Ashen - Chapter 6: Under Way

Chapter Six: Under Way

Life in the sky was similar enough to life at sea. Everything operated in shifts, and on something resembling a schedule, so that there was always at least a skeleton crew awake and rested enough to run things smoothly.

    The Pyre burned in the void with no sea behind which to set, so there was no real daylight or night. Only the long shadows of the ship, when she turned her deck away from the sun; and the constant, dim, and twinkling stars. Ceru found herself sharing the midwatch with Mookee and the Forenoon; which meant she slept in the early evening and woke in time for the second dog watch.

    Since Mookee practically lived in the rigging, her only job in the over-night was to assist the halfling with whatever he needed doing, and to be awake and alert if something went wrong. During the Forenoon watch, she ended up where she was when the Elf came looking for her - swabbing the deck.

    She was dunking her mop in the bucket when she spied Adovar’s approach. He carried a bundled napkin with something in it.

    “Good morning,” he said.

    Averting her eyes, she nodded in agreement, “good morning, sir elf."

    “I thought we might get a moment to talk. I brought some of my breakfast to share. Do you mind?”

    All the gods, she thought. How the hell do I-? She tried to be as polite as possible, wary of angering the elf, needing to get her work done, and kind of wondering what he had for breakfast. “Of course, I wouldn’t mind, sir. Unfortunately, I have duties to perform.” She indicated the deck and her mop and bucket.

    “Ah well,” he said, taking a seat on a nearby crate. “Since I’m paying for this trip, I think you’ll be okay to spend a few moments indulging an old elf's curiosity.”

    “Old?” Ceru looked him over. “I’d heard that elves have long lives, but surely you’re not old enough to be speaking so?”

    “It’s true,” he said, “in the course of an elf’s life I am neither young nor old, but I have seen 572 summers, and sometimes it feels like I’m considerably older.”

    Ceru marveled at that, but looked around the deck with an uncertain eye. A few of the crew were looking at them, but there was no sign of Longtail, Bob, or the Captain. Even so, there was a chance this was going to get around to them. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was lazy, or shirking her duties. She said as much to Adovar.

    “Still,” he said with all the air of a person who was used to getting what he wanted. “Fret not. If anyone says anything to you, I will explain my insistence.”

    He opened his napkin and laid it beside him on the crate, a pair of sliced fire apples and bread that had been slightly toasted by the Pyre fruit. She wrung out her mop and leaned it against the rigging, then leaned herself against the crate. When he motioned for her to share in his repast, she picked up one of the fire apple slices and a piece of bread.

    “What can I do for you, sir,” she said.

    “I am intensely curious about stories from your home world. I’ve been myself, and I've heard a great many tales from across the WorldSea, but I’ve yet to explore its libraries and colleges. My studies are focused around the ancient civilizations that predate the Alliance and the Elven Kingdoms and, unfortunately, there aren’t very many Arcane ruins on Quelya.”

    “That’s true, I guess. Though I understand there are ancient cities beneath the waves.”

    “I’d heard that. The merfolk who inhabit the sunken ruins, and the greymen.” The Greymen were the Aventi - grey-skinned humans who - whether by magic or nature had long ago adapted to life beneath the water. There were other races, Ceru knew, the Tritons, the loathsome Sahuagin of course, and the Locathah.

    “And the sea elves,” she said.

    Adovar’s tight lips actually smiled at that. “Of course,” he whispered. “The sea elves, Gaeredhil, who thumbed their noses at the High Kings and spurned the Alliance in its infancy, choosing exile instead beneath the waves of another world.” There was a strange look in the elf’s eyes, longing maybe - dwelling on some far away dream.

    Ceru studied the old elf. He was attractive, if a little slight. There was no hint of the centuries on him, no indication of such a ridiculously advanced age. The robes, maybe. Ceru imagined most wizards dressed in layers upon layers, with uncounted extra pockets and a dozen bobs and bits hanging off of them on little silver chains or leather lanyards. This one’s robes were light, with only a layer or two, and his bits and bobs were mostly tucked neatly into the folds of his outer garment.

    When the elf noticed her looking at him, he straightened his collars, tucked away a couple of amulets and covered up a silver pin beneath his lapel - a stylized harp with a moon or something in the strings.

    “Are you a musician,” Ceru asked.

    “I dabble,” he said with a sly grin.

    They spoke together, over the slow consumption of his meal, Ceru only daring to eat another slice of the warm and spicy fire apple, so as not to impose. They talked of the music of the island cities, of men and halflings, and Great Tortuga - the island Turtle worshiped by the tortles as the god Maturin, now occupied by the pirate hordes of the shark-men.

    When the elf noticed others watching them, he dabbed his napkin to his lips and made his apologies for keeping her overlong. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he said. “Thank you again, for indulging me.”

    She picked up her mop and dunked it as he was walking away. It troubled her that he’d been so cordial. Haughty, sure; but all the stories of elves made them out to be… she couldn’t think of the word. “Bullies,” maybe?

    Of course this elf could be an outlier. It was probably small-minded to assume that all elves have the same personality. As she finished her duties, she reflected on this, and decided that was what troubled her. She knew of no halflings who were sneak-thieves - or only sneak-thieves, no single human who was truly like any other (and they certainly weren’t all adventuresome meddlers). This was what was troubling her about the elf, she thought. If there could be a friendly elf, might there not be friendly praedaren? Sahuagin? Even the cursed drow?

    She was out here to pit herself against the Void - to make ready for war against the sharks, and against all the pirates of Quelya. Now there was a hint of doubt in her resolve. Now she realized she would have to study the foul praedaren, understand them, before she killed them all.

    Or, she mused as she slumped her way to the galley at the end of her watch, she’d have to learn the difference between so-called “good” praedaren (if there were any), and the pirates who slaughtered her family.