17th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY
Off the northern coast of The Pomarj

Elrohir watched the sea pass beneath him.

The ranger was sitting by the gunwale, his legs dangling off the port side of the ship. His damaged plate mail was currently stored below decks, so he wore his simple spare clothing that he was now glad Cygnus had insisted they all pack before leaving Chendl. Elrohir had honestly thought they would all be back at the capitol within twenty-four hours.

Of course, he had been wrong.

Elrohir glanced upwards at a small flock of seagulls that were flying overhead. He looked down at the water again and sighed. He rubbed his chest in the area that still hurt.

Aslan had been a non-stop healing machine for the last two days, and yet there were still injuries remaining among the party members. Healing the former slaves had been the paladin's highest priority, and no one had contested that of course, but Elrohir would still be glad when Aslan would be able to heal him back up completely. His ribs still hurt something fierce sometimes.

The ranger glanced back over his shoulder at the forecastle. The door to the small chamber inside was still closed. Aslan was again mindresting inside. The paladin had commandeered the room as his personal quarters, and no one had begrudged him that. Elrohir wished that Aslan would come out of his deep depression, but there was no sign of that happening anytime soon. In fact, the ranger could feel himself sliding a little deeper into that hole every day.

Every day, he thought about Tad.

Talass, still wearing her chainmail, came by and sat down next to her husband. Silently, they stared out at the waters of Wooly Bay together. The shore of the Pomarj was just visible as a gray line on the horizon.

"It's good that that table we found in the lazarette is able to magically create food and water," she said after a while. "I don't think my faith alone would have been enough to feed all these people."

Elrohir was glad that Talass was also avoiding the subject of Tadoa. He turned and gave his wife a wry smile. "Lazarette. Listen to you. When did you get all nautical?"

Talass managed a prim expression and arched her eyebrows at Elrohir. "The Fruztii are renowned sailors, dearest. I wasn't cloistered inside the temple my whole life before I met you, you know. However," and she nodded her head towards one of the ex-slaves, who was currently sitting on the deck near them, "Captain Thrumb there has been expounding on his knowledge and offering his opinions, whether anyone's listening or not."

Elrohir nodded. Thrumb was a man about seventy years of age, the oldest of the thirty-five or so former slaves on board. He claimed to be from Greyhawk and owned a ferry that he ran on the Selintan River. Although a cantankerous old coot, he certainly possessed a wealth of nautical knowledge, so they let him be. Currently, he was sitting on a cleat, staring up at the main mast, marveling at how elven artisans had fashioned the wood into a giant image of a slender elven male. The mizzen had likewise been carved into an elven female, and both faced each other. All the lines and rigging blended seamlessly into the architecture of the masts and the booms. The prow was another male elven figure, one arm outstretched forward. This one had webbing between its fingers though, and an unexplained, sorrowful expression on its face.

Thrumb apparently had heard his name mentioned, for he glanced over at the pair and rose to his feet with no small amount of grunting and groaning. He ambled over to them, putting on his captain's mien.

"Damndest ship I ever saw," Thrumb said for perhaps the fifteenth time now, as Elrohir and Talass silently mouthed along with him, and then smiled at each other.

Thrumb appeared not to notice. "Craftsmanship, well, she's as good as ever I seen," the sea dog opined. "But no tiller, no quarters… hell, no crew?" He shook his head. "Taint right, doin' it all by magic." He scowled at the pair. "What's the sea without a seaman to sail 'er?"

"Any idea where we might be heading?" Talass asked him, in an attempt to interrupt Thrumb's latest discourse.

Thrumb squinted, even though he wasn't looking into the sun, and the clouds hung thick in the sky above. "Osprem knows, good lady. Wish yer elven friends had left us a map, or a sign, or something," he groused, then folded his arms across his chest. "At this speed, we're about a week out of Elredd. Maybe that's where we're headin'. If not there, who knows?" He took in a deep breath of the salt air, held it, and then released, while running his hand through his unkempt white hair. "Greyhawk's a good three weeks if we keep coastlinin'. With the hard chine this old gal's got, she'd be able to make it up the Selintan easy, even at ebb tide. Maybe there. I wouldn't mind meself, but these lubbers here might not be too keen at bein' at sea for three weeks." He gave Elrohir a crafty glance. "Better make sure that fancy sword o' yers don' get rusty."

Thrumb slowly walked off. Elrohir and Talass resumed their silent vigil of the water.

Something moved at the corner of Elrohir's line of sight. Glancing left, he saw a number of fishing lines trailing off the ship's stern. He turned back to Talass with a puzzled frown. "Isn't that magic table giving us enough food?" he queried.

Talass shrugged. "Yes, but it's all fruits and vegetables, remember? Some of our passengers have more of a craving for fish than others. I think Argo and Caroline are back there with them."

They let the silence fall again. Elrohir surprised himself with his next comment.

"I guess you were right, Talass."

His wife glanced back over at him.

Elrohir looked down, rubbing his hands together. "You said one of us wouldn't be coming back. None of us knew it would be the only one who never left in the first place."

The cleric stared at her husband for a moment, and then sadly shook her head.

Elrohir didn't understand. "What?"

Talass gazed evenly into his eyes.

"Tad was not in my vision. He was not with us when we saw the volcano, nor when we encountered the fossergrim. The vision was speaking of someone else."

Elrohir's puzzlement grew, and he could feel frustration growing with it, as well. "Yes, but wasn't that all symbolic? The volcano, the fossergrim? We certainly saw neither of those in Highport, and now we're on our way back. Are you saying one of us is going to die before we even make it home?"

Talass was making an effort to control her temper.

"I don't know, but I do know that this isn't over yet. Even when we release these slaves and get the Slave Lord back to Chendl, there's still that stockade they spoke of, isn't there? It was all being controlled from there. What if King Belvor asks us to return and finish off this Markessa, the one who supposedly runs the whole operation?"

"I don't know," Elrohir said in a near-whisper. An image of Tad came unbidden into his head. Young Tadoa; his friend, and friend to his father.

Even when his father and his entire party had perished, he had made sure that Tad escaped. Elrohir had failed in that.

The ranger wiped away the tears starting to form in his eyes and looked back at his wife. "Asks, or commands?"

The priestess of Forseti raised her eyebrow at him.

Elrohir's tone was grim. "A question can always be answered No."

On the far side of the ship, Cygnus found Zantac leaning over the rail. As he approached, he could see his fellow wizard's hands clamp down hard on the rail and lock tight for several seconds before they released.

"Hey, Twitch."

Zantac's head snapped around. Cygnus gave him his best smile but got only a perfunctory one in return. Nevertheless, he sidled up next to the older mage as Zantac returned to his intense examination of the lack of scenery.

"Anything I can do for you, Zantac?"

"Yeah," the red-robed wizard replied without turning his head. "Lean over this railing as far as you can."

Cygnus assumed feigned insolence. "Well, fine. Just checking up on my friend, and that's the thanks I get."

Zantac shrugged. "Talass has done the best she can do. I should be fine in a week or so, she says. Meanwhile, her spells take care of the worst of it." He looked around, seeming unable to look his fellow magic-user in the eye. "Is it worth it, Cygnus?" he asked quietly. "This constant battle for glory, for treasure, for righteousness, for whatever? You fight and kill, grab the swag, and then you do it again, and again and again."

Cygnus shook his head ruefully. "You're asking the wrong person, Zantac. I didn't want any of this. You know that."

"But you did at one time," came the response. "You never could have become as experienced as you are if you hadn't."

"True," Cygnus admitted. "It's like some kind of vice, or drug, I guess. You dabble in it just long enough to get what you want, or what you think you need, and then you get out."

"Or you try to."

Cygnus nodded. "Or you try to." He closed his eyes, trying to wipe away the image of his last view of Tadoa; the young elf waving good-bye as the party rode away from the Brass Dragon.

Zantac's voice intruded. "Well, at least we won this round."

Cygnus shook his head. "We didn't win. We were saved. The comets, this ship. We were in way over our heads, and someone a hundred times more powerful than you or me stepped in and saved our sorry asses."

The older mage looked thoughtful. "Someone? Not some servants of a deity?"

"I'm pretty sure it was a wizard," said Cygnus. "Who, I don't know. The ship is elven, so I'm thinking perhaps it came from the elves of Welkwood. If that's the case, we might be heading towards the Wild Coast city of Fax. It's the closest human city to where that particular tribe dwells."

Zantac inclined his head. "This Alias, the leader of these elves. The one who's looking after Thorin and Barahir. Is he a powerful enough wizard to manage all this?"

Cygnus shook his head again. "Not even close, unless he's been deceiving us."

Zantac tried on a nonchalant expression. "I've always wanted to see the Wild Coast. Fax would be as good a place as any to start."

The younger wizard grimaced. "It's also Scurvy John's home port. By now, Alabin probably knows that we killed his brother Dak."

Zantac raised an eyebrow. "We?"

Cygnus gave his friend a thin smile. "Like I said before. Welcome to the family, Twitch."

Nesco kept looking at the Slave Lord.

A circle about ten feet across had been drawn around the mizzenmast. The Slave Lord had been instructed to stay within that circle, or the party would not be responsible for what his former captives might do to him, and thus far, he had been the model prisoner. Of course, he alone had received no healing from Aslan or Talass, so the rogue was in little condition to try anything.

Especially with Tojo standing silently nearby.

Nesco could have sworn the samurai slept standing up. She was amazed at his tenacity. She had attempted to thank Tojo earlier for his aid, but he had merely gazed over her right shoulder into the distance and said nothing.

"Fish?"

Nesco turned around. Caroline Bigfellow was holding a piece of driftwood, upon which was the still smoking remains of half an overcooked fish.

Nesco smiled. "No thank you, Caroline."

The younger woman shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, then proceeded to devour the fish with a fervor that even Nesco the ranger found somewhat animalistic, and a little unnerving. Then she remembered that the party did not take their meals until after their passengers had eaten, and sometimes the food-producing table had used up it's magic for the day by then. She briefly regretted her refusal as she watched Caroline spit out the larger bones, then look back at Nesco.

"Aslan's being a rash today."

Nesco raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"An irritant. Sorry, it's an expression more common in Aerdy, I guess. I had the nerve to suggest that he try teleporting back to the Brass Dragon to see what was happening there, and he nearly bit my head off." Caroline made a rather weak attempt at Aslan's bass voice. "Are you insane, woman? And just how do you expect me to teleport back to a ship that's sailed off in the meantime? There's no anchor, so we couldn't even try to stop ourselves! Besides," and her Caroline's voice faltered and reverted to her own, "it's a little late for that now."

The ranger watched as Caroline stood there silently for a moment, and then hurled the piece of driftwood over the railing. Tears began to slowly fall down the fighter's face.

"I was his teacher. It was my job to make sure he knew how to defend himself. He wasn't supposed to be… be…"

Nesco felt uncomfortable. She didn't really want to do this, but suddenly she was holding Caroline in her arms as the younger woman began sobbing uncontrollably. Nesco had never even met the young elven boy they called Tadoa.

Which made her own tears all the more surprising.

"Scry."

Both women were instantly alert at Tojo's announcement. The samurai, who could have been made of stone for all the reaction he had shown during this emotional outburst, was pointing upwards. About ten feet away, a faint swirling in the air could be seen briefly before it vanished.

Both women regained control, although Caroline was still sniffling. Nesco turned to Tojo, desperate for something to distract her from all this.

"Any ideas on who that might be, Tojo? Friend or foe, you think?"

The samurai gazed at the ranger, then slowly shook his head.

"Not know, Nesco-san. Onry know, this not over yet."

Both Nesco and Caroline could see into his violet eyes.

There was indeed feeling there.

"Sacrifices we make- not over yet."