INTERLUDE: THE COST OF HONOR.

Captain Teadran had known this would be a bad day from the moment he awakened. Chalk it up to either a quiet warning from the gods or just the gut instinct of a man with decades of experience. He knew that something was off. He'd spent the morning making plans, preparing his ship and crew as best he could. Even going so far as to seek out that damned boy, much to his continued disgruntlement. But staring at the resonance imager, at the colossal spike of power radiating from the Folly Pit, his stomach fell as he immediately understood the futility of it all.

He hadn't been one of those who rushed to the observation decks— he didn't need to. He'd run this route for over twenty years; you couldn't run that long in this line of work without picking up the local legends.

Telm An'kaa. King of all Rivers. Warden of the Mists. Guardian of the Lowlands. The list of titles practically went on almost as long as the immense coatl's body. It wasn't some fledgeling beast lord establishing a territory— or a little first-step Pathwalker out to make their name— but a true god in its own right.

At the creature's level, its will alone would have physical effects on reality around it— distorting everything nearby to favour Telm An'kaa. The fresh storm clouds above weren't merely a magical effect, but the natural world around them twisting to the subconscious desires of an angry god. Divinity would solidify Telm An'kaa's presence in the world compared to their own and strengthen its hide against their attacks. Even if they managed to meaningfully injure it, the creature's natural desire to not be in pain would quickly undo their efforts; wounds would gradually vanish, not so much healing as fading from existence outright. It was the ultimate nightmare of every captain in the guild, and he knew in his bones that they didn't stand a chance.

Miles allowed himself to wallow for just the briefest moment in misery, in the despair that came from knowing your life's work was about to be destroyed and men you'd led for years were about to die. Then he got to work, slamming his fist loudly on his chair to quiet the shocked clamour of his crew.

"Come about." He growled into the suddenly quiet bridge.

"Sir?" The helmsman asked uncertainly.

"Come about. Full speed ahead. Line us straight for that monster's teeth!" He barked out, the crew jumping back in motion at his orders.

"Mister Grafton! I am giving the order to abandon ship. Inform the passengers to board the skips and make for the border— the guard will intercept them and provide protection. You will lead the crew and—"

"Begging your pardon sir," Grafton interrupted, uncharacteristically. "But on behalf of myself and the rest of the crew I feel I have to warn you before you—hypothetically— were to give any damn fool orders, such as leaving you behind while we all abandon ship, that I'd be obliged to tell you to shove such orders right up your ass, sir. As your first officer, I can't tolerate that kind of insubordination and would have to take drastic measures to prevent it from occurring. Hypothetically, sir."

Teadran glared futilely at his closest friend, but Grafton only smiled placidly in response. The captain looked around the bridge and found similar looks on every face of his treacherously loyal crew. The book of names in his breast pocket suddenly felt as if it gained the weight of all the world, and he slumped in his chair in resignation.

"Damn you all…" he swore quietly to himself before shrugging and raising his voice to a raspy shout. "Damn you all! Signal the caravan— we're breaking off. We'll buy as much time as we can."

"Aye sir." The signalman acknowledged before he began typing furiously at his desk. "Message sent… getting responses now."

The bridge was expectantly quiet for a moment as a sheet of paper quickly typed itself out on the signalman's desk.

"All ships acknowledge, sir."

Silence stretched out awkwardly as the rest of the caravan failed to change course on the imager, all the vessels still happily following behind the Duchess like a row of particularly militant ducklings. Teadran scowled angrily.

"If all ships acknowledge, why are my orders being ignored?"

"Sir! Message from the Pride, it says… uh…" the signalman trailed off with a slight cough before handing over a thin sheet of paper. "Probably for your eyes only, sir."

The captain grabbed the sheet with a snarl, already knowing what he'd find typed on it.

Miles,

You cantankerous old bastard, I bet your crew already told you what you can do with orders like that. Not a landship ever made that can outrun the King of Rivers on his home turf, and I'll be damned if I die running like a coward. Terland Unconquered!

—Cpt Reed.

"Terland Unconquered…" Teadran felt his frustration drain out of him, replaced by a moment of calm acceptance. Then he crushed the paper with a white-knuckled grip as defiant rage flooded him.

"All right you insubordinate little shits!" He roared. "Since none of you will let me save your worthless hides, it looks like we're going fishing!"

The crew cheered, and Teadran felt his voice grow husky.

"All ships, set cores for maximum output. Flank speed!"

"Sir the Surge could—" an engineer questioned nervously.

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"Vent the excess out the stacks. We'll need the heat to fry that bastard for dinner tonight."

The crew got to work as the ship rumbled beneath their feet, gauges across every control board ticking steadily upwards into dangerous territory. The staccato beat of the ship's centipede-like legs climbed to a constant roar that drowned out everything farther than a couple of meters away.

"Won't last long at full burn, sir," Grafton said quietly, stepping close and eyeing the readouts as the ship quickly approached redline in multiple areas. "Might survive the Surge for a bit if it crops up, but the stress… We'll be lucky if the whole caravan isn't scrapped by our own hands."

"An undamaged frame isn't going to keep us alive now. If you think we're squaring off against a god with anything but the absolute best we have, then you've lost more marbles than that bloody shaman." Miles snorted out, his eyes hard as he stood from the command chair.

"You have the bridge, Mister Grafton. There's something I need to take care of, have Baines report to my quarters."

Grafton looked at him consideringly, the first officer's eyes darting to the stun-bar Teadran had quietly palmed from beneath the chair— an instrument normally used for pacifying unruly or drunk crewmen so they could be safely thrown in the brig.

"She'll never forgive you for this." The big man said, without judgement.

"She'll be alive to hate me. Get the damn passengers to the skips." The captain replied calmly, walking steadily from the room and heading towards the core chamber.

I can't save you all, damn you. But I can save one.

----------------------------------------

Nezzick felt icy terror grip his spine with razor claws. His finely-tuned senses were screaming in horror and despair at the beast even now swooping down on them— he could feel it, just like the night when his people had been butchered. A dark, hungry emptiness was all that remained behind the ruined eyes of what had once been a majestic and intelligent creature. It would slaughter, it would take, it would despoil, and leave nothing afterward. If even Telm An'kaa had succumbed to this corruption… then the riverlands were doomed.

The strongest of the Beast Lords still remaining was Telm'Urka, a descendant of the great monster before them. A lesser descendant— in more ways than one. He would stand no chance against his ultimate ancestor, and while it would have been satisfying to watch the manipulative lizard that had schemed to banish them all get a long-deserved comeuppance… Nezzick doubted he would be alive to see it.

He was so overwhelmed that it wasn't until the godling lifted him bodily into the air that he realized he was being addressed.

"Nezzick! Come on dude, snap out of it! What is this? How do we fight it??" The boy yelled out, shouting to be heard over the sudden rumble of the ship picking up speed.

"Fight??" The ancient shaman couldn't help the pure incredulity that burst from his mouth. "That is not some beast to slay— that is a god! Even were we more than ants to it, Telm An'kaa is so far beyond us that reality itself will unmake our blows!"

Further words were cut off by a blast of air that nearly sent them both sprawling. Their attention snapped over to Telm An'kaa, just in time to see the enormous monster diving down through the air, each flap of its kilometer-spanning wings sending up hurricane gales that ripped across the ground. Streamers of mist continued to flow from the couatl's feathers, feeding the cyclonic storm above just as it once fed the ever-present fog of the swamp. It moved with languid, sinuous grace, deceptively fast because of the creature's enormous scale. It was nearly fifteen kilometers away, but it would be on them in minutes at most.

And that was before the madman running the ship angled them directly towards it.

"Madness… these damned highlanders are going to kill us all!" He hissed in disbelief.

The godling's eyes darted back and forth, his whole being radiating indecision that grated unpleasantly on the shaman's perception. Until an unfamiliar voice called out from the open hatch.

"Baines! Captain says you're to report to his cabin on the double." The voice hesitated before continuing. "And you, shaman, should probably get yourself back to the flotilla. Don't know how you keep bloody getting aboard anyway…"

The voice trailed off as the crewman departed, but Nezzick no longer had attention to spare.

[Warning! Abrupt emotional changes detected]

[Empathic Link: Confusion/Realization/Panic/Dread/Resolution/Defiance]

[Cause: Associative memory-triggered trauma]

[Likely Reaction: Will seek to counter the sequence of events in memory. Cognitive impairment and aggressive responses elevated.]

These emotions flashed through the godling's mind like gunpowder taken spark. The rapid progression made Nezzick want to tear out his hair in frustration over the unstable emotional state of the youth who was supposed to be their protector.

"Great One—" the shaman tried to interject quickly.

"Get the villagers north, Nezzick. Once they're across the border, Teadran thinks you'll be safe." The boy said, quickly dropping most of his clothing on the deck and rising up into the air.

"Great One, we must all flee!" Nezzick repeated futilely, one last time.

"I. Won't. Run."

The godling's skin split, his inner form exploding outward in a mass of hooked tentacles and chitinous spines before hurling himself forward, quickly outpacing their ship as he swam through the air. Nezzick wanted to howl in impotent fury, his fingernails drawing blood from his palms as he clenched his fists.

Cursing the futility of it all, the shaman quickly dug through the hidden menus and stats that he used to monitor the godling's condition; searching for something, anything, that would grant them a path to survival. But no matter the mental contortions he forced upon himself, there was nothing. The difference in strength between the boy and Telm An'kaa was just too great to bridge with mere strategy— unless they were willing to risk the consuming darkness buried behind the pantheon’s seal. But days of subtle prodding with every trick of magic in Nezzick’s arsenal made him… wary, of the hungry mass in the boy’s soul. Any attempt to interact or even just observe the darkness was simply eaten by it. He’d spent a not inconsiderable amount of his remaining stock of reagents on a ritual to inscribe an image of it taken at a distance, only for the image to eat a hole straight through the antique— and heavily warded— ritual table in his chambers. No, his instincts were that the darkness was at best a weapon of spite, to be used after everyone else was already dead. If ever.

Even the command to escape rang hollow, with the remaining path north to the highlands being much too long for a sacrificial distraction to have any real merit. No, the best they could hope for was to scatter, and hope for the smaller vessels to escape notice in the swamp. All this death, all this suffering, all his people had sacrificed for nothing…

Wait…

His train of thought had grown dark, but he found a flash of hope in that darkness. With a steady hand he drew the ceremonial knife from its sheath at his hip, inspecting it grimly. Held before his face, it looked almost large enough to blot out the raging couatl's serpentine body. Perhaps they could not contend with raw strength alone, but there was a way to empower the godling. Just enough to buy the time they needed.

Nezzick's lips compressed into a thin line with grim determination.

For the good of the many, the Shaman wields the knife.