“Thank you. I can make the pyrres. And carry heavy things."”​

“That’s—” … enough to make Osytha pause. Every weary bone in her battered body is begging her to take Lock up on his offer. It’s a big job she’s got ahead of her over the next couple days; which is exactly why she can’t accept. “Thank you kindly, but nay. You need to be restin’ up after what you been through. Jus’ focus on lookin’ after yersen an’ that lady of yours.”

They step inside the small house, quickly entering into the common room. She scans about, taking in the central hearth, the recumbent figure beside, and a slightly less comatose one nodding off in the corner. While Lock conducts some mystery business with his cuttlefish, Osytha sets her medical kit on the table and starts undoing the leather ties down her coat front. Events all got a bit intense toward the end there down at the beach, and the problem with a gambeson is that, while it’s great for keeping a lot of things out, that also means it’s a little too good at sealing things in. She needs to air out a bit.

Meanwhile, a startled aunty rises to her feet, her ageing joints betraying a little of their stiffness. Woman seems as unsettled by Lock and Lady Krava’quiloor as the folks in that welcoming committee at the gates, and Osytha wonders what exactly Ada and Maddie have seen to rattle them so.

“Would you like sum’n warm to eat, syr? I’ll make sure they get you some hot water for the bathing, after you’re all done. Will you return in time for dinner?”​

Osytha loosens a final cord and shrugs the gambeson off her shoulders. “Ah could eat a little,” she says, not because she’s truly hungry — all that exertion and her throbbing head have actually left her feeling a little queasy — but she has to get something inside her so she can keep her strength up. “Ah can’t say when Ah’ll be back, so don’t worry abaht t’bath nor waitin’ on me for supper. A washbasin for my face an’ a few provisions Ah can tek wi’ me to t’beach, that’ll be more’n enow. Thank’ee.”

A handy-looking chair receives her gambeson, belt and baldric. Before Ada can leave, however, Osytha retrieves that bag and holds it forward to the woman.

“Folks ’ere say you’re t’closest thing they’ve got to a healer,” she remarks. “Daev, ’e’s… been ’urt fairly bad. You should find all you’ll need in ’ere.”

Ada accepts the kit in her care-worn hands. Osytha finds herself staring at them; simultaneously weathered and wrinkled like tough old leather, but somehow, also frail-looking, like thin paper stretched over hollow bird bones and tender veins. So much like the hands of her mother, Osytha marvels. A sudden urge wells up inside her, to reach out and rest her own hands over those wisened knuckles. She resists. But to her surprise, it’s Ada who extends an arm out and gives the back of the knight’s hand a few comforting pats. Maybe she’d seen something of the younger lass’ troubles flash across her face.

“This’ll do nicely, syr,” says Aunty, and backs it up with a smile. “I’d best see to our Daev, then. But—” eyes flicker nervously again to Lock, “—will you be alright here…?”

What if you’re in danger? in other words. And honestly? Osytha can’t say for sure that she isn’t. She gets the feeling of ‘probably not’, and while Lock’s demeanour right now is kind of… strange, in a shifty sort of way, if he’s actually trying to be sneaky about something then he’s doing such a bad job of it that it’s more endearing than anything else. She has been wrong once or twice before, hard as that is to imagine. But if Osytha didn’t want peril to be part of her job description, she shouldn’t have become a knight.

Sometimes bravery isn’t a headlong charge upon the battlefield. Sometimes it’s as simple as putting your faith in other people. Just because death might come as a dagger in the back rather than by the sword of someone facing you head-on, doesn’t mean you’re suddenly allowed to let fear guide your actions.

“Et’s fine,” she assures Ada. “Go on, then.”

Despite aunty’s tentative concern, the woman sure looks relieved enough to be handed an excuse to skedaddle. Osytha watches that flurry of kirtle and petticoats bustle out the room, leaving just herself, Lock, and Lady Krava’quiloor alone in the house. A glance through one of the mean little windows further tells her that the ‘crowd’ has dispersed some, though a few distrustful souls remain loitering to watch from a distance.

Whatever. Osytha turns away from that sight, brow furrowed as her fingers rub at the pain beneath her temples. A pitcher of water beckons her back to the table, and she pours out a few cups, before downing one and picking up the remaining two to bring over for her new acquaintances.

“’Ow’s she—” Osytha hesitates when the sight of Lock’s ineffable little face-painting session comes into view. She has no idea what to make of it, though, so she just shrugs and carries on. “’Ow’s Her Ladyship doin’, can you tell?”
 
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He let the lady knight be distracted, sighing softly to the tingles at the base of his mind and hurrying up once he got spotted. Which meant shoving the whole brain into the not-elf's mouth and pressing fingers on the two dark metallic lines, then trailing them down. She swallowed, and inhaled louder.

The snow-leopard gave her a look. His blue eyes, sparkly and bright, were framed by black outlines of the lids and fluffy white of the cheeks - and they narrowed in a squint, ever so lightly.
"You arre verry kind," he proffered, belatedly picking up the conversation where it trailed off earlier. Spoken language was unruly in that way. "But I will rest when it's apprropriate, syrr. I was not asking to parrticipate."
He slow blinked with the third lids only, obscuring the eyes almost completely into milky white, then opening them again.
They reflected in green.

It was no ocean, but a riverbank splash. Then another. Krava's breathing grew deeper, and the room felt like the air was full of static. Pins and needles. Stuffy like fog in a jungle.
A pulse came, and the splashes dragged backwards to the source, and the room felt hollow for a moment.
Then, the colors became slightly more distinct, and those in the room could feel the tide, weak but steady, envelop their minds bobbing on the surface without trying to sink them. It was like lying on a moss bed in a golden hour, safe from the forest predators with not a single mosquito in sight. It was like breathing the air in places where air run impossibly fresh.
Lock sighed, with visible relief.

The green eyes opened slightly, stared into the ceiling.
Every strand of softness turned inquisitive, slightly thicker for stability. The flowers with eyes turned inward, to inspect what of the ruin was still usable.

The space, the flowing acres of shared thought in but a few meters of space, would hit Osytha too, without discrimination. Information shared without language, memories studied like missives pulled from a waiting hand, read and handed back between her and Lock. The run. The fight. Osytha's horse is pretty. Daev, quick assessment, Daev losing a chunk- immediate calm sensation of 'relatively easy unless he dies'. Lock's tail getting bit- admonition, affection, 'be careful, nothing to worry about'. Hunger, oh gods the hunger of a starving person that could not grow numb, that dwarfed the need of Lock's massive body. Osytha's fall- concern, concussion- 'easy, if access allowed, bad to leave damage like that'.
Lock feeding her the thing's brain- approval, just enough to wake, need more, or this is it. Parts of body being shut down so more energy can be preserved for function in the now - why waste breath or heartbeat if time to complete collapse of her body could be equalized and convalescence could not be afforded?

All in less than two heartbeats, with words not taking breath and breath not taking time, replaced more often than not by comprehended concepts, sensations and that flow of things that carried in the spaces between without ever vocalizing.

The eyes fluttered closed, the thickness of the air grew sparse while Krava had to swallow down the dizziness. Lids pressed together tightly, parted again, and she was looking at the knight.
Syr Osytha. I owe you what remains of my lifespan. Would you come closer?
One of her arms, thin, with purple veins running under the pale skin, struggled to pull out of the blanket, bearing the dome of the shoulder, then the angled elbow and the frail wrist. Her fingers were long, and they were reaching out. The flesh was indeed traversed by long, dark strips that looked like ink and flexed with the skin, right up to the point they shone metallic and green. Something frail reinforced with something less so.

They caught Lock's tail, grabbed a loose fistful of the fluff, sinking into it, and Lock made a small noise like a protesting child. The kink in his tail straightened up, a brush of the palm on the blood-soaked fur seemed to erase the blood completely.
Disapproval. Conserve strength until more sustenance found.
Resignation, refusal to stay put. Time equally short. Ng'Lock Chu'urtosh, you will carry me around so I do not have to put use into legs or other arm. You will speak for me so I do not have to use the outer speech and breathe too much.
Protest overturned. Begrudging compliance.

You are hurt, too, syr Osytha, I can sense your body misbehave. There was an attempt to enunciate more, words instead of images, when she addressed the knight, though strained. I can feel your thoughts rippling. Do you feel sick? Dizzy? Come, let me see what is broken. I will need more sustenance before I can do the same for that other man. This blanket is very stuffy. Are there any clothes I could borrow?
 
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“Wh— hold on, what—?”

Like when her horse is galloping so smooth, so unhindered under her, it feels like they’re flying. Riding something greater and stronger than herself alone, but fitting perfectly into place, into rhythm, that she doesn’t think about falling beneath those crushing hooves. Only that she is now More. Only that—

Osytha backs up. A dusker’s little warning system triggers; meticulously-ingrained instincts rather than thought, for when conscious thought can no longer be trusted. Intruder. Someone else is in here with her. She still seems to be at the helm of her body. But does she remain its navigator, or…?

There is, through the connection, a flash of memory: day after day at the Astenvale training grounds, undertaking drills and courses while weavers thread their befuddlements. Learning to shed infected fancies until only a solid core remains. And what is it they hammer into you, that cold-forged hunk of immutable self? I am Syr Osytha of Dusk. Charged with night’s vigil. By sword or by palm. Just enough a piece of her being to still grant purpose, but small enough to wrap within her fist. Protected. Unreachable. Hers.

I am Syr Osytha of Dusk. It is all which echoes through her head as the two cups fall from her grasp. Thud-clack and slosh to the rough floor.

Charged with night’s vigil. The body follows. Osytha springs away, low, and all the quicker for not having to think about it — the darting flight of a startled wild critter. Zero to sixty in a flash. Poor Guffy almost cops a solid kick to his side that probably would have sent him halfway across the room. As it is, he dashes back in alarm at seeing Osytha’s body suddenly scream danger! with its every fibre.

By sword of by palm. Hands find the bandolier slung over that chair. One goes to a pouch along its front, the other slides free a steel sword which has barely had time to rest.

I am Syr Osytha of Dusk.
 
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For a moment, they both watched, and even if the feline features weren't enough to express emotion, emotion itself hung in the air. Petrichor and razor-blade string of lonely grief. Seething acrid bile of not frustration, but disappointment bordering on resignation.

Like every other who reacted with violence. Elder went to sleep because he could deal even less, he just wanted to be left to his planar arythmetics and spatial manipulation, the formulas for which ran as far as the sky. He had the same keenness, the same sensitivity, but a different ability. He just didn't want to follow the hungry strain, seeing instead joint empires beneath the starlit skies, elevated by magic being streamlined.

Humans balked. Humans rejected. Humans burned their home wherever the Creed made one and humans could find it, some humans would burn half the neighborhood besides. They answered by dead metal and fire to everything that didn't fit their neat conception of ordinary. They would disparage, and then, having given themselves permission, despise. But the Creed kept trying. Trying to step into the light, hands open and bearing gifts - and not get burned.

They just had a different tongue. They just looked too different from normal.
They rarely did harm unless in self-defense, but... it didn't matter.
Overtime, diplomacy became tinged with impatience. With expectation of inevitable fall. With preparations for the worse outcome. Because to meticulously go through all means of applicable communication that did, in the end, turn to revealing true nature - meant being patient, being impartial, being beneficial, and spending scarce resources over, and over, and over. And it was exhausting.
The Elder's hands bearing gifts lowered, and for a long, long time, Krava'quiloor was the one left to keep trying.

But then the mask itself became the offense. She had to be like them, not just try to soothe the immediacy of their violence by trying to look and talk in a way that was the only way acceptable. It never worked the other way around.

People often left no other recourse but violence or manipulation. And she - repeatedly, and for decades - refused.
This was not the dream.

Just once. Great Thinker, please, are we a cosmic joke?
Because if the elder's doctrine was wrong, then it was them mistaken in wanting some kind of symbiosis.
The other path was logical. Subjugation and forceful dissemination of their way before it was so common that it would become normal - and then became culture - and then became a matter of diplomatic respect and integration of other cultures. Humans did it to each other all the time. It started with violence.
The hungry path was terrifying. Seeking total control unseen until critical mass was reached to overthrow key seats of power. Victory, then, at any cost, and what Shroud did not take in the end would be with them at the helm of the weaker, the wasteful, the ignorant.

But they were... two of them, the elder and her, they were thinkers, explorers of the thoughtways. They had to do their best at being ritors.
And, after a very, very long time, and more having walked alone, the elder went to sleep.
He was the last besides her, Lock was not quite the same.


A pulse went through the extended arm, lines of intricate patterns in circular and angled shapes seeming to... disable it. It fell limp, carefully lifted by Lock into the confines of the prettier blanket he cocooned his lady's body into for warmth and ease of carry. On what skin remained bare, patterns crawled out of the metallic lines and seemed to seal her body all the way up to a triangle of the throat.

The tide of thought receded. Echoes of it still made through like sunshine glittering on the shape of the waves - it was not its natural state. Its natural state was to run free, and flow around objects, and bring them thought seaweed to crown them. Its natural state broke what was brittle and carried what was alive on more than ephemera.

To the curtain of glass beads shining in swirls of color, suspended in the air instead of strung up on a thread.
To flowers that smelled like apples and oranges and made the windows open.
To clean spaces and floors shining like mother-of-pearl, warm and smooth but not slippery when walked on barefoot.
To the carpets of soft blue fungus that glowed gently at night and sustained itself on sunlight, dust and bugs.
She wanted to drink the green goop that had the texture of jelly and tasted like sour grapes and floated a little when poured, and had the mind sustenance that isn't raw cuttlefish brain shoved down the throat.
To walls that sung a low, pleasant whalesong hum that puts her mind at ease.
To the gentle, colorful luminance of light pods, and the patterns on the floor that ran in lines of poetry, and...

There wasn't home, and she knew that, too.
The elder was dreaming of the combined version of it, last means to keep what resolve they had against the hungrier strain.

Krava's mouth parted. Her tears seemed slightly more viscous than water, and had that same magenta hue. She blinked once, tried to turn her face upward, but they overflowed. Chromatophores spotted her cheeks in splotches of burgundy and golden-orange like freckles.
An inhale, pulled forcefully through the lungs, and she croaked, "Not you. Please." Her throat locked up, and she struggled through the tears. "Speech is hard."

"We'll leave." Lock offered, his bassy mrowl growing reedy. "I don't want to fight you, you've been good to us longerr than most. We can help-"

Some brief stutter cut his phrase short. He glanced to Krava, sniffling in a blanket cocoon in his arms, wheezing instead of sobbing because crying would look different for proper anatomy... Tried again, despite the obvious command otherwise, tail swiping in a curl behind him, as if to keep it safe from the potential sword swipe, "the lady can-" another quick glance down.

Fluffy brows furrowed, and he finished the sentence. Krava's head turned away into his shoulder, "-heal but... I don't want to fight you, syrr. The lady cannot." He looked at the dog, taking him in. No apprehension, just seeing if the small creature tried to have at him to protect his master. "Tradespeak isn't our native tongue, but we are a people."

He looked askance to the window, as if afraid that people were coming to check on Syr Osytha, and it would make matters even worse. Arms tightened around the blanket cocoon with a not-elf in it trying to push her sniffles down her own throat without choking and collect herself.
 
That… force, that spider’s web which Osytha had felt suspend her mind in its structure, and connected her by thrumming lines of thought…

… collapses. Its fall is mirrored in the drop of Krava’quiloor’s frail-looking arm. And Osytha stands there in the wake of it, her swordswoman’s poise maintained by contrast.

Slowly, she recognises the change. Like rousing out of a daydream, she cautiously dips a toe into the waters of higher function and feels that the presence is gone. All Osytha’s got inside her skull are the usual jumble of buzzing thoughts coming back online, and that throbbing pain.

No one else is messing around in her mind. She can tell, because it’s such a disaster in here. Weavers always make things too neat and tidy when they try their beguilements on her…

Osytha considers, properly registering it for the first time, how she has her sword drawn in one hand. The other is wrapped around a brass cylinder which fits snug into the palm of her hand, thumb rested on a button at its top. A few more things start filtering through. Mostly the backlog of what had come to her through that connection, and now, the spoken things Lock and Krava’quiloor are saying to her. Their body language, too: Krava bundled up protectively to the great leopard-kin’s chest, and her strange… not weeping, but, a gasping which yet sounds that unwholesome, like a thing breaking. The tears, though — they’re something Osytha can understand.

“… I don’t want to fight you, syrr. The lady cannot. Tradespeak isn’t our native tongue, but we are a people.”​

Even Lock sounds defeated. Osytha glances down at the longsword in her grasp.

She’d drawn steel.

Very much aware that is not something you do lightly. It’s poor fucking form just to rest your hand on the grip while you’re talking to someone. Actually unsheathing the thing, though, is so much more than an implied threat. It’s an outright declaration.

“Wait — no. No! Ah din’t mean—” Osytha dumps the strange cylinder on the table, then grabs her scabbard and slides the blade back inside. “—Ah just, Ah wasn’t expectin’…”

No, she hadn’t meant to brandish. That’s the thing about conditioning. They drill you over and over and over again, until there’s this little switch deep down inside that can recognise the signs and take over your body before you even know it — because when the arrows start flying out of nowhere, you don’t have time to think it over, or be surprised, or do anything bar get your arse moving. But therein lies the rub: it doesn’t think. It doesn’t discriminate. It’s got a fraction of a second to look at some very patchy data and decide whether to flip over, and if it holds back at the wrong time, you are dead.

So, no, Osytha hadn’t meant for it to happen, exactly. But that doesn’t stop her face from burning bright, red hot with anger. She leans over the table, palms pressed down on its rough boards. Too ashamed to look Lady Krava’quiloor or Lock in the face.

“Ah’m sorry.” Osytha raises the back of one hand to rub against her eyes. She’s got a few tears of her own, now, though it’s hard to say what from — regret, frustration, fatigue, pain; take your pick. “Please don’t go. Not in your conditions. Please… Ah’m sorry.”

It could be a trick. Still got a niggling little doubt or two, not quite ready to lower the alarm. Yeah, could be. But… why? Osytha can’t imagine what these two stand to gain from engineering themselves into this position. And those thoughts, meanings, images, all implanted in her mind — while it all bore telltale signs of bewitchment, there’d been one crucial difference: none of it had been masqueraded as her own. Not as far as she can determine, anyway.

Osytha pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezes her eyes shut. Alright. Opens them back up. She grabs her belt and baldric, laying them on the table. Slides them aside — sword, daggers, no, don’t need those. And the null buffer goes back in its pouch, too.

What would actually be useful? I will need more sustenance before I can do the same for that other man. Osytha’s coinpurse sings a hearty staccato jingle as it strikes wood. Enough silver will solve most any problem. What else… how about potions or gadgets? She can’t see owlseye or dwymorbane being useful. Ah, but… a bright red lacquered disk, thin light metal like tin, is laid next to the moneypouch. And finally, a wooden case, its insides humming with power.

“You said you need more sustenance. Ah’ve more’n enow brass ’ere to convince a few folks to fetch what you need.” Osytha idly touches fingers to some of the thick felt quilting of her gambeson. And some emergency funds if they need even more convincing. “Ah can ’elp wi’ keepin’ Maddie an’ them others off your backs, too. If you… if you can still trust me…”

“Not you. Please.” Osytha has heard people sound like that before. The resignation of a soul who’s had hope beaten out of them so many times that they’ve simply reached the end of what they’re capable. Not enough strength, neither physical nor emotional, to stand back up and try again. Those are the ones who don’t fight back when they see her approach with bared blade. They’re the ones who just… accept it at long last, that there’s no place left for them here.

I’m sorry. I promised you everything would be alright. But now, can I blame you for not believing me any more?
 
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Lock shook his head, lowering it. Two more arms rested around the cocoon, forming a protective barier. The wheezing sobs were gulped down, pressed down, slowly fading into ragged breath.
"We underrstand." The not-beastkin spoke, not moving from his spot - though he could probably ram through Osytha and biting steel on his way to the door if he wanted. He blinked, half a beat of listening to something in thin air. "We do not judge. You arre not wrrong to be afrraid of strrange things. But we arre... wearry."

The third lid moved over the eye instead of a blink, a soothing gesture for anyone who could read its tone, a futile hope in the empty air. He looked down into his arms, and gently petted the not-elf's white hair. Tucked it under the blanket, slowly rearranged his limbs so that Krava was more sat in his arms, leaning onto him as only her neck seemed still mobile. One of the hands secured her. Krava's impossibly green eyes stared into the opposite wall above the hearth, at nothing of interest.

Lock's weight shifted, the floorboards creaked, and the leopard almost jumped up when the purse landed. His eyes were watching the items now, flicking to Osytha with inquiry. A demonstration, perhaps, of intent, an offering of peace. Whiskers trembled, he sneezed through his nose, covering Krava with his arm - there was not much space to maneuver in the tiny building.

"The lady needs trransferrence to mend fast and mend otherrs. Crrows. Magpies. Rrravens. Octopi. Cuttlefish. Smarrrt things. Alive. Can coin buy these things?" The dark pink tongue flicked out to lick the side of the mouth. "I just need enough food forr much work to do. I can eat almost anything, but not rrot."

Tail bowed and waved, big fluffy snake of a weight arcing over the side of the table. He didn't move from the spot, not yet.
"But we won't stay herre, no. I cannot rrisk my lady's last hourrs to mend herrself." He glanced down. "Because I have to be the voice of rrreason sometimes. No dock, beach. I see."
Tail swung, hit the narrow bed, swiped ashes at the foot of the hearth, and the massive leopard seemed to groan with frustration.
"Wherrre is fishing dock, syrr?"
 
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Her last hours. A stillness comes over Osytha, leant over the table. Slowly, she at last turns her head to look at Lock and Krava’quiloor, a blank expression etched into her face.

“She really in that bad of a way?”

Not like she should be surprised. It’s obvious the woman’s had that kind of toll taken out of her body. Osytha just doesn’t want to believe it, not now; not since she’ll be partly to blame if Krava’quiloor doesn’t make it.

She faces down at the table, thinking pain-throbbing thoughts for a couple of seconds… until a conclusion starts to form.

“Pigs,” she declares, abruptly.

Osytha lifts her gambeson and flips it around before resting it back on the chair, so its inside is exposed.

“Bloody clever beasts, your average pig.” A pale hand finds her quillon dagger and unsheathes the blade. “Asses, an’ all. Given the choice, though, I’d prefer to butcher a pig. Don’t ax me why.”

Another hand, brushes the lining of her gambeson at the breast. Stops, when it finds a seam in different thread to the others.

“Aye, enow coin can buy you ommust anything,” Osytha continues, as she puts blade tip to stitch. A soft shearing sounds out from under her hands. “That tends to cause problems instead of solvin’ ’em, more often than not. Summat of a human failin’, Ah feel, but Ah’m willin’ to tek advantage of et in this particular instance.”

The knife goes back in its scabbard. Osytha’s fingers dig into the freshly-opened cut, probing in amidst dense wads of felt until they close around something harder and colder than wool. When her hand comes away, she lifts the object up to eye level to inspect.

There, pincered betwixt thumb and forefinger, is a fat, round, gleaming sequin. A real gold ducat. Her ‘emergency fund’.

Well, this is a matter of life and death, isn’t it? Can’t think what’s more emergency than that.

Osytha’s gaze sweeps back to Lock. “Ah give this to t’ folks ’ere, they’ll get you anythin’ you want. Anythin’, so be careful what you wish for.” The hand, and its bounty, lowers. “… but Ah’ll ne stand in your way. You want a boat, Ah’ve enow silver to rent you one. Nay docks ’ere, mind you. They’re smallish vessels, so they jus’ drag ’em up t’ beach.”

Then, a scraping, tinny sound, as Osytha slides that lacquered disk right in front of her. It tunks dully under the tap-tap-tapping of her fingernail to its top.

“But there’s a way to do both. Get you an’ Lady Krava’quiloor clear of this place, and send aht for what you need. Seea long as you keep watch ower t’ sky, Ah can send a signal when et’s ready. Ah’ll find somewhere away from this village. Keep et to just me, Forbs — er, my ’orse — an’ Guffy ’ere.”

The little dog perks up at hearing his name. He’d hovered aback, uncertain of what was going on, but now things seem to have settled down some, and so do his hackles. Guffy pads over to the knight’s feet, wending anxiously around and between them, tail thwapping her calves as he seeks reassurance.

Osytha crouches, and the moment she reaches out, Guffy flops onto his back, squirming excitedly as her hand begins to rub and scratch. Her eyes, though, lift back up to Lock. “Will that work?” she asks.
 
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"It is not easy to attain sustenance that the lady needs, and she has failed to do so rregularly," Lock explained quietly. "Then the crraft and the storrm came and did the damage. Rright now, I carry her because most of herr body has been disabled to prrreserve what enerrgy is left. If we get what's needed, she will rrecoverr. The morre the fasterr."

He shook his head.
"Maybe pigs, but still lean. Simple. Good to recover from an unhealthy habit." He furrowed the brows and puffed up the fur on the cheeks to show his disapproval, but maybe it just didn't convey right.

The coin was studied - because it was shiny, and Lock's tail even twitched in an instinctive desire to free a paw and swipe at it - but he restrained himself, and there seemed to be no recognition - still, this coin was of worth to Osytha, probably of significant worth.
Then came the confusion.
"The boat? Why would we need a boat?" He stared, then it clicked. "Oh. No-no."

One arm detached from the cocoon and landed on the coin. His whole fingerpad was larger than it, and it scraped a little on the tabletop, being moved back.
"The lady is going to trry and lurre what she needs. We just need to be undisturrrbed durring. Close to the waterr. And then someone to catch food and take out brrains. I will eat the rrest. And then... you'll see. We can help. Herr orderr is that we help if you do."

He slowly sat on his haunches, leaning closer to the dog, eyes wide.
"Is yourr familiarr, yes?" Green-tinted eyes looked at Osytha - about on the level now. "Can I pet? Orr is verry fierce?"
 
“My…?” Osytha glances back down at Guffy. He looks up with his tongue lolling out. Then, he takes the opportunity from this sudden lull to sneeze, in an excited sort of way, all over her hand.

A ‘familiar’, as in, like a witch’s companion spirit? She cackles. “In a manner of speakin’, aye. You might call ’im that.”

Osytha rolls the little lad over and plops him on his feet. Guffers keeps harassing her wrists at first, until she gestures at Lock and ushers him off with a soft “Gā!”; which, really, proves to be all the encouragement he needs to trot over toward another promising-looking friend.

“As for ‘fierce’,” she continues, watching Guffy try and scrabble his way up Mt Lock in a desperate attempt to plant a few good licks on the man’s face, “not quite t’ word Ah’d use. ’E’s pretty much all bark, is our Guffers. But, well, if that don’t work, an’ whativver’s mekkin’ ’im mad is still comin’ at us, then ’e’ll… run away, if’n Ah’m bein’ honest.” Osytha scratches her head. “Nivver seen what ’appens after the ‘runnin’ away’ bit. Could be that’s when ’e’ll actually bite. Or ’e might just roll ower an’ wet ’issen. My brass is on t’ latter.”

Good lad, making friends. With any luck Guffy’s brand of simple, trusting affection can make up for a little of her missteps. Another one of which she could be about to make, if she holds this pair up any longer. Osytha rises back up on her feet, stuffing the sequin into her purse with the silver for now, and moving to don her discarded raiment.

“Ah think Ah unnerstand.” Took me long enough. “There’s a rocky outcrop as stretches into t’ water fairly close by, just off Trigwell’s End. Sea looked calm, so Ah reckon et’ll be safe enow aht there.”

The gambeson is shrugged back on, leather ties looped closed one by one. Hopefully that food and washbasin are on their way right now, otherwise it looks like they’ll have to wait. One can only get so inured to the stench of bloater when it’s smeared across one’s face, and that lingering stink is the shit garnish upon the shit sandwich of all her other aches and woes.

“Ah can tek you there. An’ Ah’ll mek sure you en’t disturbed.” Her hands finish with the cords, and go to return the bits and bobs she’d taken out back to their various homes along her belt and baldric. But her hand stops when it touches the bright red disk, and then, she slides it along the table to show Lock.

“This might actually be of use to you,” she says. “If you run into trouble — especially wi’ what we’ve got washin’ ashore currently — you can send aht a distress signal wi’ this, an’ Ah’ll come for you. See this seam around t’ circumference? Et’s got two halves. All you need do is twist t’ top widdershins… er, counter-clockwise, like so, then et’ll activate after a couple seconds. Oh, an’ keep all your bits clear. Ah usually chuck et a few feet away. Anyroad: twist an’ throw. Et’ll do t’ rest.”
 
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Lock leaned enough, his ward like a bandolier pressed against him. Sniffed at the dog. He thought a little, and then braced himself against the floor with a knee firmer. The tail wagging that followed, cautiously optimistic, was entirely canine-mannered, and it threw the beastkin slightly off-balance.

He had this radiance about him that seemed to filter out the bad somewhere into the depths of the unfathomable fluff, and Guffy's friendly nature played right into making it ordinary. In a moment's notice, the dog was almost entirely concealed to Lock's two hands carefully giving it pets and scritches, cognizant of the claws. He stopped, soon, considering how dirty his hands were. He didn't need disapproval from Krava'quiloor to not with the little minion any sickness.

"He is a merrymakerrr in the collective, then, er, good to have a buddy when you fight rrot all day." He paused. "The lady says, the smell is verry bad and can help with it if you find some seaweed, shells and a hand-sized living piece of moss orrr mold on yourr outing."

Lock watched the door open slowly, in several arduous pushes, and the auntie returned with a couple clean cloths and a large washbasin that she had to hug with her long wiry arms and watch carefully to keep steady. She cast a sidelong look towards Lock, and Lock concentrated all his attention on giving Guffy scritches around the ears with some jeweler's precision.
"Anything else, m'lady? Oh, I thought that you were stopping for a rest," Ada spoke, concerned, turning her eyes to the knight as someone more familiar and thus easier to interact with.

Giving Osytha some space, Lock studied the red disk. Shifted weight from one foot to another, like he was assessing some series of movements, imagining himself throwing it in some unusual way perhaps.
"Twist... eh,... I think I underrstand. You must be nimble verry much to use it, yes. Take us therre once you arre done, please. We will wait outside."


The ocean broke against the cliffside where they went. Past Daev's rock - and Lock hoped the man had sensibility to survive until their return. The beastkin seemed serious, somewhat easily distracted, and trying his best to retain that focus that hunger was disrupting.

Far down the cliff, he could see the last fractions of the red roe being washed away, to leave no trace of what once was. This was true for all of things the lady made that did not have even a spark of consciousness, this seamless dissipation of matter and whatever was in-between that she claimed the spirit-seer had sway over.

Still, he walked deeper down the outcrop, closer to the open water and farther from the land the water could not touch. Krava did not make a sound in his arms throughout, only closed her eyes, and seemed to breathe softer, slower. Perhaps, she was half-asleep.

"If we do not sufferr death, we will find you," Lock offered. "Can take carre of the little dog, if you like? He is tiny like I was. Oh, and- the lady says, if you see a wrraith with fox ears and tail, white hairr, erm. He was powerful weaverrr and won't be a simple drrownerr. They trrraveled togetherr, beforre storrm. She wants to put his body to rrest herrself. She says, he should not be burrned." He seemed to stutter between phrases, as if filtering some of the information. Not that there was any protest from his shoulder.
 
Osytha winkles her nose against the reek of eau de la pourriture. “’Er Ladyship don’t ken t’ half of et,” she laments of that smell. “Sorry about that.” She pauses, and runs the list back through her head: seaweed, seashells, and… either moss or mould? “Curious shoppin’ list, that. If’n Ah find some moss, alreight then. Mould, Ah’m less keen on—”

Some juddering false starts from the door cut her off, and then Aunty Ada steps inside, a simple, wide wooden basin grasped a little awkwardly in her hands. Besides those washcloths, a napkin which has been tied into a bundle dangles from her fingers at the tub’s side.

“Anything else, m’lady? Oh, I thought that you were stopping for a rest.”​

“’Ey now, Ah can live wi’ ‘syr’, but Ah draw t’ line at bein’ called ‘lady’,” Osytha retorts in a good-humoured sort of tone, while Ada sets everything down on the table. Don’t you know I work for a living? Given their present company, she leaves that part of the joke unsaid. “But, nay — Ah can rest when t’ dead do. Thank’ee kindly, Ada.”

Praise be to Sitha and the hearth-tenders. There’s a nub of soft, black soap included; not exactly pleasant stuff itself, but far better than what Osytha’s got smeared on her currently, which it’ll help remove. The first washcloth is, well — a wash. She uses it to lather up and wipe off the gore patina’s worst, then it gets chucked aside instead of rinsed out in the remaining water. A second cloth handles the rest, washing off what’s left with rosemary- and daphne-infused ambrosia. Her ablutions err on the hasty side, and she suspects a bit of the old stench lurks upon her yet. But it’s definitely an improvement, and at least what remains is largely masked by the florals.

That bundle’s contents comprise Osytha’s other request: a few more provisions to take on the go. They even gave her a fresh waterskin. Her canteen, she’s pretty sure, is still lying somewhere on the beach from where Lock had tossed it.

She’s all done in a couple of minutes, if that. Steps outside, still drying off her face, and makes her way over to where she’s left Forbítter hitched nearby.

Osytha knows who it is as soon as the shadow falls over her.

“What’s going on, syr?” utters Maddie, in a low, hushed voice. “Are those two leaving? What happened in there?”

The knight glances over her shoulder. She’s entirely unsurprised to see a few stubbornly suspicious hangers-on forming an audience, in addition to Maddie’s formidable presence.

“Aye, Ah’m tekkin’ ’em to Trig’s,” she replies. “Lady Krava’quiloor an’ Lock unnerstand that you folks are a bit uneasy wi’ them ’ere.” Forbítter’s reins slip free into her hand with a tug, and her other gives the grey beast a few strokes down his neck. “They figured et’ll be best for ivverybody if they kip down elsewhere.”

“Trig’s End?” Maddie presses in closer, more insistent. “But… why? What’s there, did they say?”

Osytha shrugs, and starts to lead Forbítter toward the big gate. “Spot of fishin’, sounds like,” she answers, motioning Lock to head out.

The sturdy fisherwoman drops her voice to an urgent hiss. “This is serious, syr!”

“Deadly,” Osytha agrees. Sighs. “Look. T’ lady can weave wounds closed like they weren’t even there. Or, summat like that. Ah saw et wi’ my very een, whativver kind of craft et is. They’re jus’ goin’ to get more of ’er strength back, an’ then she’s kindly offered to fix up Daev’s foot for ’im.”

But, this only seems to darken Maddie’s expression. “I don’t trust them. If those two are planning something… tell me you saw it, at least? That ‘she’ isn’t human?”

“Ah saw…” fuchsia speckled iridescent, and metal-dark threading beneath the skin. A connection beyond anything one can achieve with words and a glance, which when the walls went back up, left her feeling…? “… Ah’m ne too sure what Ah saw, truth be told.”

Maddie nods her head, triumphantly. Could be that woman heard more in those words than Osytha had actually given them, to which, she fights down another sigh. Part of her is too tired to argue. The other part is itching to blow up again. Problem is that people are stubborn. It’s a very, very rare soul who will actually stop, listen, consider the argument fairly, and accept the possibility that they are mistaken; tell most people they’re wrong and they see it as an attack, which is just cause to dig their heels in. Osytha thinks she’s heard enough from Maddie to know which camp she belongs to.

“If you want to ’elp,” Osytha says, halting at the gate so she can climb up into Forbítter’s saddle, “keep bringing food down for all of us workin’ t’ beach. Also wood an’ oil for t’ pyres. There shall be plenty of bodies, an’ Ah’m sure you all want a hot, clean fire. Not some half-arsed job that’ll smoke up t’ place, aye?”

Hopefully, that’ll keep them too busy to form another mob any time soon. It’s the best Osytha can do at a moment’s notice, anyway, and in the time it takes to reach the village walls — because there’s a more pressing matter as needs seeing to first and foremost. Guffy is sticking more by Lock, safely away from Forbítter’s hooves, and the lad’s simply glad to hang out a little bit more with his newest best bud. Everything’s in as much order as it’s likely to get. So, she sets her eyes ahead, and urges Forbs into a trot toward the beach.


* * *​


Just north from the huddled fishing hamlet of Hytheness, still within view of the beached wreck and the shapes of fisherfolk swarming around it, the tall white cliffs cut forward into sea. But the ocean doesn’t much care for the permanence of stone, if such a thing can be said of chalk, and aeons of erosion have crumbled that high knife’s tip down into the surf below. What’s left behind is a knobbly little bridge of marlstone stretching out to nowhere. When the moons are just right and the tide is at its lowest, one might walk over half a furlong along that crab-infested finger with nothing but ocean on either side of them. Most of the time, however, its majority lies submerged.

It boasts a fairly typical appearance when Krava’quiloor, Osytha, and their assorted furry friends reach its foot. Perhaps forty yards, give or take, of toughened marlstone slabs in a haphazard pile, garnished by faster-wearing alabaster chalk. Where low waves had made lazy white noise as they rolled up and down the flat sand along the rest of the beach, here that water crashes, sucks and gurgles amidst the outcrop’s maze-like warren of stones.

“Hope this is suitable for your needs,” Osytha says when they come to a halt. She fishes Ada’s parcel out her bags and gestures it towards Lock. “You said you’re still in need of food, an’ Ah honestly en’t getten much appetite reight now, seea… et’s yours, if you want.”

She lingers, still, while the snowy-furred fellow carefully works his way along the outcrop; watching to see how sure his feet are, or if he might be wanting a bit of assistance getting his mistress up to the far point. His focus, his dedication on the task at hand — on Krava’quiloor, ultimately — is such a palpable thing that Osytha is a little surprised when he stops before too long, and turns back her way.

“If we do not sufferr death, we will find you. Can take carre of the little dog, if you like? He is tiny like I was.”​

Osytha squashes down a grin. Every bloody time… a body spends five minutes with the lad and next thing you know, they want to take Guffers off her hands. Not that she can blame them, of course. She wonders what Lock means by ‘tiny’, as well. Like, when he was a cub? Er, baby? Cub-baby-thing?

“Oh, and— the lady says, if you see a wrraith with fox ears and tail, white hairr, erm. He was powerful weaverrr and won’t be a simple drrownerr. They trrraveled togetherr, beforre storrm. She wants to put his body to rrest herrself. She says, he should not be burrned.”​

… What?

The change in Osytha is stark. That amused grin bleeds away in an instant, her eyes widening in… surprise? Fear? No — that thing which lies opposite to hope; dread. The tiny little seed of doubt that you desperately wish is just something that you misheard, if not an outright lie, or a mere, harmless coincidence. But which you know, in your heart, is exactly what you fear it to be: the truth. A truth which shall sprout its roots through all your foundations and bring the world crumbling down.

“What colour were his eyes?” Her voice, her gaze — something’s fraying at the edges. “His name. What is… was… his name?”
 
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Lock kept his distance while the knight tended to herself, him and his bundle of a mistress and scritches to Guffers. When they exited, he did not look at anyone in particular, eyeing the outward path. His bushy tail patted Guffer's head or poked at his side, until the pup got a hang of it and started play-snapping at it when the black brush of a tip drifted close. He even chased it, a couple times, until he figured it all started where the legs did, and tried to teeth at Lock's shin.

A conversation seemed to be transpiring inwardly, as well - the not-beastkin occasionally hummed, hurred in disagreement, chuckled, furrowed brows with concern, quite disjointed from Osytha. Oh, the knight was a delight to listen to, handling the humans in that measured, careful approach. Krava wished that the Great Philosopher sent someone like that for the Creed, someday, because while 'old' was inapplicable to her from logical standpoint - she was too old and getting too impatient for the bullshit. Lock, quite enamored with the whole mixed trio, argued she had to stop and smell the roses from time to time, as well.

She could make those, too, and more than decorative.
A sigh resounded with the beastkin's full chest. Then his stomach growled a long, sizzling note of seething protest, and he slouched, embarrassed, tail end covering his mid-torso.

The disk went into the blanket bundle, he'd figure it out later - feeling curiosity from Krava, but also her retracting any knowledge or consideration as to how the device worked. She let him feed his own intellectual pursuits, in other words - let him figure it all out himself.

And Lock started thinking acrobatics as soon as they trod off, past a log wall that was built as well as anything could be in hard, rocky soil. It reached up to Lock's chin, and for most intruders would be tall enough.

"I can't take this, I will have a lot of squigglies to chew thrrough." he rejected the supplies softly, a smile in his tone and a swish in his tail. "She says you'll keep feeling nauseous, and if you thrrow up, you should let us know so we come fix. Damage to brrain, she says, would be a shame, yourr mindscape seems nice."

He trod heavily on the beach, but hunched over for the climb, his extra arms ready to assist as the quick glance assessed the height, the grips. The sooner he could make it the better. Worry was rising, and- lulled, by a tender current. Hush.

Claws dug into rock, a tiny pebble tumbled down the cliff, sending a couple smaller ones.

“His name. What is… was… his name?”​

The lull came weak as a veil wrapping around.
"We are not sure if he is among the dead, syr, but logic dictates so. I have done all I can without forfeiting Lock." Krava's voice was articulate, tone firm and reassuring, it was just that her lips did not move, only her head lolled slightly against the beastkin's shoulder, and her eyes, no whites and no pupils, looked at Osytha from heavy white lashes. Lock glanced to his mistress as if he heard the voice, too. A strange expression painted on his face.

"I have not been conscious long after the ship had been torn apart. Him and I traveled together. He was... he could have been a friend. We didn't have much time. I sought a cure for his mind. I remember what his mind is shaped like. He must not be just... disappeared on a pyre, if his body is found. He will also be dangerous in death as he was powerful in life. I will make a great white tree with golden leaves and crimson fruit of what remains. If humans find him unappealing, he will feed the birds all through winter, and many nests will... be in the boughs..." the not-elf's breathing turned into labored wheezing, though she wasted none on speech.

"We want to honor Momoshiro Komori. In our way. Foolish boy as he was, in the end, we'll miss him greatly. That's all."
The veil disappeared, but the green eyes still bore directly into Osytha for a few long beats, unblinking, as the ragged breathing calmed.

"We arre sorry forr the loss." Lock spoke out loud. "We truly arre, my lady had... hopes. Did you know him well?"
One of his arms lurched towards Osytha, awkward, clumsily offering... a pat? A hug? He didn't seem so sure, himself.
"Werre you... frriends, too?"
 
“We want to honour Momoshiro Komori.”​

Just because Osytha knew it was coming, doesn’t make it easier to accept.

Momoshiro Komori.

She doesn’t really hear anything after that. Not over the ringing in her head. Krava’s words take like ink to greasepaper; no sooner having formed than beading into senseless mess, running from the page in black rivulets. Lost.

Momo.

Osytha stares, blind, into to the dispassionate green gaze. Seeing instead a crimson one. Eyes warm and gentle as poppy flowers under summer sun, even against the black backdrop of stars to which they’re turned. “But every now and then, you meet someone and it doesn’t feel temporary.” No. No, this can’t be right. “You make the world feel smaller in a good way. Less lonely.” He faces her, and his smile, his voice, are filled with all the softness that’s been missing since the day they parted.

“No matter where I end up after this, I’m going to remember… you.”

This can’t be right. He can’t be— not before her. She’d told him, surely she’d be the first to go. Before Meri, before Hroðgar, before Leofric. And though she didn’t say this part, surely, before him. When Momo had answered her, it wasn’t his assurance Osytha would survive more than she expects to which assuaged her fears. It was the other things. The words which finally made her feel she had permission to accept her mother’s love. Telling her he could see so much more to her than just the knight. His promise that he would remember her.

From then, it was like she’d given a piece of herself over. Whatever happened to the rest of Osytha, at least that piece would always go where she wish she could have followed; carried by those careful hands, in the good company of all the other tender little things within that man’s heart.

He can’t be gone. Sayuri, Daichi, Renji, Kenta, Hiroto, and Akari — they’re all waiting for Momo to come home. He has to make it home…

“I miss them more than I expected to.”

Idiot. Why? Why didn’t he go straight to Aetochi? That stupid, smug, clumsy, soft-hearted fool.

Why did he have to go at all…?

“Did you know him well? Werre you... frriends, too?”​

She doesn’t even notice Lock has approached, not until she feels an arm, reticent, on her shoulder. Osytha blinks — and the cold sea breeze suddenly washes over her, the slap of lazy waves on rough rock floods her ears. She turns her pale face toward the not-beastkin’s, meeting his uncertain-looking visage with her own shell-shocked one.

“Friends?” she echoes, distantly. “We… we were…” ‘friends’; I suppose we were. But it feels like such a weak word for what Momo is. “… Ah only knew ’im for a few days. But et… et felt like so much longer than that.

“Ah’d nivver met a soul like ’im before. Then before Ah knew et, ’e was— ’e w-was l-leavin’…”

Osytha starts shaking her head, suddenly. A sound hums out, like a word is dying on her tongue before it has strength enough to fly the nest. She squeezes her eyes shut, which sends running everything which had begun to well up in them, and now one could taste the ocean down her cheeks.

“No.” Finally gets the word out. “No — Momo’s too strong for that. ’E’s alive, Ah kens et. ’E’s—”

Then where is he? the dread whispers to her. If he survived like Krava’quiloor and Lock did… then why isn’t he here?

That troubled brow lifts up. A raddled face turns back along the beach, dumbly watching the industrious little figures combing the flotsam and jetsam washing ashore. They toil, utterly oblivious to what’s transpiring on the rocks. Ignorant, also, of what might be coming.

“Ah mun clear t’ beach,” Osytha abruptly says. She sounds, and looks, desperate for something to latch onto, something that might stop her having time to think. She breaks away from Lock’s hand, turning Forbítter harshly around. “They can’t stay. If ’e’s— if Momo’s—”

He can’t be dead. Not Momoshiro Komori. His spirits would keep him safe, surely.

But if he is… if a dwymor with all that cursed power bound to it is about to be delivered to them…

Forbítter kicks into a gallop, sprinting away from the castaways. Guffy whips around from his investigation of the marlstone’s various rockpools, spending a moment in startled surprise before he, too, scrabbles down onto the sand and chases after them as quickly as his stumpy legs will allow.
 
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The thoughts hit before the feelings did. The not-elf's eyes closed, and she parsed them through, let the waves of emotion flow around her, a bitter sea sweeping through the hallways of the mind.
Once before, she did this to another outsider. Let their feelings flow through her instead of coiling back inward.
Oh, the lady knight loved that fool.

Krava'quiloor felt a nostalgic sort of sadness lean to her senses. Her own.
But anger parried it, cold fire burning in the undertow.
They were here cleaning up his mess, his refusal to sacrifice anyone so the rest may live so they were still counting those unheroic dead - and yet Osytha would grieve him as a victim. Would mourn.
She would mourn, too. There was potential in that boy. Squandered, misguided, anxious potential.

Regret surfaced next, just as Lock's body lurched in his awkward attempt to give a soothing hug, just as tears welled up in Osytha's eyes.
I should have made the hard choice for him. I should have killed a few and saved the rest. I'd have made it quick, efficient, they wouldn't even feel the pain. Drowning hurt. That segment of the ocean has panic imprint on it now that will take a while to fade. I should have let them hate me for it. Once grief would settle, they would understand. Surely.
It was senseless to regret now. He was no Creed. They didn't spend any amount of time together that would matter - she was engulfed in ensuring her kith had a body once more, and all the energy, all the time that she could dedicate, flowed there.

If Momoshiro Komori was dead, then he was a name in a very long list of people she had known. If he was undead, he was the anathema to the Creed's doctrine, and had to be destroyed before his remains would serve as compost. The one simple, clean way to bring some meaning to the remainder of the remains.

Lock's chest rumbled, a short, nervous purr.
"You're rright. They can't," for a moment, as if catching a thoughtpath from his mistress, he looked almost skittish, and wrapped the only remaining ward tighter, closer to himself. "I will find you."
He watched her retreat, with the poor little pupper trying to keep up with a galloping horse. The vibrations of the heavy hooves pounded through the sand, a deep resonance against every miniscule crystal, spurts of it sent from the limbs pushing the ground away.

Osytha's grief trailed behind her, arcing in the air like a long, weightless half-mantle of deep steely-blue with hints of turquoise tenderness and purple devastation. Krava opened her eyes to see it, the woman, and her horse, and her dog, part of a different people. She could not offer comfort to the only person that treated her well since they'd been washed upon this cursed shore. And for that, she felt sorry, for several beats of the heart.
Sorry didn't cut it, though. Nobody could grow anything on sorry, it didn't make for a good foundation or even a decent fertilizer. Lady Krava'quiloor had more than that to offer, to the only person she had burdened with helping and then broke to the worst news of the following year, most likely.

I just need... to catch my breath.


From the top of the cliff, reflecting from the water instead of sinking into the cresting waves, a sound built. A sigh of wind, low and hollow without a tunnel, slowly fine-tuned, pitched higher, clearer. Trails of something that was enacted outward, on the water, and made the air sing.
A whale song above the ocean. A crystalline ringing, slowly adjusting cadence and pitch, droning in a way many would find soothing.

It did not last long. Whatever was happening, it happened without witness or further traces to the wider world, within the following hour or two. And then, the ringing stopped.

A lot of the undead still trudging water turned to the outcrop, as if a beacon lit and drew their attention.
A lot of carcasses of small cephalopods would wash up on the rocks soon. A portion of each population that she could attract from nearby, into the extreme shallows, to be collected into the sailcloth.


EUGH it is so disgusting, I want it flavored.
Eat. You are the Creed's elder now, you must eat more.
I will. I am! It's just not palatable. A splash of frustration. The tiniest of tantrum. I want it flavored like apricot and cranberries.
I know.
We were So Close to finishing the monoliths. So. Close. I can't believe I still have to run sentients down like an Animal.
I know.
Do I look like an angler fish? Oh... Oh by the- where are my clothes? Pass that sailcloth, let me see...
Can we solve the issue of hygiene, too? I doubt the lady knight will remember our... shopping list, but my smell is getting wrinkly.
Yes, yes, just. Find her first. One thing at a time. Uh-uh, finish those carcasses. I'm not suffering this alone.


Six paws drummed on the sand. A large, grey mass of muscle and determination followed the hoof tracks.
The snow leopard called out between leaps, trying to move as fast as he could at the same time. To see the pyres being built, or any movement of the alive kind. Any direction at all...
"Syrr! Syrr Oseetha! Syrr! I could not! Twist it! I could not twist it! My shins don't bend that way! Syr!"
 
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They’re hesitant to give up their salvage efforts at first, the fisherfolk. Toils know they’ve worked hard enough to help Osytha clear the beach, and one of their number’s paid dearly for it. Crates and barrels, their staves swollen by seawater, keep getting dragged up, leaving furrows through sand like frets up the shore’s long neck. For some, that warping only spells a breach; their sodden contents rendered worthless more often than not. But for others, the engorged wood presses tight against its neighbours to make watertight seals. Intact cargoes of spices and silk, each one worth more than an entire day’s haul of fish. Can she blame them for not giving up on such a haul so easily?

That changes when a not-so-fresh drowner rises up from the water behind Loretta, as she wades too close to a crop of seagrass. Its rancid maw would have closed down on the woman’s tender neck-flesh, if Osytha’s broadhead didn’t bite first, popping its eyeball in a shower of gelatinous gore.

Those fisherfolk were a bit more willing to heed her warning after that. No one wanted to end up like Daev. Or worse.

But they can help with the other job as needs doing. And fortunately for that, fuel proves to be plentiful enough.

Much of it still wet, but it will dry out if she can get the pyres running hot enough. Sections of the pitch-sealed hull are especially useful, as is the caulking along the deck. Osytha gets some help with breaking apart some of wreckage even further than it has already been wave-sundered. The folk of Hytheness take this opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: while they disassemble the section that’s washed up, they also anchor ropes to it at various points, so they might pull it further in during high tide. Then when the water recedes, a few more of its cabins and their treasure will be accessible.

Osytha even gets some help moving corpses up near the pyres. Some lie still, and maybe, will remain so. Others still rasp and flounder, their bodies either too broken or bound to make good on their threats towards the living things which carry them to their final resting place. But, aside from the flotsam and jetsam being re-purposed for the pyres, Hytheness also sends down what is needed: dried up driftwood, scrap timber, old rope too worn and frayed to be of any use, pitch, oil, and so on.

At a certain point, the fire will rage so hot that it won’t matter what they throw on there. Anything will feed the flames.

Efforts have not long begun when they all stop to hear the Song. Even Osytha, desperate as she is to throw herself into the work, has to straighten up and turn her eyes to Trig’s End as melancholy is given siren voice. She glances around at the other faces, wondering if they hear the same as she does. Some folks stare blankly at that jutting point, their expressions, unreadable. A few others look on in… awe, perhaps. And a few more than that, with a dark, brooding countenance. Everyone listens for perhaps a minute, until one of their number moves, resumes hauling a section of ship’s hull across the sand, and then the spell is broken. The others quickly follow suit to return to their jobs.

It’s good work. Which is to say, busy work. The kind of work that doesn’t give you much time to stop and think. But that can’t last forever.

After a couple of hours, Osytha finds herself alone at the base of those towering white cliffs. Even if their eyes didn’t take heed of the hour by sun’s journey through the sky, Hytheness’ stomachs kept a keen clock all their own, and now everyone has set down their work and headed back to the dwellings above for a midday meal. Osytha is glad for it — to finally have the beach properly vacated. Certainly it’s safe up there, and besides, rows of sea-swollen cadavers hardly make for pleasant dining companions.

Osytha, though, doesn’t join them. She doesn’t even stop to eat down here, either; had managed to work her way through that entire waterskin, but the headache and nausea persist strong enough that, despite the growling of her stomach, merely thinking of food sends a fresh wave of queasiness up her throat. So instead, she’s taking a roster of the dead.

A brass stylus scores economical shorthand into her cera’s wax, as she slowly goes from body to body; Dscrpⁿ.: M, 30-40 yrs, 5’10”; strt brn't h., drk br‿n ı, aqln, clft p'l't; r. bs'p t'tu — arCr cnS'l'ⁿ…

… and when the man she’s recording turns the white-dulled chestnut of its gaze toward her, when his body tugs against the rope holding him rigweltered down, she takes out a different stylus to her little brass thing. One much, much longer and vicious-tipped, with which she thoroughly dots the ‘i’s so to speak, so that a little peace might be found. Osytha lays his stilled head back down to rest, then finishes scratching his details into her tablet.

She finds herself in front of the girl, next. That young thing she’d lanced before it could sink its teeth into a helpless Krava’quiloor. The lass’ sternum is stoved in, a foam of dark blood frothing out her purple lips. Her hazel eyes wide open and staring to the sky. Eyes like Esota’s, Osytha thinks. Surely no older than the Laverock lass, either.

The stylus in her hand won’t budge. Osytha looks down to it, at the words it refuses to make real in blackened beeswax.

An unknown amount of time passes like that. She only stares into a featureless black plane, as her mind finally collapses beneath one burden too many and just… shuts down. Voids itself of the effort and pain of thought. So she simply drifts away, for a while.

Her eyes see a black page in pale birch frame, plus the glint of polished brass. She doesn’t. Her nose smells briny, rotted flesh over a sulphurous hint from strands of beached seaweed. She doesn’t. Her nerves and neurons feel the throbbing agony of a stubborn headache. She doesn’t. Her ears hear sound of wind and surf, of trilling gulls high above. She doesn—

“Syrr! Syrr Oseetha!”​

She blinks. Snaps her head up, and around, at the fast-approaching form of Lock galloping on all sixes.

“Syrr! I could not! Twist it! I could not twist it! My shins don't bend that way! Syr!”​

Twist… it? Her addled brain struggles to catch up. Twist what—? she wonders again, before remembering the little gift she’d given Lock in case those two encountered danger. The emergency flare?!

Osytha drops her cera to the earth, wasting no time in leaping up into Forbítter’s saddle and urging him into a run towards the outcrop.

“What do your shins getten to do wi’ the price of fish?!” she roars, speeding her courser along by commands from her legs, while her arms retrieve the still-strung bow from its holster. “Never mind — what’s t’ danger?”

As soon as she asks the question, she wishes she hadn’t. She wishes she doesn’t know what could be so bad that Lock had to abandon Lady Krava’quiloor there upon the rocks, and run for help. Something much, much worse than any number of bog-standard drowners, perhaps.

Please, don’t let it be him. Please, gods—!
 
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