[Flashback] A Lia's Word (Sable)

[Wrenmae]

Spring 58, 507 AV Back against the rail, Wrenmae looked out over the sea. The days lay behind him, floating in the surf and lost to the expansive landscape of sea and sky. Above him, wind whipped through the sail, filling it and propelling the ship forward over the staggered waves. Both arms were propped over the edge, his body filling a narrow avenue beneath the sail. He knew, now, the correct knot to tie a sail, some of the bare specifics of manipulating the boom to fill the canvas with the most wind, to send the Casinor dipping over swells and twisting through the endless landscape of blue around them. Holding out his hand, cupped, he pooled Res in the contours of his palm. The golden liquid was his Djed made manifest, something stronger and more pure than anything he could have created with Hypnotism. It glistened in his palm, capturing the sunlight around it, warping its texture. Holding it out in front of him, he communicated in motions. The outer layer of the res became wind, blowing up and across the sails, transforming entirely just before it left Wrenmae's range. He repeated the process, parting the water with a slight breath. He was different now. Ahead of them, masts tickled the sky and heralded their destination. The Lia's ship, the Svefra, his chance to be reborn into another family. Sighing, Wrenmae closed his eyes, hanging his head as the sun lanced across the back of his neck. He was darker than he used to be, his hair still golden and his eyes still blue. Quietly he waited, abided, his heartbeat setting the pacing of his purposes. He would need to prepare to see the Lia, prove his worth to them somehow. Sable assured him she would help, but the storyteller could only hope it would be benough.

[Sable Baggywrinkle]

Sable’s voice undulated on waves of wind, trembling as the breeze caught and carried it back like wake. The words were indistinguishable, but it was the same call she’d been making all morning. They were about to tack port to continue sailing at a forty-five degree angle against the wind. As they turned, Sable manipulating the sails with nary a thought, the wind gasped and died. The small ship lurched in protest, dipping dangerously to one side as Wrenmae’s synthetic addition found itself pushing alone. The motion of the vessel would be unsettling to anyone unused to such an occurrence, but the Svefra rolled with it and let her gaze drift to the slender boy playing with himself against the railing. Even as she watched his reaction, her hands flew across the ‘sheets and tiller to adapt to the new condition. For several chimes, Zulrav kept to himself, and Sable eventually left the helm to stow the sails. “Seems the gods have decided now would be a good time to talk about your introduction to my people,” she observed with a wry twist to her lips, coming by and drawing him to the prow. Standing proud at the apex of the borrowed vessel, like a shimmering figurehead breathed life, Sable drew deep within herself and expelled an electric blue current of res. Like coiling extensions of her fingernails, the fluid dipped into the sea beneath, and soon the glassy surface quivered. Her res, cycling, drew away the water just head of the ship, causing it to “fall” forward into the gap, carried on the liquid rushing to fill it. A sweat broke over her forehead as she manipulated the heavy liquid on a continual basis. The motion of the ship was choppy and bucking at first, but she quickly learned where to place traces of untransmuted res to make the endeavor efficient. “My mother’s name is Rupelia and my sister’s is Sybil, avoid the latter to please the former,” she cautioned, again, pronunciation of each word abbreviated with the expense of energy. “Sybil will understand. Otherwise, just keep our laws in mind. We’ll spend the day getting everyone to like you before we tell Lia where you come from.” Caught mid-glance at him, winking, Zulrav kicked back in, just to spite them as the ships of the Tempest pod loomed ahead. With a roll of the eyes, magic burst into water and mingled with its natural counterparts. “Toss out the anchors, will you?” she asked, though quickly followed up with a question to keep the conversation going as they both worked on the small ship. “Any last questions?”

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae scrambled to his feet, rocking unsteadily on the pitched deck of the casinor. He leaned back, almost impossibly far grasping the railing of the vessel to steady himself. As always, Sable stood resolute against the wind and waves, as home upon the tipping deck as she may have been on dry land. He listened to her wordlessly as he gathered the anchor and rope from where it lay coiled, nodding and commiting the names to memory. The journey to the Lia had not been a sensationally long one, but it had certainly been enlightening. He woke up with the stars as a tapestry above him and the sea the same dark beneath him. Admittedly, his fear was a difficult one to overcome, to let Laviku and Mother Sea do the work and trust in their judgement. In all the tales he'd heard from sailors, the sea was a fickle thing...given to bouts of furious assault and deceptive calms. Personally, Wrenmae couldn't shake the abyss he had fallen into those weeks ago by the dock. The way the water filled his senses, suffocated his thoughts, tugged him down to an oblivion beneath. Whenever he touched the water he felt as though those hands were drawing at him, pulling subtly ever deeper. It unnerved him, but he was afraid to mention it to Sable. He didn't want to travel all this way for nothing. The pod of ships ahead dipped by a similar wave, rocking across the sea like ducks on the water. He imagined others like Sable there, bronze skinned, gold haired sailors, sing to the sea and absorb its bounty. How did they manage it? Struggling to lift the heavy anchor, Wrenmae scooted to the edge of the railing and hurled it into the sea. The spray of water was immediate and drenching, the storyteller falling back on his ass and spluttering. Wiping salt water from his face and parting his hair back, he looked up at Sable and shrugged. It was a helpless sort of mistake, the clumsieness of a land dweller still earning his legs among the waves. "How will I prove my worth?" He asked, the most pertinent question on his mind since they'd begun, "Will there be a test?" Wrenmae didn't bother to stand again, remaining on the deck and laying back. The sun caught his skin and clothes, leeching water away and warming his skin. Res leaked from his palms again, seeping around his hands like luminescent strands of possibility. He moved his hands, wiggling his fingers, bringing the air together in a spin near the center of his palm, turning the Res on the inside in a tight circle while converted the outside to wind bit by bit. For the briefest of moments, a small whirlwind was born in his hand, gone the moment he lost control by the prevailing wind around him. He let it go. "What was it like growing up on the sea?" he asked quietly, head resting against his arms, "What kind of things have you seen?"

[Sable Baggywrinkle]

Wrenmae’s clumsy initiation into anchor throwing almost went unnoticed as Sable took a few moments to compare this latest attempt at moving a ship with magic to her last one. It still seemed clumsy and inept. There was something, with the way the water rushed in from the sides and front that conflicted with smooth forward progress. There had to be a better way. Perhaps a combination of air and water manipulation, or a different proportion of un-transmuted res to transmuted. Maybe next time, with more practice. Her fingers itched to cast more. The lanky girl plopped down next to her guest, tapping the heel of one foot off the toe of the other and patting out a simple rhythm on the deck at her sides. “No, there will be no ‘test,’” she said, curls shimmering against dull wood when she glanced sidelong at him. “We measure worth in many ways. My mother values skills, yes, but nothing is more important than the ways that newcomers can add to the kindred whole.” Warming the breeze carrying them, voices and laughter drifted over the bow. “This isn’t a ‘guild’ or a business, Wrenmae Egyptus Sek. This is a family. We only want a friend.” Fingers, like warm strings of honey, closed around the whirlwind-emptied hand, drawing his gaze to her. “I only want to show you a life, the life that Laviku himself has seen fit to grant you. One where you can learn to make peace with yourself. All you have to do is have fun and reach out to us.” Fun, swimming, sand, and surf. Embracing the depths that he feared so. Embracing the depths that he feared so. He always asked too many questions to make a conversation flow smoothly. Sable was surprised to find that she found it rather endearing. Her people would appreciate the curiosity, she suspected. Voices drifted closer, graceful bodies cutting through water toward the girl and boy stretched out on the borrowed deck. “Growing up on the Suvan…” pensive gaze turned to the clouds. “Bright. My childhood was very bright. At the best times, we ran—swam—around, poking into everything the adults were doing. They never ignored us. They’d stop fishing or weaving nets, show us what they were doing or play with us. The worst times were the storms. All the kids would be ushered below deck, into the dark, as all the adults rushed to prepare. But even then, as I got older even the storms weren’t so bad.” Sable shrugged a bit. “You’ll get to see all the kids, I pretty much had the same childhood they do.” She was silent a moment, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship. “I hope you get to see all the things I have. There are maelstroms large enough to suck down the entire city of Alvadas, oyster beds protected by lobsters with swords for claws, spiders that inject their eggs into a person’s chest.” A mischievous twinkle curled the corner of her lips. “We’ll go swimming in kelp forests. Everything is blue, but when the sun hits the stalks, they light up with green fire. And I’ll take you to Laviku’s temple, too, if you’d like.”

[Wrenmae]

The concept weighted in his stomach. The more he turned it over in his mind, the less it seemed shaped of truth and more of an Alvadan illusion, shine taking the edge of a rusty blade or making whole a rotten core. It wasn't that the fantasy was malicious, it was only that he saw so little of its truth. The way Sable spoke made the Svefran people out to be carefree nomads of the open sea, looking after their own and for their own but troubled little with the rest of civilization straddling the land behind them. She took his hands and he could feel a trill of energy between them, sparks that leaped between the latticed fingers and nestled in his veins. Since he'd left Alvadas, the sea had grown closer to him. In more ways than simply filling his vision, the dark waters had invaded his dreams, staining that sanctuary of past and semblance of security he'd pulled around himself since the mountains, since Vayt. She had been there as well, a nymph in seafoam and pearls. Her role was as shifting as the faceless waters, sometimes seductively inviting and other times viciously cajoling. Although he'd never seen Sable in a fury before, her dream self had reacted against his Blight in such burning conviction several times, always with the might of the ocean at her command. He shied from that confrontation, remembering the fire in her eyes...taking more refuge in the other illusions his mind wove with her. "I'd like that," he said, smiling at her, "I'd like to see anything you're willing to show me." Her hands were real on his, soft and hardened between calluses. This was the story, how her hands became her hands, how they grew and developed these rough spots. These were stories. All around them were stories. The ship drew closer to the others, a tanned Svefran male shouting out and tossing a mooring line between them. It thumped in the boat and Wrenmae let go of her hands to take it, and then, thinking better, handed it to her. "They know you..." he trailed off with a shrug, taking a seat inside the boat again and emitting Res. He shaped it differently this time, small balls of res rolling in his palm, puffs of smoke like kisses he sent speeding off his palm in different directions. Flick, left, Flick, right, Flick, up. They were gone the moment he released them. The water beneath them glimmered a dark, and rich blue. Reaching out, he took the water into his palm, held it, and then released it. He smiled at Sable, shy, "Is there something to mark your family as a family?" He held out his tanned arms, the color of the Svefra on the open sea, "Or is it the hair, eyes, and skin that marks us together?"

[Sable Baggywrinkle]

Sable rolled to her feet beside golden blond Wren, and threw a jubilant wave to the handful of people scattered across the other Casinor. “No trouble, Ruske!” she announced to the unasked question, and the wiry man grinned as he caught the line she tossed him. They normally had a bit more trouble with ports than they had lately. Sable tied off the one Wren passed to her, and the boats danced along one another before bumping gently. The lanky sailor turned back to Wren, melting a bit more at his shy smile. “Our Pardisa is the blue whale.” Lifting the hem of her simple linen shirt, the majestic rearing of the peaceful leviathan broke for air through curling ridges of rib. Ruske, hopping between boats to tie off the last cleat, had one leaping over one wiry shoulder and diving across his chest. Several other marine animals artistically dotted Ruske’s torso. She wanted to continue and explain the simple way that family and pod could be distinguished with these markings, but an affable alto voice interrupted. “So this is the lad, eh?” asked a curvaceous woman with sun-lightened brunette curls that just barely fluttered along the tops of her ears. The storyteller might have managed a glimpse of her back in Patchwork Port after he disembarked all those weeks before. Whereas Sable’s eyes threatened to pull an onlooker into the darkest depths of the Suvan, Sybil’s eyes invited them to soar among the clouds. They also expressed a distinct sense of knowing as she glanced up and down Wrenmae’s land-starved body. “I’m Sybil. My sister tells me that you’re between names at the moment.” A frown tugged briefly at Sable’s lips, it was gone as quickly as clouds passing overhead. The moment had never been right on the journey back to the pod to bring up his turbulent past. This moment was as wrong for it as any that might have come before, so while the topic being forced was undesirable, it was no less so than her own failure at broaching it herself. Sable had thought often of the boy gifted by Laviku in the time between their meetings, and Sybil had, more often than not, been the one she confided in. By the end of their conversation regarding him, the day before the youth departed to retrieve him, a firm solution to the identity problem that he’d professed seemed to be starting from the basics. To have more than one identity was to have no one, to have none. He was Egyptus, but he was Wrenmae Sek. He was no one. “Yes,” Sable said, drawing their guest up to her side and meeting a more than likely questioning gaze. “I’ve given a lot of thought to our day together on shore.” Sybil’s shipmates, Ruske plus one more man and a woman, kept an idle ear on the trio conversing at the railings as they supplied two rowboats drifting off their port bow. “I told everyone the story of our meeting, that Laviku took the breath from your lungs only to return it with his own essence. I also told them that you have no name,” she admitted with a candid smile. The tanned male that had thrown Wrenmae the mooring line let out a hoot announcing that preparations were complete. Despite the topic at hand, matching grins spread across the sister’s faces. Putting the conversation on hold, they urged their guest first aboard Sybil’s vessel and finally into one of the small rowboats. The other Svefra already skittered toward a distant island. Sable waited for her companions to seat themselves before taking the oars in hand and heaving to. Among the provisions at Wrenmae’s feet were a satchel of vittles, a couple cordless bladders of air, a few stubby knives, some netted bags, and large rocks.

[Wrenmae]

Between names. It was a curious expression, one that Wrenmae couldn't understand at first. Sable's sister enchanted him a moment, bewitching gaze and rolling body, much like the bosom-shape of the rolling sea. Bombastic, bright, she pulled him into her with a smile and released him with a frown. He almost felt guilty, losing his thoughts so jarringly while in the presence of his sea-borne muse. Sable had not seemed to notice his brief lapse in attention and the storyteller chose not to comment on it. Some things were best left unspoken between friends or family. Instead he busied himself by watching the whale, the way it danced on the flesh of the other Svefra. Paradiso, the guardian Tavan of the Svefra people. The words came to him slowly, briefly leaping into his mind when required but maintaining their distance from his understanding. These Tavan, animal companions, they seemed filled with some of the Svefra spirit....always brighter or more optimistic than he imagined them being. The way the family moved, grinning at each other, snide jokes, often brief scuffles followed by laughter and reassurance, it was not an environment he was used to. Alvin Wilmot had always expressed the need for silent study in the manor, in fact, the man had persisted upon the idea of study as a means to open the mind...silence as an ambrosia of perfect communication. Voices carried in the old house and often Alvin was too tired to put up with the ambient noise. Here though, the sky and sea swallowed up the echoes, consumed the words the Svefra spoke like some rare delicacy, supping on each syllable and giving nothing back. Wrenmae smiled at Sybil, but chose to hold his tongue rather than risk destroying the first meeting with his pandering tongue. It was only when they had crossed the bridge of lashed boats, taken a rowboat, and set towards the island, Wrenmae on one paddle and Sable on the other, that he kicked a rock slightly aside in the bottom of the boat and spoke. "No name," he said to her, quiet, almost unheard among the splash of oars, "Is that how you think of me...as a blank slate saved by Laviku?" There was a wound there, unspoken. Names were important, they identified one as important in the world, gave their mark a shape and definition. His name was Wrenmae, was it not? Who else was he? He cleared his throat, replacing what he said with a further explanation, "I mean to say...erm, will I be receiving a new name? While I be marked with your Paradiso?" Ahead of them the songs of the Svefra rose above the sea and was ferried to their ears on the shoulders of Zulrav. Wrenmae grinned, letting the issue of the name vanish into the back of his mind as they approached the shore. The songs were light and jovial...and although he could not understand the words, he imagined they spoke of the things Sable had told him about...lobsters with swords for claws, sunken treasure, ghost ships, and beach-lit fires. The lifeblood of stories, high-winds of adventure. It was enough to imagine the meaning, create a story to compliment it. After all, were not storytellers the most skilled liars in the lands?

[Sable Baggywrinkle]

A large splash garnished by laughter and made robust with hoots preceded their rowboat passing one full of unfamiliar Svefra. One of the women, with a mane of water-logged locks cast in a plethora of little braids all the way to her butt, heaved herself from the water onto the edge of the bucking boat with negligent ease. With nary a glance, Sable handed off her oar and Sybil put it to use popping the woman off like a barnacle. It was only the lingering effects of Wrenmae’s last heave that kept the older sister out of reach when the woman erupted from the water like a dolphin and made a grab for her. Meanwhile, a peach-fuzzed youth had maneuvered to the prow of the little vessel and battled sea, companions, and physics to step onto the edge and balance there. “We’ll get you up there, soon,” Sybil warned Wren before turning back with a few comments to add to the banter behind them as Sable put wood to water once more. Out of the fray, his new friend, gaze unwound in contemplation, simply worked her oar for a while. Maybe she detected the objection to her decision, but she definitely found the analogy problematic. Signaling another interruption, their companions ahead belted out a jovial tune in haughty Fratava that both thanked the gods for the mussels they were about to harvest and boasted of said exploit. Sable paused and leaned into Wren, only mildly distracted by the little fuzzball her sister scooped out of the water and deposited to nudge at their feet. “Until you’re accepted as a Tempest you will have no name. You’re not a blank slate, you have an entire life engraved on your slate. It’s just been broken. You’ve got two names corresponding to two different set of traits, fears, and experiences. To address a name is to favor one piece over the other. I don’t know what broke you, and I don’t know what you use to set your identities apart, but I know that it’s not working for you.” The baby water mammal lounged against his knee. Sybil signaled arrival at their destination by readying a small anchor. The other boat floated on shallow water some distance away, empty. Both sisters shed a layer, stripping down to appropriate swimming clothing. Sable indicated he should do the same before handing over a knife and a net. “All right, lad, we’re going to collect oysters,” Sybil started. “All you have to do is pull yourself down using the anchor line and harvest a few oysters near it. The water’s only about two body lengths deep here, so don’t panic. Don’t take too many and come right back up to the boat when you’re done.” As the voluptuous sister explained, eyeing his arms and legs dubiously, as though there would be some physical indicator of inexperience in swimming, Sable helped him put the small net on so it didn’t interfere with movement. “I’m going to go set the anchor, be back in a tick.” She disappeared in nothing more than a faint roiling of bubbles. “I’ll swim down with you,” the lanky girl offered, fighting amusement at her sister’s worry and making sure the strap over his smooth chest was loose enough for him to pull the net around and open. “You’ll get to meet Siller. I think she’s helping Sybil now.” Beneath them, a glint of green-blue detectable only as something moving against the rest of the blue-green water, fluttered around. A tuna that thought she was a personal propulsion device.

[Wrenmae]

Breath animated his chest, sending it swelling and falling in unconcious rhythm. Sable and her sister accompanied him toward the island, oar by oar, stroke by stroke. He followed as best he could, his mind in different places. Inexperience wore at the edge of his confidence, breaking through the calm he'd wrapped around himself and shredding his composure. The little otter at his feet, unknowingly dancing in plague, seemed happy. Wrenmae looked away from it, swallowing his heartbeat and worry. Sybil had breached the wave like some story-goddess of sea foam and spray, water running in rivulets by the wrinkled paths in her shirt, past her natural endowments and away, leaving little to imagination. But how expansive his imagination spun. He said nothing during the explanation, remembering the stone-shaped oysters he'd seen peddled on the docks, rounded stones passing by the bucket, by the net full between calloused hands. Personally, he never saw the appeal in the ugly things, cold and inert. But the inns wanted them, cut the things open with a curved knife and scraped the meat into thick soup, or left them out raw to be supped. Wrenmae offered a small smile to Sable, taking a breath before climbing over the boat. It rocked when he upset the balance, hurling him into the sea sooner than he'd planned. For a moment, the storyteller panicked, thrashing in the water before something scaly bumped him back to the rough wood of the boat. His hands breached the waves and he caught the edge gasping, his heart a hammering concert of fear. Consciously he tried to quiet his breathing, if not for Sable's sake, than for Sybil. He didn't want those eyes judging him again, a lack of confidence seeping into them like a stormy judgement. Disapprovals for Sable's choice, his potential. Part of him didn't want to handle rejection on that scale again. "I can do it," he whispered to Sable, quiet out of shame, not secrecy, "I need to do this myself." Ducking under the waves, he forced his eyes open. Everything was a blurry mess of color and shapes, from the bobbing bottom of the boat above him, to the form of Siller, dancing effortlessly through the waves. He held his breath in his chest, centering the air there while he grabbed the rough rope and pulled himself to the sandy bottom. It was harder than he'd expected. Unlike the time at the docks, the water could not grab hold of him. He felt the air within him, the Zulrav within him tug at his body to return to the surface. This was not where he belonged, and maybe Laviku knew that. Putting it out of his mind, Wrenmae drove a hand into the sand, tugging handfuls free in swirling clouds of color. He looked for shapes, rough patches in the darkness beneath him, grasping at the familiar round stones he'd seen in Alvadas. At first, there was nothing. Sand and shells with speckled surfaces. He hurled them aside, uncaring, even desperate. The air within him burned to be released, his lungs stuttering at the lack of circulation. He needed to find at least one, just one. As black dots spun at the corners of his vision, shards of the Void pushing into his conciousness, his hands settled on a shape that sunk into the sand even as his fingers brushed it. Frenzied, possessed he tore it from the sand and burst to the surface, gasping and dropping the oyster into the bottom of the boat. It hit the wood with a clunk, and the storyteller hung off the edge, red faced and gasping. Looking up at Sable, Wrenmae offered her a weak smile, shaking his head slowly. "Is there an easier way to do this?"

[Sable Baggywrinkle]

Erupting in a voluminous mantle of glittering gem drops, Wren’s splash rivaled those of frolickers leaping off boats in the distance. The Pod was spread out; a handful of eighty foot family vessels sprawled around where Wren had tossed anchor and several smaller ships littered the water between them. Beneath the glittering surface, behemoths rivaled ships in size and made slow undulating circuits. Smaller animals of all shapes and sizes darted between them with the occasional human scurrying to keep up. A world without boundaries, with its own distinct rules and tribulations, where an entire race of humans existed in symbiosis with both prey and predator. Differentiating between which Tempests were working and which were indulging in antics came down to which stayed dry the longest. Sable, after Wren exploded and latched on to the boat, no longer counted herself amongst the dry. Wiping brine from impressed hues, the lounging woman straightened and leaned over her triumphant hunter. She fetched the oyster and hefted it, smile widened with approval. Wren’s new friend, for the little otter had charged the walls of the boat and proceeded in valiant attempt to dive after him, clambered up the man’s shoulder, hopped off his head, and snagged the mollusk in a diving leap to roll around with it at Sable’s feet. The spattered woman chuckled and patted Wren’s slippery cold hand. No one escaped being used as an impromptu ladder ‘round these parts. “This is the easy way,” she said with a crooked, challenging grin. “But if you don’t feel up to the task, you can sit in the boat and protect it from birds.” Winking, the woman pushed off the gunwhale into a handstand and flipped over his head into the water behind him. The little vessel rocked violently, and a sheet of water gushed. Wren’s little friend squeaked in protest. Nothing more than streaks of color interrupted by the roiling backlash of her inelegant acrobatics, the woman somersaulted underwater and twisted to face the storyteller. Siller darted by him, grazing his legs, and joining his tavan. She breached the surface with a flick of dark, silky locks out of her face. “Come on, lad,” Sybil invited, appearing at his side with hardly a ruffle of water. She hoisted herself up into the boat far enough to grab a stomach sized rock and slipped it into the net slung across her chest. The voluptuous woman took a series of several deep breaths and sank once more, tossing him his second playful wink. Only a pair of fluttering feet remained where Sable had been. They pulled down to the sandy floor, positioned several body lengths from the anchor where the struggling storyteller would descend. Sybil used the rock to sink with full lungs, standing to her ankles in the fluffy sand as though she were simply strolling along the beach picking up pretty shells instead of carefully harvesting food from the sea floor. Brunette curls floated around her water-paled face, brushed lovingly side-to-side by the faint current. Her younger sister dropped to the floor with a line of bubbles tethering her to the crinkling surface. Laying flat with hands sank to her wrists, she kept an eye out for their neophyte companion even as she stored a small supply away. Half the rough round shapes failed inspection and found themselves laid aside.