[T3 Mutation: Gliding Wings]
[Brief Description: You will grow short wings between your shoulder blades. However, this is a channeled mutation. Gliding with these wings will continuously drain your Hexichor, so you cannot glide indefinitely]
[Points: 155 → 5]
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After making sure the Whitewhale Marauders wouldn’t find them inside the grotto, the first thing all of them did was sleep the rest of the night off. They were all wet, bloody, and exhausted, Marisol included—so they only started figuring out their next course of action after waking up bright and early this morning.
For Marisol’s part, she wasn’t sharing a mattress on the warship with Catrina anymore.
… I thought you said I couldn’t fly, Marisol thought, peering over the edge of the grotto as she did. And that’s… like, a hundred metre drop to the bottom of the chasm. It’s still raining as well. Won’t my wings just get too heavy and–
[Fun fact: most insects have slightly hydrophobic wings to help them repel rainwater, so a light drizzle like this would not impede most insects from taking flight—much less a water strider with Hydrofuge Spines such as you,] the Archive said plainly. [You are correct as well. You would not be ‘flying’ in its most literal definition, but because this is a low-gravity strait, it is possible for you to maintain consistent airflow provided your takeoffs are strong and firm enough. Here, and only here, gliding is not too far off from flying.]
The explanation didn't convince her for a second. It was one thing if she could flap her wings, but the glassy, veiny fabrics that'd grown between her shoulder blades felt beyond flimsy to the touch. She glanced behind her and pinched her wings, feeling no pain, no sensation. It was like she was just wearing another piece of apparel over her normal cloak.
[It is the same situation as your glaives last time: it will take time for your nerves to fully develop within your wings,] the Archive said. [Now jump off the ledge and start gliding around the chasms.]
…
Chewing her lips, she looked further behind her and saw the Harbour Guards unloading most of their supplies from the warship. They had to feed and care for a dozen rescued slaves, after all, and the warship was just not holding up well; between the gaping holes in the hull and the massive tears in all three sails, it'd be a while before they could start moving again. Making camp in this grotto was definitely the right move for the time being.
She looked to Captain Enrique, who was ordering for tents to be set up around the small pond, and his warrior instincts must be keen. His gaze latched onto hers for a brief moment, and he nodded, giving her a look that seemed to say ‘scram and find us some usable parts for repair already’.
If the Harbour Guards were going to be busy making camp here, then she was the only one who could go out on an expedition.
… No more delays to the Whirlpool City, she muttered, turning around and gulping as she peered off the ledge. You want me to just… jump? You sure my wings will kick in automatically?
[There are floating debris you can stand on outside the grotto, but… eh. Fifty-fifty.]
That ain't good enough–
“Marisol?”
Catrina's voice made her whirl, and the weary young lady looked a bit startled. The two of them were the only girls on the warship, so it came as no surprise to her that Catrina may be wondering what she was planning to do… and she couldn't very well say she was just going to jump off a hundred-metre-tall ledge, could she?
Damnit, Archive, it really is a bit nerve-wracking.
Even that waterfall was only fifty metres tall, and I still–
“You dropped these in the cabin back then, before you left to help father fight off the boarding Marauders,” Catrina said, holding out two pearls in her palms with a small, uncertain look. “These things… were harvested from that giant remipede, right? Were you keeping them so you could make Hexsteel with them?”
Marisol blinked. Then she patted herself down, realising she hadn't even noticed.
I thought you'd be able to tell if I dropped something.
[The olfactory nerve centres are rather small. Even I cannot–]
“I'm not sure if this would suffice, but I made a little something out of them. Close your eyes for me?”
Catrina waved at her to close her eyes and turn her head to the side, so she did, with a bit of hesitation—then she felt a prick on her left earlobe, making her wince. A second prick on her other earlobe made her reel away, prying her eyelids open as her fingers flew up to touch her ears.
The young lady in front of her only gave her a pretty, charming laugh as she felt the smooth pearls pinned in her ears.
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[Remipede Olfactory Nerve Centre Earrings (Quality = E)(Per +2/6)(Hexichor -67)]
[Special Ability: Chemosensory Enhancement]
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“... My mother liked catching pearls and making jewellery out of them, so I made earrings out of those ‘pearls’. The pins are made from rolled-up ant chitin as well, so you can… what’s the word? ‘Meld’ with them?” Catrina beamed, scratching the back of her head and averting her eyes slightly. “If you don’t like them, I can turn them into something else. I can make all sorts of jewellery as long as you give me the parts. For now, though–”
Marisol hugged her, making her pause mid-sentence.
“I like them!” Marisol chirped, pulling away as she twirled the pearls in her earlobe; they didn’t feel like they’d fall off anytime soon, and they felt like they looked pretty to boot. “Hey, maybe you can even make something pretty out of those remipede parts the guys have been hoarding? If you could make bracelets or necklaces for everyone, wouldn’t we all be a lot stronger?”
Catrina smiled weakly, shaking her head. “I’m not a Hexsteel Maker. The best I can do is stick pins into pearls and put them in your ears,” she said, before clasping her hands in front of her and dipping her head slightly. “Come back safe, Marisol. There are still stories I wish to hear of the desert.”
“...”
Marisol couldn’t resist giving Catrina another hug before the young lady returned to the warship, adamant on helping out with nursing the wounded. A few men glanced her way and looked stunned for a moment—evidently, her pearls shone like the moon itself and everyone wanted a piece of them—so that was all the confidence boost she needed to face the hundred-metre-tall ledge again.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
She adjusted her earrings.
And then she leaped off, soaring through the thin wall of foliage as the mighty sunlit chasm opened up before her.
… Ah.
This is terrifying.
It was just a normal jump at first, a mere long jump ten metres away from the foliage, but then she started falling. Gravity took hold of her. The sinking sensation in her gut made her arms flail and panic for a moment before her glaives slammed into something hard—a floating chunk of wooden debris that’d split off the warship as they sailed into the grotto. She tumbled and stopped right before she could roll off the edge, her heart thumping in her chest as her eyes grew wide with terror and excitement; for a second there, she really felt as though she was flying.
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Why didn’t my wings fully open? she thought, glancing back at her twitching wings—that only went down to her waist, she might add—and she poked at them as though doing so would make them come alive. Archiveeeeee. I thought you said they’d–
[Do you think all winged insects know how to fly the moment they are born?]
She looked anxiously down at the chasm, realising her floating debris was slowly, steadily sinking. There were dozens and hundreds of other floating items in the air nearby—slabs of stone, mossy branches, and countless other sheddings from the mountainous islands around her.
Uh… No? The way you’re saying it makes it sound like the answer–
[Well, insects are actually relatively simplistic creatures,] the Archive said, wagging a leg at her from atop her shoulder. [Contrary to popular belief, they do not need to ‘learn’ to fly the same way most birds and mammals need to learn complex behaviours. From the moment they emerge from their cocoons or are hatched from their eggs, their simple nervous systems and musculature are already designed to almost perfectly coordinate the movements required for flight. Winged insects fly as though it is a reflex—compared to humans who must consciously juggle balancing, muscle coordination, and responding to environmental feedback while first learning how to walk, they are physically superior to humanity in almost every sense of the word.]
Hey, are you on their side or ours–
[Now, despite possessing this innate instinct at dynamic movement that humans take years to master, some insects may experience difficulties during their very first attempt at flying,] the Archive interrupted, tapping where her wings connected to her shoulder blades. [For example, newly emerged butterflies and dragonflies often need time for their wings to fully dry and harden before they can fly effectively. You are currently at that stage. You must allow your wings to get accustomed to the sensation of airflow before you can control them.]
Marisol bit her lips, staring at the closest debris she could jump to.
So… I have to keep jumping until my wings feel like opening.
[Correct.]
How long will that take?
[No idea.]
… How useful you are.
Sucking in another deep breath, she closed her eyes and felt the winds passing through her, making her cloak , scarf, and hair flutter under thin sunlight—then, she jumped with all her strength, soaring fifteen metres up and slamming upside-down into a slab of stone. Her glaives stabbing into the stone helped her stick to it, but then the slab started sinking quickly; she took off for a distant slab again, chaining her momentum together as she leapfrogged across the chasm.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t as physically demanding as it was mentally terrifying. Gravity was here, but it was really, really weak. She could already leap ten metres up with her enhanced strength, so it should’ve come as no surprise that she could bounce from debris to debris like she was taking a stroll in the park. Regardless, her heart was still in her throat every time she jumped, and… she loved the sensation. The speed. The weightlessness. There were so many dance moves she couldn’t pull off on land or water that she could easily try out here, in the sky, but that’d just be reckless of her.
One wrong slip and she’d fall to her death—that much hadn’t changed.
So, the next time she slammed hard against a piece of debris on all fours, she narrowed her eyes at a particularly faraway piece as her next destination. It was at least a hundred metres away with nothing floating in between; she wouldn’t be able to back out halfway through.
Jump or die.
Lightning at her heels.
With a sharp exhale, she leaped. The wind whirled around her, the debris shattering under her glaives and scattering across the chasm. The sheer burst of speed carried her twenty metres forward, shooting her in a straight line, but then she started dipping. She started falling. She pressed her arms flat against her sides and gritted her teeth, trying to ‘feel’ the extra appendages jutting out her shoulder blades.
And then she willed strength into them the same way she did her legs, making them unfurl and fan out to her sides.
… Alright!
She dipped for only three seconds, but then she tilted her upper body and let the winds carry her back up. The air was cool and sharp against her skin. It tugged at her clothes, whipped through her air, and the taste of salt from the roaring torrents below her clung to her lips; she spread her arms and let out a laugh, her body charged with more energy than she’d ever felt before.
Archive! Look! Look! I’m–
[Gliding, not flying. There is no need to flap your wings like that.]
Surely I’m getting some lift from doing that, though? I mean–
[Watch out,] it said lazily.
She reacted a bit too late, slamming headfirst into the slab of stone she’d been aiming for, and it was only because of her Segmented Setae that she stayed glued to it instead of peeling right off.
Groaning, rubbing her bruised nose, she flicked the little water strider on her shoulder with a scowl and looked out at the rest of the chasm—now that she could glide and cruise along the winds, she could essentially go wherever she pleased within the strait.
… You remember the way back to the grotto?
[Yes.]
What’s the warship need for repairs?
[The main thing would be the sails,] the Archive said, gesturing broadly around her. [Wood for repairing the hull would come by very easily. Even the Harbour Guards can harvest it from inside the grotto, so you should search for anything that could be used as sails—leviathan skin and scales would work wonders as usual.]
She swivelled her head around, squinting for anything of the sort floating across the chasm. I don’t wanna go looking for leviathan carcasses too far away from the grotto, though. If anything happens, I need to be able to come back quickly–
[Use your sense of smell, Marisol,] the Archive chided, poking at her earrings. [The olfactory nerve centres will help you pinpoint the closest leviathan carcass, and then you can go from there.]
… Ah!
She closed her eyes and took a deep, heavy whiff of the air—smelling mostly brine and the sharp, fresh scent of the morning, but there were also a dozen more subtle scents swirling underneath it all. The gushing smell of flesh. Vigorous streams of blood. She opened her eyes slowly and felt as though she could physically ‘see’ the trails of blood leading her in every conceivable direction; each of them would surely end at a leviathan carcass.
The only question now was which trail of blood to follow.
[The closest one appears to be within a thousand metres. Check that one out first.]
She nodded briskly and took off from her debris, gliding a bit lower in the chasm as she headed towards her first carcass. Flying straight was a bit difficult at the beginning, but eventually she got the hang of it—it really was ‘instinctual’ as the Archive had said—and landed on the side of the cliff, staring down at a giant orange shrimp that’d been impaled on a jutting rock spike.
She winced at the gruesome manner of death, and quickly waved this first option off as she jumped after the second blood trail.
Lots of leviathans are just dead around this strait, huh? she thought, half-mumbling to herself as she checked the second, third, fourth carcass—they were all manners of shrimp and crabs and lobsters smashed against the side of the chasm. You said it’s because… the low gravity pulls them out during especially strong waves when they go briefly airborne, and then they just get impaled on the spikes? How unlucky is that?”
[Very few creatures live here since it became a low-gravity strait three decades ago, and as such, natural decay occurs very slowly around here. The leviathan carcasses you are looking at are most likely not new carcasses by any means—they have probably been stuck there for years and decades with nothing to feast on them.]
Sounds like an ecological nightmare.
[It is called the Dead Island Straits, after all.]
So she bounced around for what felt like two or three more hours, growing more and more tired with each hard-shelled crustacean carcass she checked. There were still hundreds more blood trails for her to follow, but she felt she was starting to stray too far away from the grotto. Any further and she should probably tell the Harbour Guards where she was going first.
Fortunately, on her way back to the grotto, she came across a giant carp lying flat on a protruded cliffside near the bottom of the chasm. In fact, it was almost directly under the grotto—she’d simply failed to notice it because she only started smelling a decent distance away, so her eyes lit up as she glided down to the rocky ledge, landing atop the giant carp with a quiet thud.
The carp was about thirty metres long, twenty metres wide, and its eyes were milky white and lifeless. Its bright orange scales were the first thing that caught her eye; they gleamed even under dim sunlight, and each one of them were as wide as a dinner plate, more than large enough to patch up the holes in the warship’s sails. Bits of them were chipped and dulled, and some had fallen away, but for the most part it was not nearly as mutilated as the other carcasses she’d seen the past few hours.
It was almost as though it’d flopped up to this ledge and just…
…
… Something ain’t right.
Why’d it get stuck up here, a mere ten metres from the bottom of the chasm?
Couldn’t it have just flopped right back down?
So she took another deep, heavy whiff—and she smelled something acidic lingering in the air, a condensed scent of poison she’d not smelled anywhere else around the chasm.
She dodged before the Archive could even shout at her, just narrowly evading a feathered dart that slammed into the carp’s scales from behind.
Tch.
Yet another anomaly again, Archive?
As she skated back on the carp and whirled, she eyed the dozen dark-green tribesmen hovering in the air above her.
Their slender, half-insect bodies were suspended effortlessly by their wings beating so fast they were but blurs in her eyes, so if she had to place what type of insect they were…
[... They are the Damselfly Oracles, known and documented tribesmen of the Dead Island Straits,] the Archive said. [I am sure you already know what to do at this point.]