May Fortune Guide Us
The ocean waves did nothing but bring bitterness and bile into Clover's mouth after nearly twenty-five days at sea.
His muscles were completely toned, stripped away of any excess fat thanks to mild dehydration and the constant battling against the Grimm, for every nautical mile was met with yet another demon to fight. Sea Feilongs arose from the depths to strike out against the Winter Maiden with their powerful talons and long, writhing scaly bodies, flying up into the air and unleashing beams of light and fire from their gaping maws into their path. Beringels from the warmer coves of southern Solitas somehow managed to fly all the way across the waters to stalk their lone ship, their hulking, ape-like forms all gnashing teeth and spit and acrid, stinging smoke. Sphinxes and Manticores from the continent of Anima came in droves to seek out the brave sailors who had decided to cross the oceans in these perilous times, the feline, winged Grimm haunting in the shadows, golden-red eyes behind white masks of bone shining as they plummeted towards the vessel after nightfall.
Clover missed sleeping a whole night. He had eventually moved a small, extra cot onto the deck of the ship, simply rigging it against the center mast so he could nap between the demon raids. It was his duty to guide the sailors in their defensive manoeuvres whenever Grimm were around, after all; it was his duty to bear Kingfisher and slay their enemies, so that the captain and her crew could focus on battling the seas and the skies in order to bring him to Sanus safely. That meant he needed to be ready to battle at all times, and although he was proud of his work, brothers he was sick of it.
It was a damn shame that the Grimm didn't leave behind any salvageable meat, the creatures of darkness simply fading away into misty shadow the moment their mana lines were cut. Clover was quite sick of dried jerky and salted fish by the ninth day, so his joy only waned irreparably afterwards. While food and water rations still remained on-hand by the time they managed to sail all the way around the western coast of Sanus to the small isle of Patch, Clover found himself begging to be reunited with land, having lost his appetite many nights earlier.
At least their speed never faded; Winter Schnee's magic was strong as ever, and the silent flurry of shimmering, kestrel-sized birds of air continued pushing them through the waters, rain or shine, at a speed no mere ship would have ever been able to handle.
The moment they drew near, he dressed himself in the garb fitting of an Atlesian knight, relishing in the ability to toss the sweat-soaked, ragged uniform he had been living in for weeks off the side of the boat. He put on the bravest face he could as they approached the shore, but he knew that it could not have been an expression of grace or tact; how could he maintain his poise when the sun beat down upon his brow with an intensity and fervour that Solitas' icy peaks could never replicate?
As he baked within his tunic and leather armour, silently praising his insight in keeping his proper plate armour stored dryly below deck alongside his other supplies- he would have absolutely melted wearing it on top of his wool-lined tunic- he watched as Harriet removed her hat, brushing callused fingers through short, sun-bleached hair, the dark-skinned woman clearly struggling with the heat as much as he. She walked over to him with a weary, but satisfied grin on her face, propping her hand on her hip. "We'll set you off here," she explained quietly, "where the innkeeper should be meetin' ya. Then, we'll head off to the city of Vale; the port there should be able to replenish our missing stock and help us with repairing the ship."
Clover nodded, bracing himself against the railing as the crew pulled into the small port, the chains of a dropping anchor clinking and echoing through the air as sailors counted off their tasks and called out to one another, adding to the din aboard the ship. "I have to thank your crew," he said earnestly, looking out over the faces he had grown fond of over the past weeks. It was a motley, ragtag bunch, but every single one of them had proved their mettle over the course of their journey, providing valuable aid not only in the crew, but in battle as well. "A weaker vessel would have crumbled under Winter's magic."
Harriet smiled toothily, all feral pride. "Of course," she scoffed. "The Winter Maiden isn't faint of heart."
"I can see that," he replied with a cocked brow, idly watching the men unload the boat while one crewmate held up the royal Atlesian missive from King Ironwood to a watchman upon the dock. "I appreciate it." As he spoke, his eyes roved over the island, taking in their destination for the first time in his life.
No matter how many times he had seen paintings of the lands of the southern continents, the amount of colour always shocked and awed Clover. Where Atlas and Mantle knew little but fiery coals and glittering, icy tundra, Patch was a fairly small, secluded island; a temperate climate which experienced the passage of all four seasons allowed the forests to grow and die year by year upon the main, elevated expanse covering the main isle, the shoreline meeting the sea below jagged cliffs that separated the water from the main elevation. Green and yellow and sunshine spread as far as the eye could see, so much that it almost made his eyes hurt. The Winter Maiden had moored at the one townstead he could spot for miles up and down the shore, and the spare gathering of buildings proved evident that it was naught more than a small fishing spot for travelers.
The people are likely situated atop the main forested ground, Clover thought idly, squinting at the treeline above him. It was too dense to see any buildings between glittering green, however.
The peak of a small mountain could be seen atop it all. Dragons usually nested atop peaks, burrowing intricate dens within rocky walls to protect their hoards. Clover had no idea what to expect when it came to shifters, however.
The crew's calls for his attention were what finally tore his mind away from analyzing the island itself. Harriet's top officers were waiting for him upon the pier, standing beside two meek-mannered, plainly dressed youth whom Clover could only imagine were the servants of the local inn. Harriet waved him down, so he stepped off the boat at last, instantly feeling his knees turn to jelly after nearly a month of rocking about on an uncanny boat. As the two servants began carrying off his few boxes of medical supplies and herbs and charts and tools, all ready for the hunt ahead, Clover clapped the captain upon the shoulder. "You've done well. Thank you," he said again. "Now, it is time to part."
Harriet grinned, handing him a scrying scroll. "Call us when you need us. Try to be speedy about it, though; the king's paying for our stay in Vale, and we're not putting down our drinks until you give us a fair warning to," she cackled. "Wouldn't want to blast through the palace treasury while waiting for you."
Clover rolled his eyes, but accepted the scroll anyways. There was a bloody thumbprint upon the top corner of the spelled parchment; before he could think twice, he unsheathed his pocketknife and pricked his thumb, waiting for the blood to well up before pressing his finger onto the page as well. The ritual was wordless, for he and the captain had done this far too many times already when he had been called down to Argus to hunt.
If he died, the scroll would burn away. Then, she could go back without their knight. If he was valiant in his journey, all he had to do was write her a message upon the parchment and it would appear upon her own copy, and the two could coordinate his retrieval then.
He just prayed that she wouldn't one day wake up to find ash where the scroll had once been.
The sailors saluted him as he said his goodbyes, taking tall, proud steps down the pier. Another young woman, dressed in the same basic brown uniform as the other two youths who had moved his belongings off the pier, bowed deeply when he finally stepped off wooden planks and onto dry land. "Welcome to Patch, Lord Knight," she murmured, tall lagomorph ears twitching through long brown hair as she spoke. "This way to the inn."
He put on his best smile and murmured, "Thank you, miss. Please lead the way," while trying to ignore the fact that he hadn't washed properly in weeks and could feel it.
As he walked through the town after the quiet young servant, however, a frown began to settle upon his face. The little portside town was nothing fancy, but it also looked nothing like he could have ever expected; there didn't seem to be any sense of unease nor unrest anywhere. No damage could be seen, with all of the shops neatly maintained despite their plainness. What evidence of plundering was there from the scourge of this so-called monster of a shifter?
The moment he entered the inn, however, that discomfort was made tangible, real. He pulled out his crown-given purse for the journey, placing two gold pieces upon the counter for the innkeeper to take in with awe as Clover explained his needs for his stay. They weren't too demanding; a hot bath to wash off a month's worth of Grimm blood and ocean spray and stink; perhaps a hot meal. Maybe a map to a nearby plot of grass where he could lie down and just touch some dirt for a while, reconnect with the soil- pretend he didn't have to get back onto a ship at the end of this mission for an even longer trip back to Solitas without Winter's magic.
As a few servant boys dutifully began bustling around to fetch water for his bath, Clover leaned upon the countertop, lowering his voice. "And what do you know of this shifter that has brought such a plague upon this isle, my lord?" he asked smoothly, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. "I've heard tell of a foul beast who lives upon this land."
To his surprise, the rotund man behind the counter looked genuinely confused. "A beast? Pardon me, milord, but we've no beast I've heard of in these parts," the elder man said, face screwed up in thought.
Clover paused. "Really? No shifter? I've heard there is one pillaging and plundering offerings and pleasure houses alike, and-"
As he spoke, however, the innkeeper's face began to grow darker. There was no repulsion in his eyes, just bitter, exhausted resignation; it was an odd look to wear when discussing a monster infesting a small community such as this one. "Ah, you mean the dragon."
Despite his best efforts to remain calm, Clover felt himself pale slightly. "A dragon?"
The man shook his head. "You're speaking of ol' Branwen. Yeah, the beast does that every once in a while- it's a right pain to clean up, especially after raking those talons through the walls, careless bastard." His sigh carried more bitterness than anything else. "Last time he decided to bust in here, he nearly smashed the windows open with his wings. It's a nuisance, I tell ya."
The words were said so nonchalantly that Clover could only stare at the man. …shouldn't dragons be eliciting a greater response than sheer annoyance?
One of the servant boys came around the bend in the hall, bowing towards Clover clumsily. The innkeeper clapped his hands in delight, announcing, "Ah, the bath is ready. Please, milord, enjoy, and do not hesitate to let me know if you should require anything else."
The conversation was effectively over, so Clover smiled and nodded in thanks, slipping a few coppers to the servants as thanks for preparing his bath so quickly. He barely paid them any heed as they scuttled off to their rooms upstairs, too focused on mulling over the strange information the innkeeper had given him.
The dragon of Branwen, was it? He hoped that was indeed his target; he was not being commissioned to slay a veritable dragon, after all. Perhaps the shifter takes on that form more often than others.
Either way, Clover would give himself the night to unwind, and then, his quest would begin.