Private As Above, So Below

[Faramund]

The skies over Cloud's Keep were awash with flying vessels. Deep-bellied mercantile ships. Sleek, ballista-laden frigates, and there, between Coin and Crown, a lone passenger ship bound for Crown's Hold, the capital of the Kingdom of Altalusia. 'About time, too!' Stood atop the foredeck, his fur-lined cloak pulled tight, face half-hidden by a thick scarf, Syr Faramund of Dawn watched as the city receded into the distance. Beside him, the young and impressionable Malik Hargrave shot a wayward glance at the tall knight. Though he was neither friend nor comrade, the would-be Viscount had taken a shine to the dawnling, sensing in him a kindred spirit of sorts.

If so, he was gravely mistaken.

'Did you not hear me? I said, about time, too!' Puffing out his chest, Malik all but bellowed in Faramund's ear, his voice somewhat frail and nasally. On account of the cold, he had explained earlier, dabbing at his reddened nose with a silken handkerchief embroidered with his initials. In case he chances to forget his own bloody name, mused Faramund, turning away from the view. It was a shame, really. The city from above was quite something, as were its sky ports and landing plateaus.

'Hey! Hey, I'm talking to you!' Descending to the main deck, Faramund sighed as the youngster rushed to keep up. The silly bugger nearly slipped on the icy planks. With winter falling fast, one had to be careful of one's footing. Lest one ends up pitching their fool-ass headfirst over the side, the knight mused darkly, praying someone would come and save him before he had to take matters into his own hands. 'I say, where are you rushing off to?' Stopping so suddenly Malik nearly bumped into him, Faramund rounded on the nobleman, his dark brown eyes narrowed against the chill wind blowing down off the mountains to the west. For a moment, he contemplated telling him to piss off.

Doubt that'll work, old chap, he sighed, glancing to the North, peepers peeled for signs of trouble.

'Inside,' he said, after a second or two locked in contemplation. 'It's fuckin' freezing out here, and I'd rather not catch a death of cold when there's a warm and well-stocked bar callin' my name.' With that, he turned on his heel and made his way below decks. Malik followed.​

@Bebin .

 

[Bebin]

Upon the wooden boards that lined the deck, sat folded upon himself, Bebin. Eyes shut to the light of the world about him.

The sounds of the ship. Creaks and hums. The high song of shroud-engines hard at work to keep the lift-balloons full. All distant. Muffled. As if they wove through thick soup. As if the Pursuant of Loch were deep beneath the shimmer and shine of a rushing river. Rocks come loose from mud, set to tumble and knock with the force of so much motion.

So too were the sounds of all the thoughts aboard.

Shades of silver, white, gold, turned reds, purples and greens. Bent, as the light of the Day's Star was bent by the eight moons. Changed. Cooled. Rippled there in the darkness of the collective mind.

Hopes and dreams. Doubts. Worries. Anxieties mixed with joys and pleasures.

And there among them. An anomaly. All too familiar.

Come the slow sound of creaking hinges. And the door open. A petulant ghost of gold tinged silver just behind the abyssal shade of a friend.

"Faramund," Bebin said easy and sure. His eyes still closed. His head still bowed, and his legs still folded about each other as he sat in their room aboard the sky-carrack. Syr Theros opened his eyes, warm breath pushed out from his nose. "And our young lord," he bowed his head to the youth, and made to rise from the floor. "I take it the view was to your liking?" he said, as he stood straight and dusted himself off.

The lampglass rattled gentle with the shift and shake of the ship, still rising in the currents.

 

[Faramund]

'Bebin,' Faramund replied, finding his friend mid-meditation. 'Yes, the view was quite breathtaking, so long as you don't gaze too long into the abyss.' Though riding upon an airship was a novelty, it was not one the dawnling longed to repeat. The sway and shift, the thrum and whine of shroud-engines put to the test. It took some getting used to.

As did the drop.

'Syr Theros! What a pleasant surprise!' Pressing into the room uninvited, the young nobleman bowed his head in recognition as the dusker bade rise. Dressed in his finest silks, his black shoulder-length hair drawn back in a tight ponytail, Malik looked every bit the youth when compared to the two knights sharing the space with him. 'Yes, I concur. It was simply breathtaking. A shame, then, that you could not join us topside.'

Polite, disarmingly sweet, Faramund had to admit the boy's lessons in etiquette were paying off.

That's bluebloods for you, he thought, ever the grouch. Saccharine smiles one day, poisoned chalices the next. In this moment, it was not he who had to worry about what the future might bring. Oh no. House Hargrave were the ones who had to keep an eye out for false friends.

For the Cult of the Everwatcher was out for their blood.

The Old Enemy, Faramund mused, seeing the ironic twist to his thoughts. Until recently, he had been one of their greatest assets. No longer. Now -for now- he was his own man, and he fully intended to be a thorn in the side of the Cult that had, for lack of a better term, created him.

'I-... we were heading on down to the lounge, if you would care to join us,' the tall dawnling spoke up, impressing upon his brother a meaning only he was like to catch. 'I imagine the place is like to be packed already. But hey, the more the merrier,' he smiled, eyes aglow, seeking understanding in the dusker's stony expression.

@Bebin

 

[Bebin]

"It is not my first time departing from Cloud Keep's docks, young Lord," the Dusker reasoned with the youth. A welcome crook to his lip. "But mayhaps, I'll see the sights before we make landing,"

Worse things in the world than a well mannered noble. Far worse.

A moonglow smile turned crescent across Bebin's lips at the sound of Faramund's plan. "A drink would be welcome,* he said coolly, and motioned to the door.

Not that he thought being so out in the open was the best play. The room etched with runes as it was, would give them time and warning, should the enemy reveal themselves.

And upon a ship like the Vasdaya, so loaded with passengers and crew, any turn of the wheel could make the difference.

Still. Cavalier was Faramund's way. Set the hook. See if something bites.

So Bebin reasoned the Mund's mind worked .

---

Shakers rocked as ice rattled against tin.

Sweet smelling poison was poured into chilled glass coups.

"Two dark and stormies," the bartender said easy as he pushed the drinks forward. "For the gentleman," she winked at them, and waited a moment.

Bebin slapped down some coin, and took up the glass. Offered it to Faramund as the warm spice of ginger tickled his nose. "To fair winds," the dusker said as he rode his cup.

Smoke from pipe bowls swirled and hazed across the air

 

[Faramund]

'What he said,' the dawnling echoed, clinking glasses and tossing it back. Cocktails had never really been his thing, in truth, but the dusker had recommended giving it a try, and Bebin had yet to let him down. In life or in liquor. 'Not half bad,' he confessed, loud enough for the bartender to hear. To her credit -and his delight- she hit him with a raised eyebrow and a smile that could've melted Helfrost.

'To your health, Syrs!' Raising his glass, Malik toasted the two "knights," his features crinkling in delight as he tipped the contents down his gullet. 'Oh, I do say! This is better than you led me to believe, Syr.' Smiling, the lordling nursed his drink, apparently at ease in the bustling lounge of the Vasdaya. 'Mmm. You saw yours off awfully fast, Syr Faramund. Do you have plans that Syr Bebin and I are not privy to?' Looking to the dusker, the young lordling's smile grew a touch mischievous. 'And you, Syr Bebin. Measured is your way. I dare say it will be up to us to make sure our friend here makes it back to the room in one piece, should he persist in his oh-so foolish endeavour.'

Sharing a look with his beturbaned brother, Faramund shrugged, grinned.

Getting drunk was not his intention, nor did he intend to leave Malik's side unguarded. Bebin, for all his strength and wisdom, was but a man. Mortal. Fallible. Vulnerable to the rigours of time spent in the waking world.

Drawing the crimson cloak of Hargrave up over his shoulder, Faramund waved off a second as the bartender made to approach. 'Worry not, Young Lord. When the hour of the wolf arrives, I shall carry myself back to our rooms. You have my word.' Grinning, he cast a glance around the lounge.

Merchantmen- and women, lesser nobility, their guards. Swift-moving servants in white shirts and gloves, some tabarded, others not. Any one of them could be a Cultist, Faramund knew, just as any one of them could be innocent.

See anything? The dawnling asked, fingers twisting down by his side, the silent hand-code of their order.

 

[Bebin]

Fingers flexed, and coiled quick to answer.

Nothing.

But his solemn disposition maintained its cool composure. "I've learned to trust the fair Mund, young Lord," Bebin said, with a swirl of his drink clutched in his hands. The spice and citrus mixed sweetly in the effervescent crisp of the seltzer. His gaze dipped, from the crowd, to the liquid which bubbled and sweat in its glass. "He has a way of seeing things through, no matter the circumstance,"

"Drink treat ya well, handsome?" the tender asked Faramund with an empty glass in her hand. Rag and finger worked into the walls of ceramic that made the speckled tumbler.

Bebin took an idle sip of his drink.

 

[Faramund]

Smiling abashedly, Faramund rubbed the back of his neck. Not sure that's true, he thought, unwilling to accept Bebin's compliment. The one he received from the bartender, however, was another matter entirely. 'Thank you for noticing.' Glancing across to the tender, the dawnling nodded before lowering his gaze to the empty glass sat on the bar between them. Proof positive that the drink had indeed "treated him well."

Father Tree guide me, please say she's to be trusted!

'You're a dab hand, if I do say so myself. Been in the trade long?' Leaning against the bar, Faramund studied the woman serving the drinks. Tall, slim, she had the violet skin and white hair of an underelf. A rare sight, in these parts, though no less welcome. Witnessing her at work was a treat in and of itself.

Fast hands, a disarming smile, eyes the colour of lavender. No scars. None he could see, anyway.

'What's your name?' He asked, offering his in turn.

 

[Bebin]

A hint of a laugh, there on her lips. "S' my job to notice," she dipped her head. "But you are welcome all the same," she said easy as she went on with her work.

A young and curious face approached their party. "M-malik?" caution full in the voice, as a ledger was clutched the tighter to personage. Relaxed. A bright smile bloomed the wider. "Malik, that is you!" an excited step forward stirred the Basilisk to move.

The red cloak of Hargrave stirred, ice clinked against glass, and a wall of crimson stood tall and broad before the inquisitive youth who stopped dead in his tracks.

"Oh, um, hehe, right, right, sorry," he said small as he took a step back. "I'm, well, Malik and I studied with the 8th Ring of Zepherine Lake," he assured, looked about nervous, then remembered the cloth draped about his personage. The proud blue patterns died about ice-white cape. "I, I have my shroud to prove it," he said, and motioned to his robe.

Bebin made a sound, thoroughly unimpressed. His eyes looked to Malik.

"Yesna," she said to Faramund. A second round already poured in front of the tall knight. Just waiting for the last touches, which her hands busied to prepare. "Not been at it too long, Faramund," she smiled a little more at the sound of his name. "Just some months really, though, can't say it doesn't suit me," she pushed the finished drink toward the dawnling. Jut her chin toward the lordling and his counterpart in the red cloak. "You a lifer?" she asked. Heard the call for another drink, and scooted off to make ready the patron's order.

 

[Faramund]

Checking his periphery, Faramund kept his eye on Yesna as Bebin interceded. 'Months? Really?!' Feigning interest, the dawnling took glass in hand as the bartender moved off to quench another's thirst. 'A lifer, aye, in service to Viscount Hargrave of Stellenger.' The red cloak was a dead giveaway, part of the carefully-cultivated disguise he and Bebin had taken in order to protect their ward, and to hide the fact they were definitely not the Viscount's men.

Fortunately, Yesna seemed to buy the story. That or she was as adept at bullshittery as he was.

'He is telling the truth, Syr.' Placing a placating hand on the dusker's shoulder, Malik made to step past him. 'Kerran and I were in the same class together. Of course, I cannot claim to have known him well. Different friend groups, you see.' Smiling apologetically, Malik lowered his gaze. The sheepish expression he wore reminded Faramund of every squire he had ever helped train, and a few knights to boot. 'A shame.' Clearing his throat, Malik straightened up, chest puffed out, like the proud little puffin he was. 'I heard you graduated with flying colours, Kerran. Rumour has it the Matron Superior even saw fit to award you with your cape personally.'

Relaxing, his eyes flitting from Bebin to Malik, the tawny-haired youth bowed his head just so.

'Indeed,' he replied, pride acting as a steeping stone for his newfound courage. 'I recall the Father Superior did the same for you, did he not?' Grinning, Malik ran a hand across the soft fabric of his own patterned cape. Red-on-white, like the colours of his House, and the school of magic he had studied for a good portion of his adolescence. 'He did!' The youngster laughed. 'Come! Have a drink with us!'
Glancing at his brother, Faramund manoeuvred himself into a better position, opening up a spot for Kerran to join them. 'Another drink here, please, Yesna.' Thumping a couple coins down on the counter, he smiled, raised a toast. 'To newfound friends and old acquaintances!'

May they both prove honest and true, he thought, expecting the alternative.

 

[Bebin]

Bebin gazed down at the young man, draped in his Ring's shroud. "First Weaver Tildara," Bebin corrected. "An excellent judge of character,"

He'd never known the Rings to call their tutors Matrons nor Fathers. Their pursuits of the Shroud far removed from most binary thoughts. Titles denoted mastery, regardless of how a person presented themselves to the world beyond their teachings. Arch, First, Second, Scryer, Diviner, Eld. Such were the titles of Ring Weavers.

All the same, he turned with the party towards the bar. Red cape trailed behind him.

Yesna smiled her Tender's smile, and busied herself to make ready. "And what will the young Weaver be having?"

Kerran beamed, and nod as he came to the bar. "Whatever these fine gentlemen are having, if you'd be so kind,"

Yesna uncorked a chilled bottle. The crisp sound of suds sparkling inside the earthenware. "One dark and stormy, coming-"

The whole of the Vasdaya rumbled and rattled. The glassware and bottles shook, and Yesna near spilled a bottle as she lost her balance behind the bar.

 

[Faramund]

Faramund felt the deck beneath his boots vibrate as a shiver ran through the ship. The light in the lounge dimmed in and out as power from the Vasdaya's shroud-engines fluctuated sporadically. 'Is this normal?' He heard a nearby passenger ask, their hands pressed firmly into the table at which they sat. Pale faces regarded each other nervously.

Reaching over the bar, Faramund offered Yesna a hand up.

'T-thanks,' she smiled, regaining her composure, even as the ship shook a second time. Bracing himself, the dawnling watched as something delicate slid from one of the shelves behind Yesna to shatter upon the deck. The lights dipped almost immediately, one of the lounge's several glow-globes shattering, trace elements of the magic trapped within dispersing into the air around them.

Fire was not permitted aboard the ship, but the magicks contained within its shroud-engines were just as volatile, just as dangerous. Right now, however, it was the only thing keeping them afloat.

Turning to Bebin, Faramund shared a look with the dusker.

'Are you going or shall I?' His hand drifted to the hilt of his sabre subconsciously. Anomaly, accident or something far more nefarious, someone needed to check it out. The other would stay with Malik.

 

[Bebin]

Bebin jut his chin towards the dawnling, craned his neck and motioned towards the door.

Go.

A vox crystal hummed into tune there in the bar room. The bit of magitech housed in a well constructed box, mounted high on the wall.

"E-excuse the turbulence, folks, just hitting a bit of a rough patch in the currents..." a crew-member's voice sounded nervous through the stone's crystalline projection. "We are expecting things to smooth out here in a moment, just uh... sit tight, and hold on,"

Kerran looked wide eyed about the room. "Not, not felt any turbulence hit that hard before," he wore a strained smile.

Folks in the near distance whispered full of worry, and the glass behind the bar went on with its anxious rattle and shake. Yesna frowned deeply, and did her best to seem unbothered. Her hands busy with trying to clean, or move things to a more secure spot.

A second shudder through the Vasdaya. The lights flickered and the steady hum of the shroud-engines sputtered. The patrons screamed as they hunkered down. The panic rose a spike.

 

[Faramund]

With a nod, Faramund went. Womenfolk clutched their pearls as the ship continued to shake, the crackle of vox-talk doing little to calm their fraying nerves. The menfolk weren't much better. One, a paunchy fellow with jaundiced skin, tried to stop Faramund as he stalked past. 'You there!' He bellowed, extending a pudgy paw towards the knight. 'What in the blazes is happening aboard this ship? I paid good money to be here, and I'll be damned if-'

'Shut up.'

Flinching as if struck, the nobleman withdrew his hand, his face the expression of shock. 'Well, I-... Now, you listen-' He had no intention of doing so. Leaving the lounge, the dawnling traversed the decks, heading for the engine room. Located in the bowels of the ship, the room in question was busy by the time he reached it. Busier than usual, if the shouting was anything to go by.

'Oi!' Halting in the doorway, Faramund turned to regard the hallway behind him as a figure stepped into the light of surrounding glow globes. 'Name and rank, and be quick about it!'

Buttoned-up and carrying a straight bit of steel, the Officer of the Watch approached Faramund with steady steps and unblinking eyes. Sunburnt skin and pointy ears marked her for a sky elf. But the derision was very much human.

'Faramund. Lifeguard to-'
'I know who you are.' The she-elf cut him off. 'Where's your friend?'
'Upper decks. The lounge, last time I saw him.'
'Enjoying a drink or two, no doubt.'

With a gruff shake of her head, she stopped beside Faramund, her gaze fixed on the events currently unfolding within the engine room. The crew seemed to have the situation in hand now, if their body language was anything to go by.

'Can't say I know much about shroud-engines,' he confessed, watching, waiting for the shakes to start up once more. 'Why are you here, then?' Blinking, he glanced sidelong at the officer. Meeting his gaze, she ushered him further down the hall, pausing only to make sure the engineseers had everything under control. Not a fan of nasty surprises, Faramund surmised.

'Why're you staring, man? Are you goin' to answer me or not?!'
'I am.'
'Then, get to it!'

Smothering a smile with the cup of his hand, Faramund told the officer his purpose for being here. 'Ah! So, you meant to make a nuisance of yourself, then!' Struggling to find the right argument, he shrugged. 'Hells, man! 'Least your honest. Puts you a head above most o' the fools aboard this ship,' she huffed. 'No wonder things're goin' so poorly.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, this whole journey got off to a bad start.' Glowering at him through half-veiled eyes, she sighed, decided to finish what she had started. 'A deckhand and a engineseer never showed up. Not to mention we've had a passenger take ill. Some fancy-schmancy type.' She blanched. 'Meanin' no offense to your lordling, of course.'

'None taken.' Playing with the hilt of his sabre, the dawnling looked up as another message came over the vox. 'Say, you don't happen to know the name of this fellow who's fallen ill, do you?'

@Bebin

 

[Bebin]

The elf gave the lifer a narrow look and a quirk of her lip. "S'pose there's no harm in tellin one of the Hargrave's own," she jut her chin, and stood a little taller. Looked over her shoulder, as the enginseers went on with their work. Her hard stare came back to the red cloak. "Word is, he's an advisor to Baron Lockli, goes by the name of Lero,"

A hard sound pangged from the engine room. The magitech machines cranked hard. Shuttered and shook once more, and alarm rang high in one technician's throat.

"Misfire in hammer needle six!"

"Hammers four and five are overcompensating!"

"Applying the frostheart to five. Make ready the salamander oil for Six!"

The steady whirr and beat of the great propellers at the Vasdaya's stern cut the wind all the slower. The twift turned to twaft and the whole ship lurched as its weight dragged on the lift-ballons.

The guard officer held fast to the taffrail as more screams came loud from down bellow.

The ship bled altitude.

"Fucks' sake," the guard officer cursed through gritted teeth.

Screams broke out from the enginroom. A grunt. The dull sounds of butchery came from within.

 

[Faramund]

'Lero?' Or was it Liro? Faramund's memories were incomplete, but he recalled having faced down a Cultist by a similar name beneath the streets of Crown's Hold. 'Pale fellow, bald, with scars like thus?' He gestured, drawing invisible lines across face and throat. The officer nodded, brow scrunching.

'About sums him up, aye!'

Rubbing at his chin thoughtfully, the dawnling tried to speak. A cry of alarm cut him off, however, sending a shiver down his spine even as his sabre sprung free of its scabbard. 'Alarm!' Someone yelled. 'Saboteurs in the engine room-' Whoever was shouting stopped abruptly. There was a thud as something heavy hit the bulkhead.

'Don't just stand there, Lifeguard!' Drawing her broadsword, the sky-elf rushed in ahead of Faramund.

The knight followed, his eyes widening briefly as he took in the carnage within the engine room.

Two men in robes and protective clothing turned to face the newcomers. They held bloodied blades in their hands, and their eyes were hidden behind polarised goggles. But it didn't take a genius to figure out who they were, or what they had come down here to do.

Picking one, Faramund charged, his back arching as he leaned aside to avoid a blow aimed at his face. The cultist followed with a high block, his offhand blade flashing in low. Faramund felt the blow land, his mail absorbing much of the force behind it. Stepping in close, he trapped the cultist's arm in a vice-like grip. His sabre, its killing edge inspected daily, came to press against his opponent's neck.

With a flourish, he drew it across the exposed flesh, severing sinew and opening up an artery in the time it took to blink.

Death came swiftly to the cultist. His friend followed soon after, the officer proving much tougher than the defenceless enginseers.

Silence descended across the engine room, hushed breaths and the pulsing thrum of escaping energies filling the air with heat and static. Wiping her brow, the sky-elf crossed to a speaker-vox by the door, her fingers dabbing at mechanical runes set into the device's delicate front plate.

'Medicae units are on the way,' she said, turning to regard the bloodstained survivors and the lone knight stood in their midst. Her expression darkened.

'What the hell was that?!'

@Bebin