image [https://i.imgur.com/6sNgWeX.png]

The medicine man's home looked like it sprouted up out of the mountain from living stone. Atop it was a wide, circular wooden roof that covered an outer walkway running the entire circumference of the house. A tall, narrow door was covered with a sheet, and smoke spindled up from an opening in the middle of the roof.

Valgur turned sideways to make his way inside. Picaro was able to squeeze in behind Grit and several other men. Atrocius was too big and had to wait outside. A thin, well greyed man with long hair and beard sat peeling root vegetables beside a pot of water, which sat above an open fire that crackled in the middle of the room. Picaro heard the water begin to boil. He could smell the contents of the pot, fragrant garlic and herbs. The medicine man did not look up as he continued to prepare his meal. "Why have you come, inlanders," said the old man inquisitively.

Valgur stepped forward. "I'm keen on the history of the seas, y'see."

The old man eyed him dubiously “To be sure. You can't fool me as much as you couldn’t fool anyone else in the village. What makes you think I'll tell you anything new?”

“I’m looking for a man named Patmos,” said Valgur, ignoring the barb.

"So you’re lookin' to take the wealth of dead men," said the wiseman.

"What’s lost may yet be found," Valgur. “And I’m more than willing to share.”

"You won’t wile me with silver tongued promises of riches. You’re disturbing my supper,” said the healer, raising his eyes to meet Valgur’s. They were as stony as the floor he sat upon.

“I’m sure we could convince you,” said Grit, grinning. Picaro looked around at all the men beside him. All merciless cutthroats. The wiseman scanned their faces, too, assessing the ilk that had traipsed through his door. Then his eyes rested on Picaro, and there was a curiosity in his gaze that then hardened into defiance.

"You inlanders are all the same. You're greedy,” said the medicine man. “You don't care who you steal from or what it cost them. Men like you came to the isles with nothing. We took you in. You repaid us with blood, spilled for the sake of what? A rich man's life ends the same as any other, though maybe sooner. The story is always the same. Here now the wolves circle again. The man you seek is dead. You tell me you will find a different end? I can tell you nothing more. Either kill me or get out of my house," said the wise man, dropping his gaze to his food. He threw the newly diced potatoes into the pot, gave it a stir, and dropped in a stem of rosemary.

“Dead, eh?” Valgur straightened himself, and strode toward the pot. He took a slow, calculated step around the fire to stand beside the wiseman, gazing into the flames. The man did not flinch, though he looked sidelong, wary of the captain, aware his life could meet its end here in his own home.

"Do what you must, sea wolf. Just know, it will be repaid upon you one day in similar fashion," said the medicine man.

"Is that a threat, then? Don't fret. I don’t want your life, just information.”

"Torture me. I can tell you nothing more. Whatever it is, be done with it before the food spoils."

Valgur reached inside his coat. The wiseman flinched. The captain produced the the skeleton key, holding it so it glint in the light of the fire. "Recognize this?"

The wiseman could not hold his wonder. His eyes widened and his hand began to tremble as the words left his lips without his knowledge. "It is real,” he whispered, forgetting himself. “Where did you find this?”

"That's none o' yer concern," said Valgur, scowling. "But now that I have your attention, tell me what I want to know or you really will die here tonight, old man. What’s the key for, what does it open? Whose treasure does it hold?”

The wiseman and he looked away bitterly, but the words fell from him unhindered. “You are not the first interested in such history. Many a ship has passed through these isles, and many a man have died on their shores. Patmos was just another. He ran off some time ago looking for the cache. Said he found it, too. But he didn’t have the key.” His eyes rose to behold the gilded teeth of the key, admiring its workmanship.

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“Well, we do. The cache, where is it,” growled Valgur.

The wiseman shook his head. “Not a soul knows. Certainly not Patmos. You came on a fool’s errand, inlander.”

“Now I know that’s not true,” said Valgur, bending low to meet the wiseman’s eyes. “I know ye heard a whisper of something. Tell me what ye heard. Where’s the cache? Tell me and I’ll leave yer village in peace. Don’t, and let’s just say ye read me and me crew rightly.” Valgur grinned, but his eyes were coals. The wiseman blanched and swallowed hard. His eyes flicked to Picaro. The boy wanted to shrink away.

“Even if I could tell you where it is, how do you know if that key is for the right cache,” said the man, fumbling with the words. Valgur narrowed his gaze. He hadn’t considered that. The old man gave half a laugh, then coughed. “Another inlander wouldn’t be able to tell you any better. I can tell you if that key is genuine, and if it’s for the cache legend says was left here.”

Valgur growled and slowly held out the key. The the wiseman took it in his hands, flipping it over, feeling the workmanship, bending low to examine the carvings. He sat there muttering to himself until a bubbling came from the pot in front of him, shaking him from his reverie. He sat up and stirred the pot, handing the key back to Valgur in one fluid motion. The man then sat staring at the pot in disbelief.

“Well,” said Valgur, though he already knew the answer.

“Aye, it’s a real one, but,” said the wiseman, “But it’s not Vagabon’s key.”

Valgur snarled and kicked the boiling pot over, spilling its contents across the stones. The wiseman stood up in alarm, and Valgur grabbed him roughly. “Yer lying again, old man. And we were so close. Now tell me the rest of it or I’ll cut off your head and put it on a stake outside yer own door as a warning to other wisemen pretending t’be fools.” Valgur pulled a knife from his side and laid it across the man’s throat to accentuate his point. He leaned over him, so close he could hear the old man swallow. The captain’s presence loomed like a shadow of death. Tell the spectre wrong, and it would be your time.

“You’re a lucky dog, inlander,” said the wiseman, hesitantly at first. Valgur pressed the blade’s edge into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. “You came to the right place.”

“How do you know?”

“The inscription of the whale. The same emblem that marked the captain’s ship, and the island where his cache is said to sit.”

“Who’s ship?”

“Vagabon Doughty,” said the wiseman.

Valgur dropped the knife, and straightened himself, looking far off. “Vagabon,” he whispered. Then, he barked a laugh. “Where? How far?”

“The Mournful Isle, as tales tell. Nearly two days west of here. It sits at the end of the line, a small island one might maroon a man on,” said the old man, stammering.

“Not far then,” said Valgur, glinting gold in his toothy smile. “So where exactly sits the cache of Vagabon Doughty, old one. Ye make it sound like you know.”

The wiseman shook his head again. “I do not. Not a soul does, heh. Legend goes that Vagabon left his treasure hidden there and guarded it well, with otherwordly machinations. I know only the island, for the same inscription that is upon the key was found among the stones there. But beware, for men have gone and not come back the same. Beware that island, inlander. Beware the siren’s call.”

“Bah, I don’t believe in mermaids and fishmen,” said Valgur, laughing in the man’s face. Then he patted it with his free hand. “That’s a good lad. See, that wasn’t so hard.” The captain and his crew sauntered out of the house, his men behind him. Grit gave the wiseman a wink on his way out.

Picaro followed, glancing back at the wiseman, who was watching them with growing concern on his face. “Beware the call, or you’ll find more than you bargained for, inlander. Best you and your crew left this place. Some stones are better left unturned,” said the old man, and Picaro saw the worry on his face before the curtain fell back to conceal him.

Outside, another small crowd had gathered, holding each other with worried expressions as they heard the finality to the conversation float out to them. They watched tensely as Valgur and his men passed. But, one young man watched them more closely than the rest.

“Think the tales are true? If this legendary treasure does exist, maybe sirens do, too,” said Picaro thoughtfully to Grit as they made their way back to Ye ‘Ol Marigold.

Grit scoffed. “Listen. Sea monsters I can handle, but start talking about fishmen and ye lost me, laddy. I’ve never seen, it never will. Just ain’t natural, savvy? How would it even work? Nah, I’m not buying it for a copper piece. There ain’t no pretty ditties swimming in the sea waiting for me to make love to them, nor drag me down to its depths. Only women I know walk on land.”

The crew met with Silvertime on the dock, who stood grumbling. He had been able to coerce a local shipwright to give him materials for minor repairs, but no more. “We’re putting out anyway,” said Valgur. “We got what we came here for.” There would be no debate.

Ye ‘Ol Marigold disengaged and floated back out into the surf. The crowd followed far behind the crew, gathering with great relief to watch them leave. When it did, many once again went about their business now that the shadow of fear had passed. But, there was yet a young man who continued to watch the ship intently before running with swift urgency to send another message out to sea.