Hearing a sudden splash, Immanuel spun around to find the source, but saw nothing. Carto and Dastur shared a knowing look before Carto spoke, "You'll stay at my residence for the night. The Green Pyre family oversees cultivators here, and I’ll send a message to them. In the meantime, why not take a moment to settle in?"
He paused, then said, "Let’s wait until tomorrow to contact them. We could use the extra time to gather some friends and delve into your story. If you don’t mind? Your vessel too, has caught my interest—it's unlike anything we've come across, and we fancy ourselves connoisseurs of unique boats."
Immanuel, feeling somewhat at the mercy of his hosts, consented, "Sure, I'd appreciate the chance to clean up."
Carto beamed. "I'll show you where you can freshen up and have a bath drawn up." He signaled Dastur, who smiled in response and stood up. "Thanks, Dastur. Really thanks. I was …"
“No need.” Castor smiled. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Immanuel turned and followed Carto through the house.
They made their way upstairs through the home adorned in serene hues of white and light blue. Carto stopped at a door at the end of the hall. "If you'd like, I can have some fresh clothing sent up for you." He showed Immanuel the double door leading to another roam. “I’ll have a bath prepared for you in the adjoining room.”
Grabbing Immanuel's wrist with a firm yet gentle grip, Carto looked him in the eye, "You'll find a shrine in your room—we honor the memory of the departed with incense... It's open to you, should you seek that kind of solace." With that, Carto left, leaving Immanuel alone to acclimate to the new surroundings.
The room opened up to a balcony with a clear view of the river, where small boats bobbed gently along the current. Immanuel heaved a deep sigh, feeling the emotional toll of his ordeal beginning to weigh heavily on him. "Damn this whole mess," he muttered under his breath.
He began to peel off his armor as the sound of water filling a bathtub echoed from the adjacent room. The space was simply furnished with a double bed nestled in one corner and a wardrobe opposite it. Near the doorway stood the shrine, ornately decorated with gold and dominated by a painting of a goddess wielding a sword.
Stripped bare, he paused a moment, waiting until the bath was ready. When he entered the bathing room, he was greeted by the steam and warmth of the hot water. Soap was laid out for him, and he scrubbed himself clean, from head to toe. Submerging himself fully, eyes shut, he reveled in the tranquility, noticing that his breath seemed to sustain him longer than usual under water. The everyday sounds of the house were dulled, distant.
The thought of letting out a scream crossed his mind, but exhaustion had sapped most of his will to express his frustration. Eventually, the need for air coaxed him to the surface. As he emerged, he noticed clothes neatly folded on a chair. "Okay then," Immanuel acknowledged silently.
Immanuel adorned himself with a robe that was a tapestry of colorful flowers stitched upon the fabric, its texture rich and pleasing to the skin. Beneath, a white cloth that seemed meant to serve as undergarments confounded him; he wrestled with it briefly before leaving it there, returning to the adjacent room. There, he meticulously attended to his armor, though he refrained from stowing it.
Lying upon the bed, his ears caught the distant chirping of birds. For the first time since his calamitous journey began, he was enveloped by a sense of security, no longer at the mercy of the wilds. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, washed in shades of serene blue, and his mind waded into the sea of his memories.
"Could I have saved her?" The question echoed within the confines of his mind. "Had I been more adept at fighting..." He let the thought trail off. As an outsider in these foreign lands, what could he have done? Why had she thrown caution to the winds? Maybe we stayed too long on the ship? Cooked up. Maybe she felt safe after the encounter with the other tribe? Is Amy searching for him or going to the shrink? So thinking he dozed off a few times until the thoughts became a strange dream where he saw Naia’s head flopping off her head. He jumped out of bed as soon as he had some clarity.
He activated his core energy, a cultivator's essence, and as it coursed through him, the familiar surge of strength was a balm to his weary spirit. With ease, he sprung upwards, his fingertips grazing the painted ceiling. He jumped a few times, waking up completely.
With time to kill and no desire to stay cooped up in his room, Immanuel wandered downstairs. Naai was bustling about, evidently very busy. "Excuse me, Miss," he began, but Naai cut him off, "The master's by the boathouse. You're welcome to join him if you'd like." She gave a quick bow and went back to her tasks, mentioning something about preparing for the evening meal.
Following her directions, Immanuel made his way through the garden to the boathouse. There, he found Carto deep in conversation with three elder gentlemen. One, robed in white edged with gold, was gesturing animatedly inside the boat. As Immanuel approached, Carto greeted him with a wide grin. "Ah, Immanuel! Come meet Dockmaster Hecha and Met." Two men with impressive black beards peppered with grey nodded at him, extending their wrists in greeting.
The man in the boat turned around. "This is Navigator Celta," Carto introduced. The Navigator gave a similar wrist-gesture. "Pleasure," Immanuel replied, matching the gesture and nodding in acknowledgment.
"Such a fine vessel you have," remarked Navigator Celta admiringly from aboard the ship. "Looks more like it's made for a parade than for traversing the Darkwoods." Immanuel thought the man had a point.
"It's truly a beauty," chimed in Dockmaster Met. "Ever consider selling? It'd be the jewel of any auction."
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Carto chuckled, waving off the suggestion. "Let's not talk about selling just yet. We've got some manza to enjoy first." The men clambered into the boat, their attention caught by its craftsmanship. Pointing to all kinds of details.
Immanuel stepped back, watching the sun dip low in the sky. Laborers were still busy with their boats, and the air was filled with the buzz of the city winding down. He gazed at the still-docked airships and felt a surge of joy at the scene before him. He breathed deeply, soaking it all in until the chattering of the men faded into background noise.
When he glanced back, the group was gathering to leave the boat. Joining them, Immanuel listened as they speculated about the boat's construction, occasionally looking his way for input, to which he could only offer clueless shrugs.
They settled on the balcony, now adorned with an assortment of small dishes and fruit-shaped glasses. Naai and a younger woman with chestnut hair and a face that looked like a younger version of Naai serving. The men took their seats, and Carto began pouring a vibrant orange liquid into each glass. He then clasped his hands and said, "Here's to the shipwrights, the sailors, and the river itself—for without their toil and temper, our docks would be mere dreams on dry land."
"To the vessels that dance upon the waves: May their hulls be blessed, their journeys prosperous, and their returns swift and sure." The other men replied.
The group dined in silence after that, the atmosphere comfortable, the only sounds the clinking of dishes and the occasional compliment on the flavors. Naai and the younger woman were a quiet presence, exchanging empty plates for full ones with seamless efficiency. Immanuel dug in with his hands like the other gentlemen, dipping and savoring each bite. The meal was nothing short of delicious.
Immanuel found solace in the food before him, taking comfort in the quiet hum of satisfaction that floated through the air, the cityscape and harbour painting a backdrop to their meal. Savory flavors intermingled with sweet and the rich assortment of nuts. As the feast dwindled to its last, Naai appeared, carrying a bowl of water and a fresh towel for each of them to cleanse their hands.
Carto then indulged in a pipe, drawing in the aromatic blend before passing it to Navigator Celta. Naai, ever attentive, brought another pipe which he lit before offering it to the rest of the guests. The other gentlemen declined with a polite wave of the hand, but Immanuel took it. A bird of vibrant plumage suddenly landed upon the balustrade, trilling a merry tune until Naai, with a gentle chiding, shooed it away.
Inhaling deeply, the minty essence of the herbs filled Immanuel's senses, a pleasant divergence from the tang of the wild. Carto exhaled a thoughtful cloud of smoke and turned the conversation to the tale of Immanuel's journey. "We've heard you've had quite the misadventure, crossing the vast plains and the Darkwoods, not entirely by your lonesome?"
Immanuel, his exhale mingling with the night air, nodded in affirmation. "A crash left me as the sole survivor," he admitted. The navigators sympathized with a unison of "Ai, ai, ai," prompting Immanuel to continue. "I was injured badly with a wound to the back of my head,, but my regeneration saved my life"
"Regeneration, you say?" Celta inquired, an eyebrow arched with intrigue.
"Yes, I heal rather quickly. Well, I woke up and followed a river until I came across a village.”
I was able to help them, to kill away some beast that were giving them trouble. In gratitude, they offered me a boat." His voice held a note of fondness, quickly shadowed by grief. "And one of the villager joined me, she wanted to see the world beyond the endless grass"
His smile waned, a shadow of sorrow passing over his features. "But as we neared the Blackwoods, a red-striped cat killed her." Immanuel's hand floated in the air, tracing the size of the beast. Dockmaster Met's face tightened at the mention, "Springer cats," he echoed, "Notorious swimmers, those beasts. There's a bounty on their heads, but it does little to dull the sting of loss."
The men sat in somber reflection, the gentle clink of glasses filling the silence as Naai dutifully poured more of the rich, orange liquid. Her hands lighting the lanterns as night descended upon them, wrapping the balcony in a warm, golden glow.
Dockmaster Hecha's question cut through the lull, steering their thoughts to less grim shores. "No memories at all? Not of your mother, your homeland?"
"Fragments," Immanuel conceded, "Impressions and images,but my languages are unimpaired.
"How interesting," they commented, their curiosity piqued as the conversation naturally meandered to the topic of the deadwoods. They talked about the many raids that are organized to keep the wildlife in check and the names of animals that live there.. Immanuel, lounging comfortably within the circle of animated discussion, felt a warmth seeping into his core, a gentle fire kindling in his belly that coaxed a chuckle from him in response to the whole scene. He was also drinking his third glass of the peachy wine. Or was it the fourth?
Celta, some time later, breached the subject of the ship again. "What are your intentions with the ship?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on Immanuel as if pinning him down to the moment.
It took a second for Immanuel to register that the question was directed at him, his mind had been adrift. "Oh, nothing, really. I don't want it anymore." he responded with a nonchalance that belied the adventures once lived aboard that vessel. "Even if I were to travel again, I'd hope for a bigger boat. And, frankly, I've spent enough time in that thing." His statement was punctuated by a hearty swig of his drink, the flavor of peaches, sweet and refreshing.
"Then I would like to organize an auction. There's considerable interest in such a unique ship," Celta proposed, her eyes lighting up with the business prospect.
"Please, be my guest," Immanuel said.
The ensuing conversation buzzed with the logistics of who to invite, and the ideal timings and settings for showcasing the ship to potential buyers. Their enthusiasm was palpable.
As the evening wore on, Immanuel took a deep draw from his pipe, its contents igniting a relaxation that seemed to seep into his very bones. Eventually, the men departed with affable smiles, their chatter lingering in the hallway like the afterglow of a setting sun.
Carto returned shortly, his presence as comforting as it was familiar. "Do enjoy the evening, but this old man has the docks to manage early tomorrow. It's been a pleasure. Feel free to stay as long as you like. I'll notify the Green Pyre; they'll come for you here," he said before making that strange gesture with his hands, showing Immanuel his palms.
Left in solitude, Immanuel pondered his curious circumstances. "Where the hell did I land myself? Heaven or hell?" he mused aloud. I haven’t had a day of rain. He inspected the pipe in his grasp, its ember still glowing—the craftsmanship exquisite, a slender shaft culminating in a head carved like a tree. With a final, reflective gaze, he rose and retired to his bed.
Sleep was elusive as he was thinking of how strong one could get in this world.. He imagined himself powerful enough to cleave through a red-striped cat. And within the clutches of these revenge fantasies, sleep finally claimed him.