Private Tales The Foundering of Kakamo'lan

[Angantyr Eriksson]

The ship's hull groaned and sputtered the speech of waves licking against its keel as the Kakamo'lan cut a swath through open ocean. Angantyr could sense that they were getting into deep waters now.

It had been some hours since they'd set off from port, and his new career as an oarsman aboard the Kakamo'lan had been thus far uneventful. His muscles were cast aside in favor of the Gods' breath, which was enough to propel the ship for now. The blue sky of day was gone; only golden sunset that broke through porthole windows and made its way below decks, causing his icicle irises to squint. Night would be upon them soon, but he could tell that the Kakamo'lan had made good time since setting off from port.

It was all Angantyr could do to blend in with the other oarsmen, wearing plain brown tunic and pants and an altogether uninspiring belt around his waist, save for the scabbard at his side that contained a sword. Hardly the typical possession of a commoner. Muttering and low chatter would sometimes fill the sullen mess hall around him, mixed in with hull creaks and drowned out by sickly coughs. Prying eyes lusted for the blade, its ornate gold-trimmed hilt beckoning every man's greed, begging them to envision their hand around it. But for now, it was firmly in the possession of Angantyr Eriksson, unassuming oarsman, and if he had his way, once the Kakamo'lan had ventured out to waters vast and eternal, tonight would be the last time his hands gripped the cursed corpse-candle.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Whatever misgivings most of the crew of Kakamo'lan had about the youth and gender of their der'fakha had evaporated early in the voyage. The Kakamo'lan was small by cargo trading standards, and fast. Small enough that Soriel Draecaryn was able to serve as der'fakha and ahf'jeade and donde'kesh all at once -- the concepts of responsibility on her people's ships that translated roughly to captain, navigator, and ambassador and translated literally to sailmaster, windfinder, and outrider.

It was typical for an outrider, particularly of a large ship, to take command of her own smaller ship. Her role was in service to the larger, the Vyren'gar -- her father's ship -- but it was a loose and ill-defined relationship. Part of her role was to make her own path. The Kakamo'lan was just that path. Her pride and joy, literally her Quick Prize.

Well, it was quick once it got into water deep enough to draw in the oars and drop the sails. She stood at the wheel, one hand on it, the other balled at her waist. When she shouted, for all its authority her voice lacked the harshness of an old sea dog. "Pull in that rigging and trim that mid-sail. We make haste, lads, and no point not catching every bit of speed!"

When the sails were set out to her satisfaction, Soriel communicated her pleasure with a hand gesture and left the the watch to her second. She went below decks and told the oarsmen to "Put up your oars and get supper. We'll have fresh meat a few days before it's back to dried. Might as well enjoy it." Soriel folded her arms over the supple leather armor at her midsection and surveyed the crew. A diverse group, mostly male, with a pretty even split of men and elves and a handful of whom Soriel didn't feel she could accurately identify. What they were didn't matter beyond being strong arms and backs who obeyed. She was a generous captain; the share of the cargo profits that went to them was among the highest anywhere among her people. Generosity was better at compelling loyalty than fear, she thought.

Most of the time.

Her gaze lingered on Angantyr Eriksson briefly. Remarkable for his height, mainly, he also carried a weapon with him at all times. Not illegal, or against regulation, but it was certainly unusual. She didn't let her eyes linger on the sword and isntead watched the other crew put up their oars, nodding approvingly. "A solid churn you all pulled out of the harbor," she called. "Well done."

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

The ship lurched again with the passing of a wave, as men sat in the stygian cabin awaiting orders. The orders did come, though not from a voice that Angantyr would expect, for they emanated in the treble of a woman's voice, who looked as if she had never seen the back of a sea port, so unusually halcyon was her appearance. Nary a wrinkle graced her golden face, appearing almost Elven in her lithe features. Evidently, this was the captain of this ship. Odd, Angantyr thought, that a woman would be put in charge of so many men aboard a vessel, but he would not trouble himself to care over such trivial matters.

Their eyes met inadvertently for a moment; Angantyr could only offer a grim gaze before quickly drawing his eyes away.

The meat was passed out, a rare delicacy for this profession, and Angantyr sank his bearish teeth and rended flesh from bone. To his sides, men engaged in conversation, but no idle talk would fall to him. This he much preferred, as he feasted in silence. Though it would not be long until nearby words wormed their way into his ears and he sensed that he was becoming the subject of the chatter around him; specifically, the blade around his waist. A hand on his shoulder caught the Nordenfiir's attention.

"A fine blade, that is," The owner of the hand said, and Angantyr turned to see another sailor towering over his seated position. He was a giant of a man, and dark-haired, not quite as large as the Nordenfiir but easily the next biggest man on the crew.

"I'll give 'ye twenty gold pieces for it," The giant Southron said, and Angantyr did not so much as say a word in response, only offering the reply of resuming his seated position with his back to the other oarsman.

This not being an acceptable answer to the brutish man of the sea, the Southron's hand went for the hilt of the blade. The moment Angantyr sensed his, his own palm shot out, slapping the hand away in a swift motion and turning, standing to face the giant as the two men squared up to each other. Nearby smaller, more cowardly sailors gave the two giants a wide berth as the confrontation caught their attention. The Southron withdrew his hand and gripped it, recoiling at the strike with a hateful grimace.

"I asked 'ye nicely. Maybe, if it please the swine before me, I'll just take it for me'self!" The Southron growled, before launching himself at the Nordenfiir, who fell through the table behind him and onto the ground.

Cups, pans, meat and mead were launched into the air as the scuffle turned into an all-out brawl between the two, as men backed up and cheered on the wrestling match. The Southron's hand shot for the blade hilt, Angantyr deterring him each time, knowing the consequence of his actions. The grappling giants rolled on the deck floor in search of mastery over the weapon, and not several minutes after Soriel Draecaryn had spoken, there was a great uproar of commotion and cheer.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

The young der'fakha had settled into her cabin to review the cargo rolls and eat her evening meal when there was the sound of a tussle somewhere below decks. She put a hand to her forehead and gently squeezed against the crown of her head. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. The danger of mixing the cultures, brought on by the need for warm bodies and muscles on the oars.

She waited for a moment, to see if the sound would die out on its own, but of course it didn't.

Soriel stood and collected her dish and fork, smearing the last of the meat drippings up with a crust of bread which she ate as she carried the plate down to the mess. Such a lack of discipline among the men was there that no one noticed when she entered. She went over to the large gong near the door and kicked it as hard as she could, sending a nearly deafening roar through the mess.

"What in the name of the great northern sea are you people doing?" she shouted. "What is the meaning of this?"

Angantyr Eriksson

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

At the sound of the gong, the throng of sailors parted for Soriel. The curtain of men drew back to reveal the two behemoths wrestling amidst a broken table, scattered food and tarnished silverware, clearly fighting over the blade. The noise did nothing to stop their brawl, as neither would relinquish claim over their vaunted prize.

The Southron remained on top of Angantyr, his hands no longer interested in the sword for the time being, but rather in coiling around the Norden's neck. An asphyxiated foe would be all the easier to pillage. Angantyr's arm stretched out, found an errant fork on the ground, and jabbed it up at his foe's devilish, pockmarked face. The Southron turned his cheek, just in time for the fork's prongs to stab him in the eye.

"Wrong eye," The Southron cracked a smile while the fork protruded out of his right eye socket, that which was between it clearly being made of glass, and reared his head back in laughter.

The momentary boast allowed Angantyr to sit up, grab the Southron by a tuft of his hair, and pull him into his teeth, sinking his gape into his foe's ear. Severing flesh from flesh, Angantyr jerked and pulled the appendage from the Southron's head in one motion.

His foe, wide-eyed, screamed and recoiled, reaching up to cup his wound with one hand, which was now spilling blood generously across the floor. The room fell silent as the Southron relented his hold on Angantyr and scampered back, yelping. Angantyr stood, sword in one hand, severed ear in another, red rivers of blood cascading from his beard.

"This is Kveldssang, mighty and cursed! See what fate is revealed by its unsheathed blade!"

He turned to face Soriel then, finally able to give her his attention. His prize firmly his, he was prepared to face whatever consequence.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Soriel grimaced as she witnessed the ending of the brawl, complete with quasi-cannibalistic display and blood all over the deck boards of the Kakamo'lan which had been, until now -- if not pristine, then at least reasonably clean. She sighed and reached for her own sword, a beautiful elven rapier. What might have been a leafy motif on a traditional elven rapier, in homage to their historical connection to trees, was instead a vaguely aquatic theme, with the sparkling silver of the quillon, guard, and pomel fashioned like a mythical sea plant of allegedly miraculous healing properties. It was inlaid with semiprecious stones noted for their beauty as well as their strength.

She held it easily, not in any manner of threat, but she didn't like to have an empty hand when someone else had a sword in theirs.

"Put your blade up, Angantyr," Soriel ordered absent-mindedly as her eyes surveyed the crowd, searching among the faces until she picked out a human male junior officer who she could trust to be unbiased. "Jariny, tell what happened here and leave nothing out."

Jariny stepped forward through the crowd and recited what he had seen: that the Southron had made the Nordenfiir an offer for the sword, and when the offer was refused, the Southron had tried to take it. The resulting brawl was, therefore, the Southron's doing. Soriel nodded. "Very good, Jariny. You four -- " she indicated the next four largest crewmen on hand. "Bind him and take him to the medic, then see him placed in the brig." She addressed the Southron directly and said: "I do not abide thieving on my ship. You will be put out on the next port with your share of the coin pro-rated to the time you decided to breach the peace on my ship. If he struggles -- if he so much as puts a toe out of line, you can put him overboard. Go."

"The rest of you -- get back to your meal or go about your business. There's nothing more to see here." She turned her attention back to the Nordenfiir. "I said put it away, Angantyr," she snapped. "Or have you not tussled enough for one evening?" Soriel raised a challenging eyebrow. The Nordenfiir was very large, perhaps, but what Soriel lacked in strength and size, she made up for in athleticism, flexibility, and speed. "If that sword becomes a problem you can store it in my cabin. I can assure you it will remain unmolested there."

Angantyr Eriksson

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

The crowd fell silent as the junior officer regaled Soriel with the details of the event. Angantyr grimaced, blood still dripping from his beard, and then straightened up from his hunched, defensive position. Jariny had told the events accurately.

The blade, still sheathed, moved back to its rightful place at Angantyr's belt. The severed ear in his other hand was tossed idly aside for a deckhand to deal with. Then, the large warrior turned to face Soriel.

"Captain Draecaryn," He said in a low tone, while the others around him were silent, "My blade will pose no more problem, I assure you."

With that, his blue eyes scanned the circle of men around him, as if daring them to try their luck at taking it and meet the same fate as the Southron, or worse. If he wasn't being forced to give it up, Angantyr would not. He needed to rid himself of Kveldssang, tonight -- and he trusted only himself in assuring that it was disposed of properly.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Soriel sheathed her blade and secured it at her belt and nodded firmly at Agantyr. "See that it doesn't," she said, her tone pleasant but firm. The half-elf surveyed the room once more, then proceeded further into the mess to pick up a piece of fruit that they had picked up at the last port. It was pink and fleshy, juicy, with little barbed seeds that would stick in one's lips or cheeks if they weren't careful. The medic had spent an hour yanking the burrs from her crew's flesh before the warning had been sent through the ship.

She tossed the fruit hand to hand as she turned back to the mess. She suspected that the place would become as loud and relaxed as it had been before the brawl once she left. There was something about being in the presence of the captain that put the kibosh on carousing, even that of the good-natured variety.

Resisting the urge to give her crew an apologetic smile, she tossed her fruit up in the air once more, caught it, and went out again. She went to her cabin and unstrapped her rapier, which she hung on the hook near her door. A brief perusal of her ship told her that their next port of call was three days in good wind. The Southron would just have to cool his heels fir that long, and it served him right after the ruckus he had caused on her ship. Soriel sat at her desk, spread a piece of old parchment before her, and took out a knife, beginning to carefully carve and de-seed the fruit.

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

The circle of men parted for Angantyr as he found a seat at the nearest table and lowered into it. Gradually, the oarsmen moved from standing in stony silence to resuming dinner, drinks and conversation, as if shaken from a spell. No one dared to ask his business, and no one dared to make a slip. None dared to match the Norden with the blade on his hip.

Nightfall crept over the Kakamo'lan soon after, and the food was cleared away as the men settled into their bunks. Angantyr lay sidelong in a cot that was far too small for him, feigning sleep. But his face was to the wall, where his eyes remained wide open, his hand touching the sheathed sword beneath him. From behind he could hear the movements die down as men fell to sleep. When the room had fallen into stygian silence is when Angantyr made his move. He stood from his cot, stepped over sleeping bodies while the ship gently rocked and swayed and creaked beneath his feet, and made his way up to the main deck of the ship.

It had begun to rain. Droplets of precipitation met his hair and forehead as Angantyr stepped out into the cold black night. Across the way there were lights on in the captain's quarters, but that would not stop him. The big warrior was likely clearly visible as he moved over to the edge of the deck and removed the sword and its sheath from his belt.

He raised the sheathed sword high above his head to the black skies.

"Gods, I pray of you, rid me of this curse!" To which the gods answered with a roll of thunder that echoed from the skies.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Kakamo'lan pitched beneath Soriel's feet as she stood from her desk. She braced herself on the heavy chair. A goblet shifted on the surface of the table. She hadn't been expecting rough seas, and she noted as she glanced out the delicate stained glass windows over her bed, this rain hadn't been in the cards, either. She paused with a knee on the soft mattress. All she wanted, the only thing in the world she wanted, was to crawl into bed and sleep.

It was probably nothing.

Probably.

But --

"Shar'doon," she grunted the curse -- black blood -- under her breath, then sighed and stood up again. Soriel was just about to get out of her clothes and go to bed, but instead she worked her feet into her tall boots and strapped her blade to her thigh once more before shrugging into a coat and stepping out into the rain just in time to hear a massive crash of thunder that shook the Kakamo'lan beneath her booted feet.

"What in the fifteen levels of hell," she said as she turned and stamped up the stairs to the captain's shelter above her cabin where her first officer was. "What's our heading?" she demanded. "There wasn't supposed to be rain."

The first officer showed the heading. They were on course still -- the compass wheeled a degree on either side in the swell, but that was normal. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say someone was tempting the wrath of Elcemaros shaidar -- der'fahka, what's that?"

Soriel followed his pointing hand to where a towering figure was standing at the edge of the deck. Soriel squinted, then sighed and headed for the stairs. "Keep us on course," she ordered over her shoulder before going to Angantyr Eriksson. "What are you doing?" she called over the roar of another peal of thunder.

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

"Keep back!" Angantyr called from across the ship's deck as Soriel's silhouette appeared in the doorway of the captain's quarters.

Between them, rain fell and marred both of their views of each other. Whatever gods one took as their own had surely heard the clarion call aboard the Kakamo'lan that night, and had chosen to give their own response. A wave crashed against the ship's side, sending seafoam spraying over the top of the railing and onto the deck between Angantyr and Soriel.

The response of the gods, it seemed, was wrath.

The sword was still in its sheath, lifted above Angantyr's head. It was illuminated by a lightning strike that danced across the clouds above and brightened the sky.

"This is the cursed sword Kveldssang. Too long has it haunted me!" Angantyr shouted. "For too long have I been shackled to its curse. Tonight I damn the gods and send it to a watery grave, where it can rule my life no longer!"

Angantyr heaved the blade, sheath and all, over the edge of the ship, and in an instant it was lost beneath the waves.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Soriel did not take kindly to being barked orders at on her own ship, and by an oarsman, to boot. She stalked toward him before a torrent of rain came down, blocking her view of the oarsman. The ship lurched as a wave slammed against it. Soriel skidded against the decking as the ship tilted until she smacked into a railing, and stopped. The ship righted itself, but the lookout came plummeting down with the rain, slamming into a piece of railing, back breaking with a sickening crunch before he slid over the rail into the deep.

The captain struggled toward where she had last seen Angantyr and finally saw him towering there, hoisting his blade in its sheath. Wide-eyed, she watched him hurl it into the ocean.

"Where did you get the blade?" she called over the roar of the angry sea. "Why would you bring a cursed blade aboard this ship?" Soriel tried not to sound angry, although she was. She didn't like tempting the wrath of the gods -- hers, or anyone else's. And this one just had to 'damn the gods'. That hardly ever ended well.

Kakamo'lan groaned softly in the water. Too commonplace a sound to be ominous.

And yet --

Angantyr Eriksson

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

The Kakamo'lan lurched to the left and right as the storm raged on, pelting Angantyr with harsh clouds of rain droplets. The dark horizon of the ocean moved underneath the ship, and the large Nordenfiir sank to one knee after having completed his task. Finally, it could be over. There was a sense of relief, though it was merely momentary. The oceanic abyss, marred by the black of night, spoke to many great unknowns. Just as it could never be known what lies beneath the ocean, the will of gods was also a shadowy mystery. Then, he could hear the voice of Soriel Draecaryn above the waves.

Angantyr turned a stony face to her as she stood there. "It was forged by the Dwarves. It was fatebound to me by the Gods."

The massive man stood then, silhouetted by rain and the flash of lightning behind him which traced his hulking figure.

"Do with me what you will. I came only to rid myself of my fate. It is done."

The sudden, violent sound of splashing alerted everyone then to activity on the ship's starboard side. Waves parted to reveal a great shadow, shooting up like a monolith from the ocean; an aquatic monstrosity, its body fish-like, flew forth from the waves, and for a moment, its dead eyes locked on Angantyr. There was a shimmer coming from its mouth. There, the sword was being held. Just as soon as the fish appeared, it plummeted back into the ocean with another splash that sent a wave of water over the deck of the Kakamo'lan.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Kakamo'lan was a good ship and a sound one. But it was a ship that was designed to operate on oceans, oceans that behaved like oceans. The stresses that the ship were enduring were never part of the plan. It lurched, shifted, nearly twisted beneath her feet. She staggered to a knee and took hold of a rigging rope, using it to haul herself to her feet just in time to see a sea monster emerge from the parting waves.

She gaped, and the ship groaned in protest as another wave rolled over the deck. Soriel grunted and looked around, losing sight of the fish-thing, but something was -- wrong.

The Captain went to the edge of the deck, the Nordenfiir all but forgotten, and peered over. The ship was lower in the water than it should have been. The ship had taken on water. She bit back a violent elven curse and went to the mast, seizing the rope handle of the bell, ringing it over and over as a general alarm. She shouted into the ship's below decks: "Bail! Bail like your lives depend on it!"

Angantyr Eriksson

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

Angantyr had known gods to be fickle beings, as did anyone who interacted with them on a regular basis. Magic, too, especially of the Dwarven kind, was not easily tossed aside, especially not by a mere primal, uneducated warrior such as himself. The Dwarves wove sorcery and fate together in a manner that was beyond his years of reckoning, something he could never hope to understand in this lifetime. But surely the eternal ocean, endless in its boundaries, infinite as the night sky, and nearly as incomprehensible as Dwarven incantations - if any force of nature was strong enough to counter this sorcery, surely it was the sea.

That was his hope; and indeed, his last. As the fish beast disappeared under the blanket of dark water Angantyr knew that all hope was lost. He sank quietly behind the railing of the Kakamo'lan as rain pelted his body and far-off lightning illuminated the canyons of his face. His end would come. It seemed that Soriel Draecaryn instinctively understood this, too, as she has already sounded the ship's alarm bells. Over the din of the storm, he could hear her voice, high-pitched and frantic, urging an abandon of ship. It would seem strange and premature to everyone but Angantyr. He knew that her warning was not without merit.

Something then compelled him to rise to his feet again. An inner fire urged Angantyr to continue onwards, to not accept a watery grave and a life unfulfilled. Thus he rose, body soaked by the angry storm, and instinctively moved to the stern of the Kakamo'lan. The terror of the sea would return, guided by Dwarven witchcraft. It was all he could do but to hang on to the stern railing as a rumble and shake took hold beneath his feet. Men scurried like ants aboard the deck of the boat, and Soriel's silhouette was lost amidst the chaos as a deafening crunch filled the air. The deck of the Kakamo'lan withered and gave way, splitting in two and sending shards of wood in every direction, and between the two halves of the ship rose the fish, Kveldssang glimmering angrily in its mouth.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

The crew roused below decks, grabbing buckets and bowls and even tankards. They poured seawater out of portholes, out of the stairwells over the deck. A bucket-brigade formed to haul buckets out from below decks. But -- somehow, inexplicably -- there seemed to be more water. More water now than had gone in. She spit another elven curse and looked around for Angantyr Eriksson, for the seamonster, for --

All thoughts left her head when she heard the death rattle of the Kakamo'lan wrenching at her chest. The ship lurched, the side she was on tilting to the starboard as it started to sink by the great maw at the center. The monster was there, now. The gleam of something -- the sword -- in its mouth.

She turned, hauling herself up to a run even as the pitch of the sundering shipwreck increased. It was like a hill, a shifting, tumbling, rolling hill. There was no time for Soriel to ring the signal to abandon ship, but the crew -- if any were still alive -- would surely know it was time by now. Past time.

The mast collapsed to one side, lashing the boat and the sea monster with ropes and pulleys. Soriel kept moving, kept going, dodged a thick rope. The stairs would be too steep to think about now, even if the ship stopped rolling. Instead the Captain hurled herself from the ship. The water was cold, shockingly cold, and spurred her to kick to the surface. She swam away, away from the wreckage of the ship as the last remnants of it disappeared beneath the waves.

She didn't see Angantyr Eriksson. That bastard had done this. Better that he was out of her sight. Maybe he was dead, and the price paid for his cursed sword.

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

Kakamolan's belly split open to create a yawning abyss behind sharp wooden teeth. The fish disappeared underwater, leaving only the visage of its destruction in its wake; a ship now entirely cleaved in half.

Angantyr gripped the stern railing tightly as his half of the ship lurched and began to upend itself as the cabins below deck took on water. As the wind and rain whipped his hair and face, his thoughts were only on how to get Kveldssang back. The sword would continue to cause endless destruction with or without his hand on the hilt; better his hand to be on it. As he felt the stern slowly begin to sink with himself at the top, Angantyr devised a plan of last resort and held on to the railing to prevent himself from sliding down the deck, now pitched heavily towards the water.

The great sea beast did appear again, the sea parting to announce its presence as it leaped above water again triumphantly. It was then that Angantyr struck, using every ounce of his strength to launch himself into the air from his position at the stern, toward the monstrous fish. His body flew through rain, past a falling mast, and landed atop the fish as it began to sink again, his bearlike hands and feet sinking into its scales and gripping tight. His hand moved towards the fish's eye, its only apparent weak point, and clawed at it mercilessly. He felt his claws puncture dermal cornea as the fish retreated underwater in an attempt to defend itself. Angantyr sunk with it, submerging below the ocean depths and out of sight.

Eventually, the storm would subside, and no sight of the Kakamo'lan would remain on the watery horizon. The only remains of its existence were shards of wooden planks, barrels, and debris that washed up on a nearby island. Amongst the detritus was the body of a Nordenfiir, wounded but still breathing, drenched in water and subsumed in sand, with his sword laying beneath him.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

Before she even woke, curses in the sea elf tongue emanated in raspy murmurs from Soriel's parched lips. She lay in the sun, having washed up on the shore some hours ago, unconscious. The half-elf had managed a sort of makeshift raft and shortly thereafter succumbed to exhaustion and unconsciousness upon it, and when she woke, peering into a lightly clouded but vividly blue sky, she was already in a foul mood.

She sat up, reaching up to touch a tender spot at the back of her head. Her hair was sandy but, to her relief, not matted in blood. So just a bump to the head, not a laceration. She surveyed the rest of her body, turning her arms this way and that. Bumps and bruises and scrapes and cuts dotted her pale flesh, but nothing was actively bleeding. Injuries sustained while escaping the Kakamo'lan.

The memory of her ship -- nothing amazing, but her ship, her ship -- was a more painful wound than anything on her body. The Kakamo'lan lay now in pieces on the bottom of the sea, with bits washing up along the shore. Her teeth gritted together ands he spat another curse in her native tongue, a suggestion that an unspecified individual had had some kind of carnal knowledge of his mother. But sitting here on this board, getting splinters in her ass and muttering curses was not going to get her anywhere. Soriel was halfway to half-elf jerky as it was. The former captain hauled herself to her feet and ran a hand through her hair, wincing at the tangles and sand. She shook it trying to get as much sand out as she could, half-bent over so that the sand went to the ground and not down her tattered shirt and pants.

Well it wasn't working.

With a sigh, she kicked her boots and peeled off her shirt and pants and underthings off and padded across the warm sands to the water. It was crystalline, almost turquoise, and would have been inviting except for the piece of wreckage of her ship that littered the shoreline. Soriel submerged herself in the sea, running her hands along her skin, brushing the sand and dried blood away. The saltwater stung at the cuts and scrapes, but she trusted it to have an astringent effect. A vigorous scrubbing of her hair helped to get the sand out, as much as was possible, and irritated the knot at the back of her head where she had bumped it.

Still, Soriel felt a little better when she tossed her hair back as her head emerged from the sea. She stood so that she was submerged only to her chest and carefully wrung her dark hair out before separating it into three strands for a loose plait that hung down her back. Soriel went back to the beach for her clothes, which she took into the sea to rinse through before wringing them out and putting them back on. Careful as to avoid getting sand in her boots, she shook them out and then, when her feet were dry, brushed the sand off and put her boots back on.

She was parched and quite hungry. The idea of spearfishing a fish or some other kind of sea critter made her stomach turn, but sometimes one got lucky and these small islands had some fruit or other sustenance growing. She surveyed the opposite horizon and saw there was no shortage of vegetation. Ten minutes later she had licked some dew from a leaf and found a large, almost hairy kind of fruit that, when broken apart, offered a wet, faintly sweet flesh that sated her hunger and her thirst.

Soriel returned to the shoreline, slowly digging her way through the coconut as she stepped over what used to be parts of her ship. Until she came across the Nordenfiir. Her face darkened like thunderclouds. She swallowed and approached the figure, which ought to have been towering if he had been on his feet. What was that next to him? The sword? But that as not possible -- she had seen it disappear! Her eyes narrowed at him. Was he dead? The only other crewman she had located, and her luck, he was probably fucking dead.

"You alep'a'asa," she grunted, aiming a kick at his midsection. "Wake up, you capar-choss'bajad!"

Angantyr Eriksson

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

Angantyr's mind drifted through time and space, through stars and dreams and prophecies foretold by war gods long ago. He had left his body behind on the shores of that lonely sandbar. Instead, his spirit travelled to meet its master, the spinner of his fate that gifted him a worthy death. He had smote the sea beast far below in the watery abyss and retrieved the sword; he would hug it close to his corpse back in the mortal realm as a reminder to all of his victory. This would be his sweet death that would carve his name amongst the stars. The glorious death that would earn his soul fame, renown, and immortality.

Only, not today.

The kick to his gut jump-started his consciousness, vortexed it out of its hallucinatory revelry and back to the mortal plane. He was inside his body now. Angantyr felt his tired fingers grip wet sand as he spat water out of his mouth with a cough. Only after a few moments of consciousness was he able to realize that the kick had come from a person. Angantyr looked up, through matted strands of long blonde hair, to see the shadowy outline of a woman with the sun at her back. Holding his hand up to block the sunlight from hitting his face, he recognized her voice before he saw her. The captain.

The curses in Elvish were lost upon Angantyr as he gathered himself and sat up to a knee. Another few moments of looking around, and he was able to surmise the ultimate fate of the Kakamo'lan. The captain, for her part, looked relatively unscathed. He stood then, shakily moving to both feet, only to feel another pang of pain as he looked down to see his chest cut from a piece of wood from the ship, the wound still sensitive and sore. After another look around, he turned his attention to the graceful, fuming Elf.

"Are there any other survivors?"

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

She wanted to keep kicking him, but she managed to get herself under control (more or less).

Soriel turned and surveyed the island. It was altogether not very large, and the beach that faced the site of the foundering was more or less within seeing distance. Raising a hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the morning sun, she scanned the beach. "None that I've seen or can see. Maybe some who washed up and woke earlier and went into the trees for shade and sustenance. Maybe there are some alive within, punia aso graedo a'Dival."

Soriel moved to support the hulking man; he was obviously wounded.

"We must wrap that," she said, nodding to the laceration of his chest. "The water has plants for this. But you need to be in the shade. Here." Soriel thrust the coconut at him irritably as she turned to give the beach one last look. Responsible or not for their present predicament, Angantyr Eriksson was her crew. Her responsibility. She could not leave him to die.

Besides, he owed her a ship, and she would get it mordero ob mund'duahe, even if she had to use his skin for sails once they made it back to civilization and her responsibility for him was relieved.

 

[Angantyr Eriksson]

The laceration to his chest sent an ache across his core. But, Elvish medicine was renowned throughout the realms, and for that Angantyr was grateful that his sole companion was privy to its secrets. He stood up to his knees to drag himself across the sand over to the treeline, where the shade would be his respite. Hearing Soriel's call, he turned again, only to be met with a flying coconut against his forehead. The fruit knocked against his solid skull before falling limply to the sand below, and Angantyr blinked. So much for the sophistication and intricacies of Elvish medicine.

The impact against his strong bones had cracked the coconut shell, so Angantyr had no trouble splitting it open with his bare hands after picking it up. He held a half to his lips and inhaled the fresh milk, its taste and coolness a soothing counterpoint to the last several hours. Then he looked out to survey the shoreline, where the ruins of the ship could be seen more clearly. The husks of wood that floated and kicked in the surf were once the Kakamo'lan, and beyond the waves rested the graves of countless men. Were it not for that fact, the beach of this unknown island would be almost beautiful.

That brought up an important point. "Have you any idea where we are?" Angantyr called to Soriel Draecaryn.

Surely, as the captain, she would have an understanding of their last known position before the shipwreck. In order to escape this island, first they needed to know where to escape to. And then there was the problem of their distinct lack of vessel.

 

[Soriel Draecaryn]

"Be quiet!" Soriel ordered sternly. Honestly, the giant man shouting himself hoarse was all she needed right now. She wasn't that well-versed in medicine enough to cure everything. Besides, what else was on this island? If it was something that ate people, they didn't need to broadcast their location. A small consolation that they would eat him first.

Once again she kicked off her boots and waded into the sea, peering around for a few moments before she dove beneath the crystalline waters. The salt stung her eyes, but there was no other way. She swam down, seizing a fistful of a blue-green translucent tube, which she pulled from the sand. She shifted a little more, pulling a plant with hard little red bulbs from a patch nearby, then surfaced and went back to shore, picking up her boots as she traversed back towards the Nordenfiir.

"No," she told him as she crouched next to him. "I know where we were, more or less, before your friend the fish monster tore my ship apart. Where we ended up I could only give you a rough approximation. If I had a damned map." She gestured towards the shady undergrowth. "Lay back. And don't argue."

She set the two plants on a rock and then took another rock and began to pound them until they were like a loose paste. When they were more or less broken down, she gathered the pulp into her hands and she mushed them together to form an ugly grey-brown mess, which she then smeared across the wound in Angantyr Eriksson's chest. "It will burn," she said flatly, despite the fact that the warning came probably a few moments too late.

"Don't move," she told him, and dashed back to the water to rinse her hands before coming back to him and pulling a few fronds of a palm off and using them as makeshift bandages to cover his wound.

"How do you feel?" Soriel asked. "Fever? Weakness?"