Ashen - Chapter 4: The Elf
Chapter Four - The Elf
In no time at all, the Black Ophelia was pulling away from the Spelldocks of Madinat Alnnahas, the City of Brass - tossing their mooring lines and easing out into the blackness of space. The sensation was totally unlike being on a ship at sea. There was no rocking of the ocean waves, no noticeable wind (though Ceru was certain there must be wind, since the ship was moving and the sails were full), and there was little to indicate movement. Only the slowly diminishing asteroid behind them, burning red against the black, starry void, quietly slipping away into the darkness.
In no time at all, the Black Ophelia was pulling away from the Spelldocks of Madinat Alnnahas, the City of Brass - tossing their mooring lines and easing out into the blackness of space. The sensation was totally unlike being on a ship at sea. There was no rocking of the ocean waves, no noticeable wind (though Ceru was certain there must be wind, since the ship was moving and the sails were full), and there was little to indicate movement. Only the slowly diminishing asteroid behind them, burning red against the black, starry void, quietly slipping away into the darkness.
When Tormund had led Ceru and Oquee out onto the weather deck, they found an elf talking with the Captain. When he saw the three of them, though, the elf excused himself and approached. “Are you a tortle,” he asked Oquee, “from Ongmar, on the WorldSea?”
Oquee nodded. “Indeed, Master Elf, I am.”
Ceru had never met an elf, but just about every world sat in the shadow of the Elven Alliance and it’s Armada, or its mercantile arm, the World Tree. There was a distinct change in everyone’s demeanor around him. Only Oquee seemed at ease. Everyone else carried an air of deferential caution. She supposed the Elven Alliance had its delicate but powerful fingers in the goings-on of just about everyone in the ‘Verse, and you never knew whether an Elf you were talking to was important, or dangerous. Non-elves tended to treat all elvenkind as though they were noble psychopaths, ready to snap at any moment and bring the hammer of the Armada down upon you and your world.
“Master Adovar,” Tormund said, cordially, and with none of his Zakharan accent or that sailor’s bravado that somehow sneaks into every spacer’s dialect. “May I present the Oracle Oquee the Odyssean, and his companion, Crowe.”
The dwarf turned to Oquee. “Oquee,” he said, “this is our Patron, the Archeologist, Adovar Oriven, professor of Arcane History at the Alliance Academy on Zakhar and Alliance Factor to the Explorers’ Society.”
“It is a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the elf said. “I’ve read about your people, but you are a rarity outside Ongmar, which - of course - makes it quite difficult to meet.”
Tormund leaned in close to Ceru’s ear and whispered in a low, gravelly voice, “let the wizards talk;” but Adover put up a hand.
“No, no,” he said. And then to Ceru he added, “you’re Quelyan, are you not? You’ve got the dark complexion of a human that spent her life on the open seas. Most of the humans I meet were born out here, among the stars. I’d be interested in picking your brain about the transition from sea to sky.”
He looked her over, and she was pleasantly surprised to note that there was nothing predatory in his assessment. “You should ask the dwarf about tethering your gear. I don’t expect it will be an overly eventful voyage, but one must always be prepared.”
They discussed such things together, the four of them - tying your equipment to a belt or harness, so as not to lose it in the open void. Before long, however, the Captain interrupted them.
“I apologize, Master Elf,” he said, “but I’m afraid my newest crewmen have duties to perform, and I know Tormund has better things to do than to entertain guests.”
Tormund gave a sharp nod and an “aye Captain. I leave the Oracle in your capable hands.” He bid good evening to the tortle and the elf, then led Ceru toward the mizzenmast, where they found a halfling of about thirty years lounging in the ropes as if they were a hammock.
“Oi, Mookee,” the dwarf said, “this is Ceru. She likes to play in the rigging. She’s green, but this isn’t her first outing, and she’s got loads of time on the water.”
Mookee descended the ropes as if he were a monkey. He stood less than three feet tall, with a wild shock of blond hair that framed his tanned face and seemed to flow into the bushy sideburns that hid his ears. “You can climb then,” he said, “and you know your port from starboard?”
“Port is left,” she answered, “because they have the same number of letters, and starboard is right because it doesn’t have the same number of letters as left, which is port.”
Mookee just stared at her a moment, then said, “okay then.”
Oquee nodded. “Indeed, Master Elf, I am.”
Ceru had never met an elf, but just about every world sat in the shadow of the Elven Alliance and it’s Armada, or its mercantile arm, the World Tree. There was a distinct change in everyone’s demeanor around him. Only Oquee seemed at ease. Everyone else carried an air of deferential caution. She supposed the Elven Alliance had its delicate but powerful fingers in the goings-on of just about everyone in the ‘Verse, and you never knew whether an Elf you were talking to was important, or dangerous. Non-elves tended to treat all elvenkind as though they were noble psychopaths, ready to snap at any moment and bring the hammer of the Armada down upon you and your world.
“Master Adovar,” Tormund said, cordially, and with none of his Zakharan accent or that sailor’s bravado that somehow sneaks into every spacer’s dialect. “May I present the Oracle Oquee the Odyssean, and his companion, Crowe.”
The dwarf turned to Oquee. “Oquee,” he said, “this is our Patron, the Archeologist, Adovar Oriven, professor of Arcane History at the Alliance Academy on Zakhar and Alliance Factor to the Explorers’ Society.”
“It is a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the elf said. “I’ve read about your people, but you are a rarity outside Ongmar, which - of course - makes it quite difficult to meet.”
Tormund leaned in close to Ceru’s ear and whispered in a low, gravelly voice, “let the wizards talk;” but Adover put up a hand.
“No, no,” he said. And then to Ceru he added, “you’re Quelyan, are you not? You’ve got the dark complexion of a human that spent her life on the open seas. Most of the humans I meet were born out here, among the stars. I’d be interested in picking your brain about the transition from sea to sky.”
He looked her over, and she was pleasantly surprised to note that there was nothing predatory in his assessment. “You should ask the dwarf about tethering your gear. I don’t expect it will be an overly eventful voyage, but one must always be prepared.”
They discussed such things together, the four of them - tying your equipment to a belt or harness, so as not to lose it in the open void. Before long, however, the Captain interrupted them.
“I apologize, Master Elf,” he said, “but I’m afraid my newest crewmen have duties to perform, and I know Tormund has better things to do than to entertain guests.”
Tormund gave a sharp nod and an “aye Captain. I leave the Oracle in your capable hands.” He bid good evening to the tortle and the elf, then led Ceru toward the mizzenmast, where they found a halfling of about thirty years lounging in the ropes as if they were a hammock.
“Oi, Mookee,” the dwarf said, “this is Ceru. She likes to play in the rigging. She’s green, but this isn’t her first outing, and she’s got loads of time on the water.”
Mookee descended the ropes as if he were a monkey. He stood less than three feet tall, with a wild shock of blond hair that framed his tanned face and seemed to flow into the bushy sideburns that hid his ears. “You can climb then,” he said, “and you know your port from starboard?”
“Port is left,” she answered, “because they have the same number of letters, and starboard is right because it doesn’t have the same number of letters as left, which is port.”
Mookee just stared at her a moment, then said, “okay then.”
“Good luck,” Tormund said either to Mookee or Ceru. Neither knew which one.
A little while later, as the Black Ophelia was reaching her stride, the two of them were leaning against the ropes, high in the rigging, watching the red star that is Madinat Alnnahas fade into the distance.
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