Dragon (S)Layers Ch. 54

Chapter 12 – Hard Pressed

"Sarah? Let me tell you about Sarah. She's a half-blood that wouldn't let you think otherwise; as capricious and beautiful as any elf, curvy and intelligent like a human and 'blessed' with the bleakest sense of humor I've ever seen. The captain says she worked in the gear pits in Pamor but she says that's not the case, insisting she's of noble blood.

A marchioness with a tongue like gold, appetites like a sailor and the cunning and tenacity of a gutter rat. She is both sheep and a survivor. . . .to put Sarah into a box is to count on one hand the time it takes her to carve her way out of it, by any means necessary. But almost always with a quick smile and sharp remark. You could almost imagine a time when these sorts of challenges would've inspired child-like wonder in her, but there's none of that now. It's about survival. Not every challenge is world ending, but she'll be gods damned if she's going to let it get in her way. She won't rest until it's sorted out to her satisfaction. I almost feel bad for her, but the captain says it's her way of coping with an insane world; becoming insane herself.

The trick to it, she (the captain, not Sarah) says (of Sarah's mindset) is to turn off concepts of right and wrong and do what's best. Be pragmatic and calculating. Serve it up with a friendly smile and a quick line of bullshit and you make out with everything you need. No one needs to see the self-destructive tendencies that drive her to skip meals and avoid forming close bonds, they only need to see the polished facade and not think to look at what's underneath.

Sarah likes it that way. Arm's distance and skin deep.

But I've seen what's under the skin; it's ugly. It's cold and lonely. A story scribed on a black scroll in flowing script sealed with ageless wax and stored inside a marble castle that no one will penetrate. And yet here I stand waiting for the portcullis to open, a fool librarian that would spend the rest of his life cataloging the words inside and try to bring their meaning to the rest of world.

Yes, I know Sarah.

I wish I didn't, but I can't help myself.

I love her."

Ithric Kettar

Journal Entry Recovered From Ship's Log of the RCME Lostariel Belencamp (Almoor, Estan Free States Registration) Originally stolen off the coast of Pamor, washed up empty of cargo and crew in Amoor.

~Sarah~

Insanity was a word Sarah hated. She liked to consider herself 'eccentric' if anything, but when it came to her plan, she had to admit there may have been a small amount of questionable math involved. She fumed on this from the fore of her new ship as it was carefully wheeled down a weathered trail. They'd paid good money– as in far too much for fair market value– for 'matched pairs' of horses from travelers heading to Sorash in order to make the miniaturized Brig transportable. Six horses in total towing what had to have been several hundred marks of white oak and all the wood working tools and provisions they'd need for a week. Even doing the rough calculations said their journey would take a month or more, their gold reserves were already dwindling and the chance of them having a bounty on their head was practically a given. Questionable math, yes.

But insane?

Maybe.

It was slow. The ship was large enough to take up half of the caravan trail that, despite the dirt being packed from frequent travel, still left an identifiable gouge from the six wheels she'd cobbled together to the frame she'd constructed to carry her new prize. Of course, there was the issue of the three days it'd taken to put everything together and get a working plan in order. . . .or the fact that they were riding around in a boat in a landlocked region. Even Keiter, someone who managed quite successfully to be unreadable to Sarah because of his reptilian features had an expression that said he was questioning her sanity.

In retrospect, he was probably right to. Not that she was going to say it. No, she was going to take another puff on her narcotic cigar and pretend the world didn't exist for a few more moments while the scent of strawberries and delirium eroded the parts of her brain screaming good ideas.

Like running. Like slipping the mooring of the boat and using their new horses to scatter to the winds.

But it was fairly apparent to the half-elf that her companions had no such designs in mind; Tessarie picked at her coat while watching Sarah lounge and Keiter, having finished adjusting his robes to be more fitting to his form, looked on; expectant. As though Sarah had any idea why she was doing what she was doing.

Not about to be upstaged by crushing doubt, she took another pull and smiled as the 'wagon' bounced and pitched against the trail. They sat where the hold would be amidst a plethora of tools and sundries, with only burlap sacks for furniture and nothing in the way of distractions. But Sarah had a plan for that.

It occurred to her then, as it had so often in the last couple of days, that she had truly gone off the deep end. In a moment of desperation, reaching for what started her problems in the first place was sickening. It was obscene to the memory of those who'd died in her creation. People she couldn't even name; people who were fa–

It wouldn't come.

That block that'd been erected in her sould when she'd taken her pact with the Engineer's cherub kept her from speaking of those who'd been important to her. She could remember them, if not specifically how they were, but any attempts to speak or think too hard about them swam away from her like a fish from a bear.

Gods above she had lost her mind. Another hit. No, she had a plan. She had an idea. Yes, Haras was right, the ship could fly– the math was still bouncing around between her pointed ears somewhere, they'd need to build it again but the ideas were there. Another hit. To honor Ithric. Lostariel. Gods it'd been so long.

"Sarah?" Tessarie said warily. "Are you okay?"

She smiled a far-off grin at the memory– little cheeks, beautiful green eyes. Or were they blue? Lostariel's eyes. . . "mmhm. . ." She went to take another hit, to dull the world even more. Maybe she could remember if she was high enough. Even thinking of their names brought their memory to her, something she'd never be allowed by virtue of her divine 'contract'. What a cruel joke, one's own family, the reason she became a priest in the first place. Stolen but just within view. She took another hit.

It'd been more than just her body that died attached to that anchor. She was an idiot to accept the bargain, she should've died– there was honor in suicide. There was peace. There was mercy in oblivion.

It was Keiter who stopped her, taking the cigar from her with little protest. He pitched it down the gaping hole in the floor where the exhaust port would have to go. "You're crying." He said softly, eyes turning to her.

"I miss them," she whispered.

"Who?"

"I– I can't."

Tess piped in, apparently oblivious to the conversation. "Are you sure we're going to make it to the Veil in this? The carriage was pretty nondescript." It was then Sarah realized she'd been whispering. "I mean, we've nothing like this in the Veil."

Sarah laid her head back and closed her eyes letting her haze wear on for a little bit, relaxing into the idea of Ithric's arms around her and Lostariel laying on her chest. Just a few minutes. That was all she needed. To remember. To be humanoid again. It was with that image in her mind's eye she drifted off to sleep, unaware she was even slipping.

"Sarah?"

"Sarah!"

She awoke with a start, bleary and exhausted, her brain frantically trying to piece together what had happened. Images of a strong man holding her and a babe on her chest– fire. Destruction. A boat at sea and an anchor beside her . Keiter was over her and Tess was climbing up the rope ladder to the deck. They weren't moving. "Buh?"

"I hate when you do that. . ." He said in the firmest tone she'd ever heard from the little kobold. "That plant in those is poison."

"For you a poison. For me, a release, my good man." She removed her glasses and rubbed the crusty feeling from her eyes. Gods had she always been this tired? She shook it off and rose painfully to a seat. "How long have I been out?"

"A while. Night fell some time ago and Caldion made camp, you didn't wake up no matter what we did, so I told them to let you rest." Keiter glanced to the side deliberately in some mimicry of shame or uncertainty. "You mumble strange things in your sleep, my friend."

"I truly wish you'd not do that–"

"I worry."

"It doesn't make it any less invasive! Now were we in the same bed, mayhap I could forgive such minor oversights, but–"

"Sarah." his tone was warning, his little hand touched her shoulder as he met her eyes. "I worry."

She sighed theatrically. Though deep down it irritated her, some part was warmed by the idea that he was, as ever he had been, true to his word. It wasn't the facade of someone trying to be human, but the care of a life long friend that had spoken those words. She leaned against him lightly, bringing her arm around his shoulders. "I'm fine. Really. This was just all happening a little faster than I think any of us planned. Heavens, a month ago I was planning to pay a visit to the temple to see you marry off that rich tart and her fiance. . . .now look at us. On the run- again- and dreaming of ships!"

"You never did show up for that wedding." He gave her a look.

Sarah glanced away with false admonishment. "I may have been a little tipsy that evening–"

"Morning. It was to be a morning ceremony."

"Morning! Yes, how crass of me. I– they blend together after a while."

If the kobold had any way of displaying humor, Sarah wondered if he was using the opposite to express his displeasure. The look of irritation and faint betrayal said a lot more than any frown could have. She didn't hesitate to bring her finger under his chin and try to smile, but he stepped back all the same, uttering a 'dinner is cooking.' before climbing through the hole in the floor to exit the ship. Sarah stared after her friend, trying to compose a line that'd placate the kobold but nothing came to mind immediately. She let herself fall back against her bag and sighed deeply, staring at the underside of the top deck as though it held some deeply ingrained wisdom, something she could unlock to make sense of the world and her life.

But even if it did, even if there was some grand revelation to be had– if she'd been given the answers to unfuck the glorious mess she'd made of her life, she'd have ignored it and laughed as she did so. Her's was a self-determined lifestyle, she was going to be the captain of her own ship, even if it meant smashing into the gods damned jetties; it'd be her hand that turned the wheel and no one else. She rolled over to all fours and pushed herself up from there, stripping out of her coat and looking around the hull, taking it in for the hundredth time since she'd agreed to buy the vessel in the first place.

It was fairly small, being roughly sixty percent the size of a wind and sail Brig but still more than enough floor space for– gods, for the reactor, the turbines. Ducting. Sarah walked the keel from stem to stern trying to drudge up memories that had been worn by three decades of alcohol, drugs and resentment. Her ship had been larger, maybe? Maybe this was too small–

"Stop that," she whispered to the empty room. "Just. Stop." She took a deep breath and settled her hand on one of provision barrels. There were a lot of reasons to doubt: the "Paramour" had crashed on it's third long haul voyage despite having been moored to the lighthouse for weeks between journeys. She'd done something wrong, she had a chance at figuring it out– or repeating it– and the only thing running through her mind was the size of the damned ship?

She dug her thumb nail into the barrel's wood until it made a mark. She had a chance to make it right, she had a chance to secure a future that would let her make peace with her past; wasn't that worth trying for? In the twenty years since becoming a priest, a functionally immortal creature, she'd never been able to look forward. But now, with this possibility before her?

How could she dare say no?

Sarah quietly walked over to the paint she'd secreted away from Chance when he wasn't looking. Stolen. She'd stolen it. And why shouldn't she have? She picked up the horsehair brush, dipped it and started painting the rear wall charcoal black. Once it was done she held her hand over it and opened those ducts in her body to her divine 'gift'. A tingle of pain in her nerve endings gave way to death and decay, leaving her digits numb and faintly unpleasant as her natural atrophy carried from her body into the paint– by keeping focused she managed to keep the speed and power of its effects to a minimum, aging the paint to a state of dryness and in some places cracking, but in its curing it set hard enough to serve her purposes.

As she cradled her hand she looked for the pouch of chalk she'd left beside the supplies. Once she could feel her finger tips again she plucked a bit out of the pouch, hesitated looking at the blank board. There was still time to turn away– they had the horses and the coin to go anywhere. . .

She didn't have to do this.

She could still run.

Sarah hefted the piece of chalk to the board, fingers trembling as she began the only equation she could remember clearly, the one she'd struggled with for years. Some part of her, some part deeply buried was smiling, hoping. It was good to be doing something productive.

#

Three days and a few leagues later when they stopped to make camp, Sarah was still fussing with the calculations. By now her blackboard took up most of the rear of the ship, filling in the space between the ribs and leaving her hands thoroughly stained with chalk. It was tedious and irritating work, fishing around muddled memories for scraps of truth and while those brief flashes of insights and familiarity were welcome, they were pale and empty imitations of what should have been there.

And then there were the interruptions. As soon as Sarah thought she had found her stride, Tessarie would ask some inane question or Keiter would bug her about something– or, worse still, the bloody paladin thought it was funny to stop the gods damned ship. She'd more than once been thrown against the wall when something jostled the wheels or he'd stopped abruptly. It was beginning to irritate her no end. She wasn't meant to be working with people near her who didn't understand. Her husband knew that, he'd had the good courtesy to–

"Sarah?" Tessarie chirped.

Gods. Dammit. "What?!"

The elf startled and backed away. She held her hands up in a defensive posture while fumbling for her words. "Ah- s- sorry. B- But you haven't eaten and we've–"

"I'm quite all right." Sarah turned back to her work. She realized absently that the carriage wasn't moving and in fact that something smelled quite good. Pork stew, maybe some vegetables of some kind and something else. Garlic? Maybe that was it. She was salivating almost immediately, then she noticed that she felt remarkably tired and weak. Her hands were trembling and her sides bothered her in some non-specific way. When was the last time she ate?

Tess was climbing the ladder out when she put her chalk down. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I–" A beat. The truth, then. "It has been a long while since I've had anything stimulating, I have a habit of getting wrapped up in what it is I'm doing."

She offered Sarah a weak smile that held none of the usual revery fitting an elf. "It's okay. But we worry. . ."

Sarah took a beat to compose herself and drew out her usual empty smile as she made her way for the egress, "Nothing to worry about at all!" The mask fit easy and familiar. "I may be tired, but I would be a poor friend indeed were I to let such trivialities drive a wedge between us. Now, let's see what the boys are up to and what smells so delightful, shall we?"

She squinted against the early evening gloom and felt her way alongside the rail to the rope ladder slung over the side, eventually managing to make it down to where a small camp fire was warming an iron kettle and three folding chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle. Keiter was clutching a little bowl of stew in his lap and Caldion was pouring himself one, stalling for a moment when he saw her.

Of course, somehow the idea of a warm welcome seemed beneath him. "The princess arrives."

"Good man, I am a Marchioness. If you're going to be pedantic, you can use my title, hm?"

He scoffed and claimed his seat. "I didn't bring the other bowl down, you've been ignoring us for the last week."

"W- Week?" No. No, surely that wasn't right. "Week?!"

"Uh huh." He snerked. A touch of amusement in his features. Was he serious or just– No. He was lying.

"Oh ho! Very amusing paladin. Wonderfully representative of your ilk even if it's a poor reflection upon your church. Now, be so kind as to fetch a bowl and a chair?" She almost added 'before I pass out' but somehow it galled her to think those words would cross her lips in his presence.

He stared at her for a second as though she'd asked him to use the bowl for a hat. Then, still looking her in the eye, he took a sip of his dinner and leaned back, content.

"Yes, very representative." She muttered, turning towards the ship. She grabbed a rung and planted her foot on the bottom rung, preparing to climb. Her body stopped there, refusing to move. When she tried to push herself up she slumped back down. Again and again she tried but her body refused– she braced her hand against the hull as weakness wore her down to near collapse, and there she stood until Keiter stepped up beside her and took her hand, leading her back to the campfire. Somehow Caldion had slipped off without her noticing and so she deposited herself in his seat and, with Keiter's help, ate his dinner. When he returned he had a couple of bed rolls under his arm and some other gear in preparation for the night. He gave her a dirty look but it lacked the venom of sincerity.

Everyone had a task they'd fallen into and they performed it without so much as a word one way or the other. It was amusing, but it also reminded Sarah she hadn't actually spent time with either of them. The silence was a reminder of the things she'd neglected, something left undone. By way of opening the door, she leaned forward and said, "I'm fairly sure I have it figured out."

Tess took the bait thankfully. "What's that?"

It was a lie, of course, but Sarah went with it all the same: "Imagine for a moment that you could overcome the force of air and instead of having to walk everywhere, you'd glide."

"You mean fly?"

"Well. . . .yes– you're falling gracefully, in such a way that you don't feel the weight of your body and if you're careful with how you angle yourself with the thrust you're producing, you can push yourself back up in perpetuity." Sarah crossed her legs and removed her glasses so she could wipe her face. "At least that was how I remember it. . ."

Keiter and Tess shared a look that seemed somehow more meaningful than anything she'd recalled from the two. Even the paladin seemed to have a vague allusion of understanding what they were on about. What the hell had changed in her absence? Or had she always been that blind?