From up here, far above the waters surrounding the imperial docks, Farron's crew looked like ants as they scurried across the decks of the Grymjaw. One of them hopped away just in time as part of the front deck unfolded, part of it growing upwards from belowdecks as if alive. In a way, it was. Through his bond with the ship, he felt anger that Farron and One-tooth had been attacked, and eagerness to enact vengeance.
The massive piece of machinery emerged with all the finality of the executioner's axe. He didn't understand how the technology and magic worked — no one did — but they knew enough to power it. The ship's mana reserves were down to half after using the farseer to scout out the jail, but Farron still commanded the Grymjaw to put all but the barest of reserves into the weapon. This was not the type of fight where he could afford to be closefisted with his resources.
It was a single, large brass tube several metres in length. It was completely smooth, tapering to a point that was slowly turning to face the docks. There was a lever and crank for this purpose, but the Grymjaw was moving it on her own. All in all, it wouldn't look like much from an outsider's perspective. The crew could have helped aim it faster, but they were afraid of it. He didn't blame them, for he was too.
The ritual circles surrounding the Inquisitor had stopped getting brighter, which Farron interpreted as a very bad sign. Three of them were arranged around the figure; one at knee height, one around the waist, and another around the neck. He told the Grymjaw to hurry it up, sanctioning the use of the last of the mana. He was lucky their communication was mental, as he feared his voice would have cracked if he spoke aloud. How did one person have so much power? Such a large circle should have been used by a full coterie of mages, so where was all the mana coming from? He didn't recognise the exact spell, but he was confident it was siege magic, designed for overwhelming defensive wards and enchanted walls. In this case, it was aimed at the Grymjaw itself.
From his position high in the sky, the only thing Farron could do was watch as both sides charged up.
He shared a worried glance with One-tooth, who was aware enough to recognise the gravity of the situation. If that ritual was completed the Grymjaw would be either destroyed or damaged so badly that there would be no opportunity to flee. Given how far into imperial territory they were, as well as the proximity of the Inquisitor, there was no way they could make it out to the relative safety of the deeper seas.
Suddenly, the three disparate rings surrounding the Inquisitor connected together with blue, lightning-like veins of magical energy. The figure brought its hands together in a final clap.
The massive weapon mounted to the front of the ship finally finished charging, and the Grymjaw didn't hesitate to fire. A mortal would have paused considering if they really should release it, but the ship's intelligence was not capable of feeling fear or empathy for those outside the crew.
The unassuming tube lit up with a dizzying coating of runes as its payload was unleashed. Reality shivered like a struck bell as the world itself held its breath. The sound of the whistling wind in his ears, the distant waves, the shouts of his crew, and the raspy breathing of One-tooth — all these things and more turned silent as a beam of nothingness launched out of the cannon and swept across the docks.
It had no colour, as it was the absence of any thing. The projected fist-sized beam of nothing lanced across ships, buildings, the occasional person out at this late hour... and the Inquisitor.
The last thing Farron saw before a massive, billowing cloud of dust obscured his view of the city was a hazy figure lying bisected on the docks.
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Symon blinked his eyes furiously, finding himself leaning against the outside wall of someone's home. "Ugh, shit, what the fuck Keelgrave!" he hissed, fighting off a sudden wave of nausea.
"Yes, I fucking saw it! It was just like the memory dreams," he said, swaying unsteadily. "Damnit, I better not throw up. How long was I out of it for?"
"No, no, don't do it again!" Symon half-whispered and half-shouted, but nothing happened. He sucked in deep breaths, feeling the dizziness rapidly fade with every lungful of air. "That was way worse than when I'm asleep."
"Ugh, you little shit. Seriously, cut that out. I don't want to pass out in a gutter before I even get to drink with my friends in the off chance you get it working again."
Symon wasn't sure if Keelgrave was being serious or not about trying to recreate the memory dream. As much as he could be caustic and selfish, he'd been good about not trying to use their bond negatively. Plus, the fact that Symon's continued existence was the only thing tethering Keelgrave's spirit to this world meant he was confident that he wouldn't push anything too far.
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"We hardly have privacy from each other in the first place anyway," Symon said, pushing himself off the wall and resuming his journey back to Durga's tavern. It had been a bit awkward the first time he'd needed to relieve himself, but it had at least seemed that the spirit didn't want to dwell on it any more than him. Mutually ignoring it was perfectly fine, in Symon's opinion. "Question, though, what's Cathar? That Eastern continent?"
Symon frowned to himself. He initially hadn't wanted to ask Keelgrave what this world was named, as it would have made it more obvious he wasn't a native. When Keelgrave eventually found out the truth, Symon had already gotten so used to just thinking of it as 'this world' that he hadn't thought to ask for its actual name.
"Huh, I guess not. Cathar... not a bad name."
"I'm not going to deny that, but how can we even come up with something convincing? I barely know anything about anywhere, especially outside of this village."
"Really? That's new."
"Do I really need another tragic backstory? I think my real one was bad enough."
Keelgrave's spirit vibrated in Symon's vessel. Somehow, he could tell it was a shrug.
Symon had reached the main plaza of Brackstead, meaning he was halfway to his destination. It didn't take very long to get anywhere in this tiny town, as long as you knew where it was. "And because you're from Usas you can fill in for me if I don't know something obvious, I get it. It's a solid plan. Maybe we can say I left to become a travelling healer once I... unlocked my Ledger? What's the term for it?"
Symon chuckled. It was a pretty crazy story to claim he just woke up in the middle of a lifeless desert which was itself in the middle of a near-humanityless continent. Teleportation magic existed, but it wasn't even close to being strong enough to go across the seas, not to mention the prohibitive cost. "How does that even work?" he asked. "Awakening, I mean. I don't think I went through the normal process."
"That easy?"
"Shit, that long? I guess I must have lucked out having a vessel instead of a core." If Symon had followed the normal process of awakening, he would have been trapped in the desert without a Ledger. I would have died to the very first centipede when it stung me and paralysed my lungs.
Something gently struck Symon's side, bumping him out of his thoughts. Looking down, he saw a vaguely familiar kid land on the ground with a soft whump. Greedily, the grey thread emerged from his side and lashed out, attaching itself to the young boy. He was still sitting down as he rubbed his forehead, so Symon quickly stepped backwards. The magic almost seemed to stretch, holding onto the kid like an elastic band before Symon finally got far enough away that it released him.
Shit, that was three or four metres before the connection broke. He hadn't tested draining just a small amount from people in a while — the last time being when the other Dumosans had volunteered their vitality to heal Atabek — but it was clear his magic was becoming more and more inconvenient as it levelled, just as he'd feared.
"Hey kid, are you okay?" Symon asked. Naturally, he hadn't been empowering the draining, but his vessel was still half empty from when he'd healed former mayor Temuri. This meant they hadn't benefited from the slower draining associated with having a full vessel. Still, it had only been a few seconds of passive draining, not enough for even one full point of vitality.
The boy nodded tearfully, his little hand rubbing against the bump on his forehead, but remained silent.
"Just be careful about running in the village. Was someone chasing you?"
He shook his head. "Sorry mister... I was just playing monsters with Markie and then I was running and then he almost caught me but then I climbed under a fence. Oh and Markie is too big to fit, so then I was running again and then I was tired from running but then I got better so I started running again and then I bumped into you. Sorry..." he trailed off, out of breath from the sudden deluge of information. He stood up again, one hand still pressed against his forehead, which just so happened to be the exact same height as Symon's hip bone.
"Well bud, it just looks like a little bump, so you'll be fine. Just slow it down a bit around corners, yeah?"
The boy nodded his head emphatically before glancing back down the side street he'd come from, presumably checking for this Markie. "You won't tell Mama I was playing monsters in town?"
Considering I don't know what this kid's name even is, let alone who his mum is...
"You're fine, little guy. Hurry along before Markie catches up with you," Symon said, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder and transferring a bit of vitality back. His threads lashed out again in the process, so he pushed a little extra over to make up for it. The boy skipped forward a few paces before turning around and waving at Symon. When he saw that the bump on his forehead had already gone down, he also smiled and waved back.