896.
That’s the number of stars you approximate you’ve counted since beginning your shift for the night watch. Or, at least, since boredom nudged you into this celestial tally. The passage of time feels like an eternity, and you’ve lost track of when you last heard the bell chime, which roughly signals the top of the hour.
1,127 times you’ve heard the sound of the waves crashing into the side of the ship. The storm continues off in the far distance, with lightning that occasionally flashes among the ominously dark clouds. Yet you’re not worried; the ship is skillfully navigated well clear of the tempest, keeping the severe weather to your right—or, rather, the ship’s starboard.
19 times you’ve heard someone speak of their spouse, mostly to grumble or make crude remarks.
Six times you’ve heard someone speak of their mistress.
28 people have shared stories of their hometowns, rich in nostalgia and longing for places they may never see again.
There were two instances where a scuffle nearly broke out, though they were stopped before it came to blows.
31 jokes have been told, few managing to bring a smile to your face.
Four people have confessed an aversion to seafood. An amusing predicament given the circumstances, and you’re not sure how they’ll fare during this long voyage.
Twelve people sought someplace they deemed isolated, unaware of your presence hovering above in the crow’s nest, and sob privately to themselves. Five of them have stood at the rail and contemplated jumping overboard, unable to handle the journey’s length, or being separated from their family, or dreading what lies ahead. You wished you could climb down to comfort them, but feared the repercussions for leaving your post. So you stayed put and said a silent prayer for them.
The bell sounds, mercifully, for the second time of your shift, providing a brief and welcomed interruption to your thoughts. Six more to go, you remind yourself, trying to shake off the monotony and the feeling of isolation.
Your eyes search the horizon—now a practiced routine—but your thoughts are adrift in the sea of contemplation. Your mind wanders to your family, wondering how they’re getting along without you. If they even notice or care. You start to think they only view you as a free laborer, someone whose sole purpose is to work on the farm. The argument with your aita before you ultimately departed rings clearly through your memory. The disappointment in your ama’s eyes, the disgust. Why couldn’t they just hear what you were trying to tell them, that there’s a better life awaiting you all if they would just join you on this journey? Perhaps you’re better off without them, being the only one who can see the clear signs of what’s to come if everyone remains in Legido.
But then you push those thoughts from your mind, choosing instead to remember the happier times shared with your loved ones. Your ama’s warm smile as she sang your favorite hymns. Your aita’s firm and comforting embrace every night before bed. You even think fondly of Afonzo, missing his sarcastic remarks and how you’d lose yourselves in imaginative play by the creek when you were young children. You think of all the laughter that cut through the melancholy and helped your family cope. The drought caused much hardship for everyone in Legido, not just your family, yet you all persevered and made the best of what little you had.
You ponder the risks and rewards of this journey. The promise of adventure and discovery had beckoned you away from the familiar, yet the peril of the unknown looms large. You wonder if the stories of far-off lands and treasures are true, or just fanciful tales told by seasoned sailors to wide-eyed novices like yourself. The thrill of potentially unveiling mysteries of uncharted territories is tinged with a thread of fear—of storms, of getting lost, or worse, finding what you’re not prepared to face.
As the night wears on, the serenity of the moment is deceptive. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, your eyelids begin to droop as the rhythmic rocking of the ship lulls you into a contemplative silence. The starlit sky stretches endlessly above, as if to mirror the boundless possibilities of your expedition. Here, perched high in the crow’s nest, you’re a solitary figure against the backdrop of an immense, slumbering ocean. The thought strikes you: in this vast expanse, you’re both insignificant and integral, a small part of something much greater than yourself. It’s exhilarating yet humbling.
Then, a sense of resolve washes over you. You realize that this journey is more than an escape from the drudgery of farm life or proving your worth to your family. It’s about carving your own path, facing the unpredictable sea of life with a brave heart. You’re here to write your own story, one where you’re not just a farmhand, but a seeker of fortunes and truths. With this newfound determination, you gaze out into the night, ready to embrace whatever lies ahead, your mind adrift in dreams of the riches and revelations that await you at journey’s end.
The sailors’ shouts awaken you.
“Don’t just sit there!” a voice bellows—are they calling to you?
“Yeah, you, with your mouth opened like a caught fish,” they say. It appears they were talking to you after all, and you’re jolted into action. “To the deck! On the double!”
As the storm bears down with its furious might, Captain Lema’s booming voice barely cuts through the howling wind, calling you down from the crow’s nest and pointing toward the mainmast. The storm, which seemed so distant earlier, has now enveloped the ship. With sheer panic and dread, you realize you must’ve fallen asleep while recounting memories of your family, unaware of the impending catastrophe.
Your heart races as you scramble down the rigging, the ship pitching and rolling violently beneath you. Saltwater stings your eyes, and the wind threatens to rip you from the ropes. Once you’re safely on deck, you see the crew wrestling with the sails, trying desperately to reduce their billowing expanse that makes the ship heel precariously at alarming angles.
“Secure that boom!” Captain Lema commands, his voice laced with urgency. “It’s swinging wild!”
You’re disoriented, at first, but then you see the crew struggling mightily with a long beam, shouting desperately over the calamity. Your feet slip on the wet deck as you dash towards your task. The boom—a heavy horizontal pole used to extend the bottom of the sail, you recall—swings dangerously, threatening to knock anyone within its reach into the turbulent sea. You grasp the rope attached to it, your hands straining against the boom’s weight and the force of the wind. Your efforts seem futile, the boom bucking like a wild stallion.
Just then, Lander appears beside you, ever the savior in your time of need. With a knowing nod, he joins his strength to yours. Together, you haul on the rope, inch by inch, bringing the boom under control. Lander’s instructions emerge through the roar of the storm, his seasoned eyes fixed on the boom and the sails above.
“Pull with the gust, not against it!” he shouts. You watch as he times his pulls expertly with the rhythm of the wind, allowing the force of nature to aid rather than hinder your efforts.
Following his lead, you adjust your stance, your muscles tensing and relaxing in sync with Lander’s movements. As a powerful gust sweeps across the deck, Lander yells, “Now, pull!” and together, you yank the rope. The boom swings towards you, but instead of resisting the motion, he harnesses the momentum, guiding the pole smoothly along its intended path as the storm’s fury is turned into an ally. The boom finally lurches into place with a satisfying thwunk, secured and stable.
“Well done!” Lander claps you on the back, a small smile on his youthful face. But there's no time to celebrate. Captain Lema is already barking new orders, directing the crew to navigate through the storm.
The sea is like a living entity, with monstrous waves rising like towering walls, each one a potential death sentence should it crash upon the deck. Lightning streaks across the sky in jagged flashes, briefly illuminating the chaos on deck—faces contorted in grim determination, hands gripping whatever they can for support. Amidst this storm, the ship heaves violently, causing the deck to tilt precariously, and hurls both seasoned sailors and unsecured cargo into chaotic motion. An untethered coil of rope slithers across the deck like a serpent set loose. Above, the sails bellow and flap wildly as if in protest to the storm’s anger. You can almost hear the rigging crying out, strained to its limits, threatening to snap under the relentless pressure.
The crew’s battle with the storm rages on, a fierce contest against nature’s wrath. Shouts of “man overboard!” sporadically pierce the electrified air. You watch with panic as people grapple with the beams, ropes, and sails, their muscles straining and faces etched with determination as they fight against the wind’s unabating fury. The ship creaks and groans under the onslaught while humungous waves crash against the hull, sending icy sprays of seawater over the deck, adding to the turmoil. The endurance of everyone onboard is put to the test as they engage in a battle for survival against the merciless ocean.
When the storm finally subsides, clouds gradually parting to reveal glimpses of the starry sky above, the extent of the damage becomes clear. Sails have been torn and tattered, and a significant number of cargo has become lost to the depths. Wooden supports and poles are splintered, holes punctured into the deck, with sections briefly set ablaze from fallen lanterns, now snuffed out after the relentless rain. Several crew members have been claimed by the unforgiving sea, while many others are left with deep gashes and bruises marring their weather-beaten faces and limbs.
You spot Lander crouched down and tending to one of the injured crew members. His deep-set hazel-green eyes are focused on wrapping a severe gash on someone’s shoulder, and when you look to see who the victim is, you instantly recognize the anguished face of Dorez, your long-time tormenter. One end of a splintered fragment of jagged wood is coated with a stark, unmistakable stain of crimson. Footsteps quickly approach, clomping upon the deck, and Benicto rushes to her side, clasping her hand in his with a look of sheer panic.
“Dorez!” he shouts. “Are you alright?” She can only grit her teeth, breathing quick, shallow breaths.
“What are you doing to her?” Benicto shouts, incensed. “You’re killing her!”
“I’m trying to bandage the wound,” Lander says, “but the gash is too deep. I’m not sure if this wrap will even hold.”
As Lander struggles, memories from the farm flood your mind. You recall a similar incident where a young lamb was ensnared by brambles, its leg viciously torn. “You’ve got to be gentle but firm,” your aita had advised, believing this was a task everyone on the farm should know how to tend to. Though you resisted at first, you were encouraged to take on the challenge, his voice a calming presence as he talked you through the procedure. He regularly reassured you, and you navigated the delicate task of stitching the lamb’s wound, your aita holding the injured animal still while your tiny hands worked the needle and thread. The principles he taught you then are suddenly crystal clear.
“I think I can help,” you say, stepping forward. “I need a needle and thread.”
Lander gives you a skeptical look, but nods, recognizing the determination in your eyes. You dart away, scavenging for the needed supplies. It takes precious minutes, but you return, makeshift needle and thread in hand.
As you kneel beside Dorez, Benicto’s anxious voice cuts through the tension. “What are you doing, oilaskoa? Don’t make it worse!”
Ignoring him, you focus on Dorez’s wound, simulating the motions you once used on the lamb. “Hold still,” you murmur, threading the needle with trembling but determined fingers. You feel Benicto’s eyes burning into you, but you continue to pay him little mind.
“Be careful,” Lander warns, watching intently as you begin the intricate process of closing the gash. Benicto hovers nearby, his usual bravado replaced by a mask of worry.
Your aita’s words echo in your mind, guiding each stitch. “It’s not just about closing the gap; it’s about giving the wound a chance to heal from inside.” You hadn’t thought much about what that meant at the time, but it makes sense to you now, as you carefully weave the needle around the laceration.
Benicto can’t help himself, his voice laced with nervous mockery. “Since when did the farm kid become a doctor?”
Lander shoots him a sharp glance. “Enough. They’re trying to help.”
With the ship swaying beneath you, the task is painstaking, but your hands remain steady. You recall the satisfaction of seeing the lamb recover, a life saved by your careful work. Now, with each stitch on Dorez’s shoulder, you feel a similar sense of purpose. Each successful loop and pull of the thread feels like a small victory, propelling you forward with renewed focus and energy.
As the final knot is secured, the tension around Dorez’s wound visibly eases, as does her breathing. Upon testing her shoulder, she winces, drawing a shallow, gasping breath. But her eyes meet yours with an unspoken acknowledgment of your effort, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes before she lapses into a pained silence.
Lander observes silently, his gaze thoughtful. Instead of words or gestures, he simply offers a slight nod—a recognition of what just transpired, devoid of fanfare but heavy with appreciation.
Still hovering anxiously, Benicto mutters something under his breath. It’s not clear whether it’s a reluctant thank you or another jibe, but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. Your focus was on aiding Dorez, not on seeking approval or changing opinions. Finding the strength within yourself to confront the challenge, no matter who the suffering victim happened to be, bolsters your much-deteriorated confidence.
Lifting yourself up from Dorez’s side, you take a moment to steady yourself, feeling the ship’s rhythm under your feet. Releasing a deep breath, you step away, wordlessly leaving the trio behind to venture off and check on other aspects of the ship that could use your assistance. You’ve gained a rekindled determination; you may not understand all the workings of a ship, but what you just achieved instills within you a fresh resolve.
Among the cacophony of shouts, one voice slices through the others: that of Captain Lema. There’s a ferocity in his tone that initially makes you want to turn around, find some other section of the ship that could use your help. Yet your curiosity is piqued, wondering who the poor soul is on the receiving end of such vitriol. You walk cautiously toward the aft of the ship and sneak behind a few barrels that somehow didn’t get damaged during the chaos, ducking down low so as not to be seen.
From your vantage point, you see the distinctive crown of the captain’s broad-brimmed felt hat shaking fervently. You feel a twinge of sympathy for the target of the shouting, wincing every so often at the venomous language being used. With the nearby commotion starting to blend into the background, you can just make out the precise words.
“You are the most experienced sailor I have on this ship,” the captain scolds. “I trusted your judgement, but perhaps I’m the fool for believing in you. I don’t know what I thought would happen—it’s not the first time you’ve let me down.”
“The night was quiet, captain,” you hear the gruff voice say. “I had no expectations a storm would catch us by surprise like that.” Just as you begin to question who the owner is of such a voice, Captain Lema confirms your suspicions.
“You of all people should know how quickly a storm like that can pounce on a ship, Gartzen—you’ve been on enough to know. So to send a novice? What were you thinking?”
“Sir,” you hear Gartzen attempting to collect himself, controlling his temper and choosing his words carefully, “the crew was short-handed and we needed somebody to fill the void in a hurry. They were eager to help, which is more than I can say about the rest of this lot. They appeared eager to learn and showed they were a quick study.”
“This isn’t the time to learn on the job, Gartzen!” the captain spits. “We are on an expedition designated to us by the exalted Xiatli. We cannot afford to fail, lest we all suffer the consequences.”
“We’ve been threatened by consequences before–“
“Our punishment is death, Gartzen. There is no second chance when it comes to this. We either succeed or we die. Does that register in your thick skull?”
You hear a few slow, heavy footsteps, noticing Gartzen’s bald head and salt-and-pepper beard stepping toward Captain Lema and towering over him.
“Would you like to try that question again, Captain?” Gartzen challenges.
Unfazed, Captain Lema answers, “I would love to. And if you would like to continue threatening me, I will see to it your next task will be retrieving all the cargo we lost overboard without a tether to this ship.”
Gartzen only responds to Captain Lema’s remark with a scowl, and the captain returns the stare at the tall, veteran sailor. Your pulse races, fully aware that you are the cause of this intense confrontation. You want to interrupt, cut through the tension, and apologize for not warning about the approaching storm. But you think better of it and stay put, letting these two settle this on their own.
“My question, Gartzen, is: do you have the mental capacity to comprehend just how much is at stake, you barnacle-brained buffoon? If we do not achieve what Xiatli has set out for us to accomplish, we will be fortunate if we’re given a clean, swift death.”
Gartzen’s burning gaze remains on the captain, nostrils flaring wide and seething with frustration. Unflinchingly, Captain Lema stares back, as if daring his subordinate to respond to his rhetorical question.
Strained with barely-contained anger, Gartzen’s eyes narrow as he leans in, his voice low but laced with a cutting edge. “Dreaming of joining the ranks of Ulloa and Criato, are we, Captain? You might want to grow a bit—both in stature and in spirit—before you can even come close.”
Captain Lema snarls. “Not every young face is your lost child, Gartzen. Stop letting your past cloud your judgment, and never let this happen again.” The captain stares, eyes as cold as flint, making sure his words were received before turning and walking away.
You see the usually-stoic Gartzen wince at this, visibly shaken. Crew members, who temporarily slowed in completing their tasks to covertly spectate and observe the exchange, look taken aback by the sharpness of Captain Lema’s words. They immediately return to work, keeping their heads down and refusing to make eye contact for fear of catching Gartzen’s freshly kindled wrath. Though he says nothing, it’s clear the strong figure is pained by the statement, hinting at some deep-lying undercurrent to their relationship.
There’s a pang of immense guilt that overwhelms you. You believe—you know—that the blame for this dire situation lies squarely on your shoulders. It was your actions that sparked the initial problem, your inexperience that indirectly led to Gartzen’s public humiliation. Self-reproach gnaws at you as you berate yourself for accepting the role of night shift lookout, fully aware that you weren’t prepared for such a hefty responsibility. You’re left engulfed in a sea of self-condemnation and despair. How could you have let this happen?
You emerge from your hiding place, ready and eager to offer Gartzen a consolatory look or pat on the shoulder. He is, after all, the person who rescued you from Benicto and Dorez’s torment, not to mention taking a chance on you after you hovered around him. But you’re even more motivated to do so after hearing the captain’s remark—not every young face is your lost child. What was that supposed to mean? It felt personal and intentionally insulting, and you can only imagine it was meant to utterly devastate Gartzen.
By his appearance, you believe it worked as expected. Gartzen slumps his shoulders with a long distance stare cast upon the deck as though he’s inspecting a specific wooden plank. He no longer scowls, instead appearing to fight back any emotion that is bubbling up inside of him. You grow concerned, hoping the withering remarks haven’t turned him into a hollowed shell of the confident leader who everyone looks up to.
Meekly, you say, “Gartzen?” You hunch over to try and peer into his eyes, to check whether he’s okay. However, the moment your gaze connects with his, he snaps out of his trance, his face washed in fury. In the blink of an eye, he goes from emotionally wounded into a fiery rage.
“Why didn’t you warn us about the storm!” Everyone’s attention is now promptly fixed on the scene developing between you and the veteran sailor. You look away, subtly appealing to the crowd for someone, anyone, to rescue you, yet nobody dares to step in. “You nearly got us all killed! You were supposed to signal to the crew at the first sight of trouble, you imbecile! How hard is that?”
You attempt to plead your case, but you can only stammer out incoherent gibberish through your embarrassment. “You made me look like a prized fool!” he shouts, now stabbing your chest with his meaty fingers, knocking you off-balance as you stumble backward, barely catching yourself before crashing into a beam.
“I never should’ve let some greenhorn child do man’s work. You are a rudderless raft who will amount to nothing. All you are is a waste of this ship’s resources, and if the gods had any sense, you would’ve been one of the souls tossed overboard and lost at sea.”
With this, he charges off like an enraged bull, ramming his shoulder into and knocking aside any innocent bystander who happened to be in his path. You’re left there, stunned at at what you just endured, as the crew mutters in hushed tones, their whispers intertwining with pointed glances and muffled snickers directed your way. You’re not sure how to take what was just shouted at you, how to handle such a slight. A part of you feels that the harsh treatment was justified, having allowed the ship to be steered right into a dangerous storm. But another part believes Gartzen used you to lash out, to take out pent-up emotions from an event that occurred long ago. Was this deserved? Ultimately, perhaps not, but with emotions running hot and a significant amount of damage and loss suffered, you can at least partly understand why it took place.
Keeping your head hung low, you hurriedly escape the area, wishing you could fly away off this cursed deck of this cursed ship. Instead, you resort to rushing off toward your hammock below deck. Yet before you arrive at the hatch to lower yourself down the steep stairs, you’re alerted to a startling amount of commotion. Casting your sights at the ship’s wheel, nearly a dozen sailors engage in intense deliberations among themselves, talking over one another while pointing in various directions. Finally, one of the sailors catches the eye of Captain Lema, frantically waving. With a scowl etched deep into his clean-shaven face, he begrudgingly trudges over, exuding annoyance with every step.
“Captain!” One of the crew members cries out, his shout doused in sheer panic. “I’ve lost sight of the other ships! Our ship is off-course! We’re headed in the wrong direction!”
896.
That’s the number of stars you approximate you’ve counted since beginning your shift for the night watch. Or, at least, since boredom nudged you into this celestial tally. The passage of time feels like an eternity, and you’ve lost track of when you last heard the bell chime, which roughly signals the top of the hour.
1,127 times you’ve heard the sound of the waves crashing into the side of the ship. The storm continues off in the far distance, with lightning that occasionally flashes among the ominously dark clouds. Yet you’re not worried; the ship is skillfully navigated well clear of the tempest, keeping the severe weather to your right—or, rather, the ship’s starboard.
19 times you’ve heard someone speak of their spouse, mostly to grumble or make crude remarks.
Six times you’ve heard someone speak of their mistress.
28 people have shared stories of their hometowns, rich in nostalgia and longing for places they may never see again.
There were two instances where a scuffle nearly broke out, though they were stopped before it came to blows.
31 jokes have been told, few managing to bring a smile to your face.
Four people have confessed an aversion to seafood. An amusing predicament given the circumstances, and you’re not sure how they’ll fare during this long voyage.
Twelve people sought someplace they deemed isolated, unaware of your presence hovering above in the crow’s nest, and sob privately to themselves. Five of them have stood at the rail and contemplated jumping overboard, unable to handle the journey’s length, or being separated from their family, or dreading what lies ahead. You wished you could climb down to comfort them, but feared the repercussions for leaving your post. So you stayed put and said a silent prayer for them.
The bell sounds, mercifully, for the second time of your shift, providing a brief and welcomed interruption to your thoughts. Six more to go, you remind yourself, trying to shake off the monotony and the feeling of isolation.
Your eyes search the horizon—now a practiced routine—but your thoughts are adrift in the sea of contemplation. Your mind wanders to your family, wondering how they’re getting along without you. If they even notice or care. You start to think they only view you as a free laborer, someone whose sole purpose is to work on the farm. The argument with your aita before you ultimately departed rings clearly through your memory. The disappointment in your ama’s eyes, the disgust. Why couldn’t they just hear what you were trying to tell them, that there’s a better life awaiting you all if they would just join you on this journey? Perhaps you’re better off without them, being the only one who can see the clear signs of what’s to come if everyone remains in Legido.
But then you push those thoughts from your mind, choosing instead to remember the happier times shared with your loved ones. Your ama’s warm smile as she sang your favorite hymns. Your aita’s firm and comforting embrace every night before bed. You even think fondly of Afonzo, missing his sarcastic remarks and how you’d lose yourselves in imaginative play by the creek when you were young children. You think of all the laughter that cut through the melancholy and helped your family cope. The drought caused much hardship for everyone in Legido, not just your family, yet you all persevered and made the best of what little you had.
You ponder the risks and rewards of this journey. The promise of adventure and discovery had beckoned you away from the familiar, yet the peril of the unknown looms large. You wonder if the stories of far-off lands and treasures are true, or just fanciful tales told by seasoned sailors to wide-eyed novices like yourself. The thrill of potentially unveiling mysteries of uncharted territories is tinged with a thread of fear—of storms, of getting lost, or worse, finding what you’re not prepared to face.
As the night wears on, the serenity of the moment is deceptive. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, your eyelids begin to droop as the rhythmic rocking of the ship lulls you into a contemplative silence. The starlit sky stretches endlessly above, as if to mirror the boundless possibilities of your expedition. Here, perched high in the crow’s nest, you’re a solitary figure against the backdrop of an immense, slumbering ocean. The thought strikes you: in this vast expanse, you’re both insignificant and integral, a small part of something much greater than yourself. It’s exhilarating yet humbling.
Then, a sense of resolve washes over you. You realize that this journey is more than an escape from the drudgery of farm life or proving your worth to your family. It’s about carving your own path, facing the unpredictable sea of life with a brave heart. You’re here to write your own story, one where you’re not just a farmhand, but a seeker of fortunes and truths. With this newfound determination, you gaze out into the night, ready to embrace whatever lies ahead, your mind adrift in dreams of the riches and revelations that await you at journey’s end.
The sailors’ shouts awaken you.
“Don’t just sit there!” a voice bellows—are they calling to you?
“Yeah, you, with your mouth opened like a caught fish,” they say. It appears they were talking to you after all, and you’re jolted into action. “To the deck! On the double!”
As the storm bears down with its furious might, Captain Lema’s booming voice barely cuts through the howling wind, calling you down from the crow’s nest and pointing toward the mainmast. The storm, which seemed so distant earlier, has now enveloped the ship. With sheer panic and dread, you realize you must’ve fallen asleep while recounting memories of your family, unaware of the impending catastrophe.
Your heart races as you scramble down the rigging, the ship pitching and rolling violently beneath you. Saltwater stings your eyes, and the wind threatens to rip you from the ropes. Once you’re safely on deck, you see the crew wrestling with the sails, trying desperately to reduce their billowing expanse that makes the ship heel precariously at alarming angles.
“Secure that boom!” Captain Lema commands, his voice laced with urgency. “It’s swinging wild!”
You’re disoriented, at first, but then you see the crew struggling mightily with a long beam, shouting desperately over the calamity. Your feet slip on the wet deck as you dash towards your task. The boom—a heavy horizontal pole used to extend the bottom of the sail, you recall—swings dangerously, threatening to knock anyone within its reach into the turbulent sea. You grasp the rope attached to it, your hands straining against the boom’s weight and the force of the wind. Your efforts seem futile, the boom bucking like a wild stallion.
Just then, Lander appears beside you, ever the savior in your time of need. With a knowing nod, he joins his strength to yours. Together, you haul on the rope, inch by inch, bringing the boom under control. Lander’s instructions emerge through the roar of the storm, his seasoned eyes fixed on the boom and the sails above.
“Pull with the gust, not against it!” he shouts. You watch as he times his pulls expertly with the rhythm of the wind, allowing the force of nature to aid rather than hinder your efforts.
Following his lead, you adjust your stance, your muscles tensing and relaxing in sync with Lander’s movements. As a powerful gust sweeps across the deck, Lander yells, “Now, pull!” and together, you yank the rope. The boom swings towards you, but instead of resisting the motion, he harnesses the momentum, guiding the pole smoothly along its intended path as the storm’s fury is turned into an ally. The boom finally lurches into place with a satisfying thwunk, secured and stable.
“Well done!” Lander claps you on the back, a small smile on his youthful face. But there's no time to celebrate. Captain Lema is already barking new orders, directing the crew to navigate through the storm.
The sea is like a living entity, with monstrous waves rising like towering walls, each one a potential death sentence should it crash upon the deck. Lightning streaks across the sky in jagged flashes, briefly illuminating the chaos on deck—faces contorted in grim determination, hands gripping whatever they can for support. Amidst this storm, the ship heaves violently, causing the deck to tilt precariously, and hurls both seasoned sailors and unsecured cargo into chaotic motion. An untethered coil of rope slithers across the deck like a serpent set loose. Above, the sails bellow and flap wildly as if in protest to the storm’s anger. You can almost hear the rigging crying out, strained to its limits, threatening to snap under the relentless pressure.
The crew’s battle with the storm rages on, a fierce contest against nature’s wrath. Shouts of “man overboard!” sporadically pierce the electrified air. You watch with panic as people grapple with the beams, ropes, and sails, their muscles straining and faces etched with determination as they fight against the wind’s unabating fury. The ship creaks and groans under the onslaught while humungous waves crash against the hull, sending icy sprays of seawater over the deck, adding to the turmoil. The endurance of everyone onboard is put to the test as they engage in a battle for survival against the merciless ocean.
When the storm finally subsides, clouds gradually parting to reveal glimpses of the starry sky above, the extent of the damage becomes clear. Sails have been torn and tattered, and a significant number of cargo has become lost to the depths. Wooden supports and poles are splintered, holes punctured into the deck, with sections briefly set ablaze from fallen lanterns, now snuffed out after the relentless rain. Several crew members have been claimed by the unforgiving sea, while many others are left with deep gashes and bruises marring their weather-beaten faces and limbs.
You spot Lander crouched down and tending to one of the injured crew members. His deep-set hazel-green eyes are focused on wrapping a severe gash on someone’s shoulder, and when you look to see who the victim is, you instantly recognize the anguished face of Dorez, your long-time tormenter. One end of a splintered fragment of jagged wood is coated with a stark, unmistakable stain of crimson. Footsteps quickly approach, clomping upon the deck, and Benicto rushes to her side, clasping her hand in his with a look of sheer panic.
“Dorez!” he shouts. “Are you alright?” She can only grit her teeth, breathing quick, shallow breaths.
“What are you doing to her?” Benicto shouts, incensed. “You’re killing her!”
“I’m trying to bandage the wound,” Lander says, “but the gash is too deep. I’m not sure if this wrap will even hold.”
As Lander struggles, memories from the farm flood your mind. You recall a similar incident where a young lamb was ensnared by brambles, its leg viciously torn. “You’ve got to be gentle but firm,” your aita had advised, believing this was a task everyone on the farm should know how to tend to. Though you resisted at first, you were encouraged to take on the challenge, his voice a calming presence as he talked you through the procedure. He regularly reassured you, and you navigated the delicate task of stitching the lamb’s wound, your aita holding the injured animal still while your tiny hands worked the needle and thread. The principles he taught you then are suddenly crystal clear.
“I think I can help,” you say, stepping forward. “I need a needle and thread.”
Lander gives you a skeptical look, but nods, recognizing the determination in your eyes. You dart away, scavenging for the needed supplies. It takes precious minutes, but you return, makeshift needle and thread in hand.
As you kneel beside Dorez, Benicto’s anxious voice cuts through the tension. “What are you doing, oilaskoa? Don’t make it worse!”
Ignoring him, you focus on Dorez’s wound, simulating the motions you once used on the lamb. “Hold still,” you murmur, threading the needle with trembling but determined fingers. You feel Benicto’s eyes burning into you, but you continue to pay him little mind.
“Be careful,” Lander warns, watching intently as you begin the intricate process of closing the gash. Benicto hovers nearby, his usual bravado replaced by a mask of worry.
Your aita’s words echo in your mind, guiding each stitch. “It’s not just about closing the gap; it’s about giving the wound a chance to heal from inside.” You hadn’t thought much about what that meant at the time, but it makes sense to you now, as you carefully weave the needle around the laceration.
Benicto can’t help himself, his voice laced with nervous mockery. “Since when did the farm kid become a doctor?”
Lander shoots him a sharp glance. “Enough. They’re trying to help.”
With the ship swaying beneath you, the task is painstaking, but your hands remain steady. You recall the satisfaction of seeing the lamb recover, a life saved by your careful work. Now, with each stitch on Dorez’s shoulder, you feel a similar sense of purpose. Each successful loop and pull of the thread feels like a small victory, propelling you forward with renewed focus and energy.
As the final knot is secured, the tension around Dorez’s wound visibly eases, as does her breathing. Upon testing her shoulder, she winces, drawing a shallow, gasping breath. But her eyes meet yours with an unspoken acknowledgment of your effort, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes before she lapses into a pained silence.
Lander observes silently, his gaze thoughtful. Instead of words or gestures, he simply offers a slight nod—a recognition of what just transpired, devoid of fanfare but heavy with appreciation.
Still hovering anxiously, Benicto mutters something under his breath. It’s not clear whether it’s a reluctant thank you or another jibe, but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. Your focus was on aiding Dorez, not on seeking approval or changing opinions. Finding the strength within yourself to confront the challenge, no matter who the suffering victim happened to be, bolsters your much-deteriorated confidence.
Lifting yourself up from Dorez’s side, you take a moment to steady yourself, feeling the ship’s rhythm under your feet. Releasing a deep breath, you step away, wordlessly leaving the trio behind to venture off and check on other aspects of the ship that could use your assistance. You’ve gained a rekindled determination; you may not understand all the workings of a ship, but what you just achieved instills within you a fresh resolve.
Among the cacophony of shouts, one voice slices through the others: that of Captain Lema. There’s a ferocity in his tone that initially makes you want to turn around, find some other section of the ship that could use your help. Yet your curiosity is piqued, wondering who the poor soul is on the receiving end of such vitriol. You walk cautiously toward the aft of the ship and sneak behind a few barrels that somehow didn’t get damaged during the chaos, ducking down low so as not to be seen.
From your vantage point, you see the distinctive crown of the captain’s broad-brimmed felt hat shaking fervently. You feel a twinge of sympathy for the target of the shouting, wincing every so often at the venomous language being used. With the nearby commotion starting to blend into the background, you can just make out the precise words.
“You are the most experienced sailor I have on this ship,” the captain scolds. “I trusted your judgement, but perhaps I’m the fool for believing in you. I don’t know what I thought would happen—it’s not the first time you’ve let me down.”
“The night was quiet, captain,” you hear the gruff voice say. “I had no expectations a storm would catch us by surprise like that.” Just as you begin to question who the owner is of such a voice, Captain Lema confirms your suspicions.
“You of all people should know how quickly a storm like that can pounce on a ship, Gartzen—you’ve been on enough to know. So to send a novice? What were you thinking?”
“Sir,” you hear Gartzen attempting to collect himself, controlling his temper and choosing his words carefully, “the crew was short-handed and we needed somebody to fill the void in a hurry. They were eager to help, which is more than I can say about the rest of this lot. They appeared eager to learn and showed they were a quick study.”
“This isn’t the time to learn on the job, Gartzen!” the captain spits. “We are on an expedition designated to us by the exalted Xiatli. We cannot afford to fail, lest we all suffer the consequences.”
“We’ve been threatened by consequences before–“
“Our punishment is death, Gartzen. There is no second chance when it comes to this. We either succeed or we die. Does that register in your thick skull?”
You hear a few slow, heavy footsteps, noticing Gartzen’s bald head and salt-and-pepper beard stepping toward Captain Lema and towering over him.
“Would you like to try that question again, Captain?” Gartzen challenges.
Unfazed, Captain Lema answers, “I would love to. And if you would like to continue threatening me, I will see to it your next task will be retrieving all the cargo we lost overboard without a tether to this ship.”
Gartzen only responds to Captain Lema’s remark with a scowl, and the captain returns the stare at the tall, veteran sailor. Your pulse races, fully aware that you are the cause of this intense confrontation. You want to interrupt, cut through the tension, and apologize for not warning about the approaching storm. But you think better of it and stay put, letting these two settle this on their own.
“My question, Gartzen, is: do you have the mental capacity to comprehend just how much is at stake, you barnacle-brained buffoon? If we do not achieve what Xiatli has set out for us to accomplish, we will be fortunate if we’re given a clean, swift death.”
Gartzen’s burning gaze remains on the captain, nostrils flaring wide and seething with frustration. Unflinchingly, Captain Lema stares back, as if daring his subordinate to respond to his rhetorical question.
Strained with barely-contained anger, Gartzen’s eyes narrow as he leans in, his voice low but laced with a cutting edge. “Dreaming of joining the ranks of Ulloa and Criato, are we, Captain? You might want to grow a bit—both in stature and in spirit—before you can even come close.”
Captain Lema snarls. “Not every young face is your lost child, Gartzen. Stop letting your past cloud your judgment, and never let this happen again.” The captain stares, eyes as cold as flint, making sure his words were received before turning and walking away.
You see the usually-stoic Gartzen wince at this, visibly shaken. Crew members, who temporarily slowed in completing their tasks to covertly spectate and observe the exchange, look taken aback by the sharpness of Captain Lema’s words. They immediately return to work, keeping their heads down and refusing to make eye contact for fear of catching Gartzen’s freshly kindled wrath. Though he says nothing, it’s clear the strong figure is pained by the statement, hinting at some deep-lying undercurrent to their relationship.
There’s a pang of immense guilt that overwhelms you. You believe—you know—that the blame for this dire situation lies squarely on your shoulders. It was your actions that sparked the initial problem, your inexperience that indirectly led to Gartzen’s public humiliation. Self-reproach gnaws at you as you berate yourself for accepting the role of night shift lookout, fully aware that you weren’t prepared for such a hefty responsibility. You’re left engulfed in a sea of self-condemnation and despair. How could you have let this happen?
You emerge from your hiding place, ready and eager to offer Gartzen a consolatory look or pat on the shoulder. He is, after all, the person who rescued you from Benicto and Dorez’s torment, not to mention taking a chance on you after you hovered around him. But you’re even more motivated to do so after hearing the captain’s remark—not every young face is your lost child. What was that supposed to mean? It felt personal and intentionally insulting, and you can only imagine it was meant to utterly devastate Gartzen.
By his appearance, you believe it worked as expected. Gartzen slumps his shoulders with a long distance stare cast upon the deck as though he’s inspecting a specific wooden plank. He no longer scowls, instead appearing to fight back any emotion that is bubbling up inside of him. You grow concerned, hoping the withering remarks haven’t turned him into a hollowed shell of the confident leader who everyone looks up to.
Meekly, you say, “Gartzen?” You hunch over to try and peer into his eyes, to check whether he’s okay. However, the moment your gaze connects with his, he snaps out of his trance, his face washed in fury. In the blink of an eye, he goes from emotionally wounded into a fiery rage.
“Why didn’t you warn us about the storm!” Everyone’s attention is now promptly fixed on the scene developing between you and the veteran sailor. You look away, subtly appealing to the crowd for someone, anyone, to rescue you, yet nobody dares to step in. “You nearly got us all killed! You were supposed to signal to the crew at the first sight of trouble, you imbecile! How hard is that?”
You attempt to plead your case, but you can only stammer out incoherent gibberish through your embarrassment. “You made me look like a prized fool!” he shouts, now stabbing your chest with his meaty fingers, knocking you off-balance as you stumble backward, barely catching yourself before crashing into a beam.
“I never should’ve let some greenhorn child do man’s work. You are a rudderless raft who will amount to nothing. All you are is a waste of this ship’s resources, and if the gods had any sense, you would’ve been one of the souls tossed overboard and lost at sea.”
With this, he charges off like an enraged bull, ramming his shoulder into and knocking aside any innocent bystander who happened to be in his path. You’re left there, stunned at at what you just endured, as the crew mutters in hushed tones, their whispers intertwining with pointed glances and muffled snickers directed your way. You’re not sure how to take what was just shouted at you, how to handle such a slight. A part of you feels that the harsh treatment was justified, having allowed the ship to be steered right into a dangerous storm. But another part believes Gartzen used you to lash out, to take out pent-up emotions from an event that occurred long ago. Was this deserved? Ultimately, perhaps not, but with emotions running hot and a significant amount of damage and loss suffered, you can at least partly understand why it took place.
Keeping your head hung low, you hurriedly escape the area, wishing you could fly away off this cursed deck of this cursed ship. Instead, you resort to rushing off toward your hammock below deck. Yet before you arrive at the hatch to lower yourself down the steep stairs, you’re alerted to a startling amount of commotion. Casting your sights at the ship’s wheel, nearly a dozen sailors engage in intense deliberations among themselves, talking over one another while pointing in various directions. Finally, one of the sailors catches the eye of Captain Lema, frantically waving. With a scowl etched deep into his clean-shaven face, he begrudgingly trudges over, exuding annoyance with every step.
“Captain!” One of the crew members cries out, his shout doused in sheer panic. “I’ve lost sight of the other ships! Our ship is off-course! We’re headed in the wrong direction!”
