It’s the looks of disgust you receive from all the crew members that hurts the most. After the storm devastated the ship, tossing sailors and cargo overboard, the navigators have spent a painstaking amount of time trying to figure out how badly you’ve all been knocked off course. Unbeknown to you, the other ships were trailing the one you’re aboard, following you to the destination. Searching the horizon, you see nothing but the golden sun shimmering on the vast expanse of the ocean like sparkling diamonds—a sight that would usually take your breath away, but instead, now fills you with dread.
The task Gartzen assigned to you didn’t appear all that difficult. Make sure the ship steers clear of any impending storms, and notify the captain and crew of any trouble. It seemed as if you were going to avoid the tempest far off in the distance, sailing out of harm’s way to where it would remain to the starboard side. The night was quiet otherwise, uneventful besides the entertaining banter occurring below your post in the crow’s nest.
Yet you dozed off—by accident! you plead to no one but yourself—and the storm caught you off-guard, having lulled you into a false sense of security. It seemed so obvious, so apparent, and difficult to miss, so you didn’t think you needed to state anything about it. Didn’t everyone see it? How could they not?
The labor-intensive clean up of the storm’s destructive force is a clear reminder of how costly your assumption was. Splintered masts lay like fallen giants across the deck. Their once proud sails are tattered, flapping weakly in the morose wind. Though still intact, the hull bears the scars of nature’s fury, with gaping holes that are hastily patched to keep the merciless sea at bay. Waterlogged supplies are strewn about as water still sloshes in the hold below, with many provisions and goods spoiled and irretrievable. Crew members move with a heavy silence. Their glances toward you are a mix of disappointment and thinly veiled resentment. Born from a moment’s oversight, this devastation brings a guilt from which there is no escape aboard this crippled vessel.
If the looks from the other crew members wasn’t enough, it’s Gartzen’s silent treatment that is the most punishing. Each moment you attempt to approach him, to apologize, to give some kind of explanation, you’re met with a steely cold glare before he charges off in another direction. He always seems to conveniently find some other task to do, or some other crewmate to speak to—anything to avoid talking to you. With each dismissal, you feel the pain in your heart, knowing you’ve disappointed someone whom you respected and admired, who placed their trust in you, however misguided. And there doesn’t appear to be any way to regain his trust, to undo the hurt, to make up for letting him down.
Seeking redemption and a way to productively pass the time, you find tasks to assist with, contributing what you can to the ship’s restoration. Picking up debris, swabbing the deck, sewing patches into the punctured sails… anything to make yourself useful. Your offers to help are met with reluctance, at best, and aggressive, flat out rejection, at worst. Nevertheless, you persevere, insisting on giving your assistance wherever you can.
While helping a team of crew members lift a large and heavy mast that’s badly damaged and has fallen onto the deck, Captain Lema darts past you. He mutters something inaudibly to himself as he marches toward the wheel of the ship. You want to continue assisting your crewmates, but there’s something about his demeanor that concerns you. Perhaps it’s the blank stare at nothing in particular, or the frantic, frenetic frenzy in which he carries himself that alarms you. It’s not the cool, controlled captain you’re accustomed to seeing, and you’re eager to discover what’s happened, if there’s some new development of great concern.
Once you all are able to set the mast aside for repairs, you hurry off to the back of the ship—or ‘stern’, you recall Lander once calling it. There, Captain Lema speaks to one of the crew members, a “first mate” as he’s called. The man is a head’s length taller than the captain, though towering over the small-statured captain isn’t a difficult feat. Despite the youthfulness suggested by his stature and the liveliness in his sharp and discerning eyes, his face tells tales of countless voyages. The sun has marked him with lines that indicate relentless days under scorching skies and fierce gales battled at sea. There’s a certain ruggedness to him, a testament to his experience navigating through treacherous waters and guiding this galleon with a seasoned hand.
“That’s not the update I wanted to hear,” the captain laments. “How could we have strayed that far from our course?”
“I’m not certain,” the first mate says with a high-pitched, nasally voice. “However, judging by the cloud patterns, we appear to be turned toward a south by southwestern direction. If we can get ourselves turned, we should be able to resume course.”
“But the lack of any real wind,” Captain Lema complains. “It appears we’ll have to sail close-hauled. That will be too risky.”
“Only if we’re not careful, Captain, sir,” the first mate challenges. “Certainly, we could veer further off track if we’re reckless. However, we’ll remain sitting here, stalled, until conditions improve otherwise. And who knows how long that might be.”
Captain Lema hems and haws as he contemplates the matter. It’s not entirely clear to you what ‘close-hauled’ means, but it sounds like a tricky maneuver to pull off. Now that you think about it, you haven’t been moving at all. You assumed it was due to the sails being down and damaged, but you hadn’t thought of utilizing the ones that could still function, albeit inefficiently.
Eventually, the captain makes a decision. “I don’t like the idea of tempting the wind’s wrath. But I don’t much care to await the wind’s mercy, either. We can’t afford to be adrift of Xiatli and the others any longer.”
He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the waters as if visualizing the maneuver in his mind’s eye. “The sails that can still catch what little of the wind there is, and it should be enough to pull us sideways against the breeze and nudging us onward. It’ll require a keen eye and a steady hand at the helm to keep us on course without veering into the wind’s path or losing our momentum altogether.”
The first mate looks resolute. “I’ll set our course and take the wind’s challenge head-on, sir. A few of the sails are close to being completely repaired, so we can begin shortly. I’ll put our best sailors on it—they’ll know when and how to adjust the sails. It won’t be easy, but the sea never promised ease, sir, only passage.”
Just when you believe the conversation to be finished, Captain Lema pulls the first mate in closely, as if speaking conspiratorially about something. You find yourself leaning closer, as if that will help you listen in. But, unsurprisingly, you don’t catch much. The captain walks away swiftly, pointing and barking out orders to other crew members.
Curiously, the first mate stays back, looking flummoxed. Turning to another member of the crew, he begins speaking to him in a hushed tone. Not wanting to be caught, but not wanting to miss what’s being said, you sneak over behind a few crates of cargo—crouching low so as to not be seen, but better able to listen in. The speech is muffled, but you can still make out a little of their discussion.
“The captain’s in a bad way,” the first mate tells the other. “He’s terrified of this mission failing.”
“Well, you got him to sign off on sailing close-hauled, right?” the other asks. He’s a portly man with thinning, black hair, and a straggly beard. His bulbous nose is crooked at the bridge, likely from some incident aboard a ship or at port during his travels. “At least we’re finally going to get moving. I don’t know how much longer I could stand sitting here twiddling my thumbs like a common idiot.”
“Judging by the sheer panic in his voice, I doubt we would’ve been staying put for much longer,” the first mate says. “He’s convinced that, if we don’t rejoin the other ships soon, we’re all destined to be massacred by Xiatli.”
The other shipman scoffs. “He’s just a brown-nosing deck polisher, always shining the boots that kick him.”
“That may be so,” the first mate says, “but we’ve all heard the stories. Xiatli doesn’t accept failure. And by all accounts, this feels as though there’s some personal matter involved in undertaking such a mission. I’ve sailed my fair share around Legido, but to cross an ocean? My wife was right when she determined this was madness.”
“It’s mad to think what waits for us on the other side?” the shipman challenges. “Imagine the treasure, the mountains of gold and jewels untouched by any who’ve sailed before us. To fill our holds with wealth so vast, we could live as kings upon our return. That’s a madness I can gladly embrace!”
The two prattle on like this for some time. Tiring of this, you make your way to other areas of the ship that could use more clean up and repair. Once again, however, you’re met with more cold shoulders and confrontations. Others shoo you away, with some even absurdly declaring you to be cursed and not wanting you to spread your perceived disease to them. It becomes harder and harder to find an ally on board the ship, and you fear you may remain isolated from everyone until you reach shore—if you’re not tossed overboard beforehand.
Having seen your plight, you’re met by a familiar, friendly face, a solitary bloom in a field of thorns. “Hey,” Lander says softly, approaching you with a concern that feels like a balm to your weathered spirit. “Don’t let their words anchor you to guilt. You were placed in a situation many seasoned sailors have misjudged. The sea, she’s a fickle mistress. She tests the mettle of all who dare traverse her expanses. What happened… it could’ve happened to any one of us.”
He continues, and now there’s a depth of sincerity in his eyes as he speaks. "Storms come and go, you know? This,“ he gestures to the broken masts and the sullen crew, “is just another kind of storm. We weather it, we rebuild, and we sail on. We’re all here because we believe in something greater. Let’s not let a storm divide us.” He offers you a slight, encouraging smile. It’s a rare glimpse of solidarity in a world that feels increasingly isolated, and a reminder that you have an ally, someone who sees something in you that you may not see in yourself.
Out of nowhere, a shadow lunges from your periphery. A galaxy of stars explodes abruptly across your vision as an unseen force collides with the side of your head, a thunderous impact echoing in the confines of your skull. You stumble to your side, propping yourself up with a cargo crate. Your world blurs, reality distorting into a narrowing tunnel of darkness. You blink furiously, and when you come to, you see Benicto standing over you, his arm coiled back and ready to swing again.
Lander grabs Benicto and tries his best to restrain your attacker. He clutches Benicto’s arm, shouting for him to stop. Benicto tries to loosen himself from Lander’s halting grip, and for a moment, you’re given a reprieve, allowing you to lift yourself onto your feet.
However, Benicto gets free, now taking his aggression out on Lander. He unleashes a flurry of punches, wailing on Lander’s face and torso. Lander tumbles to the deck, yet he’s able to protect himself from most of the incoming strikes, shielding his face with his arms that take the brunt of the assault. Discontented, Benicto grabs a fragmented piece of wood and swings it. The makeshift paddle slams into Lander’s stomach, the splintered debris slicing along his abdomen and causing a long gash. Panicked, Lander grabs at the hat atop his head that starts to slide off amidst the barrage of blows. He winces in pain, clutching the wound with one hand while holding up the other as a plea for his attacker to stop.
You go to defend your friend, grabbing and restraining Benicto from causing further harm. He elbows you in the face, the tangy taste of iron welling in your mouth from the blood after your teeth cut the inside of your lip. You hold on, clasping onto his arm and attempting to shake the piece of wood loose from his hands. He struggles, trying to fight you off like an ensnared animal from a trap. A few more elbows fly into your face, but you hang on, hoping to protect your only ally on this ship.
“Enough, Benicto!” A girl’s voice screams above the commotion. Dorez swoops in, slapping at the assailant and forcing him into a cower. Benicto steps away, shrugging his shoulders to shield himself. She persists, continually smacking him, the scene causing cheers and jeers from the onlooking crew members.
Emerging from blind rage, a sudden stillness envelops Benicto in the wake of Dorez’s intervention. With a heavy breath, he surveys the aftermath. The fog of fury that had clouded his senses begins to dissipate, revealing the stark reality of his actions.
“You fool!” she shouts in Benicto’s face. “You forget how they helped when I was injured, how they sewed the wound on my shoulder. Who knows where I would be without their help. And now, they’re trying to fix their mistake. You need to back off and show them some grace.”
Benicto stares her down, nostrils flaring. You think he’s calming himself, gaining awareness of the situation at hand. But rather than make any apology, he shoves Dorez aside, pointing the plank of wood at you.
“I’m not through with you,” he snarls. “This,” he gestures wildly with the piece in his hand, as if brandishing a weapon, “is all your fault. Every shattered plank, every torn sail, this ship teetering on the brink of oblivion—it’s all woven from your ineptitude. You’ve steered us straight into the maw of disaster, and don’t think for a moment that I’ll let you forget it!”
You go over to Lander and help him to his feet, noticing the lower part of his shirt stained red. He grimaces, sucking in breath through his teeth as he picks himself up. As you lend him a hand, he waves you away, protective of his wound while he gingerly stands up.
“I just need to bandage the wound,” he says with a strained voice. “No, no, it’s okay. I’ll be fine, I promise.” Though he gives you assurances, you’re still concerned about the severity of that wound. You’ve sewn up gashes already while aboard the ship, so you’re surprised when he turns down your offer. He walks away slowly and with great care, heading below deck.
With the sails mended and the deck cleared, your gaze sweeps the ship for another task, another chance to mend not just the galley, but the rift your mistake has carved between you and the crew. Though unaccustomed to the rigors of the life of a sailor, your hands are eager and willing to help. You notice a small group struggling to secure a patch over a gaping wound in the ship’s hull.
“Need another hand?” you ask, trying to abate your desperation, and approaching them with a hardened resolve.
Their initial hesitation fades as they assess the sincerity in your eyes. Slowly, they nod, allowing you to join their efforts. Together, you work in unison, hammering, sealing, and reinforcing the patch to keep the sea at bay. It’s meticulous, arduous work that demands attention to detail and a steady hand—qualities you’re determined to prove you possess.
As you drive the last nail into place, securing the patch firmly against the hull, you can’t help but feel a swell of pride. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, in the ongoing battle to earn back the trust and respect of your shipmates. Maybe Lander is right, that this ship and its crew can weather any storm, as long as you face it together.
Your contemplation is interrupted by the sight of Captain Lema emerging from his quarters. There’s a rare, vulnerable expression etched on his face. His eyes lock with yours for a moment, silently acknowledging the crew before he strides away with purpose in his step. A long, green bottle is gripped in his hand as he darts off. Your curiosity is piqued, and once again, you find yourself drawn to the captain.
Seated on top of a crate, Gartzen takes care in whittling a piece of wood in his weathered, meaty paws. Is the chunk from part of the ship, you wonder? The knife looks worn and well-used, like a relic from generations past. Captain Lema approaches him, holding out the bottle as an offering. You’re trying to make yourself scarce, hoping to avoid another confrontation. Tucked away behind a stack of coiled ropes, you overhear the soft-spoken exchange.
“You’ve been with me through more squalls and skirmishes than I can count,” Captain Lema begins, his voice unusually gentle. Toward Gartzen, he extends a bottle of what he declares is fine Legido liquor, gleaming in the dull lantern light. “My words earlier… they were unjust. It was wrong of me to use such a matter against you like that. I know better. I know the hurt such an experience brought you and your wife. I let my temper cloud my judgment, forgetting the respect we’ve built over countless voyages. For that, I am sorry.”
Arms crossed, Gartzen hesitates before accepting the bottle. The tension that had been as thick as the fog rolling off Legido’s coast begins to dematerialize. His face softens, and the rigidity of his posture eases. “We’ve weathered much, Captain. And we’ve always managed to come through. We’re a family forged by the sea, after all.”
The captain nods, a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes. "Aye, and perhaps I was speaking from a place of my own fears, worried about failing those who trust in my command. This storm… If we can’t get back on course, and we can’t reconnect with Xiatli?”
Gartzen pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll rejoin our people. I see we’re beating to windward. Good call, sir. I knew you wouldn’t rest on your laurels. You never do.”
As Gartzen uncorks the bottle, they share a quiet toast, and an unspoken truce. “To lost journeys and found futures,” Gartzen murmurs, tipping the bottle to his lips. Captain Lema smiles, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig himself.
“Do you remember that time when we were stuck in Luzigar for nearly a week because of that blasted storm?” Gartzen says, followed by a hearty laugh. Captain Lema joins in, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I thought we were going to be there for the rest of our lives!” he chuckles. “We were supposed to sail around the southern part of the continent, but we had to return to Auruma Xosta because we went through all of our supplies for the expedition! I got chewed out so badly by my superiors!”
“What else were we supposed to do in that flea-ridden place?” Gartzen remarks. “My boots weren’t going to step one foot on that soil. You remember how some of the crew came back after a night out on the town?”
Captain Lema slaps Gartzen on the shoulder and howls. “I’m shocked any managed to find their way back, as drunk as they were!”
“At least the alcohol killed off whatever was infecting them!” They both double over with laughter, taking more large swallows of the bottle’s contents.
As the two share a drink, they speak of past voyages, of dangers faced, and fortunes found. They speak of the crew that has come and gone, and of family back in Legido. You slowly slip away, letting them have their moment of reconciliation, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of hope. If such rifts can be mended, perhaps there’s a chance for you yet to prove your worth to the crew. While your family may still be in Legido, maybe you can form another, new one out at sea. With that, you remember Lander and his wounds, and decide to check on him, to see how a member of your seafaring family is recovering.
The moon casts its ambient glow upon the ship as night falls. After a long day of hard work, the crew begins to retire to their quarters. Laughter and jovial banter resounds about the deck as the atmosphere lightens significantly. The multitude of successful repairs can do that to the mood, you think.
You slink below deck, passing the numerous bunkbeds on your way to Lander’s space. On the bed lay his baggy, bloodied shirt and worn pantaloons. Nearly the entire lower half of the shirt is soaked red, and a splattering of crimson droplets have fallen onto the pants. Also on the bed are a mixture of personal belongings that catch you by surprise. Oversized, heavy gloves and a series of bandanas lay at the foot of the bed, seemingly too big for someone of Lander’s slight frame. Perhaps another crew member mistakenly placed them here, you consider, having never seen Lander use such items.
With Lander nowhere in sight, you search around below deck for any indication as to where he might be. Finding nothing, you move to the bow of the ship, where crew splash their faces and hands with the salty sting of seawater to ward off any germs or grime. Still, no sight of Lander, and when you ask around, none of the crew know where he is, either.
Concerned, you retrace your steps, hoping you merely overlooked someplace, and there’s an easy explanation as to where he could be. As you walk past the area designated for cooking, you search high and low, wondering if Lander may have stopped by to grab something to eat, or perhaps he knows of some herbal remedy to help with the pain from his wounds. He seems like the resourceful type, you reason, so it makes sense in your twisted, desperate logic.
Aside from admonishing you for being in their kitchen, the cook and crew tell you they haven’t seen anyone fitting Lander’s description. You start to fear the worst, imagining horrendous situations and scenarios where Lander fainted from a loss of blood and is bleeding out, or that the wound has become infected and he needs immediate help. Panicked, you rush off, but in your haste, you stumble onto the floor. The crew teases you and yells at you to get up, but ignoring their yells, you see spots of blood on the ground. Perhaps it’s from the meat being transported to the kitchen for tonight’s meal. But you decide to investigate anyway, in the off chance something more nefarious is at hand.
The blood droplets appear to stop at wall, disappearing from sight after that. The abrupt end to the trail leaves you perplexed, confused as to where they could have possibly gone. You would have walked away had it not been for spotting a stray piece of cloth stuck at the base of the wall. Upon further inspection, it’s not a cloth, but rather a strip of a bandage. You lean against the wall and notice it slides ever so slightly to one side. Is this some hidden storage room? Some closet?
As you peek inside, a figure is hunched over, barely illuminated by a small lamp beside them. The bandages are bundled up in a hurried and unorganized manner on the ground, alongside a large cap. You’ve seen that worn cap before, recalling Lander wearing something like it on the first day you met. In fact, it’s the only item Lander never seems to be without.
The figure tilts their head back, releasing their long hair, which falls in crinkled waves as if enduring a prolonged confinement. You hear a few metallic pings as clips clatter to the floor. There are bandages wrapped around the torso, in a similar location to where Lander was wounded, you observe.
The figure continues to wrap a bandage around themselves, except not around their waist. No, this time, they’re wrapping the bandages around their chest. Having run out, they stop at a certain point. They hold the bandage in place with one hand while reaching for the reserve bandages with the other.
As they lean over to grab more, they look up. It’s then when your eyes meet those of Lander.
It’s the looks of disgust you receive from all the crew members that hurts the most. After the storm devastated the ship, tossing sailors and cargo overboard, the navigators have spent a painstaking amount of time trying to figure out how badly you’ve all been knocked off course. Unbeknown to you, the other ships were trailing the one you’re aboard, following you to the destination. Searching the horizon, you see nothing but the golden sun shimmering on the vast expanse of the ocean like sparkling diamonds—a sight that would usually take your breath away, but instead, now fills you with dread.
The task Gartzen assigned to you didn’t appear all that difficult. Make sure the ship steers clear of any impending storms, and notify the captain and crew of any trouble. It seemed as if you were going to avoid the tempest far off in the distance, sailing out of harm’s way to where it would remain to the starboard side. The night was quiet otherwise, uneventful besides the entertaining banter occurring below your post in the crow’s nest.
Yet you dozed off—by accident! you plead to no one but yourself—and the storm caught you off-guard, having lulled you into a false sense of security. It seemed so obvious, so apparent, and difficult to miss, so you didn’t think you needed to state anything about it. Didn’t everyone see it? How could they not?
The labor-intensive clean up of the storm’s destructive force is a clear reminder of how costly your assumption was. Splintered masts lay like fallen giants across the deck. Their once proud sails are tattered, flapping weakly in the morose wind. Though still intact, the hull bears the scars of nature’s fury, with gaping holes that are hastily patched to keep the merciless sea at bay. Waterlogged supplies are strewn about as water still sloshes in the hold below, with many provisions and goods spoiled and irretrievable. Crew members move with a heavy silence. Their glances toward you are a mix of disappointment and thinly veiled resentment. Born from a moment’s oversight, this devastation brings a guilt from which there is no escape aboard this crippled vessel.
If the looks from the other crew members wasn’t enough, it’s Gartzen’s silent treatment that is the most punishing. Each moment you attempt to approach him, to apologize, to give some kind of explanation, you’re met with a steely cold glare before he charges off in another direction. He always seems to conveniently find some other task to do, or some other crewmate to speak to—anything to avoid talking to you. With each dismissal, you feel the pain in your heart, knowing you’ve disappointed someone whom you respected and admired, who placed their trust in you, however misguided. And there doesn’t appear to be any way to regain his trust, to undo the hurt, to make up for letting him down.
Seeking redemption and a way to productively pass the time, you find tasks to assist with, contributing what you can to the ship’s restoration. Picking up debris, swabbing the deck, sewing patches into the punctured sails… anything to make yourself useful. Your offers to help are met with reluctance, at best, and aggressive, flat out rejection, at worst. Nevertheless, you persevere, insisting on giving your assistance wherever you can.
While helping a team of crew members lift a large and heavy mast that’s badly damaged and has fallen onto the deck, Captain Lema darts past you. He mutters something inaudibly to himself as he marches toward the wheel of the ship. You want to continue assisting your crewmates, but there’s something about his demeanor that concerns you. Perhaps it’s the blank stare at nothing in particular, or the frantic, frenetic frenzy in which he carries himself that alarms you. It’s not the cool, controlled captain you’re accustomed to seeing, and you’re eager to discover what’s happened, if there’s some new development of great concern.
Once you all are able to set the mast aside for repairs, you hurry off to the back of the ship—or ‘stern’, you recall Lander once calling it. There, Captain Lema speaks to one of the crew members, a “first mate” as he’s called. The man is a head’s length taller than the captain, though towering over the small-statured captain isn’t a difficult feat. Despite the youthfulness suggested by his stature and the liveliness in his sharp and discerning eyes, his face tells tales of countless voyages. The sun has marked him with lines that indicate relentless days under scorching skies and fierce gales battled at sea. There’s a certain ruggedness to him, a testament to his experience navigating through treacherous waters and guiding this galleon with a seasoned hand.
“That’s not the update I wanted to hear,” the captain laments. “How could we have strayed that far from our course?”
“I’m not certain,” the first mate says with a high-pitched, nasally voice. “However, judging by the cloud patterns, we appear to be turned toward a south by southwestern direction. If we can get ourselves turned, we should be able to resume course.”
“But the lack of any real wind,” Captain Lema complains. “It appears we’ll have to sail close-hauled. That will be too risky.”
“Only if we’re not careful, Captain, sir,” the first mate challenges. “Certainly, we could veer further off track if we’re reckless. However, we’ll remain sitting here, stalled, until conditions improve otherwise. And who knows how long that might be.”
Captain Lema hems and haws as he contemplates the matter. It’s not entirely clear to you what ‘close-hauled’ means, but it sounds like a tricky maneuver to pull off. Now that you think about it, you haven’t been moving at all. You assumed it was due to the sails being down and damaged, but you hadn’t thought of utilizing the ones that could still function, albeit inefficiently.
Eventually, the captain makes a decision. “I don’t like the idea of tempting the wind’s wrath. But I don’t much care to await the wind’s mercy, either. We can’t afford to be adrift of Xiatli and the others any longer.”
He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the waters as if visualizing the maneuver in his mind’s eye. “The sails that can still catch what little of the wind there is, and it should be enough to pull us sideways against the breeze and nudging us onward. It’ll require a keen eye and a steady hand at the helm to keep us on course without veering into the wind’s path or losing our momentum altogether.”
The first mate looks resolute. “I’ll set our course and take the wind’s challenge head-on, sir. A few of the sails are close to being completely repaired, so we can begin shortly. I’ll put our best sailors on it—they’ll know when and how to adjust the sails. It won’t be easy, but the sea never promised ease, sir, only passage.”
Just when you believe the conversation to be finished, Captain Lema pulls the first mate in closely, as if speaking conspiratorially about something. You find yourself leaning closer, as if that will help you listen in. But, unsurprisingly, you don’t catch much. The captain walks away swiftly, pointing and barking out orders to other crew members.
Curiously, the first mate stays back, looking flummoxed. Turning to another member of the crew, he begins speaking to him in a hushed tone. Not wanting to be caught, but not wanting to miss what’s being said, you sneak over behind a few crates of cargo—crouching low so as to not be seen, but better able to listen in. The speech is muffled, but you can still make out a little of their discussion.
“The captain’s in a bad way,” the first mate tells the other. “He’s terrified of this mission failing.”
“Well, you got him to sign off on sailing close-hauled, right?” the other asks. He’s a portly man with thinning, black hair, and a straggly beard. His bulbous nose is crooked at the bridge, likely from some incident aboard a ship or at port during his travels. “At least we’re finally going to get moving. I don’t know how much longer I could stand sitting here twiddling my thumbs like a common idiot.”
“Judging by the sheer panic in his voice, I doubt we would’ve been staying put for much longer,” the first mate says. “He’s convinced that, if we don’t rejoin the other ships soon, we’re all destined to be massacred by Xiatli.”
The other shipman scoffs. “He’s just a brown-nosing deck polisher, always shining the boots that kick him.”
“That may be so,” the first mate says, “but we’ve all heard the stories. Xiatli doesn’t accept failure. And by all accounts, this feels as though there’s some personal matter involved in undertaking such a mission. I’ve sailed my fair share around Legido, but to cross an ocean? My wife was right when she determined this was madness.”
“It’s mad to think what waits for us on the other side?” the shipman challenges. “Imagine the treasure, the mountains of gold and jewels untouched by any who’ve sailed before us. To fill our holds with wealth so vast, we could live as kings upon our return. That’s a madness I can gladly embrace!”
The two prattle on like this for some time. Tiring of this, you make your way to other areas of the ship that could use more clean up and repair. Once again, however, you’re met with more cold shoulders and confrontations. Others shoo you away, with some even absurdly declaring you to be cursed and not wanting you to spread your perceived disease to them. It becomes harder and harder to find an ally on board the ship, and you fear you may remain isolated from everyone until you reach shore—if you’re not tossed overboard beforehand.
Having seen your plight, you’re met by a familiar, friendly face, a solitary bloom in a field of thorns. “Hey,” Lander says softly, approaching you with a concern that feels like a balm to your weathered spirit. “Don’t let their words anchor you to guilt. You were placed in a situation many seasoned sailors have misjudged. The sea, she’s a fickle mistress. She tests the mettle of all who dare traverse her expanses. What happened… it could’ve happened to any one of us.”
He continues, and now there’s a depth of sincerity in his eyes as he speaks. "Storms come and go, you know? This,“ he gestures to the broken masts and the sullen crew, “is just another kind of storm. We weather it, we rebuild, and we sail on. We’re all here because we believe in something greater. Let’s not let a storm divide us.” He offers you a slight, encouraging smile. It’s a rare glimpse of solidarity in a world that feels increasingly isolated, and a reminder that you have an ally, someone who sees something in you that you may not see in yourself.
Out of nowhere, a shadow lunges from your periphery. A galaxy of stars explodes abruptly across your vision as an unseen force collides with the side of your head, a thunderous impact echoing in the confines of your skull. You stumble to your side, propping yourself up with a cargo crate. Your world blurs, reality distorting into a narrowing tunnel of darkness. You blink furiously, and when you come to, you see Benicto standing over you, his arm coiled back and ready to swing again.
Lander grabs Benicto and tries his best to restrain your attacker. He clutches Benicto’s arm, shouting for him to stop. Benicto tries to loosen himself from Lander’s halting grip, and for a moment, you’re given a reprieve, allowing you to lift yourself onto your feet.
However, Benicto gets free, now taking his aggression out on Lander. He unleashes a flurry of punches, wailing on Lander’s face and torso. Lander tumbles to the deck, yet he’s able to protect himself from most of the incoming strikes, shielding his face with his arms that take the brunt of the assault. Discontented, Benicto grabs a fragmented piece of wood and swings it. The makeshift paddle slams into Lander’s stomach, the splintered debris slicing along his abdomen and causing a long gash. Panicked, Lander grabs at the hat atop his head that starts to slide off amidst the barrage of blows. He winces in pain, clutching the wound with one hand while holding up the other as a plea for his attacker to stop.
You go to defend your friend, grabbing and restraining Benicto from causing further harm. He elbows you in the face, the tangy taste of iron welling in your mouth from the blood after your teeth cut the inside of your lip. You hold on, clasping onto his arm and attempting to shake the piece of wood loose from his hands. He struggles, trying to fight you off like an ensnared animal from a trap. A few more elbows fly into your face, but you hang on, hoping to protect your only ally on this ship.
“Enough, Benicto!” A girl’s voice screams above the commotion. Dorez swoops in, slapping at the assailant and forcing him into a cower. Benicto steps away, shrugging his shoulders to shield himself. She persists, continually smacking him, the scene causing cheers and jeers from the onlooking crew members.
Emerging from blind rage, a sudden stillness envelops Benicto in the wake of Dorez’s intervention. With a heavy breath, he surveys the aftermath. The fog of fury that had clouded his senses begins to dissipate, revealing the stark reality of his actions.
“You fool!” she shouts in Benicto’s face. “You forget how they helped when I was injured, how they sewed the wound on my shoulder. Who knows where I would be without their help. And now, they’re trying to fix their mistake. You need to back off and show them some grace.”
Benicto stares her down, nostrils flaring. You think he’s calming himself, gaining awareness of the situation at hand. But rather than make any apology, he shoves Dorez aside, pointing the plank of wood at you.
“I’m not through with you,” he snarls. “This,” he gestures wildly with the piece in his hand, as if brandishing a weapon, “is all your fault. Every shattered plank, every torn sail, this ship teetering on the brink of oblivion—it’s all woven from your ineptitude. You’ve steered us straight into the maw of disaster, and don’t think for a moment that I’ll let you forget it!”
You go over to Lander and help him to his feet, noticing the lower part of his shirt stained red. He grimaces, sucking in breath through his teeth as he picks himself up. As you lend him a hand, he waves you away, protective of his wound while he gingerly stands up.
“I just need to bandage the wound,” he says with a strained voice. “No, no, it’s okay. I’ll be fine, I promise.” Though he gives you assurances, you’re still concerned about the severity of that wound. You’ve sewn up gashes already while aboard the ship, so you’re surprised when he turns down your offer. He walks away slowly and with great care, heading below deck.
With the sails mended and the deck cleared, your gaze sweeps the ship for another task, another chance to mend not just the galley, but the rift your mistake has carved between you and the crew. Though unaccustomed to the rigors of the life of a sailor, your hands are eager and willing to help. You notice a small group struggling to secure a patch over a gaping wound in the ship’s hull.
“Need another hand?” you ask, trying to abate your desperation, and approaching them with a hardened resolve.
Their initial hesitation fades as they assess the sincerity in your eyes. Slowly, they nod, allowing you to join their efforts. Together, you work in unison, hammering, sealing, and reinforcing the patch to keep the sea at bay. It’s meticulous, arduous work that demands attention to detail and a steady hand—qualities you’re determined to prove you possess.
As you drive the last nail into place, securing the patch firmly against the hull, you can’t help but feel a swell of pride. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, in the ongoing battle to earn back the trust and respect of your shipmates. Maybe Lander is right, that this ship and its crew can weather any storm, as long as you face it together.
Your contemplation is interrupted by the sight of Captain Lema emerging from his quarters. There’s a rare, vulnerable expression etched on his face. His eyes lock with yours for a moment, silently acknowledging the crew before he strides away with purpose in his step. A long, green bottle is gripped in his hand as he darts off. Your curiosity is piqued, and once again, you find yourself drawn to the captain.
Seated on top of a crate, Gartzen takes care in whittling a piece of wood in his weathered, meaty paws. Is the chunk from part of the ship, you wonder? The knife looks worn and well-used, like a relic from generations past. Captain Lema approaches him, holding out the bottle as an offering. You’re trying to make yourself scarce, hoping to avoid another confrontation. Tucked away behind a stack of coiled ropes, you overhear the soft-spoken exchange.
“You’ve been with me through more squalls and skirmishes than I can count,” Captain Lema begins, his voice unusually gentle. Toward Gartzen, he extends a bottle of what he declares is fine Legido liquor, gleaming in the dull lantern light. “My words earlier… they were unjust. It was wrong of me to use such a matter against you like that. I know better. I know the hurt such an experience brought you and your wife. I let my temper cloud my judgment, forgetting the respect we’ve built over countless voyages. For that, I am sorry.”
Arms crossed, Gartzen hesitates before accepting the bottle. The tension that had been as thick as the fog rolling off Legido’s coast begins to dematerialize. His face softens, and the rigidity of his posture eases. “We’ve weathered much, Captain. And we’ve always managed to come through. We’re a family forged by the sea, after all.”
The captain nods, a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes. "Aye, and perhaps I was speaking from a place of my own fears, worried about failing those who trust in my command. This storm… If we can’t get back on course, and we can’t reconnect with Xiatli?”
Gartzen pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll rejoin our people. I see we’re beating to windward. Good call, sir. I knew you wouldn’t rest on your laurels. You never do.”
As Gartzen uncorks the bottle, they share a quiet toast, and an unspoken truce. “To lost journeys and found futures,” Gartzen murmurs, tipping the bottle to his lips. Captain Lema smiles, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig himself.
“Do you remember that time when we were stuck in Luzigar for nearly a week because of that blasted storm?” Gartzen says, followed by a hearty laugh. Captain Lema joins in, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I thought we were going to be there for the rest of our lives!” he chuckles. “We were supposed to sail around the southern part of the continent, but we had to return to Auruma Xosta because we went through all of our supplies for the expedition! I got chewed out so badly by my superiors!”
“What else were we supposed to do in that flea-ridden place?” Gartzen remarks. “My boots weren’t going to step one foot on that soil. You remember how some of the crew came back after a night out on the town?”
Captain Lema slaps Gartzen on the shoulder and howls. “I’m shocked any managed to find their way back, as drunk as they were!”
“At least the alcohol killed off whatever was infecting them!” They both double over with laughter, taking more large swallows of the bottle’s contents.
As the two share a drink, they speak of past voyages, of dangers faced, and fortunes found. They speak of the crew that has come and gone, and of family back in Legido. You slowly slip away, letting them have their moment of reconciliation, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of hope. If such rifts can be mended, perhaps there’s a chance for you yet to prove your worth to the crew. While your family may still be in Legido, maybe you can form another, new one out at sea. With that, you remember Lander and his wounds, and decide to check on him, to see how a member of your seafaring family is recovering.
The moon casts its ambient glow upon the ship as night falls. After a long day of hard work, the crew begins to retire to their quarters. Laughter and jovial banter resounds about the deck as the atmosphere lightens significantly. The multitude of successful repairs can do that to the mood, you think.
You slink below deck, passing the numerous bunkbeds on your way to Lander’s space. On the bed lay his baggy, bloodied shirt and worn pantaloons. Nearly the entire lower half of the shirt is soaked red, and a splattering of crimson droplets have fallen onto the pants. Also on the bed are a mixture of personal belongings that catch you by surprise. Oversized, heavy gloves and a series of bandanas lay at the foot of the bed, seemingly too big for someone of Lander’s slight frame. Perhaps another crew member mistakenly placed them here, you consider, having never seen Lander use such items.
With Lander nowhere in sight, you search around below deck for any indication as to where he might be. Finding nothing, you move to the bow of the ship, where crew splash their faces and hands with the salty sting of seawater to ward off any germs or grime. Still, no sight of Lander, and when you ask around, none of the crew know where he is, either.
Concerned, you retrace your steps, hoping you merely overlooked someplace, and there’s an easy explanation as to where he could be. As you walk past the area designated for cooking, you search high and low, wondering if Lander may have stopped by to grab something to eat, or perhaps he knows of some herbal remedy to help with the pain from his wounds. He seems like the resourceful type, you reason, so it makes sense in your twisted, desperate logic.
Aside from admonishing you for being in their kitchen, the cook and crew tell you they haven’t seen anyone fitting Lander’s description. You start to fear the worst, imagining horrendous situations and scenarios where Lander fainted from a loss of blood and is bleeding out, or that the wound has become infected and he needs immediate help. Panicked, you rush off, but in your haste, you stumble onto the floor. The crew teases you and yells at you to get up, but ignoring their yells, you see spots of blood on the ground. Perhaps it’s from the meat being transported to the kitchen for tonight’s meal. But you decide to investigate anyway, in the off chance something more nefarious is at hand.
The blood droplets appear to stop at wall, disappearing from sight after that. The abrupt end to the trail leaves you perplexed, confused as to where they could have possibly gone. You would have walked away had it not been for spotting a stray piece of cloth stuck at the base of the wall. Upon further inspection, it’s not a cloth, but rather a strip of a bandage. You lean against the wall and notice it slides ever so slightly to one side. Is this some hidden storage room? Some closet?
As you peek inside, a figure is hunched over, barely illuminated by a small lamp beside them. The bandages are bundled up in a hurried and unorganized manner on the ground, alongside a large cap. You’ve seen that worn cap before, recalling Lander wearing something like it on the first day you met. In fact, it’s the only item Lander never seems to be without.
The figure tilts their head back, releasing their long hair, which falls in crinkled waves as if enduring a prolonged confinement. You hear a few metallic pings as clips clatter to the floor. There are bandages wrapped around the torso, in a similar location to where Lander was wounded, you observe.
The figure continues to wrap a bandage around themselves, except not around their waist. No, this time, they’re wrapping the bandages around their chest. Having run out, they stop at a certain point. They hold the bandage in place with one hand while reaching for the reserve bandages with the other.
As they lean over to grab more, they look up. It’s then when your eyes meet those of Lander.
