"Mist!" Geni yelped, her leg wrenching out from the golden lasso. Annoying thing. She hated that rope. Matter of fact, everyone hated that rope—even Luciferos, the Hand of— "Did you really have to use that?" She pouted, mouth pursing.
Daena offered a brief smile, her mercurial saffron eyes glimmering against the murky darkness of the island's backdrop. The aesthetics were imposing. Just perfect. Truly. The Praetorian surveyed her, eyes piercing with an authoritative quality. "So, no one in the Merwin family survived."
Geni went grim. "No."
Daena pulled back the golden rope, wrapping it around her wrists. "Then there is nothing to be done." She frowned for a moment, just a moment. "I suppose that's the end of this mission."
"What next, then?" Geni asked, kicking off a stray stone, watching as the lonely thing skipped off the peak, drilling through the cloud of fog below. One could easily imagine plunging down those heights—no means of escape, choking in the misty whiteness of Eastos. Quite a way to die. Not for a spaceRunner, of course.
Daena regarded her. "You have something for me?"
"What?"
"I was told you found something." Daena rested arms on her hips. "During your usual 'walks' through the Cognitive Realm... you found something?"
"Ah, yes." Geni dug into her pouch, pulling out the book—the SunBringer's journal, or whatever it was. "It's not really useful..." She handed the book over. "Other than what I speculate is a fever dream, there is nothing of import."
"Not necessarily." Daena opened the book, her eyes clear as she stared down at the scribbled text. Why was she even paying attention to that? Most likely, those were words written by some Discord-infected Caster who had peered too deeply into the Cognitive.
A moment passed.
"Hmm," Daena breathed. "So that world has accepted a new owner."
"What?"
"Nothing." Daena smiled, closing the book. "I suppose you will be wanting to learn of your new task."
Geni shrugged. "The Church works me to the bone."
"All for the Almighty."
"Yes," Geni whispered.
Daena exhaled with a smile. "In that case, if possible, you are to find the whereabouts of the pirate, Auron... Auron Odium."
"The worst of the Odiums?"
Shadows he wears. Shadows he is. —From the Dreams of Saint Adalbert on the Shadowman.
What have I gotten myself into?
The question echoed within Merrin, louder than the chattering tones of the world around him, louder than the darkness that was the norm in Eastos, and louder than the constant clamoring of men and women. The noise helped, however. When alone, it allowed for a narrowing of perception, helping him observe clearly the space in which he now found himself. The space that was his cage to prevent him from harming others—and his hope for keeping them alive.
And yet that woman, Shae, wanted to destroy it all. To free him from this place.
He gritted his teeth. I don't want that. Why won't they understand this?
He groaned.
A stone bounced away from him, thudding with a click-click over the dampened earth. Typical. Most of the lowlands were in perpetual wetness—like all of Eastos—but the lack of hardness irked the part of him that was an Ashman. Very few means of balance existed here.
He looked away, noting the crisscrossing paths of the Nightsailer camps. Divisions within divisions. Countless.
On each side were tents—squarish, sleek black fabrics that acted as homes for numerous many. The material, from what he could gather, was created from the tops of elastic woods. Their branches used for chairs and the like. Much of that wood was used here.
Most likely, he imagined, very few of those trees still existed in Nightfell. It was a sad thing to use a resource until its exhaustion. But it didn't matter; the grounds were a canvas of pits, sunken earth, and crunched crimson foliage. On both sides of the roads stood lamp-posts, beaming a dim radiance across the darkened world.
Barely enough, hence
Shadows crawled like fingers over the forms of passersby. Many vanishing at the edges of illumination, only to be sighted again by the brief flashes of heavenly judgment. Whiteness. Merrin looked up, regarding the rolling tide of frothy blackness. It was eerie.
A groan snapped into his awareness.
A man to the side was slumped against a lamp-post. Dead? No, but he seemed near that outcome, his hair scattered in spiky bits, his eyes blackened, and his flesh taut against bones. He was starved—that, Merrin could easily see.
So it's like the mines then... we work for our food?
However, that addressed the question of the how. How were they to work for sustenance? No idea. The supposed Lord of the Waves, Tyrion Driftpoint, had made no mention of the matter. No words. Nothing. They were instead given a layout of the camps and the rules to boot—all of which were, as he imagined, punishable by death.
Death. He sighed. What now?
Merrin wandered on, eyes searching for some means of survival—hopefully, a means that did not require the exposure of his true nature to the camps. That was the thing to be avoided most. For them. All of this was for them.
Nonetheless, there were a few things he had learned from his walks: specifically, a place called the Highstorm Inn. A bewildering name, true. He remained unsure of its essence; however, he recalled men having a certain fondness in their tones regarding it. Perhaps it provided a path to sustenance.
Who knew?
The wind howled, flowing down from a looming mountain in the distance. A nameless peak, Merrin noted, with black shapes of haggard joints and spikes poking out. It was a dangerous mountain, partially veiled by rising steam—likely the biggest peak near the camps. But there were more; of that, he was certain. Nightfell was buried deep in mountains.
He sauntered on, meditating on one particularity: Shae of the Black Eyes. Mostly, he had attempted the blocking of the thought, letting it fade into the backdrop of his sentience, but like the recursive Everstorm, it came calling. Over and over, the questions returned. Who was she? What did she know? Why did she attribute the mark to Ravens or the House of Black? What were all those things?
Questions within questions. And with each moment of deep pondering, that innate warning sense grew. Disengage, disengage, it whispered.
I should listen, he told himself. But could he?
Seconds drew into minutes, and with the unconscious joining of the crowd, Merrin found himself standing before a structure. Square, as were most things in Nightfell. It was rusty, with stony dots across its surface. It was windowless, with but a single door spewing out a brownish hue of soft light, carrying a unique scent.
The door slapped open. A man, red-faced, stumbled out with arms waving deliriously and eyes half-rolled into their sockets. He stank of something spicy.
The man mouthed, "Oh, what a wonderful day it is!" No, he sang. "The sky is so misty black, the ground is freaking twirling! Ah, screw that Red thing! Screw you, Elisandre!"
He fell face-first into the earth, a hissing sound flowing from his face. Burning.
Merrin rushed in, turning the fellow onto his back. Too late; half his cheeks had already been reddened by the heat. A terrible thing. Yet none of the passersby noticed with any relevance whatsoever. What had been done to these people to cause such distance?
He sighed, dusting off what he imagined were spicy fluids from the man's body. It didn't work. Now, it was he who smelled of the stuff. Standing, he regarded the door that marked the entry into this place. It seemed similar to the tavern within the mines. Was that a coincidence, or did all lowlander place share such similarities?
He poised himself and stepped inside.
And thus, first came the sudden loudness that slammed into his awareness, breaking his balance. Second was the stench that poured in from all sides. Stomach twisted, throat gasping for breath—fresh air, and his eyes watering as the smell invaded every sense within his totality. He dropped to his knees, palm slapping hard against the hardwood floor. It was slightly warmed.
But that mattered little. He was drowning. His nose taking in the stench of bodies, spicy fluids, and dreadful breaths—all of it clambering in like a tide of stimuli. Such was the curse of the Ashman's senses. The heightened nature of his being brought this madness upon him.
Everything was doubled.
Lords, help me!
Almighty above!
Then came the laughter that flowed into his awareness.
What was it?
Feminine, no doubt. A woman who edged closer with each chortle.
"Look at this fellow, boys." She said, tone mocking. "Boy can't handle his liquor!"
Then came a collective of chuckles.
But I didn't drink it! Merrin felt like screaming.