As Lord Faxril's ship, The Archer, traveled farther south on the Western Sea, the world became darker and darker. The enormous head of clouds, once so distant, moved with ferocious speed across sky. Lightning broke from it in crooked arcs, giving the storm fingers to reach beyond them all, far across the graying sky of the Western Sea. The brigantine ship finally took shape against the black mess of waves and wind; it swayed dangerously back and forth. The colors flown were those of a ship that had no nation, no affiliation. Perhaps it would be classed as another merchant ship if a seaman was naïve, but The Archer moved toward the brigantine, being led by a more cunning man than most. He seemed intent on treating the brigantine as a rogue. A pirate ship.

Being a nimble vessel, The Archer cut through the swelling waves as if an invisible knife was attached to the stern. The helmsman's eyes were focused, but he was not shaken. There was sturdiness to the frame of the ship. As rain fell on the deck in sweeping rushes, the crew did not fear being thrown in the face of Chaos itself. Instead men rushed across the deck, absorbed in the tasks of maintenance and survival, shouting out orders to each other when in the absence of the first mate's bellowing. More than preparing for the teeth of the storm to come down, the men saw what battle their Lord wished to engage in. Alchemists rushed around below deck with their assistants scrambling to keep up with their orders. Weapons had already been distributed among the crewmen. This was a Lord who helped clear the trade routes along the coast after the Breaking, who sailed through the monstrous southern seas after his enemies and took pause on the cursed black coasts when it suited him. For all the loyalty that ran through the crew, Faxril inspired as much fear as the storm did, as the pirates might if they were worth anything in a sea battle. No man wanted to be caught off his guard.

Vera clutched the rail as the helmsman spun the wheel. He, perhaps, could be as daring as her brother, sailing the ship in a storm as he might on a clear day. Perhaps that was why he was at the helm. Wind ripped at her hood and her braid whipped against the back of her neck.

( Want to hear a poem, m'lady? )

There was no fire. Nothing marked the camp but the banners that Ithacles insisted on flying. They were of the tree, of course, surrounded by a sun that must have belonged to the other half of his family. Skandra had seen that sigil before, and even grinned like a fool at the fair on seeing it, but today it weighed heavily on him. There were hard times ahead of the prince. He had to know it, but if the thought pressed down on his shoulders, he seemed not to show it. Busy now with the duties that a prince on the road had - mostly, talking to Etain and organizing his men in case of an attack - he'd left Skandra alone with his thoughts. Stripped to the waist with his arms and legs bandaged heavily Skandra felt more like an invalid than he had in the whole of his life. Battered before, bruised before, but not like this. Potions forced down his throat took some of the sting away. Lotions rubbed on his skin took the rest. He still felt like laughing. Death was going to take him, and most likely soon, but not in the way it had always tried. Conniving, that death. Conniving and full of tricks like the creatures of times past who traded souls for blazing iron or fistfuls of gold. Did he make the same bargain? Not in so many words. But the same bargain, and his soul ached for it.

( Ralus was dead. )

It was there. A dull, thrumming bass sort of sound that to human ears sounded the call of madness. Saedus sat against the wall with his feet flat, knees raised in front of his face. Knowing what was possible and impossible in this place gave him an edge of many sorts. A mental edge. A physical edge. And most importantly, a spiritual edge. Here was a place of apparent godlessness. His captive had the thought by now, even if he could not or would not express it in those terms. True believers were the hardest to break. Eventually, they would wear down, and the end was near for Kaelyx. Nearer now than the end for anyone else. Saedus might have laughed at how easy it was to break a man. Might have laughed at how weak the human soul was, even those who were dedicated to a cause. It only took a question that the mind could not answer to its own satisfaction to cause the first crack. From there time would do the rest. He had already posed the question. Now they were waiting for the inevitable conclusion, the lack of an answer, and from there the floodgates would open. It was just a matter of that time, and patience. Saedus had both, in whatever supply he desired. From that bass rumbling echo the floor trembled.

( Saedus smiled as Kaelyx opened his eyes. )