fresh dirt
some lore or something. words. luke is back too
~
“I hate this,” Richard said in a low tone. “I just. I hate this."
Luke and Vaska had been fighting over the book for the past twenty minutes.
“Oh, he’s finally talking,” Pastore said cheerfully. “Hi, Richard. I take it you haven’t met Luke yet?”
Richard folded his arms, scowling. “Do I want to?”
“Don’t worry,” Pastore said, casting Luke a sideways glance and a smirk, “their bark is worse than their-”
“That’s not funny,” Luke snapped. “Never say that again.”
They finally succeeded in wrenching the book out of Vaska’s grasp, mostly because she was trying not to laugh, her grip slackening. Luke glared at her, affronted. What good was a weak pun when everyone was still trapped in this...
“Where are we?” they said, finally taking stock of their surroundings. Hugging the spellbook to their chest, they turned on the spot, squinting past the brilliant sunlight. It was odd to have sunlight hurt their eyes like that, since they were supposed to be a Light dragon. Weren’t they? Or maybe they’d just spent too long underground.
They’d claimed the tiny patch of sunlight under the barred section of the roof, and the faint warmth on their skin was therapeutic. Wispy clouds slid past, blocking out the overwhelming light.
“We’re cargo,” Pastore said. “Captured by traffickers? Where were you after the attack, anyway?”
Luke frowned. They didn’t really remember any attack. There had been cannons, coming up the hill. Then... damp darkness, a persistent lack of air that somehow didn’t matter. Dull voices. Things creeping across their limbs, across their face. Out of their skin. Breathing now felt strange, somehow formless.
They pressed a hand over their eyes, blocking the light. The slave traders hadn’t provided them with an eye-patch, so the... foliage... sprouting from their empty eye socket was on full display. Threads of mycelium clung to their skin like cobwebs. Judging by touch alone, there were several thorns growing out from their skin. But it didn’t hurt like it used to. It felt normal.
And then. After the darkness, the light, blinding, their book being wrenched out of their arms. That was what had woken them fully. The book.
“Someone took my book,” they said, lowering their hand to direct a reproachful look at Vaska.
“I didn’t know you were in there!” she snapped.
“You should have known not to touch it,” Luke insisted. It was a weak argument, anyone could see that. “It’s mine.”
“You’re going to tear it if you hold it like that,” Vaska said, turning away as if she didn’t really care.
Luke glanced down, saw the claws digging into the leather, and froze. Those weren’t their hands, were they? They weren’t supposed to have claws. They relaxed their grip. The curved, hook-like claws had dug tracks through the mouldy leather. Luke waited for the supernatural protectiveness to seize them, but it didn’t. Sure, they didn’t want to damage it, they didn’t want anyone else to touch it, but the fact that it was damaged... didn’t really matter.
“So are you going to tell us about that thing you turned into?” Pastore said, his voice growing serious for once.
“You’ve seen trees before, haven’t you?” Luke said snidely, forcing down the panic, refusing to let it show.
“No, the other thing,” Vaska said. The blue guardian, to whom Luke had not yet been introduced, was nodding. Even Faolín looked concerned.
Luke did remember the other thing. They remembered feeling different, off-balance, their wings useless... but so many other things had change for them lately that it had hardly been worth noting.
“Never mind that,” they said brusquely. “You still haven’t told me where we are?”
Pastore didn’t look too keen about changing the subject, but he obliged Luke nonetheless, explaining all about their current predicament. Luke examined their hands. Other things occurred to them, too; they could sit with their back pressed to the wooden wall, as if their dorsal spikes had been removed. And their horns were back, as wooden as ever, as if Luke had never cut them off in the first place.
“So, listen,” Vaska said. “Do any of those spells in the book work?”
Luke picked up one of the fallen pages. It was a reversed healing spell with one incomplete rune. “They work,” Luke said, pointing out the rune. “The spell actives once you finish that one rune. So we’d need writing implements.”
“And the healing spells?” Faolín said gruffly. “Those would be handy.”
For the first time, Luke actually took in her position. She was lying with unnatural stillness, as if to avoid inviting pain. “I suppose they would,” Luke said, flicking through the book. “Here. You can use blood to finish the runes if you really need to.”
“So you’re a healer?” the blue guardian said, his strange, dark eyes widening. “Oh, that’s good news - see, Richard? Things are looking up.”
“Who are you?” Luke said, passing the spell tags over to Faolín. “And him? You look familiar.” They frowned at Richard, who had been staring with a look of faint disgust since Luke had awoken.
“I’m Tiberius - Prince Tiberius, of the Sirenian Empire,” the blue guardian said, bowing, “and this is my betrothed, Prince Richard, of Court Dorchadas.”
Luke stared at Richard for a long moment. Then a delighted leer appeared on their face, revealing their broken teeth.
“How is your mother doing these days?” Luke said.
“Dead,” Richard said dully.
“You’ll join her soon, I hope,” Luke said, their hands curling into fists. Claws pricked at their palms. “If these people won’t kill you, I will.”
Tiberius’ smile vanished. “Please,” he said, “there’s no need for this - excuse me, Luke, I’m sorry, but wouldn’t it be more constructive to try to escape together? We shouldn't fight in here.”
The light emission from a spell tag at work distracted Luke. They glanced around. Faolín had dragged herself into an upright position, gasping, one hand clamped tight on Pastore’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” she rasped.
The sunlight started to fade, with surprising rapidity. Darkness filled the cell again, broken only by the glow from the book. The prisoners tried to sleep. The gloom made Luke feel odd, but they’d already slept too long to even begin to feel tired.
Tiberius sat up. “That smells like... Oh! Richard!” He nudged Richard awake. The others roused themselves, Vaska grumbling a sleepy complaint.
Luke could smell it too. A fresh, cold wind, salty and damp.
“We’re over the sea,” Tiberius said.
The guardian courier was descending. Seagulls flashed overhead, disturbed by the great wings. And then there was a crash and a huge wave rolled over the cell, drenching the prisoners. The guardian had touched down on the water. The cold didn’t seem to matter to Luke as much as it should have, but the salt in the water was hideous.
Shouts sounded from outside. The guards were rousing the other prisoners, yelling for everyone to get up. Cebor’s voice rose above it all, ordering someone to march. Someone mentioned a gangplank. Firelight washed over dull grey clouds overhead. Locks clicked, doors creaked open.
It seemed that the prisoners had arrived at their destination.