As evening comes, Sister Hilan heads down into the belly of the Ekzokia. The man called Den is stretching below decks. He’s been down here most of the trip. “Are you ready?” the Sister asks the Elfi’ika.
“Hm,” he replies, then looking up, he sees the woman. “Night already?” His look cold, detached.
She nods. “Yes. You’re rested, correct? I need to sleep, so I may be unavailable to assist in the manual labor tonight.”
After a sigh, Den answers. “Sure. Boats gotten any closer?”
Sister Hilan shrugs. “I’m not sure, but likely yes. I did spot the encroaching shadow in the distance. That said, at the size and distance it is at, I could not tell.”
“Alright,” Den responds as he picks back up his wrapped sword, “I’ll keep an eye out. And I’ll handle the labor, if you’re awakened by us, assume combat.”
Hilan nods. “Understood.” She passes Den and heads back into the rear of the ship, where her hammock slowly swings. She places her shield on a large nail, sticking out from one of the pillars holding up her hammock. Then, unbuckling the plates, she begins the process of removing her armor. Alone, it takes a good bit of time to take the plates off, especially when she isn’t rushing through the process. She rarely rushes when doffing before sleep, as rushing makes getting to sleep more difficult. Segment by segment, plate by plate, Sister Hilan carefully places her armor in the open box beside her hammock.
After around a minute, her armor is all stowed away. She climbs into the hanging bed, and takes a deep breath. Holding it in a moment, she closes her eyes. Then she lets the breath go. Keeping her focus on breathing slowly and regularly, the sister of the Bold Flame’s Darian Order falls asleep.
No one awakens her from her dreams. Dreams of darkness. Dreams of hope. Dreams nonsensical, yet logical. Dreams that likely have answers, if only she knew the question they are answering. No one interrupts the dreams, and her body wakes itself up. Sister Hilan knows in her heart it’s just before dawn. It’s always just before dawn. Sliding out of her hammock, she looks down at her armor. Piece by piece, she puts back on her armor. No matter how fast she wishes it takes, no matter how hard she tries, putting the plates of armor back on takes much more time than removing them. Carefully, she latches each section just so, tightening them to keep each from shifting around without constricting her own movement too much. About two minutes later, she picks her shield up off of the nail and heads above deck.
Den, pacing around the edges of the ship, notices her arrival. With a nod and without a word, the Elfi’ika slips downstairs. She looks up, spotting Alessari up on the mast. No one else is on deck, yet. That’s good. Her contemplations are personal, and while the huntress understands well enough to leave her alone to her prayers, she’s not sure the same would hold for the others. She heads to the same spot by the prow, and begins. They begin with the contemplation of the observer, to help establish her own place and therefore better see other’s positions. Facing the point where the sun is soon to be showing itself over the horizon, she stated the Darian Orders’ creed. Kneeling and looking at the deck, she continued with the house of the Bold Flame’s call to purpose. Then, looking towards the horizon, across the water, she affirmed the Cold Fist’s beliefs.
Then comes the round, a careful series of actions and affirmations to recognize and acknowledge the elements of her worship in the eyes of the Bold Flame. Each of the seven aspects of the Tripartite Throne while facing east. Each of the four aspects of the Twin Flames while facing southwest. Each of the three aspects of the Lady while facing northeast. As she finishes her prayers by miming pushing the sun back down below the horizon, she finally looks around. As she was worried about in the beginning, Ren is leaning on the side of the ship. He doesn’t seem to be watching the Sister’s contemplations, but she suspects he paid at least some notice to them earlier. He notices a lot.
Continuing to look around, she notices the shadows. Or what yesterday had been only shadows. A small fleet of ships were right there, practically. At this rate, she suspects they will intercept them within the day. Unless that fleet diverts its path or the Ekzokia slows down. Since this is what Felazo refers to as a ‘Hungering’, she doubts either of those two alternatives will occur today. Which means she needs to be ready for whatever this interaction is to be. She approaches the musician already on deck. “Renalt,” she says, “Do you know who that fleet is? I want to be prepared for our upcoming encounter.”
Renalt walks over to the prow of the ship and squints, trying to get the best view of the ships. “The flags are those of a caravan. Not one of import, nor strength, nor personal connection to mine past. Felazo shall likely know more on such matters, though, for he be the expert, whereas I am but a novice in matters of the politics of and between caravans.”
“He’s not awake yet,” Sister Hilan quickly responds.
Renalt chuckles, before looking at her. “Oh, you be serious,” he says, then, shaking his head, explains, “Our captivating captain can’t keep himself from working through times of the moon and into the sun’s true light.”
“So you are saying Felazo is awake and functional enough to answer questions?” the sister of the Cold Fist asks, rhetorically.
The musician smirks and replies, “I promised not his ability to answer questions. Our honorable host has a habit of holding his hand half-hidden from his help.”
“To be fair, half-hidden is half better than you seem to hold your cards,” Sister Hilan replies with a wry smile.
“‘Tis I fair point, militant sister of a peaceable order, but I be a meandering musician. A modicum of mystery is most mandatory for mine métier,” the musician responds with an equally wry smile. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Though I do apologize if such habits I hold have a harsh effect on your opinion of myself, habits are hard to break.”
Sister Hilan shakes her head at the man’s final remark, still focused on the first half. Or, more specifically, the moniker. This Renalt figure knows more about things than he lets on. She’s not entirely sure whether to be concerned or relieved. Pushing it out of her mind, she instead heads down towards Felazo’s captains quarters. Hopefully he knows more on the caravan at play than the bard, and can give her some idea of what their interaction will be with the Ekzokia and her odd group of deckhands.
Sure enough, just like Renalt predicted, Felazo is hard at work at his alchemical table, focusing on some small object. Kalzia is helping as best the little creature can. Sister Hilan enters, knocking. “Yes?” the captain asks. Neither look back towards the door.
“I was wondering if you have some time?” Sister Hilan replies.
Felazo nods, still not looking. “What specifically? I’m close to this bomb being able to hold even more effectively. I might be able to actually use it in combative scenarios, rather than merely as a utility to hold objects in place.”
“Great. I was wondering about the caravan we’re approaching. What they’re like, what to expect when we pass by one another this evening,” Sister Hilan explains her presence. She hopes that will be enough.
“Ask Renalt. The musician knows a great deal.”
Hilan responds, “I already did, he recognized the flags as a Caravan, but not one he knows. He pointed me in your direction.”
Felazo sighs. “Alright, I suppose I can look. But you get to test my bomb.”
“Test how?” she asks. In response, Felazo tosses the small thing he’s been working on at her. Not expecting it, she doesn’t have enough time to get her shield up. Vines erupt from the small bag as it strikes her, and they wrap themselves around her. She struggles to rip herself free.
“Tell me,” Felazo begins, finally turning around, “On a scale of one to ten, how difficult is it to get out?”
“You’re insane,” Sister Hilan replies. After more of an effort than she expected, she finally ripped herself free of the sticky vines.
“One to ten,” Felazo presses. Kalzia squeaks inquisitively.
Hilan shrugs, giving in to the insanity. “Like a three or a four.”
Felazo smiles. “That’s like a six for a normal person. Great. Okay.” Then, Felazo remembers his side of the deal. “Right, caravan,” he says, rushing past Hilan and up the stairs onto the deck. The pious sister follows him up. The wizard joins Renalt at the prow, squinting to make out the flags.
Hilan approaches. “So,” she asks, “Who is it and what should we expect?”
Felazo, muttering some rather unpleasant Elfen words to himself, shakes his head. “It’s definitely a caravan alright,” he says.
The sister shakes her head. “Ren told me that. Do you know anything more?”
The captain sighs. “Yes. It’s the Caravan va Cotropla. I need to tell Den to sleep now so we can all be ready come evening.”
“Why?” she presses.
The sea elf smiles. “Because there are two caravans va Cotropla, and no way to tell which this one is. Zeltaro va Cotropla is a son of a bitch who hates me and runs what is all but a pirate crew. Lizato va Cotropla on the other hand, is a son of a bitch who only knows of me and runs a honest Caravan.”
“Why have such names never come across mine ears?” Renalt asks.
“Because they’re both smaller caravans, and Zeltaro only robs on the currents so only caravans and raiders ever deal with him.” Felazo explains. He waits a moment for more questions, and when none come, he rushes down below decks to speak with Den.
Renalt looks at Sister Hilan. “I’m going to practice. Tell our humble huntress what we’ve learned, so she, too, might prepare. For violence or otherwise.”
The holy woman nods. “Will you be prepared, for violence or otherwise?”
Renalt grins. “Likely not, but preparation is not mine skillset.”
Sister Hilan shakes her head. She walks over to the mast, places the shield on her back, takes a deep breath, and climbs. She is not near as graceful getting up the mast as Alessari is, but she does make it to the top. “Sari,” Hilan asks as she gets close enough to talk at a normal volume, “Were you eavesdropping on Felazo?”
Alessari looks down at her old traveling companion. “You mean about the caravan? Missed the details, but he seems worried.”
“Evidently it’s a toss up whether we’ll get curious looks and uncomfortable pleasantries, or violent threats and possible aggression when we pass through those ships,” Hilan explains.
Alessari nods. “I’ll be ready for either,” she says.
“Hopefully it is merely the former,” the pious sister adds.
Alessari sighs. “Hopefully.” Then, as Hilan shifts her weight to begin climbing down, Alessari adds, “Wait.”
Sister Hilan stops and climbs back up towards her companion. “What is it?” she asks, “Is something wrong?”
“This morning, Renalt was watching your routine pretty intently,” the huntress tells the sister in hushed tones, “I don’t trust him.”
Hilan nods. “I thought something like that. Do you know how long?”
“That’s why I don’t trust him,” Alessari answers, “He was there for nearly as long as you were. Like he timed it so he could watch as much as possible without you noticing.”
“That’s, no,” Sister Hilan begins her objection to her companion’s paranoia. As she speaks, she looks down towards the musician plucking his strings. The musician who has, so far as they can tell, no reason to be here. The musician who knows so much about each of them, but they know so little about. “Can you keep an eye on him?” she says instead.
Alessari nods. “Of course. I just saw you with him the other day. I want you to be careful.”
Sister Hilan looks up at the noble huntress, directly into the elf’s eyes. “I will,” she says, “Thank you.”
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