Eight Era, cycle 1721 – cycle of the squatting dog, season of Unkh, day 298

The group didn’t stop hiking until they found an inn, and once inside, they immediately ordered large amounts of comfort foods, such as porridge with dried fruit, heavy suet puddings and roast meats. After several hours of eating and drinking, they paired up and went to their rooms, one pair in each.

The next day they asked the innkeeper about the best way to get to the Way of Tekakwitha.

‘It’s on the other side of the lake; you can either take a ship or hike to it. Going by ship will take about four days, and hiking about… oh, maybe forty days? The thing is that there’re a lot of monsters round here. If you try to hike, I sell repel spells, but they’re only 30% effective; however, there’s worse in the lake,’ the innkeeper explained.

‘I’m not hiking that,’ Ember said flatly.

‘Agreed. What ships are in?’ Zyol asked.

‘Only The Ondine; that’ll be with one Captain Rhetorik Friedenthal. He’ll be going to see Staffan the silk merchant today, so go and catch him there.’ The innkeeper then rattled off a series of directions for them to get to the silk merchant.

The group followed these directions, which proved to be fairly straightforward, and they soon reached the man they were looking for. He was easy enough to find, as he was overseeing a delivery of carpets. He inspected each one personally before commanding an attendant to load it onto a cart. Close by, a man wearing a fine gentleman’s coat of bright red and with intricate embroidery, combined with an outlandish hat, was inspecting a second pile and offering prices to Staffan.

‘I’m sorry, my friend, but my prices have been set,’ Staffan was saying.

‘Come on, you don’t have any storage fees or handling concerns. I’m buying them right off the train,’ Rhetorik replied.

‘Ah yes, but I had to source them, you know; the carriage charge for booking them on to the train at short notice…’ Staffan made a sucking in noise. ‘All these things add up.’

‘But you know my business, my friend; I’m needed at Coldpoint Harbour where all my stores are tied up. If you can’t meet my price, I can’t meet my deadline and my cargo loses value. Long term, it’s worth taking a hit, no?’

‘My friend, you’re always on the verge of collapse. You build your business like a house of cards, you have no redundancy in your plans and you’re always running downhill, desperately trying to keep upright.’

‘And I’ve always paid my debts!’ Rhetorik declared triumphantly.

‘Fifty silver, with 5% to be paid on your return.’

‘A florin now and a florin upon my return.’

Staffan sighed. ‘Fine, but I want to see your receipts. I can’t understand where you make your margins.’

Rhetorik rubbed his hands together and jumped down from the train before noticing the party comprised of dwarfs and two humans.

‘Oh, please forgive me; I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Rhetorik Friedenthal, captain of The Ondine. I was just ruminating with this fine fellow about the price of his silks, whilst taking advantage of a late departure.’

‘Taking advantage’d be right,’ Staffan grumbled.

‘Do you wish me to send a letter for you?’ Rhetorik offered, ignoring Staffan. ‘Only thruppence – a bargain.’

‘Three silver! You thief!’ Zyol shouted.

‘That’s a good price; delivering letters is good business,’ Staffan responded.

‘Alas, this is true, and the pain that’s felt from good friends being apart is only matched by the eventual joy of their reunion. And isn’t it the little things in life we enjoy the most? The expectation and exhilaration of holding an unopened envelope containing the latest message from one you cherish. The thrill of reading it and revelling in those moments they’ve implanted into it by hand, with quill on paper?’ Rhetorik gushed, with a feeling and verve that belied the trivial topic. ‘And then comes the desperate casting of the mind to think of a reply. Is it too short? Is it too dull? Why oh why is my life so slow? I’ll never think of a decent reply! But then there’s that glorious moment when your hand moves, the words flow, the message is writ and the envelope sealed. Of course, that’s followed by the fateful day with the bittersweet sorrow and joy of passing the message over to a carrier, and the sadness of knowing that it will be many moons before you get a response, but the joy of the experience is still fresh in the mind, and you know they may encounter the same.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that before,’ Holly said, a little overwhelmed by the elaborate description.

‘Really? Well, have no fear, all this can be yours for five silver,’ Rhetorik offered.

Zyol nudged Ember in the ribs as Ember wiped away tears. ‘Who do you write to?’

‘I miss vodka,’ Ember replied.

‘We just need a ship to take us across that,’ Ash explained, pointing to the lake.

‘Passage? Well, why didn’t you say so! That’s a farthing each,’ Rhetorik confirmed.

‘What? Why’s it cheaper to get passage than send a letter?’ Five Nine asked.

‘Well, I have to send you word in return that your letter made it,’ Rhetorik explained.

‘Also, people care less about their safety than for their belongings,’ Staffan added.

‘And he doesn’t have a rehearsed speech ready,’ Ember muttered.

‘So when do you sail?’ Zyol asked.

‘It’s customary to sail in the mornings, and woe betide the captain who disobeys tradition.’

Quest update: land dispute

Cross the river. As you might guess from this quest appearing, it won’t be that simple.

*

The following morning, they met Rhetorik as he was talking convivially to someone. When he caught sight of the party approaching, he waved them over and introduced them like old friends.

‘This is my first mate, Christos Twynam,’ presented Rhetorik.

The first mate bowed as he was introduced.

‘And Christos, this is the fine group of adventurers I was telling you about,’ Rhetorik continued, before turning to face the group once more. ‘I’ve set aside a space for you all in the cargo holds. I hope you find it comfortable, and it should warrant you some privacy. Not that there’s ever much privacy on a ship.’ He then gestured in the direction he and his first mate had been looking in.

‘We’ve sent an offering before we sail, as is the custom; if our offerings are sufficient, then we’ll be shown a sign. Before we set sail, we’re waiting for an easterly wind.’ There was a weathervane in the direction he had waved in; it had been pointing south, but as if on cue, it turned.

‘And if that doesn’t tell me you lot are my lucky charms, then I don’t know what does!’ With that, he showed them aboard his ship.

‘So, what is there to do on a sea voyage?’ Five Nine asked.

‘Feel your mind fester with inactivity and count birds,’ Norton said disdainfully.

‘How about a little friendly scrap?’ Zyol offered Five Nine.

‘May I shoot you?’ Five Nine asked, but Zyol dismissed him.

‘How about against an actual melee fighter?’ enquired Norton, whilst holding a strange-looking weapon comprised of a pole shaft topped with a head that, to Ember, looked like an elegant butterfly.

Zyol coughed, and if he hadn’t been a dwarf, it would have sounded bashful, but dwarfs’ voices are too deep to be bashful. ‘No need for that; it was just a bit of fun,’ Zyol stated.

Norton was spinning his pole weapon idly, and then struck. His strike wasn’t that fast, allowing Zyol to use his hammer to knock it aside. Norton easily pulled his pole back and evaded the block, then brought his pole forwards again. Zyol was caught off guard, letting Norton give him a good thump on the chest.

‘Now I’m dead. Thank you for that, Norton,’ Zyol grumbled ungraciously.

‘Boys and their toys,’ scoffed Ember, and she brought forth a glass, seemingly out of nowhere, and filled it with an amber liquid.

‘Why don’t we see what the humans are capable of?’ Five Nine gibed.

‘Just for that, you can fight Ember,’ Alban retorted.

‘Oh yeah?’ Five Nine mocked, pulling out a three-headed sickle on a 5-foot chain, on which were two other three-headed sickles at equidistant spacing. ‘Now you’ll see why I’m called Five Nine: nine ways to die on a 5-foot chain.’

‘That can’t be a real weapon?’ Ember said with a laugh, but she stopped when Five Nine started spinning it expertly.

‘It’s an artefact weapon. Five Nine’s great-grandad found it in the Tech War; that’s the war against the Virl-ya – the only race who can claim to be better at mechanisms than us and the gnomes. The weapon bestows its owner with a level-73 status in chain weapons, so as soon as you pick it up, you’re an expert in it,’ Clang warned Ember.

‘Oh gee, that’s great,’ Ember muttered, and then started to roll her joints to loosen her muscles. Her stance and gait were fluid as she fought, odd parts of her body were always moving: a foot rolled on its ball, and a shoulder dropped or rose. She was constantly adjusting her body, both to put off her attacker and keep herself ready to attack.

Ember decided she didn’t want to be struck by Five Nine’s odd weapon, so she pounced, springing from one foot to the other. Five Nine didn’t move, assuming the first move from Ember was always going to be a feint. She had only taken two steps before she stopped; a knife-edged smile split her lips, and instead of facing Five Nine, she turned, punched Norton on the nose and stole his pickaxe as he back-pedalled. Five Nine whipped the chain out, but Ember flexed backwards and performed a cartwheel.

Battle log:

Agility test passed, you dodged an incoming attack

Her hands never touched the ground; instead, she drove the pickaxe into the earth, hoping to skewer Five Nine’s weapon by getting the pickaxe through a link in the chain.

Battle log:

Weapons skill fails, the pickaxe fails to the ground, imbedding itself

Ember pirouetted, spinning around Five Nine’s right side; she stepped foot over foot to his right as she turned away from him. But in mid-spin, she somehow countered her own movements to attack his left side once again. Her waist and hips moved clockwise, but her stomach and shoulders twitched to move anticlockwise. It was an incredible move of agility, as though her top and bottom halves were attached together via a spring. Five Nine was already caught off balance, but his dexterity with his own weapon was beyond rival, and he was able to interweave his arms with the chain and block her attack.

Battle log:

Agility test failed, caught by a glancing blow from a sickle and chain, −5 health points

‘Impressive! Not what I was expecting. You made that first dodge look easy,’ Five Nine praised.

‘Easy? Nothing about that was easy!’ Ember exclaimed, wiping away a trickle of blood.

The Ondine had caught a good breeze, and the crew had turned to watch the sparring for entertainment; since they were mostly dwarfs, they were on Five Nine’s side, cheering him on.

Five Nine made an attempt to move to the right, but Ember stopped him by striking out. She hit to his left as the momentum of the chain was whipping to the right, he blocked her by lashing the chain faster than she had expected was possible, and he seized the chance to take a double step to the right. Ember slammed a knife into the rails of The Ondine and used its handle as a springboard, but Five Nine anticipated this, and as she landed, he wrapped her up in his chain, and the blades pressed against her skin.

‘Finally,’ Five Nine breathed. ‘I had to work for it, though; I’ll give you that! You’re a squirrely one.’

*

The captain had invited his guests to dinner, and they walked into his cabin to discover a large, rich mahogany table and less grandiose eating utensils.

‘The benefits of my sailing route are stable waters and frequent docking for fine foods and drink,’ Rhetorik declared, lifting up a bottle of fine wine.

‘You ain’t got anything stronger, have you?’ Ember asked.

Rhetorik walked over to a chest, rummaged through it and unwrapped a few bottles protected in cloth.

‘I have a… a “Bacchus’s Own Rum”; is that any good?’ Rhetorik asked. ‘I have to admit I’ve never drunk it. I don’t even know where I got it.’

‘It’s better than grape piss,’ Ember said, taking it.

‘How’d you get a ship down here?’ Holly questioned.

‘The Ondine was built down here. We dwarfs aren’t renowned for our woodwork, but she’s a fine vessel,’ Rhetorik declared, tapping his ship fondly.

‘Where’d you get the blueprint from?’ Clang asked, ‘As you say, we aren’t known for building ships.’

‘To be honest, I think we bought it from some goblins, but I can’t tell you where they got it from.

Maybe goblin caves have lakes in them as standard?’ Rhetorik offered.

‘I’ve heard that they’re damper caves,’ Ash agreed.

‘Isn’t Mr Twynam going to join us?’ Lyre enquired, accepting the drink now offered.

‘No, the poor chap has been taken ill. Nothing serious, I hasten to add; he ate something that has studiously attempted to gain its escape,’ Rhetorik explained as he carved their supper, placing a healthy chunk of meat onto each of their plates.

‘Death by pebble dashing, eh?’ Alban asked sympathetically.

‘Hey, we’re trying to eat here! Right, Ember?’ Holly scolded.

‘I once ate a sandwich whilst a friend’s entrails were spilled from their guts. A bit of shit talk doesn’t bother me.’ Ember took a swig of rum and then pulled a face, but she took a second swallow.

‘Oafs,’ Holly scoffed.

‘It doesn’t matter; dwarf food all tastes of gruel, so you can choke it down regardless of your sensibilities,’ Ember stated. ‘I suggest smoking their cigars; they take a bit of getting used to, but they’re better than the grub.’

‘That’s not a polite thing to say about your hosts,’ Holly warned.

Ember shrugged. ‘I’m sure they know their food is as bland as wood. Heck, if I couldn’t cook, I’d want to be told. Otherwise, everyone is cussing you behind your back.’

‘It’s a societal thing. Humans use food and the hearth as a powerful social symbol; it’s why Hestia is one of the most powerful gods. Whereas dwarfs tend to do all their socialising whilst mining, you see…’ Clang began, but everyone groaned and told him to shut up.

‘Are your family in the business of trade, Captain?’ Lyre asked conversationally.

‘No, my parents work in a mine like good dwarfs,’ answered Rhetorik. ‘I have a sister who went above ground to adventure and a brother who is a scholar – so we’re all a let-down. My brother’s fascinated with our ancient history, particularly our origins. He’s been studying the development of our langues and cultures; he said there are forty words in goblin that share an origin with ours, and that there are many other words that seem completely unrelated to each other whose bases are in even older langues. Apparently, the deep dwarfs have older words in their tongues. He believes that if he could study the commonalities in the native tongues of all below-surface creatures, he may one day hold the key to the original langue, because all langues steal some words from it, apparently. He’s a gifted polyglot.

‘You know there are many who feel that the gods rein in the advanced races, to keep us in check and at their heels. We know that we dwarfs were once more advanced, that many secrets were lost and that many cities were buried. Take Göbekli Tepe, the city you were just in. We’re still excavating it to this day; the train was based on schematics found in a long-abandoned dwarf city. My brother was conscious of what we’ve forgotten and felt something in our past was returning. But… he took a lot of psychedelics and consciousness-expanding drugs, so I don’t always trust what he says.’

‘What do you mean “returning”?’ Lyre questioned, intrigued.

‘I’m not sure; I tuned him out. He was rambling on about predestined events and commonalities in seemingly unrelated empires. A warning from our forebears that resurfaces from time to time in a word or a belief. That’s why we have the odd shared word or ritual. For instance, every culture makes reference to the winter solstice. I’m sorry; I’m not expressing it very well.’ Rhetorik laughed before continuing, ‘My brother could make it seem so clear when he explained. The last I heard about him, he was planning on visiting Ebla, which isn’t known as the greatest library on the Sphere, but it’s believed to be one of the oldest. I wonder if he ever made it. His last letter was many seasons past – too many.

‘Let me see what I remember. He claimed that there were some recurring themes across all species. So, the number three occurs a lot, right? We have the three parts of the shell that hatched Duran, the goblins have the three spear heads of Gúflîk, and the terrainmoles have three shamans.’ Rhetorik swallowed, thinking. ‘So, three is important, but is there a reason for that? Also, these three symbols all have journeys attached to them. Duran wandered for years after hatching, the three spears were made separately and had to be brought together, and when a shaman dies, the next one must wander for five years before taking their place. So we have both three and wandering.

‘Now there’re lot more symbols involved, but for this entry-level debate, we’ll focus on the wording to describe the gods. So, the dwarfs see the gods as “the veiled and shuttered manifestations” and “beguiling kisses will lower you down”; both of these are taken from Artik’s Philosophic Nature, where the “veiled and shuttered” refers to the soil above us, so we believe these “manifestations” refer to the gods of surface dwellers. The goblins have “the Arue is straight and bright, where Dunma meanders and shades”, and they have the words “arudue” for sun and “dunda” for fissure. Hence, the gods called “Arue” are linked to the sun, so are surface gods, whereas the gods linked with “Dunma” refers to the deep down – because of fissures. This is okay as the goblins walk in both sun and tunnels. So, both dwarfs and goblins have something calling them downwards. Also, the surface gods don’t interfere with life-below gods. We know little of the terrainmoles, but my brother had reason to believe they also had some similarities. So that’s three, wandering and a distinction between those gods who rule above and those who rule below.

‘So what does this mean? Well, there’s one place where three continental plates meet, and this is a meaningful place in the beliefs of both dwarfs and goblins. The continental plates move, and so we can deduce that, for some reason, both we and the goblins have this mythology that something dangerous is down there. There’s a lot more of this that my brother was looking into, but I skim-read those parts of his letters,’ Rhetorik concluded, before taking a long drink of wine.

He then shrugged and moved the conversation away from such heavy things. ‘I saw you lot training, and my men were impressed with your levels of commitment. I must say, I stopped for some time to take notice myself. The weapons skills on display made me proud to be a dwarf! Yet, Ember, you moved in ways that made me think we dwarfs are missing something in our women!’

Holly choked on a mouthful of wine.

Ember frowned. ‘I didn’t know you had women?’ she asked.

‘We do… but we’re actually genderless until the Gur’ung, when we breed,’ Rhetorik elaborated.

Alban had been looking at a decorative piece in the corner of the room, and he now stood and walked over to it. ‘Tell me, Captain, where did you get that feather? It’s unusual,’ he asked, looking at an elegant feather tucked into another flamboyant hat.

‘Ahh, my neris feather. Have you never come across the neris feather before?’ Rhetorik asked, sounding pleased.

Five Nine explained, ‘I once met a playwright; he said he had one. He said it was a gift from the gods – his neris feather from the muses.’

‘Where did you ever meet a playwright?’ Norton asked incredulously.

‘In a tavern,’ Five Nine replied with a shrug. ‘He was the only other one drinking Northpoint beer.’

‘Not that piss,’ Zyol muttered darkly. ‘That’s biological warfare against the dwarf race if they’re selling it down here.’

‘It’s said that the muses of Athens are lovers of imagination, inspiration and creativity. They attend every play, view every piece of artwork and listen to every verse from the bards. And then, to only the very best do they present a token of their appreciation: a neris feather,’ Five Nine elaborated.

‘And what was yours awarded for?’ Clang enquired, impressed.

‘Oh, it’s not mine; I bought it from a fence,’ Rhetorik replied dismissively.

‘Very nice. I’d like to have that to my name,’ Ember said, looking over the feather. ‘Whoever it was stolen from would surely have treasured it.’

*

The next morning, for the second morning in a row, Clang gave a call of ‘Land ho!’ when he climbed above deck.

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‘Oh great. Because that isn’t going to get old,’ Ember muttered. She had spent the morning stretching and meditating; something was in the air that seemed to help her reach her yogic calm.

Skill increased: meditation 13

That was a nice little level up; she’d been stuck on level 12 for ages.

There was something pervasive that was getting into her head and calming her; if she were consciously aware of the effect, she’d have put it down to the scenery or even the company. She’d have been wrong.

‘No one awake?’ Clang cried as he stalked around the deck.

‘Doesn’t seem to be,’ Ember answered, taking another look around the obviously empty deck.

Clang nodded; a mildly perturbed look disturbed his features for a moment. ‘Someone should be awake,’ Clang reiterated. ‘What’s to stop us sailing over to the shore?’

‘Not a clue; I don’t understand sailing, let alone how a lake underground could have ebbs and flows.’

Ember lay prostrate on the deck of The Ondine; she was on the brink of falling asleep when the ship rocked. It was nothing dramatic – just a slight rise of the bow, like a gentle see-saw – but it was enough to bring Ember back from the edge of her dreams. The docile movement of the ship’s rocking was the equivalent of tripping over a root in a familiar landscape; the intrusion of a foreign object in a world she was so used to jarred her out of her stupor.

‘Tighten the bowline, do something or other to the mizzen sail,’ ordered Rhetorik a few moments later, as he stepped out of his quarters and quickly adjusted his jacket. ‘There can be unpredictable rocks in these parts and big monsters to bump against. I don’t want to be caught ou—’ He stopped, looking around the deck. ‘Where’s my crew?’

‘I haven’t seen anyone, Captain, I wasn’t sure if I had beaten them out of their slumber,’ replied Ember.

‘Hmm, we should at least be able to hear my first mate by now, shouting them up on to their feet.

Are none of your companions awake yet?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Rhetorik nodded; he seemed on the verge of returning to his quarters, but then he visibly shook himself. ‘I must still be half asleep,’ he said to himself before striding over to the ship’s bell and creating a ruckus.

‘Awake, you ignorant, lazy bastards! Awake before I take you all for a morning keelhauling and use your hollowed-out heads for my pisspot!’

A breeze struck up from behind them, propelling them faster towards a lone outcrop in an otherwise deserted lake. Slowly, the wind and sea were starting to come to life, the waves rolling across the ship, building in intensity and rocking the ship with greater frequency.

‘I think you woke the sea, Captain!’ Ash shouted, holding on to the rigging as the ship was buffeted and storm clouds gathered around it, like iron fillings around a magnet.

‘Looks like we’re going to have a bit of action today, hey, men?’ Rhetorik called smiling.

The crew, who had finally arrived on deck, scurried about like worker ants busying themselves around their hive.

‘Thunderstorm!’ Clang called.

‘We’re underground, buffoon!’ Zyol mocked.

‘What in the One Ring is a thunderstorm?’ Ash shouted.

Gripping the wheel firmly, Rhetorik gave orders: ‘Mr Twynam, get those sails down!’ He must have used a spell to allow his voice to cut through the building storm.

As the first bolt of lightning speared into the sea behind them, the fog pounced and coated the ship – little beyond a foot of visibility was available to them.

‘We’re in for it now, boys!’ Lyre cried, coming out of his deep reverie.

‘Where did it come from?’ Holly questioned, more for the comfort of hearing her own voice than anything else.

They were being engulfed in the storm, yet for some reason, the shouts from the crew were less frequent and less urgent. The few Ember could see were slowing as the storm continued unabated. The ship seemed to be heading into the eye of the storm with increasing speed. The closer to the storm the ship travelled, the slower moving were the crew Ember could see. Some of the waves were washing over the deck, and Ember slid as the ship rolled on its side; she staggered but managed to stay upright and then spotted the hatch to below decks. She headed towards it, but the tossing of the ship and the constant spray of water made it difficult for her to keep her feet.

‘Struggling?’ a voice called.

Ember looked up to see Ash rooted to the spot, so that as the ship tossed, he rose up with it and didn’t so much as lean to the side.

‘It’s an ability called “anchored”, which is from my gun skills. So I can fire shot after shot without the recall throwing off my aim,’ he clarified.

Ember staggered from side to side as Ash stood in place, chatting idly.

‘What’s happening to the lake? Is this normal?’ Ember asked.

‘You mean a thunderstorm – a thing that there’s no word for in dwarfish – happening underground?’ Ash replied, unnecessarily sarcastically in Ember’s view.

Affliction resisted: siren song

Unbeknownst to you, you’ve been afflicted by a mental-based attack: siren song. However, thanks to all the mind fucks you’ve been subjected to, you’ve built up a resistance to mental-based attacks and have now resisted the song.

You gain 5 levels of mental resistance again; this is becoming a habit.

As though the fog was a mental block (and since she’d overcome a mental attack, it probably was a symptom of the same and not real fog), Ember’s vision lifted all of a sudden, and she could now make out just how fucked they were, because the crew – and many of Ember’s party – were transfixed with something unseen on the horizon, towards which they were displaying a manic hunger. Their eyes were wide and never moved off the unseen object (which was apparently straight ahead of the ship), clearly under the influence of the song.

Event started: the sirens’ entourage

You’ve been ambushed by sirens! Fight off the hordes of poor wretches who are trapped in their song.

Optional: find the sirens and deal with them

‘Can you sail?’ called Ember over the noise of the storm.

‘No,’ Ash replied, unconcerned.

‘Why aren’t you afflicted?’

‘My mother was wiccan; she strengthened my mental fortitude.’

‘Wait, you have dwarf wiccans?’ Ember was confused.

‘I’m a half-dwarf.’

Alban staggered over to them and wiped his damp hair from his eyes. ‘You resisted?’

‘Yes,’ Ember concurred.

‘What are they looking at?’ Alban enquired, looking at the enraptured.

‘Their oblivion!’ Ember shouted back.

‘Can anyone sail?’ Norton staggered over with a manic look in his eyes.

‘We’ve already had this discussion, and no,’ Ash stated, still completely chilled.

‘Why have you resisted?’ Ember challenged Norton.

‘I’m on the autistic spectrum; I overthink everything, so I have a 15% mental resistance,’ Norton answered.

The wildly whipping wind whistled in Ember’s ears, accompanied by the crash of waves cascading against the ship, the combined cacophony of which was terrifying.

‘We need to take control of the vessel and make sure we don’t crash!’ Norton shouted, and then skidded several feet as the ship tossed.

‘We should secure the crew,’ Ash suggested, nodding over at the crew, who were being tossed around.

Ember grabbed the ship’s railing just as an enormous wave crashed into the ship, and it tore her grip from the railing instantly. She started to slide towards the edge of the bucking and rolling ship, desperately clutching on to a knife, which she slammed into the ship’s deck. She looked down at the deadly, dark depths of the tossing sea and knew she’d lost her chance of staying on the ship, as the floor lay practically horizontal to the sea, and only the salty depths of Davy Jones’ locker awaited her with open hands.

‘I hate ships!’ Ember screamed as she lost her grip and fell. With a sickening crack, she collided with the ship’s railing, saving her from being thrown overboard.

Battle log:

Strike the ship for 150 impact-damage points

Once Ember had sufficiently recovered from hitting the railing, she and the only other three people unaffected – Ash, Norton and Alban – spread out to wrestle people below deck; she had a distinct disadvantage at this, as she was far lighter than a dwarf.

Finally, amongst all the tossing and bucking of the ship, they were able to start dragging dwarfs below deck. Ember reached out an arm and grasped the closest person she could reach, which happened to be Lyre. He looked around at her touch, an animalistic expression of anger on his face; as she pulled him back, he lashed out, cutting open her face from her cheekbone up to her eye.

Battle log:

Lyre strikes Ember for 514 slashing-damage points

Critical strike, shattered cheekbone, −335 health points and total health points lowered by 50 points until healed, tolerance of attacks to the head lowered, additional x1.5 damage points sustained from any strike to the face

Bleed damage, −3 health points per 5 seconds

Endurance test failed, you’ve been winded, 15 seconds until you regain your breath, all stamina actions will cost 1.5x as much stamina

Physical test passed, resisted stagger

Lyre turned back to watch the waves, looking for something unseen. Ember smeared a viscous substance over her cheek (a bit like Vaseline) and tried again to push him towards the hatch rather than dragging him, but Lyre wasn’t moved by her attempts.

‘Move, you oaf!’ Ember demanded, just as the ship rocked, and both of them stumbled against the ship’s rail. She grabbed the rail, but Lyre was transfixed by something, and so she had to reach out and grab him to stop him from falling overboard. ‘I’m trying to save you!’ she shouted, but Lyre wrestled against her as though she was keeping him from his Shangri-La.

Ember froze for a moment at the sight of the rage on Lyre’s face. As he struck out at her with his axe, she released him and watched as the madness and fury started to leave his face, only to be replaced with a look of euphoria. Ember could have moved, she knew it, but instead she watched as he was finally taken by the waves. Lyre was sucked into the water, never to return.

Norton stumbled up to Ember and held onto the rail. ‘We’ve got everyone!’ he bellowed into her ear.

‘I killed him; I let go,’ Ember said manically.

‘What?’ Norton shouted back.

‘I killed him! I let go!’ Ember yelled. ‘Do you think they saw me kill him? Do you think they’ll understand why I let go?’

With the deck cleared, the sea stilled, and the four who remained staggered from the sudden calming of the ship.

‘We’re so out of our depth,’ Alban wailed, hurrying over to Norton and Ember.

‘Can you hear the singing?’ Ash asked, striding over.

‘What kind of ship is that?’ Norton queried, pointing to a ship in the distance.

‘I killed Lyre!’ Ember shouted.

The three dwarfs stopped and looked at each other.

‘Look, this isn’t the time for a breakdown, lassie. Frankly, I’d thought you’d be the least affected by such a thing, see? But let me say this, right, as Lyre’s oldest friend. I saw what happened; that shit was crazy. Something got into his mind, see? You didn’t kill him. You failed to save him, but so did the rest of us; it isn’t a crime. You tried; now get the shit over it and get into the fight!’ Alban commanded, smacking Ember on the arm.

‘It's Naglfar. We must get out of here at once!’ Norton yelled, taking a step back.

‘Don't be a fool, Norton. I'm sure they’re not here to offer us directions, but it isn’t Naglfar.’ Ash reprimanded.

‘I’m not sure I want to know, but what’s “Naglfar”?’ Ember asked anxiously.

‘It’s a ship that will come during Ragnarök – the end of the world – and ferry living souls to the netherworld,” Alban explained.

‘Nope. I didn't want to hear it!’ Ember murmured.

The ship in question seemed to have been made from numerous designs: the sail was a chaotic mass of raggedy, torn cloth and crude patchwork; and the hull of the ship jutted at irregular angles, with overlying timber beams and broken planks leaving gaping holes in the hull.

‘It shouldn’t be able to sail with torn sails, and how can it float with a hull that has holes in it? What is it? Is it a ghost ship?’ Norton spluttered.

‘What’s it with you and the dead?’ Ash scolded, and then slapped him about the head.

The ship closed in on them; its eerily smooth, silent progress sent a shiver down Ember’s already cold, drenched spine. Not a single person stood above deck. Its progress brought it parallel to them, and it matched their speed instantly. One moment, it was sailing towards them, and the next, it was sailing with them; Ember’s heart fell at its unnatural nature.

The misshapen ship had no above-deck cabin like The Ondine did; as it sailed with no need for a crew, there would be little need for captain’s quarters. This ship only had a hold; four great doors kept the contents of the ship hidden. For a moment, there was nothing but the thud, thud, thudding of rain on wood, and Ember gripped her daggers for reassurance. Slowly, in an action that mimicked the opening of the gates of hell, two of the immense doors started to open. There was no ominous squeak of rusted bolts nor a whoosh of escaping vapour. The action of the opening doors was simple, slow and completely silent. This graceful, unearthly movement brought the world to a standstill.

When the doors were half-open and stood perpendicular to the ship, a bent figure rose from the hold, its face obscured by tangled hair and a loose, white shift. Once it had floated higher than the deck of the ship, it straightened up and took a step forwards, dropping a few inches to touch the deck; behind it, there followed a mass of bloated and distended ghouls, trapped in this world by the spell of the siren song.

‘Apropos of nothing, it occurs to me that neris is siren backwards,’ Alban said.

‘What’s a siren?’ Ash asked.

‘Didn’t you get the message about resisting the siren song?’ Alban questioned.

‘I don’t think my lore is high enough to determine it came from a siren,’ Ash explained.

‘What’s that thing?’ Norton demanded, pointing to the creature leading the ghoul army.

It had crouched before leaping forwards 10 feet and landing on the rails of the impossible ship. Its skin was coal black, leathery and wrinkled; two large, bat-like ears stuck out of the lank hair; and eyes like saucers studied the four. As if in answer, it opened its mouth, revealing teeth like those of a cartoon shark, and screamed so loud that it created a shockwave.

Battle log:

Banshee attacks with cry-of-the-banshee ability, the banshee magnifies its voice to become a weapon, 50 damage points per second

Affliction resisted: cry of the banshee

The cry of the banshee instils fear into those who hear it, but not everyone; you resist the fear effect.

‘What’s a banshee?’ Alban asked wildly, but no one answered as no one knew.

‘Who cares? Just get that feather if that’s what they’re after!’ Ash bellowed.

Ember pulled it out of a pocket.

New item: siren’s feather

The feather of a siren… That’s about it.

‘Where’d you get that now?’ Norton accused.

Ember shuffled her feet. ‘Old habits.’

‘Release this ship or lose this feather,’ Norton declared to the world in general as he lit a torch and held it towards the siren feather.

In answer to his shout, the bodies moved – the horde splitting apart into two sides, like a river faced by Moses. When the four met in front of the eerie path, they saw the second most unbelievable sight they had seen that day. Looking between the ranks of the ghouls, a small island with a single mountain that was cleft down the middle had appeared at the end of the ship. However, on stepping out of line of the tunnel of the dead, she could see the island wasn’t there. Ember summoned an ice dagger, threw it down the line of corpses and watched it land on the island. She moved to the side, threw another dagger and watched it land in the sea. She looked back, and the first ice dagger was still sitting on the island; it made her feel better that she wasn’t going to vanish into a different dimension should someone look at the island wrongly.

‘Are we doing this?’ she asked timidly.

‘Well, the sirens aren’t from below, so I guess this is their own island. I’d bring my own island around if I could. Their voices must be harmonising with the bonds of reality, allowing them to shift their island down here, which is where the storm came from. We don’t tend to get storms below ground,’ Alban concluded.

‘That’s a lot of words with very little meaning,’ Norton complained, and then stomped down the line of corpses, clambered over the railing of the ship and out onto the island. ‘Well, whatever causes it, the island is here, and I can stand on it. Watch out for the mud; it’s a bit thick in places. Oh no, that’s harpy shit.’

‘“When pigs fly, buy into umbrella stocks.”’ Ember quoted. ‘Also, I’m hungry.’

Norton tossed her a cold bottle.

‘What’s this?’ Ember asked.

‘Black coffee, from the kera-ker bean, which grows underground and only in luminescent mushroom patches. It’s heavy, mind, so it’ll fill your belly,’ Norton replied.

Ember drank it and gagged for a moment; it wasn’t just thick but bitter, too.

They joined Norton on the island.

Ember wiped the water from her face and sniffed. ‘Wow, I just caught whiff of my pits.’

‘You’re a strange lass,’ Alban said, shaking his head.

She shrugged. ‘No stranger than dwarf women, I’d guess.’

‘I’d think you be strange even if you were a man.’

‘The side effects of a tough life, I guess.’

‘Or maybe all you surface dwellers came out of Pandora’s box, and you’re just a typical example,’ Ash offered.

‘I highly doubt that,’ Ember declared.

A short walk, which really should have taken all day, took them to the foot of the mountains; the four looked around, confused.

‘I didn’t even notice the shift; if this is an illusion, it’s the smoothest I’ve ever seen,’ Norton stated.

‘All part of the siren song, I’d guess,’ Alban concluded.

‘You can’t just make shit up and pretend like it means anything,’ Ember challenged.

There was a bright sun hanging over them now. Its heating rays had warmed the air around them, but they couldn’t feel it touching their skin. The wind that was wafting through was caught in mid-blow, causing a patch of leaves to be held suspended in the air, now frozen and timeless. The scenery around them was still: they had entered a place where time didn’t flow.

‘I feel like the world is watching,’ Ash said, looking around. ‘It’s pretty, though; if you move your hand through the light, you get this momentary warmth, but then it’s used up and it’s just empty. Neither warm nor cold – how odd.’

‘You’re not easily perturbed are you, Ash?’ Ember asked.

‘I grew up in Lí Shān, inside the mountain, and we had some weird shit going on there,’ Ash replied.

They hiked up a steep incline on the mountain, which took them through a fissure and into an impact crater. A creature was waiting for them. It was facing away from them, motionless and naked. Its skin was rubbery and pockmarked, looking as though it were stretched over a sack of grain.

It turned and looked at them. It had a woman’s form, but the skin was that of a chicken plucked of its feathers; its bald, bird-like body bore scars from losing the contest with the muses – every inch of its body had been stripped of feathers. Its legs were thick, leathery and ridged, ending in prehensile bird feet with evil-looking talons. It was not a pleasant sight, and Ember cringed as she looked at it. Its bald body was a pathetic sight, robbing the siren’s form of dignity. Here stood a proud but pitiable creature. It held itself regally, even in its shame. Ember could feel this was a creature of mystique and power, which had been raped of its honour. It was impossible to feel in awe of it now.

‘They really did strip them of their feathers,’ Alban declared, aghast. ‘Yet I struggle to feel pity. These creatures killed without bias, even before they were stripped naked.’

‘What?’ Norton asked.

‘The sirens lost a contest with the muses, who stripped them of their feathers,’ Alban explained.

‘What do you know of surface matters?’ Norton badgered.

‘I have interests,’ Alban responded.

‘You have something that belongs to us; you will return it.’ The voice of the siren was light, gentle, and sang of times to come, of great glory and of beautiful, adoring woman. Although the voice was not as provocative as their singing, a pull towards the siren of pleasure was still felt.

Alban was the first to recover. ‘If you want this back, then you must remove your legion.’

The siren looked at Alban for a moment, her face placid. Ember wasn't sure if the siren didn’t understand or didn’t think Alban was worth talking to.

A young girl walked into the clearing; she walked with a seductive grace and had large, expressive, amber eyes, but she was in the same sorry condition as her sister, and her abused, naked body belied any sensuality. A third siren sat side-saddle on a large four-legged beast like an oversized lion; it padded over to a patch of moss, which the siren reclined on once she had dismounted the beast, her legs bent and apart with her chin resting on a cocked knee. Again, the implied sexuality of the woman was hindered by her abused form.

Alban seemed confused by the situation; perhaps dwarfs were unused to seeing such obvious displays of the womanly form? ‘We were attacked by a ship filled with the dead and rotten. Did you not send them to take your feather back?’ he demanded, his voice rising in anger as he finished the sentence.

The first siren’s eyes were looking past him, unfocused, until the majestic singing of the arietta came to a conclusion.

‘You were attacked by the planaô daimôn. A sorry lot; they’re besotted with us.’ The siren paused and focused on Alban.

Ember looked into the eyes of the siren; they were emerald green, and Ember felt she could lose herself in those eyes. The eyes and her voice were the most beautiful things Ember had ever seen, but her body was an ugly scar. Ember looked away as the siren continued to speak.

‘We didn’t provoke them to attack you. They’re jealous of those who can resist our call and also of those who yet live. They still linger here, left in limbo and unable to move on to the next realm, as they lust after us, knowing they can never have us, and are still infatuated, for all that we’re uninterested in their amorous advances. They won’t trouble you on your return. They’ve already left to wait for the next ship we lure to us. Pathetic wretches.’

‘You want this thing or not?’ Alban asked, holding the feather out and running a thumb over it.

‘Why would we want it? Feathers regrow; they can’t be put back,’ the siren stated, although it raised a clawed foot and reached for the feather. It stroked it slowly, and the feather seemed to squirm under Alban’s grip, eager to return to the siren.

‘Then why are you here? This isn’t siren territory, right?’ Norton added.

‘You’re partially correct; the feather did call to us, and our song resonated with it, opening the portal and moving us here. However, we have no use for this thing,’ the siren reiterated.

‘So it was just a coincidence; Lyre died because… what? You were bored?’ Alban challenged.

‘We flow on the channels of the ley lines, but we can’t control them. He died because it was fated,’ the siren responded.

‘Maybe it’s fated for you to die!’ Ash declared, and then levelled his gun at the siren.

Ember was momentarily stunned that Ash would so suddenly rush to outrage, and she dived to the floor as he levelled his gun.

The siren looked at his gun, nonplussed. ‘If you kill me, this land goes, and you all die,’ she explained simply.

Abashed at her actions, Ember got to her feet and brushed the dirt off herself. ‘We should go,’ she said sullenly.

Event complete: the sirens’ entourage

You even completed the optional part! But not the secret optional part of freeing those trapped.

Reward: all speechcraft ↑↑↑

*

The rest of the boat journey was uneventful; they held a ceremony for Lyre and one of the ship’s crew, who’d also perished.

‘You’re one of the few outsiders to witness this; it’s part of the pact of silence,’ Alban told Ember before it started (Holly had been placed in a drugged sleep because of this).

‘Why’s the dwarf burial ritual secret?’ Ember asked.

‘That’s a good question, and I shan’t answer it today,’ Alban replied uncomfortably.

The dwarfs’ burned offerings, and after Ember sniffed the air, she decided they were burning Lamium purpureum in a thurible, probably to release psilocybin or dimethyltryptamine. This was going to be fun!

‘So you just get high at your funerals?’ she asked.

‘The substances open up part of your psyche to the extra-dimensional nature of consciousness,’ Alban insisted.

‘So you get high?’

‘It isn’t for us, but for the deceased.’

‘But they’re dead.’

‘Ah, yes, but smell is partly symbolic, see?’

‘Whilst you…?’

‘Try not to inhale too much, but it’s okay to get a little high,’ Alban confirmed. ‘These are old rituals, so some ideas might be a little outdated.’

‘It’s sacred ritual; all dwarfs who die must undergo this. We always recover our deceased,’ Ash added, overhearing the conversation.

‘You didn’t in the troll valley,’ Ember said.

‘Look at all those shades,’ Ash replied pointedly.

Ember paused to think. ‘Wait, are you saying that if dwarfs aren’t shown to the next world, you come back as fiends?’ she asked.

Alban made an angry noise, and Ash looked ashamed.

‘Really?’ she prodded.

‘Course not. Why would dwarfs be different from other races?’ Alban questioned mockingly, whilst looking pointedly as Ash.

Ember didn’t know what to think; instead, she decided to get high and not worry about it.