Thankfully, this is the right island and they've found the right woman. Steingar reaches back and pulls Mairlynn off of his shoulders, setting the dainty female back onto the ground. Her narrowed eyes scan his form with obvious lust, a corner of her mouth curled into a devious grin.

“Was it good for you, too, big guy?" She asks in a sultry tone.

“Walk."

Chuckling and shaking his head, the amused Helngar gives the Falmun's tight butt a little smack.

“Ooh! Yes, sir." She coos.

Finally exiting the tobacco field, the crew stands face-to-face with Draeolynn. She's a fair-skinned maiden, with pointy, elven ears that reveal her race. The wind brushes her red-orange bangs across her eyes, while the rest of her waist-length hair is pulled up and tied into thick pigtails. Moving her hair away from her face with her dainty fingers, her cobalt blue eyes, as deep and as pure as the ocean itself, stare back at the group. Looking them over very carefully, her gaze lands upon Valan.

Her lips, already curled into a little smile, only continue to contort; her mouth slowly opens as she flashes him her pearly white teeth. At five-foot-two, she's the typical height for a Falmun girl, and with a slender build, shapely figure and perky, B-cup breasts, she looks like a young adult; most would guess her age to be about sixteen or seventeen years.

“Hi, Drae!" Mairlynn steps forward.

“Sister-woman!" Draeolynn exclaims.

The pair share an embrace, obviously very familiar with each other.

“It's been too long!"

“I know it has! I've missed you!"

“So, this is your friend?" Kirsta asks, visibly surprised.

“Uh-huh!" Mairlynn pulls back, looking into Draeolynn's eyes and smiling warmly at her. “She's like the younger sister I've never had!"

“Oh..."

“... What?!" Mairlynn glances back at them,

“It's just... Well..." Jarae hesitates, looking to the others.

“She doesn't look like what we expected." Kirsta blurts out.

“What? You don't think I'm pretty?!" Draeolynn gasps, approaching the women.

With a hand on her hip, which juts out ever so slightly, her other hand is balled into a fist. Leaning far forward, her extended index finger pokes Kirsta's chest, pushing into the soft flesh of her ample breast. Again and again she pokes Kirsta's breast.

“Hey! Stop that!" The startled Kirsta jumps back, her arms crossing over her chest.

“I am very pretty, and so is Mair, thank you very much!"

“Aww!" Mairlynn flushes.

“Yes, you are." Valan murmurs, his eyes scanning Draeolynn's form.

The young Falmun woman immediately notices, her scowl softening and her smile returning as she shifts her eyes toward the long-haired human. Jarae also notices, a brief but horrified look on her face as she turns toward Valan.

“Mmm... A man with eyes as good as his looks." Draeolynn coos.

“W-we didn't mean it like that!" The Jaliscan swiftly interjects, hoping to derail their moment.

“Then how did you mean it?!" Draeolynn snaps at her, her scowl instantly returning.

With her finger still extended, Draeolynn pokes the Jaliscan's equally ample breasts. Her fingertip sinks into Jarae's C-cup orb, causing her to step back. Growing frustrated, Valan steps forward.

“They think you look too young to help us. They don't mean any offense, miss; they just don't want to come across as the assholes that they are, at least not during our first meeting. That's all!"

Draeolynn's angry scowl once again fades as she focuses all of her attention onto Valan. Her cobalt eyes scan him from head to toe. With one corner of her mouth curling into a devious smile, she steps closer to him. Jarae's heart sinks.

“Well, I'm thirty-six." The redheaded Falmun begins.

“What?!" Kirsta gasps.

“Bullshit! You look way too good to be that old!" Steingar retorts.

“Thanks..." Draeolynn grumbles, averting her eyes.

“Beautiful, and yet old enough to be experienced; an alluring combination." Valan interjects, smiling warmly at her.

“Aww! Thank you!" Draeolynn flushes.

“I find that very hard to believe." Jarae comments.

“After all we've seen?!" Irzain chuckles.

“Well, it's true. Mair and I suffer from the same ailment. I just happened to get it much later in life than little Mairlynn." Draeolynn explains, reaching back and gently ruffling Mairlynn's golden hair.

“Hey!" Mairlynn runs her hands over her hair.

“So, is this just a friendly visit? We haven't had one of those in so long!"

“No, unfortunately. We need your help, Drae."

Seeing the look of concern on Mairlynn's face, as well as the faces of her companions, Draeolynn realizes the gravity behind their visit. Without delay, she leads them back to the manor and ushers them inside. Upon entering the home, they find it filled with books and scrolls. To Irzain's recollection, it holds as much text as the temple he once worked in. The tomes are neatly organized, with their titles written on the spines. It's clear to him that Draeolynn's father, whoever he is, is fascinated with the arcane arts. Books on both Halcyon and Haze magic abound. Only the historical texts can compare in number with the arcane tomes.

The only thing the house seems void of is life; Draeolynn appears to be the only living being present. Entering into a sitting room, they find more than enough seating in the form of old couches. Their legs are carved from hardwood, elegantly stained and whittled into the form of animal's paws. Soft stuffing is held in place by crimson upholstery, pinned against the wooden frames with brass tacks. A stone fireplace with a marble mantle sits in the corner, a stack of burning logs crackling within the hearth. It illuminates the room that's otherwise kept dark by the thick, crimson curtains.

“So, what can I help you with, Mair?" Draeolynn asks as she sits beside her friend.

“We need something of yours... We're looking for an island and I was hoping... Well..." Mairlynn hesitates to ask.

“We heard you have a sketch book and we'd like to have it." Kirsta eventually blurts out.

“What for?!"

“I lost my memories..." Irzain begins, speaking in a gentle but serious tone. “In an accident, some time ago... But I've slowly begun to remember. A potion I'd recently taken unlocked a big piece of the puzzle, and I now know that I once worked in a temple as a scribe. It was in the tropical region, and it was very distinct. Mairlynn's said that you've been all over, and to many temples."

“I have." Draeolynn nods.

“So, if you've been there, know where it is, and if you've sketched it, then your knowledge would be priceless... Please."

“Well, first, I'd need to know what the place looks like." She giggles.

“Oh, right!"

Irzain describes his former temple to the best of his ability. Starting with the island itself, he describes every aspect of the layout. The crew are disheartened when Draeolynn doesn't appear to recollect anything. However, when Irzain describes the interior, her brow raises and her eyes light up. At the mere mention of the indoor fountain, her expression completely changes, giving the crew hope. Finishing his part, Irzain and his companions wait for her response. Draeolynn rests her fingers on her chin, her cobalt eyes scanning Irzain from head to toe. Is she thinking, or is she considering whether or not to help them? Everyone wonders what she'll say. The only sounds they hear are the crackling of the fire and their own breathing.

“Forgive me if this is a stupid question, but that was very detailed; if you're starting to remember things on your own, why not just wait until the answers come to you?" Draeolynn suddenly asks.

“Well... This is time sensitive information that we need." Irzain carefully replies.

“Oh. Well, there's probably records somewhere. I know the capital city in Vaspania has a library dedicated to that!"

“Yeah... About that..." He hesitantly pauses, nervously tapping his fingertips together. “I, uhm... Well..."

“It's a little... Complicated." Mairlynn attempts to explain.

“Complicated, how?" Draeolynn cocks her head.

“He's wanted by the Crown; there's a huge bounty on his head. We can't go anywhere near there, at least until we know why they want him so badly." Kirsta blurts out.

Everyone pauses and turns their heads toward the human. They all glare angrily at the blonde-haired, buxom woman, while Draeolynn stares in shock, her cobalt blue eyes as wide as tea cups. Feeling their stares, Kirsta glances around the room at her companions.

“... What?! I'm not going to wait around all year for you to play charades!"

“So, that's the story. Can you help us, Drae?" Mairlynn pleads.

“I suppose I could... I do have a sketchbook, and I even remember what page that temple is on! I've been there, years ago, and I remember that fountain very well. Not many places have running water, and even fewer have it for decoration; it left an impression. Buuut..." Draeolynn's sinister smile returns.

“Here it comes..." Jarae sighs.

“I want a favor in return!"

“What kind of favor?" Steingar asks.

“We'll do anything." Irzain insists.

“Easy..." Trellan glares at the scribe.

“Oh! The Vizhek speaks!" Draeolynn giggles.

“Just when I have something interesting to say, miss."

Rising from her seat, Draeolynn walks around the sitting room. Moving gracefully through the room, her catlike strides are silent and smooth; she glides like a specter, her white dress fluttering. Her eyes glance back at the crew, her fingertips caressing the spines of scores of books. Nearing the chair where Valan sits alone, the youthful Falmun closes in. With an appearance far more acceptable to the average man, Valan looks thoroughly intrigued.

“I've been with my father since birth. He's been using my ailment in his experiments, trying to figure out what makes me look so youthful, but I'm tired... I'm tired of being tested and examined, especially by someone other than a husband." She winks. “I'm tired of not having a life. I'm tired of never being allowed to leave. I'm tired of being alone..."

“So, what is it you want?" Kirsta asks.

Draeolynn steps closer to Valan, swishing so femininely as she approaches him. Her smile grows as her eyes narrow, slowly scanning his form. Growing closer and closer to him, she soon stands less than a foot away. Suddenly, she leans forward, resting a pale hand atop the armrest of the chair. A startled Valan leans back, keeping their heads from bumping together. Draeolynn stares directly into his eyes for a moment, but her expression has changed; it's no longer lustful, but morose.

“Take me with you."

“... That's all?!" Trellan asks with a little chuckle.

Draeolynn turns her head, glancing over her shoulder at the elderly Vizhek and his ragtag crew. Every one of them stares at her; some look surprised, some concerned, and still two others, the Jaliscan and her own friend, look unsettled and even a little upset.

“That's all." She subtly nods. “I have a few trunks of belongings that I want to keep. Bring me and my stuff along for the ride, and I'll jump off whenever it's convenient. Just get me out of this hellhole."

Looking amongst each other, all of them eventually share a head nod. Jarae is the last to agree, casting her vote rather begrudgingly.

“Alright! You can come along!" Trellan chirps.

“Goodie!" Draeolynn exclaims, all but jumping with joy. “Now, we just need to hurry and gather my things before daddy gets back from the catacombs! He should be back when the sun reaches its peak. Oh! And you'll need this..."

Focusing her attention on Valan, Draeolynn opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. Pulling back the tip, she gives it a little flick. Suddenly, a tiny key appears, resting on the center of her tongue.

“How'd you do that?!" He gasps.

Her tongue wiggles in waves, pushing the key forward until it rests on the tip. Valan clears his throat at the display, his temperature gradually rising. The redheaded Falmun gently bites down on the key, slowly swaying her lithe body from side to side as she leans forward, waiting for Valan to claim it. He slowly reaches for the key. As soon as he takes hold, she opens her jaw and pulls away.

“I'm going to go pack!" She exclaims before darting out of the room.

“Someone made a new friend." Trellan smirks.

“She likes you, Valan!" Mairlynn giggles.

“So I've noticed." Valan chuckles, holding up the key.

“Lucky..." A grumbling Steingar shakes his head.

“Come on, sister-woman!" Draeolynn calls out from another room.

Rising from their seats, the crew prepares to help Draeolynn escape from her father. Valan passes the eager Irzain the tiny key, before they join Steingar, Trellan and Mairlynn in their pursuit of Draeolynn. Alone in the sitting room, Kirsta looks back at Jarae, who glares at the doorway with a seething anger.

“Stupid Falmun whores, always getting what they want... Should just kill her and take her damn sketch book..." Jarae grumbles to herself.

“Hey."

“What?" Jarae growls.

“... Are you going to be okay?" Kirsta asks, genuinely concerned.

“I'm fine..."

“Are you sure, because you look like-"

“I said I'm fine!" Jarae snaps. “Now, let's go help the trollop pack her precious things."

Looking up at the sky and walking through a little trail, Draeolynn's father makes his way home. As is his routine, he returns to the manor at high-noon to eat his lunch with his subject, before returning to the plantation's catacombs. Perhaps today he'll take her with him and try another spell? Maybe his aging potion will work, and she'll wither away before his very eyes? Even if she dies, at least he'll know he's on the right track. Possessing the secrets of eternal youth, or at least the appearance of it throughout one's life, would make him a most power man. Entering the manor, he calls out to his subject.

“Draeolynn? Where are you Draeolynn?"

He walks throughout the manor, finding the fireplace in the sitting room nearly burned out. That's unusual, considering he doesn't allow light inside; the thick curtains are nailed to the walls. He checks the kitchen and then the dining room, finding both of them empty. She didn't even bother to make his lunch, as she always does. Is she ill?! Racing into her bedroom, tucked away in the back of the manor, he finds absolutely nothing. Draeolynn's bed is empty, and her three chests are gone. Atop her nightstand, there's only a single scrap of paper.

Unable to read it in the darkness of her bedroom, he instead returns to the sitting room. Adding a log to the dwindling fire, the flames begin to grow and with the added light, he can now make out the words on the paper without straining his eyes.

“Dear father,

I will no longer be your pet to experiment on. I never enjoyed how you commandeered my life for your worthless studies; what's that knowledge going to matter when you're dead, and I have no husband or children to comfort me? You weren't even kind about it. I only remained silent because I was afraid you'd kill or vivisect me. My patience has paid off, though. Things have finally changed for the better. This morning, while you were gone, I received a surprise visitor and have decided to leave with them. By the time you read this, we should be miles away; I sail to my freedom, and I hope I never see you again.

Without love, Draeolynn.

P.S. I claimed my inheritance early. Thanks!"

Crumpling the letter, the angry man throws it into the fireplace, watching the paper as it's slowly engulfed.