Act I, Chapter Two: The Black Current

Wexley quickly ties off the capstan with some line, his wiry frame taut with impatience. For once, he wasn’t squinting at the horizon or muttering nautical proverbs. He turned, voice low and clipped, "Guaridan. Toss it. Let the Ishensa keep its secrets."

His eyes never left the ashen current as he said it, as if already regretting the delay. One hand curled around the railing, knuckles white. "I won’t have that thing aboard and we can't delay any longer, lives are on the line if we miss our deadline."

Gauntleted hand tosses the talisman into blackened waters. Brown eyes watch warily as the Ishena’s water runs across the wooden token, its evil now left to a watery fate.

It is done, says the ebony erelander. Yes, no more delays. Time to go.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | FOGGY AFTERNOON
The deck shudders as Thaelin clambers to the starboard side, bracing one boot against slick planking. With a grunt and a pry-bar he frees the last stone-snared mooring. A few strides aft, Wexley’s arms blur at the hand-cranked capstan, iron clicking frantically. The Netherthistle drifts, catches on the bank, and for a breath hangs half-bound between water and mud.

The tow line tightens; the hacked-up Shadow barge jerks free, timbers shrieking. Mud erupts, ropes groan, and everyone holds their breath. At last the enemy craft wallows into deeper ink, hauled by gnomish grit and one stubborn riverboat. Scuttled seams split; black water spurts through tar-scarred planks. The hulk lists, gulping itself down. When the line feels right, Wexley slashes the tow-rope.

"Down you go, then," he mutters, and the Netherthistle surges ahead suddenly, spray stinging faces for just a moment as the anchored thrust is released.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | MYR DOLOR | MOONLIGHT BREAKING THROUGH CLOUDS

Hours pass and night gathers; during the journey, two watch-towers glide past like dark crowns; Wexley’s forged writs and quiet purses change hands without alarm, the party remaining deathly silent in the covered doghouse. Crickets whisper in the reeds, and the river resumes its hushed rhythm.

Lantern-glow trembles along the gunwales as the Netherthistle noses into the widening mouth of Myr Dolor. Behind her, the river’s steady cadence fades, replaced by a vast silence that seems to drink every sound. Low clouds shred themselves across a sliver of moon, and the temperature is in a quiet descent— not yet cruel, but enough that breath begins to curl like pale ribbon.

Wexley tightens the scarf beneath his coat and sets a slow, sure hand on the capstan. He glances at the crew clustered amidships, voices pitched low out of respect for sleeping ears.

"Once we hit the lake’s north shore, we make the drop." He taps the rail for emphasis. "Cargo over, no delays, then we keep her moving. Rendezvous point’s another day or so's travel up river."

A murmur of recognition follows, boots scuffing over deck as lashings are checked.

Thaelin, excused from duty until the gnome's trade shifts at the drop point, bunkers in the cramped doghouse cabin. Within, the gnome's snores rumble beneath a blanket, punctuated now and then by a sleepy growl as the hull lists to a new current.

Serah crouches beside the makeshift bunk where Tefli lies swaddled in wool and bandage. Quick fingers check the wrappings at the halfing's stump; a nod follows—good enough. Pack and bedroll are lashed shut beside her boots.

"Almost there, brave one, just a little longer." She smooths a curl from Tefli’s brow.

The barge leaves twin ripples that freeze to silver behind her. Stars multiply overhead as clouds tear away, and the shorelights of a distant watch-tower dwindle until they look like fallen embers on an endlessly dark hearth. On this lake, every mile feels borrowed.

Somewhere beneath the planks, the water presses irregularly again the hull. the Netherthistle answers with a groan and presses on, her crew bracing for cold, for secrecy, and for whatever waits just beyond the ripple of starlight on Myr Dolor’s ink-black skin.

The deck lamp sways in the rising lake-breeze, throwing bronze arcs across stacked ingots and Úlfr’s broad shoulders. Somewhere abaft, the tiller groans and the Netherthistle shivers. In the quiet, Serah gestures Úlfr to approach, "A story, you asked for? There is always a story. That blossom is moon-lace—white as first frost. I plucked it the night my village burned, when the legates hunted a channeler they never caught. I was just a girl, then, hiding beneath a cider press."

Serah’s shawl tugs in the chill, but her eyes stay on the little blossom now in Úlfrs' care, five pressed petals, blood-red thread holding them fast. Her voice comes low, almost lost beneath the lap of water against wood, "At dawn an herb-wife led me from the ashes. She showed me how to press the petals flat, bind them with red thread, and whisper a warding charm in an Old Tongue. Said it would ‘turn blades aside so a brighter deed might bloom.'"

The charm flickers in lantern-light, shadows dancing across Úlfr’s hands, "So keep it close, Úlfr. It isn’t power the Shadow fears, but the memories we carry past its fires."

Outside, the lake exhales a breath colder than before; mist crawls the gunwale like pale fingers, and for a heartbeat even the iron in Úlfr’s grasp feels lighter against the weight of memory.

Jasir bows slightly at the thanks following the magical scrub up. The smile he flashes is implied more than seen considering his Sarcosan nomad attire keeps his face unseen. He moves moves to reclaim space upon the eel-boat at Wexley's demand and dismisses his magic back to the whorls and eddies of energy that make up Aryth's lifeblood.

In the time that comes after Jasir reclaims his seat. At one point he holds his hand up and a brown-black scorpion slowly crawls from somewhere within the confines of his cloak to settle itself in his palm. His eyes narrow and he looks to be considering the insectile creature flails its pincers at him. The quiet conference between himself and the scorpion goes on for a bit before he passes it a few morsels.

Seelah waits for a moment when Serah is not otherwise occupied. Not while she’s interacting with others, but certainly not when it seems the elderly woman is looking to rest!

Approaching the old woman kindly, Seelah asks her, Serah, I know you to be a woman of much wisdom, and divine spirit. Pray tell me please, what does my future hold?

Can you tell me if my future holds bane, or boon?

Petra waits till after they have passed the second watch tower and 30 minutes more before summoning her Gift to heal herself and Seelah.

Though she is not sure at first if the blood she had seen splashed on Seelah's armor before the cleansing had been her own rather than an orc's?


Those familiar 'vines within' twist inside the dwarrow when Aryth responds, but hunger does not follow. Day's close calls probably killed any appetite.


Petra's muscles lose their soreness and her bronzed skin its purpling.


Remembering a request that may have come from Varin, Petra also fills some of the former-pork-jars from the tavern with fresh water.

"Fierce fires form my fate from family home to bright bloom of first frost. Me ma and da faced flame fearlessly, thus I found my way. May bloom and barge stay blessed."

To Petra: "I think I can just carry this." holding up the iron-bound trunk full of iron.

MYR DOLOR | DOLORGRAVE | MOONLIT NIGHT
Lights flicker like errant constellations upon a glass-black mirror, drawing you onward.
The Netherthistle glides across the still lake with scarcely a ripple. Crickets whisper from the reed-choked banks, but the water itself lies silent, absorbing every creak of plank and chain. Ahead, pinpricks of ochre and cobalt bloom in the gloom, multiplying until they resolve into lanterns strung along stone wharves. Dolorgrave, half-shrouded by mist awaits.

A soft bump announces the barge’s arrival at the pier. Two figures in coarse, hooded cloaks emerge from the shadows, faces hidden, hands gloved. They take mooring lines without a word, their movements efficient and anonymous, as though rehearsed a thousand times for strangers who must never be named.

Sleep-creased and blinking in lamplight, Thaelin stumbles onto the deck, "We made it then..."

Wexley Thorn

Wexley places a steadying hand on the dwarf’s shoulder before addressing the cloaked stevedores with a curt nod, "Cargo’s secure. Treat her kind; she’s more loyal than most folk." The gnome smiles thinly, but the strangers offer no reply, only the dip of cowled heads.

Serah of the Loom

On the quay, Serah unfurls her shawl against the chill breeze, silver hair catching moon and lamplight. Tefli slips to her side, nervously fidgeting with his injured arm, "The north is hungry for healers and courage both. May your feet be swifter than its shadows."

Thaelin offers a quick, earnest reply, "Watch over the little guy, Serah. I’ll be wantin’ to see both of you next time."

Serah’s answering nod is solemn, Tefli shoots Thaelin an irritated look, clearly irritated at being called little guy. Without further ceremony the four figures, turn away from the water and vanish into the night, their footsteps swallowed by the hush of damp cobblestone.

There is no embrace, no grand salutation, only the scent of lantern oil on mist and the fading echo of boots. A few minutes later the harbor lies empty behind you, and the road north yawns wide and dark beneath an indifferent sky.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | SOUTH OF GASTERFANG | SUNNY MIDDAY
Sunlight cannot melt everything in North.

The night passes in a muffled hush, only the rasp of reed-blades against the hull to mark the hours. Come dawn you push on, breath fogging in the quickening chill. By late morning the wind bites like needles, yet the steady, bright sun keeps numbness at bay.

Around the next bend the Ishensa pinches to a single braided channel. There, blocking most of the waterway, rises a jagged black formation no taller than a haystack yet wickedly spined, dark stone or river-ice, you cannot tell—its base lost beneath the sluggish current. Shallow banks of frost-browned grass crowd close on both sides; there is little room to maneuver.

Wexley curses under his breath and slams the capstan break, he barks an order at Thaelin who quickly slams a long pole against the riverbed. The Netherthistle drifts another yard, then settles, timbers creaking, a silent bow-wave lapping at the obstacle.

"Hmm… never seen that here before," Wexley mutters, tugging his beard. He measures the gap with a squint, knuckles pale on the tiller. "Skirt round and we risk the sandbars; tap it wrong and we hole the keel."

At the bow Thaelin leans on gunwale, eyes glittering with mischief. "Tight squeeze, sure," he calls back, voice buoyant despite the cold. "But we’ve threaded nastier needles. Just keep her straight and trust the current!"

Wexley’s only answer is a grunt—and a glance toward you. Sunlight glints along razor facets of the obstruction, hinting at something unknown beneath the glossy surface.

What do you do?

The obstruction has an ominous feel to it for Petra, although that could be a lingering gloom from her recurring nightmare about the serpent made of coiled shadows.


"I say we need a closer look at that obstruction. Some way of scouting it to see if it's a creature or a trap or some elaborate cover for an ambush, and how shallow the sandbar gets or whether there are spikes that could pierce the hull?

"As a strong swimmer I volunteer to swim over to investigate and report back? Unless someone strongly prefers other means to gather more accurate information to guide our next steps?"

Jasir's days on the eel-boat tend to be pretty similar. When not actively engaged in doing unskilled labor or taking a turn as lookout he's thinking. He makes diagrams using splinters of wood denoting numbers and works through complex equations. The Sarcosan makes up questions to answer, arcane formula will over time build upon one another to plot eddies and currents of arcane energy. Similar to building one's own roadmap to magic.

When the spiny and dangerous looking thing is revealed he's engaged in proving another formula which he looks up from and shifts in order to get a better look at the potential obstacle, his mind working on processing exactly what he's seeing. After a couple moments his eyes visibly widen and he quickly turns to look at Wexley and then holds his hand up towards Ulfr and Petra in a stopping motion.

"Beware. That is an elemental of ice... Corrupted by it's look. Approaching it is perilous."

Seelah dons her armor and readies her shield. Grabbing her weapons and preparing for another day of battle!

Petra takes an involuntary step back from the water's edge. The elemental has become an extension of Izrador's power, and a blight upon Aryth. Lost beyond recovery. Removing it, if it is within their power, is a must.


"Perhaps we are better off fighting it from a remote distance? Is there some way we could light arrows on fire?

"Or, we do have jars and rags and alcohol...maybe we could dry the jars out, soak and light the rags, and throw them at the creature to put it out of its misery and out of our way?"

Jasir is not one to hoard knowledge from the group and quickly relays what he can remember. Which is apparently a great deal - and at the end of his little blurb he tilts his head. "My bow would be all but useless against such an opponent. If we were able to produce fire we might stand a better chance. But it would be neither fast nor reliable."

The cloaked mage that has folded his arms straightens and looks upwards towards the sky. "The day's light is our greatest ally. It shall only grow more powerful as the darkness gathers. If we seek to pass and can make our way well clear before nightfall we might be able to escape."

Varin stirs from his cramped resting spot, the dull ache in his skull a familiar companion as he sits up. The gash along his temple has mostly closed, leaving behind raw, tender skin and the makings of a jagged scar that will never fully fade.

He pushes aside the tarp covering his little corner of the hold and climbs out. As he steps onto the deck, the sudden burst of morning sunlight stabs at his eyes. He flinches, squinting hard, one hand coming up instinctively to shield his face.

"Damn sun," he mutters, voice gravelly from disuse.

He winces again as the light catches the tender edge of the wound, then rolls his shoulders and stretches, joints popping after too long in one position.

"That long of a rest… not like me," he says quietly to no one in particular. "That blow must’ve done more than I could handle."

Still rubbing the side of his head, Varin makes his way to the front of the barge. His boots thud dully on the planks, his eyes scanning the horizon.

"What are we dealing with?" he calls out as he stares at the giant ice thing. His mind slowly already shifting back into the role of lookout, protector, and problem-solver.

A corrupted ice elemental, Seelah replies to Varin. Hard to kill, but vulnerable to fire. We’re trying to figure out how to deal with it.

To Wexley: "Do we have a heap of rags?"