#XIV Write 22 Idanwyn Story

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-Finale): Iamb-ish Pentameter.

SCENE: From left to right, OAKMOSS, IDANWYN, and ANNE-SOPHIE stand amidships on the Nixie, looking at the ship’s crystalline core. All have thoughts of ESCAPE and FEAR silvered at the edges with HOPE.

ANNE-SOPHIE [to OAKMOSS.]

If I profane with my unworthiest hand    

this haunted ship, Her spirit clothed in mists,    

Would you, one passing priestess, ready stand    

to bless my rough touch with Sophia’s bliss?  

OAKMOSS (scoffing)

Good soldier, tju do wrong tjour hand too much,    

an unszeemly example for a witch.    

Tjour szaints have hands that gather tju to clutch,    

then szing their pszalms and push tju in their ditch.  

 ANNE-SOPHIE (with wounded pride)

You mean Witchdrop? Where I might meet my end?    

IDANWYN [to ANNE-SOPHIE]

Aye, lovely, sae ye best offer yer prayers.    

ANNE-SOPHIE (holding her hands to her breast in shock)

You, too, Captain? And here I thought you friend!   

Then pray I shall, lest faith turn to despair.    

(ANNE-SOPHIE exits stage left, the FURY’S LOOKING-GLASS following after her.)

OAKMOSS [to IDANWYN]

Szaints are not Godsz. They give not, only take.    

(OAKMOSS exits stage right, shedding fur, feathers, and cracked gems.)

IDANWYN (sotto voce)

Sounds lit’ ye, e’er chasin’ me Nixie’s wake.

(The lights fade until only the Nixie’s glow is left; curtains fall.)

---

((OOC Note: I got this weird ‘what if they were all in the same room’ thought, and so here we are. Apologies to Shakespeare and fans of iambic pentameter everywhere.))

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-9): Yawn.

(Continued from here.)

Though her kata were devoid of the elemental energy that usually accompanied the motions, the exercise served its other purpose well; to put Idanwyn at ease, and allow her a few bells of sleep. For reasons unknown, she had never been one to sleep much; three to five bells saw her fully recharged.

It had been five bells this time, almost to the minute. After her morning rituals were complete, she padded up to the deck on soft-soled shoes, taking her turn on watch. Though it wasn’t the traditional place for said shift, she always preferred to take it in the crow’s nest; a holdover from her childhood as a scrawny runt of a Roegadyn, her clan’s rigging rat.

Sipping the confection she called coffee from an insulated bottle, she peered through the binoculars bolted to the decking, whistling Sif’s part of one of her and Dug’s ribald duets. Stripped of her elemental strength as she was, Idan had to focus through more mundane means; she found it relaxing, if an ever-present reminder that she was still weak.

Perhaps her easygoing state caused her to fail to notice it. It wasn’t visible, after all, even though dawn had begun to touch the edges of the horizon with its pale-blue glow, a perfect color match to the Nixie’s crystalline core. Here, where the Sea of Jade met the Sea of Ash, the world was still an unbroken desert of ink-blue saltwater, nary a landmark in sight.

The feeling started as a nervous flutter within her belly. The Captain frowned at her mug of coffee. “Mighthae let ye steep too long, mm?” she muttered, then looked through the binoculars once more, training them on each hand of the horizon’s clock, in sunward order. Nothing; just the ship, its rune-embroidered sails taut with good winds. Though she knew it was fruitless, she stood, keeping her balance with ease, attempting to seek wind or water through her geomancy. Nothing. Just that same static-filled headache that had plagued her ever since her imperfect joining with Himawari.

Yet, the dread felt closer somehow; and then, there it was. A great, yawning pit of abyssal fear, far below the Nixie’s keel. A great mouth, opening wide, impossibly wide, and from between its rotted teeth, a rusted out axe, aimed right for the hull! Idanwyn tried to move, to call out, but she couldn’t; overcome with dread, rooted in place, just like they must have been when they saw the Summerender emerge from the fog, just like...

The distant clanging of her insulated bottle against the main deck freed her from her vision. Trembling, she found that her knobbly-jointed hands were enmeshed in the rigging; her sandaled feet hooked against the railing of the crow’s nest. Her body hung thus suspended, held out over the main deck; a fall that would have grievously wounded her, if not killed her outright.

Something was trying to draw her down. Still shaking, she freed herself from the rope, easing back within the relative safety of the crow’s nest, and flopped to its boards, her back resting against the railing.

Idanwyn had to alert the crew. She would, once she could find her voice again. Once she stopped hearing the salt-filled voice of her father, long-dead, calling her by his favored pet name.

“Syntblyss...me beauty. Ach, syntblyss...”

(Continued & concluded here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-8): Tepid.

(Continued from here.) (♪)

In truth, Idanwyn was a cowardly sort.

She confessed this to her crew, and they waved it off. What sort of self-respecting crew would serve a yellow-bellied Captain? By ameliorating her admission, they sought to save their own pride and purpose.

Though she appreciated their defiance of her nature, she was tired of explaining herself. Instead, she sought to reclaim cowardice as a boon rather than a burden. Something everyone faces, and learns how to overcome.

Serving under the elders that reclaimed the Swallow’s Compass made all the sense on the star to her. They, too, were cowards; they fled when Garlemald made heresy of their faith. They, too, hid behind elemental spirits older than memory, trusting their underlings to toll the warning bells.

“Nomak samman vanan vâdâyyâ khâ!” None shall trespass the Heart of Water! Idanwyn took the Stance of Water on the Nixie’s foredeck, enjoying the solitude that early watch granted her. Here, she could invoke her kata with peace and zeal in equal measure; none to remind her that her invocations failed to reach the geomantic fields around her.

Just practice. Simply moving through the kata; feeling the flow. None will judge you.

“Nohm vâdâyyâ khattah!” All shall surrender to the flow! Idanwyn kept her balance, stepping back to the prow, ilm by ilm. Her dance spoke to something old as the star itself; invoking its well-timed blessings to move the elements to her will.

Simply practice; the tepid waters of cowardice releasing their steam to wind. Idanwyn endeavored to allow the elements to speak through her, to serve as their focus. She gave them guidance; they were the flow.

“Nomak samman vanan vâyyâbeh khâ!” None shall trespass the heart of Wind! A craven Captain who could not wield a weapon to save her life. One who feared conflict; who tried to give ease to every situation that held the slightest hint of acrimony behind its honeyed words.

“Nohm vâyyâbeh khattah!” All shall surrender to the tempest! She had words that others sought; writing worth reading. A tale that filled her ship’s sails, and carried her onward.

Idanwyn’s feet shifted back further along the bowsprit, nearing the figurehead. A carved wooden shape so worn by sea, wind, and levin that it became its own being; the Nixie, carving through whatever the sea threw Her way to find yet another shore.

“Nomak samman vanan khâvîddhi khâ!” None shall trespass the heart of Earth!

Idanwyn came to center, her feet balanced perfectly upon the bowsprit, her eyes on the crystalline core that surrounded the Nixie’s mainmast. Cowards, the pair of them; herself and Himawari. The runts of their respective clans that, when pressed, proved themselves to be so much more.

“Nohm khâvîddhi khattah!” All shall surrender to the weight!  Idanwyn bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the seasoned wood below bend to accommodate her. She could use it as a springboard and dive into the sea below, never to be seen again. The urge nearly consumed her; seemed to speak to her from the stars strewn across the night’s velvet darkness.

She stood there, poised at the end of her kata, the final song singing to her, to leave it all behind. Half a bell passed, and the stars saw Idanwyn step back to the foredeck, depleted aether grounded within herself.

A coward she was; but she has overcome. She surrenders to the heaviness beyond the stars, and lets it pass through her; she is a conduit for the elements themselves. Idanwyn trusts that they will empower her once more, given time.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-6): Onerous.

(Continued from here.)

Captain Lluan’s-kin set down her annotated manifest, finally confident that preparations were complete. She filled her powerful lungs with air, readying herself to call all hands to their stations. As the command sat behind her teeth, she caught sight of Fasheran trotting onto the bridge. “Kapitan,” the Viera said, her typically-unflappable expression harried at its edges. “There iz word from Mealvaan’s Gate.”

Idanwyn exhaled; not a command, after all, but a great gust of defeat. “Please tell me they’re jus’ sendin’ weall-wishes, lass?” she pleaded with the chirurgeon.

Fasheran shook her head, and though Idanwyn was expecting the negative reply, she continued to deflate further. “Wha’ is it, then? I’ve gone o’er all th’ cargo, ten times at least. Had others check me work. Th’ tide is turnin’ in twain bells’ time, an’ we cannae miss th’ outgoin’ waves. Did they send a messenger?” Already Idanwyn was moving towards the stairs, preparing herself to sign off on something or the other, seething inwardly. “We’re no’ even carryin’ aught questionable, fer th’ Navigator’s sake!”

“I know this, Kapitan, I do. But...there was no messenger, only call to ze medikal bay’s pearl. It seems zat some of ze export fees on our medicinal cargo have increased.” Fasheran followed the Roegadyn down to the main deck, weathering the Captain’s string of swears with ease; she knew they were not directed at her, and she rather shared the Sea Wolf’s irritation, besides.

The pair’s long-legged strides had them at the door of Idanwyn’s quarters in short order. Leaving the door ajar, Idanwyn continued to call out orders as she changed into her formal dress. “Tell Falkgara an’ Rinh tae keep eyes on th’ tides an’ stars, both. If I’m no’ back before they deem it time tae set sail, have ‘em weigh anchor anyroad.”

Fasheran started to reply in the affirmative, then paused, picking at a loose thread on her tunic. “Kapitan...I will do zis, of course, but...you are not capable of aether travel at zis time. Are you saying we should leave you behind?”

Idan emerged from her quarters, closing the door firmly behind her, finishing up a few errant buckles here and there as she walked to the gangway. “I’ll bleedin’ hire someone tae send me tae th’ ship if I must, lass. Whole guild’s lousy wi’ arcanists; might be as they even do it fer free, seein’ as they’re th’ ones causin’ me current issues. As if they couldnae send a bleedin’ invoice; as if I’ve e’er been late payin’ a single one o’ their endless dues!”

The Rava chirurgeon inclined her head once as she followed Idanwyn onto the pier. “Understood, Kapitan. I am...sorry for the distress. I will relay ze orders.”

Idanwyn paused, tucking her hair up under her tricorne cap, then took a breath; calmer, this time, neither meant to bark orders nor vent her frustrations, but to offer apologies. “Ach, Fasheran, I’m sorry, lass. I ken I said ‘twas no’ yer fault, but I’m treatin’ ye lit’ it is. Th’ error is clearly on me ain end; ye dinnae need tae bear me misplaced wrath.”

Inclining her head towards Idanwyn, Fasheran replied, “I forgive you. Think no further on it. I wish you good fortune in this battle.” The steady-hearted medic turned back to the ship, her finger already raised to the ship’s linkpearl; Idanwyn’s own linkpearl picked up the relayed commands as she set off towards the nearest chocobo porter at a jog.

By the time she arrived in Limsa Lominsa, she was pouring sweat. “Fuckin’ traditional finery,” she groused, fanning herself with her hat as she loped across the Lower Decks. Even the ever-present sea breezes did little to cool her body or her temper; the early autumn sun was still warm, and humidity from the coasts so famed for their crops crept across the chalky spires of the harbor city.

Pausing outside the doors of the Assessors’ offices, Idan took a moment to get herself in order. At length, her heartbeat steadied, and she tugged at her cravat, hoping the fact that its linens hung loose with sweat would go unnoticed by the sharp-eyed tax collectors. Setting her hat atop her head, she waited for a pack of visitors from Ul’dah to make their exit before she made her entrance.

“State your name and business,” said the Miqo’te behind the only open counter.

“P’tahjha, ye ken full weall...” Idanwyn trailed off as the woman eyed her steadily over her half-moon spectacles. “Idanwyn Lluanswys, also called Idanwyn Lluan’s-kin, Captain o’ th’ Free Trader Nixie. I’m here at yer summons.”

“One moment.” A carbuncle sitting atop the desk stared at Idanwyn, the ruby-red gem set between its unsettling eyes flashing for a moment before it trotted off, retrieving records and setting them by its mistress’s hand. “Ah, yes. Bound for Thavnair in...my, just a bell from now, yes? Let’s hope we’re able to resolve this for you. Wouldn’t want to face any sanctions now, would we?”

Idanwyn stowed her temper, but her left eye twitched. She felt fresh sweat start to prickle beneath her brow; she was going to need a tonze of water after completing this onerous task, and perhaps a second tonze of ale. “What issue is sae pressin’ tha’ it couldnae be sent via moogle, lass?”

“Well, for one thing, the cost of exporting the Yellow Ginseng your vessel brought back from its most recent venture out East has increased substantially. Congratulations on avoiding another entanglement with Kugane, by the by. For another,” the Assessor continued crisply, “our carbuncles’ latest inspections have revealed that you are carrying an unusually-large amount of Trader Vetch. Surely you are aware that these two potent, medicinal herbs, being delivered to,” she traced her left claw down the page, “the Great Work, yes, is subject to further levies? Only ships flying Maelstrom colors are duty-free, Captain Lluanswys.”

“Oh, aye? Navy’s been doin’ a lot o’ tradin’ voyages lately, has it? An’ here I t’ought we Free Traders,” she emphasized each word, “were responsible fer tha’, while th’ Navy is providin’ assistance elsewhere.”

P’tahjha set the file down and folded her arms. “Captain, I deal with furious blowhards like yourself all day, every day. Are you going to pay, or not? Last I heard, you still have no idea how to wield an axe, and your...aetherial capabilities seem rather...deficient, so I confess I am not feeling particularly threatened right now.”

Idanwyn leveled a sharp glance to the carbuncle, which squeaked in reply; it had noticed her weak personal aether. “Tattletales, all o’ ye,” she growled, then turned her attention back to the Assessor. “Fine. How much?”

As the frazzled, sweat-drenched Captain rode a chocobo back to the porter near the Mist docks, she was relieved to see that the sails were raised, but the Nixie was still in port. Her crew had heeded her orders; they really would have left without her. Still, deep down, she was relieved she hadn’t missed departure; despite what she’d claimed to Fasheran, she wasn’t entirely sure she would have been able to find someone to send her to the Nixie’s on-board aetheryte. No reason to tell them that; the news that their coffers had taken a hit would be disheartening enough, even if such last-minute inconveniences were part and parcel of running a ship like theirs.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-1): Cross.

Though vessels completed this task daily, their arrivals and departures both serving as background sights for an average coastal dweller, crossing any sea was no glib feat.

A checklist, neverending, always mending when cropped down. Idanwyn’s father had called a ship’s manifest ‘wistyrwaek’ for as long as he lived. In their old Sea Wolf tongue, ‘western battle’; shorthand for the struggle that one must endure to answer the horizon’s call.

There was the cargo to consider during this struggle, to be certain. Fine cheeses and neatly-rolled bolts of velveteen from Ul’dah; check. Wineport wines, a staple, check. A bouquet of polearms from Gridania, rope looped around their centers in the hold, check. Various missives and treaties entrusted to the Captain of the Free Trader Nixie, hidden within the galleon’s core itself; check.

Too, the Captain’s Regulars must be accounted for. Falkgara Khannmagasyn, the First Mate, the southpaw Captain’s Left Hand: preoccupied of late, but ever-present, manning the helm; check. Zakuro Kaifu: the Chief Engineer, corralling her kobolds into pressing the Nixie’s ceruleum engines ever-harder; check. Miovont Kotelleloix, the so-called Cabin Boy that worked well within the allowances that silly title allowed him; check. Rinh Relanah, the tribal Keeper who could read the stars and thus served as the Nixie’s Navigator; check. Malachi Bloodforged, the attache whose connections were inversely proportional to his free time; check.

There were other able crew to consider, of course; friends and loved ones of those who currently served as the Regulars. Worth consideration, too, were those who remained loyal to Idanwyn after her aunt Hymlbyrta suffered a mutiny, half the former crew making off with more than half of the Nixie’s treasures.

Scoundrels to a person, those. Even the Nixie Herself, the spirit that swam within the crystalline core surrounding her namesake’s mainmast, seemed content to let the mutinous former-pirates go. Her vessel was Hers, now, and Her Captain an ally.

Idanwyn Lluan’s-kin, finishing her wistyrwaek, felt for a moment as if the deck beneath her feet was made of swimming stars; points of predatory light within the unfathomable abyss. Nauseated, she rested her left hand on the map table; sweat condensating on her brow before drizzling to the deck below; air filling and leaving her swimmer’s lungs in miniature tempests. On her left arm, beneath her kosode, her largely-drained aetheric tattoo threads itself with the barest hint of wind aether.

One’s sails will be filled even if one’s lungs strain to fill them herself.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22) Masterpost!

Last year, I challenged myself to write round-robin about four of my alts. This year I’m going to attempt to write an ongoing story about my three main ladies! I’m planning on doing ten prompts in a row for each of them. If that fails, I’ll still write something...so if that ends up being the case, challenge hopefully failed successfully! Good luck to everyone; this is always one of my favorite times of year. 

Submission Form || Links to each entry behind the cut! Temporarily pinning this for the month since it's easier to edit daily that way.

Prompt 1.)  Cross. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 2.) Bolt. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 3.) Temper. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 4.) Flourish. (Extra Credit) (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 5.) Cutting Corners. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 6.) Onerous. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 7.) Pawn. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 8.) Tepid. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 9.) Yawn. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

Prompt 10.) Channel. (Idanwyn Lluanswys)

--

Prompt 11.) Meander. (Extra Credit) (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 12.) Miss the Boat. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 13.) Confluence. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 14.) Attrition. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 15.) Row. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 16.) Deiform. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 17.) Novel. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 18.) Lurid. (Extra Credit) (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 19.) Turn a Blind Eye. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

Prompt 20.) Anon. (Oakmoss Vithsyna)

--

Prompt 21.) Solution. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 22.) Veracity. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 23.) Pitch. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 24.) Vicissitudes. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 25.) Soliloquy. (Extra Credit) (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 26.) Break a Leg. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 27.) Hail. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 28.) Vainglory. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 29.) Fuse. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Prompt 30.) Sojourn. (Anne-Sophie Bale)

Finale: Iamb-ish Pentameter. (All three!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-10): Channel.

(Continued from here. Additionally, this is the final entry for Idanwyn’s ten-part story!) (♪)

No crew of a ship at sea was ever fully still. Much like the waves and winds themselves, everyone moved in shifts; the traditional cycles of days on shore forged into bells of work and rest that ensured none were overtaxed. All governed by the wistyrwaek; that carefully-arranged manifest. Perfect, clockwork order that even accounted for the odd all hands call in case of emergency. Once the crisis was handled, those who had been awakened would return to sleep, first; the wistyrwaek once again followed to the letter. As if the issues that rose at sea had never occurred; consigned to a note in the Captain’s Log.

This clockwork precision of the able crew meant that Idanwyn passed the alert members of the dawn shift, though she herself moved as if sleepwalking. Soft-soled shoes trudged along the bridge deck; one foot before the next. Her insulated coffee bottle, its contents still piping hot, hung from nerveless fingers. Her eyes bulged wide, blinking only when her body demanded it; following its own manifest that kept her moving. Though all of her crew noticed her demeanor, most refrained from commenting on it; the Captain had been overtaxed of late, they knew, and suggesting that she take an extra shift of rest would be met with polite-yet-firm refusal.

The ship’s Navigator, Rinh Relanah, was less reticent than much of the crew, however. She, too, was part of the dawn shift today, and as she entered the middle deck, her ears pointed towards the Sea Wolf who stood facing the crystalline core. Here, the core was its thickest, and included a carved seat; those who wished to communicate with the Nixie’s spirit directly sat upon the crystal seat and surrendered themselves to Her, swept within Her realm. Idanwyn stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, arms hanging at her sides, the coffee bottle falling to the deck yet again. Rinh stooped to retrieve it, the soft music of her tribal bells and ornaments just audible above the muted roar of the ship’s travel.

“Captain? Is aught amiss?” Not wishing to be rude, Rinh kept her aetheric examination of the Sea Wolf to a quick peek, her eyes flashing silver for a moment, then frowned. Not a big change, and yet...something had shifted in the Captain’s personal aether.

Idanwyn heard only the roar of the ship, and her dead father’s raspings.

“Syntblyss...ach, if only ye’d have listened...” 

“Nixie,” Idanwyn murmured, then staggered forward, collapsing at the foot of the carved seat. All at once, the lights flickered, then dimmed; a great shadow rose within the core, resolving itself into a monstrous, finned arm with clawed, webbed fingers that moved through the waters within. The hand lowered, turning its palm upward as it slid forward beneath the insensate Captain. Idanwyn coughed; seawater gurgled from between her lips.

“Nixie!” cried Rinh, her red-furred tail puffing out in alarm. “What are you doing to her? Stop this instant!” Already, Rinh was reaching for her linkpearl, when the Nixie replied in the toneless, mechanical voice of her console.

++Do not worry, Navigator. I will do her no harm. There is trouble coming. She has heard it. I have heard it. Tell the others after she wakes. There is nothing to be done for it now, so let them rest. You will all need rest.++ The voice paused. ++You may stay here if you wish to confirm the truth of my words. But do not interfere.++

The Keeper’s two-toned eyes went wide, then narrowed as she folded her arms, still carrying Idanwyn’s coffee. Her ears flattened as she growled her reply. “Damned ship. As if I’m going anywhere.” Leaning against one of the nearby cargo crates, the Navigator waited as patiently as she was able.

To Rinh’s surprise, only one minute passed before the lights flickered back on. Idanwyn spluttered out another mouthful of seawater, then got to her feet, her left palm covering her face. “Lass...oh, Nixie,” she croaked, then turned around, both surprised and comforted by Rinh’s palm on her right arm.

“Captain...are you all right? What in the hells just happened?!” Rinh looked upon Idanwyn with her aethersight, then stepped back a pace or two. “Six or seven hells,” she muttered, tail swishing in awe.

“Aye, ye see it then, do ye? Dinnae worry yer ainself, me lovely. Dinnae bother stirrin’ th’ crew, either; I’ll tell th’ Regulars once we’re all taegether again.” Idanwyn winked at Rinh, then took back her coffee, unscrewing the bottle’s lid and draining the still-hot life-giving brew. She turned and headed topside once more; her shift wasn’t over, after all.

--

Within the core, moments prior:

--“You hear it, too, then?”--

Idanwyn kept her eyes squeezed shut, and took a moment to remind herself she wasn’t drowning. Breathe as if on land. Ignore the body’s desire to hold its presumed final breath until lungs burst. She was within the abyssal depths of the sea; every one of her senses told her as much. The great pressure; the icy, bubbling saltwater that cradled her. She breathed, at last. As ever, air filled her lungs. This time was different than any time before, however; the air tasted sweet, perfumed with southern flowers carried on sultry humidity.

The geomancer opened her eyes, and looked around herself with awe. She was on an island; the only water present was the ocean in the near distance, and the fresh, cold water from a spring below. Glowing lilies drifted along the spring-fed pond’s surface, soft petals bumping against her calves from time to time.

“This is new, Nixie,” she observed aloud, her eyes looking beyond the dance of fireflies to the sky; eventually, they found what she sought. Twin golden full moons, some yalms apart. A great, hulking shadow rising from the sea far below, its shape defined by the way it blotted out the stars behind it.

--“Yesss,”-- the Nixie replied, the sibilance catching flickers of light on Her many-rowed fangs. --“I have worked hard to repay your kindnessss, White-Fieldsss. Fewer entanglementssss; I have ssset assside placessss sssuch assss thessse for My crew.”-- Though the Nixie’s eyes had no pupils, Idanwyn could nevertheless feel the shift in their gaze as they regarded her left arm. --“Draw upon it.”--

The Sea Wolf followed the spirit’s scrutiny of her aetheric tattoo, surprised to see threads of shimmering aether moving freely along it once more. “How...” she began, then shook her head. It didn’t matter right now. Idanwyn moved through her kata, the elemental perfection in this isle the Nixie had created for her allowing for easy channeling of the five elements she was able to wield.

They answered her. Moons of their absence made their presence heady, even though she remained weaker than she had been before the landwalking rite. “Oh, Twelve an’ kami both,” Idanwyn sobbed, dropping to one knee in the spring below. “T’ank ye, me beauty. I still dinnae ken how ye did it, but---”

--“...and you do not need to know sssuch thingsss right now, White-Fieldssss,”-- the spirit interrupted. Despite Her demurral, there was a touch of pride in Her tone; a levity to the voice that, in contrast to her topside tone, was the voice of tides crashing within a dark cave, whistling through weathered stone, low and wild and old as prayer. --“He isss reaching tendrilsss towards ussss....”--

“Aye.” Idanwyn stood, brought her aether to center. “We’ll keep an ear on it taegether, will we no’? Ye, the crew, an’ me ainself.”

The Nixie’s answer was one of action rather than words. Her great shadow moved towards Idanwyn’s isle, and all turned to black save for the twin moons in the darkness. A rush of bubbles, and she was returned to the physical realm. She felt more confident within her own flesh than she had in moons; she would need that surety of step to face Lluantoum as he was now.

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-7): Pawn.

(Continued from here.)

They’d caught the outgoing tide. She was sorely tempted to strip naked as her nameday the moment she’d set foot on the main deck, followed immediately by tossing her sweat-soaked formalwear into Llymlaen’s great laundering sea. Deciding that may not be the most professional option, she opted instead to head below to calm down within her quarters. Another shower, clean clothes, and fresh lip paint saw the Captain in a much better mood when next she went topside; a hearty helping from her ever-present copper flask of uisghe likely didn’t hurt, either.

“All’s right, Cap’n,” Falkgara informed her, having pawned off command of the wheel to his second once he saw Idanwyn pass through the bridge. The Warrior clapped his right palm on her left shoulder and let it linger for a moment in sympathy. “Zak’s engines an’ our windward have us makin’ good time aroun’ the Cieldalaes. We’ll be past th’ Bay of Dha’yuz by midmornin’ taemorrow.”

“Aye, aye. T’ank ye, kinsman. Sorry about all tha’.” Idan turned an apologetic smile up to her First Mate, exhaustion etching grey shadows into the creases of her pale skin. “At least we’ll no’ return from doin’ a charitable deed an’ have tae face sanctions, mm?”

Falkgara’s eyes darkened for a moment as his hand fell to his side. Turning to head back to the bridge---he didn’t like to be away from the helm for long---his muttered words carried on the wind. “Better fer all involved,” said the wind in his voice, and Idanwyn chuckled.

It felt good to be free of the land once more. The shores had their pleasures, to be sure; friends and their lovely venues, for one, but also a variety of flora and fauna, the sunrise on each shore a little different every day. It was not strictly uniform at sea, of course; weather was the law here, but it usually sang in variations on the same theme.

As she looked to the horizon from the port bow, wind and waves whipping the Nixie towards the southeast, she felt a little twinge in her left arm. Silken threads of wind and water were starting to reappear, but not fast enough for her liking. If they encountered something unexpected at sea...

No. She would revisit those worries when she retired for the night, and again when she took her preferred watch shift just before dawn. For now, she and her crew were free of shore-oriented duties. Idanwyn Lluanswys, born of the sea and cradled by it always, closed her eyes and felt the vast insignificance of herself and all she held dear; a crystalline drop bobbing atop indigo depths. Just how she liked it.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-2): Bolt.

((Note: I am FORCING myself to post this as-is, which is to say a very rough draft. I do NOT like doing this at all, therefore I must. Destroy. Perfectionism.))

(Continued from here.)

She’d learned that preparing for a voyage by sea often seemed chaotic when observed by the landbound. To Idanwyn, born and raised on the Summerender-become-Summermender-become-wreckage, everything had its own perfect, organized flow. Perhaps it was because her late father---so often on her mind recently, given the rumors she’d been hearing---was so determined to remain organized, and had passed that on to his children and crew, both. Perhaps it was because his sister---her aunt Hymlbyrta, the Nixie’s former Captain--had been even more organized, and Idanwyn had learned as much from her as she had Lluantoum. Whatever the source, Idanwyn was an eminently capable multitasker, and was therefore able to turn her attention to the stirring of wind aether on her arm as she loped down to the galley, pressing her back against walls from time to time to make room for crewmates as they passed, each task they performed a vital cog in their great machine. 

After she’d arrived in the galley, morning sunlight streaming through the aft windows, she bolted down her breakfast without really noticing the taste. An uncommon thing for the chef to do; she usually took her time savoring every dish, no matter how simple it might be. Chasing it with coffee dense with maple sugar and night milk, the Sea Wolf mulled over theories about her aetheric focus, and how it might be restored. It had been depleted during her entanglement with the spirit within the Nixie’s core; her gift to the spirit that had once been called Himawari, and had once walked the earth as one of the Races of Man. Ever since, she found herself unable to draw on her geomancy; when she pulled for the threads of nature that surrounded her, she felt as though she were trying to pull a thick milkshake through a too-small straw. Strain though she might, something was in the way; a blockage of some sort was the current theory, though nothing so delicious as a piece of cloud banana occluding the treat behind it. 

Heavy thoughts dissipated like a bubble, snapped in the morning light. With a lopsided grin, she set about preparing herself a milkshake; it seemed sweets were in order. This time, she savored the confection as she wandered the Nixie’s twisting hallways to her own quarters, intent on a quick shower and a change of clothing. No blockages in this milkshake, at least. 

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-5): Cutting Corners.

(Continued from here.)

Though she was bereft of her usual aetheric shortcuts, Idanwyn found it comforting that she could still perform her duties without their aid. During this step of their preparations, she often took herself abovedecks, casting her mind along the geomantic fields for as far as she could, sampling wave, wind, and building levin to help the ship and Her crew chart their course.

That's not how she’d learned to sail, though. Her aether had remained largely latent until six years ago; a gift of old Hellsguard magicks and ink from a former friend carved a stream for that deep reservoir, even as it covered and buried the painful memories etched into her pale skin beneath.

Moons in a dark desert cave. No escape. No hope. Only---a song, from time to time. A song that was worth it. And eventually, Seran, and his fiery charge to free her. Before they knew each other; before their love that had blossomed, followed its course to its peaceful parting of ways.

Idanwyn shook her head, dispelling those old memories. She reached within herself to look upon them from time to time; turned the pain and despair over within her mind’s eye, before stowing them carefully away again. Each time, the sadness healed a bit more; each time, it felt less like terror that could shatter the ground beneath her feet whenever she heard the liquid slide of chainmail, smelled alchemical furnaces working. Now was not the right time; she is the Captain, and it is time to fill that role.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-3): Temper.

(Continued from here.)

Scalding water sluiced Ul’dahn conditioner from Idanwyn’s two-toned hair. As she ran her gnarled, arthritic chef’s fingers through its strands, midnight-blue fading into last-of-sunset-red, she found herself still preoccupied with thoughts of her late father. He’d always said her hair was a blessing; a sign that the horizon would always favor her, a perpetual red sky at night. Even knowing it was more a curious twist of genetics that had produced its coloration never really expunged that belief of hers. Ceigybet, it was; sail-prayers, a loose code of sailor’s superstitions her clan had adhered to since their earliest days as reavers from the Far North.

Idan wondered what her father would make of her now. Lluantoum had favored superior furnishings; she’d inherited them after he’d died. Perhaps he would poke fun at his eldest-yet-smallest daughter, with her love for quality clothing, fine cosmetics, her tendency to stand in the creaking quiet of the cargo hold and run her hands over wrapped bolts of brocade and velvet. Perhaps not; she liked to think if he hadn’t gone down with his ship, his sunset years as a merchant instead of a pirate would have seen him enjoying his ease on the shore. Sailor’s delight, indeed.

With an oversized bath towel knotted above her breasts, she completed her daily cleaning of her shower. Another ritual of hers awaited as she padded into the main room of her quarters; clothing was laid out just-so on her canopy bed, a luxurious relic left behind by Hymlbyrta that Idanwyn couldn’t bear to rid herself of.

So many things she’d inherited from them all. Only recently had she started to believe she was worth any of it; the purported good ceigybet her hair conveyed, the fine goods, the Nixie Herself. Her crew, too, remained steady and capable folk. Idanwyn knew she should hire more crewmates; she thought this over as she finished getting dressed, lacing her low-heeled boots and blowing her hair dry with one of Zakuro’s contraptions, named the Aerobonnet Mk. III. It was too loud for Idanwyn’s liking, but seeing as she was still unable to channel wind aether to perform this cantrip of a task, she was grateful for its existence.

“More crew...Regulars, especially,” she murmured to herself as she tied her hair up, reaching for her lip paint. “Our ventures are gettin’ bigger e’ery year; need folk what’re,” she trailed off, here, applying her lip paint, finishing her monologue internally, ‘ready to do battle as well as use their brains,’ she thought. ‘A medic, too. Dedicated medic. Fasheran’s contract is up, soon, and Rinh can’t keep pushing herself all the time.’

As her lip paint dried, she examined the henna clan markings on her cheeks and brow. Still in fine condition, thanks to Falkgara. Another quirk of her clan’s; the markings each Roegadyn wore that denoted their profession had to be reapplied by family, either blood or chosen, and the brush-wielder had to tell a new story while performing this rite. Idan particularly enjoyed the stories Falk would weave, the brush perfectly-suited to his own Sea Wolf hands; a marvel in a world that sometimes seemed too small for their kind. His latest story had been an addition to what they’d encountered in Gyr Abania, where the crew had helped the First Mate lay some of his past to rest. He was always so gentle and meticulous when applying the acrid substance to her face, carefully following the lines it had permanently etched into the delicate skin over decades of wear. None of the First Mate’s famed temper was ever present in those moments of kinship; he was as a bonfire after it had consumed the bodies of one’s slain enemies, now a source of warmth, light, and life.

She knew her dearest friend was abovedecks currently, checking over the helm, roaring commands through the speaking tubes. Though the one to her own room was muffled---if there was an emergency, she’d know---she could nevertheless hear the First Mate’s voice, faint echoes of what she knew were anything but to those close by. Zakuro was likely returning the bellows with volume of her own.

Idanwyn allowed herself to relax for a moment, and smiled; her vanity mirror caught her expression, genuine and free. She stood, heeled boots clicking against the decking as she left her quarters, and tried to carry that vision of herself within her mind’s eye. Whatever else her father would think of her now---thoughts she dearly hoped would stay sunken along with him---Lluantoum would be proud of the crew she’d chosen, past, present, and future.

(Continued here!)