Private Drums in the Deep

The first few days at sea had almost felt like a reward.

When the merchant vessel departed the fog-shadowed edges of Crorefell, the skies had been clear enough to make one question every grim tale sailors ever told. Sunlight had spilled molten gold across the waves, turning the ocean into an endless expanse of glittering sapphire. The ship itself "The Gilded Marrow"—broad-bellied and weatherworn, built more for cargo than elegance—had groaned and creaked with the steady confidence of something old enough to trust. Salt clung to everything. The ropes. The sails. The railings. Even the air tasted alive with it.

For a time, it had been… nice.

Momoshiro stood near the starboard railing, one hand resting loosely against sun-bleached wood polished smooth by countless voyages. His white hair stirred in the wind, bright against the increasingly iron-gray sky above, while his crimson eyes tracked the restless waters below. The sea had a rhythm to it—an endless rise and fall, like breathing. At first, he’d found it calming.

Then mildly unsettling.

Then profoundly suspicious.

He still hadn’t entirely decided whether ships were wondrous feats of craftsmanship or elaborate floating death traps.

“…I’m leaning toward death trap,” he murmured to himself as the vessel gave a particularly dramatic creak beneath his feet.

His fluffy white tail swayed behind him, though with noticeably less confidence than usual whenever the ship lurched too hard. He had adapted… mostly. The first day had involved far too much gripping railings with white knuckles and making private bargains with gods, spirits, and possibly the boat itself. By the second day, he had at least regained enough dignity to stop stumbling like a newborn deer every time the deck shifted.

Now, by day four, he had settled into something resembling routine.

Stay out of the sailors’ way.

Do not touch mysterious ropes.

Avoid anything Krava might call “interesting.”

And, perhaps most importantly, do not get thrown overboard.

Krava, naturally, was below deck somewhere in the groaning underbelly of the ship. Momo wasn’t entirely certain what his companion was doing down there, and—based on prior experience—felt it was likely better not to ask unless smoke, screaming, or unnatural sounds became involved.

That left Momo with the upper deck, his own thoughts, and the storm.

His gaze lifted toward the horizon.

The weather had changed gradually enough at first that it almost seemed polite. A few distant clouds. A sharper breeze. The playful waves had grown heavier, darker. But over the last several hours, the sky had become something else entirely. Thick charcoal clouds now gathered in bruised layers across the heavens, swallowing sunlight piece by piece. The sea beneath them had shifted too, its once brilliant blues now deepening into slate and steel. Whitecaps foamed more aggressively. The wind no longer teased—it tugged.

The crew had noticed.

That more than anything made Momo uneasy.

Sailors who had once laughed, swapped stories, and moved about with easy confidence now worked with sharper purpose. Calls rang across the deck. Boots thundered against wood. Sails were adjusted, lines secured, cargo checked and rechecked. Even without understanding every nautical term barked through the wind, Momo understood tension when he saw it.

A storm was coming.

A real one.

He exhaled slowly, ears twitching as the first distant growl of thunder rolled somewhere beyond the horizon.

“…Well,” he sighed, folding his arms into his sleeves. “This feels ominous.”

A heavy gust swept across the deck, stronger than the rest, snapping canvas overhead and tugging at his robes hard enough to make them flutter. A few cold droplets struck his cheek—not rain yet, but warning.

Around him, the ocean stretched vast and merciless in every direction. No land. No shelter. Only the merchant vessel, fragile in ways Momo was trying very hard not to dwell on, pressing onward toward Kharsaga.

Assuming they reached it.

Momo glanced once toward the stairs leading below deck, debating whether checking on Krava was wise, necessary, or perhaps catastrophically unwise.

Another thunderclap answered for him, louder this time.

He frowned.

“…Aww crumbs. Okay, okay. I'm going.”

Pushing off from the railing, the foxkin cast one last look toward the darkening horizon. The storm loomed there like a living thing, vast and patient, its shadow crawling steadily closer.

Then, with the resigned air of someone whose life had become far too strange for normal caution, Momoshiro adjusted his robes, braced himself against the rocking deck, and made his way toward the bowels of the ship—wherever Krava was, and whatever might already be brewing below.

The churning rumble of waves laboring against the ship's hull grew. Though she could not feel the wind, the undercurrents, movement of the wave and agitation of the conscious beings occupying this half-dry delusion of a vessel made her own synapses fire off. Warning caution. Preceding survival. Against such a thin layer of wood - thundered the abyssal power, the force that carved stone and housed in its deepest shrouded layers what passed for horrors in the surface world. On a calm day, the sway of waves could billow out to many man-heights, the ease with which many man-lives tilted with the only surface to hold on to, just for the breath of what lay below them, and in all directions from horizon to horizon... why it was almost lulling.

Life - existence would be too narrow a word - filled her goblet of woes to the brim with trivial struggles, and Krava had no room for fear until her artisan piece was complete. And for that, she needed space, time, and privacy.

Days before, when they carried her 'luggage' aboard, Krava had gotten very particular about the section of the cargo hold where said luggage would be put down. Namely, that it would not be at any commonly treaded foot paths. Somehow, despite the initial resistance from the bosun, those dark chitinous shell-chests and membranes, as well as the pair of animals that came timidly alongside the not-elf, got all situated in cargo by the bow - and she was content with that.

And then she got to work.

*

No one knew what it looked like, that space at the bow. Those who would come there for business, for things, would find what they came looking for, yet feel the dizzying sensation of having missed out on something. And then, the humdrum of the day would take them back, away from the space, under the sunlight and into the company of their brethren. The space was not important.
Those who came stumbling in or searching at night time... well, people sometimes had a knack for losing their way in the dark, and what lurked in the bowels of the ship had no energy to spare for violence nor explanation.

Some sailors would go missing from their duties for a bit, return, complain of nausea, then shoulder the worry onto the booze or sea sickness, and carry on. All was well.


*

It was dark in the cargo hold at the bow. Too empty.
The solitary confinement only broken by a stray sailor or the steady beating of waves against the exterior.
Momo would meet a brief tug against the mind, like passing through an invisible barrier, as he would approach the space. The sensation of being seen came next, unobtrusive sensation of 'ah, it's you'. Past that brush - there was no familiar sense of thought-waves pressing against his own.

To the eyes of a spirit-seer, the spaces between deck boards glowed with melded spirit matter. The glow parsed a complex network along the matter and through the air into the fruiting body of... something. Like an egg, but fruit-like. Either way, almost ripe. The scent of brine could not take out another. Like fresh cut meat.

As the ship tilted stronger than before, passing over the crest of growing wave it made anyone standing brace.
The queen wasp herself emerged, strategically barring the passage to... whatever it was, hidden in the dark and carefully obstructed. She did not float her steps weightlessly, instead grasping to the netting on the crates with stick-fingers. And yet, she held herself true, though mostly on faultering reflex, like someone who has had too many work shifts in a row. Spent to the point of light delirium.

"How kind of you to visit," her quiet voice rang a bit hollow. "Are you doing well, Momoshiro?" There was a pause, as she stepped closer, eyes directed just past him, unseeing, regardless of whether Momo chose to bring a source of light. "Is there anything to be done, if the ship does not hold?"

The deeper Momo descended, the more the ship seemed to change around him.

Above deck, the world had been all salt wind, creaking timber, and the uneasy groan of storm-churned waters. Down here, however, those familiar sounds became something stranger. The wooden ribs of the vessel moaned like something alive, every crash of the sea against the hull reverberating through the cramped corridors with the force of a giant’s fist. Lantern light swayed weakly from rusted hooks, casting long, seasick shadows that stretched and recoiled across the walls.

His fox ears twitched.

The deeper bowels of the ship should have smelled of damp wood, rope, brine, and perhaps spoiled grain.

Instead…

Momo’s nose wrinkled.

“...Fresh meat?”

The words left him under his breath, quiet and uneasy.

Ruby eyes narrowed as he moved forward, one hand resting lightly on the hilt at his waist while the other trailed across the wall for balance as the ship lurched beneath him. He had come to check on Krava—partly out of genuine concern, partly because “staying out of trouble” had become significantly harder when one traveled with a woman who felt, at times, like trouble had personally taken mortal form.

Then he felt it.

That strange tug.

Momo stopped mid-step, his breath catching softly in his throat as his mind brushed against something unseen. It was subtle, almost polite in its intrusion, but no less unsettling. Like walking through a spiderweb you hadn’t seen until it clung to your skin.

His tail puffed slightly.

“That... tingles.”

Still, the sensation passed, and with it came recognition.

Ah. It’s you.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, ears flattening for only a moment before he pressed onward.

And then he saw.

To eyes untrained, perhaps the darkness concealed much. But Momoshiro was no ordinary traveler, and what his gaze found in those dim spaces made his stomach perform a slow, uncertain turn.

“…Krava.”

His voice was quieter now, less greeting and more processing.

His red eyes traced the glowing spirit-matter threading through wood and air alike, the grotesque shape hidden there like some half-born thought the sea itself had coughed up. He did not fully understand what he was looking at—and somehow, that made it worse.

There were many things in this world Momo had seen. Curses. Spirits. Monstrosities born from anguish.

This felt… different.

Not chaotic.

Intentional.

And that, perhaps, was the most unnerving part of all.

As the ship gave another violent lurch, Momo caught himself against a support beam, white hair shifting across his face. He straightened slowly, gaze lifting to Krava as she emerged before him—tired, eerie, and somehow still carrying herself with that same unnerving purpose.

Her question lingered between them.


For a moment, Momo simply stared.

Then, despite everything—the flesh-scent, the spirit-fused architecture, the horrifying… whatever-that-was behind her—a dry, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

“Krava,” he said, voice warm with exasperation, “I came down here to make sure you weren’t dead, mutinous, or turning the cargo hold into a nightmare… and somehow the answer appears to be ‘not yet,’ ‘debatable,’ and ‘absolutely yes.’”

His ears flicked once, but his smile, though faint, was genuine.

Then his expression softened.

“…I’m alright,” he answered more honestly, adjusting his footing as another wave battered the ship. “Though I was admittedly hoping you were down here doing something less… deeply concerning.”

He cast another glance past her, immediately regretted it, and decided perhaps he did not need more details just yet.

At her actual question, though, his demeanor shifted. Playfulness gave way to thoughtfulness.

Momo looked around—not just with his eyes, but with that sharpened instinct born of spirit work, of survival, of knowing when disaster was moments from becoming reality.

“The ship’s frightened,” he murmured, one hand brushing the wall almost sympathetically. “Strained. But holding… for now.”

His gaze flicked upward, as though he could somehow see the storm through countless planks above.

“If it worsens…” He sighed, then gave her a sidelong look. “I can reinforce sections with my Raakgui, assuming the sea doesn’t decide to personally humble me first.”

A beat passed.

“…But if whatever terrifying sea-fruit you’re growing down here hatches into something that can help, I would be deeply appreciative.”

His tail swayed once behind him, betraying nerves he otherwise masked well.

Then, more quietly:

“You should come above when you’re able. Storm’s turning ugly. And while I fully support… whatever this is…” he gestured vaguely to the horror behind her, "…might be your last chance to see the ocean for awhile.”

“…Krava.”
She watched, irises like huge green stones faceting some semblance of a lighter section in the middle.
Watched his ears tilt backwards and lower, his pupils narrow half a hair's breadth; there was a reconfiguration in body heat output - hands growing cold and preservation instinct pushing warmth to the cortex; spikes and ripples reverberated outward from an agitated mind.

"Momo," she humored him back, lips tilting upward into a smile, inclined her head into a dignified nod, and let the quiet sit until he spoke again.

“I came down here to make sure you weren’t dead, mutinous, or turning the cargo hold into a nightmare… and somehow the answer appears to be ‘not yet,’ ‘debatable,’ and ‘absolutely yes.’”

A chuckle twitched her mouth and vocal cords and made the aether between them shiver with amusement. The thought tickled. Krava raised a narrow hand to study her fingernails in emphasized theatrics, the other hand still clinging to the rope webbing white-knuckled.
"I need to belong to a group in order to conceive of being mutinous, dear spirit-seer," she mused, "and a nightmare is what it is, yes, I had to work in an open design in lieu of proper casings - not enough material for filtering membranes, and the dust from those boozed-up sea monkeys is something else. But your concern is touching, thank you..." Her eyes flicked off of his, breaking contact. ...yet I have a purpose to attend to. If it comes to it, from those currently conscious - I will die last, and you second last.

“I can reinforce sections with my Raakgui, assuming the sea doesn’t decide to personally humble me first.”
"Feels like the best I can do is pop up gills," she sighed. "If it all goes beyond saving, a boat seems feasible. Given available material. I could probably punch a shark, do you think you could punch a shark?"

She lingered hesitantly, turned her head to look at the gestating pod.
"Indeed so. But. It needs some more time before I can reallocate my lesser kin with confidence. I will walk with you."
Behind her back, the pod stirred to the gesture of not-elf's pale hand, sinking a little surer into the growth, folding layers over itself, as if going to slumber. The spirit glow dimmed, centralizing to the core.

The not-elf matched step besides the fox man, wanting to fold her hands behind her back until the next tilt of the ship sent her against the hull shoulder-first. "Gh..." She righted herself, adjusted the impeccably clean sleeve, wincing at a bruise in the making and feeling particularly tender in her soul about not being comfortable, all of a sudden. It took a bit to struggle the notion down.

"You know what I want to do when we arrive? I want to find a street vendor!" She announced, index finger pointing skyward. "We've been to a place, once, my elder and Lock and I, and a dehvahni was running a food stall there. He commanded molten sugar into golden flowers. I want to find another one like that, who makes pretty things from simple things with weaving. To inspire me." A small pause, "What have you been up to, where the sun shines and people think simple bored thoughts? Do your minions get sea-sick? Do you have one made from fire?"

Several days in solitary confinement clearly made the not-elf particularly sociable.

The foxkin’s ears twitched faintly at that, some of the tension easing from his shoulders despite the violent groaning of the ship around them. The cargo hold creaked with every swell now, the timbers sounding less like wood and more like something alive straining under pressure. Somewhere above, boots thundered across the deck followed by the muffled bark of sailors trying to outshout the wind.

Momo glanced once toward the strange cocoon-like thing resting deeper in the shadows before quickly deciding he did not currently possess the emotional fortitude to ask further questions about it.

Probably best for his peace of mind.

For now.

At the mention of punching a shark, however, Momo looked over at her properly, red eyes narrowing in genuine consideration.

“I think I could punch a shark,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m just not convinced the shark would care or at that point that it would matter much.”

Another hard tilt rolled through the vessel. Krava struck the hull shoulder-first and Momo instinctively reached out, steadying her by the forearm before she could stumble further. His grip was gentle, careful despite the coldness in his fingers.

“You alright?”

He let go once she regained balance, though his expression lingered thoughtful for a moment after. Exhausted or not, she looked worse than she probably realized. Or perhaps she realized perfectly well and simply did not care.

That possibility somehow felt more concerning.

As they climbed toward the upper sections of the ship, Krava’s sudden enthusiasm about molten sugar flowers caught him off guard enough to pull an actual laugh from him — quiet, but genuine.

The sound seemed oddly small beneath the storm.

“I think that may be the most normal thing you’ve said since I met you.”

His tail swayed faintly behind him as he pictured it. A crowded harbor street. Lanterns reflecting off wet stone. Sugar spun into impossible shapes by careful hands and weaving. It sounded strangely peaceful compared to… well, everything else involving Krava.

Momo leaned briefly against the wall as another wave crashed somewhere outside.

“I’d like to see that too,” he admitted. “Kharsaga sounds like the sort of place where you can find almost anything if you wander long enough.”

Then her questions came rapid-fire, one after another, and he blinked at her before smiling crookedly.

“My spirits do not get seasick. Unfortunately I do.” He rubbed lightly at his temple. “And yes, I have one made from fire. Well, it can manipulate fire... it's not exactly made of it. Though it’s… a troublesome spirit.”

That was putting it mildly.

His gaze drifted upward toward the ceiling, toward the storm raging somewhere above them.

“As for what I’ve been doing…” He exhaled softly. “Mostly trying to avoid trouble. Which, admittedly, has not been easy as I am a curious sort and there are lots of shiny things on this ship.”

There was a smirk before he glanced sideways at her.

“What about you, Krava?” he asked more quietly. “Assuming the ship makes it, is there something in particular you're hoping to find in Kharsaga?”

She felt fingers around the mustard-yellow sleeve.
"Nothing broke. I just need to finish this and let Lock take over for a while."
Gratitude rolled over in feeling rather than words, a chest-full of soft fuzzy warmth, come and gone in a few beats.

She chuckled with him.
"What is normal, between us?"
It didn't take much to carry her own weight. Clothes swayed with a small delay, as if already underwater. Thin fingers found Momo's arm and held onto it for balance, as she looked onward.
It's been over a century, and she had been put to slumber in a different place. There has been not a voice nor place familiar. The languages have all moved on, too. That sugar weaver had probably moved into being elder, then to obscurity, leaving many spawn in his wake that hungered for richer life than one of a content but humble street vendor.

She let an exhale sift through the parted thin lips, shoulders falling. "You have been most gentlemanly, dear fox, perhaps owing to your grace, perhaps owing to your vocation. Either way, I shan't forget that. If you want me to tweak your seaworthiness, you only need to say it, you know."
Same as his first visit, with a complete body and mind, there was much less demand for visceral arrangements.

"Fire is troublesome, you have done right not to unleash it here," the not-elf echoed, resolutely. For her, her home, and almost everything she'd ever created, burning was simply fast-spreading death not worth its luminescense. The humans were fond of it, though.

"Shiny? Hm. But you are a fox and not a magpie, are you, spiritfarer? I cannot judge you, though. Oh, the finer things I used to adorn with, once, the lustrous golden robes..." the nostalgic chuckle was more a pleasant shiver through the thoughts than a sound. "Me? Suppose I am a dandelion seedling, drifting. Following you, for now. But eventually, I've need for finer living arrangements. Of my own make, so everything is just so. But it takes time, and matter, and energy that I do not have. I'd keep your company so long as you would let me - it seems like we could both aid the broken in our own way. A remedy towards your wariness, recall that I have been mending bodies and minds for months before we met."

They have climbed up the stairs to the top deck. The sky was darkening, the growing wind bringing forth first large drops of rain. But at the eastern horizon, it still retained some blue, some orange, some worrysome dusty yellow.
Krava's fingers found Momo's sleeve and gripped it like a vice as she eyed the waves.
"Momoshiro. Have I given you reason to be wary of me, other than what a regular human's angle would dictate?"

The storm wind rolled across the deck in long, low breaths, carrying the scent of rain and saltwater. Lanterns swayed overhead. Somewhere above, canvas snapped sharply as sailors shouted to one another through the darkening dusk. The ship groaned beneath them like some tired beast trying to outrun the sea.

Momo kept one hand lightly over hers where it gripped his sleeve. Not pulling away. Not trapped either. Just there.

His ears twitched at her question.

For a moment he didn’t answer. His crimson eyes drifted out toward the waves instead, watching black water rise and fall beneath the bruised horizon. Rain began to speckle against his sleeves in slow, cold drops.

“You’ve given me reasons to be cautious,” he said at last, voice calm and quiet beneath the storm. “But cautious and afraid are not the same thing.”

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“We had an… unconventional first meeting. And the things I’ve seen since then—what you can do, whatever it is growing down in the belly of this ship…” He glanced sideways at her, one brow lifting faintly. “Most people would probably find that at least a little concerning.”

The smile softened after a beat.

“But you also tried to help me, probably others too. I’ve watched you spare things you could have used. I’ve watched you exhaust yourself trying to protect what matters to you.” His tail shifted once behind him, slow and thoughtful.
“Monsters usually don’t bother doing that.”

Thunder rumbled somewhere far off across the sea.

Momo looked ahead again as the ship rocked beneath another heavy wave. Krava’s grip tightened instinctively against his sleeve and he steadied both of them without comment, one hand catching the nearby rail.

“I think…” he began slowly, choosing the words with care, “you frighten people because they don’t understand you. And maybe because part of you likes being frightening.” A tiny smirk appeared. “Which, admittedly, does not help your case.”

Another gust of wind swept rain across the deck. His white hair danced loose around his shoulders for a moment before settling again.

“But no,” he said more quietly. “I don’t think you’ve given me reason to fear you.”

Then his expression shifted—subtle, but curious.

“You speak about drifting,” he continued, glancing back toward her. “About following me for now. But eventually wanting a place of your own.” His brow lifted slightly. “What does that place actually look like, Krava?”

The question seemed genuine. Careful.

“You talk about it like you’ve already seen it in your head.”

A warble of a chuckle bubbled up in her throat, hum escaping along side it through slightly parted lips.
"I don't imagine pulling ghostly giants out of your sleeve - or crushing worldly objects with an unnatural force - would be more comforting to a common person. Their lives are slow, predictable, and have little in common with the vaster views of the world."

She sighed through the nose. The bruise ached dully, throbbing as blood vessels knit back together, bringing relief from pain.
"As a function-assigned diplomat, I find no joy in ostracism," she rued, gaze wandering over the turmoil beyond the deck. "But I was born like this. If people cannot stomach it, then I will find ones with stronger stomachs. My power is as sanguine as living flesh is wont to be, and that is all there is to it. It has no morality. I want to believe that you're right. That the lapse in communication is simply because I am not a human. A culture barrier of sorts." Her gaze fell onto the salted, brine-tempered boards, and drifted over to the anchor. "The exchange has been very uneven - I learned the language and the manners and the minutia; most tend to call it sufficient at not being hostile. I got tired of trying to explain to the fearful, and defending myself against the arrogant. So, a little old lady it was, when we've first met. People don't bother little old ladies much."

On the next wave, the ship tilted, but Momoshiro did not feel the tug of his own weight. Krava's form tilted alongside him, because it sought to stay on the same axis once her feet left the ground. They were not falling. Or drifting off, so long as he would keep clawing into something. Visibly, they could still move their legs to 'stand' on the deck, but its tossing no longer fully commanded.

"A place like that... I had a few, with my elder - we traveled. It is the hum of song that I fill it with, I suppose. You know what humans say - 'In your own home, even the walls help you'. Personally, I miss mine gently taking my overcoat and warming up the sleeping pod. I'd have trinkets, too - oh, when I was young, I used to collect ornate glass beads... But, you know, a hole in the dirt is tolerable in good company." She huffed, blew a strand of hair away. "You're good company."

The water rushed, and the wind started tearing.
"I've seen a bit of your home. What would make yours?"

The corner of Momo’s mouth lifted faintly at that.

“Fair,” he admitted. “Most people tend to react poorly when someone starts summoning giant spectral monsters in the middle of a conversation. Apparently it ‘changes the mood.’”

His tone carried its usual easy warmth, but there was something quieter beneath it now. Thoughtful. The sea wind tugged loose strands of white hair across his face while rain began to speckle softly against the deck around them.

He understood more of what she meant than perhaps she realized.

Momo had spent much of his life learning how to make people comfortable around him. Soft smiles. Gentle posture. Humor at his own expense before others could decide to fear him first. A spirit-seer who laughed easily was less unsettling than one who looked too long into empty corners. It helped. Usually.

But there had always been moments where he felt it—that subtle shift in a room once people remembered what he was capable of. The hesitation. The uncertainty. The instinctive distance.

Krava simply lacked the inclination to disguise it.

“I think,” he said after a moment,“people are comfortable with strange things right up until those strange things stop behaving in familiar ways.” His red eyes drifted toward the dark water beyond the railing. “Most folk can accept a healer. Or a mage. Or even a monster, oddly enough. But something difficult to categorize…” He exhaled softly through his nose. “That unsettles them.”

The ship groaned beneath another hard swell, though his stomach lurched more from the unnatural absence of weight than from the storm itself. He was very aware now that his feet were no longer entirely committed to the concept of gravity.

Momo glanced sidelong at her.

“…I would appreciate it greatly if you informed me before making me partially immune to physics next time.”

Still, despite himself, he laughed quietly.

Her description of home drew his attention more fully after that. The image of living walls gently warming coats and sleeping chambers settled strangely softly in his mind. Alien, certainly, but not unpleasant. There was an intimacy to it. A kind of care woven directly into the structure itself.

And the glass beads.

For some reason, that detail more than anything else made her seem suddenly, startlingly real.

Not simply ancient. Not simply powerful.

Just… someone.

The storm winds whipped harder now, pulling at sleeves and hair alike as the sea darkened beneath them into something vast and unknowable. Lanternlight swung overhead in long golden arcs.

Then her question came.

Momo fell quiet for several seconds.

“What would make mine…” he repeated softly.

His gaze drifted outward, though he was no longer really looking at the ocean.

“A warm room, probably,” he admitted after a while. “Wood creaking in winter. Tea left steaming too long because someone got distracted talking. Paper lantern light.” A faint smile tugged at his expression.
“The smell of rice cooking. Wet earth after summer rain.”

His fingers absently adjusted the sleeve she still clung to.

“And family,” he added more quietly. “I think that’s the important part.”

For a brief moment, something bittersweet crossed his face.

“My mother humming while she worked. My sister, Akari shouting at my brothers. My father, pretending not to care about anything while secretly fixing everyone’s problems before they noticed them.” He huffed a soft laugh.
“The sort of noise you only miss once it’s gone.”

Another gust swept across the deck. Somewhere above, sailors shouted to one another as ropes strained loudly against the growing wind.

Momo blinked, returning to the present, and glanced back toward Krava with gentler eyes.

“A hole in the dirt in good company, hm?” he mused. “That may be the wisest thing you’ve said since threatening to punch a shark.”

And there was that blasted grin again.

"Oh please," the not-elf waved in the air about her, as daintily as any lady. Perhaps she mirrored the mannerism from somewhere. "Anyone looking more unfamiliar than harmless - is a threat to a mind that forms opinion based on immediate impression rather than knowledge. Unfamiliar is always scary. Humans are tragically breeding the best mimic predators in their own midst."

She floated next to him, eyes like alien moons turning to him undeniably with that familiar whisper-touch to the borders of the mind in query.

"Oh."

The gravity returned, for Momoshiro, at least, with the elf holding onto him and floating at his side slightly asymmetrically with the lurching of the deck.

"Not my strong suit. My elder would have made it more practical."

She listened quietly, eyes drifting off Momoshiro. Not too far off from the surface layer of his mind in her last delving and attempt to reconstruct before inducing. Hm.

Her face did not change when he spoke of family. But something changed, an invisible veil pulled aside gently for a moment. The alien fruit was an egg. Inside, a tether that led to Krava, to the side of her head and then to all of it, as if fraying in two. Synchronized. Something else present but dormant. Friend. Cousin. Underling. Soon.
"What remains of my family is here."

She grinned back, lips parting only slightly, as if she was unused to a friendly snarl in mimics. Humor came in a scattering splash through thought-wave.
"I am rather wise."
And, with a wry smile, let a pause linger before unraveling her grip on Momoshiro.
"My kith will have to contend with a smaller body for the moment. I hope four arms will make up for it, I can add a prehensile tail later, if they prefer... Say, is a tail as luxuriously fluffy as yours a good thing when it comes to warmer climates?"

The arduous creak of the wood against the waves seemed to add an extra note, more crackle than groan.
Krava's head snapped towards the direction.

"Well, it gets in the way more than any—"

Momo's words dropped off as he followed her gaze.

The humor lingering between them began to fade as the ship gave another long, protesting groan beneath their feet. He had spent enough time traveling by now to recognize the ordinary language of vessels. Wood creaked. Ropes strained. Hulls complained. Those were the sounds of a ship doing its job.

That sound had felt different.

Wrong.

His ears twitched forward as rain lashed across the deck in cold sheets. Lanterns swung wildly overhead, casting frantic arcs of gold through the gathering darkness. Somewhere further aft, a sailor shouted an order. Another voice answered. Then another. Not panic, but certainly louder than before.

Momo steadied himself against the railing as the ship rolled beneath them, red eyes narrowing toward the black horizon where sea and sky had become nearly indistinguishable.

He stepped closer to the railing, peering out through the rain. Visibility had deteriorated rapidly. Beyond the circle of lanternlight, the ocean was little more than a shifting abyss of black water and white foam.

Then something made his brow furrow.

Not a sight.

A sensation.

The rhythm of the ship had changed.

Subtly.

But enough.

The vessel was climbing.

Higher than before.

Higher than any of the previous swells.

Slowly, the knot in his stomach tightened.

His gaze lifted.

And the sea answered.

At first it was only a shape within the darkness. Something immense rising beyond the rain. Then lightning flickered somewhere distant, illuminating it for the briefest instant.

Not a creature.

Not a spirit.

A wave.

A colossal wall of black water rearing from the ocean like a moving cliff face, its crest boiling with white foam as it towered over the vessel.

For one long second, Momo simply stared.

The sheer scale of it robbed him of speech.

Around them, the deck erupted into motion. Sailors pointed and shouted. The sharp clang of a warning bell began ringing somewhere aboard the ship, cutting through the howl of wind and crashing surf.

"Krava."

The humor had vanished from his voice entirely.

His hand tightened around the railing as another flash of lightning illuminated the approaching mountain of water. It seemed impossible. Something out of a sailor's nightmare rather than reality.

Yet there it was.

Bearing down on them.

Momo looked toward Krava, and the fear he had thus far managed to keep buried showed plainly in his eyes. Whatever words had risen to meet the moment died somewhere in his throat.

Her gaze pierced the darkness where there were no sentient thoughts nor dreams floating, only to discover a wall of water, pressure waiting to drop. Lips pressed together, chromatophores danced on the pale cheeks and neck, enlarging and tinting it brownish-red, then cropping up magenta splotches on the ears. The frail elven masquerade faltered - she had been dutifully upgrading the design, after all.

She let go of him, landed on the deck with a weight of a falling crate - on her feet, seemingly momentarily stuck to the surface with her feet and several fingers. As the not-elf straightened, mycelium retreated into the cracks.
Perhaps you should be scared of me, the voice came as words, dry, concentrated, lightning-quick. How many would you sacrifice so that the rest may live?
The boy was no lord and no soldier to make a soldier's choice, if she gleaned anything from his guilt.
It was cruel to make him consider.
But he would have to.

A hand on the shoulder. Stay brave. Commit.

She was no longer beside him, presence retreating rapidly to the pulsing alien mass in the cargo deck, salt on the tongue like blood or tears as the ship gave before the wave would hit.
But her voice lingered.
I can make a breathing membrane for you and Lock, but it is barely enough. If there are any predators in the storm, you will be prey. Any fresh dead will do for material. Cargo breached. Flip out the spirits, do what you can.

Words faded. Instead - locations of damage gathered from panic-sharpened minds of the crew, routes to reach them, knee-deep water in cargo, precise and wordless like understanding.

And in the bowels of the ship, the heart-like pulse elevated, and a ripple passed through every mind.

Eyes opened. All four of them, unseeing for now, but as beautiful as gold and purple-green flecked galaxies.

Kith first.

One moment, the ship rode the heaving swells of the ocean. The next, a colossal wall of water descended upon it. The wave struck with catastrophic force, swallowing the vessel whole beneath a mountain of churning black sea. Lightning flashed somewhere beyond the storm, illuminating the chaos for a single heartbeat. In that brief burst of pale light, the ship simply ceased to exist—lost beneath the roiling waters.

Darkness returned.

Rain hammered the surface of the ocean. Wind screamed across the waves. For several agonizing seconds there was nothing to see but black water and storm clouds.

Then another bolt split the heavens.

The bow of the ship erupted from the sea like a breaching leviathan, shooting skyward amid a cascade of white foam. The vessel groaned in protest as shattered timbers strained against forces they were never meant to endure. Its underside slammed back against the water with a deafening crash. Even from a distance the damage was obvious. Masts were broken. Railings torn away. Parts of the hull looked splintered and twisted. Somewhere out there, sailors and passengers alike had undoubtedly been thrown into the storm.

And yet somehow, impossibly, the ship still floated.

For now.

Another flash of lightning revealed a shape suspended between sea and sky. Vast wings beat against the storm, feathers rippling beneath sheets of rain. Two luminous yellow eyes shone from behind a masked face as the great owl spirit held its position amidst the gale. Clinging to one of its scaled legs was its summoner.

Momoshiro's robes were soaked through, heavy with seawater and rain alike. Every gust threatened to tear him free, but Nue's immense strength kept them aloft. The spirit was the size of a large carriage, its wingspan stretching nearly twice its length. Hanging there in the darkness, Momo peered downward through the storm, trying to make sense of the chaos below.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

For a moment, uncertainty threatened to root him in place. Krava's words surfaced in his thoughts, urging practicality where his instincts demanded compassion. He pushed the memory aside. Whatever the odds, whatever the cost, he would not abandon people while there was still something he could do.

Perhaps he could not save everyone.

But he could save someone.

That would have to be enough.

The ship was badly damaged. Krava had already warned him the hull had been breached. Water was undoubtedly pouring into its lower decks even now. Another wave like the last might finish the vessel entirely. There was no guarantee help would come, no certainty the ship would survive another minute.

But he was not helpless.

With a sharp command, Momo directed Nue downward and hauled himself onto the spirit's back. The owl folded its wings slightly and dove toward the raging sea. Rain lashed his face as he searched the waters below, red eyes straining through darkness and foam alike for any sign of survivors.

For the next several minutes, he worked without pause. Whenever he spotted a struggling figure among the waves, unseen spiritual force seized them before the ocean could claim them. To those being rescued, it must have felt as though some invisible hand had plucked them directly from death itself. Nue carried them back to the battered ship one by one, depositing them wherever stable footing remained.

It was not a solution.

It was time.

Every life returned to the deck was another soul not lost to the sea. Every minute gained was another chance for survival.

Maybe that would matter.

Maybe it wouldn't.

Still, Momo continued until the waters immediately surrounding the vessel yielded no more bodies.

Only then did he allow himself to stop.

Nue circled once above the wreck before Momo dismissed the great spirit. The owl dissolved into drifting motes of spiritual light that vanished into the storm. Landing heavily upon the deck, he immediately turned his attention toward the stairwell leading into the bowels of the ship.

Krava was still down there.

The thought tightened something in his chest.

Without wasting another second, Momo hurried toward the damaged staircase. As he descended into the darkness below, two familiar spirits answered his call. One emerged pale as moonlight, the other black as midnight. Twin wolves padded silently into existence beside him, their yellow eyes fixed ahead. His Demon Dogs.

Perhaps they could help.

Perhaps they would all need every advantage they could get.

Thin hands dove into the incubator, finding the form therein. A link established, the pain tore a groan out of the not-elf as the mind stored at the edges of her own simultaneously woke, connected to hers, and departed into a new body, faster and rougher than ideal.
A new voice, a new tide pulse resonated, silk-soft and weak, 'Mistress...'

Softness of a wrapping cotton-woven cloud. The warm hands that hold. The urgency of an embrace with someone long lost. A release of tension.

The tide unraveled to carry the waking link, and in that moment Krava'quiloor of the Ascended Creed could not give a single solitary shit about the weaker minds and flooding them with her emotion, her resolve, her relief and echoes of grief like a squall more fearsome than the waves. They were of the men-folk that sought to destroy them, even when the Creed has gone so far as they could, existed as quietly as they could. They were too strange, impossible to put neatly into any other box than 'enemy', with an animal aversion to the unknown. That was enough. Her function was sovereignty and diplomacy, and it meant ruling in favor of her subject's comfort as opposed to the doomed sailors.

'I am here.'

Lock held onto her shoulders with all four of his new arms, and their minds bloomed warmly in consonance. Then, the ship was thrown violently. Lock's instincts were not those of a newborn, but the mind was still expanding in the new shell. The attempt to shield Krava against being thrown on hard crate corners turned clumsy, bruising landing not ending in fractured bones only as her tired mind partially suspended their fall.

'Where are we?'
A tiniest bit of pause. 'Ocean. What is the last thing you remember?''
'I...' A sinking. Darkness growing deeper as it came from within. Grief of loss renewed, bitter, tearful. Lulled, immediately, repressed with a steady will. 'They were burning us.'

The puzzle pieces that have already formed a comprehensible pattern - clicked into place with a certainty. The recovery pod she woke up in, centuries and vast distance away from where it was last. The silence. Ng'lock Chu'urtosh lodging into her mind again after the body was lost. It hurt too much to ask of the elder's fate... or of another's.

She realized they were knee-deep in water, either from the open spaces above - or due to the structural damage to the ship spreading.

No time for fear that would drive the weaker minds to rabid panic, or grief that would send them overboard, even if that grief was old, even if that grief was as vast as a fallen city and all the lives within.

The tides of thought ceased, condensed, retreated into privacy, and what they spoke of with each other for another beat no one could tell.

*

Then, in her mind's eye she found Momoshiro, the uncertain ally with a peculiar resonance, the unlikely friendly face that was just as strange as her, that seemed to accept her... enough. They would, she thought, travel together, and explore the means to manage his anxiety and self-loathing in the many dreamscapes ahead. Perhaps, she could tell him more about herself, too. A thread was building from tiny fibers, brittle but beautiful. And now was no time to entertain the sentiment.

The ship was doomed with all on it, unless sacrifices were made. Momoshiro, by his own word, had no means to save it, or guide it so far from the shore, in pitch black that most eyes could not pierce, with horizon and the vast expanses of sky and water equally colored, equally terrifying, on every side.

She had the means. Some of the severely wounded, dead or dying would need to be rewoven, become material to sink into the boards, reinforce the hull, turn into waterproof, pressure-flexible plating shells that could manage against the. So that the whole of the rest could survive.

It was not a tidy choice. It was not a good choice in the eyes of the human collective. She left that choice with the spirit-whisperer, because the burden of such choices needed to be shared. He would turn with fear or hate if she were to make such a choice, she knew, as a thing that belongs more turns on the Other. She - would not.

He was doing the opposite, she realized.
Making a choice of a princeling rather than a lord.
Choosing short-term heroics over the outcome.

She had no time to angry. Or be fearful. She was all those things, and yet, right now, the re-established link helped her streamline and balance thought. Even if there was some part of her, a tiny part that lived on centuries, that simply wanted to curl up in the velvetine fabric of her elder's sleeve, black as midnight and wide like a wing, and forget the outside world existed.
Some of the grief, bitter and chilling-clear like cracking ice, seeped into the space between minds.

"Momoshiro," she addressed him, directly in his mind, voice a clarion call unfettered by any forces of nature, "We do not have time, it's coming apart right now. Let me fix the hull, or you are all lost. How many do you have?"

They had less time than she thought. The next wave did not toy with the hull like a bored cat, did not throw it around like a careless child. Like a knife between ribs, it tore through the near-middle of it, through the multitude of breaches. The ship came in halves, scrap of wood and fabric and broken flesh hurled into the undercurrent. The thunderous, bone-resonating crack drowned in the onslaught of water.

It was cold. Lock was still holding onto her as she tried not to fade.
The man drowning next to them was still alive with broken spine and burning lungs as she touched him. Unraveled him into ruby red, and, with the last of her strength, shaking, formed something like a hollow pearl. Membranous, thick walls served as outward gills for the two passengers within. The chill of the wilding ocean receded.
Everything receded.
She was so tired.