Flashback Something in the Water (Pulren)

[Marion Kay]

43 Spring 513 AV

Twenty more days before the next passenger-friendly ship left for Sunberth. Marion was already losing her mind. Twenty more days, the sailors told her whenever she harassed them. Tomorrow would be nineteen. But today was twenty.

She'd spent the day on the docks, trying not to get knocked in the water while she wove her way through burly men with foreign accents. Every now and again she would find them lounging on railing or against unloaded crates, occasionally alone but usually in pairs or groups of three, laughing among themselves. Marion didn't know if they were dodging their work or if they had the go-ahead to laze around. She didn't particularly care either way.

It had been just past nine bells when she'd approached the first men, early morning by her standards but they'd obviously been toiling away for some time already, their skin sunburnt and reeking of fish and sweat. Throughout the day, she floated from man to man and group to group, trading their tales for carefully coquettish grins and promises that all parties surely knew she had no intention of keeping.

With her prodding curiosity they spoke of monsters, creatures hidden in the endless churning emptiness of the ocean. There were boasts from those who claimed to have encountered hordes of half-man-half-fish demons, beasts of deceptive beauty that stripped the skin from anyone they could lure into the water. Others only whispered of eldritch creatures, colossal and otherworldly, they had glimpsed far below, their shadows spanning miles. There were tales of sharks that could swallow ships whole; leviathan serpents with spines like sails; hulking, many-armed beings that could capsize fleets and crush islands in their palms. And still others, though far fewer, with wide eyes and breath faintly reeking of fear, spoke of horrible and malignant creatures with a thousand stabbing fingers, who captured men live to use as bait for their sport-killing.

Most of the stories were either embellished or plainly false, Marion figured, since the many of the men were singularly incapable of providing her with the details she sought of each creature, and those that did often disagreed or outright clashed with other given descriptions of the things. What about their anatomy? she had asked. Were their arms humanoid or fleshy and flexible? Were their tails thin and whip-like or wide like a paddle? Was their flesh smooth or scaled? There were discrepancies even in these simple facts. It seemed the more questions she asked the less eager the sea men were to answer them, instead relapsing to descriptions of more mundane beasts.

"If you're so interested in sea creatures, missy, start small," one fisherman had said after Marion prodded him about the "feathered whale" he'd claimed to encounter. He then slapped a fish into her hands with a raucous laugh and motion for her to pay him. She did so without thinking, and he sent her on her way with a hard pat on the back. It was five chimes too late before Marion fully realized what had transpired, and that she'd traded two whole gold mizas for a reeking slab of scaly flesh.

It was getting dark now. The clouds that had been hovering on the horizon for the earlier parts of the day had blown in on the easterly evening winds, smooth and grey, bringing promises of rain. They blanketed over the sun and cast a jaundice glow over the bay. Marion sat on the edge of the pier, legs swinging lazily above green water and one hand braced against the wood. The docks were largely abandoned at this point. Any ships coming in to harbor had already taken in lines, their crews shuffling off to nearby taverns to commemorate the end of another day. It was rare quiet moment. Marion might've even gone so far as to call it peaceful.

But there was a restlessness stirring in her bones. It was an itching sensation, a feeling that her body had some place it needed to be, while her mind had no clue where that was or how to get there. It threatened to tear her apart from the inside. (And she still had twenty days to go.)

She'd decided to heed the fisherman's advice. The fish she'd inadvertently bought sat in her lap, slender and silvery, while her free fingers traced along its flank, up and down, in time with the waves. She was sure the smell of it must've seeped into her skin by now. She didn't particularly care. Everything smelled like fish here. What she did care about was the shape of the thing's scales, their arrangement, the way they tapered around the tail, they way they laid against the skin. Smooth one way, rough the other. Her motion was repetitive, meditative, almost hypnotic.

The fish was a simple creature, nothing so exciting as the monstrosities she'd thought would keep her imagination occupied. But there was something alluring in that simplicity, something raw and formidable. Its was sleek and powerful, twelve inches of pure muscle, in a compact and streamlined body that Marion was sure once cut through water like a knife through butter. It was almost a shame to see it limp and rotting now, but there were, quite literally, more fish in the sea. This one just happened to fall prey to a more intelligent predator. But that didn't mean it was somehow inferior, did it? The human form was soft, fleshy, and slow. Imperfect. The only things humans really had going for them, Marion reasoned, were their capacity for improvement and the intelligence to realize that potential.

That was the real beauty of morphing, she thought, not the artistic hokey her father had gone on and on about. Applicable knowledge was the real art of it. And the pursuit of perfection. There was a singular form to be pieced together that would outweigh any nightmares of the imagination. Marion was sure of it. She would become it, limitless, everything -- she owed Ssena that much. And she would unleash that world-ending shape. It would the the paramount truth, undeniable and, unlike those monsters she'd heard so many tales of today, horrifyingly real.

(A girl had to have goals.)

But today the simple fish was enough.

Wood boards groaned under shifted weight as she laid the fish beside her feet and stood, motionless, pale eyes scanning the empty and churning horizon. She could see the edge of the world from here. What waited there?

After a few ticks, she shuffled backwards a couple paces and began working at the strings of her shirt, pulling it over her head and exposing her arms and bare midriff to the buffeting wind. The air off the bay was cool, threatening to raise bumps along her skin and only getting colder while the sun sank behind dark clouds. She spared only a moment to fold the shirt and drop it to the ground before kicking off her boots and trousers, positioning them in such a way as to minimize the chances of them being blown into the water.

If some far-off stranger saw her, half-naked in the breeze, they didn't make it known. Marion closed her eyes, a hum playing at the back of her throat, a soft string of noises that helped to aim her focus as she shifted through her consciousness. She probed with a mental hand, pulling her djed forward, a bundle of icy cords that held together the fabric of who she was. She brushed against it gently, feeling it tremble against her mind, bending in anticipation of her will.

And at her will her djed swayed and shuddered to life with a sick joy, twisting itself around Marion's gut and weaving into her veins. There it pulsated, filling every crevice of her body with its icy tendrils until it was no longer her body but the physical manifestation of potential. It was anything she had the will to become. She could see that body in her mind's eye, doughy and pink, with soft lines and and bouncing blonde hair. Next to it the form of the fish rested like living metal, all silver scales and hard muscle.

An intoxicating sense of power blossomed in her chest, and under her command the fabric of her being was altered, like a stroke of new color across a canvas. Fat shrank and hardened, compacting on top of and supplementing already existing muscle. Hair melded with flesh to create a smooth surface of skin. A prickling sensation spread across much of her body -- back, chest, shoulders, scalp, thighs, shins -- where small and curved flakes of skin peeled upward. They were delicate at first, like butterfly wings, but soon hardened into some semblance of the smooth scales by which her fingers had been so enraptured just moments ago, though these looked more like fingernails than anything else.

It was then that the sky, roiling with dark intent above, decided to fall and a single heavy drop of rain splattered against her newly formed scales and slithered down her back. Marion's eyes jarred open at the contact, and after glaring a moment at the clouds, she stooped to grasp the edge of the dock and lowered her body into the water. Waves lapped at her back, clinging to the hardened flesh there just as she clung to the wood, and she was grateful for the strength of her added muscle that kept her from being swept into the tide. Going in feet first was an uncomfortable sensation, with water pushing against the grain of the scales. Marion fought to maintain a separation between the mind and the body amid the unpleasantness of it.

The transformation wasn't complete, but to finish it she needed to be free-floating in the water, unanchored. The thought wasn't entirely appealing, considering she'd never truly swum in her life, and especially not in open waters. Her bells spent in the Sunken Conundrum as a child didn't count -- that had never really been "swimming" so much as floating and flailing around. There had been no sense of urgency or risk of danger there. But here, in this water, there were no illusions. If she tried breathing this water, she would die.

Of course, that wouldn't stop her. Marion knew what she wanted to do, and she was going to do it. Fear would not hamper her.

She let her hands slip from the wooden edge of the dock.

[Pulren Marsh]

The back of Pulren's knife scraped against the scales of the fish, a shower of silver catching Leth's eye as it began opening for the night to come. Looking into the dead golden eye of the fish, he reached down from his vantage point at the edge of the dock, cupping water in his hand and pouring over the animal, rinsing off loose scales. It was his fourth fish of six and he was focusing to get them all done as soon as possible. Pal was at his back, propped against the pier and humming some ancient mariner's tune. The longer his uncle kept himself distracted, the better. "Hard work, ain't it son?" A watery belch came after the asinine question, causing Pulren to roll his eyes while he ran the blade up into the anus of the fish and slid it up to below the gills, preparing to gut it.

"It's the same work it always is, Uncle." A bunch of shyke that he could easily be doing himself. His fingers went inside, scooping out the intestines and entrails of the fish, scooping it out and into the filling bucket of gore, wiping his forehead with his sleeve."Ye better be glad te have it. Ye know how many men would kill ye for yer job? They don't even git the bunk and the meal ye get, ye ungrateful bastard." Nodding, he was already cutting down behind the fins and filleting the fish, giving the fillets a good dip in the water for a last cold rinse before putting them in a separate bucket. "I'm very blessed, Uncle." His hands already had the second to last one laid out , the knife flipped and scaling with a quicker pace.

It wasn't if Pal was going to lose his shyke and lay into Pulren. It was when. If he could just get the last two fish done first...

"Sounds a bit like backtalk, Pul. I know it wasn't though. You wouldn't be that stupid. No wait, you're Percy's son. You are definitely that stupid." A long sigh left Pulren's lungs. While he didn't have any memory of his father named Percy, judging from Pal, the man was a halfwit behemoth who barely made it from one end of the docks to the other without getting killed had it not been for the sake of the great Palaren ..

"Marsh! Are ye listenin, boy?!" A boot pushed into Pulren's back, the only thing keeping him from being kicked straight into the Bay was the gloves he was wearing for scaling and their grip on the wood. As long as Pulren could remember, he had taken a beating every other day when Pal got too much kelp down his glugging gullet. He never could really tell why, it just seemed to be a violent streak the man had. However, Pulren was growing up. He was definitely older than almost every fisherman's mate he could think of, since those were usually sons or, in his illustrious case, bastard nephews.

"Ye hear me that time? Ye certainly got quiet. Now finish up those damned fillets and be quick about it, or ye'll get a lot worse." Maybe it was the Marsh in Pulren, but he found himself standing up and turning to face his drunken Uncle. This brought the raise of an eyebrow and a great scowl. "What are ye gonna do with that knife besides piss me off, Marsh?" Pulren looked down, unaware he was still gripping the dull scaling knife. He let it drop with a thud. A great bellow rang out from rotted teeth and kelp rotted breath. "That's the perfect answer, ye vagik." Sensing a challenge, Pal walked up on his nephew, the stench alone enough to send Pulren back down to his haunches. He also had to admit that he was afraid of his Uncle. He didn't want to admit it and would never voice it. No, not in another Valterrian would he, but he knew in his heart that he felt every scream down in his heart.

Another raucous laugh came and another kick with it. This one did not hit Pulren, though he soon wished it had. The bucket of chum and entrails was kicked on him, the wet splash of entrails and blood smacking against his shirt and the side of his face. Repulsed, he couldn't think of what to do. Get clean. Without a thought or word, he simply jumped forward, his hands reaching out to his true father: Laviku. With a splash and a kick of the legs, he felt renewed and cleaned by the cold water of the Bay, coming up to hear the rage from Palaren. He smiled, now safe from the beast. The man couldn't swim, you see, all of his fishing skill gleaned from the safety of a boat or the dock. The seawater was the only place that Pulren could go to escape his wrath.

"Don't ye dare come back tonight, ye bastard! Drink a lungful of that swill!" Uncle Pal was left to skin his own damned fish. He'd eat them too, unfortunately, but Pulren hoped he could sneak in later after his uncle passed out and grab a bite and a wink. Until then, his legs lazily kicked at the water, taking out farther into the Bay.

[Marion Kay]

She should not have let go.

Marion found herself sinking immediately rather than floating backwards as she had intended, her altered body lacking the fat to stay afloat. Water rushed over her face, and in her surprise she found herself rapidly exhaling rather than inhaling the air she needed in the final ticks she had above water. She would have panicked if her body hadn't forgotten what fear felt like. Instead she was left with only the distorted and slowly shrinking view of the edge of the dock as salt water burned its way across her eyes and the darkness of the sea pulled her down with greedy hands.

Was this how she was going to die, just a couple feet below the surface? She noted the situation with a kind of despondent objectivity. It wasn't as silent here as she would've imagined it. The water was... strangely loud, surging across her ears in a cacophony of white noise. Even so, it was a noise of nothingness, and it served her concentration just as well as any silence could. How long could a person go without breathing? A chime? Less? She'd better get to work.

Kick, dammit.

She did so, legs pumping against the water. The scales seemed to help, facilitating the upward motion while catching against the flow of the water on the downward, though it was only just enough to halt her sinking. A rage rose in her chest. This wasn't how this was supposed to happen. She squinted into the darkness around her, where schools of fish too small to be eaten milled about, darting from side to side. What gave them the right? What decided that they should survive, while she had to flail about and contemplate whether or not she'd just made a horrible mistake?

Probably the fact that fish can breathe here, chided the cynical voice within her, and fools like you can't.

That's right. She had no business trying to emulate a fish within its own domain, a domain with which she was wholly unfamiliar. But it was too late now. She was here. And fire was prickling at her cheeks, against her brain, in her eyes. Air. She needed air, before her body retook command and ordered her to inhale something she physically could not.

Throwing caution to the waves, she directed her attention inward once more with a sense of urgency she hadn't felt in some time, pulling at her djed's icy tendrils once more. She pulled, twisted, hauled, forced it to fit her desire with every ounce of will left within her body. Her feet and hands fanned out, bones growing slender as they elongated, stretching skin to span the distances between her toes and fingers. The transformation came sloppily and all too quickly to escape adverse effects, but Marion simply didn't care. She would gladly parade around with skin-fins for hands if it meant she could breathe once again.

She kicked, limbs tugging at the water, forcing it to bend to her will as if it were her djed. It wasn't quite so easy, though -- her djed never pushed back, never fought to rip control from her clutches. She was wrestling with the wants of the sea, perhaps the one being whose spirit was more wily and turbulent than her own. And when her skin broke the surface and the cool breeze filled lungs prepared to collapse in on themselves, Marion had won.

But the relief was brief, the joyous explosion in her chest quickly recoiling into something more painful that had her grasping for the support of the dock's edge. She floundered over to it, having drifted, and flung her hands onto it, relying on whatever strength she found in her wrists and shoulders to haul herself up. Her fingers, in their current state, were too dainty and delicate to put all her weight onto, and it was with some distant kind of pride that she found the restraint to keep that fact in mind.

Muscles burning from both the strain and the lack of oxygen in her system, Marion floundered onto the dock once more, feeling just as much like a dying fish as she looked. Her underwear clung to her skin in a way that was wholly uncomfortable, but she hadn't the energy to move again just yet, instead laying with her chest and stomach pressed against the wet wood. Her breath seared, her throat rubbed raw with every inhale. Both the wave of nausea and the ringing in her ears tried to trick her into believing she was slowly tilting downward, face first into oblivion.

Staring sideways at the waves (through reddened eyes) certainly didn't help, but it was better than closing her eyes and feeling the dock rock back and forth in darkness. As she stared across the stretch of sea that nearly claimed her, she released the vice grip she held on her djed, allowing it to ease back into its normal flow. Locks of hair that had melded with her flesh now peeled away, though still clung to her in wet strands. Flakes of scaled skin softened and smoothed. Fat sifted itself from muscle. But her hands and feet remained unchanged, and she could feel the alteration in her djed like a dammed stream or a burst blood vessel. It was erratic. Uncontrolled. It both worried and angered her.

But what was more enraging was the figure of a man cutting through the water as effortlessly as the fish she could never be. She could only just see him from where she lay, his pale form hiding behind lazy swells as the tide rolled on, but he was there. Teasing. Taunting. Tormenting. How dare he? The fish could have their waters, and gladly. But this was only a man. She was something greater. He was less than she, she who had tried so hard to unlock a realm that was closed to her. And yet he traipsed through that realm as if he was everything that she would never be. Marion wouldn't stand for it.

You are an idiot, declared the voice of reason as she propped herself up on a forearm. She lifted a hand to wipe the grime of the dock from her cheek, nearly prodding her eye with an elongated finger as she did so. You're an idiot and you're going to get yourself killed.

Maybe so.

But maybe it would be worth it. "For Ssena's sake," she grunted as she hauled herself into a crouching position, less of a curse and more of a quick prayer as she prepared to enter the water once more. Her calves protested the motion sorely, but so long as her hands and feet retained their irregular shape, she was prepared to use them as they were made to be used.

She hesitated, toes hanging over the edge as she realized lowering herself would be more difficult and awkward than it had the first time. Without proper hands to grip, she couldn't simply lower herself. She would need to... jump? No, more like fall. She spun in place, wood groaning beneath shifting weight and extended toes tracing along the boards in ways that felt almost sickeningly unnatural. This was not her body. This was the body of some creature, and while her darkest corners reveled in it, the loudest parts of Marion couldn't help feeling the twinge of worry deep in her gut that perhaps this time the effects would not fade. Perhaps this time her djed would not heal. Perhaps this time she had gone too far.

It was a stupid plan. A stupid, stupid plan, but Marion was both too stubborn and too foolhardy to admit failure so soon, so easily. Death was no obstacle when she had Fear on her side. Right?

She leaned backwards, making sure to take a deep breath this time before the air whizzed against her still-wet skin and her crouched body found its way into the water once more. Locks of hair slapped against her face before being carried weightlessly away, and her eyes slammed shut of their own accord, not so eager to relive the sting of salt. She had tensed her muscles in anticipation of another struggle, springing from her coiled position with one downward kick. The skin stretching between her outstretched toes caught on the water like a kite on wind, propelling her upward with a force that was unexpected and unnecessary. She floated well enough now, to her surprise, and she noted with a kind of abstract observation that she seemed to be more buoyant now, when lacking scales and compact muscle. She might have spent time wondering and trying to figure out just which part of her prior transformation had hindered her before, if the swimming man hadn't been moving steadily away with every tick.

Having broken the surface, Marion relished in another long breath, her limbs maintaining motions that she imagined far more resembled a squid than any fish or human. She propelled herself forward in the same manner, with all the finesse of a toddler learning to run. Her strokes came unevenly, battered amidst the waves as the sky only continued to darken above. Would she be able to find her way back to the city, so far out into the blackening bay? She didn't let herself wonder.

Instead, she let herself dip under the surface for a moment, stilling her movement for the sake of concentration as her eyes slipped closed. She reached for her djed for what she hoped would be the final time today. She needed to rest, to allow it to slip back into its normal flow. But this was necessary (And stupid, she added once more for good measure). Directing the flow of color to the forefront, she ushered it along the path of her will, visualizing the clean and clear stream that represented her skin being tainted by oil, slick and black. And under her will, her body followed suit. Blackness bloomed across the surface of her body, like ink in water, until it had spread across skin and hair alike and turned her to a living shadow within the water.

She revisited the overflowed djed as well, prodding it to ensure it would not right itself, not yet. She continued to have use for what it had to offer her, despite the gnawing trepidation that she had pushed it too far.

Having done this, she open her eyes only a tick before flailing back to the surface, just long enough to make sure she was indeed going in the same direction as the mysterious swimmer. She caught a glimpse of legs kicking in a manner far more efficient than her own floundering. For a moment she considered copying the motion, but thought better of it. The less human she seemed to be, the better. She needed to be a monster here, seeking her bitter retribution in the name of jealousy and perceived slights.

It was with this inhuman kicking and writhing that Marion finally caught up to the man, her sides and shoulders burning in exertion but spurred on by the cold fire of frustration in her gut. She took a single gulp of air for the last stretch, sliding under the surface with an undulation motion, doing her best to retain some element of surprise despite the noise her inelegant technique had likely already raised. And with one final push forward, driven by a maddened and muffled growl that ripped itself from her throat of its own accord, she grasped for the man's legs.

[Pulren Marsh]

Laviku welcomed His son as always, the waters embracing his body as it slid through its volume as easily as a human could. Pulren was well accustomed to swimming, it being an integral part of being a fisherman's helper. More specifically, when the fisherman one was helping tended to drunkenly drop most of his shyke in the water often and send his little pal into the water after it. It was these times, however, when he was alone and swimming, that he felt the most at peace.

Sure, the sea had rages and emotions of all sorts. Sometimes it would lap easily at your ankles or the tide might roll over you in a playful wrestle. Other times, in certain places nearer to shore, it would love you so much that it would reach from underneath and try to roll you into its depths, keeping you in a jealous fit. Strong and capable bodies paired with knowledgeable minds were the only real defense against an early slumber. The absence of Syna or even Leth's face on a cloudy night, such as the one Pulren found himself in, made it even more difficult.

Nevertheless, the distant grumblings of Old Bastard Pal and his drunkenness brought the younger Marsh to his center, his body finding a natural rhythm with the waves. Once a confident swimmer found that rhythm between his body and that of the sea, it was almost a natural pairing, the water sliding over flesh so easily. The lights of distant ships were all that he had left, however, and they were dwindling. An inky darkness which made water and not water twins turned the calm situation into one of pointed focus. Focus made clearer when he heard a kind of splash nearby.

Stopping, Pulren treaded water slowly, his body upright and his head bobbing just above the water as he listened closely and scanned the water as he could see it. The depths were perfectly hidden as well as anything that could very well be swimming around him. A wordless prayer went to Laviku for protection. Laviku generally demanded sacrifice, however, to guarantee His vigilance. Pulren had nothing but his intention and the strengthening pulse of his heart in his chest, made even louder by the internal amplification the sea seemed to cause all around him.

A few chimes and his body was warming with the effort of his constant buoyancy. He felt confidence that it was just a fish. Just a fish. Turning himself back into a line parallel to the surface, his legs began to kick again, though the body began to sense purpose, a general bend of his arc toward the relative safety of the harbor. If something was following him, the chance to pull himself up and out of the water might become a necessity. He kicked a little harder.

A greater and more pronounced splash came from the direction of the docks and a creeping tingle of fear crept up inside of him, the darkness and the great depths below taunting him. Would this be his punishment for not sacrificing to Father Laviku? Surely with all of the fish he had thrown back as was custom, surely that would be enough, right? He righted himself again, his heart beating a little harder in his chest. His ears pointed toward the new sound. It was a rhythmic splashing. It was uneven and jagged in its efforts and it was definitely getting louder. Whatever Laviku had sent to the young man as a messenger was closing on him.

Terror began to slide up his throat like burning bile, his body pushing out and his legs kicking hard to escape the wordless, floundering shape. Daring to look back, he could see what appeared to be a living shadow, its spiny tendrils reaching out toward him from below. "Great Laviku! What is it?!" His voice reached up into octaves he hadn't heard since he was a much smaller lad, the many tales of the fishermen and sailors ringing in his ears of these very unseen horrors in the deep. Instinct told him to kick harder, to kick harder than he had ever kicked in his life. Perhaps this night would be a test by the Sea Father to see if Pulren was worthy of swimming in his domain. he did so, pointing his body toward the docks, every part of himself reaching out to escpae and seek dry land.

[Marion Kay]

oocSorry for having you wait so long! And sorry for ensuing rambley-ness.

The water around her swirled with the heady scent of terror. Scent? No, that wasn't quite right. Her body saturated itself in it like the salt of the sea, absorbing it into her system until she could practically taste it upon her own lips. It slid from the man like oil, washed into the tide and into her, whose body strained to paddle along in the wake of his own. He had grown aware of her presence, or at least aware of the fact that he was very much not alone in the supposed solitude of the bay.

For a moment she allowed herself to wonder at the man's intentions. She could afford it, after all, with her mind clear of the all-consuming sense of self-preservation. Her thoughts, normally so haphazard in their wanderings, focused clearly on this moment, the beating of the ocean against her, and the rhythm of the man's motion before her, which steadily grew more erratic as the punctuated throb of fear seized his limbs. She was the terror. She was the monster. And it was with a languid satisfaction that she was allowed to ponder these circumstances when her quarry was preoccupied with the business of fleeing.

Who was he? What kind of life did he lead, to move so at one with the cadence of the sea? Even for his panic, his motion was practiced. Controlled, even. Some part of Marion felt that this should offend her, that he did not simply collapse into a heap of dismay at her approach, that his determination wore on across the waves. But the larger part of her, the part that was suspended in abstract and predatory notions, watched on with a begrudging sense of appreciation.

Then his determination turned to defiance, and wrath slid its fingers around her throat once more. Her spiny hands, grasping for his ankles, came up empty and Marion realized coldly that he was not only fleeing but fleeing successfully. Such was the disadvantage of being the monster, lacking the edge that adrenaline provided. The bittersweet rush of another's fear across her flesh was, at best, a second-hand thrill. Yes, it was her addiction. Yes, it fueled her. But what was it compared to the real thing, the pounding of flush of inspiration that flooded others' veins in their time of need?

A sudden wave swelled in on the evening tide, dragging Marion down into blackness for what should have only been a tick; but her body was spent, muscles run raw in their exertion and breath, when she had last broken the surface, coming in ragged and furious takes. And as the water pulled her under as some great guardian of its loyal denizens, Marion found herself twisting and tossing like clay in its hands until all sense of direction was meaningless and she was left staring into weightless darkness and wondering if the depths before her belonged to the sea or the sky.

The answer came in the outline of the man streaming across the corner of her vision, still kicking steadily and strongly as if he were simply gliding atop the water. As if this were his domain. From her position she couldn't tell if he was getting away or if the current was pulling her away, but in either case the distance between them grew and left a cold pit to fester in her throat. It was for the best, she knew, having him escape. She wouldn't know what to do if she had caught him. Dragged him to the depths? She would be dooming herself alongside him. Not to mention the fact that having another being's blood on her hands. She told herself that there was no finesse to hurting and breaking, that the art of it struck deeper than flesh or life. People couldn't be afraid when they were dead.

But the simple truth of it was that she was no killer, no matter how much rage seized her bones. It wasn't in her nature.

Besides, she'd won anyway. She'd made this man afraid in his own home, and the knowledge of that accomplishment was enough to leave her with a high for the rest of the night. Or it would be, if she could get herself out of the water -- the thrill did nothing to keep the blood from pounding in her ears or her chest from screaming silently in its strain.

Motion sluggishly returned to her limbs as the tide passed overhead. Water caught on her webbed fingers once again, yet this time as she clamored towards the surface and freedom, the icy focus that had seized her now spread from her heart to places it surely did not belong. Numbness pricked at her skin and stiffened her joints, and when her lungs nearly gave in to their involuntary desperation for air please air, Marion released the vice-grip she had on her knot of djed, letting it slip from her grasp so that whatever focus she was consigning towards the magic could be rerouted to the more pressing matter of simply getting back to the world above.

The next handful of ticks seemed infinite, and it was likely due more to but she felt the breeze on her face anew. Her skin stood stark in comparison to the swirling darkness, her essence having resumed its natural flow as far as it was able. Of course, her extremities -- and their corresponding djed -- remained as they had been altered, almost as if the sea were playing some cruel joke in the face of her desperate envy. You wish to be a fish? it seemed to tease. How's this? It could have been worse, of course, and perhaps Marion would have found amusement in it if she didn't feel another swell rising beneath her legs, a warmth flowing inland that somehow managed to bob her upward and threaten to yank her down once again in the same rolling motion.

If you don't get back now, you're never going to. The thought was born of a sluggish objectivity, but the truth of it stung. Another surge of water left her slapping at the surface in protest. And that man was retreating across the water, the sharp noise of his kicking fading until she couldn't tell it from the waves. He was the only person that knew she was out here, that wretched and blessed man, and he was the last person who would come to her aid now. An yet he was the only one who possibly could.

Truly stupid.

Marion floundered forward, directing all of her rapidly-declining energy to keeping her head above water. "Wait," she sputtered, too softly, too calm for all the hammering in her chest. Her gaze rolled to the sky for a moment, the threat of starlight there providing enough incentive for one mighty and muscle-wrenching kick. Spiny fingers grasped at the air as her shoulders lifted from the water. "Wait!" she tried again, using the leverage and the tension in her gut to project her voice. The sharp exhale sent her slipping back downwards, salt water rushing up her nose, and it was only by the clarity of Ssena's blessing that she didn't inhale in shock. Another thrash with misshapen hands. Another gasp.

"I need help!"

[Pulren Marsh]

At first, all Pulren could see were the fleeting images he had caught before the thing reached out for him. Those were the only images flashing through his mind besides the occasional glance toward the harbor and safety. Fear slid over his back like a cloak, chilling him deeper than the water could. His motion and movement through the bay was already taking care of environmental chill anyway. His body, in fact, burned with the primal desire to escape the creature that had reached out to him.

Was it reaching out? He slowed a bit, his mind beginning to think once the initial rush of terror wore off and he began to believe he had escaped. As the water enveloped him, he remembered what had happened in the first place and how he had come to even be in the predicament in which he had found himself. He had initially run from his Uncle because of fear, the creature only increasing this feeling. He had also retreated to the water because he felt safe in the embrace of Laviku. What was different now? His legs began kicking less and he slowed to a slower reach and pull rather than a full on swim. His breathing began to slow though his heart didn't stop kicking o hard, being the primary sound he could hear.

His vision scanned the surface for the creature. There was no sin of it. Had it retreated or maybe he had just escaped it after all. He looked back toward the ships in the harbor. They weren't that far away now after such a burst of speed. As if in response to his thoughts, there was an eruption from the water, a sound like a kind of gasp escaping from the oily mass inside. Was it a creature in pain? Had he misread the entire situation? He could never let someone drown. Maybe it was even a creature trapped in a net. He had seen such a terrible death before and it hurt his young heart.

When it begged for help, Pulren had chosen his fate. He hoped for the best that it was a true call for aid and not a trick, but even if it was, his silent prayer to Laviku would have to suffice. He reached out for the clawed and scaled limb that he could recognize as an arm. He knew he could very well die in this very moment, but if there was any chance that he could save a life in the presence of Laviku, it was his duty to do so!

[Okara]

Grades and Awards   Marion Kay Not graded due to inactivity and needing Winter 515 living expenses subtracted from your ledger since you did register in that season.   Pulren Marsh Experience Butchering 1 Swimming 2 Lores Butchering: How to Gut and Fillet a Fish Letting Insults Go Unanswered Scary Splashes in the Ocean on a Moonless Night Notes Don’t forget to update your ledger for Summer 516 living expenses. It’s unfortunate that this thread didn’t get finished, it had such a promising start. I really enjoyed your writing in this thread, I loved the complex interaction between Pulren and his Uncle and your use of body language to portray Pulren’s emotional reaction. The abusive dynamic between them felt very real and visceral, well done. I hope Pulren gets or has gotten the opportunity for revenge. Please edit your post in your grade request to reflect that it has been graded. PM me with any questions.