After generously gifting to his old traveling companion both his understanding of magic and his new set of clothing, Renalt returned to the vital work of investigating the bath. Not by looking at it via some form of magic, no, they were past that. He was simply going through the vocabulary roots from the oldest songs he knows, combining them in several ways based on the old books’ letterings. He didn’t recognize the script, but he was able to determine that the verbal endings seem to be roughly one to two syllables, and the roots seem to be roughly two syllables. So he takes ancient roots and adds logical phonemes to them to try to find the command word Felazo had indicated it would have, starting with single syllable endings as commands tend to be short and to the point. Because right now, they deserved a nice, warm bath. All of them, though in Renalt’s humble opinion, most especially the musician who was integral to saving them all.
It takes a chunk of time into the evening, but eventually he does find the word. Assuming the root takes on the same meaning in the long lost ancient language as the known ancient language, it is some verbal form of to stand. Touching the water, it is hot, but not too hot to relax into. As he is not yet ready for the bath, he makes a stop at the captain’s quarters. Popping his head in, he sees Felazo, hard at work investigating the jars. “Not to disturb, my most convivial captain, but I do believe I know a word in the ancient language now, if such knowledge be of interest.”
Felazo finishes writing something down, then turns on a heel to look at Ren. “Go on then, musician,” the wizard says, reclining on his workbench, “What was the magic word that turned on our new acquisition.”
Renalt recounted to his relatively recent captain the combination of syllables that caused the tub to fill with fresh water, adding afterwards, “‘Tis only an estimation, but I do believe it to be related to the stem of the ancient word for standing in the Song of the Damned Raider.”
“Which would make the language some form of Proto-Orkish, rather than a proto-Kingdom-Elfish as I was previously assuming. That is actually worth interrupting me for, well versed maestro.”
“‘Twas little trouble, studious spell-slinger. Though this talk does delay what one would consider correctly a befitting bath,” the bard tells his companion. Then, with a bow, Ren adds, “Fare your evening well, oh outstanding officer of the Ekzokia,” before leaving the room, letting the sea elf get back to his work evaluating the weird alchemical ingredients. After all, he has far more important matters to attend to. He has the opportunity to take the first proper bath since leaving Torigora three years ago. Assuming this ancient mystical bath is even approaching the level of the Torigoran steam complex he had been invited to use by that one rich patron.
Continuing down to the cots, he sees Den fast asleep in a tight fitting set of clothes, clearly from the new collection. He also sees a nicely folded pile beside his own hammock. He had taken them all from the closet, as the materials that made the outfits were exquisite. Yet, he had no intention of ever wearing half of those outfits. Many are ill-suited to adventure, and more vitally some of them are even moving beyond simply the unfashionable or unflattering and into the realm of the truly ugly. But Denlo, for all his innumerable fantastic qualities, is a man from one of the Kin-slums who wears unevenly burnt leather armor with a masked helm. Fashion is not one of his strong suits. So I have to go through the pile of unsorted clothes to find an outfit that actually matches my new chestpiece. Taking that outfit, one of the sets of undergarments that Denlo had procured in the looting, my scraper, and a towel, I return to the new bathing chamber to test the waters, quite literally.
Touching the water once more, it’s cooled down some. Not as much as it should have, but whatever enchantments are on the basin, it isn’t permanent. Probably also means there is a word to empty it. But that can wait. If it is not a permanent activated enchantment, then dumping also will work for emptying it, and they can wait for their captain to determine more about the language to find the magic words. Setting up some simple, dish-based guttering to guide the water outside the ship, Ren tips the basin, emptying it best he could. Left in the very bottom is a hint of the water from before, but he isn’t concerned. Repeating the activation phrase, the basin fills once more. This time, the musician settles into the tub with his oils and scraper, to clean off a few weeks worth of sweat, dirt, blood, grime, and other assorted substances their adventure had gotten onto him.
As he is in the tub, cleaning between cleaning himself and scraping things off, he begins work composing a song. Not yet does he know all of the words to it, that will be determined at least in part from Felazo’s readings of the mysterious mage’s journals and books. But he can still compose the melancholic twists to subvert the overall heroic overtures of a mage fighting against time, dreams, and the future itself to protect what they hold dearest. A fight doomed to fail, and one the mage who fights it likely knows is doomed to fail, but they believe must be fought all the same. Perhaps a full tempo and melodic shift for the second phrase, to talk about some kind of future, some kind of possible life outside the doomed fight, before a switch to the pre-chorus strips away that hope. Maybe the third phrase has a more epic tone, where there is no hope of a future outside the battle against it, but there is some indication that the fight has purpose, has meaning. Only to lead into the fourth phrase, in which the tragedy that befalls all like the mage happens, where their hubris is proven to be just that and they fall to the war they could never have won. As he imagines the tune, running the music through his mind and tracing the moments through the air, he feels once again inspired. It has been far too long since he’s truly felt earnest in his writing’s truths, Ren thinks to himself in this private moment reclining nude in a tub of mystically heated water.
He honestly could not say how long he spent in that basin. But eventually he finds it in himself to get up. Once more, he dumps out the now dirty water. He dries himself as best he could, then pulls on the tight yet comfortable undergarments, then the loose, silken outfit he’d chosen. Cleaned and dressed, he returns to the cabin to rest. Denlo and Sari are both down there. Normally, this would be when Denlo starts to stir, to begin his watch, but it has been a long day, and Renalt suspects Den will be waiting for the good Sister to come in from her watch and awaken him. Climbing into his hammock, the musician once more traces the tragic songs movements in the air as he finds himself falling into a deep, ecstatic sleep. He sees in his dreams a thousand possibilities for the story of his melancholic song. Seeing the inhabitant of the cube as a glorious magic warrior, a scholarly noble, a scheming wizard. Seeing the battle as against some tyrannical nation, against the gods, against evils lurking in dreams, against magic itself. Seeing the hopeful future as a farm in the countryside, a small town library, a place in a grand court, a school of history and magic. Seeing the success as victories on a battlefield, discoveries in a laboratory, maneuvers in a quiet alleyway. And seeing the failure and death play out, each time befitting the story, but each time the same way: alone and forgotten. Just like Ren knows awaits himself.
The musician awakens in the morn and heads up to the deck for breaking fast, donning his armor as he walks. It looks quite sharp in conjunction with the new outfit, and the new underclothes make it very comfortable indeed. On the deck, Sari greets him in her usual friendly manner. “Ren, I was looking and one of the sets of underwear is missing.”
“Yes, mine were far too soiled to put back on after my bath,” the musician explained to the noble, “In fact, they may have to be burned. That said, the new clothes Denlo and you discovered in the mage’s quarters are quite comfortable indeed.”
“I must agree,” Sister Hilan adds with a smile having finished her morning prayers, “A tad tight for my liking, but incredibly comfortable nonetheless.”
Felazo comes up from below. He’s clean, meaning he, too, took a bath in the new washbasin. “So, two things,” the Sea Elf says as he sits down by the cooking fish, “First, Renalt kindly discovered the magical phrase for the new bath, it’s written phonetically on the wall above the tub. Feel free to wash up if you wish.” The captain paused, and his miniscule helper scurried over and began squeaking something. “Right,” the wizard added, “The currents are such that leaving won’t be until the afternoon no matter what we decide, but here are the options. We know of the pirate grave and possible treasure that we came here to find. Could have value, and we are already here. That said, based on the few scripts I managed to translate thanks to our magnificent musician’s unmatched desire for a good bath, there is a possible similar site on one of the Absent Isles heartward from here. Not sure the exact path, but I could calculate and chart a course to it instead.”
“How exactly did Ren help out?” Sari rudely asks. She’s clearly not totally over the whole magically putting her to sleep thing.
Felazo smiled. He is happy to explain his brilliance to everyone and anyone. “The song from which the root he used for the activation word, combined with the understanding that the journal you provided was a dream journal and what those basement creatures do to dreams, allowed me to determine a solid idea of what those repeated phrases meant. From there, it was just a matter of translation and estimation.”
Sister Hilan bites her lower lip. “I believe my question may well have to do with this metal box. I would be interested in such sites.”
“Fair,” Renalt offered, “And yet, we would be leaving behind a possible tale of great import, a lost treasure of a pirate whose very death is one of the rumored causes of Hetha’s founding.” He may have one new song in the works, but one song is never enough. Perfection requires practice. Requires repetition.
Den walks over from his perch. His new outfit does not match his armor, other than them both being darkly colored, but then again, neither did his old outfit. “Do you need to be here to do the calculations?” he asked.
“It would be easier with the maps here, but I should be able to do most of the calculations side of things from anywhere. Charting a course, a bit harder, but an estimation of one is more than possible.”
“Then we do both,” Denlo says. The killer’s face is hidden behind his helmet’s mask, but his voice has force behind it. A certainty.
Sari nods. “I’m not sure we could survive another of those houses,” she admits, “Not without more practice in proper combat, and more practice fighting as a team.”
Felazo looks over at the human woman. “Sister, are you willing to embark on this quick jaunt like the others?”
She thinks a moment, then the monastic warrior nods. “I am. If we must wait to leave until late afternoon, we may as well be productive in our waiting,” she explains her position.
“Then after breakfast, we plumb the cursed pirate’s tomb,” Felazo says. The look in his eyes tells Renalt that the mage is quite pleased with this decision, though he’s also already begun figuring out which currents to take to the next long dead mage’s house.
Renalt turns to the Sea Elf. “By the by, I must hear the story told in those journals. For I am composing a piece, but it must at least echo the truth to make the feelings it evokes feel true.”
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