--too little sunlight also wilts flowers --
Unfortunately for the ghosts, they had never encountered anyone with such purpose. These men, each of whom desperately needed to live, had more power than all of the ghost crew combined. Simple slashes of sword took down half of them, blasts of energy from a guitar took the rest. Not even one element was used from the powerful collection they were keeping; not once did the third man ever need to lift a finger to help his comrades.
This was all that the skeletons and ghosts were able to determine before they were systematically eliminated from the world of the living, once and for all.
Fargo was more than happy to see them on the main deck; Nikki wryly wondered why. "Ahoy there! Yer name's Serge, is it? Take the wheel!" The two of them darted nervous looks at Serge, who nodded dully and attempted to do so. "Keep yer head up there, lad! It's coming!"
'It' proved to be a slug-monster formed by several of the smaller and somewhat disgusting 'Dedheads'. Glenn shuddered mentally, remembering the less than pleasant encounters with the creatures, even as he drew his sword. Serge swayed on his feet, but brought the swallow up to block nonetheless.
"Serge, just defend yourself, all right?" he finally offered, knowing that the effort of actually fighting would probably take all the energy the boy had. Nikki looked over, enigmatic, and nodded. To their surprise, Serge did as he was told.
Glenn took the lead, Nikki trying to follow without leaving Serge open to attack. The slug-monster wasn't very mobile, and Glenn was moving faster than he ever had before. It took the slashes in the manner of a punching bag, and Nikki's musical attacks seemed to stun it. They came away from the battle victorious; covered in slime, and tired, but victorious.
Serge looked like he was going to fall flat on his face again.
Fargo either was too busy to see, or didn't particularly care, as he warned them of the dangers that would be waiting for them if they went to Mount Pyre. They didn't give Water Dragon Isle a second thought when he mentioned it, trading worried looks and trying to figure out a way to get Serge to sleep. He was a stubborn sort, not one to acknowledge his needs, and there was little they'd be able to do to persuade him to act practically.
To Glenn's immense surprise and relief, it was Serge who spoke first when they returned to the boat Korcha's mother had loaned them. "Maybe we should go to Water Dragon Isle, after we rest up in Arni. We haven't checked there. The Water Dragon might..." his voice faltered, eyes glazing momentarily. "might be able to help...Kid..."
"So we spend the night in Arni?" Nikki offered quietly, while Glenn kept a scrutinizing eye on their leader. Serge only nodded, and then sat still and quiet, half of him draped on the edge of the boat, eyes staring out into the water.
It wasn't long at all before he fell asleep.
Nikki hazarded a look at Glenn, and snorted in disgust. "More like we should spend a week there, and tie him to a blasted pole if he tries to argue."
A wry grin curved the Dragoon's lips. "You certainly have a flair for the dramatic."
"I'm serious!" Nikki's eyes were fierce, his mouth set in a frown. It was surprising to really look at him, Glenn realized, and see him for who he was, not what he tried to be. The man was very loyal to his friends-- what friends he had-- and honestly passionate. Not something he expected to see in a popular performer, not at all, and perhaps that was what made the sincerity so much more convincing.
Especially for a confused young Dragoon. "I know you are," he temporized, sighing. "But until we help Kid, he'll use the fact that she's sick as a excuse to ignore his own needs."
Nikki bristled at the mention of her. "She deserved it, I say."
"Did she?" Troubled, Glenn looked from his sleeping companion to the waking one, and then shook his head. "She wasn't going to hurt Miss Riddel, that much I know. And you know that saying..."
The singer's face slipped into a scowl. " 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend', you mean? Not her." He harrumphed. "I don't like her. There's something...shifty about her. And we know she's a thief."
A little puzzled, Glenn sat back, bracing himself on his hands, and cocked his head in query. "So?"
"What we don't know is what else she is. She isn't too young to be worse; a spy from Porre, for example, or an assassin. She's with the Radical Dreamers, isn't she? They don't take prisoners, or so I've heard." Nikki's eyes were hard, his face sober and serious. "They've little to no mercy, and frankly, that Miss Riddel of yours had less than all of her wits about her at the time in question, so I shouldn't be surprised if she just didn't want you to hurt the girl for making such a grievous error when there was no real harm done."
One eyebrow rising, he pointed out crossly, "She protected Miss Riddel from the poison that is affecting her now. Lynx wouldn't have hesitated to kill Miss Riddel, if that was what it took to get to the girl."
Nikki was silent, contemplating, eyes on the horizon, watching for Arni's outline.
Orlha chewed nervously on the inside of her lip, glancing in the general direction of the docks, rubbing her towel over a mug that had been dried a hundred strokes before. Those that were up this late to drink shook their heads and all nodded wisely to each other at intermittent intervals. They knew what troubled her. Any pretty young soul without love would have been suspicious to them; they were the swarthiest of sailors, Guldove's finest traders and guides-for-hire, and as any man of the trade knew, only love could make a pretty lady look so sad.
A stranger entered the bar around eleven, and sat down quietly, ordering a single glass of ale. For all her anxiety, Orlha was still quick to serve, which the onlookers nodded in approval of. A business woman, if a bit love-sick. Only too bad they didn't know who she was longing after; they were most of them about ready to go track the lad down and talk some sense into him. Wasn't right of the fellow to keep poor Orlha waiting.
She really was such a sweet girl.
"When does the bar close, ma'am?" Queried the stranger in soft tones, the twist of an unfamiliar accent making the sentence seem musical.
"Half-past midnight," she replied, listless, eyes on the door.
The stranger nodded, and was still afterward, moving only to take tiny sips from the drink he'd ordered. There was some speculation of him by the other patrons, observing the odd cut of his clothes and the lilt in his voice, which they'd only heard the once. Theories abounded by the time the bar closed, and Orlha ordered them to leave.
Some said he must be from Porre. Others were certain it was Guardia.
He remained unnoticed at the bar after Orlha had quietly put up her closed sign and begun sweeping the mess of the day from her floor. When she was about halfway finished with the shore, he turned, sharp eyes locking on her, and spoke again, voice much stronger, louder than it had been. "You seem to be in distress, ma'am."
She gave a start, and stared at him in surprise. "B-bar's closed," she breathed, the broom held loose in her hands.
Though not menacing, he seemed to have a sense of power about him. He smiled, gentle, and shook his head. "I'm not interested in the drinks. What's troubling you?"
Orlha frowned. She was not the sort to let flirting get to her head, and she couldn't imagine that the man didn't already know as much. She resolved that if he took a step nearer, she'd show him what for, and make him pay the damages. "Get out, stranger. The bar's closed. If you're after a good time, it's not here."
Those intense, deep eyes closed a moment, and he sighed. "Listen. I want to help you." A hand raised to forestall her response. "That's what I do, ma'am, I help people. It's like a job. I don't want money for it. I just want to help." He smiled shyly. "Won't you let me help you, ma'am?"
Something about the way he spoke, or about him, kept her from unleashing her fury on him. He seemed honest enough. And she did so want to talk about the problems weighing on her heart. "The name's Orlha," she offered. "My friend's in a bit of depression right now, is all."
The stranger leaned forward, coppery locks of hair falling into his eyes. "Oh?"
She shrugged. "He's a doctor. We've a girl here who's been poisoned, and we need one of the humors from a Hydra to cure her. Problem is, the species is extinct. And Doc's blaming himself because he doesn't know what to do." Sighing, she returned to her chore. "I wish I could help him help her. If there were any Hydras left, I could probably go take one on myself, but..." Her helplessness seemed clear enough that she didn't have to say it aloud. Instead she swept, and listened. Something about the man interested her. She wasn't exactly sure what kind of response he had waiting.
"I happen to be a traveler, in my own manner," said the man slowly, his eyes twinkling. "I'll look through the things I've collected over time and see if I can't find something that might help."
Before she could decided if she believed him or not, he left.
Shaking her head, Orlha sighed and finished sweeping with a flourish. The bar looked oddly lonely with the harsh candles lit. She blew them out one by one and settled down on her couch before the fire to sleep.
