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Fogwalker - Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2024-10-25 20:08:04 +0000 UTC“So what exactly did you want me to talk about, again?”
”Oliver.”
“Well yeah, but if you want me to dive into that disaster, You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Bard.” She gave him a half-lidded stare. “You know where to start a Story.”
He sighed dramatically. “I still hate that title.”
“You earned it.” The Scribe said with a glint in her eyes that betrayed her amusement.
“Bullshit. You gave it to me for a laugh.”
She smiled and stepped forward, pressing a pale, slender hand against his cheek. “You tell my favorite Stories.”
“But Bard? Has to be the most unoriginal moniker ever.” He argued rotely, as one might during an argument rehashed hundreds of times.
“Says the man who has not used his own name in millennia.” The Scribe shifted her hand and flicked the golden bead that hung from his ear. “I know you revel in it.”
He smacked her hand away. “You know exactly why I haven’t, and it’s because of this stupid title.”
Her smile turned into a grin. “Would you prefer something like ‘Wordsmith,’ or maybe ‘Versemonger?’”
His whole face twitched. ”I will leave and never talk to you again.”
She chuckled and waved the threat away.
The Bard’s throat rumbled in annoyance. “Oliver, though? Really?”
“Yes.”
“This is going to piss me off. I know it, you know it. Hell, Oliver probably knows it too-“ He paused at the thought. A grin slowly grew. “He’s going to want to read it, isn’t he?”
The Scribe shrugged.
The Bard laughed. “Oh boy. Well, where to start, then? Nothing particularly interesting happened early on, so…” He paced, a hand tugging on the short strands of his well-trimmed beard.
“Ah, how about the Betrayal of Carve?” The Bard nodded to himself, and turned to the Scribe, eyes glowing in the starlight. “But first, a question:”
Chapter 1
What occupies the mind of a fool? A question that has perplexed the wise for ages. Some say they dwell on the blatantly obvious, or ponder questions about life that have long since been answered. But then what separates them from the uninformed? Is there any difference in the common mind, or is ignorance merely a veil draped over the eyes of the unwitting? Does the absence of knowledge equate to idiocy?
Personally, I think the average dumbass can be summed up with one trait, the constant, deliberate choice to not care.
I believe an idiot is someone who grasps a narrow focus, and disregards the aspects of life that widen horizons. They may have attention issues, or some other disability that compounds the problem, but that alone does not make them stupid. No, there is a series of conscious decisions behind every dull thought. The choice to not learn, to not ponder scholarly questions, to not notice the wider world. Distinct from the inability, or lack of chance to do so, idiocy is simply the choice not to.
Oliver, our protagonist, was an idiot.
It was rather cold in the upper troposphere, especially with how far north he was. High above where most clouds formed; the wind was an unforgiving and constant presence. There were no obstacles to break its speed, nor rhyme to its direction. Oliver, of course, paid the bone deep chill no mind. He might have been cheating a little, but his jacket was buried somewhere in the ship’s hold, and his thoughts had no room for the goosebumps along his arms, anyway. There was no fear in his heart as he sailed the Polar North jet stream on his under-crewed windrider. No, the young man was barely paying attention at all. His sight was on a particular spot in the distance where the sun met the Godsfog, wondering how he might synthesize the color that he saw on the horizon.
His hand, riddled with small, barely noticeable burn scars tilted slightly on the tiller. A minor course correction that his conscious mind relegated to autopilot. His eyes never left the horizon, studying the undulating waves of light that bounced off the misty sea.
The Godsfog was a beautiful and dangerous thing. A thick, global blanket of iridescent mist. As tangible as a cloud, yet dense enough to remain cohesive. It was what constituted an ocean on Lorn. Only the highest of mountains broke its surface naturally, only the winds could create waves, and only the excessively brave or stupid sailed its seas. To the colorblind eye, the Godsfog and an ocean of water might look quite similar. Act in similar ways, even - if one had the right vessel. The Godsfog, however, was far more perilous than a normal sea, even with a proper ship. To get splashed was to risk death in the most fantastic of ways. To fall in was to die.
It might have just been a massive cloud to an outside observer, a misty expanse that stretched endlessly. So if a sailor tumbled over the side of their ship, you might expect them to free fall, but the planet’s surface far below was not what would kill them.
The sound of a rope snapping from halfway across the deck drew his eyes. He quickly threw his hand forward and gave the frayed line a mental tug. A small charm on his bracelet defied gravity, and the line halted mid-air - as if time froze for it alone, straining the fabric of the attached sail for a split second. Another tug saw it fly to his palm and wound around his forearm with whipping force. He grimaced against the brisk slap of the rope, but was forced to adapt quickly as the sail it was attached to wrenched him off his feet.
He would claim it was skill, but I’m convinced it was luck that let him catch himself on the upper railing of his windrider, still within reach of his ship’s steering stick. His legs strained in awkward acrobatics as he stood parallel to the deck on said railing. He could feel the reinforced muscles of his shoulder tearing as the line tried to rip his arm off.
For the life of me, I don’t know how or why he did anything to steer that boat, but it was fascinating to watch. I know some sailing terminology - learned via osmosis - so I don’t expect you will learn much on that front in this tale. Though, I guarantee you that if Oliver was reading this right now, he wouldn’t be able to follow what he, himself, was doing.
Oliver didn’t know how to communicate anything on a ship. He never cared to learn port from starboard. Though, while he couldn’t tell you where to find the keel, that is not to say he couldn’t sail with the best of them - just so long as everyone involved pretended they were mute, and that he was deaf. He could tie upwards of twelve different knots in seconds, had a feel for the wind that seasoned navigators would envy, and a spacial awareness that would have been exceptional if it didn’t turn itself off when not under pressure.
He was self-sufficient - if any praise could be levied, though there was definitely a reason why he sailed a ship meant for three, alone.
Oliver’s windrider was not meant for long distance travel. The boat was a type of sloop, built for speed and little else. It was about thirty feet long, had a single mast with two sails, and a small cabin that was more built for storage than housing. Windriders were small ships meant for messengers, small time smugglers, fishermen, and in Oliver’s case, moronic freelancers. They were definitely not built to ride the Lornian jet streams with a crew of one.
Oliver’s wrist and palm burned as the rope he clung to pulled in his grip. The front-most sail of his unnamed boat threatened to tear under the pressure and the hull creaked ominously from the pull of the lines. Only his foot braced against the center bannister of the upper deck, and his other hand firmly on the tiller kept the windrider on course.
Another flex of will, and jingle of his bracelet, saw a free rope tie itself through a metal ring on the mainsail, and then an anchor point on deck in one smooth motion. A few more seconds of tugging, and a tied knot secured the sail for the next couple hours.
With a sigh, he let the line in his hand drop, locked the tiller in place, and rubbed his wrist with a grimace. Oliver was glad for the (completely out of character) foresight to buy as much extra rope as he did. This was the third time a line snapped on this journey. If another two went, he would have to drop out of the jet stream, else risk catastrophe. A possibility he was trying to avoid, as he was being paid for speed at the moment.
In my opinion, he should have just replaced his rigging with a thicker cord and bypassed the issue entirely, but we’ve already established that I don’t know what I’m talking about.
Oliver moved quickly to properly tie down the new lines. He made sure they would hold before moving back to the tiller. Even he knew it wasn’t a smart decision to leave his course purely to the whim of the winds.
His back ached, the skin of his hands were rubbed red - even through his calluses, and he was starting to actually feel the chill of the northern air. Despite all of that, he found his eyes drawn back towards the horizon. A fascinating hue of purple and blue danced on a bed of soft orange, and gleamed like a million diamonds. He had dozens of dyes and paints around his ship, but was having so much trouble getting the mix right to emulate the morning light on the Godsfog.
A short time later, he caught the signal while eying another fraying rope. A simple glass orb attached to the main mast from a hook and string shone with a green light, and pulled as if magnetized to the port side (the left of the ship, for those of us not in the know. Disregard this tidbit if you identify with Oliver).
This orb was the ship’s anchor. Contrary to its name, the purpose of this device was not to lock the ship in place, but locate the various ports along the Lornian Archipelago. It acted more as a close-proximity compass, keyed to similar devices at the ports, beacons which took up the purpose of a lighthouse from any other civilized planet. Paired with a standard, magnetic compass embedded in the railing by the tiller, and charting the stars, navigation of the Godsfog was made possible.
It didn’t help that some of the islands liked to move around a bit - large floating rocks that they were.
Sailing was an extremely annoying prospect on Lorn, if I wasn’t clear.
Oliver nudged the tiller to begin breaking from the jet stream. Any quick change in direction under these winds would definitely capsize his windrider, and the stream was too wide to break from it immediately. He rode the Southernmost edge of the jet stream - or ‘Slipway,’ as most knew them, as it was at least a hundred leagues wide. The closer one got to the center of it, the faster they would circle the globe, and the faster Oliver’s boat would rip itself apart.
Still, it did not take long before the winds slowed, and his windrider stopped groaning at the pressure. A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he locked in a new direction; a gradual move perpendicular to the slipway. The angry rope burns and torn calluses on his wrist and palms made way for the sheer exhaustion of the two-day trip. One last look at the fraying line from before was the last shard of attention he was able to pay.
“That was the most terrifying experience of my life, Wayfarer.”
Oliver’s eye twitched. He had not heard the cabin door open.
“Go back inside.” He said simply, only a hint of frustration peaked through his exhaustion.
His lanky passenger scowled at him, shivering slightly with the cold air. “I paid you for a safe, and comfortable transport to Carve. I’ve gotten neither.”
“You’ll still get there.” Oliver replied testily. “Probably.”
“What kind of service is this?”
“The kind you paid for.”
The man - Oliver couldn’t remember his name - looked constipated. Two days ago, he had approached Oliver and asked for passage to the northernmost port town off the Western Archipelago, Carve. At the time, Oliver had been storing sacks of clay in the smuggler’s hold of his windrider. In broad daylight, by the way, with no regard to who might have been watching.
The hold had been fitted in by the boat’s previous owners, a three person crew of travelers that had to sell off their transportation to pay a debt. Oliver just so happened to be in the right place and time to get a good price. He found the smuggler’s hold by accident later on, and just used it as more storage for the absurd amount of clay, dyes, and ceramic tools he carried with him.
He had no idea the purpose of the hold, but most everyone else did. Watching him load cargo into the half-hidden sections of the ship, in the middle of the day, using only his mind to move them, struck many around with apprehension. His goods were not contraband, as far as anyone could tell, but his blasé attitude towards its illegality had steered at least one skittish port officer away from confrontation.
His current passenger had seen the supposed confidence of a powerful fogwalker, and asked for a ride instead of purchasing a ticket on one of the larger vessels. The lanky, slightly shady man assumed Oliver to be highly experienced, prepared, and discrete. That was what he thought he was paying for.
“The kind I paid-” His whole face contorted in anger. “Have you even sailed the slipways before? Your ship was tearing itself apart!”
Oliver shrugged and sat down next to the tiller. “Just once, though that was on a bigger ship.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Hey now. We’re almost there. You’ll be safe and sound on Carve in a few hours at most. Probably.”
“Stop saying that!” The lanky man pointed an angry finger at him.
Oliver frowned. “Uh? You’ll definitely be dead in a few hours, then?”
“That is not what I meant!”
Oliver threw his free hand in the air, the other still held a death grip on the tiller. “What do you want from me? I’ve been awake for two days straight, pulling us through the slip. Ships this size were never meant for that kind of thing. What did you want me to do? Fogwalk us over?”
The man blinked. “Could you do that?”
“No!”
“Well why did you even accept the job, then?” He yelled back with no small amount of incredulity.
“You offered double my normal rate for passengers.” Oliver deadpanned.
“Is that even- Okay, look,” he sighed, visibly gathering himself, “I need to get to Carve as quickly as possible, and you seemed competent enough to do the job. I have been holed up in a rattling coffin with sails for two days, so I suppose I might be a bit on edge.”
“Great, now you should really get back inside that ‘coffin.’ We only just left the slip. The winds are definitely not stable on this part of the Godsfog.”
The man paled. “And you wait until now to tell me?”
“Literally the first thing I said was to get back inside.”
They were both probably fine, to be honest. Anyone without a death wish wore a particular type of pendant when sailing the Godsfog. A simple ceramic coin, glazed in an opalescent sheen hung around both of their necks - made with the express purpose of repelling the wisps of the Godsfog as the vessel broke its surface.
It would not protect them from any significant wave, or storm, but it did enough for the average journey. The same medallions lined the outer railings of Oliver’s windrider, working together to keep most of the excess fog curled beneath the ship’s hull.
It made for a beautiful sight: a ship sailing through the Godsfog. Cutting through the misty expanse pushed the fog upward along the prow, only to be repelled out and down in a constant wave of color. It was like peeling back the first layer of a rainbow throughout the whole journey.
Oliver watched as his passenger scurried back into the only safe part of the boat. Even capsized, the hermetically sealed cabin could remain fog-free indefinitely. It would not prevent you from starving, or running out of breathable air, but you would not immediately die.
A small thudding sound from glass on wood pulled his attention. The ship’s anchor lightly tapped against the main mast, dangling from its hook, fully indifferent to the sway of the winds. Oliver might have contemplated its calm presence. How this simple glass orb would hang straight down until it detected the presence of a beacon, even under the harshest of conditions. He might have compared it to his recent wild and dangerous journey through a Lornian jet stream. He might have even juxtaposed the unnerving, unwavering calm with the upcoming rollercoaster of bullshit.
He might have, but he didn’t. Because Oliver was an idiot.
