Act I, Chapter Two: The Black Current

The Netherthistle creaks as Varin settles behind his tarp-and-barrel redoubt, river mist hissing along the hull. From the stern, Wexley leans on the rudder, one brow lifting beneath a mop of wind-tousled hair. The gnome’s eyes travel the improvised angles—the droop of canvas, the barrel’s shadow tucked against the rail—then flick back to the river without a word. A fair bunker, he reckons; better than many he’s trusted his own skin to.

Soft footfalls pad across the deck. Thaelin pokes his head around a crate, grin spreading like sunrise.

Thaelin

"Building a grand keep, are we? Leave room for a second bunk and I’ll bring the biscuits."

He raps knuckles on the barrel’s rim, testing its hollow echo, then winks at Varin before sauntering off, humming a marching tune half under his breath.

The barge drifts north, watchful eyes now doubled behind the humble fortress of wood and weather-stiff cloth.

Serah inclines her grey head, lips curving in the faintest truce.

"Names carry weight. I’ll trust yours to prove true, save many, earn your swiftly gained trust." A weary exhale escapes. "But enough of old grudges. Tell me instead of the hills that forged that name—any family remaining?"

She gestures toward the kettle, inviting lighter tales while the fog drifts and the deck boards quietly settle beneath their feet.

He chuckles deeply, "Shall I take your rebuke to heart or tell you of my Ma in trust? She's wise like you or Petra, and would be tall as me if time hadn't bent her back. She's independent as a mountain cat though. I check on her whenever I can."

Varin allows himself a small smirk, barely more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he watches the others prepare.

"I can bring over another barrel," he offers, his voice low and steady. He shifts his weight against the hull, adjusting the tarp slightly to give himself a clearer line of sight down the length of the deck. The wooden boards creak faintly beneath him, but his movements are practiced—quiet, efficient.

His gaze sweeps the treeline again before he continues.

"Stuffin’ everyone down in the hold if trouble shows up might not be the best call," he says, tone edged with quiet certainty. "Too cramped. Too slow to move if things go bad."

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the muscles in his jaw tight with focus.
"I’ll stay up here. It’s easier to jump in if blades start swinging—and I can keep eyes and ears open while the rest of you breathe easier below."

Thaelin appears at the rail like a jack-in-the-box, grin glinting beneath his shaggy mop. He rests both palms on the tarp-covered barrel Varin offered.

"Blades?" he scoffs, voice pitched for Varin’s ears alone. "Wexley’s got credentials and connections enough for three boats, and a trick or two besides. If I didn’t know the old salt so long, I’d swear he was bed down on both sides of the river."

Thaelin jabs a thumb river-ward; dark water laps hungrily against the hull.

"Out here the bite comes from below, friend. Barbed eels long as a mast, night-fin trout that chew through oak like breadcrust. One yank and your clever fort’s a floating tomb."

He raps the deck with his knuckles, then quirks an eyebrow.

"Stay topside, by all means—two sharp eyes beat one. But If the water starts to boil you’ll want more than a tarp and a barrel between you and the teeth."

With a jaunty salute he slips back toward the stern, humming a river shanty too jaunty for the murk that waits beneath the waves.

Petra is speechless with gratitude and can only hug Serah's precious herbalist tome to her, mouthing her thanks. When that doesn't feel like enough and words still won't come, she hugs Serah herself. Then she backs up and bows her head to show a bit more respect and decorum.

Writing is forbidden, but it's hard to imagine a risk more worth taking than safekeeping this hard won, invaluable knowledge that could salve so many! She places the compendium reverently inside her waterproof sack, and ties it shut tight with a strip of blanket, for protection.


As the dwarrow listens to Serah speak of hideous tragedies tied to her memories of elves, sorrow plays over her own face. Pain is pain and when shared it must be felt--especially as she misses her own mother too, though her doom is uncertain and the only sign of trouble had been her letters ceasing to arrive.

Serah's view of elves as aloof and unreliable couldn't be much more different from the dwarrow's own.Petra's respect for her elders makes her hold her tongue rather than try to persuade Serah to soften her outlook.


Petra is relieved to see Tefli faring so much better under Serah's expert ministrations, and does not intrude.


It's pleasant to overhear Ulfr's compliment, comparing her to the Gifted mother he reveres, but she does not intrude on his and Serah's conversation. She soon excuses herself so she can report for sailing duties to Thaelin and Wexley Thorn.


* * * * * * * * *

The river's dangers like barbed eels and night-fin trout are well known to her and she won't be cowed by them. So if permitted, Petra keeps helping with sailing. Doing her best trying to blend in with the ship's crew (and accepting any simple disguise like a cloak they think will help).

((If her offer is turned down because she's too likely to draw suspicion or something, she agrees to bunker down with her party.))

Serah smiles gently, "Disagreements, aren’t rebukes—only stones we turn to find the smoother face." Her eyes crinkle. "Give it time; the years twist all certainties as easily as they stoop our backs."

She softens, imagining a stooped woman among mountain pines.

"Your mother sounds a fine, fierce spirit. Independent roots grow the strongest blooms. Be sure she knows the strength you carry bears her shape."

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | OVERCAST DAWN
Mist beads on the ropes as Petra steps lightly aft, boots sure on the damp planks. Wexley eyes her stance on the stern line: balanced, hands checking knots with a practiced flick. A slow nod replaces any flourish of thanks.

"Seems the river’s gifted us a deck-hand," he mutters, voice low enough that only the mainsail hears. "Mind the leeboard when we cut across the next bend—she sticks if you coddle her."

Petra mirrors the motion he demonstrates; the board slides free with a wooden sigh. Wexley’s lips twitch— approval, though he turns back to the tiller before it can become a smile.

Thaelin pops up from behind a coil of hawser, grinning wide.

"Careful, stonefoot. Show off too much and we’ll brand you permanent crew. Uniform’s only bilge stains and Wexley’s bedtime stories are mandatory."

With the trio at their posts, the Netherthistle heels smoothly into the current, the barge’s heartbeat steady against the hush of encroaching fog.

---

The morning lengthens in a lazy mist among the muted sounds of the deck creaking. Rope, canvas, and the river's noise weave a gentle rhythm; even the gulls seem content to glide without protest. As the quiet settles, other threads of activity surface beyond the new deck-hand’s knots.

Near the bow, Varin peers out from his tarp bastion, tracing eddies that swirl like ink on slate. Every few breaths he palms a throwing knife, testing the balance before letting the steel vanish again. The blade never leaves its whisper-sheath, but the habit beats with his heart—steady, unblinking.

Midships, Jasir has claimed a crate for a desk. Quill scratching in rhythmic bursts, he maps snatches of birdsong into coded glyphs. Now and then he pauses, head cocked, as though awaiting an answer from the trees. None comes, yet he smiles, capturing the silence in a margin before the ink can freeze.

Against the frame of the doghouse, Úlfr rolls his shoulders beneath a weather-patched cloak. He slides a whetstone, slow and methodical, along the crescent blade of the battle-axe he pried from the fallen orc, sparks brief as fireflies kissing the iron. His low hum meshes with Serah’s kettle hiss, forming a countermelody of iron and herb.

Just aft the doghouse, Seelah plants herself like a keystone between cargo stacks, shield propped within arm’s reach. She runs a gauntleted thumb along the fuller of Bladeguard, checking for nicks that last night’s salt spray might have hidden. Each slow inspection ends with her gaze sweeping the port bank, then the starboard—an unspoken litany: trees, tower, waterline, friend.

Further aft, almost to the rudder where Wexley continues his slow churn of the capstan, Azote half-kneels beside a coil of mooring rope. Hood thrown back, her nimble fingers tease thin reeds into three-loop warding knots. Tork perches on the rail above, head canting with each cross-tuck; when the knot tightens, the bird emits a pleased click and flutters up to scout the air. Azote’s emerald eyes follow its ascent, then flick riverward—ever measuring distance to shoreline. One finished charm joins a growing line lashed to the gunwale: quiet sentinels against whatever darkness the Ishensa may yet stir.

The morning is as pleasant as they could hope. Pleasant drift or not, Aryth’s breath can sour at a moment's notice, and every soul aboard knows the deepest wounds happen when your guard drops.

Azote will play her Shawm to pass time. She does common tunes and upkeeps her looks in her good supply of free time. Tork is just around.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | MISTY EARLY AFTERNOON

The hush of the river and creaking of the barge is broken gently by a mellow tone, low and coiling through the air like smoke on still water. It rises in slow, sinuous phrases: a shawm’s sound, clear as dawnlight catching on a blade’s edge.

Azote stands now, framed against the weather-worn rail, her posture eased by habit and harmony. Wind-tangled strands of auburn hair fall about her shoulders, stirred only slightly as she leans into each note. The instrument hums with a tune old as the elves themselves, carried from far glades or deeper jungles—no one’s quite sure. But it is beautiful.

The effect is immediate. Jasir’s quill halts mid-stroke; his head tilts, and a half-finished glyph blooms into something truer. Varin’s knife does not return to its sheath but stays at rest against his palm, suspended like a breath held too long. Seelah, statuesque and ever-vigilant, lets her inspection linger; her shield remains close, but her eyes soften on the horizon.

Aft, Wexley mutters something inaudible—his hand still on the tiller, but his grip now looser, like the helm might steer itself for a while.

"Well, she didn’t warn us she had a orchestra tucked in that cloak." Thaelin calls from the doghouse roof, grinning wide.

Above, Tork circles once and lands with a flutter beside Azote, head tilted, one eye catching the golden light from rising sun, breaking through the clouds for the moment.

Seelah stands stalwart upon the deck. Our ebony guardian duly inspired, by her elven friend’s lovely tune. A tiny tear forms upon dark-skinned face, as Azote’s playing lifts her back. Back to simpler times, when Seelah was mentored by Acemi, in her early days as a squire for the Guardians.

Capital G.

Her knowledge of river and sea informing her, Seelah pulls her cloak tightly. Attempting to conceal her armor and light arms. She stows Bladeguard under her blanket, near to her station, within easy grasp, but out of clear sight. Our ebony guardian preparing herself!

Patrol’s harbor these waters, friends. Be ready, in case we encounter one and and if they try searching us.

Petra stops to listen to the music (after making sure everything is secure), and waits to see if any creature answers it too. Elves are magic, their music is magic, that's well known.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | FOGGY AFTERNOON
The fog lingers even into afternoon, but the Ishensa flows steadily, its ashen waters cutting through the dry, blighted edges of the plain. The banks rise in low, irregular shelves of shale and root-choked clay. Beyond them, the land stretches flat and sullen—scrub grass, thorny brush, the skeletons of once-leafy things now grayed and brittle. The sky is the color of boiled bone, the wind wet and thick.

At the fore of the Netherthistle, hunched low in his makeshift bunker of crate and tarp, Varin stiffens. His eyes track something rising just beyond the crest of the next bend—a thin smear of smoke, barely more than a smudge against the pale sky. But it's fresh. And it doesn't belong.

Without a word, he signals back—two fingers flicked in warning, then down—toward Thaelin midship and Wexley near the rudder.

Wexley Thorn

"Doghouse. Now." Wexley doesn’t hesitate, voice low but razor-sharp. "Drop the tarps."

There’s no confusion. Thaelin knows the routine well. Within moments, hands work the tied slings holding the deck drapings in place. They fall easily, rough canvas flaps dropping into place with a whisper. Darkness folds over the shelter.

Wexley’s hands leave the capstan, letting the tension ease. Beside him, Thaelin braces the tiller while Petra shifts her weight against a rear cargo brace. Together, they bleed momentum from the barge, guiding it into the bend with nothing but the current and a prayer. The Netherthistle slows to a crawl—quiet, low, unnoticed.

And then the bend reveals its secret.

Beached at a crooked angle on the southern bank, half-wrapped in dry reeds and anchored by thick chains, squats a Shadow barge. Its hull lists slightly toward the shore, caught on a submerged snag or broken beam. Smoke curls from a brazier near the foredeck. Figures move across the deck and among the rocks—shouting orders, hauling debris, checking weapons. A crate lies open, quarrels and black-iron tips glinting faintly inside.

They haven’t seen you. Not yet.

What do you do?

Petra keeps tending the ship and tries not to make any unnecessary noise, to delay the moment of detection and--if they cannot seem harmless and routine enough--the moment of confrontation.

Wexley's eyes flick toward Petra—just a glance, but sharp as flint. "Get inside," he hisses under his breath. "If they see you, they’ll see what you are. That stone-blood of yours will buy you an arrow in the throat before a question."

He jerks his head toward the doghouse without waiting for an answer. His hand stays near the rudder, but tension radiates through every knuckle.

Jasir is content to make his precise and even strokes of his pen while he can. The sporadic additions and insights he divines into underlying principles of reality are like little bricks being laid, meant to be a part of something greater. Still the sound of Azote's shawm does draw him out of his cogitation on arcane theory. His pen halts and then is slid away. For the Sarcosan knows well enough that his words will still be there to be picked up and utilized like the tools they are.

But he has only this moment to listen to Azote's performance. Which he does while folding his arms.

It seems that moment is too soon in ending.

Wexley's order sees almost immediate action from Jasir. In his mind he's already picked where best to stow himself in the doghouse. So in he goes and then immediately goes still.

Elven Azote hides away and folds into her robe wishing to vanish. No more music for her and most likely not to rest of the boat trip. Tork settles on top of the boat situating himself low so not to be obvious and still view what is happening, so he may give Azote mentally some indication of what is happening. He will not whisper as he fears to be overheard. Best to be just a bird that has settle on the top of boat.

From within the dim confines of the doghouse, the air is thick with canvas dust and the tang of tarred rope. The outside world reduces to footfalls, creaks, and hushed voices, every sound sharpened by the tension.

"It’s wrong," Thaelin mutters low, just outside the flap. "Where’s the rest of the patrol? There should be spotters, lookouts… something."

A pause, then the faint creak of a boot shifting weight.

"And that barge—she’s caught sideways, like she spun in and never pulled clear. No marks of anchors dragged. No defense formation."

Wexley doesn’t reply right away. The sound of his knuckles tapping once on the rudder is the only answer for several heartbeats.

The barge ahead remains quiet. The orcs still haven’t seen you. But something about their posture, the slack lines, the half-stacked crates, the missing members of the patrol scrapes at intuition something is amiss with this patrol.