<u>18</u>
He was becoming accustomed to shipboard life, as the Dark Cloud rumbled westward (sometimes barely clearing the tumbled ruins and foothills, below). Though the haunted airship strictly controlled its passageways, hoarding its many secrets, <u>some</u> exploration was possible. Miche made several key discoveries, along with a few that were merely enjoyable.
There was a thing called a “shower” aboard; a small room that jetted clean water from a spout by the overhead. Good as far as it went… but you could control the water’s pressure and temperature, too.
From bracingly cool to pleasantly warm to healing-spring hot (without all those searing minerals), a twist of the lever would change everything. There was also soap, in a bewildering number of scents. Previously, Miche had bathed himself in rivers or pools, or simply made do with a cleansing spell. This “shower” bordered on life changing. But Marget was much less impressed with the thing.
She snuffed him and sneezed after one such long bath, growling,
“You no longer smell like <u>yourself</u>, Vrol. Instead of kin-scent, you reek of <u>elf</u> and… and <u>perfume</u>.”
“It is soap, Meg,” he explained, fighting to keep a straight face. “The wrapping said: ‘Gentle Mint’. There are others, but this one was best.”
She sneezed once again and tromped off to the galley, muttering darkly. Curiosity finally drove her to try out the shower, though. Marget never used soap, but she did come forth emerald-green (polished glass, wood and metal), smelling like freshly steamed orc. Miche pretended not to notice.
They wore uniforms, now, cobbled together from the ship’s opened stores. That dusty hold also provided new weapons and sturdier boots, along with warm, fur-lined cloaks.
There was also the kitchen or galley, with a small mess hall in which they might sit and dine. Eat, rather. No... they could <u>survive</u>, for the food was quite basic. Just ship’s biscuit (which he liked), preserved meat (chopped, pressed, heavily salted and spelled, origin lost to deep time), powdered eggs (exactly as good as it sounded) and grog (a clumpy mixture of rum, water and fruit juice).
“I tire of this, Vrol!” Marget complained, five meals after leaving her sickbed. “I have eaten better on the march, in a foul goblin-cave! No more of this grok! I want meat!”
Miche fished through his magical pockets for leftover dragon steak and day-brew. Then, changing the subject before Cloud could butt in, he suggested,
“You might take a crossbow and line, up to the deck… maybe throw bait and hunt whatever comes after it.”
Marget stopped chewing for a moment to stare at him. Swallowed hurriedly, saying,
“That is a good notion, Vrol… but we would need proper bait. Dragons come not at a whistle, even the small ones.”
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
Right, so… it turned out that canned meat and false eggs made a very effective lure, when cast into the airship’s turbulent wake. The chum drew all sorts of winged creatures, from ravens to wind-sprites and hippogriffs. A few scrawny harpies, as well, from whom they got a brisk fight, if not any food.
<u>Finally</u> brought down a dragonet, with two good shots and Dark Cloud’s sharply deployed steering vane. The creature was fifteen feet long from snout to tail-tip, with a wingspan of twenty-eight feet and a pebbly hide. It was a great deal of trouble to butcher on deck, but it <u>did</u> vary their diet. Added another dragon pearl to Marget’s collection, as well, which wasn''t as good.
She offered him a slice of the rubbery stuff (still pink and warm from its previous owner).
“Eat this, Vrol,” she ordered. Thrust a chunk at him, speared on the point of her dagger. “We are alive, because the last pearl’s magic bolstered us. Dragon meat, dragon strength. Dragon pearl, dragon <u>magic</u>.”
Right. Superstitious nonsense, probably, but the sight of her standing there grinning, legs braced wide on the tilting deck, alive, was enough to make him comply. Once again, he ate part of a dragon pearl.
Chewy, peppery and vile about described that second helping of draconic offal. ‘Lump of repulsive gristle’ came to mind, too, but he didn’t say so aloud. Just finished the cursed thing and vowed to hunt anything else in the world but dragons, from the rest of eternity. Fortunately, their trip wasn’t that long.
They’d had to turn south after three days, seeking a path through the mountains. Those jagged grey peaks were much too high for the Dark Cloud to crest. Dangerous, too; covered in boulder-strewn snow, ringing with the shrill challenge of yetis and ice-wyrms. Vast glaciers rumbled and cracked with cannon-loud BOOMs. Roaring avalanches poured from the mountain slopes, fanged and clawed with snapped trees and great slabs of crumbling stone.
They overflew the frozen ruins of a town, at one point, which… Miche stared over the rail at, feeling complexly guilty and sad.
“I know this place,” the elf told Nameless and Firelord. “Or… I <u>did</u>.”
The marten barked in response, craning past Miche’s fur hood and streaming blond hair for a better look. The elf reached up to scratch his friend’s flat little scalp.
“Why is everything gone?” he whispered. “How did I fail everyone so badly?”
Firelord emerged, though not completely. The small god had left Marget in a hurry when her new arm sprouted forth. He was somewhat recovered but still felt safest tucked up in his follower’s heart.
“The shrine maiden said that you did not cause this,” the child reminded him, leaning halfway out of Miche’s chest like a fiery ghost. “There was battle and flight and betrayal. <u>Their</u> fault, not yours.”
Firelord had never apologized for wandering off, but he stayed very close now; healing everyone’s cuts, scrapes and bruises almost before they could form. Readily heating their day-brew and meals, too. Being useful was, “I am sorry, I was wrong,” for a god, the elf supposed. Anyhow, Miche shook his head, watching as ruined buildings and streets, the shell of a once-great manse flowed past them, below.
“There was something, some task I was meant to perform,” he explained to the marten and godling. “And I <u>tried</u>. Just… not very well. I failed in my duty or… refused a command. And now we are here, because of it.”
Nameless responded by nipping his pointed left ear. Firelord, with a burst of heat.
“The past has been stripped from me, but I could not stay in the soul of one who had faltered in courage or honor,” he objected, very seriously. “I would rather go out on the wind and be taken by that which eats unworshipped gods.”
Miche shuddered. One did not pet or cuddle a deity… but one <u>did</u> add a new verse to “The Glories of Firelord”, in a voice that triggered a dozen fresh landslides. In this way, together, they crossed over those ancient ruins, finding a pass through the mountains soon afterward. And then, four days later, they saw their first traces of Gottshan, the City that Walks.