The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 6: Reach & Republic

Seventh day of Moernai, the fifth month of the Belasarian calendar
Abalenkrad, capital city of the Belasarian Reach
900 nautical leagues inward and counter-spun from the islands of Art Lendosk

Blood splashes across the polished green and brown stonework, and the green-skinned Delsumite chieftain slumps to the ground. Tusks grit in a scowl of defiance, a meaty hand grasping onto the intruding shaft of the halberd. He looks down, his leather harness hanging awkwardly from his torso: The head of it has cut through several straps, and bites deeply into his ribcage and lungs. If he weren't currently dying from it, the way his blood flows down its exquisitely-crafted blade would be beautiful.

From two other directions of the plaza circled in fluted columns, two other Delsumites – twins of blood-red hair and blotchy freckles – lunge in like two hunting wolves. Witnessing his daughters' plan, the impaled warrior lunges forward to grapple his killer with his dying breath, blood spilling from his jaws and down his venerable grey beard. From one side, a spear thrusts forward, while from another a glaive slices.

Their foe melts into splashing water before either weapon can make their mark, and that water boils in a flash. An explosion of steam blasts both green-skinned amazons off their feet, while their patriarch gurgles and flops down to the floor with a heavy, wet smack. The steam swirls and billows, condensing into a floating stream of water. It leans over the corpse of the bloody and steam-poached Delsumite warchief, a watery tendril wrapping around and pulling forth the fine halberd out and through the fallen warrior's chest.

Balas, God-Emperor of the Belasarian Reach, coalesces from the water as the clouds part, and the solar islands passing far overhead shine their light upon his form. The Lord of the Sea-Stallions is an immense, yet lithely-built man standing tall at seven feet, his dark bronze skin gleaming in the radiance that cascades from above. One firm hand clenches around the shaft of his symbol of office, its butt clanging against the blood-stained floor; The other passes over his mane of shimmering white hair, moving the flowing locks out of the way of his equally pale white eyes, with those strange oblong pupils.

Contrasting the leather garb and canvas clothing of his opponents, Balas wore very little: In fact, beyond a simple pair of silver caligae strapped to his feet, the bracers clad around his wrists, and the pendant about his neck, Balas wore nothing at all. A flagrant disregard for defensive measures, a boast that none could leave a mark upon him, an invitation to those he deemed worthy of combat to try and overcome.

“Warchief Tukhard lies slain,” Balas' dulcet tones echo in the column-lined plaza. The crowd of servants and civilians that lies between the fluted columns, their breath held in reverence, erupts into a riotous cheer. The Delsumite warband that held them hostage, while their warchief and his twin heirs sprung a trap upon the Belasarian ruler, now lies in muted silence. “He used my resources to seek an upper hand, and still he fell to my might. Under Belasarian law, everything that he held is now mine – for good, and for ill.” He hefts the halberd up, and makes a sweeping gesture at the green-skinned marauders of Tukhard's fleet.

“Already my soldiers take to your ships that lie in my harbor, and my Evaluators calculate the full worth of Tukhard's life. If any among you would challenge my Take, now is the time.” With that, the halberd points at the fallen warchief's daughter. Her glaive lies on the ground, as she clutches her steam-burnt arm with paralyzing agony. But wait, there was a second-

The spear-wielding daughter of Warchief Tukhard has lept to her feet, her muscled legs kicking off against polished stone and flying meters into open air. Spear pointing down, aiming for the God-Emperor's heart, her legs bulge as she launches against the air itself in a furious, downward dive. She utters a blood-curdling scream of rage, throwing every ounce of herself into this last ditch effort.

Her dive comes to a violent and bloody halt as, with the effort of a man waving away a fly, Balas steps forward and swings his halberd one-handed. The elegantly-forged axe-head bites and snags into her outstretched arms, forcibly dragging the Delsumite warrior-maiden from her downward dive and smashing her back down to earth against the plaza's flagstones. The red-haired combatant is left broken and bleeding by the impact, even as the halberd hews through her arms and digs into the flagstones beneath.

“Anyone else?” Is all Balas has to say. The surviving paragon of this Delsumite fleet, looking at the broken bodies of her sister and father, can only lower her head in defeat as tusked teeth bite back the shame, the grief, the rage, the failure. Indeed, even the still battle-ready marauders of the fleet can barely muster the fire to raise an axe or javelin.

“From this day, you are soldiers and citizens of Abalenkrad, and blades of The Belasarian Reach. As Tukhard led you to glory, so shall I lead you to tomorrow. Report to the Four-Fold Bureau to begin initiation, starting with the House of Burdens.” Balas commands, and his new warriors slowly move to follow

“You, and you.” The Emperor points at two of the servants who had not yet gone back to their duties. “Find some slaves. Have the Warchief and his daughter delivered to their vessels in the harbor. Their funerary rites will need tending.” Reverently, his servants jump to the order.

Within short order the column-lined square is clear of the Delsumite warhost, even the corpses of their leadership, and what servants remain are dutifully mopping away the viscera.

“Now,” Balas turns. Already the trail of reports, petitions, invitations, and results he had been responding to back in his throne room has started lining up in front of him out here in the plaza. “Finish your report, my good man.”

The first of these petitioners, a slight male human clad in the Belasarian blues of a military bureaucrat, gives the traditional salute: one arm straight at his side, the other arm crossed over his chest, fist clenched, and tilted at an angle to emulate a horse's hoof. He speaks in a reedy voice, his tongue obviously new to the lyrical Belasarian language: “Fleet-Commander Brahe has sent his report via Cauldron-wake. His report is negative, and he begs immediate dismissal and the promotion of one Captain Kelsettro to his position. Their exploratory voyage failed to secure the trade enclave with the natives of the Tavish Isles, and are currently anchored three leagues out.”

The Emperor's face remains passive and stoic. “Anything else?”

“They were beaten to their objective by the Conthas Republic, my Emperor.” The small man continues to deliver his report, holding the salute like a stubborn rock. “And further observations from Brahe's stationed Evaluators and Recorders show that the Tavish Isles have a native pantheon.”

“Thwarted by my long-standing rivals, and faced with the obstacle of a long-standing and entrenched faith.” Balas muses. He gestures, and his immaculate halberd – his personal symbol, his implement of station – disappears into a puff of light and mist. “Are there any specificities on the native pantheon?”

“Six, there are. Called the 'Six Winds' in their tongue. In addition, they have a class that serves as religious leadership, liaison between the Isles' warring clans, and a mediator between the various species and peoples of the Tavish Isles. These so-called 'Animists' that serve as the word between their native Gods and the common clans, although the report is light on details about them.”

Balas runs a hand along his chin, thinking, as his other arm crosses over his chest to prop up its opposite elbow. His eery, milky-white eyes stare into open air, even as they seem to bore into the hapless bureaucrat who sweats with a sudden flush of nervous energy. Finally, that hand snaps its fingers.

“Deliver the message back to Fleet-Commander Brahe. Tell him he retains his position, and is given a second chance to prove his competency. Infiltrate the clans of the Tavish Isles, and continue gathering as much information as possible on this island chain. Find the gaps of trust, find the weak links. Every land that has joined our Reach has borne them.”

“Immediately, my Emperor.” The nervous bureaucrat bows low.

“And send one of the Zaratani Wharfs his way, make sure the next communication by Cauldron-wake includes his coordinates. This will be a lengthy campaign, if the Conthan upstarts have anything to say about it. And of course, even just a single native God will not take kindly to the expansion of another's influence. Six will be...” Balas' lips briefly part, his teeth making a hungry smile, as his gaze turns up to the massive solar islands that drift high overhead. “Six will be a proper challenge.”

The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 5: Devour & Duty

Early morning, the rainstorm continuing on.
Moon of Hanging Lichen
Cross-Hall of the Hoof-Bridge Temple.

“Aye, he's well enough. Starved and covered in the sorts of bruises that come from bein' vomited up by the sea. But his vital essence is strong, he'll recuperate.” The three of them huddle in the hallway just before the common area, watching the significantly-less-raggedy man at the long table that served as the common eating area of the temple. Even for a small and self-funded temple such as this, the Cross-Hall reaches high; Its rafters and ventilation slats over fifteen feet high and the peak of the reed-thatched roof reaching even higher.

“Thank you for aiding me on such short notice,” Grauld grumbles out as he matches those piercing, glowing orange eyes with his own. “I would have tended to him immediately, but the needs of the festival ceremony were-.”

“Ut-ut-ut-ut,” tuts the elderly crone, fiercely-clawed hands waving away Grauld's gratitude. “This place needs Moose's warding, and I would have done it without payment regardless. Your washed-up dog there let me confirm several things while asleep, and after pretending to be asleep.”

“Now. Remind me, Marm Ildred.” Pipes in the concerned voice of Oake, the leading priest of the temple. “And to tell Grauld the same thing you told me. You believe he's of the same nature as Garrom?” Grauld's back stiffens at Oake's words, and he throws a dark glare at the old woman. But then his eyes go back to looking at their guest, brows furrowing in concern.

Crone Ildred, medicine woman and Animist-in-retirement, groans and rolls her cat-like eyes in exasperation. “Yes, I did say that. And I stand by it, well as anything. He's got all the same marks that set Garrom apart from us, even if he looks more human than Isle-Ruiner ever did.”

Grauld's eyes would hold on the orange-haired man as Ildred spoke. He's sitting at the common table of the temple's cross-hall: In front of him, a bowl of mushroom-and-goat's-milk stew with chunks of scattered fish and chunked gubberling, three small loaves of nutbread, and an urn and small cup of freshwater. At the head of the cross-hall, over the warming firepit, a cauldron of yet more of the same stew is bubbling away, its steam and smoke wafting up to the rafters. For the last ten minutes, that man has been devouring equal measure of stew and bread: Grauld remembers there being six loaves, and he doesn't appear to be stopping any time soon.

“That would also explain his inability to understand our tongue.” Oake ponders quickly, rubbing at his lengthy nose in thought. “And I don't get the impression he's from Conthas, or the Belasarian Empire.”

“That fire-like hair had me thinkin' one of the Delsumites. But under all those markings, his skin is close to ours. He's not green or blue, and he bears no tusks.” Grauld muses with his priestly friend. Ildred rolls her glowing eyes, and chuffs out an exasperated sigh.

“I have a spare slate. And a chunk of seafoam rock.” Oake finally concludes, briefly stepping away. “We can attempt some simple symbols. Get a rough story from there.”

==+==+==+==+==+==+==

He hadn't realized it, walking with the bald man and the horrifying old lady. But he smells that great iron cauldron, and he sees the toasted brown bricks studded with nuts, and Liam remembers. When was the last time he ate? A lifetime ago, it felt like, and could have been.

The cauldron's mixture is a slop of grey and white, with a multitude of chunks. Chunks of what? He tastes and feels the flakes of fish, fresh fish at that, although what kind of fish he can't recognize. Spongy cubes of some kind of chewy, fleshy thing bounce off of his teeth until forcibly chewed; Some of the cubes take some chewing to break down, while others explode into meaty strings. Is this a chowder? He remembers a chowder like this, long ago in a shite tavern in Dundee. But this is savory, thick, and sloughs down to his gut like warm mortar; The only thing that other chowder had tasted of was water and dead rat.

The nut-bricks were, on biting down into one, more of a small loaf of bread. If a loaf of bread were studded with so many nuts and seeds it could bludgeon someone senseless. Some of these seeds taste and feel familiar as he crunches through them, with a strange and alien aftertaste. But after so many years of maggot-ridden, tooth-chipping ship's biscuits, there was no complaint.

The water. Cool and fresh, the first time he's tasted genuine and clean water in decades, and it chills him to the core as he gulps. Already, he can feel the slight burn from drinking too much at once, and there's a painful tightness in his chest. Fresh fish and fresh water, how lucky these people had it.

So focused on slaking a painful hunger and thirst, he doesn't notice that others have sat at the table until he hears a loud cough. He looks up from his current bowl, facial hair flecked with that thick soup. The tall, bald man in a priest's garb is seated directly across from him, with a flat board of something directly in front of him, and a white stone positioned next to it. The old woman with the haunting predatory eyes lurks nearby, back to one of the columns of the tall building.

And seated next to the priestly fellow is an immense bear of a man, skin stained and flecked with remnants of red paint, his lengthy white beard braided and adorned with charms and beads. Those icy blue eyes roam, and Liam feels a chill run over his skin. He can't meet that man's gaze, he feels in the back of his head. To do so would let him see too much – He feels like a mouse trapped in a glass jar. He keeps eye contact with the priest, whose dark brown eyes have a comforting air about them. The only pair of truly human eyes, out of the three looking at him.

The man in dark robes takes the white stone, and begins scraping it against board. No, he remembers this from schooling. Was that lime? Chalk? He's scraping it against the dark slate, and it's leaving powdery lines on its surface. Liam quickly runs his hand over his soup-stained facial hair, wiping off the mess on his other sleeve.

He finishes. Briefly, the priest-looking man has a rueful look on his face as he scratches at the back of his head. The white-bearded bear says something gruffly in their tongue, before uttering a low chuckle and slapping him on the shoulder. The evil-eyed crone rolls her eyes in the back.

The dark slate has four rough figures etched, grouped up. Okay, clearly meant to resemble the four of them now. Two symbols are carefully drawn, although their importance is unclear to his eyes. Two lines arc from one symbol to two of the drawn figures, and the second symbol only connects to one. 

The tall priest points at that particular figure, and gestures at himself, before pointing at the other two figures and gesturing at the old man and lady in turn. Is he the leader, and these two his servants? No, their demeanor is nothing like that. He's too normal, too much like one of the townies of a port.

Carefully, the bald priest pushes the dark slate and white stone away from him. He taps the one lone figure, and points across the table.

Liam grabs the chalk-like stone. Right, let's take a look here. He looks up and squints at the darkly-tanned man directly across from him. Right there, on the collar of the light-cream tunic under his robe. Same symbol marked on the slate. At its most basic, it's that shape with six sides to it. He can't remember, he was never that good with his shapes or math. It's split into six triangles, each with a circle at their center. Two lines underneath it. Clearly important to this man somehow.

But that other shape, denoting the other two figures staring him down. Some kind of... swirling cloud? He tilts his head, and the bear of a man says something in that tongue. Christ, it sounds so familiar, and he doesn't even bother chiding himself for using that name. Like the elder ferrymen back in Tay. He can almost understand these people, but there's just some tick to their tongue that keeps it out of his reach.

Liam starts a simple back-and-forth. He sketches a symbol that he remembers being under, at some point or another, and gestures at it to see if the three before him understand. Flag of the British Royal Navy? They don't recognize it. The French, would they recognize a former privateer of France? No, that doesn't get through. In a brief fit, he draws a rough sketch of his former Jolly Rogger: A hound's head holding a cutlass in its jaws. That one raises an eyebrow, but other than that it's another round of shaking heads.

Shaking his head with a sigh of frustration, so close yet so far, Liam rubs away the previous symbols. Then, he starts scribbling down something. Something to explain his presence. Anything.

==+==+==+==+==+==+==

“So regardless of where he's from, that kind of flag doesn't indicate a savory fellow.” Grauld muses as the orange-haired fellow starts sketching out something in further detail on the slate.

“We don't know the custom, good man. Maybe t'is a sign of some great feat he undertook? Hence why he also wears it on his chest?” Oake offers. By this point, their storm-tossed guest has sketched out the rough shape of a ship. Waves, clouds, and jagged lines – A vicious storm. Another icon, this time of the ship sinking, and vague lines indicating some kind of fire onboard.

“Could be. If it's similar to the Delsum raiders, is likely a raider in a form or other.” Marm Ildred quips. “Although his story there do line up. Ship sinking after a storm? Would explain why he washed up. But I still get the feeling he's not bein' entirely honest.” A slight bit of an eastern islands accent slips into Ildred's voice, prompting a quirked eyebrow from the other animist in the hall.

And why wouldn't she have reason to doubt? Even with the broken and blotchy patterns on this stranger's skin, all of the tattoos that remain are quite obvious. Maybe not in intent, but in shape and symbol. Over his shoulderblades, two ocean birds reminiscent of the diving flocks in Ggynma's Strait, to the north; Across his chest, the same symbol he just etched with the seafoam, the snarling dog with a cutlass in its teeth; Wrapped around his arms, lengths of ship's rope and chains; on the hand not colored like wax and lacquer, he had strange characters written across the knuckles, and a t-shape with a jagged black line crossing it on his palm. Across his skin was a canvas of now disjointed ink.

And this man, covered in the markings of what was obviously a hard life, has just gone back to inhaling another bowl of soup.

“Right. Well, I think we've gotten all we can. I genuinely am not sure if we can just take him to the Conthas enclave.” Grauld says with a very, very resigned air about his person as he stands up from the cross-hall's long table.

“Don't forget, Ice Bear. You discovered one with Animistic potential. It's your-” Ildred croaks out as she begins to make her own way out of Hoof-Bridge Temple.

“I am aware of the law, Ildred.” Grauld comes to a halt. The air of the Temple grows chill, colder than the rains that still pour downwards. The flame under the soup cauldron extinguishes with a soft puff.

Oake, Honorable Priest of the Temple, knows better than to get involved. Taking up the chunk of seafoam rock, and the flat piece of slate, the composed patriarch swiftly exits. Their guest, a bewildered look on his face at the sudden exchange, stares at both Animists with wary eyes, his hackles raised.

“I am aware of my duties as an Animist of Art Lendosk, and as Ritual Pillar of Five Pines.” The massive, white-haired old man growls out. “And last I checked,” he says as his silhouette disappears in a whoosh of air, before materializing in front of Ildred's smug, mirthful gaze. “Your duties included the seclusion and keeping of knowledge. Not sharing it with those who cannot know the ruin it will bring.”

“Oh?” The cat-like crone mews out with a hoarse laugh. “Not-so-trusting of dear Oake, all of a sudden?”

“The Honorable Priest is aware of the role he plays. He does not need more than that. Nor should he want it.”

“Fine. Fine.” His fellow Animist simply acquiesces, before jabbing a gnarled finger at Grauld's chest. “You have your duties, then. I will go back to mine.” She bustles past him, black robes swishing through the chilly air. Before she moves to the temple's entry hall, she pauses, and looks back over her shoulder: “Just remember. You get to be the one to bury him if The Stampede repeats itself. Don't want to be like the one who first took Garrom under their wing.”

The large man lets out a deep sigh as his counterpart leaves with a mocking laugh, and he casts an icy-blue eye over his storm-tossed guest. Those half-crazed hazel eyes, wide with confusion, swiftly looked down to the floor, refusing to meet his soul-piercing stare. Another exasperated sigh comes out like an overworked bellows, as the air slowly warms back to the realm of 'tolerable.' Alas, the cauldron flame remains doused.

The rainstorm begins to fade, and the sky seeps through.

The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 4: Second & Slumber

A small room
A rain-soaked evening, one day after arrival.

Liam jolts awake with the surging, panicked energy of a man freshly woken from the grave.

Hazel eyes jitter back and forth. He's in a small room. No windows. There's what looks like a small table against the wall near him, with a foul-smelling candle glowing with a gentle orange light. He's on a small cot, swathed in a simple linen sheet. The door is shut.

He reaches up, feeling something wrong. He feels... clean. Indeed, his patchy beard and mustache feel like they were trimmed down; None of the singed or burnt strands remain, and what patches of scrag and bush there were are gone. The mane of orange hair on his head feels straightened out for the first time in decades, and his skin actually itches and aches from the lack of grime, sweat, and salt.

He looks down at his right hand as he feels that weight and hears that clanking metal. He can feel the new clothing over his form, but it looks like that shackle is still clutching on. It's been scorched black, and as he looks at that metal reminder, his eyes wander to his left hand. Devoid of any tanning, scars, and demarcation; As pale as when he still called Scotland home. Not a bloody stump blasted off by a lucky gunshot. And that weird, jarring shift from pale and unblemished to tanned, leathery, and marked.

He hears the dull thump, thump, thump of approaching footsteps on wooden flooring, and the creak of the door beginning to open. Liam swiftly lies back down, closing his eyes. Carefully, he measures his breath like a man deep in slumber; A skill trained by the harshness of British naval masters, and the fickleness of fellow sea dogs.

The door opens, and he hears one- No. Two sets of feet walk in. One's slightly heavier than the other, coming up behind. The heavier feet stop, and the door is shut behind them. The lighter feet carried on, and he feels the presence of someone immediately at his bedside. A leathery, callous hand lightly touches upon his shoulder.

“Sagart Urramach.” A deep, croaking voice, from the direction of the heavy footsteps. “Thaan mi air crìocsh ah chuir air na teacsaichean a lorgadh mi.”

“Dè an freadhaine? Agus a bheil thu cinnteach ghun dwùisg ea dh'aithghearr?” That lighter voice, like wind blowing through the reeds of a marsh, came from his immediate right. The lighter footsteps and the weathered hand of work and age.

“Cluinnidh mi buille a chridhe. Tha e na dhùisg, ged a tha e a’ beachdachadh air na sgarfaichean agus na comharran a bhios air, tha coltas ann gu bheil e a’ cluich possume.” That croaking voice chuckled, the lilt to it giving the impression of an old woman's voice. Another weathered hand slaps at his leg as those heavy footfalls approach the figure at Liam's bedside. “A thaobh nan teacsaichean? Bu chòir dhut cuimhneachadh air Garrom.”

That reedy voice, the 'Sagart Urramach,' takes a short hissing breath at this statement. “Chaidh amaideachd Garrom a dhubhadh às. Cò aig a bheil cuimhne fhathast? Cò a chuireadh-”

“Agus cò a chumas na clàran sin nuair a thèid na Cinnidhean gu cogadh mu chùisean suarach?“ Another cackle. “Tha barrachd eolais caillte againn na dh' fhaodas an t-sagartachd ionnsachadh.” Liam feels her gnarled hands and sharp nails pick up one of his arms, and start deliberately poking at various points on it. The arm is placed back down on the bed, and she pulls away the linen sheet to begin poking and prodding at various places on his chest. “Tha e air gluasad astar fada gus ruighinn an seo,” An authoritative poke at his forehead. “Agus ma bha an sealladh a bha aig Grauld ceart, tha na h-aon chomas aige a thaobh na ceird spioradail.”

The male voice to his right says with a small tremor in his voice: “Beothalakt.”

The elderly female voice gives a grunt of affirmation. And then that hand that poked at his forehead starts aggressively slapping at his cheek.

“A'RIGHT! A'RIGHT! I'M FUCKEN' WAKE!” Liam growls out with a voice like ocean-washed gravel, opening his eyes and pushing himself up on his elbows. Keeping the facade of slumber failed at some point, especially as he looks into that old crone's glowing orange eyes. That same crone utters a truly bone-shivering cackle as her provocations bear fruit, seemingly sliding herself back away from the bed.

“Faic? Thuert mii ribh. Bha ena dhùisg.” She lets out another giggle, her eyes raking over Liam's form. Those glowing orange pupils, deep and hypnotic. The longer he looks at her, the more that old lady – mouth full of disturbingly sharp teeth and split into a grin as her eyes rake over his form – feels less and less like any other human. His blood begins to chill as he holds that gaze, as if he were a small rat caught before the ship's cat.

Shaking himself out of that deep, horrifying stare, the bedridden ex-pirate looks to this right at the other voice. He's a tall man, and at first glance is rail-thin and shrouded in a tar-black robe. The 'Sagart Urramach,' whatever those words meant. The top of his head is nearly bald, but for a dimly-regrowing carpet of grey-brown hair. His eyes are a deep and comforting brown, set into a slightly gaunt and long face.

“Chan eil a’ chainnt sin air a labhairt le gin de na coigrich gu ruige seo,” the tall, dark-robed man says, briefly turning to the crone. “Tha neadhon nas fhaide air falbh.” He turns back, and his grey eyebrows furrow in equal parts concentration and befuddlement; Evident on his face, even with a stark barrier of language. He begins making a strange motion with his hands – forming a bowl shape with one hand, scooping up to his face, then pointing. Wait. Eating. That means 'eating,' but is he asking if-

As if prompted by some primordial force, Liam's gut pipes up for what may be the first time in days, with a skin-shaking gurgle of guttural famine. If this tall, noble-looking man is asking if he's hungry, then the answer is becoming abundantly clear. With that, Liam just nods rather than trying to answer by some other method.

The door is opened, and the old orange-eyed hag drifts her way out. The taller man simply beckons for Liam to follow as he makes his own exit from the small, windowless room.

Liam rises, standing up and wobbling on unsteady feet. He doesn't move immediately after the mysterious bald man, not immediately. His thoughts are confused, a jumbled mess: He doesn't know where he is. Who these people are.

His stomach gurgles, and his eyes move once again to that stark white hand. His mind's eye recalling a blade cleft deep into his back, and a musket ball rolling in his organs.

He should be dead.

Second chances don't come for people like him.

 

 

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Whoowee, it's been a while hasn't it. 

I do apologize for the gap in time between the last update and this one. Finding time for writing with my current employment schedule has been rough. Hopefully I can start updating more often.

The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 3: Grace & Green

A rain-soaked noon
Moon of Hanging Lichen
Hoof-Bridge Point, on the eastern edge of Gierrom Mawl

“Thank you for coming, Animist.” The black-robed priest bows low, a hand reflexively going up to keep his pointed ceremonial hat on his bald head, covered in a thin layer of barely-regrowing hair.

“The thankfulness is mine, Honorable Priest. Every festival like this gives me a chance to pig out on fried squid. We don't really have that up in Five Pines.” The red-painted man, shedding his deer-pelt shawl, responds with a jovial smile just barely visible under his snow-white beard. He hands it to one of the priest's nameless assistants, their face hidden by that unadorned wooden mask, before continuing: “Remind me. Ceremony is past the tenth drum?”

“Yes. That gives you some time to wander our market street, if it would please you.”

“I'd better not. Want to leave some room for the after-ceremony meal. And a lichen salad. And maybe a few cups of strickus.” The red-painted Animist runs a finger through his beard in elaborate pondering. “Maybe a bowl of that green cream for dessert.”

The black-robed priest, face a flat stone of self-control, loses that firm facade at this last line. His brown eyes glimmer with a bit of mirth as he feigns exasperation and puts his palm across his face. “I'm not sure you need anymore dessert, Grauld. You're already fit for hibernation.” The animist, Grauld, cackles as he turns back to the beaded curtain across the entrance to the small harbor-side temple.

“Ah, Oake. It's good to see this place doing well.” Grauld says wistfully, looking out from the front of the small temple as the priest-in-black ducks under the curtain of beads. The large elderly man strokes his beard, as he gazes out over the bustling town. His icy blue eyes roam across its streets and clay-shingle roof-tops, to the milling docks. Then his eyes lift up.

“Indeed,” the priest-known-as-Oake spoke up, his own brown eyes looking with a tired mix of stress and satisfaction at the immense bridge connecting his town to the western island. “I'll admit, Grauld. It has been stressful, even frightening at times, trying to curry favor with the patriarchs of two of the greater clans just to allow this place to exist. But this bridge has already manifested miracles.”

They both look at the bridge in question. An immense construction of wood, stone, whalebone, and shellac, built into and twining through the massive rocky pillars that haphazardly jut from the waters of Rolan's Strait between the two great islands Gierrom Mawl and Gengrau Mawl. Hoof-Bridge echoes, even to their ears, from the sound of shouting and cart traffic. Down in the waters, a complex weave of lashed-together rafts and canoes allowing for quicker, albeit riskier, walking between the two towns. Already, Grauld's eyes could see the colored smoke of festival bonfires rising from the town of Hoof-Bridge Rest, on the opposite shore.

“Forget the patriarchs,” Grauld muses. “I could feel the energies of two of the Winds on my way across. You've already gotten the blessings of Yuresk and The Twinfisher?” A meaty hand absentmindedly reaches up to the charm-laden mass of necklaces wrapped around his throat, his weathered fingers caressing a chunk of carved, speckled rock with a hoof-shape engraved into it.

“Yes! Yes, over the last couple of moons we've successfully treated with them,” Oake responds with a hint of pride, reaching up to point. Two large totems, hanging from the underside of Hoof-Bridge by lengths of rope and vine; One, a mountain goat's head with turquoise stones embedded into its eyes; The other a two-faced, two-beaked kingfisher, with all four eyesockets left hollow and empty, and both feathery crests made from old, long-worn fishing harpoons. “We're still putting together the proper offerings before we entreat Grandfather Moose, Nali, Master Dam-Builder, and Bousht.”

“Ah, I was just about to ask that.” Grauld says with a nod. “Very well, I'll keep that in mind when the ceremony is finished. Although I'll tell you now, you don't need that large of an offering for Old Moose.”

“Honorable Priest! Honorable Priest, we have trouble!”

Oake's response is halted by a panicking shout. Immediately, the priest and the animist start down the hill holding the small temple as a panicked young man – hands still clutching his logging axe with a fearful grip – comes charging up. Already, Oake notes with a hint of exasperation, the young man is trailed by a small crowd of concerned and confused townsfolk.

“Woah lad, cool your haunches.” Grauld says as he thrusts a hand out, putting the sprinting lumberjack's pace dead in his tracks. The young man, barely reaching his adulthood and with his facial hair still growing in patchy and unfocused, is brought to a halt with a sudden hough. His shining blue eyes are wide with panic, and looking at Oake- All he can utter is a confused babble of sounds and the occasional word. Grauld's hand goes up to his shoulder, and pats it roughly. “Stop. Deep breaths now. Straighten your lungs and head out. You made it.”

“Take it slow. What do you need of me?” The priest-in-black asks, brown eyes on the alert as the crowd of concerned townies starts to grow. “You wouldn't have run all this way if it weren't important.”

Looking between the priest and the animist, the young lumberjack takes in a couple deep breaths. “Honorable Priest. North edge of town. North- At the logging camp. We got a- We got- We... One of the greens. The Green Men. One of 'em came outta the woods. Started hollerin' and brayin' some noise fierce. The lads are keepin' their distance, we dunno what he wants.”

Grauld has started moving before the young man could even finish his words, crashing past the startled onlookers with his bearish physique, and Oake can only curse under his breath. “Go to the temple. My assistants will help you cool down after that run.” And then immediately the priest sets off at a dead sprint.

==+==+==+==+==+==+==

“RHOI CAIMORT EE HOWN!”

“Please stop cursing us green one, we didn't know this was your grove!” One of the lumberjacks, with the rest of his compatriots hiding behind one of the felled trees, is pleading. There, just at the edge of the forest, it stands: Taller than a great brown bear standing on its hind legs, with an immense shroud of vines and shrubbery draped over its inhumanly broad shoulders and twining around its long, gangly arms. One of those green-tinted arms, and its equally gangling fingers, clutches an immense wicker-woven staff with squirrel, snake, and bird skeletons tied into its length, while the other lies awkwardly tucked under its shroud, carrying some large bundle. A stark-white and massive rack of antlers juts out from the shadowy lump that is its head, with two brightly-glowing white eyes staring into the soul of the lumberjack attempting some crude form of parlay.

Again, the Green Man bellows. “RHOI CAIMORT! MAE HOWN YEN MAROW!”

“Aright you lot, stand back!” From over one of the felled trees, Grauld vaults in with a speed and grace far belying his girth. Grabbing the attempted-diplomat by his shoulder, the red-painted animist roughly jerks him back, sending the lumberjack sprawling. Putting himself between the wood-cutters and the mysterious figure, he grumbles. “He's not being territorial, or you'd already be dead. You did your part, man. I'll do mine.”

Oake arrives shortly thereafter, his pointed ceremonial hat having fallen off at some point during the mad sprint from the temple. The bald priest, breathing hard, reaches into the folds of his robes. “If he's not territorial, what on Lendosk brought him this close to humanity? The Green Men are hermits as a rule.”

Grauld clears his throat, several times with a hard barking cough at the end. Reaching one hand up to the charms hanging from his neck, while the other one smooths back his head of snowy, lengthy hair, he locks eyes with the creature of the woods – His icy blue pupils staring into the deep, white depths. “Argelweyd Dryselweyn. Reydeym yan goll-gu dim niweyd ichi. Reydeym yan goll-gu eich coeydwegoed adim niwed. Pam ydysh chi weddod?” That booming tongue, magnified in volume by some invisible force, rips out of the Animist's throat like a rushing river.

“Honorable Priest, is he mad?”

“Silence, good lumberjack. Let the Animist do his work.” At the word 'Animist,' a reverent-yet-fearful silence grips the lumberjacks. Where there was frightened murmuring, now only a stunned silence as they watched Grauld.

“MAE HOWN YEN MAROW!” The Green Man repeats its last bellowing, and it shuffles forward from under the canopy. Revealed by the light of the cloud-shrouded day, the creature's head is shown: A replica of a human skull molded from warm, pulsating brown clay, with that large rack of antlers growing out of its temples. Tangled into and around the skull are what appear to be strands of flesh and skin, the texture and color matching that of the gangly arm. Its legs are the same disjointed and disproportionate array – and whatever makes for a 'torso' and 'trunk' on the Green Man are hidden under its cloak of shrubbery and foliage. In that skull's sockets hover two unblossoming flower-bulbs, emitting that bright white glow.

“Yeer un yma?” Responds Grauld, moving himself closer as the Green Man approaches. The massive foliage-frocked creature kneels down, bringing its other arm out from under its shroud. He's holding a man in that long limb, as if he were holding a baby. A limp, unconscious human, whose skin was the color of sun-scorched leather, and covered in haphazard and splotchy discolorations; As if someone had drizzled white lacquer or melted wax over his form. Grauld rushes to close the distance, hand leaving the tangle of charms and necklaces as he grabs a hold of the unconscious person's shoulders, and gently pulls them out of the Green Man's grasp onto the muddy ground.

The man's hair was a strange, bright, fiery shade of orange only seen on certain trees in the autumn moons; And here and there, parts of that same hair on his head and lower face were singed as if they had been burnt. What parts of his skin weren't rendered like melted lacquer or wax had simple black tattoos, themselves incoherently broken up. Grauld checks for his pulse, listens for his heartbeat. Both are there, but as dim and slow as his breath.

“Fay niol, Argelweyd Dryselweyn. Nid yedem yen ay adnabod, ond beydewn yen ay gymryd oddi yema.” Graul speaks to the Green Man in that mystical tongue. The creature nods, and stands back to its full height. It turns, wicker-staff thunking into the mud and loam, and retreats back into the woodlands it calls home. “Get a stretcher, and bring him to the medicine man!” Grauld yells with urgency. Oake finally moves up to the animist, kneeling on the other side of the mysterious, dying man.

“We didn't have anybody missing, recently, on either side of the strait.”

“He's not from here.” Grauld mutters as the lumberjacks behind them holler and rush. A crowd of the Point's townspeople, following over the sprinting priest and animist, has already begun to gather in a concerned crowd just beyond the fallen trees. His blue eyes rake up and down the unconscious man's form, seeing things that Oake's own vision cannot. “Salt and water've soaked in, not just to his skin but down to his spirit. These tattoos don't match any village or clan on Art Lendosk. And...” The animist's voice trails off, his brow furrowing with a deep concern.

“And? We know there are lands beyond ours, Grauld. He could be a castaway from someplace like Conthas.” Oake suggests, cocking a brow as he looks up, waving over the stretcher-bearers.

“I've met the Conthan merchants, Oake. I was there when they won their bid for that district and enclave in Woddell's Fane, and the Belasarians were pushed out.” The animist murmurs with growing apprehension. “Even then, I could see the elements of a person's spirit that peak out from under the skin.” He looks up, his eyes locking with Oake's plain brown pupils. “The Conthan and Belasarian' souls. Their spirits, their souls, were colored and changed by their lives. But I could see that fundamental shape, they still looked similar to us.”

“Right?”

“This man's spirit, what little struggles to live. Looks nothing like theirs ever did.”

 

===================================================================

Trying to write this chapter took many, many attempts and revisions. Trying to figure out how to establish language in another world, yet also enable the reader to comprehend what's being said without jumping to the conclusion that the British Empire dominated all of space and other universes.

I couldn't find a proper compromise in the long run, so instead we're doing it like this: Going forward from this chapter, the languages that the chapter's Point-of-View character are capable of understanding will be presented for the reader's comprehension - while any other languages present in the scene, if not known by the character, will remain untranslated.

The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 2: Washed & Wax

An unknown shore
An unknown time

He awakens in confusion. He isn't dead?

Then the pain comes back.

Liam's eyes squeeze shut as it all comes rushing in. The pain of sunlight burning through his closed eyelids. The agitation of the salt, grime, and sand that cakes his face and skin. The dull numbness of his beaten and bruised body, aching with the memory of burning, searing agony. He remembers the fire spreading quickly as the barrels of gunpowder began to cook, his body being consumed as his lifeblood gushed and poured to the wooden hull of the Osprey.

He squeezes his left hand – Hand? His hand's returned? He clenches, gnarled fingers digging into the sand beneath him. It's real. He didn't imagine the gunshot that blasted it off, but it's intact?

Liam unclenches the sand, and grits his teeth as he forces his left arm up to wipe at his face and eyes. The light that scorches his pupils through those tightly-squeezed eyelids fades and darkens ever-so-slightly, and his skin feels the chill of a breeze. He forces his hazel eyes open.

The sky is blue, with foul dark-grey clouds drifting across the deep ocean-like expanse. The sun's rays stab his pupils like white-hot knives, even as the foul daystar itself is increasingly choked behind an oncoming storm. Liam pushes himself up onto his elbows with a huff and a groan, as that gulp of air sparks a fresh wave of misery.

He looks first at that largest mystery: His left hand. That's his hand, but... not. It's a dull white, almost grey, except for a ragged line along his wrist where it immediately shifts to sunburnt tan. The tattoos he remembers getting on this hand and these fingers are absent, as are the scars. His eyes trail down along the rest of his left arm; Scars he remembers wearing with pride are also filled in with that dull white tone, and his skin is spider-webbed and splotched; In many places, the discolorations break up and cut apart his skin's tapestry of tattoos. Almost like melted wax was haphazardly flung around, then left to sink in and cool just under the skin.

Once more, he remembers the flames that were licking and eating at his dying body.

His mind slowly unhinging, Liam turns his head away. His shaking hazel eyes look around him - The shore is like any ordinary beach he's been on. Beige sand being washed a dark brown by the ocean waves. Trailing between him and the ocean's edge was a line of charred wood and warped scrap metal. Here, a span of canvas and cloth once flung to the shoreline, now being dragged back to the sea. There, a tangle of rope and seaweed. And nothing but the sound of the ocean and the wind echoing through his-

The once-dead pirate perks his head up at the trill that drifts in. A deep voice, singing in a strange tongue, drawing closer. From where? That deep tune draws close from nowhere, yet everywhere around him at once, echoing and ringing in his head. Already reeling from his circumstance, Liam falls back, his breath drawing fast like an overwhelmed bellows.

He hears that singing voice grow louder, and louder. Its song cuts abruptly, as does the echoing beat in his skull, and a shout rings out from his right. Liam, eyes widening with shock as his breath continues its horrified rhythm, slowly turns to look.

A large figure crests the sand dune, bearing a large staff of driftwood and vine, with bones and small animal skeletons hanging from it like charms. A pair of immense antlers branch out from its head, with a massive shroud of green plant-life draping from its shoulders. Liam's eyes grow blurry at the sight, refusing to focus as he feels his consciousness fading out like a light. The immense green shape starts shuffling forward, faster and faster.

He faints, his mind choosing oblivion over comprehension.

The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 1: Storm & Smolder

The 17^th of September
1693, fourth year of the reign of William III, King of England
The boundary between the Celtic Sea and the British Channel.

The storm batters against the worn hull and tattered sails of the HMS Osprey, her battle-scarred silhouette struggling to make headway against the waves. Her deck is covered in flickering lantern lights, as thick-voiced sailors struggle to keep her from being swamped in the freakishly large waves. The sails of her three masts are bundled tight, all eighteen gun-ports shuttered, anchor hooked onto the prow. High and low she bobs in the dark waters, a lone flicker of light in pitch darkness.

Deep in the Osprey's cargo hold he sits in cross-legged silence, gnarled wrists clasped in iron shackles. His boots and coat were long gone by now, claimed by the ship's officers as both trophies and replacements for their own gear. Only a pair of ratty canvas pants spare his modesty. Under the flickering lantern light above him, his skin gleams with the mapwork of a foul life: Streaked with grime and soot, scarred by sun's rays and old battles, with tattoos etched like a tapestry. And pock-marking this wretched flesh are copious, fresh welts and bruises. Yet under that mane of fiery orange hair, the muscled prisoner's eyes still shine with vigor, pupils wide with a calm, unbroken rage.

From his position, he can see his four watchers. Four men of His Royal Navy, each unsettled and nervous in their own fashion. Two are simple, fresh, clean-shaven boys – likely brought on from that other ship after his capture. The other two would have been useless during this storm, and so their position here is simply to keep them out of the way. One is so badly wounded as to be crippled: His arm in a makeshift sling, a hollow and mangled eye-socket covered with a strip of linen. The last is staring at the walls of the lower hull, muttering. The orange-haired man has seen this kind before: Stricken in combat, his eyes are likely full of gunsmoke and death. An injury of the mind.

If it weren't for this storm calling every able-bodied sailor to duty, these four would not be here.

A vicious wave crashes into the inside of the Osprey, and it sweeps across the deck of the vessel. Two men are washed overboard, and the ruckus above becomes even more desperate. Below, one of the boys stumbles and falls, sea legs still untrained. The other struggles to help his brother-in-arms up, and the trauma-stricken soldier begins to tremble. The prisoner makes his move.

“Sit your arse back down, Liam!” The wounded soldier calls out as the orange-haired prisoner surges to his feet. His one good hand points a pistol, struggling to keep it aimed true. Liam wastes no time, his scarred feet gripping the wood beneath him before his legs tense – and then launch him forward. He sees the man's single eye start with surprise, before-

KRRK. His forehead smashes into the wounded man's face, a splash of blood spurting out from the impact. The crippled sailor collapses, nose and bones beneath pulverized from the impact. His pistol fires, the musketball cracking off into the wooden hull aimlessly.

One of the boys, still on his feet, hastily begins to hoist his rifle up; The unwell mariner hollers, struggling to make his shivering hands and shuddering eyes aim. Liam, even with his hands bound and his body aching, streaks and lunges around the sailor-boy's gun. His hazel eyes are now lit with a wild, hungry fire; With a savage lunge, he drives his stained teeth deep into the lad's tender neck, and clenches his vice-like jaw shut. It takes only a shake of a mangy head, and the boy's throat rips apart, blood gushing out from mangled flesh. The young lad slumps against the wall of the cargo hold; In seconds, his body goes limp.

“HELP! WE NEED HELP! RED DOG IS LOO-” The other boy screams as he tries to take aim with his musket from the floor. He has no chance, as the orange-haired pirate stomps his head against the wooden hull with a knobbly ankle. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. He's unconscious, but Liam keeps stomping. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

KRAKOW.

The chaotic air is struck quiet with a loud gunshot, and the shaggy red pirate grunting in pain. He looks back: Smoke billows from the muzzle of the haunted sailor's rifle. He feels his right arm's shackle slacken as his left arm and his lower back bloom with hot agony. He pulls his arms to his front; His left hand is gone- No, not gone. It's there, fallen to the floor of the hull. His left wrist is a ragged stump, and he feels the culprit rolling around in his gut, the musket ball piercing his wrist and into his innards.

“Death here then, instead of dancin' the hangman's jig.” The first words from Liam's lips, before he clenches his sole remaining hand and smashes that fist into the temple of his final jailer. Those haunted eyes roll back into their sockets, and he hits the hold's floor with a loud thud. The pirate reaches up, gritting his teeth as he feels that iron invader rolling around in his lower body, and feels the end approaching. He grabs the lantern from its hook in the ceiling, and rips it off, testing his grip on the glass-and-metal frame.

“Indeed. T'is a shame you won't live to face trial, Mr. Gault. But your corpse will still see me promoted.” That posh voice, dripping with noble ambition. Liam glances up from his bloody carnage, blood and viscera dripping from his filthy jaws and beard, his ragged stump, and the hole opened in his back. The new arrival's cutlass is already poised to strike, even as Liam's vision begins to blur at the edges. A blonde man, fair locks and pale skin streaked with the sweat of exertion and desperation. “Permit me to make your passing quick. You won't survive the night, and whatever foul honor you wogs swear by would surely allow for death by the blade over bleeding like a pig.”

“If I would not take Orange Billy's noose, wot makes you think yer blade has a chance?” Liam says with a harsh snarl, hefting the lantern in his good hand. “Why, James... Would I not take the flames of Hell firs' and foremost? Especially as you didn't feckin' move the gunpowder out?”

James' eyes widen with horror as Liam Gault turns on his heels, and his arm winds for a massive throw. The captain of the Osprey leaps forward, cutlass piercing through the air. It slices deep and stabs downward through the pirate's flesh, catching on the bone of his ribcage and cutting into his lungs.

But too little, too late.

The lantern soars through the short distance the shaggy pirate has flung it, and smashes against the barrels and bags stacked and shoved into the deepest recesses of the Osprey's cargo hold. Canvas and wood begin to smolder and smoke, the air growing hotter and hotter. The captain can only stare in horror, his mouth trying to find the breath and the voice to start shouting for help.

“I am Liam Gault,” the former prisoner turns, James' cutlass still jutting from his back as his own blood pours from his many wounds. “The Red Dog. Captain of The Lady's Mercy.” He coughs up blood as he falls to his knees, a smarmy and sadistic grin on his bruised and pock-marked face. “You burn with me.”

==+==+==+==+==+==+==

The HMS Osprey burns for a long time, gunpowder stores cooking off with a brilliant flare and smoke rising into a pitch-black and stormy sky. Her crew fights to see the dawn, to beat back the flames of The Red Dog's final hour. 

By morning, no one remains to tell the tale.

Welcome to the blog.

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