Thinking about Questions Den's Avoided Asking Himself

Denlo lies on the deck, waiting as everyone else finishes ferrying themselves across the water. It has been a rough day. He lies on the deck and watches. Felazo and Renalt seem to be struggling to drag Sister Hilan and the raft across, neither quite well equipped to do so. Well, that’s not exactly right. As he watches them swim, Felazo seems almost decent at it, in spite of his relatively slender stature. I suppose growing up in the seas on a Caravan, one gets used to this sort of task. His eyes drift over to Alessari, who seems to be dividing the food into four piles. One is likely spoiled, what the other piles are for are beyond the former urchin. As far as he was aware, there were two states of food: edible and no longer safe to eat. Then his eyes move over to the horizon. The reason he was not resting quite yet. If he were to rob a group like theirs, this would be the time he’d strike. While they are tired, weak, and distracted.

And yet, no one strikes. Perhaps their captain is the only treasure hunter who knows about this place, like he believes himself to be. Or perhaps this crew is the only group reckless enough to go strike out after a bunch of ghosts. But no boats approach, no swimmers either. Just Felazo, Renalt, and Hilan. “How goes the food investigation?” Felazo asks Sari as he crests over the gunnel of the Ekzokia.

The scion looks up from her sorting. “Better than expected,” she says, “Much of it so far was quite well preserved.”

Felazo nods and starts to gather up some of the jars, calling on the air to aid him. “I shall be down in my study, examining these and their alchemical properties,” he says, “Don’t bother me unless we’re all about to die.”

Denlo sighs and stands. Taking off his masked helm, he begins to head down to rest. In the sleeping area of the hold, he carefully places the helmet on a barrel, then begins to pull off his leathers. Carefully ordering it, he slides the armor under his helmet. Taking a sniff of his clothes, his mind wanders to the nice, clean selection of garments that Renalt had shoved in Sari’s bag. Shaking it from his mind, he strips off his bloody and ripe shirt to wash it later, but leaves the tight pants. Wrapping his sword, first in the cloth that normally wraps around its blade, then in the blankets of his hammock, he’s finally ready to rest. Careful not to aggravate any of his wounds, Denlo climbs into the hammock and as the boat rocks gently around him, he begins to relax.

A few minutes of glorious silence pass, but they never last. Denlo knows this well enough by now. At least this time it isn’t a threat that interrupts his rest. Instead, it is the kindest of the crew’s voices, the furthest from a threat.

“I have a question or two, Den. If you don’t mind my asking, of course,” the armored sister asks as she hits the deck and starts to take off her own armor. Being in full plate, it will take much longer than Denlo’s.

The Elfi’ika opens his eyes and turns his head to meet the gaze of the monastic sister. She looks rather concerned. “Ask,” he says flatly, “And I’ll tell you if I mind.”

She smiles and seats herself while she loosens her straps. “Do you have any plans? Any goals?”

“I don’t know. Do I need them?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just, I’ve seen you fight three times now, and argue with the world many more. And it’s odd. Like you’re balancing carefully on the edge of a cliff, yet can’t help but dance ever closer to that fall. And I don’t want you to fall off.”

Denlo shakes his head. “I’m not sure exactly what you mean by a cliff. What about my fighting?”

“It’s like you let yourself become a different person when you drop the cloth off that sword,” she explains her question.

Denlo nods, understanding better why she’s asking. She’s not worried he’s going to fall down a cliff or whatever she meant by that. She’s scared that he’s changing and is going to tear everyone down with him. And the worst part is, he’s not sure he can help alleviate that fear. Because he sees the same thing happening to him. “It’s complicated,” he begins, trying his best anyways. “Where I grew up, fighting isn’t really about being able to hurt people. Sure that helps, but it’s really about making sure you scare people around enough not to mess with you later. That’s how I always approached it. Slipping into shadows, dropping out of the sky, letting out terrifying statements. And ever since I left the old kin-slums, I’ve just been getting better and better at it. At silently sliding through the dark, at scaring those that step to me, at quickly dispatching threats.”

Sister Hilan grew curious at that statement. “And what caused you to leave? What changed that is inspiring these changes in your lifestyle, I wonder?”

“That,” Denlo says through gritted teeth, “Is a question I mind. Everyone is running from something, and nothing is gained by sharing with other people, even those kind and well-meaning ones.”

The holy woman frowns and sighs. “You should probably find something to run towards, a s well as away from. Might help you figure out your own feelings on the world, on what we are doing.”

Denlo glares at the human. “Have you given this advice to your friend Sari, I wonder? We both know she could use it more than I.”

Hilan shakes her head. “Not more, just the same. And I’ve tried. I just hope perhaps you’ll hear me better than she could.” She finally finishes pulling off her armor pieces and strips off her own dirty clothes, replacing them with a newer, fresher pair. She settles into her own hammock, with more comfort and ease than Denlo had his.

Denlo sighs. The sister asked a question he’d been avoiding asking. She understood that something changed then. He just didn’t want to admit it. The Elfi’ika pulls out his sword from the wrappings. It almost sings as he holds it. What is so special about this blade, he can’t help but wonder. Twirling it in his hands to let it sing, he tries to listen to the song. But he doesn’t understand magic, or much about musicality, and he barely knows fancy weapons. What he does know is an expert on all three of those things. He takes a deep breath. Without a sound and as easily as could be, the killer pushes off of the swinging cloth hammock, twists in the air, and lands smoothly on the floor. As he impacts, despite his bulk, nothing moves and the planks below him don’t even creak. He smiles just a bit, and stretches his shoulders, moving them in small circles while he heads up the stairs, equipped with only the tight, sweaty pants covering his legs and the sword he’s absentmindedly twirling in his hand.

Renalt is examining the bath. Which would surprise no one on the crew. He’s trying to figure out what the trigger is to fill it with water. Sari has finished with her piles and is ferrying some of them to the larder and hold. Denlo approaches the musician. “Ren, can we talk?” he asks, checking to make sure Sari is not on deck at the moment.

The bard looks up from the tub and notices his paranoia. “Certainly,” he says, “Come.” And leads the massive man across the deck to the prow, far from the noble huntress’s piles of food.

“No nonsense, old friend,” Den begins, “What do you hear?” and after Renalt cocks his head in reply, the killer begins to move the sword through the air. Let it sing. And it does, some kind of beautiful music. Not quite as clear as when the sword meets flesh, but still clear enough.

“The sound of a sword swishing, slicing swiftly the essence of the sky,” the musician says, watching Denlo’s face the whole time. “I think the true question is: what hear you?”

Denlo pauses, once again checking his surroundings. “Some sort of song,” he explains, “It’s hard to put into words. Like a similar sound to when you perform that surging tune, it does as it passes through things. Softly when it’s the air, more powerfully when it’s something more substantive.”

Renalt furrows his brow, looking carefully at the blade in his traveling partner’s hands. It seems quite powerful. “Would you mind if I examined it?” Ren asks.

Denlo looks at the sword. He is worried he’ll lose it, but shakes his head. It isn’t the sort of blade Ren likes, and examining it could give the killer answers he needs to understand. Especially if he wants to figure out next steps. He hands it over. As Ren sits down on the deck and begins to move the blade, the massive Elfi’ika asks, “Do you have any plans, thoughts about the future, that is?”

“Why would I want plans?” Ren replies, almost absentmindedly as he’s focusing all his attention on the blade. “Setting plans for your own life are merely ways to be either shocked by a twist or disappointed by a failure. Better to avoid them for myself at least, and stick with what I’m good at: writing songs on the glorious adventures of those around me.”

Denlo watches him curiously. He does seem rather intent on the blade. The killer isn’t even sure the musician fully realized he’d been answering a question. Then, after a few moments, Ren hands the sword back to him. “I could feel the power inside, much like you describe, but not hear it. I wonder, what is your connection to that blade?”

Denlo leans on the railing. “Honestly? I shouldn’t have one. Found it on a scavenging job, buried by a ruined fort. It’s clearly old, magical in some way, and it’s a style of weapon I’m not familiar with.”

“I am,” Ren replies, “It’s of an older design than any I may have ever had the opportunity to examine, but it is similar enough that I can say this: ‘tis the sort of blade an orkish raid-leader might wield. Hence questioning your possible connection.”

Denlo nods, taking a moment to think about that. It was buried too deep, and felt too old to have been his father’s. And whoever it belonged to, they clearly died during that fort raid. Leading that fort raid? If only Tiarta-Urgrin’s government had let people like him read their history books.

With a sigh, he turns to leave, then stops himself. “Did you get those clothes out of Sari’s bag yet?” Denlo asks his old friend.

“Not yet, why?” the musician replies.

Denlo gestures downwards. “I don’t have any other clothes, and mine are not holding up great.”

Renalt laughed. “Go ahead, see if there are any that fit you.”

Heading downstairs, he approaches Alessari, as she’s locking up the larder. “Sari,” he asks, “Could I take some things out of the magic bag?”

“What things?” she presses.

Den raises his eyebrows at the paranoia. “Ren’s new clothes.”

She pauses a moment, weighing her options, before she finally pulls it off her belt, unties the cords holding the pouch closed, and holds it out for Den. “Fine,” she says coldly. She watches him like a hawk as he pulls out Renalt’s new wardrobe. Clearly whatever had been bothering Sister Hilan was also bothering the huntress. Carefully he removes each piece of clothing, looks at its size, then lays it out on the crate near Ren’s hammock. One after another. None of them fit him. Finally, after almost all the clothing bits were out, he pulls out an outfit that looks almost large enough and feels like it’s made of a material that will have some stretch to it. With a sigh, he tests it, pulling the ancient shirt on. It does stretch, and feels nice and cool against his skin. Tight, but not uncomfortably so. At least, not for him, though once he finishes pulling it on and starts checking the pants’ size, Sari does look away for the first time, and quickly heads back above deck. Shaking his head, Denlo changes his pants as well. Just as with the shirt, the material stretches to form a tight but comfortable fit. Lying down on his hammock, he once more wraps his blade, first in the dark blanket that he’s used to conceal the sword since first pulling it from the ground, then in his new linens, As he lies there in his tight outfit, he falls into the most restful sleep he’s had in weeks.