The Icria caravan is like most of the caravans wandering the sea. many boats operating in tandem to protect each other and move goods between the shattered islands of Vyrroltea. They may be one of the smaller and more humble caravans, but they are also one of the older ones. It is said by the Chroniclers v’Icria that they can trace their caravan back to when the sky fell and the world ruptured. Whether or not this is true, their caravan is also mentioned in several other chronicles, from other caravans, in early ages, so they are most certainly an old group. The name v’Icria is an honor, though one long forgotten by those outside of the Caravans’ culture.
Felazo has always been a bit of an odd one. Never one for the hard work of sailing or the pleasant work of buying and selling goods, he preferred the quiet work. Keeping the records, managing the books, he rarely left the ships. And he studied. Everything written down, anything he could even try to learn, he learned. Some things took him time, or effort, or the ability to convince his captain to lend money for books, but eventually, Felazo discovered whatever he sought out to discover. This, of course, was a blessing and a curse.
Studying for days at a time, weeks on end, sometimes even getting lost in his books, Felazo found his path to magic the hard way. He thought it might be able to aid in his studies, to help his caravan stay strong, to do many things. All it takes is effort, time, and a will to put in the effort studying. Even though he spent a lot of energy learning the ins and outs of magic, that wasn’t all he studied. He dipped his toes in everything. Beyond the mechanics of magic, he learned about other ways of interacting with the magical, he learned about the pseudo-mystical alchemic studies brought to the Vyrroltea from a distant land by the human ancestors. He even studied as much as he could find on the Dwarfen homeland, the so-called Isle of the Damned. And, eventually, he realized a simple fact: he needs to spend some time away from the caravan circuit.
So, two moons ago, before the caravan left the Ditrech Successor Kingdom, Felazo kindly requested the Icria Captains for permission to take one of the smaller ships to explore the region for more information away from the caravan. Knowing he would return, the Captains allowed Felazo access to the Ekzokia, a sailing sloop that could be, with a lot of work and focus, sailed single-handed.
Now, Felazo takes his time, shorehopping about the region. The advantage of flying the Flag v’Icria is that only pirates would dare even try to touch him. That is why he chose this area in particular to explore. The Pious Nation, the Ditrech Kingdom, and the Betrayer State all kept their waters mostly clear. Well, the Pious Nation and Successor Kingdom did, and the semi-state-sponsored pirates of the Betrayer State would not attack any Caravan ship, even one separated from its caravan or one they aren’t familiar with. The State relies on the good will of the Caravans too much to lose favor with any of the larger Caravans, and no one outside the Caravaneers themselves really understand inter-caravan politics enough to risk a smaller flag.
With his mind, Felazo orders his quiet, invisible helper to hold the tack as he climbs the mast. From the top of the mast, he hopes he will be able to find the ruin that he’s currently scouring the small island for. Scurrying his way up the mast is easy enough. Living on boats his whole life has made that part easy. Gripping the top of the mast, Felazo squints, trying to see the details of the island. He can’t quite spot any place built up, but he does see an area where there seems to be less trees. Letting go of the mast, he draws the magic into him and imposes his will upon with one of his well practiced routines. One of the ropes from above wraps around him to slow his descent as the others, the ones charged with steering the ship, begin to move seemingly of their own volition, turning the ship towards shore near that undertreed region. Landing softly on the deck, he sits down, focusing on keeping the ropes moving and his invisible helper working hard. He’s done his part until they get much closer to shore.
Slower than he’d prefer, Felazo’s boat makes its way towards the coastline. Felazo is patient when doing many things, but nothing has never been one of them. He prefers doing things, anything, to simply waiting. But, when in mental control of an open water vessel heading towards a shoreline, it is always best to stay focused. So, rather than read further the books that lead him to this area, he stands tall and keeps an eye out.
Eventually, his vessel does make it to shore, or close enough that any further will be risky. Felazo turns his craft to follow the shoreline to someplace he could dock. Finding a cliff that looks promising near where he turned, he smiles at his fate. Everything is better now. Using the ropes to pull him in towards the cliff, the strange man pulls a small vial, whirling with greenish liquid out from his coat. “This should do the trick,” he says to himself, as there was no one else listening. Finding a nice, sturdy looking part of the cliff, Felazo pulls the boat up against it. Then, he tosses the small vial at the point where they meet.
Glass shatters. Out from the green liquid twist harsh, spiny vines, as though appearing from nowhere. “Yes!” Felazo shouts. He’s just happy it works. The vines twist about, finding strong grips on both the edge of the boat and the cliff face. It’ll be a hell of a time leaving, but his boat wasn’t about to drift off anytime soon. Next came the issue of the cliff. Having the rope slide itself out from the boat’s mechanics and up the face, Felazo began his ascent. It is the safest option, he muses, even though it will add even more time to his leaving. Fortunately, this part of the islands is theoretically uninhabited nowadays, so a quick getaway isn’t really a concern.
Once at the top of the cliff, the rope twists itself around his body, then falls limp. It takes a lot of effort and focus to keep the rope under control, and he needed both to watch and deal with his surroundings. While there are not supposed to be any people about, the wilds of the Vyrroltea can be dangerous places for a lone traveller. Leaving the top of the cliff, Felazo heads down into the woods, in the direction of that clearing he saw from the top of his mast. By his best estimate, he should be there within the day. If he simply keeps his eyes around him, he knows he will be safe.
But doing nothing isn’t Felazo’s forte. And, his vine bomb had worked perfectly. He needs to write down the results, his exact ingredients and recipe, and how they might be improved upon. Pulling out his notebook as he walks, he sets to work on such an important task.
It is just after he realizes that he could channel the natural energies into his vine bombs, that he remembers he is in nature. And he gets the distinct impression something doesn’t want him to be. That impression is helped along by the giant wolf that lets out a large roar and leaps at him. He sees the beast coming at him. He knows he has two options: try to avoid the attack or take the hit and hope he can keep going. He thinks he could avoid the attack, in fact he’s pretty sure of it, but he doesn’t know where he could go that would be advantageous. There’s a tree to his left that could be.
As he’s working out a plan, the beast smashes into him, taking him to the ground hard. Felazo’d forgotten that, while he can think quickly, time still passes while he’s in thought. Ouch. His eyes start to glow a sickly white. “That’s not nice,” he hisses out. He reaches out towards the wolf that’s atop him and grabs the animal’s fur. “Apologize.” He begins to chant in a language long forgotten, and dark energies radiate out from the Sea Elf’s hands, twisting the insides of the living creature, quickly unbalancing the cycles of death and life that permeate all living things. It whimpers in pain, and begins to retreat. “Good boy,” he says, “Much better.” The wolf begins to head away, either to find its pack and return or to find weaker prey. Felazo knew better than to wait for the answer. Besides, he had more important things to do. Pulling out his notes on the vine bomb, he finishes his thought from before the local fauna so rudely interrupted. It’s all a matter of relevant energies, and there are plenty of ways to increase the ambient relevant energies when crafting his little toys.
He continues through the woods heading in the direction of the clearing. He will need to make camp somewhere ahead, and so he’s also keeping an eye out for good stopping places. After being attacked once, Felazo keeps at least a quarter of his attentions on his surroundings at all times. After all, it is better to be safe and not get as much done than to be dead. His folks taught him that during sailing lessons. And swimming lessons. Actually, over the years Felazo has found that general idea, or variations thereof, to be core to many Sea Elfish belief structures. Perhaps it goes all the way back to our survival of the catastrophe. Or perhaps, we just understand more than others the importance of existence. After all, most people around the Vyrroltea build monuments to the past, to what once was. To them, perhaps, dying can be a good thing. When you live in a small, tight knit community where everyone has to work together every day to succeed, that isn’t really an option. Dying doesn’t just mean your own life in the caravan, it means risking everyone else’s, too. And so, Felazo thinks, and walks, and keeps an eye on his surroundings for dangers.
An hour into his walk, he hits a small cliff face. Odd, he muses. There wasn’t one visible from the sea. But, then again, the angles were odd. Perhaps he simply did not notice it. Stretching his back and arms, he puts some grit on his hands and takes hold of an outcropping. Pulling himself up, he moves onto another. Then a third. Then, noticing a crack wide enough to fit his hands inside, he reaches out and grabs it with one hand. Lodging his foot into the handhold, he stretches out to get his other hand into the crack. Climbing up the crack, while still hard work, takes much less effort than trying to find handholds constantly. And the crack leads him all the way to the top of the cliff, though the final few feet look to be tricky. As the crack widens beyond what he can feasibly climb up, he chooses to head right, and shimmies his way across the ledge a small ways. Then, using all his core muscles, he pulls one leg up onto the ledge. He pauses a moment to catch his breath. The hard parts were done. Pushing with his arms, he rolls over, lying on his back. The grass at the top of the cliff feels good. He could rest, he thinks to himself, take a break here. But first he has to check his surroundings. Make sure it’s actually safe. After a moment.
Slowly, he lifts himself up off the ground. He’s exhausted. He knows he’s tired when he looks around. Before him, just beyond a couple trees, sits what appears to be the remains of a house of some kind. That’s definitely not right. “Well,” he says to the ruined building, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
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