[Act 2 - The Crossing] Storms Afloat

[Gossamer]

Ask the living. Live was never easy. Some would claim dying was far harder, but Minkala's death was far kinder than she deserved and so one could argue death was simple, like the expulsion of air and a quiet acceptance of fate. Sharn too slipped under, his bulk falling heavily to the hold floor. What captured his form had no cure and would take him sooner or later. Ulric's axe had made death easy too. Death had consumed the hold and was wrestling one victum at a time from life's fold. But no more. He'd seen to it that the battle was over and the results were decided. As the ship sailed onward, bodies littered the water spanning all ages and walks of life and all forms of the once living. Was it an irony, then, that sharks would feast and life would continue on? Leo stood at the rail now, breathing deeply of the air all around him, and there was no comfort to be had within the truths he'd just discovered. His burden was no gift and his power no bonus - not really. He could use it for justice, as he longed too, but the slope was a steep and oddly tilting thing for justice was always held close in the hearts of those that carried it out differing from one individual to another. He could see the bodies of the animals being flung out of the hold and then suddenly how they stopped. He could feel the unrest, the deception, and that it was not done. Emotions ran high below. Death and danger infused the deep air he breathed. In the captains cabin, Glav asked all to leave. They complied and the Alvina shed his tears alone, in private, over a corpse that held no meaning for him other than a symbol of why he had to succeed. There was no peace tonight aboard the ship. There would never be peace in the world again unless he prevailed. Resolve filled him, deepening with every tear he shed. Like a thousand times before he started to pray to his father and halted knowing no Ukalian ear would bend his way. Sylir's power was gone, all tied up in places he'd never expected to have to visit. And yet, here he was going. And he felt acutely how this journey, step by step, was rending the lives of the people who followed him completely apart. Sharn would die. Dira's eyes held that promise as she collected Minkala's soul. He would see her often on this trip, though he had not yet gotten up the courage to ask her if his life - his soul - was on her list for collection as well. She'd know, certainly, if what he intended had any hope of success. It had to. It simply had too. Life had no meaning if all this was for naught. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Below decks, things weren't finished. Not by a long shot. The Syliran Knight screamed silently in her mind as the Goddess of Murder mercilessly rode her soul. Tranquil eyes surveyed the group. No one acknowledged her words, no one save Ulric. She'd make a pet of him yet. Marks from Krysus were rare, for she bored easily and had the attention span of a flea. She hungered for murder and when there was none, she turned her eyes elsewhere. Ulric proved to be no threat though. His ax clattered across the floor and his eyes rolled into his head as he fell forard after surging to his knees. Pity. The woman hated weakness. Ulric, ultimately, was weak. He proved it time and time again, even if his scent and his blood and his rage and fear were some of the most delicious she'd ever tasted. She had no idea why. Torc fashioned a rune of peace from pigsblood. Krysus had no idea why he did it nor ho he thought his will was going to enforce peace upon the group of them. It could not. Peace was dead, long gone from the world and his mark of love had no power over her longing for bloodshed. She could no be fought with blood shed by murder anyhow. The pig, who was not ill, had died by Ulrics blood lust, not his compassion and caring. Cheva picked fools. She always had. And it kept her weak, in the Goddess' eyes. Weak and stupid. Krysus laughed through the Syliran Knight's lips. She looked at Ulric again. Later. There'd be time for Ulric later. She stepped forward, carefully on strong but delicate legs and bent down and picked up the Jamoura, unafraid of Torcs presence before her. No girl the size of the knight should have been able too, but somehow she did. Cradling him in her arms, she began to sing a Syliran Lullaby. She changed the words as she went though, twisting them. Close your eyes, dream away, let the peace fill your soul. Nestle deep, warm and safe, in the leaves of the Wind Oak. Don't you fear, save your tears, I will be playing Dira's toll. And with that she carried Sharn to the hold doors that Ulric had left thrown open to pitch the carcasses outside. And with a soft kiss to the brow, she tossed the Jamoura over the edge. A soft laugh left her lips as she gave the ancient gentle soul back into the arms of the Suvan Sea.

[Leo Varniak]

Air hissed through Leo's teeth as he pressed his hands against the head, so tight it hurt. A mix of confusion, anger, fear and frustration coursed through every nerve, leaving him hurt in a way no physical wound could have. Leo Zaital was accustomed to being in the right, to pointing accusing fingers at guilty parties. He was, in his own way, incredibly dependable; he set goals for himself that he invariably met and exceeded. His word was his law. And if he judged others harshly and with little leeway or sympathy, he held himself to even higher standards. Even today, he had done nothing less than the right thing, saving everyone on the ship from certain death. Where others had indulged broad speculations, he had acted swiftly, methodically, finding the culprit in a matter of chimes. Solid. Decisive. Implacable. He had been all the things that he was proud to be. He had pointed a finger at the right person, making sure she could harm no-one else again… but he was starting to hate being right all the time. It felt strangely similar to being wrong all the time, to the point the line between the two got quite blurry. Ivak was showing him truths Leo may not be prepared to know yet. He lost himself for a moment in the senseless flight of a dead pig out of the cargo hold. What a disgusting slaughter. Justice drew the line between an executioner and a simple butcher. There was no justice in this massacre. It occurred to him that nobody must have informed Torc, Sharn and Ulric about the healer's secret identity. He had to go down and tell them now, just in case violence erupted there that had no reason to be now. The battle was won, Leo had carried its burden and Glav was shedding its tears. Yet his Azenth sensitivity - this gift and curse - was not at rest. As he descended below deck he could sense that something was very wrong. But what? Leo had confronted the enemy, could there be another one? Not another Shroud to be sure; it would be foolish of them to send two agents, doubling their chances of getting caught without a real benefit to their cause. As he stepped into the cargo area, he was paralyzed by what he saw. The Syliran Knight who had embarked with them was embracing Sharn's fallen figure like in a danse macabre from myth. Ulric was on his knees, apparently out of his mind, and as for Torc, he was… painting a rune in animal blood? Had this been any other place and time, Leo would have suspected a drug party in the making. Sadly, it probably meant more interference from the pantheon. The woman sung a familiar lullaby, but twisted its words, and finally threw Sharn's body overboard. The Jamoura had been a decent person and would be missed. Leo was frowning so deeply his face was almost deformed by the intensity of the expression. "The Shroud is no more," he said in a cold, but slightly trembling voice, "the ship is secured and you appear to be the last stowaway we have to suffer. I do not know who you are, why you came or on whose side you play, but party's over. This ship is under our control, and you. Are. Not. Welcome. Here." Leo couldn't quite remember a longer day than this.

[Torc Ironwood]

Torc felt absolute horror in his heart. He had gambled with his friends life and had lost. Sylir had died, but the realm of peace existed in every man and woman’s heart. Yet all he had done was stood there gasping at the Krysus as she picked up his friend. It was like a delayed reaction, he kept pressing his hand to the rune of peace hoping for a flash of power. “Sylir please…” it was all that Torc could think of to say. How was he suppose to stop the Goddess of Murder? How was he suppose to save his friend from a divine being? Torc watch Krysus leave the door and he lost all hope for his friend. With blurry eyes he looked to the blood stained floor and felt sick. Hunching over he began to vomit from the violence, as he did so he remembered Sylir, the god had fought and died to prevent as much bloodshed. Torc could at least do the same. Torc wiped the foul taste from his mouth with the back of his hand and took a shaky step forward. Sylir was dead but he had saved lives, as Torc began to climb the stairs to face Krysus he thought of Cheva. The goddess had given him a task, a task to forge a part of himself, and if he died Glav would fail. Yet if he did nothing Krysus would kill more people and possibly the entire ship and he would die anyway. Torc gripped the pouch that contained the mythical metal. “Cheva, I don’t want to fail you, but I have to risk myself. Know… know that I love you.” Torc waited for his opportunity. He heard the sickening splash of his friend and he charged. Torc had no plan beyond stopping Krysus, and not killing the knight. So the mental picture of Torc threading his arms under the knights and interlacing his fingers behind her neck came to mind. It was an old wrestling move that the kids of the Temple use to do. It locked your opponents arms into place and no matter how strong they were they didn’t have the leverage to break the lacing. Somehow Torc knew it was his only hope of stopping the Goddess from running amok, and though it was insane, wrestling with the divine, there was nothing left to do but try the insane.

[Ulric]

The dreamer clutched the timbers of his frail raft, charred skin sloughing from trembling fingers as he gazed over the wine-dark sea. It was always day in this dream-world, in stark contrast with the harbingers of his mortality. In slumber he was ever wakeful. He had to be, for the demons of this realm were canny. Contradiction sprang from their lustrous hides, Insinuation from their engorged breasts, and Regret from ochre-daubed lips. Together, they formed the seductive poison of his mind, like the five, yellow-green suns that blurred the horizon and evaporated the cloying seawater. Time did not exist. Nothing existed, yet all was real. The dreamer had awoken, and he lived the dream. Insights are the bounty of a broken mind, to be sown, reaped, and consecrated in the sort of turgid madness that, for the sum of a paltry moment, transcends the very pretensions of divinity. Then the fabric unravels. Disappointment. Insights do not exist. “Tell me, is there a purpose to this charade?” spoke the dreamer. “Your query lacks relevance,” spoke the shadow. “So does existence.” Futile words, drowning in empty revelation. It is possible that more truth seethes in a pool of maggots than among a pedant’s long, sonorous sighs. “Silence looms,” spoke the dreamer. “A declarative statement,” spoke the shadow. “-with meaning, yet it-” “-is irrelevant.” Are snow-laden peaks any different from the seas? Not in the eyes of a believer, for whom intransigence is as necessary as a mothers’ embrace, or the roughness of a father’s kiss upon his cheek. And yet, when souls scatter upon the wind, what remains? Like dreams, our lives are transient and consumed by a search for meaning. “Irrelevant,” spoke the dreamer. The dreamer’s eyes snapped open. “Kry-sus,” he rasped, his voice shaking with terror, with the revelation that in his desperate resistance, he had sacrificed all that he’d sought to protect. “Kry-susssss.” He began to drag himself across the deck, blunt fingers scratching at the sodden planks, breathing deeply of the fetid air. Splinters lodged in the ridge of his cheek. I am the dreamer. I defy this reality. Irrelevant, spoke the shadow. Not possible, he snarled, even as his eyes widened and his bloody lips curled with an impotent fury. I won’t let you beguile me with your treachery. I am no longer a cog in this machine, allowing myself to be lulled into complicity with its fateful rumbings. If the machine exists, it is because I wish it to exist. I am ascendant. No, you only pretend. Pretend? For a moment, the dreamer’s features were frozen by panic, by confusion, and then it began to shatter. Do you not understand? spoke the shadow. Everything that exists in your dream-world is a simulacrum, the distorted reflections of a reality that you cannot defy. If reality ends, so too does the dream. I would have the dream last forever. At last, comprehension. As the embers of the dream-world slipped away, the shadow smiled, and the dreamer awoke. Ulric lurched to his feet, wiping away the blood that had crusted above his eyes. He felt a strange disconnect, as if his body wasn’t his own. Its responses were sluggish, forcing him to clutch at the wall to regain his balance. He could scarcely hear over the rumbling in his ears. His troubles had vanished, leaving him with a pervading sense of calm. It was time. Ulric managed a sad smile when he caught sight of Torc, who appeared stricken by the futility of their struggles. It’s going to be all right, he wanted to say to the man, but then he noticed the way the smith’s torso bunched, how the powerful legs coiled beneath him. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Ulric flung himself at Torc, instincts taking over, and caught the man’s arm before he could grapple with Krysus. It wasn’t an easy task. Ulric was strong, but Torc wasn’t a man who could simply be halted in his tracks. “Forgive me,” Ulric said as he drove an elbow into the side of Torc’s head, shoving him aside. “This is not your fight.” Ulric approached Krysus, studying the latest form she had seized. It felt wrong, especially the silver maul of her hair. “Red is a better color for you, I think,” he spoke idly, venturing a quick glance at Leo. For the love of Sylir, don't you dare set this entire ship ablaze. He was no longer the boy who’d cowered in the cellar, still possessing a shred of humanity. In that moment, he knew that until now, his entire life had been naught but a façade, a gritty, desperate attempt to resurrect what he’d lost. If humanity had been clinging by a thread before, then now he severed it, at last content to accept the lies of his existence. That night in the cellar had destroyed him, had torn out his insides and made of him an empty husk. He’d filled that void with fury, with the insatiable desire to wreak even greater suffering on the people who tried to hurt him, and while he recalled what humanity was, he knew that he was closer to Krysus than he could ever be to Torc, or - No, that wasn't it at all. Another presence intruded. It was familiar, yet alien at the same time. A whisper echoed in his head, triumphant. Ulric suddenly realized that he had not destroyed the rapture. He'd been forced to embrace its power to save his comrades, and now it was part of him, a spreading cancer that threatened to destroy him entirely. Deeply shaken, he spoke again to Krysus, his words lacking their previous decisiveness. “Do not mistake me for one of your playthings. I carry the chains behind me, forging one link at a time, and I will not submit to your caprice. I will never serve you.” Ulric drew nearer, so their flesh was almost touching. “You are a leech, the spawn of betrayal and murder. You keep grasping for more, but what do you really have? You do not know pain. You do not know pleasure. You would not exist but for what you have stolen." He chuckled softly, his strength growing with every word that flowed from his lips. "You think me weak, yet come to me in the guise of another? You are not worthy of divinity. Leave, or else you will incur the wrath of the true gods."

[Gossamer]

The Goddess of Murder laughed through the Syliran' knights lips. "And what are you going to do, little firestarter? Burn the ship down? Ingenious. I love it. Please, don't let me stop you. I'd love for nothing more than to see you motley crew burn. And even though I don't understand it - how and why you are all here - I don't care so much either. He's delicious and weak." She gestured at Ulric. "You're afire from within but have no master to pray too because he got himself all locked up after going mad over a _human_. You know all Ivak's followers are incredibly unstable, right? Crazy, Leo, just like you are. And that half-blooded bastard marked by Love of all things... " She burst out laughing at this, and gestured to the blood soaked wood and the sigil of Sylir. "... thinks peace is going to save him if he takes a break to fingerpaint. Weak.. so incredibly useless. I have no idea why Ulric is following you three. It makes no sense at all." She said, shaking her head, laughing, looking for all the world with the same expression as a child would have who'd just pulled the wings off a fly and then released it back into the world to see what it would do. Cruel. Insensitive. Curious. They were three lethal combinations. Torc attacked, but her loyal little minion to-be defended. Krysus almost marked him then and there, for she was fickle and impressed about things like that. Macho got everywhere with her when it came to what she perceived as defense. It so surprised her, especially coming from Ulric, that she paused open-mouthed to watch the show. But when he approached, and uttered the words, they were not what she expected to hear. She expected acceptance, undulation, devotion. Not insolence. Like a teen spurned when a boy asked another girl to take a midnight walk with him, Krysus balled up her fist and almost loosened it on him in her fury. His insolence offended her - his words were a barrage. And his will was a powerful thing that rose up and embraced Ulric's venom. Power rose in him, all but unleashed, held in check by a thread-bare line of some long ago forged arcana. It was so potent, so alien, that Ulric almost vomited djed as a hum filled his ears and his soul raged against a cage around it he never expected to exist. Krysus took a step back. It wasn't that Ulric did anything to her, per say. It was as if what she saw in him so shocked and confused her she couldn't process it. The body that was she inhabited went limp, crumpled, and fell unconscious and seemingly empty on the deck. Footsteps echoed and a door was thrown open as Glav pounded into the cargo area, his eyes wide. He glanced around wildly, but there was nothing too see. As quickly as whatever it was that had rose in Ulric had raged, it retreated, unneeded. Even Leo, who was standing just beyond Ulric, witnessing the whole thing, wasn't exactly certain what happened. He could taste power, divine power, and it seemed to emanate from Ulric just for a moment before it was gone. Krysus too... was gone, even as the form crumpled on the floor stirred and began to moan. "What in the world just happened?" Glav said... looking at each of them. The Jamoura's body was long gone overboard, out one of the port deck doors that on another ship would hold canons. ------------------------------------------------- The red-haired beauty with a sneer on her face marched into a black marble room. It resembled a throne room or a converted great hall. A man perched on an elaborate chair on a far dais regarded her with amusement. "To what do I owe this pleasure, my dear?" He asked, his voice as rich as his handsome face was. "We need to talk. Now." She said, furious.

[Leo Varniak]

It had been a terrible day, and it sure had taken its toll on Leo like none before. Not even in the dungeons of the Black Hand or during the raid on the shrine of Rhysol had he felt his mettle put to the test in such a way. It was one thing to face danger to oneself and possibly a few companions, but protecting another against invisible enemies that had neither name nor face, enemies that came and went as they pleased, that was infinitely more unsettling. He could feel his teeth grating as his jaws clenched firmly, though not at anything the stranger said; in fact, those threats were so shallow, so trite and stereotypical he could scarcely believe a god had just uttered them. All the ones he'd ever met had been cool and collected - terrible in their purpose, maybe, but at least capable of intelligent conversation; this one, on the other end, struck Leo as incredibly... the word escaped him in the heat of the moment. No self-respecting Azenth would be caught falling for such pathetic taunts, anyways, and he certainly wasn't going to burn down the ship he'd just gone to incredible lengths to save. That he saw the possibility in Ulric's gaze was almost comical. Who had they taken him for? He wasn't the one with the battle axe or even the one who got up to wrestle with the intruder. It was sad how Ivak's mistake had forever tainted the perception of him and his followers. Before going insane, Ivak had been the one keeping everyone else from going insane. And right here and now, Leo was fairly certain he'd behaved more sanely than either of Glav's protectors on this ship. "I am what I am," he simply replied, "you're not even that, puppet-wearer." But then something cut him short as Ulric stopped Torc, and for an instant Leo feared he would have to fight the warrior, that he must have fallen prey to some charming spell. The prospect more than worried him, for Leo's only blazing weapon would be the death of them all, and he would use it if he had to. For Leo to go down without a fight was unthinkable. Thankfully, Ulric's words turned out to be defiant, not servile. Relief washed over Leo upon hearing them. Maybe they could force the entity out of here by disabling the host body. After all, even the most dangerous man tended to become harmless with his limbs chopped off. Before he could make the suggestion, however, Ulric seemed to burst at the seams with inexplicable power, similar and yet different to that of the goddess. Leo retreated a little, as if bracing for an explosion which never came. The smells of god and man mingled in the barbarian's form. He stared, perplexed. The enemy seemed more taken aback than he was. In fact, the body she had been wearing just dropped down and took on the more familiar qualities of corpses. Leo instantly knew this was no trick or diversion. For the first time in his life he'd seen a god run. The knowledge didn't make him feel as safe as he might have thought. By the time Glav barged in, it was all over, and Leo felt grateful for that, for he thought that the demigod should get as little exposition to these hostile gods as possible, until he was ready to face them. He looked around the room and understood all the magic and the divine had left the ship. "I think we have enough freaks of nature on our side to start a three-ring circus," Leo said, "but to answer your question, we stood against another enemy. Except I get the feeling this one wasn't really here for you, unlike the Shroud. She was so... juvenile." He felt unreasonable relief at finding the word he'd been looking for. "Sharn has passed on to the other side. Those of you who can still pray, please remember that worthy." It was a touch of humanity perhaps unexpected of Leo Zaital, but Sharn had stood against evil with nothing more than his quill and wisdom in his hand. He had earned Leo's respect. And he had grown to respect his other companions, as well, even though they may prove dangerous to his goal in the long run. He realized they'd come this close to breaking on this day. They had nearly fallen apart. Nearly, but not quite - and in the end, those who would break them had been broken themselves, men and gods alike. Every efforts had been met with equal and opposite force, leaving their enemies hurt and bleeding. This was downright frightening.

[Torc Ironwood]

Torc was coiled ready to strike, mentally he had prepared himself to wrestle the possessed girl to the wooden deck making sure to keep her feet and hands away from anything that could hurt another. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the blow to the back of his head. Sparks dazzled Torc’s eyes as his began to fall to the decking. The hard wooden boards bounce Torc’s head again, and lights once again flickered across Torc vision. He felt sick as he placed one hand upon his crown and the other on the flooring to slowly rise. Mentally, Torc needed a few moments to reorient himself after the blow. He began to hear shouting… Ulric was shouting at someone… Ulric was shouting at the possess body of Krysus. Just as Torc was able to clear his head a wave of energy rolled across the deck. The blow and feeling of energy made him feel sick in his stomach, for a moment Torc had to fight to keep from vomiting. He had always felt energy more keenly then seen it, and Ulric had dunked him into it. Torc slowly got up to his feet and he moved shakely over to the girls frame. Softly, he picked up the small silver haired girl like a child that he was going to put to bed. She seemed weightless in his arms, truly a child, and for a moment Torc felt like a father holding her in his arms. He looked up at Ulric tears in his eyes, “Hes gone… Sharn, he told me that he didn’t know how to swim.” Torc felt a cold chill drift up his spine. Sharn, had been one of the most gentle creatures he had ever meant and he didn’t deserve to die like that. Torc knew that he could have done precious little to stop his friend from dying, but it didn’t change the way he felt. He felt slightly betrayed by Ulric that he couldn’t have stop the girl in his arms from dumping Sharn overboard. Never mind that Torc didn’t have a chance to overpower the Goddess possessed girl. Never mind that it wasn’t his fight, he had let down Sharn… and that pain was horrible. As he walked shakely past Leo and Glav, he let Leo have his word and then spoke to the man. “Power has taken one of us… I will tend to the sick now. All I can offer them is patience and a wet rag. Hopefully that will be enough. If… when we hold the funeral passing for Sharn and the others come and get me.” Torc felt so sick at those words, but right now there were people below deck that needed a healer. Sadly they would only find Torc to tend to them. May the Gods and Goddesses be merciful? Torc carried the girl down into the cargo hold which had been converted into an infirmary. Placing her in one of the bunks, he went over to fetch a cool rag for the sick. “Rak’keli, forgive my poor excuse for skills, I don’t ask this for me… but for the sailors here who are suffering. Help me, please, for your lover’s men. Please.” The last little bit was in a pathetic whisper as Torc began to tend to the aches and pains of the sick. He was afraid that he would eventually get sick too, but he needed to be doing something. Something good, because he had been incapable of doing anything for Sharn, and so Torc wiped brows and let sailors slip small amounts of water.

[Ulric]

Ulric had gone too far, but he didn’t want to stop. He was defying a goddess. He’d seized a truth in his grasp, and he unleashed it with a savage fury. He would not accept her embrace. He was more than she knew, and over the span of a few moments, he began to realize that his powers were not perhaps as latent as he’d been led to believe. The cruelest form of defiance for a god was to deny what they craved, whether it was fear, prayers, or the simple memory of their seat on the pantheon. He spoke not as the heir of a god, but as the salt of the earth, a victim of so much turmoil at the hands of the gods, and yet it was so much more than that. He didn’t know what he was doing, but an alien, yet vaguely familiar energy surged through his veins. The sensation was so powerful that he nearly dropped to his knees. This was not natural. He fought to keep from clutching his aching head, not wanting to seem weak. He wanted the feeling to end, but deep in the back of his mind a faint voice clamored for it to go on forever. Krysus stared back at him. Ulric did not regret his brash words, even if they resulted in his death. If she wanted to behave like a spoiled child, she’d have to go somewhere else for what she sought. He was weary of being used. He wanted to do what he wanted to do, even if it meant being engulfed by her divine power and reduced to cinders. Then the unthinkable happened. The goddess took a step back. The eyes of her borrowed body widened, and then rolled back. He might have caught the woman as she crumpled to the deck, but something told him that it didn’t matter. He’d stood firm. He was deeply shaken, but he kept his jaw clenched. Even so, the extent of his shock manifested in his eyes, though only for a moment. He glanced around, taking in the looks on his comrades’ faces. Leo was speaking to Glav, and it was the priest at which Ulric directed a querulous look. They had both been targeted by separate powers, though he didn’t know if they were working in conjunction. Leo spoke of something called the shroud, which meant nothing to him. He only hoped those responsible for this suffering had received an excruciating death. Torc’s face was streaked with tears. He’d gone to pick up the woman, yet his grief for Sharn and the others was palpable. Ulric didn’t know what to make of that. He was used to death, and though he’d been somewhat fond of the ape, he couldn’t bring himself to feel the same. He was too empty for such things. Having to witness this show of raw sorrow was discomfiting. “Well, that’s a petching shame,” he growled, casting a sidelong glance at the pyromancer. Leo, from what he saw, was equally sad and shaken, but as dangerous and scheming as ever. Ulric didn’t want to know what sort of dark secrets were stored in the depths of the man’s mind, but he was conscious that he’d drawn undue attention to himself just now. Xhyvas had warned him about that. But then again, when had he ever taken advice? “Enemy or not, you’d be careful to keep up your guard,” Ulric scowled at Leo. “Had she chosen to lash out, we’d most certainly be strewn across the deck, unless she first decided to sunder the entire ship of scraps of kindling.” With a grunt, he returned his gaze to Glav, watching Torc depart out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t see why the man chose to bear a burden not of his own making. Having to deal with that was bad enough, but to embrace more suffering? That made no sense. “The night will bring some relief from this heat.” Ulric scratched his bearded chin, staring up at the sky. He didn’t want to talk any longer, mostly for fear that Glav and Leo would press him for information that he either didn’t know, or didn’t want to give them. “If that’s enough for you, I have a bit of sewing to finish,” he sighed.