"Only the Saltblood curs could love the cerulean sea, for it is no more than a cauldron of horrors. In its depths, countless Eldrovora are born, only for the strongest to rise, swollen with the strength of their devoured kindred. Gigantic monsters hide beneath its glittering waves, eating until nothing is left. The gods save us, should they ever rise to claim the surface."

  — Excerpt from "Tales from the Blue Maw", by Captain Kael Vandrin

  Alric was still thinking about magic and fantastical powers when he was unceremoniously dropped onto a wooden bench. Alric blinked, realizing he'd been dragged to a smoky hall, filled with large, solid wooden tables. The Air smelled of sweat and porridge. The room was dimly lit, using the same few rocks that he had seen in the brig before, glowing faintly. As if that wasn't enough, the smoke from the kitchen wafted all the way into this room, making seeing anything clearly in this room a chore. He glanced around. He was seated at a corner table by himself, any nearby prisoners avoiding crossing gazes with him. He was the furthest from the kitchen, joining a bunch of rag-tag loners that wolfed down their sticky porridge like their life depended on it, casting cautious glances around themselves. There were other tables, of course, tables closer to the kitchen, with better illumination. it was from there that the din in this cafeteria originated.

  Groups of prisoners sat amongst themselves, making crass jokes and laughing, getting the stress out before a hard day of work. They seemingly weren't worried about anyone snatching their food, and the contrast between them and his corner of sad outcasts was stark. Alric clearly saw what Elara had meant by lone wolves not making it far.

  Speaking of Elara, that sneaky witch was sitting at one of these better tables. Alric glanced at them. As far as he could tell there were 3 main groups in this prison, well 4 if he counted outcasts like himself as a group. After a bit more observation, Alric quickly identified the leaders of the main groups, and could even make some preliminary observations about them. But what he saw didn't give him much cause for hope.

  The largest gang in the hold was led by a man of truly gigantic proportions. He towered two full heads above everyone else and had a build that would put a bear to shame. Aside from the fur that is. His bald head reflected the light of the glowing stones well enough it might aswell have been another lamp. He was loud and boisterous, his laugh echoing through the mess hall with every crass joke from his cronies, and his knee slaps created small dust clouds. If anyone had told Alric that this man was supposed to be a mysterious shadowy wizard he'd have laughed his pants off. Even worse, the rest of his gang shared his sturdy build too, and gave his table the look of a gathering of buffalos. Not what he expected from the mysterious and corrupted cursed in the slightest. Observing them a bit longer, he was fairly sure he recognized the voices of his cell neighbours that were gossiping the night before. Good to know.

  The next group was more... eclectic. Its leader was easy to identify, as he was the only prisoner in the hold not wearing the linen prisoners' clothes. Instead, he was wearing a rather loose shirt he kept unbuttoned, and the same kind of pants the sailors wore, but in a different color. Rusty red. He had beautiful blonde hair that shone like gold in the amber glow of the glowing crystals, and icy blue eyes. He was lithe, but muscular, and his skin was even more pale than Elaras, as impossible as that might sound. In other words, this man was even more infuriatingly handsome than Owen was. Bastard. The gang that surrounded him, if one could even call it that, was more a gaggle of sycophants than a group of cursed. They fell over themselves to serve him, trembling before his eyes. Oh yeah, Alric was not getting anywhere near that man. Anyone who could wear proper clothes in a prison and have a group of trembling death wizards attending to them was not someone to be trifled with. Not to mention the suspicious color of his clothes. Nope. Double nope. Alric quickly averted his eye from that group and turned it to the last one.

  Predictably, that one was the smallest of the 3, with only 5 members. Unlike the other gangs, however, it wasn't immediately clear who the leader was. A thin, wiry fellow with a weasel-like appearance did most of the talking. Beside him was a woman with fiery red hair playing twirling a spoon in a bored manner. A man who looked like he was currently sleeping with his eyes open sat next to her, and in the most creepy fashion Alric could imagine, ate his spoonfuls of porridge in the exact same intervals and order, without blinking. Of course, there was Elara aswell, with her beautiful dark hair and green eyes, watching over the table with an air of superiority. Next to her, a man who sat taller than all but the giant, who truly was a freak of nature. He shared Elaras facial features, eye color and jet-black hair, leading Alric to suspect the two might be related. This man gave Alric the chills, even more so than the tired man. It was his eyes. Cold, focused, and utterly apathetic. He occasionally scanned the hold, and when his eyes went Alric's direction, he shivered. This man had killed before, he was sure of it. His instincts were screaming danger, and he thanked the tidebringer, or well, any god that wouldn't smite him for being a cursed, that he had saved his litany of curses for another time. This gang looked by far the most like the cursed from the children's stories, and Alric had no doubt that one wrong move in their presence could lead to him becoming the next stew the sleepy man would be scooping one by one.

  Before the green-eyed menace of a relative Elara could catch him staring, Alric quickly shifted his gaze to the rest of the hold, namely, his corner of outcasts. Most were far from as relaxed as the gangs, throwing nervous gazes over their shoulders. Alric counted 11 in number, the same number as the Bald bear's gang had. Elara was 5, and the scary peacock's group held 9. That made 36 in total. That was a huge number of prisoners for a single ship to transport, and Alric grew more and more awed at the sheer size of vessel that must be transporting them. But at the same time, it made him nervous. he was sure the cells he had counted the first night could hold a lot more prisoners. If so then where was the rest? Did they not ship all the prisoners? Or..

  Shaking off those scary thoughts, Alric went back to observing the outcasts. Most of them were sitting either alone, with their wall to the back, or in small groups of one or two, but all of them with two notable exceptions, looked rather miserable.

  One of these two exceptions immediately stood out from all the prisoners in the hold. He sat the furthest away from everyone else, most people keeping their distance. His skin black like charcoal, and his eyes the red of a particularly angry ember, he looked utterly different from everyone else on the ship. He seemed to be of average height and sturdy build, but had a plethora of old scars littered across his body, which were especially prominent against his dark skin. His face seemed to be permanently locked into what can only be described as the face of a particularly upset toad, which certainly didn't help his popularity, but Alric guessed it was mostly due to his heritage. This man was an Ignatharian, from the Ignathar Archonate. Alric knew this from the caravan that would sometimes pass by their ports, trading exotic goods and runic baubles. As a Thalorian himself, he was all too well aware of what his country thought about other countries, and the Archonate was no exception. Located in the scorching desert of the Sunscar, Ignathar was a desert country full of Zealots who worshipped the sun god. Alric wondered what the blazes the Ingatharian was doing on a Thalorian prison ship, when his staring got noticed. The man briefly met Alrics gaze before resuming his meal Unconcerned.

  The other Exception was the kind of tall muscular man you'd expect to see with the bald bear's gang. He had small black eyes, dirty brown hair, and a large scar than ran from his chin up to his left eye. His cheeks hung slightly too. Alric mused that his face resembled that of an exceptionally ugly dog.

  Trailing behind him were two others. One, a a thin beanpole of a man with rodent-like features, and a nervous look about him. The other was a lithe woman with a shaved head, and what looked to be a glass eye. Their leader was in the midst of extorting food from one of the loners, his lackeys flanking him like hyenas. Oh, fantastic. That sadistic acolyte wasn't enough, now he also had to deal with the poor man's tyrant. He hadn't even gotten his bowl of porridge yet, and once that mutt was done shaking down his current victim, he'd likely set his sights on the fresh meat. Feigning catatonia wouldn't work— that bilge gargling Acolyte had seen to that when he fried him like a cerulean Eel. The established groups definitely weren't about to welcome a loner, and he didn't particularly want to try his luck either. Compared to the murder-math man Elrara had as a relative and the bloody peacock, this dog was certainly much more welcoming.

  Alric moved swiftly towards the pot dispersing the morning's porridge. The cook, a surly man with a perpetual scowl, raised an eyebrow at Alrics newfound alacrity (heh), but said nothing as he ladled a portion into his bowl. Without wasting a moment, Alric wove his way to the far end of the mess hall, slipping behind a particularly rotund loner who seemed to be engrossed in his own meal. With any luck, the woman's bulk would shield him from the beady eyes of the mutt. he began shoveling the sticky, unappetizing mush into his mouth. It tasted like ground-up sawdust mixed with water and quicklime, probably was too actually, but it was nourishing. He shoveled it down like a madman, his spoon becoming a blur. He was barely 2 thirds of the way through the bowl when he caught sight of an all too familiar sneer emerging from behind his human barricade. Mutt-face and company were looming closer.

  Sighing internally, Alric prepared himself for another beating, and took one more spoonful, savoring what might be the last one till evening. his hand slipped casually below the table, hovering close to his makeshift shank. From the look of this guy he probably wouldn't need it and get away with a beating and a warning, but you never knew.

  "Well look what we have here!" His voice boomed, dripping with mock delight. " If it isn't the puppet. Woke up did you? Heard your roosters crow all the way to the bow. Though seeing you from up close, I think Puppet is a bit wrong. We should call you doll instead, aye?" he laughed—a Harsh grating sound. his two lackeys snickered dutifully behind him.

  Alric raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk borne from false bravado playing on his lips. His mind was working overtime to find the right words reduce his inevitable beating, yet as often, his blasted mouth moved faster than his thoughts. "Ah, master mutt. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

  Brandt leaned over the table, his breath somehow smelling of raw fish. "Master is right, little doll. You can drop the rest. Jannik here always told me it's bad mojo to go after the mind-lost. Brings bad luck he said. Not to mention the Saltbloods would have been none too happy if I broke their precious merchandise by getting too rough. But since you're nice and awake now, and worthless as a servant, It's high time you were introduced to how things work around here. I'm Brandt—your lord and protector. I keep the sorry souls who aren't pretty enough for the big boys safe from all the dangers on this ship. Especially cute dolls like you. Out of the goodness of my heart of course. Isn't that right lads?

  His cronies cackled on cue. Alric fought the urge to roll his eyes. If he wasn't about to get a taste of a proper introductory beating he'd have laughed at how cliché this man's lines were getting. If this was another situation like the street scuffles he often got into, now would have been a great time to strike, since the man was presenting his chin perfectly for a good right hook. Unfortunately, this wasn't street scuffles with teenagers anymore, and it was 3 against one. The ratface didn't scare him much, but he was sure the woman knew how to fight. Not to mention Brandt. Alric on the other hand, didn't know much more aside from what a street rat would know. There was no way he was winning in a straight brawl.

  Feigning earnestness, Alric smiled with mock sincerity. "Well aren't I a lucky one? Such generosity is rare these days. Here," he said, sliding his half-eaten bowl of porridge to Brandt, carefully and without the spoon, as if he expected him to eat straight from the tray. "Your Lordship must have worked quite an appetite with all the protecting you've been doing. Here's a treat."

  For a moment, Brandt seemed taken aback. This wasn't how his usual script went. But his confusion quickly morphed into suspicion. "First mutt and now this? You think you're funny don't you?"

  Ah rats. He figured it out. "Me? Never, " Alric replied innocently. " In fact you'll find I haven't got a single funny bone in my entire body. I simply recognize true nobility when I see it."

  Brandt's face darkened, well aware of just who the true nobility on this ship was. "Got a smart mouth on you. I don't like that. Dolls should be quiet."

  He snapped his fingers. "Jannik, Tori— teach our new friend just who is the dog here."

  The two lackeys moved. Alric remained seated, muscles tense but outwardly calm. As Jannik grabbed his shoulder and went to slam his head into the table, Alric reacted. He quickly moved backward, pulling on the arm the skinny man had tried to push on his shoulder, using his own momentum against him. Given the short man's lack of mass, it wasnt particularly hard for Alric to twist the arm between him and the table so that Jannik's rat nose and the table had a romantic encounter with enough sparks to make the sauciest bard blush. But before he could capitalize on the situation, Tori's arm had already turned into a blur, and cracked into his jaw. Stars exploded in his vision, and Alric's sense of balance was temporarily thrown off. Free from Alrics grip, An incensed Jannik properly grabbed him this time, And together with Tori they slammed his head down into the hardwood. And again. laughter echoed in Alric's ears, a cruel chorus that made the humiliation sting even more. His fingers discreetly approached the makeshift shank as blood began roaring in his ears, and his jaw clenched in anger. He was pulled upright, a trickle of blood seeping from a gash on his eyebrow down his nose. he looked up at Brandt, who had taken a seat on the other side of the table.

  he smirked at the half-dazed Alric. "See, doll, that's what happens without my protection. Nasty accidents. And we wouldn't want anything to happen to that cute face and those perky lips of yours. I still have use for them after all." He laughed a vulgar laugh, And Alric's hand tightened around his makeshift shank. "But I'm feeling generous today. See, you show me the proper respect, and this can all be forgotten. Maybe I'll even let you join my entourage, I like me a cute man with some spunk like you." he extended a grimy hand, displaying a tarnished iron ring on his pinky.. "Kiss my ring, and we'll call it square."

  Alric's blood boiled with rage. So he thought he was cute huh? He'd see how long that would last. But despite his anger, he tried keeping a cool head and analyzing the situation. Around them, other prisoners watched with guarded interest, especially Elara was leaning on a hand watching the entire proceeding. This wasn't a moment he could show weakness in. Submitting to Brandt would ruin any chance he had with any of the stronger gangs. Not to mention Brandt's rather clear intentions with his 'cute mouth'. His eyes darted from side to side, searching for any way to escape the situation. Could he drag someone else into this? No the loners were too scared and the gangs were enjoying the spectacle. Only the Ignatharian seemed unconcerned with Brandt's antics, but he had no reason to help him. For a moment, things looked like he would have to eat more pain. But then, faintly, he heard the step of heavy boots thudding down the stairs. Perfect.

  He grinned at the ugly scarred face of his tormentor. "What are you, a fair maiden that you want me to kiss your hand? You have a face only a mother could love. Or another dog. Besides, don't you know you fool? Merric's the one making sure nothing happens to me." he purposefully chose one of the two names of the acolytes he knew to be ill-tempered.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Brandt's eyes flashed with anger. "Careful Puppet. You don't want to talk about my mother."

  "Why not mutt? She throw you out too? Find another man to have a better son with? Poor mutt, alone on the streets, running after stray dogs, since that's the only bitch that would ever want a man like you."

  The boisterous laughter of the bald bear echoed through the mess hall, and a few chuckles rippled through the gangs. Sensing the impending violence, the other loners slowly began taking their distance. Even the Ignatharian had taken a minute off his meal to raise an eyebrow in Alric's direction. Brandt's face had reddened, a vein throbbing at his temple. His lackeys exchanged uneasy glances, not sure what to do in a situation like that.

  "You've really got quite the mouth," Brandt snarled, his hand inching towards his own waistband, where there doubtlessly was a surprise similar to Alric's waiting. "I was only maybe gonna get rough with you on account of your cute face. Now, I think Im gonna take my time ruining it. And don't think that the likes of Merric can stop me neither. That bastard son of a dwarf only can throw his weight around because we're all collared. But now? I'm gonna have some fun, with you, doll."

  Alric's heart pounded, but he smirked. His quick time might often get him into trouble, but not nearly as much trouble as Brandt's just had gotten him into. The door to the mess hall flew open with a bang, as the Acolytes entered to announce the work shifts. Brandt hesitated, and his face began to drain of color when he spotted a short acolyte with his eyes locked onto his every move. Alric chuckled, as the lackeys took a few steps back. He looked right at Brandt, and silently mouthed "bastard son of a dwarf huh Brandt?"

  "This isn't over Doll. Sleep with one eye open" With a final glare, he signaled to his lackeys and the trio melted into the crowd gathering to hear the announcements. Alric exhaled slowly, rubbed his eyebrow of the blood, and ate the last few spoons of porridge left in the bowl before joining the crowd. "Well, that went swimmingly" he muttered to himself. All things considered, that was as well as an initiatory beating could have gone, especially knowing Brandt's intentions. If Merric was anything like Crom, Brandt would have other things to worry about than Alric, hopefully giving him enough time to find himself a suitable meatshield or join a gang. As for what he had said about sleeping with one eye open? Alric chuckled. His cellmate was much more scary than Brandt. he doubted the stray dog that none of the gangs wanted would even have the balls to approach her cell.

  A booming voice echoed across the room "Break over! You! You! You! Kitchen duty." The same senior acolyte that had saved Alrics bacon from Crom pointed at a few prisoners. "You people! Porter duty. He pointed at a few from Elara's gang. "You! Scribe duty! He pointed at the scary peacock." The rest of you bilge rats, to the Oars."

  of course, being one of the bilge rats, Alric was assigned to the oars with the majority of the prisoners. he swiftly followed the nearest acolyte, keeping his distance from Brandt. The prisoners were herded like sheep, prods with their staves not uncommon, though Alric noticed the Bald bear and his close members got off scot-free despite their leisurely pace. Alric himself could add a few bruises to his ever-expanding collection, and gained some sort of idea where the rest might have come from. Soon they arrived at a very long hall, at about the water surface level of the ship. The hall was lined with benches, and of course, long sturdy oars. Alric shuddered at the sight of the oars, his last memory involving rowing none too pleasant.

  The members of the same gangs went to benches in pairs with some banter, everyone already being used to their own position. Soon Alric only had a few places left. Once was next to Brandt, as no one wanted to get caught in the crossfire between him and Merric, one was next to one of the loners who looked at Alric with pleading in his eyes to go elsewhere,. and one was next to the taciturn Ignatharian. The Ignatharian seemed to be lost in thought, and barely registered Alric sitting next to him. He barely graced Alrics presence with a glance, and then as the sound of drums came from the front, immediately began rowing.

  They rowed in silence for a while, the rhythmic creaking of the oars and the occasional grunt of exertion filling the air. It was exhausting, and Alric was especially glad he got some food in before all this physical exertion. His rowing partner seemed to struggle after a while, Which Alric found strange considering his muscular physique. But the relentless rowing did not leave much time for galivanting, and so Alric placed his focus back on the oar. it didn't take long for Alric to fall into a practiced rhythm. His arms were familiar with the motion of rowing, and his lings knew how to breathe to make it bearable. it was as if he had done this thousands of times before. Well perhaps he had. Soon, his mind became void of anything but the motion of rowing, and he lost track of the passage of time as he simply rowed to the rhythm of the drums.

  Until a familiar sense of dread overtook him, and his mind faded to black.

  The wind howled like a beast unleashed, whipping saltwater into Alric's eyes and mouth, stinging like needles. The sail above him snapped and strained, barely clinging to the mast against the fury of the storm. Lightning tore jagged scars across the night sky, each flash illuminating the monstrous waves that towered over his tiny vessel, threatening to swallow him whole. Every pull of the oars was a desperate struggle against the relentless current, his muscles burning, lungs heaving as he fought to steer the boat through the chaos.

  Rain lashed down in torrents, each drop a tiny hammer blow that blurred his vision and chilled him to the bone. Alric's breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest tight with panic. The boat lurched violently as a wall of water crashed over the side, nearly wrenching the oars from his hands and tossing him into the churning sea. His fingers slipped on the slick, wet wood, knuckles white as he clung on with sheer force of will.

  A primal fear gripped him as he dared to glance over his shoulder. Through the veil of rain and darkness, he sensed it—a looming presence, dangerous and inexorable, cutting through the storm with a terrifying ease. The feeling of being hunted coursed through his veins, every instinct screaming at him to flee. He rowed harder, muscles screaming in protest, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the thunder.

  Then, amidst the maelstrom, something shifted deep within him. The cold dread that had consumed him began to morph, twisting into an unexpected sensation—a gnawing hunger that clawed at his insides. It was as if an insatiable void had opened within his very core, demanding to be filled. The fear that had propelled him now mingled with a strange, voracious craving that eclipsed all else.

  The hunger was overwhelming, a bottomless pit that ached to consume. He felt an urge, not just to escape but to devour, to absorb something that would satisfy this profound emptiness. Confusion mingled with this ravenous desire, but the need was so powerful it threatened to override all reason. The storm, the danger, the pursuit—all seemed distant compared to the intensity of this internal longing.

  Suddenly, a searing pain exploded around his neck, snapping him back to reality. His collar blazed with intense agony, every nerve ending aflame as it activated to suppress whatever was stirring inside him. At the same moment, a heavy fist connected with his side, the force of the blow knocking the air from his lungs. Gasping, Alric doubled over, the oar slipping from his grasp, as his breakfast exited him the same way it entered.

  "Snap out of it you fool!" hissed the Ignatharian beside him, his red eyes nervously darting toward the acolytes patrolling the galley. "Do you want to get us all killed?"

  A few eyes darted over to them, but seeing Alric vomit, the only response was a few snickers and comments about land lubbers and weak stomachs.

  Alric struggled to catch his breath, the combined pain from the collar and the punch anchoring him back in the present. The roaring storm faded, replaced by the rhythmic creaking of the oars to the beat of the drum. His heart still hammered in his chest, but the ravenous hunger had receded, leaving only a lingering unease.

  "Why in the name of the veiled temptress would you try to use your Manifestation in the middle of the galley, you shit for brains?" Whispered the Ignatharian next to him with unbridled fury. "Dont you know what happens when we use our manifestations on the open sea? Do you want to attract every single Eldrovora within 30 nautical miles? You're lucky I noticed before the acolytes did. They would have executed you on the spot."

  Still a bit out of sorts, Alric lifted his head to look at his self-proclaimed savior. The Ignatharian had sharp, calculating features, with a small scar next to an eye. His hair was in a hairstyle he never had seen before, and so curly he wondered if it wasnt secretly wool. his red eyes were looking particularly menacing, as they locked onto his own. He seemed about as tense as a strung bow, ready to snap any moment.

  "Well," Alric managed to say between breaths, "that was one way to wake me up from my nap. I don't know about you, Ignatharians, but here in Thalorin burying your fist elbow-deep in someone's guts isn't even something we do in the sauciest of bathhouses. So keep your fingers where I can see them, country boy."

  "This isn't a game, you fool." he replied with cold rage. "Your lack of control could have cost all our lives"

  Ah clearly this man was born with an exceptional sense of humor.

  "Trust me, it wasn't my intention to do any manifesting of any kind. In fact, I don't even know that you mean by that damn word, I'm not a blessed. And while it might not seem like it from my spat with Brandt, I actually do value my life. I haven't the faintest idea what ant just crawled into your britches for you to mistake me having an admittedly unpleasant nightmare while on an oar with me trying to summon a deep sea monster, and then take that as an invitation to perform a Vorlundian Screwdriver on my liver. But if it makes you feel better, I'll schedule my daydreams better next time."

  The man looked at Alrics outburst with a flabbergasted expression. "You.. do you not understand what you have just done? That wasn't a daydream you idiot. You were about to activate your manifestation. Why do you think the collar activated?" He put his head into one of his hands, rowing with the other. "If you're trying to tell me you activate your manifestation in your damn sleep, Im calling for the acolytes, snitching rules be damned."

  Jeez what an intense man. he could have led with that! "How would I even activate a manifestation? Don't only the blessed have manifestations? Last I checked, the gods weren't particularly fond of me." He gave an apologetic smile. " But in all seriousness, if I really almost summoned some deep-sea Eldrovora by accident, I'd really appreciate if you told me how to avoid doing that in the future. It doesn't seem very productive to my survival."

  The man's eyebrows twitched. "You don't say." He paused, considering. "While I am not sure if this is one of your strange applications of humor in Thalorin, I will speak of what you ask, so you do not needlessly endanger us with a crackdown. Manifestations are not limited to the blessed. In fact, you could call the cursed the other side of the coin of the blessed. While the blessed receive their manifestation as a blessing from the gods themselves, us cursed are corrupted with it by the abyss. Consider it a mutation of your Astral body, your soul. You have been touched by the abyss, and so, you gain the ability to briefly manifest the abyss's power in turn. Hence the name manifestation. Similarly to the blessed, a manifestation is a specific power. There are many categories, and a nearly endless variety of powers, so I do not know which one you have. To use your manifestation, you must learn how to channel it through your astral body. This takes focus, hence why we are all made to use this collar. The agony it unleashes on our minds is meant to break the focus, but it is not impossible to overcome. And like I told you, Unlike the blessed, the Eldrovora can sense us cursed using our manifestation. And seeing as the depths of the cerulean hold things even the gods fear to speak aloud, It's considered a monumentally bad idea to use your manifestation here."

  he paused, considering, how to answer his question. "As for how to avoid using your manifestation... I'm not sure I know of anyone who hasn't intentionally used it. Which is also why I performed the.. the punch. But to answer your question, avoid having the nightmare, and if you do, wake yourself up. "

  The man spoke as if this was all no big deal as if this was common information. But to Alric, this kind of information was as precious as food to a starving man. Gods above, so many things made sense now.

  "Thank you," Alric said, with genuine gratitude. The Ignatharian might have the sense of humor of a dry rock, but his straightforwardness was refreshing. And if he knew this much.... Alric could sense the taciturn man hid even more sweet sweet knowledge behind those red eyes of his. He mentally licked his lips. Straightforward people were so wonderful. "I will not forget the help you offered me. But it would help me to know the name of the man who extended a hand in my time of need. Alric is what I am called."

  The man hesitated. He looked at alrics hand and very honest and sincere smile, and then around the hold, judging if having a connection to this troublemaker was a good idea. Thankfully after some consideration, he shook Alric's hand. "Call me Silas. But I warn you. I want no part in your quarrel with the dog-face. I have beat him off once, and I will not dirty my hands again."

  Alrics eyes sparkled with just a bit too much enthusiasm. he had found his meat shield. "Naturally Silas. I always handle my trouble myself." Alric lied with an honest smile on his face. Silas seemed satisfied, and nodded. Still got it.

  They fell into a slightly awkward silence, the crack of the drum and creaking of oars filling the void. After a few moments of silence, Alrics mind grew restless. Hell if he was going to spend the better part of his day here, he might aswell get to know his new asset... err friend better.

  "So, Silas, who's that pale temptress you mentioned? I admit I don't know too much about Ignathar, the little I know comes from a caravan that sold Warmweed cigars. Not the most accurate source of Information I know, but I thought you ignatharians only worshipped the Risen one. The sun god."

  A flicker of something, surprise perhaps crossed Silas's face, before he caught himself, and it disappeared. "its the name of a rather famous personage. From a folk tale."

  "Ignatharians take folk tales I reverence? Interesting. I usually only use the tide bringer's title when I want to conjure the most devastating of insults."

  The Ignatharian looked uncomfortable. "Yes. of course... I use.. the risen one for that purpose too."

  Huh? Why was he so awkward? Was that some important name? Alrics smile turned more sly. No use in pressing the Ignatharian, if he didn't want to tell he wouldn't have to. After all, he knew someone who almost certainly knew. he made a note of it for later, and switched subjects, keeping up the small talk. But Silas remained rather curt and taciturn. Alric was almost beginning to think the man was trying to avoid him, when he noticed how heavily the ignatharian was breathing. Strange. The drummer wasnt even pushing them that hard, And Alric, who hardly was a paragon of fitness after being a mindless puppet for weeks on end if not longer, could not for the life of him understand what was making the larger man struggle.

  "Can I ask you something, Silas?"

  "No. I am rowing." came the exasperated reply.

  "Why do you have so much trouble talking while rowing? Sure they're pushing us hard, but everyone else is talking." He wiggled his eyebrows at Silas " You wouldn't be avoiding me would you?"

  The man gave him a frustrated look " You dammn... Thalorians... always forget .. no one else... has your stamina."

  So it was a racial thing? Huh. Alric didn't think he was that enduring personally. But he wasn't going to miss such a perfect setup for a one-liner. " Stamina you say? Well I am a hit with the ladies"

  He couldn't see Silas's eyes, but he swore he heard them roll inside his skull through the din of the galley, before a grim smile appeared on the dark skinned mans lips. "Not only the ladies." he said, nodding his head towards Brandt.

  Alric was stunned for a moment, before breaking into laughter. "If that's not the truth. Truly, I am suffering from success."

  Huh Perhaps he did have a sense of humor. They were going to get along swimmingly Alric just knew it.