Jun 27, 2025 3:07 pm
THE ISHENSA RIVER | MOUTH OF THE ISHENSA | OVERCAST DAWN
The river runs too fast this morning.
It cuts through the land like a black ribbon drawn taut, banks smudged in fog and branches bent low as if bowing to something unseen. The trees lean close and the current hums with a sound just shy of song. A quiet, wet breath lingers over the deck, too cool for spring, and still carrying the faint salt-memory of the Pelluria. No birds call. No frogs sing. Only the hush of the Ishensa, whispering of old things beneath the surface.
The storm had passed, but the sky remained bruised with clouds, the rain had dwindled to a misty breath, and the wind no longer howled with hunger. The Netherthistle glided now on calmer waters, her hull whispering through the current like a secret told in half-sleep.
One by one, the passengers stirred from their half-rests and blanket-bound dozes. Crates and tarps creaked beneath shifting limbs as the light of dawn—gray and reluctant—slipped between the canopy slats. Whatever sleep they’d found was earned, if uneven. But the ship was intact. No one had been lost. That was something.
And then the realization came, slow and strange: the sea was gone.
No salt stung the air, no roar of breakers on distant cliffs. The water had changed beneath them—blacker, narrower, thrumming with a subtle, inexorable pull.
They were on the Ishensa.
Petra blinked into the morning light, rising from beneath a tarp near the crates. Her oilskin cloak steamed faintly in the chill, and though her limbs were stiff, she looked satisfied. Thaelin passed her a half-loaf and a nod without breaking stride.
Thaelin
Wexley, perched beside the rudder, still churning the small capstain, muttered without looking up.
Wexley Thorn
The Ishensa flowed silent and dark around them, banks overgrown and shrouded in morning fog.
They had made it inland. Faster than expected.
And too quickly, perhaps, for comfort.
You are faced with a seemingly unimportant, but always present question.
What do you do?
