Stormclouds do Part

[KidKrinkles 2044]

 

 

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[!] The following is a narrative of events and a journey undertaken by Victor and Sissel. Those who have not been informed would have no knowledge of these events.

 

Please do not metagame.

 

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A series of boot prints had trailed their way to two walking figures, across a small beach upon Aevos’s North-Eastern shores. A kilted man and his one-eye held his thumb to his belt loop as he walked towards their destination, gesturing to a small boat, and a set of oars.

 

“Candidly, ah’m nae exactly’a mariner.” He’d chuckle flatly, “Ain’t exactly tried t’is either… a’ reckoned a’ would’a waited n’ just brought Eldacar wit’ me fer’ t’is sortae thing; but presumin’ we dun’nae sink and we make it far enough, might be worth showin’ ye’ instead.” His voice was something of a hum.

 

The boat was deeply tethered upon the shore, a large iron spike running for Aevos’s heart through a cord fixed to the boat, but not quite reaching. A heavy sledge’s shaft protruding out of the canvas covering of their vessel. Sea foam rushed forward from the water and around the boat in a lulling embrace, though the waves came often, crashing off shore harshly. The Storm that circled Aevos had always made for harsh tides: though it was something the seastricken seemed to seek enthusiastically.

 

“... a’ remember sailin’ te’ Aevos ma’self.” He’d add, as he’d rush a bit ahead, calling back, so he might tug the canvas from the vessel and begin to wrap, and bind it. “Long, long ago. In ma’ twenties. Back then I ‘ad two eyes, still… and’a bright smile.” A bit of a laugh coming from him; gesturing for Sissel to make her way up, and into the boat.

 

“... a’ know not what folk would call where ah’m from; but’a remember passing into te’ Storm and crashing upon te’ shores’a Balian, before’a made my way inte’ te’ city, and, eventually, found Numenost.”

 

The man did take the sledge, and with a huff, and a hard bite upon his cigarette, slam into the spike. “Only fair’a be te’ first te’ split te’ storm back, eh?” 

 

Sissel gazed at Victor, her expression unreadable as she lowered herself onto the side of the rickety boat. 

 

“It’s nothing I hadn’t already planned on doing,” She murmured, her tone laced with a faint sadness that lingered in the brine air.

 

“I t’ink ye’d find t’at challenge ‘arder t’en ye’d like.” He’d offer gruffly. The man did plant his shoulder into the aft side, near the gudgeon and pintle and rutter, and pressed with a grunt of exertion, as his feet dug into the wet sand, digging their own trench,and piling at his heel. 

 

The sea offered it’s assistance to the traveler; the water aiding to lift and ease the boat with the receding tide. His hands gripped unto the rear, atop the transom, as he’d grip and yank himself aboard roughly, landing on his side in the boat with a huff, akin to a fish.

 

“Te’ storm parts for none. It’sae death trap. A folly. A cruel challenge, and’a impassable barrier. Just as te’ Mountain’s climb was to te’ unprepared, and unknowin’, so too is te’ Storm.”

 

"Perhaps." She said softly. "But I think we both accepted either out come from the start". A beat passed "It was worth it to her." A thump lifted her gaze from the sea "Did you... not want help?" 

 

“Seemed easier te’ just do it ma’self.” He’d say dryly, a shrug. “Packed some provisions; just incase we’re ‘ere fer’a while. Small tent, a couple’a rods, bait, pemmican…” He’d list off some provisions. “I want ye’ te’ keep’a eye forward; and describe yer’ feelings te’ me, as a’ row to te’ Storm’s ‘eart.” His tone dry, and unaffected; as if a command.

 

And so, their trip began, a rowing of the oars, the sloshing of ocean water upon and into the boat, as the great gray and black clouds drew closer, and darker, overhead.

 

"Does the anxiety that simmers in my gut count for a start?" She lightly jested. She had bailed that of the boat a few times. Given the waves had started to increase and lay siege to of the boat. 

 

 “It does.” He’d admit. 

 

The man was unbothered by the spray that met his face, and the salt that dragged behind as the water ran down his features. His right-hand did gesture up, from the oars, as the waves carried them: gripping the boat high into the air upon the crest of a wave, before a harsh descent would swell from their stomach to their throats, and threaten to expel their stomachs, a thud of the vessel upon darkened waters.

 

A deathly chill coursed through her, an icy tendril that seemed to crawl under her skin and twist around her bones. It was not just the cold of the Northerly winds or the freezing beads of water that landed upon her marred, and now, tattooed face—a harbinger of dread that seeped into the very marrow of her being. Her breath was visible in ghostly puffs that escaped chapped lips, coming shallow and quick as her lungs recoiled from the salt that festered like ice inside her. 

 

Her muscles tensed involuntarily, as though her body instinctively understood a primal, inescapable danger. And with that came the memory of her throat struggling for air—the night she had awoken covered in the same brine that now soaked them as they bailed the boat. The night she had drowned in her sleep.

 

Yet her spirit repurposed that dread into something wildly invigorating, unyielding. She dared to savor it, to let the grip of the waters fuel her resolve. For she did not fear the storm. It brought her soul to life instead.

 

Life is full of little deaths; so to are death and life are intertwined, they chase each other, end over end, until death truly does win, in finality. But that was not today. Perhaps the Storm could feel that within the budding Tarotmancer… for as the rowing continued, and the woman basked in the mists of a storm that would turn end over end any other boat, a light would shine down slowly, as if a curtain parted. 

 

The clouds split, if only a hair, to permit the small vessel its trespass; a warmth shining down as if to forgive its fury. Only an arm’s length away, the waves still whipped, and rain did pelt and patter down… but through that narrow alley, a world past Aevos was insight for the Norn whom had only ever known one home.

 

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“Another first for Victor Rorin.” The man did dryly muse aloud, a grin on his face, looking past Sissel. “... now uh… I’ve some bad news.” His flat tone did falter a little. “... we can’t go back until we find somethin’ of value; or … uh… guests. Folk te’ bring back te’ Aevos.”

 

A flicker of mischief played across Sissel's eyes. 

 

"It’s what we originally planned. It’s how I know that if we go North from here, there is a little isle named Elaris… It was Wynather’s home, where she grew up. There’s a cult that operates on the island, devoted to some... extremist interpretation of cross-god beliefs. Like the Canonists, but... worse. They claim to be the sole guardians of divine truth. Those who grow up there are not allowed to leave. They poison young minds, like they did hers.” 

 

She paused, fiddling with the bone pendant hanging around her neck, imprinted with Okar’s sigil.

 

“Their treatment is... unkind, to say the least. We were going to... 'collect' the children that remain there and... well..."

 

Her lips did curl, a touch.

 

"How would you like to try your hand at being an arsonist?"

 

The image lit behind her eyes: fire licking away the rot, consuming the place that had bred such cruelty. The plan was already etched into her thoughts—where they would dock, how they’d move unseen. Driftmoor, of course. Strangers weren’t welcome to stay. Only to trade, to drop off supplies... and then be on their way.

“I mean, anything for a good cause, right?” He’d say in response, his eye looking Northward; a distant horizon. The man did simply muster his strength, and row.

 

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The pair would travel along the waterways, the tides, and channels beyond Aevos for a couple of weeks; stopping upon the occasional sand bar, isle, and grotto for shelter; supplanting their rations with those of small, local game, and fish caught upon the open seas.

 

A humble journey. A quiet journey. A solemn journey.

 

… as they made their way to Elaris.

 

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The fog did not greet them—it watched. 

 

By the time their vessel scraped against the gray-black sand of Elaris Isle, the world had narrowed to shades of silver, and storm. Driftmoor lay behind them now, a hushed memory of sideways glances and stony silence. The townsfolk had neither welcomed nor hindered them; they had only traded and resupplied, nodded, and watched the boat go, as if watching a stranger sink beneath the tide. 

 

Victor stepped ashore first, a hand resting on Karispacus’s hilt, wary, though the familiar weight grounding him as the mist curled about his legs like a starving hound. Sissel followed in silence, her gaze steady, her pace even, the bone pendant swaying slightly at her chest. No words passed between them— as none were needed. 

 

They followed the winding, half-rotted boardwalk; creaks crying from underfoot, and they climbed inland through broken pines and dew-heavy underbrush. Scripture banners, bleached and battered, flapped in the salted breeze; time lost scrawlings eaten by the salt-strewn air.

 

Crude wood carvings of suffering saints and scripture in flaking red paint drifted on the breeze almost like a rust upon a place lost in time. No signposts marked the way, but still, they found the path. It was always meant to be found by those meant to find it. 

 

The orphanage—the church, some called it—soon rose into view. It crowned the hill like a sore upon the land, tall and angular, its wooden steeple crooked from age or malpurpose. Black glass windows reflected no light. From within came the low, sorrowful hum of hymnals—dozens of voices, small and tired, braided together in practiced reverence. 

 

Victor’s boots sank an inch into the sodden ground as he stepped forward. His one eye fixed on the heavy, iron-ringed doors ahead. His voice came low. "Ready?"

 

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The door shattered inward with a deafening crack, splinters erupted from the wood like shrapnel through the dim, incense-choked hall. The iron latch slammed against the stone, echoing outward like a bell crashing from on high. A dull, death-knell-like thrum hanging in the air.

 

Thud, thud, thud, thud. 

 

The bowie-knight rang his hand upon each other's wrist, easing them. A set of heavy weights, gifted to him by Shugo Atsuko had freed themselves, dust scattering loosely from where they sank upon. A loose, darkened mass of chains hanging behind his head; eager, rattling, and flowing, ready to ward off danger.

 

In reply, blood-curdling cries. A song of death. The singing of blades.

 

They surged like rats from the darkest corners, cultists swathed in bone-charms and crimson sashes. Their eyes wild with fury and blind devotion. 

 

Blades flashed—a jagged sickle arced toward Sissel’s throat, only to be caught mid-swing and driven back with the crunch of bone and spray of blood. 

 

The swordsman seemed not so blood-thirsty; even upon those cultists whom seemed to live for dread and darkened zealotry. 

 

His form drifted to a wooden pillar and ducked behind it, as a crooked blade caught into the wood. 

 

He’d slink behind the arc of that blade as it let out a dull thunk, reverberating, and his quillion caught the cultist along the jaw, scattering teeth like river stones.

 

Another figure leapt from the altar for the Norn, but just as swiftly their last cry was cut short by the edge of an axe, their body landing with a heavy thump against the floor.

 

The man surveyed the room and eyed another blade coming for him, unmoved. He’d watch as the chains that were bequeathed to him snapped out and bound the incoming arm, pulling the man’s arm taut and above him. 

 

Victor’s left-hand did swiftly swing into the man’s throat, a flat, tense-chop pressing the apple inward; as he’d watch the man drop to the floor with a wheeze; a quick kick to his ribs sending him cradling himself, and gasping for air. 

 

He once more squinted, looking around… it stood to reason that the faithful had spent more time and ritual upon the young and ill-prepared, rather than any with experience, or merit. And as more came; the man simply pummeled, freely, drifting as a wraith between pew and pillar.

 

The air was thick with incense and iron, shrieking chants of a beloved GOD that warped into death rattles; as those around them choked on their own bloodied spittle and wept for relief and salvation.

 

Sissel traced the hallway, guided by memory alone. 

 

"Corridor, right door. End of the corridor, up steps," she repeated like a mantra. 

 

A child’s voice whimpered—clearly, they were heading in the right direction. Sleeping chambers? 

 

No… Cells barely big enough to crawl in. 

 

Kids kept alive like livestock; some rigid and far too catatonic to move, others too dazed to understand what was happening.

 

One by one, they were lifted, carried, or dragged through the narrow halls, tiny hands clutching each other. A smash echoed as the children passed through panes of obsidian colored glass, a rag set upon the lip of the portal, and quick hands exchanging young lives to bring them somewhere far, far from a nightmare worth only ash.

 

A blaze was struck. 

 

A flame ignited against the great billowing curtains, then spread to the cloth-covered table. A final torch was thrown over the Norn woman’s shoulder—no ceremony, no final rites. 

 

The flames merely offered their triumphant roar, as it took root like wrath incarnate, consuming those ragged and wicked forms in a cleansing fire befitting the she-Purifier.

 

Smoke rose behind them into the night sky—thick, black beacons of a one-time arsonist, and his apprentice.

 

 

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The pair would travel along the waterways, the tides, and channels beyond Elaris for a few weeks, their journey silent and deliberate. They stopped on occasional sandbars, small isles, and sheltered grottos, their nights spent under a canopy of stars or the heavy fog of morning. They supplemented their rations with what little they could catch—small game, fresh fish, the slow ebb and flow of the sea feeding them as they continued their journey.

A quiet journey. A measured journey. A journey with purpose.

… as they made their way toward Aevos, the weight of the children carried between them, their futures uncertain, but broader than the cages that kept them.

 

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… only for the Storm to swallow them once more, a channel between the clouds silently announcing their return. He had no tools, but he had willed his home to mind, and Aevos answered him with a gentle song, calling to his soul. Everywhere he looked, dreams bled into his waking vision—great giants crouching in impossible places, whispering blank-faced prophecies.

A sea of long fingers, rising from the waves, hands of leviathans outstretched for skies they could not see, nor touch, seemed to guide him. Their decrepit lengths reaching, ushering, toward the sight that burned in his eye—the Mountain, the peak he had left himself upon when he had sworn his pact, beckoning him with its silent promise to return with a prize.

Victor wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the children were truly better off in Aevos, but he cast the thought aside swiftly. It was the best he could do, he reminded himself. Better than what they had endured. There was no room, nor ability, to doubt the decision anymore.

A soft, golden light illuminated their path back to the cursed land, a gentle, bittersweet wave that seemed to welcome them home. The shore stretched before them, the sand and seafoam eagerly awaiting their return.

An old saying echoed in his mind about loving something and letting it go—but as the shore crept closer, Victor’s narrowed gaze lingered on Sissel. 

He’d known the young lass since she was as tall as his knee, and merely a foul-tempered citrus vendor. Like many, she was a daughter to him.

After some time, he broke the silence as they eased toward the shore.

"Ye’ recall I ‘ad warned ye... I dunnae know who our patron truly is. Te’ powers we’ve been bestowed... the pact we’ve taken... It could be Aeriel, or it could be Iblees."

A plume of smoke escaped his nostrils and plumed outward. The fog that swirled him made room for the wispy-gray that trailed from his face, and returned to swirl him.

“I’d confided in’a lad, my daughter’s godson, Elijah, t’at I feared te’ worst. Per’aps we are consigned, and bound, te’ Iblees.” His voice was wrathful, and darkened, at that name of that most profane. 

“... he told me bout’a parasite t’at folk once got… somethin’ Ibleesian. Made ‘em do terrible t’ings… but t’ose t’at learned te’ control it could do great good, as well.”

A groan from their simple vessel, and the man did drop off of the bow, with a wide-splash of familiar Aevosian water, his hands aiming to help grip, and guide the ship ashore, to rest, a spike and sledge taken.

“If t’at is our fate; t’en no matter wha’, a’ would still seek good.”

Sissel, one by one, handed the children to Victor. Her gaze drifted toward Seal Bay, where tiny, blanketed silhouettes shivered along the coast, embarking on their uncertain path.

“Like all things… a great cost always comes,” she murmured, her voice heavy with acceptance. “I made my peace with death when we you took me to the peak. Shamans once unleashed a great plague—one that nearly destroyed all mortal kind. And yet now, they stand as a beacon of medicine, a hope for healing.”

She hoisted the final child, lifting them carefully by the underarm. A gentle pat to their head followed, her gesture soft but firm, as they collected like wounded penguins, huddling together for warmth and solace.

“If it were Iblees,” she continued, her tone sharpened with conviction, “We would know. That spectrum of Grendel is boastful, incapable of subtlety. They revel in chaos, never bothering with sly curses or mystery."

"No… what we face here is far different, perhaps  far more insidious than that… Or, maybe not.” 

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“Would ye’ be able te’ content yer’self knowin’ t’at if Aevos fell, we would not survive?”

He’d ask, his tone even, and measured.

 

A deep breath was drawn, the frigid air of Norland biting with its icy touch. The chill clung to her lungs. Home.

"If it is my time," the voice echoed, still and shy, "then the Alföðr shall will it so."

There was no tremor, no fear—only a calm acceptance, steady as the clashing waves below. 

"I have people waiting for me…" Her words bearing a quiet solace.

Bjorn, Irena, Okar, Willow, Wynather—their names lingered on her tongue yet went unspoken, their silhouettes forming in the shadows around her. 

They gathered, a silent audience in the periphery of her vision. Real or not, they were to her as present as the stabbing of the frost that punctured her core.

 

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I wanted to do a writing piece as part of Sissel's training for Palmreading (‘Tarotmancy’, for Victor). I’d taught her more in-game and mechanical stuff per Tier 2; Divine Fate, and Spiritgale, but there wasn’t much to be done for ‘Stormwalking’ since it’s effectively an offscreen power, or forum roleplay mechanic. 

 

So, I effectively asked Calise to do a ‘Google Doc’ roleplay with me while we cooked on a narrative. Originally, I wanted to just bring her to sea, and do a short story talking about their friendship and relationship, and show a broader world, but, Palmreaders need to bring back guests.

 

To that end, Sissel had some in-character motivations we were able to explore, and so we spent a lot of today (the past several hours) working together writing it and editing it.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it, cheers!

 

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Writing/Editing: Myself, @Calise11

Formatting: Myself

 

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