Souperknova
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Decided to write my first tickling story. Part One includes the first four chapters. Looking back I've already identified several things I can improve on, but feedback is still greatly appreciated.
Content Warning (CW): Blood and violence.
O, praise Gryegost and the wonderful laughter wrought forth!
O, praise Gryegost and his gallant greatness in the face of the Arrogant Gods!
Gryegost, who struck whilst our oppressors made merry
Stealing away the Wretched Grimoire
Gryegost, who gave us everlasting sanctuary
Hail, our everlasting sufferings are no more
The Wretched Magics which burned, threshed, and bashed
Replaced at once by cures, tricks, and laughs
O, praise Gryegost
The God who gave us most
May his magnanimous tickles stay with us forever
Excerpt from Hymns for the Trickster God by Unknown
Anders’ skin tightened and burned as he sat up and vigorously massaged his temples. He could not recall stepping into the rowboat which he now found himself in. His sunburnt hands stung as he firmly gripped the sides of the craft, carefully balancing himself as he stood up as his body screamed in protest. He’d been sunburnt before, but never to this extent. He winced as the sole of his left foot scraped against the scratchy sand-coated bottom of the boat. As he looked around, he saw nothing but calm blue waters and an unremarkable sunset. He supposed it could have instead been a sunrise, but he felt that he had seen enough of both to be able to distinguish between the two.
“A bunch of fucking water. Perfect.” He croaked. His throat felt and tasted as though it had been stuffed with sand, making his usual gruff voice nigh unintelligible. The only response he received was the seawater gently lapping at the sides of the salt-crusted rowboat.
Satisfied with his inspection of the environment, his eyes drifted down to himself. He wore a pair of ragged, holey trousers, a single loose shoe on his right foot, and nothing else. His normally pale skin was a deep shade of pink and a handful of blisters marred his chest and stomach. In addition to the blisters, his stomach bore a ghastly wound which appeared to have been hastily sewn shut quite recently. He suddenly became aware of a sharp pain surrounding the aforementioned wound as if the damage hadn’t really existed until he set his eyes upon it. He also noticed that the rowboat’s oarlocks had not lived up to their name. The last thing he remembered was taking a job aboard a cargo ship as hired muscle.
A tempest of panicked thoughts crashed over him, juxtaposing the peaceful evening seas. Where am I? What happened to me? What the hell do I do? Am I going to die? I’m going to die. He took several quick breaths and raised his hand to strike himself on the face, but after several moments of contemplation he lowered it. Calm down. Survive.
His body relaxed, his heartbeat eventually returning to its normal rhythm. He slowly and steadily lowered himself back onto the seat of the rowboat and began to stroke his dark, unkempt beard. After several minutes he sighed resignedly and began a routine of vigilantly scanning the horizon, searching for any signs of salvation. This went on for several hours. Anders’ head remained on a swivel long after the sun had disappeared behind the orange-ish pink waters. The cool night wind felt pleasing on his sunburnt skin, and a beautiful full moon glazed the sea with a gentle white sheen.
“There shall be a ship transiting past momentarily. The maiden captaining said vessel shall not heareth thy screams, shall not see thy waving arms. The sea shall take thee... lest thou desire to join me in a covenant.” A gentle female voice seemed to call from inside Anders’ skull, each word resonating with a symphony of tingles zigzagging a path through his body, finding their final destination in his very soul and filling him with a primal fear. He whipped his head around, having all but forgotten the soreness in his body. No one was behind him.
“What form of devilry is this? A hallucination?” Anders called out weakly. He had figured it was only a matter of time before his mind began to deteriorate, but he thought he had at least another day or two.
“Thy window for opportunity diminishes with every second that passes by. I shall grant thee salvation, and in return thou shalt retrieve for me the Feather of Divinity.”
Anders’ scowled at the words. Whatever this voice was, it spoke in a pompous manner that was unfamiliar to him. He understood the words’ meaning well enough, however. His heart quickened as he noticed a flickering amber light far in the distance, drifting slowly by. Anders’ eyes lit up. He nearly fell out of the boat as he jumped to his feet. He tried to scream, but the only product was a raspy wheeze. His heart pounded inside his chest and red-hot frustration and anger bubbled up inside him, warming his body as he exploded with rage and despair. He began to frantically wave his arms, at one point momentarily removing his trousers to wave them like a flag. His limbs burned and jolts of pain filled his belly as his wild movements agitated his wound. As suddenly as the movements had begun, they stopped. For a moment it seemed as though even the sea itself had gone silent in sympathy to his plight.
Silence still.
“I accept your deal.” Anders’ whispered.
“Thy fate hath been entwined with my own. Rejoice, thou shalt not perish this day, but thou shalt acquire the Feather of Divinity to bestow unto me. So it hast been agreed upon.” The voice boomed. Anders’ ears rang from the power of the declaration and his body pulsed with an unfamiliar sensation. It felt as though he was satisfying a hunger that had long gone unnoticed, but had been present all his life. The feeling was harrowing but not altogether unpleasant. His vision went white and the coppery taste of blood coated his chalky tongue. Slowly, his surroundings began to come back into view, though this time the stars seemed closer. In fact, they were almost close enough to touch. They swirled, jolted, and swayed around him. Some stars were large while some stars were small. Some were quick, some were slow. Some were dim, some were almost blindingly bright. Their colors and textures were widely varied but each one was spherical and each one shone with some amount of light. As Anders gawked at them, he even began to feel as if some possessed personalities. The bright, smooth blue one which travelled in straight lines was arrogant, full of itself. The wooly green one which moved in smooth circular paths was wise and agreeable. Anders realized that they weren’t stars at all, but something else. Something unknown to him. But he knew they were powerful, he could feel it in his bones.
“Reach out thy mind and pluck the fruit from the branch.”
Anders focused his gaze on the arrogant-looking blue orb and concentrated. He felt nothing, just the tensing of his facial muscles as he began to wear a look of intense focus. But this voice seemed to be his only chance of surviving, so he did as he was told.
“Thy mind is too material, too... immutable. The task presented for thee is unachievable. Perhaps thou art not the champion I desire. I hath granted thee salvation, alas thou art not capable of accepting it. I hath delivered unto thee thy meed, thus the covenant remains unbroken. Thou shalt perish still, but the fault belongs solely to thyself.”
“We had a deal, devil.” Anders’ eyes flared, his voice shaky and weak. “You did not ‘grant me salvation’, you cruelly dangled it in front of me. I want to live. I am going to live.” His eyes darkened, his body squatting, ready to pounce like one of the great cats found in the lands of Falur. He stared intently as the blue orb travelled. It was heading away from him and to the right in a straight line. Suddenly its course changed and it began to fly to his left. Soon it would almost be close enough to touch, but not quite. Realistically speaking.
Anders’ body sprung to life as his powerful legs launched him towards the point where he anticipated the blue orb would be when their trajectories crossed, the rowboat rolling over from the force of the leap. His mental calculations proved true, and his hands connected with the orb. Or at least they would have, had it been a physical object. Instead he continued soaring, diving into the dark waters.
His nostrils stung as the briny seawater bombarded them. As the cold water shocked his body he felt an even colder wave of electric energy overwhelm him from the inside. Even while submerged, he felt every hair on his body stand on end as freezing waves pulsed from his heart, travelling throughout his entirety and thrilling him. He was surprised to find that the coldness no longer bothered him. He opened his eyes expecting only to see the light of the moon, but found that his entire form was glowing with a brilliant blue radiance, cutting sharply through the inky water enveloping him. He brought his right hand to his face, staring in amazement as he repeatedly curled and uncurled his fingers.
“That was... unexpected.” The voice spoke, quivering almost imperceptibly before steadying back into its normal serene tone. “The power thou feel, is it not most wondrous? Hark, be not afraid, for it cannot harm thee. Observe as it carves its path. Wouldst thou not agree that it is a part of thyself, just as the breath in thy lungs? Deliver it unto the heavens above, Anders.”
Numerous thoughts floated in Anders’ mind. What is this feeling, this power? Who does this voice belong to, and what do they want? How will this power save me? But as he processed the voice’s words, he let go of his thoughts and focused instead on the feeling of the strange energy. It felt fluid yet controllable. Just as, he supposed, the breath in his lungs. One cannot hold air, cannot swing it like a sword, but one can blow out a candle by shaping the mouth in a manner that guides the air towards the target. Anders shaped his body in a way that would guide the energy towards the sky. He swam to the surface and took a deep breath of air before extending his right hand upward, his little finger and ring finger curling slightly while his index and middle fingers stretched upwards. He felt some nonexistent muscle relax as he let go of his energy, allowing it to release violently towards the sky. A streak of wispy mist began racing upward. A cloud immediately began to form over him, beautifully illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Anders watched as snowflakes began to float gently down into his vicinity.
For a moment he felt euphoric, as if he had just released a sneeze that had been building for quite some time. But as his body returned to its normal state he began to become increasingly aware of the cold water around him, his sunburnt skin, and the pain of his stomach wound. None of that mattered to him now, however, as he watched the distant ship begin to slowly turn towards him.
I am going to live.
Passage from Introduction to Unnatural Anatomy by Emelade Rololen
Mariova released her tight grip on the pillow as she rolled over on the bed. It had been about an hour since she retired for the night, yet she felt no closer to sleeping now than she did when she first climbed into the warm sheets and shut her eyes. This was not entirely uncommon for her and she briefly considered using the magical sleeping powder that she had purchased for just such an occasion. She ultimately decided against it, as she was currently sailing in waters that weren’t to be described as safe. She would need to be able to wake up and defend herself at a moment’s notice should her vessel be accosted. No, she would do this the old-fashioned way. She slid out of the bed, dropping into a crouch to avoid the low ceiling above her. She left her dueling saber where it hung on the wall by her bed. She carefully put on her boots as well as a simple brown leather jerkin. The darkness made it difficult to see, but enough light shone from the cracks in the deck above to guide her movements.
She climbed up the wooden stairs onto the weatherdeck of her yawl, a small wooden sailboat which she had named The Whisper. It was a humble vessel with a single mast supporting two sails, one below the other. Lining the deck were a variety of crates, the cargo by which she earned her living. Lengths of rope kept each crate secured to the deck, and some crates had heavy tarps thrown over them so as to protect them from the elements. A short wooden staircase led down to the interior cabin, a cramped space with a small bed, a stove, a chest, and numerous linen sacks filled with various foodstuffs. This was her home. This was The Whisper.
She examined her surroundings. It was a remarkably clear night, the moon illuminated the dark ocean around her and countless stars twinkled above, their beauty obstructed by not a single cloud. Mariova took in a deep breath of the cool air. This will certainly help. She thought to herself as she slowly exhaled and stared out at the shimmering water. She loved the ocean, which was one of the reasons that she left everything behind to live as a seafarer. It represented freedom and opportunity. If the winds were favorable she could travel anywhere she pleased. She could explore uncharted islands, visit vibrant and exciting cities, or wave at fellow travellers as they passed. Most of the time however, she simply liked to lean on the helm with a book in her hands while the waves gently rocked her as she sailed to deliver cargo. Nonetheless, it was nice to have the opportunity to do exciting things, even if she would rather be alone, safe, and at peace. That’s yet another thing about the ocean that appealed to her: the peace. A lovely feeling that at this moment was broken as she spied a glowing blue light far off to the starboard side.
“Hmm?” She exclaimed as she moved over to the railing and procured a collapsible spyglass from the pocket of her cloth tights. She expanded it and brought it to her right eye. The light was very bright and just under the surface of the water. She supposed it could be a mage, but why would a mage be in the middle of the ocean with no ship? Perhaps it was some strange manner of sea creature that she hadn’t seen before, or some sort of monstrosity. The light began to rise closer to the surface, and she saw an arm emerge from the water and point towards the sky. She recoiled as a stream of magic shot from it. Oh gods, a mage! Are they attacking me? My lights are on, so they surely know I’m here. Oh blast it, why couldn’t I have just slept?
She folded the spyglass and placed it back in her pocket. She watched anxiously to see what manner of spell had been cast. She watched as the light slowly began to dim until it was no longer visible, and a cloud began to form above where it had once been. Her arms dropped to her torso as she covered her vulnerable areas, clenching her eyes shut and preparing for the worst. After a few moments, she worked up enough courage to open one of them. There was nothing coming for her, only the moonlight twinkling off of distant particles as they floated down into the sea. It looked like... snow. Yes, that was definitely snow. But why? It wasn’t particularly cold outside, though it certainly wasn’t warm, so she doubted that the spell was simply a mage’s means of cooling off. It’s a beacon, a cry for help. But I shouldn’t... that would be reckless. Obviously it’s a trap. I should just leave them to their devices, maybe another ship will come and save them. Oh Mariova, what are you talking about? You don’t follow shipping routes. It’s a bloody miracle that you came across them. No one else will come.
She released a resigned groan as she rushed to the helm and jerked it clockwise. She heard a gentle splash as the rudder moved through the water, and then the familiar creak of wood as the ship began to veer starboard. Once her course was set she adjusted the sails and quickly descended belowdecks. There were a few things she would need to retrieve if she was going to have a mage aboard. First, she would need some ropes to bind them with. Second, she would need her pouch of magical sleeping powder which she had purchased from an alchemist (who had seemed trustworthy enough, they had been so kind as to trade books with her, after all). Lastly she would need her Ring of Magic Impairment, a plain copper band with jet engravings, an item which prevented the wearer from casting spells.
By the time she returned above deck the ship was just about at its destination. She raised the sail and allowed momentum to carry it the rest of the way. Her heart pounded in her chest and adrenaline rushed through every inch of her body. She struggled to control her breathing as The Whisper came closer and closer to where the mage had been. She noticed now that there was an upside-down rowboat floating in the water and a splashing figure next to it, now swimming closer and closer to the ladder that clung to the side of The Whisper. She opened the sleeping powder pouch and grabbed what she felt was a reasonable amount.
The stranger was close enough now that she could make out some of his features. He was bald with a thick black beard and a large hooked nose. He looked to be in his thirties or forties judging by the creases and scars that lined his face. He was terribly sunburnt on the front, but the back of him was quite pale. His powerful muscles swelled as he moved through the water and after what felt like an eternity he firmly grasped one of the rungs of the ladder with large hands.
“Gods be praised.” He panted as he climbed onto the deck of the ship, his voice sonorous and strained. Mariova could see him fully now. Scars and calluses were scattered throughout his entire body and his stomach bore a fresh wound. He seemed to be hairy everywhere save for the top of his head, which looked completely smooth. He had on soaked trousers and a single shoe. His skin was covered in gooseflesh, and considering the cool air, the water, and the snow, Mariova was surprised that he wasn’t in fact shivering. His mouth was chalky-white with a tongue to match. She flinched as his hand rose to scratch his beard. He did not fit her mental image of a mage, but the snow cloud overhead betrayed his nature. It is then that she noticed that his pupils were pentagonal. Not only was he a mage, but he bore the Mark of the Savage.
“Thank you for–” he started to say before Mariova struck. She opened her trembling palm in front of him and blew a cloud of sleeping powder directly into his face. He coughed violently for several seconds before falling to his hands and knees, where he stayed for only a second or two before collapsing onto the deck.
Excerpt from Muldoch the Learned’s Manual For Novice Mages by Ratbeard
He coughed as the powder entered his lungs. His mouth and nose stung as he felt his body begin to grow weak. He tried to step towards his assailant but his legs refused to comply and he stumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees. His eyes watered as he struggled to breathe and his eyelids eventually felt too heavy to hold open.
Anders awoke. He blinked repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to the bright light around him. He was sitting on a ship facing the bow as it steamed forward, the wind blowing gently at his back. A tarp was loosely tied around the mast above his head, offering welcome shade. He attempted to rub his eyes but found that his hands were tied behind him. The fog cleared from his head and he suddenly pulled harshly against the ropes but to no avail. He winced as his sunburnt arms rubbed against the mast’s rough wooden surface. He remembered now. He had been stranded at sea and had been “saved” by an elvish woman. He also remembered summoning a snow cloud, but surely that couldn’t be right. He wasn’t a mage, almost nobody from Walim was. And there was a voice. A voice that showed him strange visions of glowing orbs and tasked him with finding the “Feather of Divinity”. Was that all a dream? A hallucination of a desperate man? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps as the elf walked into view from behind him.
She was young with red hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore a wrinkled leather jerkin over a stained white shirt, along with green tights and a pair of brown leather boots. An elegant saber rested in a sheath at her left hip, which Anders’ eyes frequently flicked to. Her skin was tan like the color of an elk’s fur, and completely unblemished. She had a soft, delicate countenance save for a sharp, bony chin. Her lips were dry and cracked, curled into a frown. She squatted and glared at him with questioning brown eyes before speaking.
“You’re just going to hurt yourself, mage. I’m a sailor, I tie good knots.” She announced with bravado. “You’re going to stay right there until I find somewhere to drop you off.” Her voice was deep and steady.
“I’m not a mage.” Anders replied as he stared up at her. His mouth was even dryer now and it showed clearly in his voice. He desperately yearned for a drink of water, but he dared not ask his captor. No, he would not give her that satisfaction.
“I’m not an idiot.” She spat, standing and crossing her arms.
“I’m telling you the truth, I’m not a mage.”
“You were glowing and you summoned a snow cloud. You’re an ice mage. Your kind are all the same, you’ll say whatever you want to get what you desire. I’m not sure what kind of helpless damsels you’ve preyed upon in the past, but I can assure you that I will not be the victim here. Not to mention you bear the Mark of the Savage. Quite the shitty mage you must be if you still have to resort to violence.” Her words oozed with venom.
So it wasn’t a hallucination after all. Anders furrowed his brow for a moment and then glared at her. “If I’m a mage, then why haven’t I cast any spells to free myself? Surely that would be within my power.”
“You see that ring on your finger?” She pointed behind Anders. He could not see it, but he did feel something wrapped around his little finger. “That’s to prevent you from trying anything funny.” Her voice cracked slightly.
“What if I need to shit, elf?” Anders mocked, the corners of his mouth twisting into a slight smile.
“That’s why I put you downwind. Now, if you need any food or water just shout for me. I may or may not oblige.”
“How generous.”
She rose to her feet and walked back out of his line of sight. As she passed him he smelled a lovely mix of vanilla and cherries. Anders pondered what she had said about him being an ice mage. He was only vaguely aware of magic. He knew that each mage’s magic was somewhat unique, and the types of spells they could cast were normally tied to some sort of material or energy, such as fire or metal. He also knew that magic could not be used to directly harm others, not since the Trickster God Gryegost had played his most famous trick. No, all forms of attack magic had long ago been replaced by tickling magic. Magic could be utilized for other purposes still, such as defense and healing, or summoning a snowcloud. But mages were completely unable to harm another person’s body. At least, that’s what Anders had heard growing up in Walim, an island famously lacking in mages due to the ancient tradition of warriors proving their worth by slaying them.
Was he now a mage? Had the voice truly granted him such a power? Anders looked out at the sea in front of him and recalled the orbs he had seen. They seemed to be a necessary component for using his magic, but he could not see them now. Had it been a one-time thing, perhaps? Probably for the best. A real warrior doesn’t rely on magic tricks, and he surely doesn’t tickle his enemies. But Anders couldn’t help but remember the rush he had gotten from absorbing the power of the orb, or from unleashing the magical power into the sky. It was exhilarating, it felt natural to him. He shook his head and squinted his eyes shut before once more starting to pull at the rope binding his hands.
Anders struggled against the bonds for the better part of an hour before finally relenting to the pain and exhaustion. His sunburn was agonizing and his head pounded furiously from dehydration. Though he could not see her, he knew that the elf could see him. The ship had changed course a handful of times which meant she was at the helm. Anders tried to stand up but his legs fervently refused. With some difficulty he managed to awkwardly walk his legs in a circular motion, moving himself to the other side of the mast so that he faced the stern. He saw Mariova resting against the helm, her head hanging as she poured over the pages of a book.
“You, elf.” He called.
She gave no indication that she’d heard him.
“Elf!” He shouted, his hoarse voice breaking halfway through the word.
“I have a name, you know. You just never bothered to ask.” She responded. She placed a strip of leather in the book and closed it, placing it in a bucket that had been nailed down to the deck next to the helm.
Anders stared at her blankly. “You never asked mine.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest, but then brought a finger to her chin in a pensive expression. “Oh. Yeah I didn’t, did I? Whoops.”
Anders scowled. “I need water, elf. Now.”
“It’s Mariova. My name, I mean. Yours?”
“Did you hear me, elf? Water.”
“No, no that’s not right. It’s pronounced ‘mare-ee-oh-vah’, not ‘elf’. And you still haven’t told me your name.”
He gritted his teeth. “Anders. Now get me some bloody water, ‘mare-ee-oh-vah’.”
She cracked a triumphant smile before disappearing belowdecks. She returned with a tin cup and strided over to him. She brought the cup to his lips and began to tilt it upwards. Anders struggled to swallow at first, causing some of the water to trickle out of his mouth and down his chest. But as his mouth and throat moistened he found it easier to drink. Mariova pulled the cup away.
“Easy does it, Anders. I’ve heard if you drink too fast it’ll make you rather sick, and I’m in no mood to swab the deck.”
Anders swallowed and gasped for breath. Already his throat and mouth felt much better. He stared at Mariova silently, his eyes occasionally flickering to the cup she held. She looked as though she was expecting him to say something, and he found a small yet not insignificant amount of satisfaction in failing to meet that expectation. After a minute of awkward silence, she brought the cup to his lips once more and allowed him to finish off its contents.
“You’re welcome.” She huffed.
Anders grunted in response.
Mariova turned to walk away, and Anders shuffled himself around the mast so that he was once again facing the bow of the ship. He silently considered his predicament. She’s not a killer, she’s more afraid of me than I am of her. Still, do I really believe that she’s just going to drop me off at the nearest port? No, there must be something in it for her. Slavery, maybe. The village elders spoke of nations to the south that owned loads of them. Anders stared at the sky to his left. The sun was slightly higher than it had been when he first awoke, so it must be morning, he reckoned. And if the sun is to his left, then that means they’re heading south.
Anders stared out at the vast ocean before him. The water was slightly choppy, forming ever-changing peaks and valleys which the sunlight glittered off of, twinkling like frost-covered grass. He searched his mind and body, trying his best to remember what he had felt earlier when he had seen those odd orbs of light. It was like a sixth sense that he’d gone his whole life never using. Like an overwhelming need that had never before been met. But now it was in him, he just needed to remember where to find it. Somehow he knew that deep in his being, he would be able to find it again. And he did. Initially he worried that he was only seeing what he wished to see, but after several seconds the faint shapes became clearer. Several of the orbs passed by as the ship sailed forward, and Anders realized that if he was incredibly lucky the ship might bring him right into one. Though while the orbs were numerous, they were also quite spaced out. It could be some time before one of the orbs reached him, time he wasn’t sure he had.
Anders sat there waiting expectantly for around two hours. Occasionally an orb would come quite close and he would tense in anticipation, only for it to just barely miss him or suddenly change direction. As he growled to himself and clenched his jaw, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Mariova stepped into his view holding two tin cups. She tilted one and allowed him to examine the contents. Inside was a brownish-grey sludge with flecks of what appeared to be meat. Anders grimaced reflexively.
“It won’t kill you. Though, if you keep calling me ‘Elf’ then the next one might. It’s just hardtack, salt pork, and water. It was either this or I hand feed you, which neither of us want I’m sure.” She brought the cup to his face.
The mixture smelled meaty, floury, and not of much else. Anders hesitated and then placed his lips on the rim, prompting Mariova to begin sliding the concoction into his mouth. Anders fought the urge to gag as he swallowed the chunky and somewhat-slimey mixture. He bore no qualms with the taste. He had never tasted pork before and he found it to be pleasing, perhaps even better than elk jerky. The texture, though, was abominable. He briefly wondered if this was the kind of food they fed to slaves. After a few agonizing seconds, the contents of the cup had been drained save for a few clumps stuck to the bottom. Mariova retracted the cup and brought up the other one, which was filled only with water. Anders drank it happily.
“I hope you’re a better sailor than you are a cook.” He mumbled as he finished drinking.
“That was some high-quality salt pork I just gave you. Cost me a fortune. It’s worth it though I think, since it’s one of the few things I can bring on voyages that tastes of anything. You can season hardtack all you like, but at the end of the day it’s still just dry bread, isn’t it?” She smiled at her own musings, licking her lips absentmindedly and looking towards the sky. Anders wondered if she even remembered that he was there. Her eyes returned to Anders. He was silent for several moments.
“In Walim we put honeywine in our porridges. It doesn’t rot and, if you have the right brew, it can make it taste not like shit.”
“I think I’ve heard of people doing that. Never tried it myself though, I prefer to drink my wine rather than eat it.”
“If you run out of salt pork, you might change your mind.” He shrugged as best as he could. As he raised his hands, Mariova’s eyes flicked to the Ring of Magic Impairment on his finger.
Mariova nodded silently, seemingly lost in thought. She suddenly straightened her posture and glared at him before walking back to the helm. “If the winds persist, we’ll be at port in the morning. Then you’ll be someone else’s problem, mage.” Her voice was now as sharp as steel. She licked her lips yet again.
Anders wondered whether it was something he had said or if she simply didn’t want to get too attached to someone she was about to sell into slavery. He was confused and frustrated to find that the abrupt end of the conversation left him feeling disappointed. He hated to admit it, but he had enjoyed talking like a normal person with her for a moment. In that moment he wasn’t just an injured and overwhelmed prisoner likely on his way to a lifetime of forced labor, instead was just a man who held some sage wisdom regarding the art of porridge-making. He resolved not to get too friendly with his captor again. If he got even the faintest opportunity, he would have to kill her, or at the very least throw her overboard. Chit chat was in no way to his current benefit.
Anders returned to watching the orbs, hungrily waiting for his moment to come. He would absorb some magic and then once the ring was removed from his finger he would use it to escape. He didn’t know where he would go afterwards. He contemplated this as he stared ahead, and as the sun fell below the horizon he nodded off into a peaceful sleep.
Excerpt from The Transient’s Guide to Lansden by Fronnar Lecksby
Mariova woke as The Whisper began to tremble. She jumped out of bed, nearly ramming her head into the ceiling in the process. The book she was reading earlier that night, The Spontaneous Adventures of Geraldine Lapize, flew off the bed as she threw back the sheets, landing in some dark corner of the room. She grabbed her sword and sprinted (though crouched as she was, it looked more akin to a hasty waddle) up the stairs wearing nothing but her shirt, tights, and socks. As she ascended, she realized that wrapped around the ship there were several gargantuan tentacles holding it firmly in place. Each nightmarish appendage was purple with an orangish-pink underbelly, roughly two meters in diameter at the thickest point she could see before tapering into a pointed tip. She had seen these tentacles before, and she would have much preferred stepping out to find that The Whisper had been split asunder. Fucking Benedict.
Pulling up carefully alongside The Whisper was a larger vessel with tasteful green paint accenting an oaken mast. Several portholes lay scattered throughout the broadside of the ship, but none bore cannons. The ship boasted two white-and-green diamond-patterned sails which had been furled, and above those waved a black flag, sewn upon which was a white image of a large, horrific sea creature with countless tentacles. Standing behind the port railing and staring down at Mariova was a mustachioed man wearing a dark brown overcoat over a dirty light blue tunic. His face was illuminated by the lanterns on his ship, revealing stubble and greasy, wavy brown hair. He was flanked by two rough-looking men, each wearing a black-and-white striped shirt and brandishing a menacing axe. The man to his left was tall and portly with stylish brown hair and to his right was a man of average build whose blonde hair was tied into a ponytail.
“Oh, what a remarkable surprise! I knew I quite recognized this vessel.” The man shouted down. “Mariova, was it? Of course it was, I scarcely forget a pretty face, nor even a pretty name.” Mariova scowled. “I was dutifully scouring these waters for ne’er-do-wells, vagabonds, ruffians and the like when I happened upon your charming little ship. As benevolent as I am, I have taken it upon myself to help you unload that burdensome and enticing cargo of yours, lest it be pilfered by some ill-intended scoundrels.” His lips curled into a wicked smile.
“You slimy bastard!” Mariova bared her teeth and pointed her saber at him with a trembling hand. “Release my ship or I will come over there and strangle each one of you with your own innards!” Her voice was somewhere between a screech and a yell.
“Come now, Mariova darling. Do you not remember what happened the last time you endeavored to decline my services? I seem to recall it was quite the laughing matter. Perhaps you need me to… refresh your memory.” He smiled at her in a way that made her skin crawl. He closed his eyes and waved his hand in her direction, prompting several tentacles to emerge from the dark depths.
“No!” Mariova cried as she began to back away from the onslaught of slick tentacles as they slowly wormed and slithered their way towards her. Her saber slashed through some of them with surprising fury but there proved to be too many, and she was ultimately overwhelmed. A powerful tentacle ducked under her defenses wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side and lifting her clear off of the deck. “No! No! Fuck!” Her voice was soaked in rage and panic.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Anders, still bound to the mast. He attentively watched the scene unfold, cursing to himself as her saber landed on the deck far outside his ability to reach. His eyes briefly locked with hers as she struggled and writhed underneath the strong grip of the tentacle. For a moment she saw the hint of a smile in his eyes before he turned his face away from hers.
The tentacle pulled her away from The Whisper and held her firmly over the waters betwixt the two vessels. It began slowly pulling her downward. Benedict paced along the deck of his ship, watching Mariova’s predicament with a perverse level of interest. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and extended his hand, lifting it upward as if raising some unseen marionette puppet. After a few moments his eyes opened and his hand dropped, his look of concentration replaced by one of amused satisfaction. Beneath Mariova, the waters began to stir.
“You quite well remember my associates, don’t you darling? The mermaids? They’ve enjoyed an abundance of playmates since our last encounter, but none of them have quite succeeded at delivering the same level of… amusement as you did. As a result I’m afraid they’ve missed you quite dearly. I shall leave you all to your touching reunion whilst I begin my inspection of your vessel.” Benedict said as he gestured to his crew. The two men picked up a large gangway plank and placed it firmly between the two vessels. Due to the difference in height, there was a downward incline to the plank as the men used it to board The Whisper.
Mariova stared in horror at the waters below her. She remembered the mermaids very well, they had tickled her senseless when she was last caught by Benedict. His magic allowed him to summon and command the creatures of the deep, and while he couldn’t use it to hurt Mariova, he could still use it to torment her in other ways.
She saw as three pale faces emerged, illuminated by both moonlight and torchlight. Their black hair was wet and slicked back, their faces plain but pretty. They looked like they might have been siblings. They smiled and waved at her, revealing rows of sharp, shark-like teeth accompanying fingernails that looked like talons. Mariova strained against the grip of the tentacle as it continued to drag her closer to her new torturers.
“Benedict!” Her voice pierced the suspenseful silence. “Stay the hell away from my ship you bastard!” She called out, receiving no response. She tried biting the tentacle but its flesh was much too tough and tasted terribly salty and bitter. She tried to kick the mermaids away but as she descended further, the tentacle which was wrapped around her now blocked them from view. She felt as one of the mermaids grabbed a hold of her left ankle, and then the right. The tentacle slowly extended itself, wrapping itself lower down her body and pinning her legs together. She felt as the mermaids removed her socks and brought her feet down into the cool water, and she heard as their heads disappeared beneath the waves, their hands never leaving her ankles. The tentacle ceased its descent and held Mariova steadily over the sea, with everything below her knees being submerged. She clenched her eyes shut and prepared for the worst.
Temporarily, there was silence. She felt her feet begin to warm as they adjusted to the temperature of the ocean. She was somewhat thankful for the tentacle for shielding her from the brisk night air. In her state of horrific suspense her body had seemingly become hypersensitive and she was painfully aware of every sensation on her body. She attempted to gain control of her breathing and realized that she had been unintentionally holding her breath. She sharply exhaled as she felt a sharp fingernail begin to trace agonizing circles along her left arch. Her right foot started to receive a similar treatment and she clenched her jaw to contain her giggles.
A warm, slimy tongue began to explore the valleys between the toes on her right foot, sending tingly shivers throughout her entire body. The tongue briefly distracted her from the nails tracing patterns on her feet, but soon she found herself fixated on both sensations simultaneously. She let out a jittery sound somewhere between a grunt and a whine. She felt ticklish laughter begin to move its way from her stomach to her throat, apathetic to her prideful aspirations of enduring the torment silently.
Then came the teeth. The mermaid that was sucking on her right foot began to gently nibble on the sensitive flesh, her sharp teeth producing jolts of ticklish alarm. Mariova barely managed to stifle her laughter as she reactively struggled to pull her leg free, and she suspected that the mermaids had taken notice. In unison, they increased the tempo of their tickling. Multiple fingers scribbled furiously against her defenseless soles and a set of predatory teeth had taken to lightly gnawing on the ball of her foot. Laughter poured freely from her now as she struggled fiercely against her bonds.
“Stop! Stop!” She screeched through fits of fierce laughter as tears ran down her face. Her heart rate soared as panicked despair began to creep into her thoughts. I can’t move, can’t get away. How long is this going to go on for? Until I die? Until he’s finished robbing me? She found herself wishing that Benedict would hurry up and steal all of her cargo. For a moment, she considered begging. That’s what she had done months before when she was last in this situation, but it didn’t seem to have any effect other than making her feel worthless. She would surely break again, she thought. She found herself sinking further and further into the depths of hopelessness as the tickling tongues, teeth, and talons scratched, probed, and teased her helpless feet. Is this really all it takes to break me? Her laughter took on a new texture as self-pity joined the mermaids in tormenting her. By this point her submerged soles were starting to become wrinkled and the mermaids had begun to gently trace each line with their pointed nails. Her howls rang throughout the night air, receiving no response save the sound of boots on wood as they made away with her cargo, her livelihood.
She felt herself being lifted out of the water and ankles being released. This had happened last time, she assumed it was to give her pruned feet time to return to their smooth, ticklish state. She caught her breath as she dangled over the water. She could do nothing but curse and wait as she felt her feet slowly dry.
She found herself imagining Geraldine Lapize, the protagonist of the book she was currently reading, and what she would do if she was in Mariova’s situation. She would surely endure it with her chin held high, making wise cracks and nonchalantly spewing defiant remarks such as “Is that all you got?” Mariova felt the tentacle lower her back into the sea, and two strong hands grabbed her ankles. Vehemence burned briefly inside of her as she imagined Benedict’s smug face watching her suffer and plead. I don’t want to be like Mariova. I want to be like Geraldine Lapize. Her torture began afresh.
“Is… that all… you… got?” She barely managed to call out between fits of hysterical laughter. It took all of her strength to pronounce each syllable as the mermaids had started to lightly scrape at the sensitive skin between her toes and the balls of her feet, causing her to reach a new level of hysterics. “I can… can… do this a–” She bit her tongue. “–all day!” Her heart filled with pride as she imagined how she must have looked. Courageous, clever, and powerful.
“Oh, how I just adore it when they get impertinent. It makes it all the more gratifying when they inexorably unravel.” Benedict announced to no one in particular as he crossed the gangway, walking in front of his two crewmembers as the pair struggled to carry a crate of various oils up the plank. Mariova stared at him as he passed. Her hair was matted and her red face was contorted in laughter. Her eyes cut into him with a look of intense hatred, juxtaposing the mirthful expression on the rest of her face. Benedict shuddered as his eyes met hers. The sound of her manic laughter seemed to somehow take on a slightly threatening timbre. Normally Benedict loved to see the disheveled state of his victims, but as he crossed between the ships for the next half-hour he did not glance at her once.
Anders mustered enough strength to stand and he sidestepped around the mast such that he was facing the gangway. He had spent the past forty minutes or so doing nothing that might draw attention. The pirates had given him a few looks, but miraculously had not said a word to him. They began to board The Whisper yet again, their eyes resting curiously on Anders as they walked, intrigued by his newfound desire to engage with them.
“Could you help me with these binds?” Anders said, lightly pulling at his restraints to show that he was, in fact, bound. Benedict eyed him with amusement.
“So he can speak after all.” Benedict teased as he crossed his arms and leaned on an empty barrel. “I was worried our mutual acquaintance might have displaced your tongue. Tell me, my boy, how did you end up here?” He looked Anders up and down, his eyes resting for a moment on his stomach wound.
“I was shipwrecked. The elf took me aboard her ship, but I think she intends to sell me as a slave. If you have room aboard your ship, I’d be willing to work for a ride to the nearest port.” Anders spoke as if it was a fact rather than a request. He briefly looked over at Mariova. He could just barely see her head over the railing of the ship. It was thrown back in wild, tormented laughter. He shifted uneasily as he unwittingly imagined what it was in the water that caused such a strong reaction from her. Though he knew he was not ticklish, he nonetheless had decided that it was in his best interest to stay in the good graces of these pirates.
Benedict looked down at the deck of the ship, furrowing his brow. The sun had begun to crest over the horizon and Anders could see a thin film of grease covering the pirate’s face and hair. Benedict looked at his two crewmembers and then back at Anders, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “You’re damaged goods,” He said, nodding at Anders’ stomach. “And you possess the mark, making you a prime candidate to sell into slavery, but regardless I suspect your physique could prove quite beneficial once we port. Very well, you can accompany us. But don’t expect to indulge in our rations, and if you in any way waver in your duties then I shall suspect that you may be of more worth to me as a slave after all. Nulbrin, if you would cut him free.” He looked over to the tall man who promptly drew his axe and swung at the ropes that were holding Anders to the mast.
Anders rubbed at his wrists as his bonds were broken. The combination of sunburn and friction from the ropes left the skin blistered and torn. He stretched his limbs and waited for Benedict’s eyes to wander elsewhere before slipping the Ring of Magic Impairment off of his finger and putting it in the right pocket of his dilapidated trousers. “Great.” He grunted as he picked up a crate of unknown goods before walking to the gangway. His stomach bothered him fiercely, but he endured. He stole a curious glance at the spectacle taking place in the waters below. He saw Mariova still restrained by the tentacle, as well as a flurry of movement in the churning waters beneath her. He watched as a silver fishtail glistened in the light of the rising sun and followed its length with his eyes until he saw the naked corpse-like skin of a young woman. A mermaid? I thought they were just a myth. Wait, no, three mermaids. He noticed two more of the creatures deeper in the water, holding Mariova’s ankles like a vise and raking their claws over her soles. The elf was like an instrument that produced varying pitches of harrowing screams of laughter, and this particular instrument was played in a most peculiar way.
Mariova’s face reminded him of a plague victim he had once passed during a trip to the town of Relvickt. When he walked through the streets of the largest town in Walim, he had encountered an elderly woman who appeared to be in the throes of pain. Her face shined with sweat and tears as her wails shrank into defeated wimpers. Anders pushed the memory from his mind. Just as he was going to look away, Mariova’s pleading eyes met his own and a sudden coldness began to radiate inside of his core. Despite being scrunched with mirthful laughter, he could still clearly see the desperation and fear written in her eyes. He stopped in his tracks, causing Nulbrin to nearly run into the back of him with a sack full of salt.
“Watch it, you prick.” Nulbrin hollered as he adjusted his grip on the sack. Anders turned around to look at him. Normally he would have needed to crane his neck to stare eye-to-eye with a man as tall as Nulbrin, but the incline of the gangway brought him to just about eye level with the man. His knuckles whitened as they gripped the crate with a new intensity. Anders opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. His eyes trailed away from Nulbrin’s and rested on the mast of The Whisper, still hanging from which was the cloth tarp that had shaded him from the overbearing rays of the sun. His gaze returned to Nulbrin.
“Never seen a mermaid before.” Anders responded before turning around and continuing forward. Transporting the rest of Mariova’s cargo took only about ten more minutes. Each time he crossed the gangway Anders fought the urge to look her way, but he couldn’t help but imagine her in his mind. He saw her puffy red eyes, her cheeks stained by tears, the rapid rising and falling of her chest just above the tentacle that gripped her, and her wild tangles of scarlet hair. It’s just tickling. People do that to their kids, she’ll be fine. He heard her hoarse laughter rise in pitch, likely due to some dastardly new technique of the mermaids. Once the job was done, he watched as the tentacle lifted Mariova’s exhausted body a few feet out of the water. Her head was slack like a doll’s, though he could see that she was still awake.
It was, then, very quiet. Benedict and his crew quietly prepared his ship, which Anders had learned by reading the elegant lettering on the hull was called The Emerald Undercurrent, to sail. Anders knew little about sailing, but he obediently followed instructions as Benedict barked them out. As Benedict gave the order to finally raise the anchor, Anders paused.
“What about the elf?” He inquired, pointing at Mariova who still hung limp like a ragdoll, her upper half slowly sinking and rising with each breath.
“Her? She’ll be returned to the loving clutches of those wonderfully devilish mermaids once we are underway. Worry not, her respite has been adequate.” Benedict pulled a gilded pocket watch from his coat pocket and inspected its hands.
Anders had felt sympathy before, but he had always been able to stifle it. That was a skill one must have, he thought, to survive in Walim. It should be a simple matter to ignore this elf’s suffering, especially seeing as she in all likelihood was mere hours away from condemning him to a life of thankless labor before the pirates intervened. However, this time the sympathy felt to him like the soothing shade of a tarp hanging overhead. It smelled of the seductive scent of vanilla and cherries being carried on warm salt air. It tasted like porridge made with honeywine. He let out a distorted groan.
Ander’s voice rose and he stared intensely at the pirate. “The elf has had enough. Call off your creatures.”
Benedict raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Have you forgotten your place, my boy? I’ve done you a courtesy by allowing you aboard my vessel, I would implore you not to grant me reason to reconsider our arrangement.” He waved his right hand threateningly, perhaps in the beginnings of casting a spell.
Anders’ mood soured further.
Her eyes shot open as the water shocked her awake. Looking around her, Mariova saw a silver-scaled tail disappear into the briny murk and a purple tentacle slowly drift down below her line of sight. Her eyes followed the tentacle down and she let out a gargled scream.. Staring back at her was an enormous, glowing, orange eye some 50 meters in diameter, creeping down into the turbid tides. She did not wait to watch the eye disappear completely before swimming to the surface and rushing to the nearest ladder rung. She scrambled aboard The Emerald Undercurrent and rolled onto the deck which was dry and warm. She laid there taking deep, calming breaths in through her runny nose and out through her chattering teeth. At once she realized where she was and pulled herself from the ground.
She stared now at the helm, against which lay the pirate Benedict. Protruding from his chest were three thick rods of bloodied glass. Dark blood dribbled from his slackened jaw as his head rested on his chest. She slowly climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, anxiously expecting her tormentor to spring to life and once again accost her with his wicked magic. As she got closer it became evident that this would not happen. His unblinking eyes stared down at the deck blankly. One of the rods had penetrated his heart, and it was not made of glass at all. It was ice, hurriedly melting and mixing with the growing red pool beneath him.
Three additional figures came to her attention near the forward mast. Anders, to her surprise, was struggling to untie the portside halyard which raised the sail. Benedict’s lackeys were not far from him. The larger one stood with his axe raised for an inevitable strike while the other was kneeling on the deck as if in prayer. Both were unmoving as she approached. She walked as though in a trance, thoroughly overwhelmed by the morning’s events and the ominous intimations of more yet to come. Her breath was shallow and rapid as she edged along the starboard railing of the ship, hesitant to drift too closely to the men. Her worst fears were confirmed when she was finally able to truly inspect the pair. They were both frozen. A coating of frost was to be found on each of them and their bodies twinkled like diamonds in the morning sunlight. The larger one’s expression was twisted into a malicious snarl. The tightened muscles of his frozen form made for a statuesque visage not unlike the reverential statues of beloved warriors and kings. The other lackey knelt several feet behind him, his hands defensively outstretched and his face forever suspended in a pleading countenance of dread. Mariova recoiled as Anders’ words cut through the heavy haze of her mind and broke her trance.
“If you want to show your thanks, help me with this blasted knot.”
She did not move, she could not even bear the thought. She could but only gape.
Content Warning (CW): Blood and violence.
Chapter One
O, praise Gryegost and his delicious mischief!O, praise Gryegost and the wonderful laughter wrought forth!
O, praise Gryegost and his gallant greatness in the face of the Arrogant Gods!
Gryegost, who struck whilst our oppressors made merry
Stealing away the Wretched Grimoire
Gryegost, who gave us everlasting sanctuary
Hail, our everlasting sufferings are no more
The Wretched Magics which burned, threshed, and bashed
Replaced at once by cures, tricks, and laughs
O, praise Gryegost
The God who gave us most
May his magnanimous tickles stay with us forever
Excerpt from Hymns for the Trickster God by Unknown
Anders’ skin tightened and burned as he sat up and vigorously massaged his temples. He could not recall stepping into the rowboat which he now found himself in. His sunburnt hands stung as he firmly gripped the sides of the craft, carefully balancing himself as he stood up as his body screamed in protest. He’d been sunburnt before, but never to this extent. He winced as the sole of his left foot scraped against the scratchy sand-coated bottom of the boat. As he looked around, he saw nothing but calm blue waters and an unremarkable sunset. He supposed it could have instead been a sunrise, but he felt that he had seen enough of both to be able to distinguish between the two.
“A bunch of fucking water. Perfect.” He croaked. His throat felt and tasted as though it had been stuffed with sand, making his usual gruff voice nigh unintelligible. The only response he received was the seawater gently lapping at the sides of the salt-crusted rowboat.
Satisfied with his inspection of the environment, his eyes drifted down to himself. He wore a pair of ragged, holey trousers, a single loose shoe on his right foot, and nothing else. His normally pale skin was a deep shade of pink and a handful of blisters marred his chest and stomach. In addition to the blisters, his stomach bore a ghastly wound which appeared to have been hastily sewn shut quite recently. He suddenly became aware of a sharp pain surrounding the aforementioned wound as if the damage hadn’t really existed until he set his eyes upon it. He also noticed that the rowboat’s oarlocks had not lived up to their name. The last thing he remembered was taking a job aboard a cargo ship as hired muscle.
A tempest of panicked thoughts crashed over him, juxtaposing the peaceful evening seas. Where am I? What happened to me? What the hell do I do? Am I going to die? I’m going to die. He took several quick breaths and raised his hand to strike himself on the face, but after several moments of contemplation he lowered it. Calm down. Survive.
His body relaxed, his heartbeat eventually returning to its normal rhythm. He slowly and steadily lowered himself back onto the seat of the rowboat and began to stroke his dark, unkempt beard. After several minutes he sighed resignedly and began a routine of vigilantly scanning the horizon, searching for any signs of salvation. This went on for several hours. Anders’ head remained on a swivel long after the sun had disappeared behind the orange-ish pink waters. The cool night wind felt pleasing on his sunburnt skin, and a beautiful full moon glazed the sea with a gentle white sheen.
“There shall be a ship transiting past momentarily. The maiden captaining said vessel shall not heareth thy screams, shall not see thy waving arms. The sea shall take thee... lest thou desire to join me in a covenant.” A gentle female voice seemed to call from inside Anders’ skull, each word resonating with a symphony of tingles zigzagging a path through his body, finding their final destination in his very soul and filling him with a primal fear. He whipped his head around, having all but forgotten the soreness in his body. No one was behind him.
“What form of devilry is this? A hallucination?” Anders called out weakly. He had figured it was only a matter of time before his mind began to deteriorate, but he thought he had at least another day or two.
“Thy window for opportunity diminishes with every second that passes by. I shall grant thee salvation, and in return thou shalt retrieve for me the Feather of Divinity.”
Anders’ scowled at the words. Whatever this voice was, it spoke in a pompous manner that was unfamiliar to him. He understood the words’ meaning well enough, however. His heart quickened as he noticed a flickering amber light far in the distance, drifting slowly by. Anders’ eyes lit up. He nearly fell out of the boat as he jumped to his feet. He tried to scream, but the only product was a raspy wheeze. His heart pounded inside his chest and red-hot frustration and anger bubbled up inside him, warming his body as he exploded with rage and despair. He began to frantically wave his arms, at one point momentarily removing his trousers to wave them like a flag. His limbs burned and jolts of pain filled his belly as his wild movements agitated his wound. As suddenly as the movements had begun, they stopped. For a moment it seemed as though even the sea itself had gone silent in sympathy to his plight.
Silence still.
“I accept your deal.” Anders’ whispered.
“Thy fate hath been entwined with my own. Rejoice, thou shalt not perish this day, but thou shalt acquire the Feather of Divinity to bestow unto me. So it hast been agreed upon.” The voice boomed. Anders’ ears rang from the power of the declaration and his body pulsed with an unfamiliar sensation. It felt as though he was satisfying a hunger that had long gone unnoticed, but had been present all his life. The feeling was harrowing but not altogether unpleasant. His vision went white and the coppery taste of blood coated his chalky tongue. Slowly, his surroundings began to come back into view, though this time the stars seemed closer. In fact, they were almost close enough to touch. They swirled, jolted, and swayed around him. Some stars were large while some stars were small. Some were quick, some were slow. Some were dim, some were almost blindingly bright. Their colors and textures were widely varied but each one was spherical and each one shone with some amount of light. As Anders gawked at them, he even began to feel as if some possessed personalities. The bright, smooth blue one which travelled in straight lines was arrogant, full of itself. The wooly green one which moved in smooth circular paths was wise and agreeable. Anders realized that they weren’t stars at all, but something else. Something unknown to him. But he knew they were powerful, he could feel it in his bones.
“Reach out thy mind and pluck the fruit from the branch.”
Anders focused his gaze on the arrogant-looking blue orb and concentrated. He felt nothing, just the tensing of his facial muscles as he began to wear a look of intense focus. But this voice seemed to be his only chance of surviving, so he did as he was told.
“Thy mind is too material, too... immutable. The task presented for thee is unachievable. Perhaps thou art not the champion I desire. I hath granted thee salvation, alas thou art not capable of accepting it. I hath delivered unto thee thy meed, thus the covenant remains unbroken. Thou shalt perish still, but the fault belongs solely to thyself.”
“We had a deal, devil.” Anders’ eyes flared, his voice shaky and weak. “You did not ‘grant me salvation’, you cruelly dangled it in front of me. I want to live. I am going to live.” His eyes darkened, his body squatting, ready to pounce like one of the great cats found in the lands of Falur. He stared intently as the blue orb travelled. It was heading away from him and to the right in a straight line. Suddenly its course changed and it began to fly to his left. Soon it would almost be close enough to touch, but not quite. Realistically speaking.
Anders’ body sprung to life as his powerful legs launched him towards the point where he anticipated the blue orb would be when their trajectories crossed, the rowboat rolling over from the force of the leap. His mental calculations proved true, and his hands connected with the orb. Or at least they would have, had it been a physical object. Instead he continued soaring, diving into the dark waters.
His nostrils stung as the briny seawater bombarded them. As the cold water shocked his body he felt an even colder wave of electric energy overwhelm him from the inside. Even while submerged, he felt every hair on his body stand on end as freezing waves pulsed from his heart, travelling throughout his entirety and thrilling him. He was surprised to find that the coldness no longer bothered him. He opened his eyes expecting only to see the light of the moon, but found that his entire form was glowing with a brilliant blue radiance, cutting sharply through the inky water enveloping him. He brought his right hand to his face, staring in amazement as he repeatedly curled and uncurled his fingers.
“That was... unexpected.” The voice spoke, quivering almost imperceptibly before steadying back into its normal serene tone. “The power thou feel, is it not most wondrous? Hark, be not afraid, for it cannot harm thee. Observe as it carves its path. Wouldst thou not agree that it is a part of thyself, just as the breath in thy lungs? Deliver it unto the heavens above, Anders.”
Numerous thoughts floated in Anders’ mind. What is this feeling, this power? Who does this voice belong to, and what do they want? How will this power save me? But as he processed the voice’s words, he let go of his thoughts and focused instead on the feeling of the strange energy. It felt fluid yet controllable. Just as, he supposed, the breath in his lungs. One cannot hold air, cannot swing it like a sword, but one can blow out a candle by shaping the mouth in a manner that guides the air towards the target. Anders shaped his body in a way that would guide the energy towards the sky. He swam to the surface and took a deep breath of air before extending his right hand upward, his little finger and ring finger curling slightly while his index and middle fingers stretched upwards. He felt some nonexistent muscle relax as he let go of his energy, allowing it to release violently towards the sky. A streak of wispy mist began racing upward. A cloud immediately began to form over him, beautifully illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Anders watched as snowflakes began to float gently down into his vicinity.
For a moment he felt euphoric, as if he had just released a sneeze that had been building for quite some time. But as his body returned to its normal state he began to become increasingly aware of the cold water around him, his sunburnt skin, and the pain of his stomach wound. None of that mattered to him now, however, as he watched the distant ship begin to slowly turn towards him.
I am going to live.
Chapter Two
The Mark of the Savage is inflicted on individuals that violate Gryegost’s gracious protections. Any who dare to cause severe harm to another, even in self defense, shall awake the next morning to find that their pupils have become dark pentagons. This allows a righteous and just society to know who is of good moral character and who should be avoided. This explanation of the Mark of the Savage has been approved by the Lansden Court of Peace.Passage from Introduction to Unnatural Anatomy by Emelade Rololen
Mariova released her tight grip on the pillow as she rolled over on the bed. It had been about an hour since she retired for the night, yet she felt no closer to sleeping now than she did when she first climbed into the warm sheets and shut her eyes. This was not entirely uncommon for her and she briefly considered using the magical sleeping powder that she had purchased for just such an occasion. She ultimately decided against it, as she was currently sailing in waters that weren’t to be described as safe. She would need to be able to wake up and defend herself at a moment’s notice should her vessel be accosted. No, she would do this the old-fashioned way. She slid out of the bed, dropping into a crouch to avoid the low ceiling above her. She left her dueling saber where it hung on the wall by her bed. She carefully put on her boots as well as a simple brown leather jerkin. The darkness made it difficult to see, but enough light shone from the cracks in the deck above to guide her movements.
She climbed up the wooden stairs onto the weatherdeck of her yawl, a small wooden sailboat which she had named The Whisper. It was a humble vessel with a single mast supporting two sails, one below the other. Lining the deck were a variety of crates, the cargo by which she earned her living. Lengths of rope kept each crate secured to the deck, and some crates had heavy tarps thrown over them so as to protect them from the elements. A short wooden staircase led down to the interior cabin, a cramped space with a small bed, a stove, a chest, and numerous linen sacks filled with various foodstuffs. This was her home. This was The Whisper.
She examined her surroundings. It was a remarkably clear night, the moon illuminated the dark ocean around her and countless stars twinkled above, their beauty obstructed by not a single cloud. Mariova took in a deep breath of the cool air. This will certainly help. She thought to herself as she slowly exhaled and stared out at the shimmering water. She loved the ocean, which was one of the reasons that she left everything behind to live as a seafarer. It represented freedom and opportunity. If the winds were favorable she could travel anywhere she pleased. She could explore uncharted islands, visit vibrant and exciting cities, or wave at fellow travellers as they passed. Most of the time however, she simply liked to lean on the helm with a book in her hands while the waves gently rocked her as she sailed to deliver cargo. Nonetheless, it was nice to have the opportunity to do exciting things, even if she would rather be alone, safe, and at peace. That’s yet another thing about the ocean that appealed to her: the peace. A lovely feeling that at this moment was broken as she spied a glowing blue light far off to the starboard side.
“Hmm?” She exclaimed as she moved over to the railing and procured a collapsible spyglass from the pocket of her cloth tights. She expanded it and brought it to her right eye. The light was very bright and just under the surface of the water. She supposed it could be a mage, but why would a mage be in the middle of the ocean with no ship? Perhaps it was some strange manner of sea creature that she hadn’t seen before, or some sort of monstrosity. The light began to rise closer to the surface, and she saw an arm emerge from the water and point towards the sky. She recoiled as a stream of magic shot from it. Oh gods, a mage! Are they attacking me? My lights are on, so they surely know I’m here. Oh blast it, why couldn’t I have just slept?
She folded the spyglass and placed it back in her pocket. She watched anxiously to see what manner of spell had been cast. She watched as the light slowly began to dim until it was no longer visible, and a cloud began to form above where it had once been. Her arms dropped to her torso as she covered her vulnerable areas, clenching her eyes shut and preparing for the worst. After a few moments, she worked up enough courage to open one of them. There was nothing coming for her, only the moonlight twinkling off of distant particles as they floated down into the sea. It looked like... snow. Yes, that was definitely snow. But why? It wasn’t particularly cold outside, though it certainly wasn’t warm, so she doubted that the spell was simply a mage’s means of cooling off. It’s a beacon, a cry for help. But I shouldn’t... that would be reckless. Obviously it’s a trap. I should just leave them to their devices, maybe another ship will come and save them. Oh Mariova, what are you talking about? You don’t follow shipping routes. It’s a bloody miracle that you came across them. No one else will come.
She released a resigned groan as she rushed to the helm and jerked it clockwise. She heard a gentle splash as the rudder moved through the water, and then the familiar creak of wood as the ship began to veer starboard. Once her course was set she adjusted the sails and quickly descended belowdecks. There were a few things she would need to retrieve if she was going to have a mage aboard. First, she would need some ropes to bind them with. Second, she would need her pouch of magical sleeping powder which she had purchased from an alchemist (who had seemed trustworthy enough, they had been so kind as to trade books with her, after all). Lastly she would need her Ring of Magic Impairment, a plain copper band with jet engravings, an item which prevented the wearer from casting spells.
By the time she returned above deck the ship was just about at its destination. She raised the sail and allowed momentum to carry it the rest of the way. Her heart pounded in her chest and adrenaline rushed through every inch of her body. She struggled to control her breathing as The Whisper came closer and closer to where the mage had been. She noticed now that there was an upside-down rowboat floating in the water and a splashing figure next to it, now swimming closer and closer to the ladder that clung to the side of The Whisper. She opened the sleeping powder pouch and grabbed what she felt was a reasonable amount.
The stranger was close enough now that she could make out some of his features. He was bald with a thick black beard and a large hooked nose. He looked to be in his thirties or forties judging by the creases and scars that lined his face. He was terribly sunburnt on the front, but the back of him was quite pale. His powerful muscles swelled as he moved through the water and after what felt like an eternity he firmly grasped one of the rungs of the ladder with large hands.
“Gods be praised.” He panted as he climbed onto the deck of the ship, his voice sonorous and strained. Mariova could see him fully now. Scars and calluses were scattered throughout his entire body and his stomach bore a fresh wound. He seemed to be hairy everywhere save for the top of his head, which looked completely smooth. He had on soaked trousers and a single shoe. His skin was covered in gooseflesh, and considering the cool air, the water, and the snow, Mariova was surprised that he wasn’t in fact shivering. His mouth was chalky-white with a tongue to match. She flinched as his hand rose to scratch his beard. He did not fit her mental image of a mage, but the snow cloud overhead betrayed his nature. It is then that she noticed that his pupils were pentagonal. Not only was he a mage, but he bore the Mark of the Savage.
“Thank you for–” he started to say before Mariova struck. She opened her trembling palm in front of him and blew a cloud of sleeping powder directly into his face. He coughed violently for several seconds before falling to his hands and knees, where he stayed for only a second or two before collapsing onto the deck.
Chapter Three
Magic is mechanically quite simple, really. One first absorbs the energy from an arcane mote, one of the countless orbs of immaterial energy that surround us at all times, of course. The power absorbed from these wondrous spheres is then utilized to cast various spells. There are numerous methodologies for capturing one of these arcane motes. The dancers of Xelt, for example, train themselves to perceive them similar to how one might perceive music and then use various ridiculous dances their kin have developed to sashay their way to the motes. Another mage might simply have such finely-attuned senses that they instinctively know the approximate location of arcane motes (for further reading on this topic, might I recommend my colleague Bargwater’s account of a catfolk woman who claimed to be able to locate arcane motes via their smell). There additionally exist mages who pull arcane motes towards themselves through sheer force of will, which I thoroughly and expertly explore in my book “The Power of Willpower” which is available for purchase at every competent bookseller. Many failed duelists even claim, through fits of hysterical defeated laughter, that some mages are able to fuel their magical prowess solely through sheer luck. There have been an increasing number of rumors pertaining to mages who are able to view arcane motes with their own eyes. As a renowned expert on the subject of magic it is my duty to inform the ignorant masses that these rumors are absolute hogwash, as such an ability would make for a mage without peer.Excerpt from Muldoch the Learned’s Manual For Novice Mages by Ratbeard
He coughed as the powder entered his lungs. His mouth and nose stung as he felt his body begin to grow weak. He tried to step towards his assailant but his legs refused to comply and he stumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees. His eyes watered as he struggled to breathe and his eyelids eventually felt too heavy to hold open.
Anders awoke. He blinked repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to the bright light around him. He was sitting on a ship facing the bow as it steamed forward, the wind blowing gently at his back. A tarp was loosely tied around the mast above his head, offering welcome shade. He attempted to rub his eyes but found that his hands were tied behind him. The fog cleared from his head and he suddenly pulled harshly against the ropes but to no avail. He winced as his sunburnt arms rubbed against the mast’s rough wooden surface. He remembered now. He had been stranded at sea and had been “saved” by an elvish woman. He also remembered summoning a snow cloud, but surely that couldn’t be right. He wasn’t a mage, almost nobody from Walim was. And there was a voice. A voice that showed him strange visions of glowing orbs and tasked him with finding the “Feather of Divinity”. Was that all a dream? A hallucination of a desperate man? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps as the elf walked into view from behind him.
She was young with red hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore a wrinkled leather jerkin over a stained white shirt, along with green tights and a pair of brown leather boots. An elegant saber rested in a sheath at her left hip, which Anders’ eyes frequently flicked to. Her skin was tan like the color of an elk’s fur, and completely unblemished. She had a soft, delicate countenance save for a sharp, bony chin. Her lips were dry and cracked, curled into a frown. She squatted and glared at him with questioning brown eyes before speaking.
“You’re just going to hurt yourself, mage. I’m a sailor, I tie good knots.” She announced with bravado. “You’re going to stay right there until I find somewhere to drop you off.” Her voice was deep and steady.
“I’m not a mage.” Anders replied as he stared up at her. His mouth was even dryer now and it showed clearly in his voice. He desperately yearned for a drink of water, but he dared not ask his captor. No, he would not give her that satisfaction.
“I’m not an idiot.” She spat, standing and crossing her arms.
“I’m telling you the truth, I’m not a mage.”
“You were glowing and you summoned a snow cloud. You’re an ice mage. Your kind are all the same, you’ll say whatever you want to get what you desire. I’m not sure what kind of helpless damsels you’ve preyed upon in the past, but I can assure you that I will not be the victim here. Not to mention you bear the Mark of the Savage. Quite the shitty mage you must be if you still have to resort to violence.” Her words oozed with venom.
So it wasn’t a hallucination after all. Anders furrowed his brow for a moment and then glared at her. “If I’m a mage, then why haven’t I cast any spells to free myself? Surely that would be within my power.”
“You see that ring on your finger?” She pointed behind Anders. He could not see it, but he did feel something wrapped around his little finger. “That’s to prevent you from trying anything funny.” Her voice cracked slightly.
“What if I need to shit, elf?” Anders mocked, the corners of his mouth twisting into a slight smile.
“That’s why I put you downwind. Now, if you need any food or water just shout for me. I may or may not oblige.”
“How generous.”
She rose to her feet and walked back out of his line of sight. As she passed him he smelled a lovely mix of vanilla and cherries. Anders pondered what she had said about him being an ice mage. He was only vaguely aware of magic. He knew that each mage’s magic was somewhat unique, and the types of spells they could cast were normally tied to some sort of material or energy, such as fire or metal. He also knew that magic could not be used to directly harm others, not since the Trickster God Gryegost had played his most famous trick. No, all forms of attack magic had long ago been replaced by tickling magic. Magic could be utilized for other purposes still, such as defense and healing, or summoning a snowcloud. But mages were completely unable to harm another person’s body. At least, that’s what Anders had heard growing up in Walim, an island famously lacking in mages due to the ancient tradition of warriors proving their worth by slaying them.
Was he now a mage? Had the voice truly granted him such a power? Anders looked out at the sea in front of him and recalled the orbs he had seen. They seemed to be a necessary component for using his magic, but he could not see them now. Had it been a one-time thing, perhaps? Probably for the best. A real warrior doesn’t rely on magic tricks, and he surely doesn’t tickle his enemies. But Anders couldn’t help but remember the rush he had gotten from absorbing the power of the orb, or from unleashing the magical power into the sky. It was exhilarating, it felt natural to him. He shook his head and squinted his eyes shut before once more starting to pull at the rope binding his hands.
Anders struggled against the bonds for the better part of an hour before finally relenting to the pain and exhaustion. His sunburn was agonizing and his head pounded furiously from dehydration. Though he could not see her, he knew that the elf could see him. The ship had changed course a handful of times which meant she was at the helm. Anders tried to stand up but his legs fervently refused. With some difficulty he managed to awkwardly walk his legs in a circular motion, moving himself to the other side of the mast so that he faced the stern. He saw Mariova resting against the helm, her head hanging as she poured over the pages of a book.
“You, elf.” He called.
She gave no indication that she’d heard him.
“Elf!” He shouted, his hoarse voice breaking halfway through the word.
“I have a name, you know. You just never bothered to ask.” She responded. She placed a strip of leather in the book and closed it, placing it in a bucket that had been nailed down to the deck next to the helm.
Anders stared at her blankly. “You never asked mine.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest, but then brought a finger to her chin in a pensive expression. “Oh. Yeah I didn’t, did I? Whoops.”
Anders scowled. “I need water, elf. Now.”
“It’s Mariova. My name, I mean. Yours?”
“Did you hear me, elf? Water.”
“No, no that’s not right. It’s pronounced ‘mare-ee-oh-vah’, not ‘elf’. And you still haven’t told me your name.”
He gritted his teeth. “Anders. Now get me some bloody water, ‘mare-ee-oh-vah’.”
She cracked a triumphant smile before disappearing belowdecks. She returned with a tin cup and strided over to him. She brought the cup to his lips and began to tilt it upwards. Anders struggled to swallow at first, causing some of the water to trickle out of his mouth and down his chest. But as his mouth and throat moistened he found it easier to drink. Mariova pulled the cup away.
“Easy does it, Anders. I’ve heard if you drink too fast it’ll make you rather sick, and I’m in no mood to swab the deck.”
Anders swallowed and gasped for breath. Already his throat and mouth felt much better. He stared at Mariova silently, his eyes occasionally flickering to the cup she held. She looked as though she was expecting him to say something, and he found a small yet not insignificant amount of satisfaction in failing to meet that expectation. After a minute of awkward silence, she brought the cup to his lips once more and allowed him to finish off its contents.
“You’re welcome.” She huffed.
Anders grunted in response.
Mariova turned to walk away, and Anders shuffled himself around the mast so that he was once again facing the bow of the ship. He silently considered his predicament. She’s not a killer, she’s more afraid of me than I am of her. Still, do I really believe that she’s just going to drop me off at the nearest port? No, there must be something in it for her. Slavery, maybe. The village elders spoke of nations to the south that owned loads of them. Anders stared at the sky to his left. The sun was slightly higher than it had been when he first awoke, so it must be morning, he reckoned. And if the sun is to his left, then that means they’re heading south.
Anders stared out at the vast ocean before him. The water was slightly choppy, forming ever-changing peaks and valleys which the sunlight glittered off of, twinkling like frost-covered grass. He searched his mind and body, trying his best to remember what he had felt earlier when he had seen those odd orbs of light. It was like a sixth sense that he’d gone his whole life never using. Like an overwhelming need that had never before been met. But now it was in him, he just needed to remember where to find it. Somehow he knew that deep in his being, he would be able to find it again. And he did. Initially he worried that he was only seeing what he wished to see, but after several seconds the faint shapes became clearer. Several of the orbs passed by as the ship sailed forward, and Anders realized that if he was incredibly lucky the ship might bring him right into one. Though while the orbs were numerous, they were also quite spaced out. It could be some time before one of the orbs reached him, time he wasn’t sure he had.
Anders sat there waiting expectantly for around two hours. Occasionally an orb would come quite close and he would tense in anticipation, only for it to just barely miss him or suddenly change direction. As he growled to himself and clenched his jaw, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Mariova stepped into his view holding two tin cups. She tilted one and allowed him to examine the contents. Inside was a brownish-grey sludge with flecks of what appeared to be meat. Anders grimaced reflexively.
“It won’t kill you. Though, if you keep calling me ‘Elf’ then the next one might. It’s just hardtack, salt pork, and water. It was either this or I hand feed you, which neither of us want I’m sure.” She brought the cup to his face.
The mixture smelled meaty, floury, and not of much else. Anders hesitated and then placed his lips on the rim, prompting Mariova to begin sliding the concoction into his mouth. Anders fought the urge to gag as he swallowed the chunky and somewhat-slimey mixture. He bore no qualms with the taste. He had never tasted pork before and he found it to be pleasing, perhaps even better than elk jerky. The texture, though, was abominable. He briefly wondered if this was the kind of food they fed to slaves. After a few agonizing seconds, the contents of the cup had been drained save for a few clumps stuck to the bottom. Mariova retracted the cup and brought up the other one, which was filled only with water. Anders drank it happily.
“I hope you’re a better sailor than you are a cook.” He mumbled as he finished drinking.
“That was some high-quality salt pork I just gave you. Cost me a fortune. It’s worth it though I think, since it’s one of the few things I can bring on voyages that tastes of anything. You can season hardtack all you like, but at the end of the day it’s still just dry bread, isn’t it?” She smiled at her own musings, licking her lips absentmindedly and looking towards the sky. Anders wondered if she even remembered that he was there. Her eyes returned to Anders. He was silent for several moments.
“In Walim we put honeywine in our porridges. It doesn’t rot and, if you have the right brew, it can make it taste not like shit.”
“I think I’ve heard of people doing that. Never tried it myself though, I prefer to drink my wine rather than eat it.”
“If you run out of salt pork, you might change your mind.” He shrugged as best as he could. As he raised his hands, Mariova’s eyes flicked to the Ring of Magic Impairment on his finger.
Mariova nodded silently, seemingly lost in thought. She suddenly straightened her posture and glared at him before walking back to the helm. “If the winds persist, we’ll be at port in the morning. Then you’ll be someone else’s problem, mage.” Her voice was now as sharp as steel. She licked her lips yet again.
Anders wondered whether it was something he had said or if she simply didn’t want to get too attached to someone she was about to sell into slavery. He was confused and frustrated to find that the abrupt end of the conversation left him feeling disappointed. He hated to admit it, but he had enjoyed talking like a normal person with her for a moment. In that moment he wasn’t just an injured and overwhelmed prisoner likely on his way to a lifetime of forced labor, instead was just a man who held some sage wisdom regarding the art of porridge-making. He resolved not to get too friendly with his captor again. If he got even the faintest opportunity, he would have to kill her, or at the very least throw her overboard. Chit chat was in no way to his current benefit.
Anders returned to watching the orbs, hungrily waiting for his moment to come. He would absorb some magic and then once the ring was removed from his finger he would use it to escape. He didn’t know where he would go afterwards. He contemplated this as he stared ahead, and as the sun fell below the horizon he nodded off into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter Four
When travelling off of the coasts of Lansden, especially the northern coasts, one might find it providential to ensure that their vessel does not appear to be carrying valuable cargo, spirits, beer, wine. or anything else that might appeal to the prospective swashbuckler’s tastes.Excerpt from The Transient’s Guide to Lansden by Fronnar Lecksby
Mariova woke as The Whisper began to tremble. She jumped out of bed, nearly ramming her head into the ceiling in the process. The book she was reading earlier that night, The Spontaneous Adventures of Geraldine Lapize, flew off the bed as she threw back the sheets, landing in some dark corner of the room. She grabbed her sword and sprinted (though crouched as she was, it looked more akin to a hasty waddle) up the stairs wearing nothing but her shirt, tights, and socks. As she ascended, she realized that wrapped around the ship there were several gargantuan tentacles holding it firmly in place. Each nightmarish appendage was purple with an orangish-pink underbelly, roughly two meters in diameter at the thickest point she could see before tapering into a pointed tip. She had seen these tentacles before, and she would have much preferred stepping out to find that The Whisper had been split asunder. Fucking Benedict.
Pulling up carefully alongside The Whisper was a larger vessel with tasteful green paint accenting an oaken mast. Several portholes lay scattered throughout the broadside of the ship, but none bore cannons. The ship boasted two white-and-green diamond-patterned sails which had been furled, and above those waved a black flag, sewn upon which was a white image of a large, horrific sea creature with countless tentacles. Standing behind the port railing and staring down at Mariova was a mustachioed man wearing a dark brown overcoat over a dirty light blue tunic. His face was illuminated by the lanterns on his ship, revealing stubble and greasy, wavy brown hair. He was flanked by two rough-looking men, each wearing a black-and-white striped shirt and brandishing a menacing axe. The man to his left was tall and portly with stylish brown hair and to his right was a man of average build whose blonde hair was tied into a ponytail.
“Oh, what a remarkable surprise! I knew I quite recognized this vessel.” The man shouted down. “Mariova, was it? Of course it was, I scarcely forget a pretty face, nor even a pretty name.” Mariova scowled. “I was dutifully scouring these waters for ne’er-do-wells, vagabonds, ruffians and the like when I happened upon your charming little ship. As benevolent as I am, I have taken it upon myself to help you unload that burdensome and enticing cargo of yours, lest it be pilfered by some ill-intended scoundrels.” His lips curled into a wicked smile.
“You slimy bastard!” Mariova bared her teeth and pointed her saber at him with a trembling hand. “Release my ship or I will come over there and strangle each one of you with your own innards!” Her voice was somewhere between a screech and a yell.
“Come now, Mariova darling. Do you not remember what happened the last time you endeavored to decline my services? I seem to recall it was quite the laughing matter. Perhaps you need me to… refresh your memory.” He smiled at her in a way that made her skin crawl. He closed his eyes and waved his hand in her direction, prompting several tentacles to emerge from the dark depths.
“No!” Mariova cried as she began to back away from the onslaught of slick tentacles as they slowly wormed and slithered their way towards her. Her saber slashed through some of them with surprising fury but there proved to be too many, and she was ultimately overwhelmed. A powerful tentacle ducked under her defenses wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side and lifting her clear off of the deck. “No! No! Fuck!” Her voice was soaked in rage and panic.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Anders, still bound to the mast. He attentively watched the scene unfold, cursing to himself as her saber landed on the deck far outside his ability to reach. His eyes briefly locked with hers as she struggled and writhed underneath the strong grip of the tentacle. For a moment she saw the hint of a smile in his eyes before he turned his face away from hers.
The tentacle pulled her away from The Whisper and held her firmly over the waters betwixt the two vessels. It began slowly pulling her downward. Benedict paced along the deck of his ship, watching Mariova’s predicament with a perverse level of interest. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and extended his hand, lifting it upward as if raising some unseen marionette puppet. After a few moments his eyes opened and his hand dropped, his look of concentration replaced by one of amused satisfaction. Beneath Mariova, the waters began to stir.
“You quite well remember my associates, don’t you darling? The mermaids? They’ve enjoyed an abundance of playmates since our last encounter, but none of them have quite succeeded at delivering the same level of… amusement as you did. As a result I’m afraid they’ve missed you quite dearly. I shall leave you all to your touching reunion whilst I begin my inspection of your vessel.” Benedict said as he gestured to his crew. The two men picked up a large gangway plank and placed it firmly between the two vessels. Due to the difference in height, there was a downward incline to the plank as the men used it to board The Whisper.
Mariova stared in horror at the waters below her. She remembered the mermaids very well, they had tickled her senseless when she was last caught by Benedict. His magic allowed him to summon and command the creatures of the deep, and while he couldn’t use it to hurt Mariova, he could still use it to torment her in other ways.
She saw as three pale faces emerged, illuminated by both moonlight and torchlight. Their black hair was wet and slicked back, their faces plain but pretty. They looked like they might have been siblings. They smiled and waved at her, revealing rows of sharp, shark-like teeth accompanying fingernails that looked like talons. Mariova strained against the grip of the tentacle as it continued to drag her closer to her new torturers.
“Benedict!” Her voice pierced the suspenseful silence. “Stay the hell away from my ship you bastard!” She called out, receiving no response. She tried biting the tentacle but its flesh was much too tough and tasted terribly salty and bitter. She tried to kick the mermaids away but as she descended further, the tentacle which was wrapped around her now blocked them from view. She felt as one of the mermaids grabbed a hold of her left ankle, and then the right. The tentacle slowly extended itself, wrapping itself lower down her body and pinning her legs together. She felt as the mermaids removed her socks and brought her feet down into the cool water, and she heard as their heads disappeared beneath the waves, their hands never leaving her ankles. The tentacle ceased its descent and held Mariova steadily over the sea, with everything below her knees being submerged. She clenched her eyes shut and prepared for the worst.
Temporarily, there was silence. She felt her feet begin to warm as they adjusted to the temperature of the ocean. She was somewhat thankful for the tentacle for shielding her from the brisk night air. In her state of horrific suspense her body had seemingly become hypersensitive and she was painfully aware of every sensation on her body. She attempted to gain control of her breathing and realized that she had been unintentionally holding her breath. She sharply exhaled as she felt a sharp fingernail begin to trace agonizing circles along her left arch. Her right foot started to receive a similar treatment and she clenched her jaw to contain her giggles.
A warm, slimy tongue began to explore the valleys between the toes on her right foot, sending tingly shivers throughout her entire body. The tongue briefly distracted her from the nails tracing patterns on her feet, but soon she found herself fixated on both sensations simultaneously. She let out a jittery sound somewhere between a grunt and a whine. She felt ticklish laughter begin to move its way from her stomach to her throat, apathetic to her prideful aspirations of enduring the torment silently.
Then came the teeth. The mermaid that was sucking on her right foot began to gently nibble on the sensitive flesh, her sharp teeth producing jolts of ticklish alarm. Mariova barely managed to stifle her laughter as she reactively struggled to pull her leg free, and she suspected that the mermaids had taken notice. In unison, they increased the tempo of their tickling. Multiple fingers scribbled furiously against her defenseless soles and a set of predatory teeth had taken to lightly gnawing on the ball of her foot. Laughter poured freely from her now as she struggled fiercely against her bonds.
“Stop! Stop!” She screeched through fits of fierce laughter as tears ran down her face. Her heart rate soared as panicked despair began to creep into her thoughts. I can’t move, can’t get away. How long is this going to go on for? Until I die? Until he’s finished robbing me? She found herself wishing that Benedict would hurry up and steal all of her cargo. For a moment, she considered begging. That’s what she had done months before when she was last in this situation, but it didn’t seem to have any effect other than making her feel worthless. She would surely break again, she thought. She found herself sinking further and further into the depths of hopelessness as the tickling tongues, teeth, and talons scratched, probed, and teased her helpless feet. Is this really all it takes to break me? Her laughter took on a new texture as self-pity joined the mermaids in tormenting her. By this point her submerged soles were starting to become wrinkled and the mermaids had begun to gently trace each line with their pointed nails. Her howls rang throughout the night air, receiving no response save the sound of boots on wood as they made away with her cargo, her livelihood.
She felt herself being lifted out of the water and ankles being released. This had happened last time, she assumed it was to give her pruned feet time to return to their smooth, ticklish state. She caught her breath as she dangled over the water. She could do nothing but curse and wait as she felt her feet slowly dry.
She found herself imagining Geraldine Lapize, the protagonist of the book she was currently reading, and what she would do if she was in Mariova’s situation. She would surely endure it with her chin held high, making wise cracks and nonchalantly spewing defiant remarks such as “Is that all you got?” Mariova felt the tentacle lower her back into the sea, and two strong hands grabbed her ankles. Vehemence burned briefly inside of her as she imagined Benedict’s smug face watching her suffer and plead. I don’t want to be like Mariova. I want to be like Geraldine Lapize. Her torture began afresh.
“Is… that all… you… got?” She barely managed to call out between fits of hysterical laughter. It took all of her strength to pronounce each syllable as the mermaids had started to lightly scrape at the sensitive skin between her toes and the balls of her feet, causing her to reach a new level of hysterics. “I can… can… do this a–” She bit her tongue. “–all day!” Her heart filled with pride as she imagined how she must have looked. Courageous, clever, and powerful.
“Oh, how I just adore it when they get impertinent. It makes it all the more gratifying when they inexorably unravel.” Benedict announced to no one in particular as he crossed the gangway, walking in front of his two crewmembers as the pair struggled to carry a crate of various oils up the plank. Mariova stared at him as he passed. Her hair was matted and her red face was contorted in laughter. Her eyes cut into him with a look of intense hatred, juxtaposing the mirthful expression on the rest of her face. Benedict shuddered as his eyes met hers. The sound of her manic laughter seemed to somehow take on a slightly threatening timbre. Normally Benedict loved to see the disheveled state of his victims, but as he crossed between the ships for the next half-hour he did not glance at her once.
Anders mustered enough strength to stand and he sidestepped around the mast such that he was facing the gangway. He had spent the past forty minutes or so doing nothing that might draw attention. The pirates had given him a few looks, but miraculously had not said a word to him. They began to board The Whisper yet again, their eyes resting curiously on Anders as they walked, intrigued by his newfound desire to engage with them.
“Could you help me with these binds?” Anders said, lightly pulling at his restraints to show that he was, in fact, bound. Benedict eyed him with amusement.
“So he can speak after all.” Benedict teased as he crossed his arms and leaned on an empty barrel. “I was worried our mutual acquaintance might have displaced your tongue. Tell me, my boy, how did you end up here?” He looked Anders up and down, his eyes resting for a moment on his stomach wound.
“I was shipwrecked. The elf took me aboard her ship, but I think she intends to sell me as a slave. If you have room aboard your ship, I’d be willing to work for a ride to the nearest port.” Anders spoke as if it was a fact rather than a request. He briefly looked over at Mariova. He could just barely see her head over the railing of the ship. It was thrown back in wild, tormented laughter. He shifted uneasily as he unwittingly imagined what it was in the water that caused such a strong reaction from her. Though he knew he was not ticklish, he nonetheless had decided that it was in his best interest to stay in the good graces of these pirates.
Benedict looked down at the deck of the ship, furrowing his brow. The sun had begun to crest over the horizon and Anders could see a thin film of grease covering the pirate’s face and hair. Benedict looked at his two crewmembers and then back at Anders, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “You’re damaged goods,” He said, nodding at Anders’ stomach. “And you possess the mark, making you a prime candidate to sell into slavery, but regardless I suspect your physique could prove quite beneficial once we port. Very well, you can accompany us. But don’t expect to indulge in our rations, and if you in any way waver in your duties then I shall suspect that you may be of more worth to me as a slave after all. Nulbrin, if you would cut him free.” He looked over to the tall man who promptly drew his axe and swung at the ropes that were holding Anders to the mast.
Anders rubbed at his wrists as his bonds were broken. The combination of sunburn and friction from the ropes left the skin blistered and torn. He stretched his limbs and waited for Benedict’s eyes to wander elsewhere before slipping the Ring of Magic Impairment off of his finger and putting it in the right pocket of his dilapidated trousers. “Great.” He grunted as he picked up a crate of unknown goods before walking to the gangway. His stomach bothered him fiercely, but he endured. He stole a curious glance at the spectacle taking place in the waters below. He saw Mariova still restrained by the tentacle, as well as a flurry of movement in the churning waters beneath her. He watched as a silver fishtail glistened in the light of the rising sun and followed its length with his eyes until he saw the naked corpse-like skin of a young woman. A mermaid? I thought they were just a myth. Wait, no, three mermaids. He noticed two more of the creatures deeper in the water, holding Mariova’s ankles like a vise and raking their claws over her soles. The elf was like an instrument that produced varying pitches of harrowing screams of laughter, and this particular instrument was played in a most peculiar way.
Mariova’s face reminded him of a plague victim he had once passed during a trip to the town of Relvickt. When he walked through the streets of the largest town in Walim, he had encountered an elderly woman who appeared to be in the throes of pain. Her face shined with sweat and tears as her wails shrank into defeated wimpers. Anders pushed the memory from his mind. Just as he was going to look away, Mariova’s pleading eyes met his own and a sudden coldness began to radiate inside of his core. Despite being scrunched with mirthful laughter, he could still clearly see the desperation and fear written in her eyes. He stopped in his tracks, causing Nulbrin to nearly run into the back of him with a sack full of salt.
“Watch it, you prick.” Nulbrin hollered as he adjusted his grip on the sack. Anders turned around to look at him. Normally he would have needed to crane his neck to stare eye-to-eye with a man as tall as Nulbrin, but the incline of the gangway brought him to just about eye level with the man. His knuckles whitened as they gripped the crate with a new intensity. Anders opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. His eyes trailed away from Nulbrin’s and rested on the mast of The Whisper, still hanging from which was the cloth tarp that had shaded him from the overbearing rays of the sun. His gaze returned to Nulbrin.
“Never seen a mermaid before.” Anders responded before turning around and continuing forward. Transporting the rest of Mariova’s cargo took only about ten more minutes. Each time he crossed the gangway Anders fought the urge to look her way, but he couldn’t help but imagine her in his mind. He saw her puffy red eyes, her cheeks stained by tears, the rapid rising and falling of her chest just above the tentacle that gripped her, and her wild tangles of scarlet hair. It’s just tickling. People do that to their kids, she’ll be fine. He heard her hoarse laughter rise in pitch, likely due to some dastardly new technique of the mermaids. Once the job was done, he watched as the tentacle lifted Mariova’s exhausted body a few feet out of the water. Her head was slack like a doll’s, though he could see that she was still awake.
It was, then, very quiet. Benedict and his crew quietly prepared his ship, which Anders had learned by reading the elegant lettering on the hull was called The Emerald Undercurrent, to sail. Anders knew little about sailing, but he obediently followed instructions as Benedict barked them out. As Benedict gave the order to finally raise the anchor, Anders paused.
“What about the elf?” He inquired, pointing at Mariova who still hung limp like a ragdoll, her upper half slowly sinking and rising with each breath.
“Her? She’ll be returned to the loving clutches of those wonderfully devilish mermaids once we are underway. Worry not, her respite has been adequate.” Benedict pulled a gilded pocket watch from his coat pocket and inspected its hands.
Anders had felt sympathy before, but he had always been able to stifle it. That was a skill one must have, he thought, to survive in Walim. It should be a simple matter to ignore this elf’s suffering, especially seeing as she in all likelihood was mere hours away from condemning him to a life of thankless labor before the pirates intervened. However, this time the sympathy felt to him like the soothing shade of a tarp hanging overhead. It smelled of the seductive scent of vanilla and cherries being carried on warm salt air. It tasted like porridge made with honeywine. He let out a distorted groan.
Ander’s voice rose and he stared intensely at the pirate. “The elf has had enough. Call off your creatures.”
Benedict raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Have you forgotten your place, my boy? I’ve done you a courtesy by allowing you aboard my vessel, I would implore you not to grant me reason to reconsider our arrangement.” He waved his right hand threateningly, perhaps in the beginnings of casting a spell.
Anders’ mood soured further.
Her eyes shot open as the water shocked her awake. Looking around her, Mariova saw a silver-scaled tail disappear into the briny murk and a purple tentacle slowly drift down below her line of sight. Her eyes followed the tentacle down and she let out a gargled scream.. Staring back at her was an enormous, glowing, orange eye some 50 meters in diameter, creeping down into the turbid tides. She did not wait to watch the eye disappear completely before swimming to the surface and rushing to the nearest ladder rung. She scrambled aboard The Emerald Undercurrent and rolled onto the deck which was dry and warm. She laid there taking deep, calming breaths in through her runny nose and out through her chattering teeth. At once she realized where she was and pulled herself from the ground.
She stared now at the helm, against which lay the pirate Benedict. Protruding from his chest were three thick rods of bloodied glass. Dark blood dribbled from his slackened jaw as his head rested on his chest. She slowly climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, anxiously expecting her tormentor to spring to life and once again accost her with his wicked magic. As she got closer it became evident that this would not happen. His unblinking eyes stared down at the deck blankly. One of the rods had penetrated his heart, and it was not made of glass at all. It was ice, hurriedly melting and mixing with the growing red pool beneath him.
Three additional figures came to her attention near the forward mast. Anders, to her surprise, was struggling to untie the portside halyard which raised the sail. Benedict’s lackeys were not far from him. The larger one stood with his axe raised for an inevitable strike while the other was kneeling on the deck as if in prayer. Both were unmoving as she approached. She walked as though in a trance, thoroughly overwhelmed by the morning’s events and the ominous intimations of more yet to come. Her breath was shallow and rapid as she edged along the starboard railing of the ship, hesitant to drift too closely to the men. Her worst fears were confirmed when she was finally able to truly inspect the pair. They were both frozen. A coating of frost was to be found on each of them and their bodies twinkled like diamonds in the morning sunlight. The larger one’s expression was twisted into a malicious snarl. The tightened muscles of his frozen form made for a statuesque visage not unlike the reverential statues of beloved warriors and kings. The other lackey knelt several feet behind him, his hands defensively outstretched and his face forever suspended in a pleading countenance of dread. Mariova recoiled as Anders’ words cut through the heavy haze of her mind and broke her trance.
“If you want to show your thanks, help me with this blasted knot.”
She did not move, she could not even bear the thought. She could but only gape.
