#text play

[elyasart]

[mountainmavensandmuses]

[mountainmavensandmuses]

[mountainmavensandmuses]

[mountainmavensandmuses]

[mountainmavensandmuses]

[distaffpope-blog]

Captain of Her Soul: Journey to the East

Voyage II (December 16, 1887 to January 2, 1888)

I will be trying to write my thoughts down at each stage of my journey. For such a lengthy trip as this one, it’s important I keep a running record, and in the case of emergency, I’ve prepared the ship’s Zeebat to travel to London with a copy of my manuscript. Not that I’m expecting the worst to happen, but it’s better to err on the side of caution, a phrase that’s become my mantra for this trip.

First, I sell off any superfluous cargo. It takes up space better used for storing food or fuel, and I’d rather survive the journey than hold on to my supply of prisoner’s honey until I can find someone willing to pay above London’s sell price for it. It was free, anyways.

I then debate the merits of buying a better engine. Yes, we could go faster, but that would leave us with only two-hundred echoes to make our trip, and once we pay for the supplies and repairs, that number would quickly dwindle down to near zero.

“Speakin’ of repairs, though,” my navigator says as we fill our ship with the fuel and cargo necessary for the voyage. “The Admirality owes you a few favors. Maybe you can talk with them, and they’ll ‘elp ya fix your ship up. Ain’t sayin’ it’ll be scott free, but it’ll be cheaper than ya can find elsewhere.” I sigh. Yes, that would all probably be for the best. And who knows, maybe we’ll find that damned Funging Station along the way. “Also, if ya want to conserve fuel and sneak by nastier’ folks on the sea, ya can always turn off the ship lights.” Even better. Well, the crew won’t like sailing in the dark, but I’m sure they’ll like being dead even less.

While the ship’s in drydock for its repairs thanks to the Admirality and the navigator oversees, I run into a rather genial magician as I grab my things from the attic I’m still calling home. Maybe once we’ve fixed up the ship, I’ll see about getting a proper sort of home like something I had back in St. Petersburg.

“Excuse me,” he says, bowing. “You wouldn’t happen to be that new captain I’ve heard about, the one flooding London with sphinxstone? I heard she lived around these parts.”

“Yes, I’m her,” I say, glancing up at the street clock for the time. The ship should finish being repaired soon enough – the Admirality works fast – and I’d like to be out of London the minute it slips into the water. “I’m sorry, is there something I can help you with? We’re really busy at the moment, and I can’t chat.”

“Oh, capital. You see, I was wondering if you perhaps needed an engineer. I’m something of a marvel with engines and am also quite adept at concealment. I dare say that with the right improvements, I can make your ship slip through the Zee like it was never there to begin with.”

I blink. If I wasn’t so desperate for good help on this journey, I’d be suspicious of my good fortune. Instead, I give him a few echoes and tell him to meet me at the dock as before the hour chimes. He’s as punctual as requested, and once the Bathory’s repairs are finished, we slide out of London’s harbor, our heading north east as fast as we can, the dark of the Zee quickly swallowing up our ship as London fades away. We head into the dark and unknown. We head into the Zee.

December 17, 1887

The first leg of our voyage wasn’t so terrible. There was always some little light to inspire us as we sailed, and our path took us shockingly close to the ruins of the Salt Lions. As we journeyed, I spoke with our magician every chance I could. He’s a charming enough fellow, and more importantly, he was willing to tell me how to damper our engines in exchange for a few secrets I’d learned at Zee.

We found safe harbor to rest for a few hours as our path led almost directly back to Pigmote Isle where the Cavies were hard at work mining scintillack and dealing with pirates. They asked my advice, and while my initial thought was to have them fight the pirates, I again decided to err on the side of caution, and suggest they increase the size of their military by conscripting whoever they could. It was, perhaps, prudent, but my soul wept seeing those young Cavy children marching off to be made into soldiers. Did I betray my principles by advising them so? They were a gallant people, alight with chivalry when I met them, and I urged them to modernize, to conscript, to settle and compromise instead of doing what their soul burned them to do. Is it truly better to sacrifice your principles and live than die with honor and dignity? I turn the question over and over as our ship leaves harbor.

December 19, 1887

Stygian.

Up until now, I never truly understood it. Understood that type of darkness. I thought I knew it, but there’s something blacker than black. When you sail through the Zee with your lights off, with no ports around, the darkness becomes more than just the absence of light. It becomes an oppressive malevolent entity, bearing down on you, threatening to crush everything you love. My hand hovered so many times on the switch for the torches, but I endured. Unfortunately, I fear the crew is beginning to feel the strain. As we reached the spires of Gaider’s Mourn, a white Zeebat circled overhead, and a crewman babbled that he was marked for death. That the god Salt had selected him. I tried to play along, to engage in a ritual to help earn Salt’s mercy in the hopes it would calm him and the rest of the crew down. I thought it worked, but the next morning, Sailor Jenkins was dead.

How did he know? Is there more to these stories than just superstition. When we reach Gaider’s Mourn, I ask my navigator, and he encourages me to investigate the temple at Whither. Says he’s seen enough things to make him a believer. Speaking of Gaider’s Mourn, it’s a pirate alcove. A giant spire reaching almost up to the ceiling of the Neath and filled with corsairs. I spent my evening climbing the spire just to see the view from the top, but was distracted by a vendor offering strange exotic foodstuffs. I decided to sample one of the safer options, and it was fine enough. Nothing to truly write home about, but I suppose it deserves a space in this log. Perhaps next time, I’ll try something more robust.

More death. We were preparing to leave after yesterday’s excursion, and I sent a few crewman to scout out the island, thinking the Admirality would appreciate a report from the pirate haven. Unfortunately, the pirates had different ideas, and the party was ambushed on their way back, with one of the souls slain. My decision. I should have gone with them, but instead I opted to oversee the ship. Now, a man’s dead and his blood’s on my hands. I turn control of the ship over to my navigator and retreat to my cabin.

December 21, 1887

We arrive at Mount Palmerston in my sleep, dreams haunted by visions of drops of crimson spreading out across the Zee’s inky black.

I’m pulled from my slumber by the navigator, saying we’ve found Mount Palmerston, an enclave for exiled devils. He asks if I wish to look around, but I’m far too despondent. He asks if we can chat with the locals to see about recent happenings and resupply, saying it’s the cheapest place for fuel outside the Iron Republic and I agree. As he leaves, he mutters something about the mountain being too far west. Says it needs to be farther out, closer to Irem. I’m asleep when we leave port.

When I awake from the latest nightmare, we’ve docked again, this time at Frostfound. I emerge from below decks to see two twin spires of ice. A cold seeps into me as I gaze up at them and I take a step back towards the threshold. Back towards warm. “Sure is somethin’, isn’t it?” my navigator asks from my side. Where did he come from. “Got some squatters up in that camp there, reckon you’ll want to talk with them. See what they know, and maybe have a bit of tea. Could cheer ya up.”

I nod dumbly and head back into the cabin, not to sleep but throw on the heavy fur coat I brought with me. It might be cold, but that’s something I know how to deal with. “Are you coming with me?”

“Nah,” he says, waving a hand. “Figure I’ll do some explorin’ while we’re here. Always wanted to see the place for meself, and, well, it sure is somethin’. Like one o’ dem stories ‘bout faeries and castles. The ones with riddles. You don’t mind, do ya?”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head and walking down the gangplank to the squatter camp. “I think you’ve earned it.”

“Thanks, Cap’n, and ya shouldn’t be so ‘ard on yerself. Yeah, Seamus died, and that was a right shame, but bein’ captain, it’s about makin’ them hard calls and livin’ with ‘em. I ‘on’t know if I’ll be around forever, so ya gotta keep yerself together when e’rything goes tits up. Somtimes ya make a mistake, but ya try not to make that mistake again.” He shrugs as we reach the fire. “Anyways, I’ll see ya when we’re done here.” He shouts to the squatters. “And you lot better not be any trouble. The Bath’s got enough guns to turn this ‘ole camp into rubble, so be good.”

Perhaps it’s the threat, or perhaps the squatters have a genial nature, but our tea is pleasant, and when we’re done, they give us a bit of extra fuel and supplies for the journey. I even find another engineer who wants to join our journey. The magician isn’t thrilled about the new addition, but he takes it all in stride, and I promise he’ll stay the head engineer. For now, at least, although that part’s unspoken. I might change my mind once I get to know the two of them better. Unfortunately, that’s where our good news ends.

After our lunch, the hours tick by and there’s still no word from our navigator. I go to investigate what I think is his path, and quickly find his coat and a few of his possessions tucked inside. Unfortunately, no investigation produces him, and I’m left with the unpleasant decision. Do I leave him on Frostfound to his fate or stay looking? The crew’s morale is already sinking precariously, and if we stay much longer searching, we risk running out of supplies. There’s no telling how far away Irem is. I stand on the bridge with my officers and order crew to start shovelling coal. I am the captain. I make the hard decisions. To do anything less would be to discredit his memory. We sail on his charted course and I keep his chart close as we continue sailing east through the dark.

December 22, 1887

Oh, God, it’s not where he said it would be. In his charts, he was so sure where Irem would be. Had it circled on his map, but it’s not there. Instead, we find a chapel illuminated and reports of a gate to the far north. Not what we came for. Not what we came for. I have no other navigators to aid me, no one else who knows the Zee. I sit with the priests of the chapel, eating and conversing. We are in uncharted waters, our destination uncertain and supplies low. I take a breath to try and calm myself, and the priests say there’s an island further east, that I haven’t yet reached the edge of the Zee. I exhale. The crew didn’t see my panic. That’s good. They still trust their captain. Or at least, they didn’t lose more faith in their captain. We’re so close, now. Soon, we’ll be in Irem, we’ll unload the cargo, and we can begin limping home. I allow myself the detour to see the north gates and we leave the chapel behind. Their feast leaves a strange taste on my lips though, and I think about it on the journey to Avid Horizon.

December 23, 1887

The Horizon proves harder to find than expected. Instead, I find myself docked in Irem, unloading load after load of sphinxstone. Men in silk robes direct us to a breach in the walls where the stone forms a perfect fit, although any cursory inspection will reveal the differences in the type of stone used. For my efforts, we’re rewarded with one thousand echoes, and the riddlefishers as the men like t call themselves tell me the nature of Irem. It’s a place where history washes up, they say, that that is the birth of riddles. My delivery will one day form its own riddle. For my help, they offer me a bit of bark with an answer to an unknown question on it. I bring it to my room and contemplate it as we depart the city and sail back towards London.

December 25, 1887

Light. Without the sphinxstone weighing down our cargo hold, we can have the lights on. Once we reach Mount Palmerston, we’ll be able to purchase enough fuel to be comfortable, and with the mountain so close by… we all agree that having the lights on will provide a welcome relief after our dark voyage up. The lights turn on and burn away the oppressive stygian black that hounded us for so long, but I send a crewman up to the crow’s nest to keep an eye for monsters or pirates. The second we see anything, we go dark. Better to be safe than dead.

For being the gate to a frozen sea even darker than our own, Avid Horizon is surprisingly uninteresting. There’s a gate, it’s closed, it’s cold, and there are strange glyphs engraved on everything that seem to stay on my eyes even after I’ve looked away from them. Mostly uninteresting. Still, I take my report and head east. The crew wants to go to Mount Palmerston to resupply. I want to go back to Frostfound and send Christmas  searching for the navigator and have some more tea. It seems a better way to spend the holiday than breaking bread with devils. Speaking with the squatters and sharing dinner with them manages to calm my nerves and ease my fears about the voyage. Why, I can’t say, but between the supplies, fuel, and the company, it’s enough to justify the stop, which is good, since another round of searching fails to reveal the navigator. As soon as Christmas dinner’s done, our ship departs.

December 28, 1887

The trip to Mount Palmerston is prolonged by the most dreadful blizzard. The strange ‘snow’ clogs the engines and they wheeze under the strain. The crew keeps their eyes peeled for any signs of ships and my hand hovers over the switch for the lights. If we’re spotted, we have no hope of outrunning them in this storm. Thankfully, no ships appear, and we’re soon docked in the comparative city of a mountain filled with devils.

I decide to see more of this island while we’re here and take to the town. Soon after, I take to the path towards the volcano. I admit to not being the most devout church goer, and perhaps like my famous ancestor, the idea of forbidden knowledge proved too great a temptation to pass up, as I marched to the diabolic enclave.

My path was stopped by a shockingly charming deviless. I have no idea if most devils are so refined, but she was certainly pleasant company to pass an afternoon with, and we spent the hours sipping sherry while the crew refilled the ship. Soon, we parted, but she invited me to visit again the next time I’m on the island. Perhaps I’ll even bring a gift like she suggested. The crew and I elect to spend a night docked in the harbor before venturing out again. A belated Christmas present.

January 1, 1888

From Palmerston, we sail south. Past Gaider’s Mourn without stopping. I will not stop there again with so little to gain and so much to lose. Maybe later. A later voyage. When we’re better supplied and crewed. As we move through the Corsair’s Forest, spires surrounding us on all sides, our lights draw the attention of a pirate frigate. They give us chase, and for a moment, I fear we’re doomed, but we kill the lights and manage to lose them by maneuvering around one of the stalagmites that crowd the forest. They lose sight of us, and we slink into the darkness, and it’s all thanks to our magician who keeps the engines running silent.

To thank him, I invite him to dine with me in the captain’s cabin. We spend an evening discussing his past as a magician. He changed from magic to engineering when he lost his hand, says they work on roughly the same principle. I’m not entirely sure I understand, but he seems to believe it, and he certainly works magic in the engine room. According to him, it all has something to do with mirrors. Perhaps they have different properties in the Neath? Are used for more than just reflecting. So many things are different in the Neath. Towards the end of a dinner over too quickly, he alludes to how he lost the hand. He doesn’t go into specifics, but he says he needs a weapon, and if we find it… Well, he might have a favor to ask me afterwards.

Dinner ends and I hear a commotion upstairs. New Year’s Eve has snuck up on me, but not the crew. 1887 is drawing to a close, and the sailors stands on the docks, eager to celebrate. As we count down the last hours of the year, an island looms up over us. Finally! The Funging Station. In the first hours of 1888, we slip into the harbor and I give the crew the day off. I speak with the Factor, give him the Admiralty contract, and we have a dinner overlooking Demeaux Island. He mentions a restaurant in Venderbight – apparently, the proper name for the Tomb Colonies – and I make a note to visit it next time I’m in the colonies. Speaking of which, there’s still a woman expecting mushroom wine.

January 2, 1888

The morning of the 2nd, after a day spent celebrating, we sail away, our course set for London.

On our return, we stop by the Salt Lions to see if there are any interesting scraps to pick over. There aren’t. We make our report and leave.

Finally, late on the 2nd, we slip into Wolfstack Docks. I take the magician, adventuress, and our new engineer out to celebrate our return, but the evening ends poorly when an urchin pickpockets the adventuress, and we learned she has no qualms about giving a child ‘a good thrashing’ as she put it. We all drift to our respective lodgings after that, and soon my head is pressed against the pillow and I sink into a most beautiful slumber. To the edge of the map and home again, and oh, all the stories picked up along the way.

[distaffpope-blog]

Captain of Her Soul: The Salt Runs

The Salt Runs (December 8, 1887 to December 15, 1887)

I woke up one morning and realized I’d become a merchant.

It was a most distressing realization: A woman come to the Neath to carve a grand destiny turning into a merchant more concerned with minding the pounds. I didn’t mean to, I’d simply listened to my first mate’s advice after our night of revelry. “Listen,” he says, beer sloshing over the edge of his pint. “I get that ya wanna go off and do a big sea adventure, but if yer gonna do that, ya gotta do it smart. No point rushin’ off to the far east right away. There’re all sorts o’ monsters out there. Giant flukes that can spear a ship like ours in a second, and to the north, there’s big ol’ icebergs that ‘ould just plow through us and not even notice. Our ship can’t handle that. It can barely handle bats. No, what ya wanna do is spend some time doin’ safe work, then when you got a good nest egg goin’, you can spend some coin, upgrade the Bath or maybe just buy a new ship completely, and [i]then[/i] we get to adventurin.”

I think and nod. He makes a fair point, and rather a cautious captain than a dead one.

He leans across the table, dropping his voice down. “Good, now since yer thinkin’ right, that means maybe you’ll consider doin’ the salt run. All ya gotta do is sail over Badstevener’s Abyss, pick up some sphinxstone, bring it back here, and we make a tidy profit. Ya keep doin’ that, and pretty soon we’ll make enough echoes to buy the biggest ship out there, and then, adventure.”

That was… Certainly an enticing plan. The Salt Lions were only a day away, round trip, and give the crew a day off when we dock in London… That’s three to four trips a week, and if the profit is as tidy as he suggests, we could be sailing out into the unknown by the end of the year.

The next morning, we set out and made our first salt run. It was as quick a jaunt as my sly friend suggested, and the profits were even better than I’d imagined. For a simple two-hundred echo deposit, we’d get twenty stones, unload the stones in London, and take five-hundred echoes. Plus, the Admiralty was willing to pay twenty more echoes on top of that and give us a bit of extra fuel for a report on the Lions. I cancelled the crew’s leave and we were off again the next morning.

“Ey, boss lady,” my navigator says as we steam through the dark. I’ve taken to looking at the false stars as we cross the Zee. It relaxes me in our quiet moments and allows me to better grasp our location. At least, I think it will, we haven’t gone far enough from London yet for me to be sure. “Gotta little suggestion for you if you care to ‘ear me out.”

“Of course,” I say, lowering my head t look at him. He leans as casually as he pleases against the railing, breeze not touching his dark greasy hair. “You know I’m always willing to hear out your suggestions.”

“Right, well, I think we gotta pretty solid crew, but maybe it wouldn’t ‘urt to ‘ire a few more officers. You know, like someone to manage the engines or what ‘ave you.”

I frown, running the calculations in my head, the curse of my developing merchant-mindedness. Officers are expensive, and right now, we need the echoes. “But that’s what the crew’s for.”

“Aye, maybe for shovelin’ coal, but we get a break down, and you’ll be wishin’ we ‘ad an engineer with us, and maybe we could ‘ire someone ‘oo knows how to cook. Or maybe man the guns, in case we get in a fight with them bats again. Might be good to have someone who knows more about naval combat than just ‘It ‘em with the gun.’”

Well, that was certainly true. Yes, if we got in a fight again, everyone on board would feel better if we had a professional manning the cannon. I certainly would. “Alright,” I say, waving a hand. “We’ll see who’s interested when we get back to port.”

As it turns out, there were two very lovely women, an adventuress and a young girl with a tattoo, eager to join us for adventure on the high seas. Or at the very least, join us for routine trade runs between London and the Salt Lions. Either way, I’m not about to ignore my trusty navigator’s advice and turn down help. The younger woman says she’s desperate to get off the dock onto the sea, but the adventuress has already bruised one of my crewmembers. I decide to get her onboard first before she can hurt anything else, and when I get back the young woman’s gone. I suppose she really was desperate to get out in a hurry. I give a shrug and head back to the ship to finish unloading our cargo and then head out on the town with my navigator, and to celebrate me becoming a real sailor, he takes me too a tattoo parlor. While the designs look lovely, I’m not quite ready to mark myself with ink. I promise the navigator I’ll get tattooed later, but would also very much prefer it if I saw a bit more of the sea before deciding just what I wanted my tattoo to be of.

Before leaving the next morning, I’m approached by a child who takes me to see a venturer, not to be confused with an adventurer. He says he’s heard of me – I try not to look too pleased with myself – and that he needs someone to bring him a few items from the Zee. For my trouble, he promises to pay well above the market rate and lets slip he’s planning an expedition of his own. Perhaps he’s more like an adventurer than I thought. I agree to keep an eye out for the items he requested, and am soon pointed to Mount Palmerston for Zzoup or Whither for Mutersalt.

Another run passes mostly uneventfully, with the only disturbance occurring when the adventuress fires several rounds from our cannon into Zee-water “Just seeing what your range is,” she says before firing another shot into the dark. “You know, if you’re going to explore the Zee, you should probably invest in some better weapons. I don’t think these guns could hurt a gnat.” I shake my head and walk back to my cabin to work on a poem to commemorate the Rat-Cavy war of Pigmore Isle, leaving to her tests and modifications.

We return with more stone, but there are no men to greet us. Instead, a smiling woman tells us how the stone is needed to the south at a place of light. My first mate leans in and whispers something about the Dawn Machine, a device designed to bring sunlight down to the Neath. Well, while the sun is certainly very pretty, it has no place down here. The Neath is a refuge, hiding in darkness and offering solace for the disaffected and restless. I will not see the Zee’s wonders spoiled by it. I turn her down and keep walking.

It’s not far before another man approaches us, calling himself Penstock. He says if I love London and wish to see it well, I’ll deliver the stone far away. He clearly has a place in mind, but wants me to agree to help him first. “Of course, I’ll help,” I say, abandoning any hope that the usual men will come and take the cargo that’s filling up half my ship’s hold away. 

He nods and says I must take the stone where dreams become reality. Before I can ask just what he means by that, he’s off into the shadow, vanishing like the whole of London just swallowed him up. 

I turn to my navigator, planning to ask if he knows where we should go, but when I look, I see he’s gone frozen, as pale and stiff as cold as any ice I’ve ever seen. “Irem,” he whispers. “He wants us to go all the way to bloody Irem.”

I blink. I heard him mention that place before. It’s related to Frostfound somehow, and when I ask him if he knows generally just where the city is, he says if you go north until you hit the rocks and east until you’re on the edge of the Zee, you’ll find Irem.

Well, if I want to make any profit on this damned sphinxstone filling up half my cargo hold, it looks like I’ll be going on an adventure after all.