The wooden deck of his doomed ship splintered and cracked beneath his feet, heaving like a leviathan in the throes of an agonizing death. Around him, lightning arced from the sky, gouging up explosions of sand-turned-glass that shredded his cheeks and arms. Distant screams of terror and pain rang in his ears as explosions of sound pounded around him like a horrific drum beat. Above it all was a faint whisper, deep as distant thunder and inevitable as the blackened sun that hung in the infinite sky over his head:
I can't do it.
Antony stumbled out of his tent into the warm, morning air. Beige canvas flapped in a strong breeze, and he shielded his eyes as a dusting of fine-grit sand from the dune that towered over the little camp billowed past. His tall, thin figure cast a comically spindly shadow across the sand beneath his feet, even as his loose tunic and breeches flapped in the morning winds. A strap of ornate, beaded leather hanging from his belt alternated between slapping against his leg and clinking against his rigging knife. Antony welcomed the distraction it provided from the nightmares of the fitful night.
"Morning, sunshine!" A voice boomed from off to his left.
Antony blinked away the ten-pound anchors holding his eyes down and grumbled something unintelligible. A laugh reverberated across the dunes in response.
"I see you slept well, hm?" A man, wider than he was tall, stood before a smoldering fire. His tanned, bare chest was covered with a well-loved smithing apron, an assorted sailor's tooling jangled from a rope belt around brown, canvas pants. Muscles, toned from years of hard labor, rippled as he resettled on his seat, adjusting a curved pan atop the scorching coals.
"Shut up, Gregory," Antony heard himself say through the cobwebs of drowsiness.
"Now Antony, is that a way to talk to one of your fathers?" A stern voice asked. A thin woman, shorter than Antony, swept out from behind her husband, one hand on his back while the other deftly carried a wide, flat board laden with a menagerie of mouthwateringly-colorful vegetables, chopped to perfection.
Gregory's large pan flared to fiery life as he tossed first a bit of oil, then the vegetables into the pan. With the flash of intense heat went the webbing of Antony's sleepiness, replaced by a suddenly awake and extremely vocal belly.
"We can't have you setting out on your Sath a Liom on an empty stomach, now can we? Sit."
Antony did, plopping down onto a collapsible wooden stool that creaked in protest. Moments later, a plate of steaming vegetables and sandfish, seasoned to perfection, was thrust into his hands. The flump of a circle of fluffy rice-bread followed shortly behind onto the plate.
"Are you sure about this? What if I get us lost? What if I get someone hurt?" He tore a piece off the flatbread, watching steam curl into the fresh morning sky, and scooped some of the seasoned mixture into his mouth. His stomach growled in gratitude.
Gregory shrugged and served a plate for himself and his wife as he finished frying up the last of the veggies. "Then we handle what winds come." He exchanged a gentle peck with Sheilah and ruffled Antony's jet-black hair as he walked past. The clips and tools hanging from his belt, clinked softly as he walked, the pattern and pitch of it like a callsign unique to him alone.
"But I can't ask any of you for help. When are you allowed to stop it before I get us hurt... or worse?"
"If someone dies, someone dies." The point was blunt as a sledgehammer. "If things really go south, we can always call off the Sath a Liom," The dish in Gregory's hands rattled as he tossed some sand into the pan and began scrubbing at it with a rag. "Of course, you'll never get a chance at it again. You'll be scarfless. But that'll be your call, Captain."
Antony grimaced, swallowing down an oversized bite. It stuck in his throat, settled atop the anxious lump that was forming. He was already later than most to earn his scarf. Could he live with the shame of being bound forever as a child to his family and ship? The thought of never having his own ship made his heart ache. On the other hand, the lives of his parents were in his hands. They'd follow him to their graves, if that's what it meant. The hair on his arms prickled in tune with his thoughts.
"But..."
"We all agreed that you were ready. Do you trust us?" Sheilah skirted past him, gathering together the last of the items around their camp into a small bag while she ate.
"Of course." The answer was immediate.
"Then you must also trust yourself that you can do this."
Antony said nothing, eating in silence. A shout came from further down the line of tents nestled against the towering dune.
"Ho there!"
"Ho, Gavin." Gregory waved a broad palm at the man, who was hauling a thick coil of rope over one shoulder as he trotted towards his own gathering of tents. "How goes it?"
"Well! I hear you set off today?" came the response. Antony did his best to shrivel up into a raisin on his stool.
"We do! My son begins his Sath a Liom."
"Ha! I am certain you shall have favorable winds in your sails and fine sand beneath your skids."
Gregory gave a friendly salute, which Antony mirrored, his motions halting and self-conscious.
"One tip for the Captain, then, while I'm still able to give it: make sure you inspect your ship, lad." Gavin beat his chest with a fist. "When I did mine, my father tried to sabotage me. I nearly capsized the whole rig four kilometers out!" He marched off, cackling to himself about misadventures long past.
"You didn't, did you?" Antony peered fearfully at his parents. Gregory shrugged.
"I didn't."
Sheilah said nothing, her smile cryptic and challenging. Antony jumped off the seat, making it tumble to the sand with a muffled thump. "Where's Skott?"
"Your father is preparing the ship for you."
"I have to go." Antony took off at a dead run through the sand, barely stopping for long enough to toss his now-empty plate into a pail of dishwater. He bounded down the rows of familial tents, rounded the corner on a wide, low tent, its multicolored tassels and streamers fluttering in the wind, and came upon a line of sandships. They crouched in the fine detritus, partially buried, like massive beasts in slumber. Loose rigging clinked and slapped against masts and decks, as gusts of sand-laden wind danced a dizzying beat across them. Here and there, a figure tended to their ship, repairing and changing bits and bobs of their crafts, or shoveling more sand onto it or, in a few cases, unburying the decks in preparation for departure.
Antony made his way down the short row of sandships until he came across a fimilar creature. She was fully unburied already, standing tall on her huge skids, all gentle curves ending in razor-sharp points. Intricate designs, partially faded from the constant sandblasting of travel, covered her flanks from bow to stern, giving her an exotic look. She wasn't the tallest, the mainmast only reaching two-thirds the height of the two ships flanking her, nor was she the smallest, sporting a forecastle that reminded Antony of a castle tower mounted on the back of the ship, and enough space below the main deck for a hold that Antony had often run through as a child. Nevertheless, Antony felt an intrinsic sense of pride in Wayward Alliance. She was theirs, and they were hers.
As he approached, a figure scurried across the deck, tightening a line in the rigging to the staysail that hung low between the two masts.
"Ho, Skott!" Antony shouted.
The figure slowed and waved. Antony scrambled up the rope ladder swinging gently from the port rail with the ease of a spider. "How goes?"
"Ship's about ready for departure," Skott grinned. "Glad to see our valiant captain is finally up."
Antony bit his lip. Skott squinted at him. "What is it, Son?"
"Did you..." Antony changed his mind. Skott wouldn't admit to anything, even if he had done something. "It's nothing."
Skott shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm sure you'll do fine, though." He winked. "I even promised your mother I wouldn't add ballast, if you catch my drift."
Antony breathed a sigh of relief an felt his shoulders relax.
"Now, is there anything else, Captain, or can I get about making the Alliance ready for your confident guidance?"
"No, that's it."
Skott snapped a firm salute. "Then I shall take my leave!" He marched away. Antony looked up the forecastle, where the wide ship's wheel was tied in place. The Alliance creaked in a sudden gust of wind, but whether the noise was a word of encouragement or a token of warning, Antony couldn't tell. He ran his hands over the sand-smoothed wood as he strode to the bow. The wind tousled his hair as he gazed across the sun-kissed open desert.
He bit his lip and picked at a tiny splinter on the ship. Maybe they'd come across a skal'rath and it'd crush their ship to splinters. Maybe he'd get them hopelessly lost, and they'd wander the barren sands until one by one they died of thirst and heatstroke. Or maybe he'd fail to navigate around some rock shoals, shattering Wayward Alliance and stranding them in the middle of nowhere with no help and... and...
A hand rested on his shoulder.
"Ready, Captain?" Gregory's voice rumbled beside him. He turned. Skott and Sheilah stood behind him, shoulders brushing affectionately, standing at attention. Antony gulped. Was it time already? Was he prepared? He looked around, expecting something glaring to be missing. Large bundles rested beside the family, the bundled-up remains of their camp from the past few days. The rigging was secure. The ship was prepared. Of course, it was entirely possible he was missing something obvious. He'd never know. Sheilah nodded at him.
"Y-yes."
"Then!" Gregory boomed and clapped his hands, making Antony flinch. "Let the Sath a Liom commence! The rules are simple. Antony, forthwith, is the sole captain of this vessel. All decisions must go through him, and final calls must be made by him and only him." A wind rose, and the scarves of his parents, red, green, and blue, fluttered in it. "He shall earn his right to own a vessel of his own by successfully setting sail and navigating the open sands of the Hadrean Desert to an everglow and retrieving his own scarf. None shall provide advice. None shall make guidance, besides the wind in our sails and the gods above and below. This is the law, and any of those against can leave the Captain's service here and now. Those who break oath do so under pain of death. Do we have an accord?"
They all nodded solemnly.
"Then it is so! Captain, what is your first command?"
Everyone looked at him. Antony froze. "Uhhh..."
The wind rustled the rigging. The boat creaked. All three of his parents stood at attention, waiting. His head spun with responsibility. He reached for the rail to steady himself, feeling the warm grain beneath his hand. He ran his hand a few centimeters to the left, felt for the familiar knot that creaked like an alien bird when you pressed on it. He walked his memory back to his childhood, of the days upon days spent on the boat, exploring every nook and cranny as his parents bustled around him. What had they done while he was playing?
"Gregory, haul anchor." He followed the rail, still lost in the memories. "We're not going anywhere with a twenty-pound spike buried in the ground." He echoed the quip his father made nearly every time they set sail.
Speaking of, "Sheilah, unfurl the sails." He thought back to the times they crested the huge, curved dunes in the open desert, and he imagined himself soaring into the sky. "Keep her half-mast, we don't want to be birds going over the dunes today."
He turned at the base of the forecastle, wooden ladder beneath his hand. Skott had followed him, but said nothing. The other two had already scattered to their tasks, surging across the deck like well-oiled machines.
What did Skott usually do? Antony scrunched his nose. Why couldn't he remember? Was he already failing?
Paper rattled in the breeze, and his eyes settled on a map that Skott was toying with, furling and unfurling. Antony winced at himself.
"Skott, set us a course for the nearest everglow. I presume you know where one lies?"
"'Course, Captain. We've three to choose from, all in different directions. Which would you recommend?" He grinned, flashing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. "You didn't think I'd let ya off that easy, did ya?"
Antony sighed. "I suppose not. Where--" Skott slapped the map against the side of the ship's forecastle wall with a wooden thud. "Here, here, an' here." He pointed to three spots on the map, adorned with red marks.
Antony frowned at the map. "Which one do you think I should choose?" He trailed off, realizing even before Skott shook his head that he would get no definitive answer. The choice was his, come Kallar Beast or quicksand. Their current position wasn't marked on the map, of course; that would be asking for curses and all sorts of ill-good upon themselves. It was trivial for him to find where they'd camped for the night, however. The spots were spread about equidistant from where they lay, and in completely different directions. He frowned, eyeing the various markings of hazards and terrain marked on the map.
"According to the weather data, Captain, the wind appears to be gusting with confidence south-southeast. We shouldn't hit a Discord for about a month, so I don't expect the weather to change much in the next day or so."
Antony nodded and pointed to one of the points that lay nearly directly south of them at random. "We'll go here."
Skott nodded. "Aye, Captain." The map vanished somewhere into Skott's pants pockets.
"Was... that a good decision? Skott?" Skott said nothing, but strutted off to shout something to Sheilah, who swung like a monkey across the rigging to adjust the trim on a sail.
"Captain, we're up!" Gregory bellowed, and Antony realized with a jolt that he would be the one manning the wheel today, not Skott. Pushing aside his worries, he scrambled up the ladder, grabbing the wheel and unhitching it from the rope stays that held it firm. The sails rattled and filled with a meaty thwumf, and Wayward Alliance lurched beneath his feet, bucking eagerly to be on her way.
They sailed for a good portion of the morning, the sun making a lazy arch overhead. Despite his anxiety and constant need to double and triple-check the map and his navigational instruments, Antony found himself enjoying the journey. The wind gusted through his hair, rippling his clothes and flicking the scarves of his three parents like multicolored streamers. Alliance coasted over sand flats, curled like a dexterous snake around the more dangerous and pointed crescent-dunes, and leaping joyously off the smoother domes. There were a few dunes that made Alliance groan and grunt as she crashed back to the sand, shaking beneath Antony's feet and making him sweat, but Gregory laughed off each one, saying that Alliance could do with a bit of hard work for once.
By midday, Antony was tired. tendrils of darkness swirled in the corners of his vision, vanishing briefly each time he blinked, only to return moments later. He took another swig from the waterskin around his neck, The cool water, fresh from the storage in the hold beneath their feet, ran down his throat and roused him, albeit not as much as he hoped. He squinted into the wavering dunes far in the distance, his hands gripping the wheel.
"Ya doin' alright, son?"
Antony nodded, not bothering to look over at Skott.
"I can take over for spell, if you'd like a breather. Maybe cool down in the hold?"
"No. I have to do this." Skott manned the wheel for far longer periods of time than this. He should be able to as well.
"You sure? You're lookin' a little wilted."
"I said I'm fine." Antony finally looked over at Skott just long enough to fire off a withering glare. "I can do this."
"Aye, ya can, but no one said ya also couldn't take a short break."
"No!" Antony shouted. Skott jumped, and Gregory looked over from where he was brushing a layer of hot sand off the deck, one bushy eyebrow raised. "I can do this," he repeated.
"Aye, Cap," Skott muttered, before clambering down the forecastle ladder, muttering something to himself. Antony gritted his teeth. Did they secretly think he couldn't make it without them? He had to do it. He only had one shot. Antony wiped a bit of sweat off his brow and took another swig of water. Best to stay hydrated, even if his restless night was catching up to him.
"Rocks ahead," came a call from the foremast. Antony shook his head. The line between sand and sky was blurring oddly, tunnelling around him. He blinked away the bizarre fisheye-distortion and looked around. Another call from the foremast, but the audio sounded muffled. He looked left and right as the thin white line where sand met sky seemed to grow stream out, an untouchable streamer begging to be broken. It waved and fluttered in slow motion, both too close and too far away at once. Was he dreaming?
"ANTONY!" Gregory shattered the world around him, bellowing right in his ear.
Antony jolted, surging from the depths of some unfathomably deep pool. "W-what?"
"Rocks. There are rocks dead ahead!" He stabbed a finger straight over the bow, where Antony could see a stretch of stones, etched by countless years of blowing sand, but no less dangerous to their ship. Gregory's hand gripped Antony's shoulder enough that he winced in pain.
"Stow the white-line fever, son. What're we doing here?"
"S-Skott?" Antony stammered, suddenly panicking.
"What is it?"
"Take the wheel. What do we do?"
Skott's mouth was a thin line. "You tell me, Cap."
"Uhhh..." Antony's heart pounded. What should he do?
Gregory released his shoulder and practically leapt off the forecastle, running off to some lines.
"I... I..."
He looked around. Why did he think he could pilot the ship himself? Of course he was balking now, fluttering like a skiff with a broken mast.
Something smacked him on the back of the head, hard enough that sparks bloomed in his vision.
"Ya gotta make a decision, kid," Skott growled in his ear.
Antony blindly hauled on the wheel. The ship shuddered, protesting the unsure guidance, propelled by sails left unadjusted by the lack of any other command from their captain.
Wayward Alliance jerked left, then right, as the ship's hull ricoched off the stones. Wood ground and creaked, then splintered with harsh cracks. Sand spit the deck and Antony was flung aside, a ragdoll against the clashing forces of evermoving wind and motionless stone.
Antony gasped as his breath was pounded from him by the starboard railing.
"Avast ship! Avast!" He managed to gasp out, his command quickly repeated by Skott as he ran to him.
they slowed, coasting to stop beside a huge pillar of stone that jutted out of the sand at an angle like a fallen arrow.
"The hell was that?" Gregory shouted, scrambling up the forecastle ladder, just as Skott finished hoisting Antony to his feet.
"I panicked." Antony's shoulder's slumped. "I'm sorry."
Gregory grunted. "You're going to have to be more committed than that, Son. The ship won't last long if you waiting until the last second to make a decision."
"I know." Sand scraped as Antony scuffed the deck with his feet.
"Ship should hold." Sheilah commented, hopping over the railing. "We can risk it and continue or take some time to patch it up."
The three parents looked to Antony.
"Isn't my trial over? I screwed up."
"If ya want it to be, it is. Th' way I see it though, ship's still sandworthy." Skott said, shrugging.
Antony looked at Gregory and Sheilah, who both nodded.
"Well then..."
He paused, shoving down murky thoughts that swirled like slurry through his head. "Sheilah and I will patch the ship and check for other damage, and Gregory and Skott can check the food stores and dredge up some lunch while we're stopped."
With tasks in hand, the four hurried about their tasks, eager to complete them and be on their way.
After a hot and tiring hour of slapping thick, foul-smelling tar on a few cracked boards, followed by a thorough inspection of every inch of the Alliance, Gregory brought his son a mild lunch of dried meat and a report of their supplies. Among lists of water, fruit, dried meats, hard tack, and some liquor Antony suspected was not part of their standard food list, Gregory noted a lack of fresh meat. Someone would have to go out and catch some. As Sheilah pointed out during the discussion, "who wants to gnaw on hardtack and jerky after a successful Sath a Liom?"
Antony fretted, considering who to send. Whose skills would be best balanced between finding a good meal and not being missed on the ship? No one volunteered, of course.
Skott departed after an anxious bout of indecision, taking the small hunting skiff with him and a promise to meet them at their destination by sundown. With him went their most skilled navigator and helmsman, but Antony thought the risk far greater to send away one of the two who usually manned the sails and ropes. As long as Antony remained vigilant and the journey remained uneventful, they should have nothing to worry about.
An hour of sailing later, disaster struck.
"Captain," came Sheilah's call from the mainmast's rigging, her leg ensconced in loops of rope against the mast and arm grasping a topline. "Mounds spotted three-twenty degrees off the bow. Each about as long as Alliance, moving in lock-step with her."
Skal’rak, a whole pod of them!
There was no question about what it was Sheilah had spotted, nor was there time to avoid them. They were being hunted.
"Skott--" Antony stopped himself. He'd sent Skott off. Their best navigator and helmsman. He'd screwed up.
"Pod is closing," came the call from the rigging. "What's your plan, Cap'?" They wouldn't let him helm. Not in a situation like this. He turned to his remaining father.
"Gregory..." Antony trailed off, Gregory was already shaking his head, lashing down a rope on the jib sail. "You're the Captain here, son. You tell me what to do."
Antony felt his blood run cold. Now? Of all times? He could get Alliance damaged or destroyed. He could get them lost trying to avoid the skal’rak. He could--
"Pod contact in thirty! Staysail is prepped!" Sheilah shouted.
"Jib sail luffed!" Gregory bellowed to him. "Mainsail loosened, ready to tack."
"Contact in twenty!"
Tack. The word echoed in his head. Screw it.
"Hard alee!" Antony screamed.
He hauled on the wheel, cranking it portside as hard as he could.
"Helm's alee!" Came a call from the deck.
The sails rattled as Alliance groaned, heaving itself leeward harder than she'd ever done. Sand roared in Antony's ears as a wall of tan grit surged off their starboard. The nose ground around towards the west, and the mounds, ever growing, were sent into disarray as their target surged toward them.
There was a heavy snap of fabric scooping great mouthfuls of the wind and the massive, wooden beam of their mainsail swung low across the deck. Someone gave a whoop as the deck tilted and creaked. Before them, a gigantic dorsal fin split the sand, fluttering in frustration as the ship narrowly missed it. Grey hide, thin enough that it looked translucent and veiny in the glow of the sun, stretched taut between gigantic, mast-like spines, tall enough to cast shadows across the ship and sharp enough to spear a man without effort.
Now with sails full of wind and a cross-breeze to propel it with as much power as Gregory could squeeze out of the rigging, they leapt across the sand, gaining ground. The pod of skal’rak changed course, flailing fins and sand-polished scales as they took up chase. Sand churned and roiled. Antony squinted ahead of them over the bow into the distance.
They were in a flat at the moment, meaning there was no concern over needing to navigate dunes or rocks, but Antony could see telltale shadows in the distance, approaching too slowly for Antony to consider outracing the skal’rak. He looked around him, thinking back to Skott's map, envisioning where he might be on it. If he was where he thought...
He looked off the starboard rail and spotted the silhouette of a wind gaol, a row of massive, angled stone pillars pointing at near perfect identical angles away from the wind. Their flattened points, polished smooth by the sands of countless Discords over the eons, winked light at him. He eyed the angles of the boat and distance, felt the direction of the wind off his hair and the wind-tell, then over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching skal’rak, fins ruffled and low to give them as much speed as possible.
One turn, he thought, at just the right time ought to buy me time to reach the rocks.
He looked up into the rigging. Sheilah was already preparing for another turn. A glance at Gregory showed him prepared as well, heaving on one rope with all the strength his powerful muscles would give, while loosening the knot of another.
A slap of a fin on sand behind him, like the crack of a whip, as the nearest of the pod approached.
"Wait for it..."
A flash of blue-gray scale off the starboard, as the pod started surrounding them.
Antony gritted his teeth. Wait? Or turn?
Sand splashed up unnaturally over the bow, tossed up from an emerging skal’rak, rising like serpentine death from the depths of the sands. Antony stared. It coiled upward, rising higher than the mainmast, eight spindly legs flailing in the hot desert air, two beefy foreclaws, caked with sand and stone, rose up over them. Its thick, round body gleamed an almost iridescent purple as the sun reflected off its suit of polished scale armor. four beady eyes affixed to its blunt, snake-like head, leered down at him as its jaws split into rows and rows of hooked, jagged teeth, each bigger than an outstretched arm and twice as wide around. And half its body was still submerged beneath the sands.
Alliance jolted to one side as another skal’rak bumped against her port skiff, sand rolling off its body.
"Hard alee! Hard alee!"
"Helm's alee," Gregory shouted. His voice was strained, but calm, despite being cast in the shadow of death itself.
Rope rattled, rigging screeched, and sails thundered against the wind. The ship surged against the sands, plowing around the start of a rising mountain of sand, the momentum of the skal'rak around them shoving her into an impossible drift. The boom whipped around, fast enough to shatter bone. Antony roared heaving on rigging as it whined. A rope snapped somewhere, and Sheilah skittered across the rigging like an insect swarming to the problem, despite the peril of the pendulum swing of the masts.
Then the sails caught wind. Alliance leapt forward, the deck making ominous cracks as it bucked under the sudden strain, and Antony fell to the deck. He grunted as his back slapped against sand and wood. The wheel spun. Shit! He was back on his feet in a moment, ignoring the fire of a thousand sandpaper cuts across his spine and shoulders, and wrestled the wheel back under control.
He'd caught it in time. The rigging luffed momentarily, Alliance giving a confused shudder as she floundered briefly under her own guidance, and then Antony's hand guided her back to course, and they surged away.
An explosion of sand erupted behind them as the looming skal'rak crashed back into the sand, inadvertantly slamming into the back of another of its pod. Sand writhed and seethed as a fierce argument broke out amongst the pod, and Antony slumped against the wheel, watching the waves and rolls of sand-turned-liquid disappearing further and further away. As they passed between the wind gaol, Antony allowed the ship to slow, and heard Sheilah laughing in the rigging.
She was suspended between the two masts, in a controlled tangle of rope and rigging and tackle. The fisherman sail, normally taught between the two masts, fluttered limply from a broken rope beneath her, the scar of a battle fought and won. Gregory was massaging a shoulder as he stooped over to peer at one of the deck boards midship.
"Well, Captain," Gregory rumbled as Antony lashed the wheel and came to inspect the damage. "Never let it be said you don't fight hard."
Here and there a board was bowed or cracked, the sheer power of the surge they'd pushed through Alliance enough to crack her weaker boards.
"She'll be feeling it just as bad as I am, it seems." He kneaded a thumb into a spot on his lower spine.
"Did I do the right thing? I messed that up, didn't I?"
A calloused hand clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
"Is your crew alive?"
"Y-yes?"
"Then you succeeded. Is your ship intact?"
"I... guess so?"
"Then you succeeded spectacularly." Gregory grinned. "And you got a story out of it! Well done."
Antony smiled thinly. "But..."
"No buts," Sheilah interrupted, coming up behind them and coiling a rope around her shoulder. "A second-guessing sailor is as good as heat-stricken."
Antony nodded. He'd heard that phrase enough that it was practically a mantra of the family.
"Now, how far 'til we arrive?"
"Uhmm..." Antony eyed the sun and the shrinking stone pillars behind him.
"Maybe another... hour or two?"
His parents raised their eyebrows.
"An hour or two," Antony repeated, this time with more conviction.
"An hour or two it is. What'll you have us do?"
Antony looked around, glancing at his mother's coiled rope, then up to the rigging, where the broken sail waved at him.
"Sheilah, go up and secure the fisherman sail. Stow it for now, so it doesn't get tangled in the rigging. And," he glanced glanced down at the ship deck, "Gregory, get the tar-caulk, lets seal up the cracks before the sand makes them any worse."
The two nodded and marched off to their tasks.
The sun was a watery orb of molten bronze, pooled on the horizon as Alliance and her worn-out crew arrived at the everglow. She heaved a sigh of relief as she coasted to a stop, huddled into a gently curved dune beside a chunky outcropping of brown-red stone. Skott had met back up with them a half-hour prior, laden with some fresh fruits and water-fattened armadillos scavenged from a nearby oasis. His only comment when regaled with an abridged summary of their story was "couldn't have done better myself." Antony was glowing.
As they set up camp, Antony found himself drawn towards a dark cavern shorn in the rocky formation that loomed over them. After ensuring all the tasks for the evening were divvied out, he descended into the cave, not knowing what he'd find but knowing it was the end of his Sath a Liom.
The air was cool, the unexpected dampness prickled his skin as he descended. The air smelled of the purifying rains that followed the stormy calamaty of a Discord, and as he rounded the bend formed by a gigantic boulder, feeling his way more than seeing it, he blinked. The cavern he'd stepped into was glowing. The entire rocky floor was covered in a small pool of crystal-clear water, and all around it, nestled in the floor, walls, and ceiling, were scores upon scores of glowing, teal crystal. Shards as small as his fingernail all the way up to massive crystals longer than his fingernail glowed gently in the quiet drip-drip of the grotto. Tied to the crystals and nestled in the rocks, or coiled reverently in the pool, were scarves. Hundreds of them strewn around, each placed with careful purpose and holy intent. A sailor lost, to be reborn in those like him.
Antony walked around the grotto slowly, stepping between glowing crystal and studying each scarf intently.
Finally, he spotted one, nestled in a corner. A yellow and green one, with short tassels of orange and slashed with blue across it. He walked over to it, feeling its worn threads, the sands of the past that even now clung to its fibers. An age-old scar ripped neatly down its center and stitched shut with silvery thread sparkled in the light, but despite its use and reuse over who knew how long, its colors were still vibrant, in defiance of time and weather and use.
Antony wrapped it around his neck, nuzzling his face into the still-soft fabric and inhaled. It was a fresh breeze across an oasis. A kiss of cool sand on his cheek in the early morning. The gentle rattle of tackle against wood.
It was him.