Act I, Chapter Two: The Black Current

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

"Took the coast fast," he said. "Snuck the channel by Davindale just before the tide turned. You missed the excitement. Wexley nearly got brained by a boom line."

Wexley, perched beside the rudder, still churning the small capstain, muttered without looking up.

Wexley Thorn

"And still here, let the river carry your mouth off next time."

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?

Varin was one of the first to stir, his instincts always dragging him from sleep before full light. With a low grunt, he pushes himself up from the wooden floor of the hold, the aches in his back and shoulders familiar companions by now.

Climbing up into the early morning air, he steps onto the deck of the barge and lets out a long yawn, arms stretching above his head until his joints pop. The river mist clings to his cloak, cool and damp, but the fresh air is a welcome change from the stale breath of the hold.

He spots the two gnomes already moving about—sharp-eyed, quietly efficient—and gives them another of his short nods. Not quite friendly, but respectful.
Varin takes a moment to survey the landscape as the barge glides.
With a sigh, he reaches into his pack and pulls out three small jars—salted pork, scavenged back at the tavern. He cracks one open and takes a quick bite before moving to where the others are beginning to stir.

"Food," he says simply, offering the jars around. He makes sure the gnomes each get a decent helping.

"Figure you all earned it", he adds, voice low but sincere. "You did the hard work getting us this far."

He stands near the bow arms crossed, eyes scanning the treeline as he chews—always watching.

Thank you, Seelah replies kindly to Varin. Quickly scarfing down a piece of salted pork, then chasing it with a fast swig from her waterskin.

Seelah’s brown eyes gaze across the blackened river. Looking for wherever the let-in. Perhaps not yet having her sea legs beneath her, out eviny guardian will be glad to be back on dry land.

Even though, there is perhaps little to really look forward to.

Ùlfr finds himself less sick than he expected and so, he spends the very beginning of his day washing up with soap and combing out and braiding his hair and beard. Right after that he looks for food. He also checks and cleans any of the newly acquired weapons and armor that haven’t been claimed and/or squirreled away.

Seelah gazes around, surveying the darkened landscape, trying to recall interesting information about their location, and their eventual destination.
How far until we let in, our ebony guardian asks Thaelin.

LAST NIGHT:

Petra lets out a long-held breath when Serah of the Loom returns and boards safely. She smiles at her good-natured comment about the gnomish sea-dogs.

"Not that I doubted you could handle yourself alone on a stormy night, but given the attention the use of Talents and arms might have stirred up at the Lantern, I must say you're a sight for sore eyes," she tells her as the woman squeezes her arm in welcome.

Her mother instilled a deep respect for elders in Petra, so she must overcome a hesitation before venturing, "I am curious what errand delayed you...? But if you choose not to reveal it, I defer to your judgment, of course."



After taking bracing shifts at sailing tasks through inclement weather, Petra beds down for the night in as much solitude as she can find under her winter cloak. * * * * * * *


THIS MORNING:

Petra stretches pleasantly sore muscles and, with sincere "Thanks," gratefully eats the bread offered for her labors. With further "Thanks," eats half a portion of Varin's salt pork. Communal eating rituals and greeting everyone with a "Good morrow," as she is mindful to do, are important for fellowship.

Extra important if there's a chance last night might carry over some tension. For her part she won't bring it up (but be gracious if someone else does), and won't nurse resentment or fretting. As the Sarcosan axiom of letting go puts it, "The rice cannot be uncooked."


The dwarrow is eager to be back on land and leave the Netherthistle's crew (and any riverside enemy patrols) at a remote distance... so that (lacking a waterskin of her own) she may soon use her Gift with less reservation to coax clean water from Aryth's bounty (cantrip create water).


Petra keeps an eye out for good smooth river stones to gather that would be useful in her sling, and for treating sore muscles.

Úlfr thinks, 'Where am I?'

Sleepy Azote rises mostly from raven Tork's efforts. Sleepy her seems to be slower than others. Raven Tork has flown to the top of the boat for view as we move along. Hooded Elven Azote rises and takes a walk about.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | OVERCAST DAWN

The Netherthistle slides on pewter water, her wake a soft sigh that disappears beneath drapes of river fog. Dawn is a bruised smear behind the clouds; willow fingers comb the current, and beads of chill patter on the deck planks. A lone gull wheels once, then beats south toward the sea you left behind.

Varin’s silent nod does not go unnoticed. At the stern the two gnomes trade quick smiles; Wexley lifts a crust of dark bread in salute while Thaelin digs another loaf from an oil-cloth bundle.

Wexley Thorn

"Plenty more if your jars run dry, lad," Wexley calls, crumbs already speckling his beard. Thaelin echoes with a grin and a one-handed toss of heel and rind.

Jasir’s soft question drifts aft, and the old navigator answers without looking up from the sluggish black ribbon ahead.

"Soon as the storm spat us inland we took shifts at the rudder. One halt tonight to drop cargo, then straight on till we hit the drop point."

Serah drifts among the crates like morning smoke, shawl cinched against the chill. Petra’s question from the storm-tossed night still hangs between them; the elder’s reply is gentle but immovable.

Serah of the Loom

"We needed every hand afloat, child. We'll speak when the sun climbs a little higher and I am more capable."

She moves on, sprinkling dark grinds into a tin kettle that ticks above a pocket stove.

Wexley clears his throat, voice carrying to prow and canopy both.

"Listen up, all of you still shaking sleep from your bones. We slipped past Davindale before first light – north-bound now. The Ishensa is Izrador's amry's lifeblood: towers every bend, patrol barges painted night-black. Spot a hull or a torch higher than the treeline, you dive for the doghouse--and you stay quiet until I give the word. Understood?"

A hush answers, taut as a drawn bowstring. Somewhere upriver a crow croaks, lone herald of whatever waits beyond the next fold of fog.

Beneath the low awning Thaelin wedges the breadbasket between coils of hemp; Varin’s sharp eyes comb the mist. River and rebels glide northward, breath held, toward a single promised stop and the darker waters beyond.

A curl of pungent steam rises from Serah’s tin cup, the scent closer to burnt bark than tea. She drains it, wipes her lips, and tilts her head toward Petra. The young woman crosses the narrow plankway, lantern-light flickering in her eyes.

"You wondered what was worth a midnight dash through Izrador’s nets." Serah lowers her pack between them. "A lifetime’s worth of roots and remedies."

She unlaces the flap. Inside lies a rough-bound diary, its pages swollen and mottled.

"Every tonic, poison, and poultice I’ve learned since girlhood. Shadow takes me, I won’t let the knowledge die too."

Serah next lifts a palm-sized blossom: five white petals pressed flat, a crimson ribbon looped round the stem like dried blood.

"My bauble—luck to some, superstition to others. It’s turned patrol blades more than once."

A heavy tread sounds on the planks. Úlfr steps under the doghouse canvas, clearly pondering something.

Serah beckons him closer and folds the fragile charm into his scarred hand.

"You walk the prow, giant. Let this stand watch with you when steel cannot."

Serah turns back to Petra, pressing the diary to the healer’s chest.

Serah’s smile is thin. "My days grow few—fever and rebellion both see to that. When my time on the river reaches its end, these belong to you. See they mend more lives than mine, eh?"

She closes the pack with a soft thump of leather and squeezes Petra’s shoulder.

A muffled groan drifts from the stern bunk. Tefli sits propped on blankets, bandage stark against the stump below his elbow. His good hand fidgets with a brass button as if unsure what to do with empty air.

Serah kneels beside him, voice gentling like duskfall rain.

"Still with us, brave one."

Tefli’s grin is lopsided. "Couldn’t let Thaelin keep all the stories."

"Then keep this in yours: pain fades; purpose stays. We’ll fit you a new tether to the world soon enough."

She tucks a sprig of hare’s-ear beneath his pillow, the leaves warm with subtle glowroot heat. Tefli’s shoulders settle; the button rests, forgotten.

Outside, fog curls against the hull while the Netherthistle glides on, cargo of secrets and stubborn hope intact.

---

"Úlfr's thanks, you have, wise one of the hoary head. Stay with us a while longer. Your fever spell may yet break, and rebellion is only more reason to live, by my road."

Jasir's ruminations over the boat's location is mostly for its own sake, but also is done in the effort to recall which side of the river the next watchtower is likely to be on. It's a simple test of his own faculties, a mental exercise which the Sarcosan does often extremely often. It's not enough to simply coast on his natural abilities... hard work is also needed. Which in his case means thinking. Lots of thinking.

He considers also the state of the shoreline and the likelihood of supplementing the group's supplies with foraging, along with any known varieties of river-shore predators which might be of concern. It's not much. But it helps his overactive mind even while he devotes his eyes to the task of keeping watch for the threats which Wexley has made mention of.

Serah chuckles, the sound a dry rustle of parchment.

"A kind wish, Úlfr, but no spell grips me—merely the turning of seasons and a body long in service. "

She straightens moving slowly from the doghouse to the open air, palm lingering on the deck rail.

"Age is its own tyrant. Yet while breath lingers, I’ll lend it to the fight—if only to see young hearts carry the fire onward."

Úlfr thinks of bends in the river and the days the journey will take. Then his thoughts turn towards the overland leg, as he tries to sus out the time there as well.

Speaking to Serah he begins, "I do not..." and he trails off. "Did the hidden folk (elves) harm you?"

Serah’s gaze drifts for a moment,. following an unseen memory before it settles on Úlfr’s face.

"Harm me? Not by blade." Her fingers tap the rail, three soft knocks like nails on a coffin lid. "But their shadows fell long across my life."

She exhales, breath clouding in the chill.

"When I was a girl, an elven strike force loosed arrows at a patrol near our hamlet. The orcs came for vengeance. They hanged two score villagers, burned the rest. My mother’s herb-house became smoke. The elves slipped away unseen and didn't bother returning to help with the wreckage or the injured."

Serah shakes her head.

"They live centuries, keep their secrets, vanish into trees while we slave away, bleed and die. A wolf may be noble, but if its hunt draws fire to your den, you learn to curse the howl."

She meets Úlfr’s eyes, steady.

"No knife wounds, only scars they never pause to see. That's what we are to them, giant. Keep that in mind when you deal with them."

Looking into the treeline, "But the wolves that stay... they became our friends."

Varin moves quietly across the barge, his eyes scanning the deck for anything that might serve the purpose he was looking for.. He checks behind crates and along the edges of cargo stacks until he finds what he’s after—an old tarp, stiff with age and stained with gods-know-what, and a barrel that’s seen better days, half-empty and easy enough to roll.

With a grunt, he drags both toward the bow of the ship, settling into a narrow space where the rail and cargo create a natural blind spot. It’s not much, but it gives him cover—somewhere to duck low if arrows fly or eyes scan the barge from shore.

He spreads the tarp loosely over the barrel and some nearby crates, adjusting it just enough to create the illusion of forgotten cargo. Then he eases down behind it, crouched and watchful, eyes just peeking out from the edge of the cover.

From his makeshift hideaway, Varin keeps a steady lookout—gaze fixed on the treeline, the riverbanks, and the clouds overhead. Anything could be a threat: a shimmer in the brush, a shape beneath the water, a bird that circles too low. He notes it all.

Serah’s laugh is soft but flinty as her eyes follow the fog curling through the treeline.

"Friends? The wolves that linger by the hearth aren’t wolves at all—they’re dogs, Ulfr. They warm themselves at our fires, take our scraps, then slink back to the forest when the lash cracks." Her fingers drum the rail—three hard taps, like a judge’s gavel.

She flicks a brittle twig into the river.

"You respect a creature that lives three lifetimes our watching crops wither and our children harden into soldiers, die in obscurity, and their children repeat the cycle. That distance breeds indifference, Ulfr, not loyalty."

Serah settles her cloak, gaze steeled.

"Until the hidden folk bleed when we bleed, I’ll mind their songs but trust my own scars."

"I'll not fight with you honored elder... but i will say, my name is Wolf for a reason."