• Graded • Some Assembly Required [Llyr, Kas]

[Maltruism]

Graeslin heard Hazel's cries through the din of shouting, vengeful cheering, the ring and clatter of the reloading and firing of bolts and the roaring of the beast itself. She took a quick look but did not see the noble. Many of her crew were not able to take part in the bucket-brigade processes going on at each weapon. They would only have gotten in the way of the well-practiced, inter-dependent tasks the men took upon themselves. Was Kasoria not so focused on his own efforts, he may have even been impressed by the clockwork efficiency of these crews.

Graeslin ran to the rail to see if Zarik had fallen overboard. It was hard to tell how deep the water was below. It was contained by that segment of the torso, and was splashing furiously in the throes of the beast's efforts to dive...Efforts!! She took a mili-trill to realize her balance was not upset in the manner indicating any gain by the monster's efforts. They were still level!

Some of the crew were injured from previous incidents, some very recently. They received no respite from their need to contribute. Graeslin lifted one to his injured feet, his face a grimace of pain. She ignored it as she half-dragged him to the bell by her quarters. Pointing at the far end of the breach in the beast's incomplete upper section, she gave him his orders. "Deal with it, Clams! When you see water crest that far end, you ring that bastard for Hell's Glory! It's the lowest end and will give us some warning."

She ran to a trio of men grabbing bows and snorted her contempt at such a futile decision. "Drop those, idiots!" She pointed at several coils of rope, "Hammer down one end of those and throw the other ends over the side. Use the big "U"s...Yes, right into the fucking deck! Three to each side if you can remember!"

The big U-shaped nails, sharp at both ends, were essentially massive staples that had to be hammered into a hard surface. With the rope end stuck though the U, hammering them into the wood of the deck would secure them very well indeed.

The tone of ringing hammers confirming the adherence to her instructions, she ran to Hazel, "Dear, come with me. I will find your Daddy. You have to trust me this time sweetheart. I've been a liar and a cheater, you're right. But not this time! I'm going to get your Daddy, and we're all getting out of here. Now stay in there." She added as she urged the child through the door to her quarters. She grabbed a curious round object before she hurried back out onto the deck.

She grabbed a conical device as well, whipping it up to her lips as her shout was greatly enhanced in volume, "IT'S HAVING TROUBLE DIVING WITH NO ACTUAL SPINE AND BACK MUSCLE FORMED YET. KEEP AT THE SIDES, MEN, YOU CAN'T ANGLE DOWN ENOUGH TO HIT THOSE ORGANS ANYWAY. WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO DO THEM OURSELVES!"

She pulled her scimitar free of her belt, swinging it high for emphasis. "ROPES WILL BE IN PLACE SOON ENOUGH. ANYONE NOT ON A SCORPION CREW, OVER THE SIDE WITH ME! WHEN YOU HEAR THE BELL GRAB A ROPE AND HOLD ON, WE WILL BE LEAVING PROMPTLY."

Stuffing the orb into a sling, she swung it over her shoulder and led by example, hurling herself recklessly over the rail with a ferocious shriek of bloodshed to come. A variety of vocal tones echoed her own as those not on the scorpions followed her without hesitation.

The Leviathan's cries took on a new tone as frustration and tentative fear, was replaced by pain and confirmed fear. In short order the water in the massive body cavity became decidedly more oily with blood, bile and ichor. They were getting much more time than they had expected and they were going to make the most of it. Graeslin's only hesitance to her hacking and thrusting was an off-and-on confirmation that the orb was still in its sling.

The fleshy surface they trod upon as they swung their weapons started finally to tip noticeably. Snarls rose in the throats of the crew. Ropes splashed in the wash around their feet and now a round of rough laughter erupted from them. They just might make it after all...

[Kasoria]

"Re-load-ing!"

"Sir, ready to-"

"Don't fuckin' 'sir' me! I look like a fuckin' 'sir' t'youse?!"

The ragged little man flew off the ballista before the sailor could bellow another word. He exchanged a look with the other two "clams", all of them working to redraw the massive string on the siege weapon and load another yard-plus spike into the central groove. But the little man from Etzos was not interested in another shot with the scorpion. If nothing else, Kasoria knew where his strengths lay. Namely, his bare fists, and lengths of sharp steel. A weapon bigger than two of him put together... well, he was sure he could learn to be proficient. But he wouldn't have the time that trial.

So instead he scuttled over to the nearest rope thrown from the side of the ship. Crewmen staggering and running around, all focused on their own tasks to be accomplished. Some distant part of Kasoria's mine approved of the single-minded look in the eyes of every man. Moments before, they'd all commended their souls to whatever judgement awaited. Now, they had a chance to live again. Not the lie of an Immortal or the blind hope of a madman or a fool. A real, honest, legitimate chance to sail to safety and another dawn breaking on their faces.

All the motivation they need.

"Y'want summin' done," he muttered to himself, hauling his ax upright with one hand, and wrapping the end of the rope around his other wrist. "Go wiv' what yeh know."

With that, he threw himself over the edge of the vessel. Into a sea now writhing and frothing and marred by stretches of roiling, bleeding blubber. Below him, men were dangling and tottering on the creature, the Leviathan that was once a mage, once a man. Kasoria's face was a grimace as he braced himself for-

-the rope going taut, muscles straining from fingers to neck as he absorbed the sudden stop-

-feet almost touching the blubbery flesh under his feet. Of a creature so vast that he could have sprinted across it for trills and not reached the other side. Yet he grinned at the prospect. The immensity. The vastness spread out before him. After all, it meant he couldn't fail to hit the cunt.

Right, then.

Kasoria loosened the rope around his wrist and dropped down the rest of the way, keeping one hand firm on the line. In trills or bits or bells, the Leviathan would go under. Even a being so arrogant and ageless would rather run and hide and heal than absorb such vengeful brutality, knowing full well that its opponents wouldn't stop until it was dead. Kasoria would not be left splashing when that time came... but until then?

"Fuckin' 'ave some a' this, yeh cunt yeh-"

He brought the a smashing down in an overhead arc. Held at the bottom of the handle, using as much weight and momentum as possible. The curved, cruel head of the ax buried deep in the pulsing patch of flesh he'd marked out, and as he yanked it clear, a gout of brackish bleed spewed forth. He brought the ax up again, and found another such spot. He had no clue how Leviathan's worked, their veins or organs.... but he was fairly sure they had such things. The organs were likely too deep within to be damaged, save things like eyes and those damned tentacles, but veins? Arteries?

If it looks like it could be one, cut it.

Kasoria frowned and shook away the spray and water dripping down his face. Something pumped below the blubber to his right. A tube as thick as his arm, quivering as it pushed some stuff of life through it. The Eztori hopped forward across the heaving mass, like a bird across a carcass. Bringing up his ax at the same time, jumping the last bit of distance, feet coming down-

-an instant before the ax did-

-another wild yell escaping his throat, trials of fear and helplessness expelled in hideous noise-

-as the ax severed whatever the hell it was, sinking into fatty flesh deep as the haft itself. He had to dig his feet in deep to pull it out, hole far more ragged and disgusting this time, black effluence spraying him as he did. Then he started looking again. He didn't care for this monster's motivations, his reasons, the peaks and valleys of its mind. He heard a fragment of what Zarik cried out, and any other time would have proavbly cuffed the boy around the head. What did it matter? What would it change? The bastard wanted them dead, and could have done it for trials. Yet it did not, and why?

Amusement. Boredom. Sport. You don't question or pity things like that, on two legs or otherwise. You just kill them.

He started to seek out another target as a swarm of fellow ants did the same, jabbing and hacking and stabbing as a rain of massive bolts rained down on the newly-vulnerable abomination, until-

"Fuuuuck me!"

The world shifted, or at least the world his feet were becoming used to. All around him men wobbled and some fell as the Leviathan shifted. Its bulk started to dip below the water, angling like a fish going back down into the depths. Kasoria gripped the rope tighter and his eyes fell on one more patch of flesh. He raised his ax as the suns caught it and the tolling of that damned bell blared into his ears over the shouting and roaring and churning and inhuman screeching. He spat one last curse as water started to swamp him, from feet to knees in a handful of beats.

He stowed the ax back where it belonged, on the sheath at his back. No use dying for a final blow, which wouldn't even be the killing one. He turned from the Leviathan, now pitted and cleaved in dozens of places, and started to climb back up the rope.

"C'mon, lads," he ground out, climb hand over hands, shoulders straining and hands burning. "Get us the fuck outta here or kill this fucker... or both..."

[Llyr Llywelyn]

The din of shouts harmonized with the pull of ropes, the creak of wood, the sound of flesh itself chopped at and stabbed and speared. Zarik hid in the crow’s nest, almost defiantly so. Hazel’s cries had faded, but he didn’t worry about it. He didn’t hear any screams or shouts about the child and the ship didn’t tilt enough to warrant concern about her falling overboard.

When Graeslin’s voice echoed with enhanced volume, Zarik covered his pointed ears with his hands to muffle her words. He closed his eyes. He tried to enter Emea again. He couldn’t. He tried again, anyway. Still, nothing happened, and he felt… nothing. His cheeks had gotten damp and he buried his face against his knees.

He nearly jumped when a pair of boots landed beside him. Zarik glanced up to see one of the sailors had gotten in the crow’s nest to take over the position. The previous watch had been struck away by the tentacles earlier. The bearded man roughly asked, “What’dre you doing up here still?”

It was the sort of rhetorical question that made it obvious he was in the way. Zarik gathered a veneer of composure, dried his eyes with the palm of his hand, and stood. He glanced down the mast. His wings wouldn’t budge, however. The gossamer appendages were stuck in place.

Zarik took to the ladder instead. He climbed down part-way, then looked around at the injured Leviathan. He felt an odd awareness in that moment. Surreal, almost, it felt. The pirates all looked so tiny, so small, not only to the Leviathan’s form but to the greater ocean he knew spread out around them and underneath them. So small compared to the vast sky that remained above.

So small yet trying so hard to survive another trial… just to maybe die from something else in the next break. The young biqaj held his position mid-way on the mast’s ladder, completely lost in contemplative thought. He heard the bell toll, but it sounded distant and far removed from where he was in his mind.

“Can’t forget,” he muttered. Zarik climbed the rest of the way down in a hurry. He didn’t look for Hazel, didn’t go to Graeslin’s quarters. Instead, he threw open the door to the hold where he’d lived and slept for the journey. He left the deck, went to his belongings and sorted through to find both quill and ink and scroll, and parchment.

The Quacian wrote in quick swipes of the quill’s point, nestled in the corner of the hold near a barrel that he used like a desk. He remained there, writing with fixed concentration, as long as it would be allowed and if so, for a good couple of breaks or more. Zarik only paused to tell the slave-girl Oceta to go find and care for Hazel in the meantime.

[Maltruism]

Water crested the lower end of the gap down the spinal portion of the incomplete body. It surged through the inner body cavity, rocking the ship and tossing the men about like bobbers. Many had already wrapped their arms or legs in the trailing ropes, but many had not, being too focused on trying to kill the Leviathan.

Desperate arms and legs thrashed and fought the rushing current to get hold of their fellows' outstretched hands. The voice of the monster had not stopped during the attack on its flesh. Roars of pain and threats of death rang in the ears of the mortals now abandoning their hacking and slashing at it.

But worse now was that the sudden weight of the inrush greatly accelerated its descent. Graeslin was already shouting for the men to heed the bell, which had started ringing the moment the first wave had crested into the body. Now the Leviathan crowed in triumph, not relying as much on backbone articulation now that water weight was dragging it down.

But so much damage had been done to its guts, that the new influx of seawater just looked like more blood the moment it mixed with what had been spilled through the crew's efforts. Graeslin continued shouting, "ROPES, MEN! GRAB ON! THERE'S NO MORE TIME! WE'VE DONE ALL WE CAN! TEN..."

She was going to continue counting down, but she was stopped by the sudden appearance of Den and Briggs, the latter no longer attired in Black Guard armor. Den shook her, "No, I can kill it! I know where its brain is now. We can't let it live. If you go, you go without me! I won't have this fucker showing up again later when its magic is working again. Go if you're gonna, but I'm stayin' just a bit longer."

Two trills passed in stunned silence as Briggs, on an unspoken cue from Den moved around behind the naer, as if regaining his balance. Then the captain erupted in fury and fear, "ARE YOU INSANE?! There's too much of the damned thing. Its brain is probably the size of my cabin! You'll drown before you can do shit to it! You probably won't even rea-..."

She was cut off by a massive wave of in-rushing seawater. Briggs grabbed her, as if only to help her keep her balance, but he tightened his bear hug on her as Den gave an uncharacteristically kindly smile, "Only if we stand here arguing. Goodbye, love!" he thrust his face against his captain's in a clumsy, perhaps bruising, kiss. Graeslin would have none of it, twisting her face away in desperate anger, while kicking and screaming in futility at the arms of Briggs, which rivaled her legs in girth, and doubled them in sheer strength.

"Sorry, Cap'm. He's roight. An' e moight ge'way wit it." came Briggs' deep rumble in refusal. He defied the rush of water, staying on his feet as he pushed against the new current, his charge flailing and shrieking promises of torture and death, which soon broke into wails of sorrow and regret, and shouted warnings of what she would do to Den if he didn't succeed.

She made one predictable attempt to promise that she would comply, only to try to use the rush of water to slip by Briggs. He was clearly expecting it, and fished her out with an unexpectedly agile paw, hurling her one-armed to splash by a rope. He held her head out of the water, but wrapped some slack rope around her submerged waist as he asked if this is what Den would want. "He's doin' it fer us all. Don' fuck it up, Cap'm. You wanna kill me fer it, okay. To save the boys, I'm good wid'at."

His eyes were on the dagger she was holding in her hand, her face already locked on a spot between his third and fourth rib. The metal wavered for a moment, then dropped to her thigh in defeat. She tossed it into the drink and let her face screw up into a few indulgent tears before she took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. Something clicked in Briggs' experience and he let go and stepped back to grab the end of the same rope.

"OKAY BOYS." She shouted, her voice trembling slightly. Giving one last look in the direction Den had dove into the bloody wash, she got a firm grip on her voice and gave the word. "WISH DEN LUCK, FOR HIS SAKE AND OURS! WE ARE LEAVING!"

She gave a silent count of five and activated the orb, which had always been at some measure of priority in her mind, regardless of the actions of her two mates. The ship rode up on one last great wave, which was now pouring in over the entire scope of the gap in the top of the body. It bore down toward she and Briggs in a crushing trajectory as the count reached zero.

There was a rush that was fuller in tonal depth than what was done by the water, and it felt as if air should have been blowing one's hair back, yet there was no sensation of air movement. It was more of a sensation of reality movement and a flash of complete darkness was answered by a sudden dazzle of light as the fullness of the sky and horizon suddenly expanded in every direction around them.

A shout from one of the crew brought everyone still aboard to the port rail, where the body of the Leviathan, easily visible several hundred yards away, was just disappearing in a loud, but strangely comical "BLURP" of cavity-filling acoustics.

Moments later, a few additional crewmen broke the surface, gasping in near agony; gasps which turned swiftly to shouts of celebration. Some were pulling others up with them. Not all of them survived the ordeal. Those that had been holding ropes were still clinging to them, floating beside the ship, including Graeslin and Briggs, who smiled for the crew's overall salvation, but did not join in the cheering.

Off Topic

I have not, by any means, decided that Den dies. You may feel free, or not, to affect that outcome.
It is not far-fetched that a ship at sea would carry Enchiridion for emergencies.

[Kasoria]

He was clambering over the railing onto the deck as he saw the streak of flesh hurtle past him. Going the other way. Into the water. Into the frothing, crashing madness. Towards the fucking Leviathan.

"The fuck're you-"

Graeslin was screaming on the deck. The first time Kasoria had heard such pitch and anguish in her voice. Not down below, not up above, not even when they were bits away from being devoured by some ancient, insane Protean mage-monster. All those times, she'd been composed. Almost resigned. As fatalistic and accepting of her end as he'd learned to be over the arcs. But this... this was frantic. He was sure he must have misheard her. He righted himself on soaking wood not meant for righting anyone, and had to sweep the water from his eyes more than once.

No. No, he wasn't seeing things. There she was, face drawn tight and agonized. Lashed to one of her officers by a length of rope, huge man's face as set as concrete but just as sorrowful. He murmured words to her, determined yet consoling. She whirled and Kasoria knew the look of one about to do murder, mind throwing away all trappings of hesitation to... to...

But she didn't. The big man looked down on her with eyes soft and remorseful... but he didn't let go. Not until his Cap'n deflated in his shadow and tossed the weapon away. Then she swallowed a few times, hiding her tears and grief from all but the soaked-through little man who'd just come back aboard.

"OKAY BOYS. WISH DEN LUCK, FOR HIS SAKE AND OURS! WE ARE LEAVING!"

"Den? Who the fuck's Den an'-"

"Mad bastard went over the railin'," one of the crabs said as he hurried by Kasoria, length of rope bundled high in his arms. Everyone got some of it, fast and seasoned hands tying intricate sailing knots around their waists. "Reckoned he can kill the thing 'fore it goes under. Here, hurry up, tie this on!"

Kasoria looked down at the rope like it was a dead snake. Fates, did he even now any knots? None were coming to mind. He staggered to the nearest mast and threw the rope around it, catching it just barely and doing... something, with the ends. Knotting the same simple pattern over and over again, so he was imprisoned by his own efforts as everyone else on the vessel started to do the same.

The suns died. He looked up at a wave that loomed tall as mountains. It ate the sky without swallowing and seemed to look down at them with a hunger not even slightly sated. Kasoria ground his teeth and held on as the ship crashed up and into it. Sailors screamed and prayed and cursed and laughed around her. A flash of light to his side and he noticed that orb again. What bloody good that thing would do he-

-didn't-

-what in the-

There was no wind. No rush. No hand of nature or material around them. The ship and everyone in it seemed to be in a bubble of reality, of life, of existence that was just... moving. Not with speed, but simply in a manner so queer that the elements didn't quite know how to respond, so politely ignored them. Even the water didn't seem to move, puddles on the deck just quivering mildly instead of streaking away in the direction they'd come. Yet when he looked beyond them...

We're... really fucking moving.

Sea and sky become a blur, melded with a flash that Kasoria felt should have had sound, but didn't. It just blinded him and darkness wrapped across them for a moment. He thought he was dead. The breath in his lungs ans salt on his tongue barely convinced him he wasn't. Then he opened his mouth, and reality had been restored. The orb dimmed in Graeslin's hand and fell from it, almost forgotten.

The waves were distant. The massive smear of blood and ichor and slime they'd carved from the Leviathan were... far behind them. Kasoria squirmed and with a curse cut his way free of his self-imposed imprisonment. He walked up to the same railing as Graeslin, Biggs, Zarik, the Ambassador and the children, seemingly everyone present that now lined the deck and bore witness to something rarely seen:

An Immortal dying.

Kasoria remembered the cheering. He remembered crewmen exploding with delirium born of only those who had survived certain demise, minds almost unable to process such impossibility and this reacting with madness. Others were dancing across the deck, chanting and singing in a dozen voices. Others gave thanks, and Kasoria was too numb and tired to glare at them. He was like some of those others, who just sank down to their knees and allowed their exhaustion to claim them after so long. He rested heavily on the railing, but did not sink down. No weakness. Not even here.

He remembered the cheering, waving dots in the water. Promises they would be rescued as the crabs of the ship began turning her around.

Most of all, he remembered the faces of Graeslin and Briggs. They'd survived. They'd triumphed. They'd won, mortals and cutthroats against a power that outdid them in almost every way. He saw none of that fierce joy he'd expected. Just grief. Mourning. Graeslin's head dipped and ship wiped away something, even as she smiled, brittle and false.

The Raggedy Man looked at Llyr, alive after all of it, and looked back over the sea. Mayhap Den was down there, being hauled up from the depths, chunks of brain and a broken blade held tight in his hands. The assassin sighed and shook his head. No. He'd never been one for the high hopes of a mummer's farce. He snorted softly and brushed his hand against the childish bracelet on one hand. A momento of another sailor who'd sacrificed himself, so unworthy souls like him could live. Twice, that had happened now. In the same arc. At the hands of salt-stinking crabs who didn't even know his name.

"Go to yer Crossin', an' may the Lights guide yeh across" he whispered, the closest thing his people had to a prayer for the departed. "Go to yer Judgement, an' may it favor yeh. Go wi' our thanks, yeh mad bastard..."

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Noise. All of it muffled noise. Zarik remained below in the hold. His hearing droned out whatever happened. His heart thudded in his chest. Even with Hazel on-board, even after near-death, he thought about the husband and son he’d left behind. The ship lurched. Momentary loss of gravity. He slid against a wooden beam. He ignored the impacted pain in his ribs.

Zarik caught hold of the scroll before it fell out of reach. He withstood the shift of reality and sought to use the artifact-driven magic to open a passage to Emea. It made no difference. Still disconnected. He braced against the beam. He continued to read. He hurried to recover his inkwell and quill. In frantic scribbles, he inquired about the safety of his son. Nothing would have gotten him to do otherwise. Not the shouts, nor cheers, that echoed above.

The young mage hunched over the scroll. Words bled through the parchment while his husband wrote to him. Three revelations, flaying the Nightmare King, a curse, and ultimately the loss of any hope for reunion with his son... The Leviathan seemed relaxing by comparison. Maybe he would have done better to devour the thing, become a proper monster rather than descend into whatever horror his first love had mutated into. Zarik rubbed his reddened eyes, His hand trembled. He wrote back.

He inhaled a shaky breath. A familiar irritation rose at the response. It felt bittersweet after so many trials stuck at sea. Zarik sorted his thoughts. He couldn’t write anything reckless. He couldn’t hint at where he was. He couldn't… his teeth gritted when he remembered why he'd left his home, and why he’d taken Hazel with him, and why he couldn’t lapse… not for a trill... not even for a kiss… it was far too dangerous.

To reunite could mean death so irrevocably destructive that he doubted he'd have any soul left. That was the optimistic view of it. There'd be the temporary elation, which would be banished by disappointed expectations and then...

...would his husband use something else to control his mind? To make him forget who he was? To never leave. To never question. To be a perfectly poised companion; untouched and unloved by all except his self-proclaimed majesty. To keep him chained to the side, forever? Zarik fully knew what his husband was capable of, especially when the magister felt justified, and what he read on the scroll only confirmed what he already understood. Understanding didn't make it hurt any less.

Zarik considered the Leviathan, and the mad arrogance of the beast. He methodically scribed a response. It wasn’t a message for himself. Zarik focused on the chance that he might save lives, if he could lessen the despairing anguish of his power-mad soulmate.

He watched some of his own words fade as they transferred between the linked scrolls:
You afford yourself far too much weakness for the sheer power you’ve accumulated in your vessel. You are a cracked vase, of which water leaks through when poured full. Take your accursed eternity, and instead of brooding in pity, strengthen yourself more so. Not in body or magic, but in spirit.

The young man finished the message in cursive scrawls. He hated this. This was why he had to leave. He didn’t free himself from the purview of his father, only to be forced into a different role. He had wanted to remain honest and sincere, bold and brash with a man so alluringly powerful… but Zarik discovered that even the most powerful of men could be so irrevocably broken that only lies and deceit kept them confident through life. This was not the illumination he desired. It was false light. Alistair was not the sun he’d thought. The exiled noble was merely a broken human, frightened by the loss of possessions and yet recklessly driven by need for more.

Zarik slowly wrote the last line:
I love you. Farewell until we meet again.

He read the response, and felt relief when it seemed to work. The man’s despair flipped to hope. Zarik imagined it... his lover's smile while he wrote, but the vision sent a painful ache through his heart.

Even after the manipulation of Zarik's mind, and the betrayals and lies... Despite Zarik's confusion as to why he wasn’t good enough – never good enough – and the constant inadequacy he felt around the other men in the unusual household... Even after the loss of his father due to his romantic pursuit, and the slaying of hundreds of innocents, and now... to offend Vri so grievously, and disconnecting ether from his sparks… Despite all of it, Zarik still wanted to make him happy. The biqaj loathed himself for that.

He stood, stared at the echo scroll… then tore it up into tiny bits and pieces. Zarik grabbed regular parchment, scribbled a note for himself. He pocketed it, then went to the way that led back. For a moment, he felt about ready to cry.

He gathered his composure, instead, and walked up to the deck.

It seemed they had all survived. Well, good for them. Another trial to live so they could maybe die in that one instead. Dazed, Zarik walked past the various pirates cheering and dancing about. Like literal fools. He pushed away from a sailor who tried to include him in a loop-around dance. The sailor returned to celebration without concern for the odd Quacian mage.

Zarik barely looked like a mage anymore. His wings had frozen in place, unusable, and his halo had vanished. He leaned with his elbows against the railing beside Oceta, Hazel, and the Raggedy Man. He felt sick with nausea that went far beyond physical. The blond heard a sigh from the Etzori man beside him.

Then Kasoria whispered something unexpected: Go to yer Crossin', an' may the Lights guide yeh across. Go to yer Judgement, an' may it favor yeh. Go wi' our thanks, yeh mad bastard...

He held out for exactly one breath… and then Zarik collapsed into sobs. Fortunately, his stomach was empty, so he didn’t retch before or while crying. He curled over the railing, placed his face in his scarred hands and cried without care if he looked or sounded pleasant while doing so. In his grief, he mourned much. Among it all, he mourned the Leviathan, he mourned the sailors, he mourned the loss of Emea, he mourned his father, he mourned for the innocents of Helice, he even mourned the Nightmare King.

Sorrow and anger suffocated the young man, isolated him, and he distanced himself from the others. Hazel clung to his leg and tried to ask if he was injured, in her childish innocence, unaware that his pain came from the unseen dimensions of the mind and heart. Zarik waved away Oceta, to take Hazel somewhere else. He couldn’t comfort her. Not at the precise moment. He sat at the ship’s railing in a quiet curve near the bow, scarred head buried against his scarred forearm. His sobs drifted. An almost impossible silence remained while he kept his eyes shut and escaped into darkness.

[Maltruism]

Graeslin mourned only for Den, her spyglass locked on the vicinity of the now submerged half-Leviathan. The crew's enthusiasm for celebration waned somewhat, but their captain gave a nodding gesture to carry on, and to pay her no mind. Two bits later, she suddenly stiffened, her head leaning so forcibly into the lens of her spyglass that she might have put her eye out.

She spun, with a look of profound excitement, tossing her spyglass to the nearest crewmember and shouting for the drop of a longboat. Then she dove over the rail and came up stroking as if her life depended on it. The crewman with the spyglass turned it to where she'd been looking and in moments stiffened in a like manner. "It's Den! It's GOT to be!" he shouted as he pointed.

A pair of crewman were already cranking the mechanism, hitting the quick-drop release to let it splash the last six or seven feet. Those that were going to actually be IN the launch were already clambering down the net, and were in the boat, hitting the oars, in trills. By the time they caught up to their captain, she was already side-stroking her way toward them, tugging the inert body of her first mate behind her. He was not breathing.

The men pulled him aboard and Graeslin shouted at them not to wait for her. Their oars tore the water's surface in fury as they approached the near side of the ship which had taken the time to attach some hooks so Den could be placed in what amounted to a hammock for a quick pull up to the deck. Ambassador Jorsie surprised everyone by taking control, pushing through the press with the announcement that he knew the air-lung pump trick.

This was, of course, the less-sophisticated term for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He set immediately to work, ordering the crew back to give him room as he moved from Den's face to chest and back. He did not lack for assistance in flipping Den up on his side when necessary. Screams of desperation and loud stomps of bootsteps announced Graeslin's arrival, and a number of the crew acted as buffers to her charge to keep her from interrupting the diplomat at his work.

Realizing what he was doing, she immediately complied, radiating a heart-rending blend of anxiety and hope. "Bring him back to me, ambassador, and you can have anything you want..." her gaze whirled to include all the newcomers, "...you ALL can." her sight locked for just a moment on Zarik, a slight increase in sympathy showing in her features as she turned back to her first mate's fight for life.

At the very moment that composure abandoned her, and she dropped to her knees in tears, Den erupted in wet coughs, spraying salt water all over the deck and the ambassador. His coughs continued despite Graeslin's joyous embrace, her tears now gleaming in salvation. She made an honest effort to express her thanks to Jorsie, but her voice was too broken with emotion to enunciate even a single syllable. Jorsie smiled back, having no trouble understanding what she'd said.

But all was not triumph and joy just yet. Den's eyes swam in confusion as he tried to focus. "Grrra-esss...slinn.." he slurred, repeating the name, but seemingly directing it at everyone with its true owner holding no priority over anyone else. He grinned stupidly and started to drool, though it may have just been salty residue.

He staggered to his feet, his movements clumsy as a child as he randomly started hugging everyone, seeming to name them all Graeslin equally. The captain tried to interpose herself into a couple of these hugs, seemingly trying to convince both herself and Den that it was she he was trying to identify. He paid her no more mind than anyone else, leaving her with a empty smile and hollow eyes that followed him in bereaved confusion.

He began to slowly slur a few more words into his gibberish, clapping his hands and giggling with what appeared to be pride in his growing vocabulary. The crewmen that he hugged and pranced about with gave confused looks toward their captain, but could hardly refrain from showing affection to the man who'd just slain the monster that had been on the verge of destroying them all. Graeslin did not react to their looks, her thoughts far from those sorts of concerns.

Jorsie suddenly appeared before her, diplomatically interposing himself into the line of sight of Den. "His brain has been starved of air, Captain. This happens sometimes. I would tell you there is a good chance he will fully recover, but I would be lying. There IS a slight chance. And a better one of a partial recovery." There seemed to be a "but" that he hesitated to begin any further comment with.

The Captain waited a few trills before nodding silently and turning to make her way to her quarters. She stopped at the door to look back. Her crew was largely looking her way for assurance that the camaraderie they were extending to Den was not causing her any grief. She took a deep, trembling breath and then spun her finger in the air to display approval for a party atmosphere. Their cheers did not accompany her into her cabin.

Off Topic

I figure one more post each.

[Kasoria]

Kasoria found himself hoping along with the rest of them. Prayers were mumbled and spoken around him, but for once the Etzori did not sneer or glower at those beseeching monstrous gods. He understood, or found some inkling of commonality with such desperation. They asked not for wealth or power or pleasure. They wanted their friend back. Whether or not he truly was that - for some of them thought ill of Den and felt no need to hide it - he had hurled himself into the maw of hell so they could be spared. Even the most callused crab on the ship set wide eyes out onto the sea, the vast corpse, the inscrutable waves, and cast a plea into the void.

Mayhap, had he been born anywhere else, Kasoria might have joined them. But he was not, and did not. The Fates were not to be plagued with demands; doing so only angered them. They were as they were. The fates they weaved for all men were completed long before one was born. To badger them with pleas was to question their existence at all. Such as Kasoria had been told, a simple and stoic explanation to the thoughtless, inhuman chaos that life so often bred. So he did not beseech them. Tired, bedraggled, sore and swaying, he held onto the railing at the edge of the deck... and he hoped.

Without words. Without speaking. Just the feeling, the longing for deliverance. The desire for the Fates to... not be kind, but to be revealed as-

There!

He opened his mouth to shout but already sharper eyes had found what he'd spied. A great chorus went up from the deck and by the time the echo had faded a boat was already lowered and plowing through the waves towards the still, floating figure. Kasoria held his breath along with the rest as he watched it all unfold. The return. The strange, pumping, blowing motions that Ambassador Jorsie administered to the half-drowned sailor. And then, lo, with a great explosion of sea water and air, he was returned to them!

Kasoria smiled along with the rest. He would have thrust a fist into the sky and stopped himself from thanking... someone. Something. Anyone. Fate or chance or whatever had tipped the future into their favor, just a little bit. Then he heard the resurrected man speak.

"Grrra-esss...slinn.."

That... doesn't sound like him.

Like the Captain, like the crabs, like Llyr and Jorsie and the rest, Kasoria's relieved smile died by inches. Slow and comprehending though he did not wish to. He would have preferred his ignorance to this cruel revelation. By the time the swaying, drooling man turned to him, eyes shining with all the blank-minded innocence of an infant, Kasoria knew there was something very wrong with him. The cocky, cunning sailor who'd carried a hidden torch for his captain? That man had died. The spark of a soul that lived in the body was gone. An echo of it was all that had returned. The smears of love and devotion that were left in a vessel emptied and hollowed out by untold damage to the mind.

"Grrra-esss...slinn.."

Kasoria stiffened as the man Den embraced him. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. Sheer muscle memory almost had him break the hug with a strike to the crotch and a butting crown to the head. Instead he just... stood there. Feeling foolish and comforted only by the fact that all who watched him shared a strange sympathy. They didn't know this crab, this shell, this thing that used to be their friend.

"I... Er... Thank you. Fer what yeh-"

"Grrra-esss...slinn.."

The Fates are cruel, he thought as Den wandered off to find a new friend. This is why you don't tempt them.

"There is a chance he could recovery," Jorsie repeated next to him, fine instincts sensing the disquiet in the Raggedy Man. "I... I haven't seen it personally, but I've read that in some cases-"

"He's meant t'be like this." Kasoria spoke slowly. Quietly. Face now returned to its customary scowl as he watched the Captain retire below deck, steps as leaden as one cursed. "S'what the cost was. Of savin' us."

Jorsie turned to him sharply, and Kasoria knew why. Such words from an Etzori, it came perilously close to... ascribing more to events than the Fates. Almost as if architects worked in the higher orders, beings that could be placated or insulted, and acted accordingly. But that was impossible, or should have been. Especially from this, as Jorsie had been led to believe, an especially fanatical product of the time-honored Etzos disdain for anything approaching theistic worship. But he still heard the words, and from those lips.

"More likely he thought he would die, and the Fates had it he'd inhale too much water and get too little air instead. Its more biology and bad luck than any sort of... cost, Mister Kasoria."

The Raggedy Man tore his gaze from the simpleton awkwardly embracing every man that crossed his path. Celebrations continued, a whispered hope that Den could be cured spreading round the men like pox, but it was subdued. Their Captain grieved; they all did... and they were too hard a crew to believe in such lofty hopes. Even after their prayers. Even after their friend had been returned to them.

Had he?

"It can be both," Kasoria said, and went below deck without another word.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Behold, I was shapen in wickedness: and in sin hath my mother conceived me.
But lo, Thou requirest truth in the inward parts: and shalt make me to understand wisdom secretly.

The last person who Zarik mourned on that trial was himself. He mourned the life he left behind, aware he’d never have it back. He’d never be able to retreat into the past, whether he wanted to or not, and find himself at the hearth next to his father, brewing tea, and in Cylus, making sure the elderly man had remembered to wear a blanket. In Ashan, making sure he’d eaten well. In Ymiden, making sure he’d washed. In Saun, making sure the sober parts of his father’s mind maintained over those that’d weakened. In Vhalar, making sure his aging body was still operational – that his hands could still grip his beloved torture instruments, could still hit as hard as they ever had, could still hold a cup. In Zi’da, tending to the rattled coughs best he could. It hadn’t been many arcs of it, but it had been enough to leave a firm imprint of what the seasons would have meant if he’d remained in his home with his father. If he had continued fulfilling the responsibilities laid before him of both house and business.

By the time he’d reached this rumination, he’d gone silent. He heard the sailor crowd shout and cheer about their recovered shipmate. Zarik remained near the bow of the ship. Isolation didn’t mean he came rushing to join the rest, and the young man desired the solitude provided him, as to why he’d distanced himself in the first place. He didn’t care if called cold or callous, though he suspected it more likely that no one paid any mind to him at all. None of the simpletons aboard seemed to realize the severity of what had happened in the world around them. No, they were all so focused on their meager brush of death – a death more glorious than any of them would likely get the chance for again – and their subsequent survival so that they could… what? Spend their trials plundering the seas? Zarik’s judgmental nature, inherited from his father, directed his thoughts as a wave of nausea rushed through him.

He lifted his head, with required effort that went far beyond physical, and he blearily stared past the deck stairs to where the crowd gathered around Den. At least Den had seemed to accept a glorious death, or almost did… the cheering faded away. Zarik didn’t need to be nearby to understand what was going on. He observed while Den hugged Kasoria, and he knew.

It wasn’t comatose, and Den acted perfectly healthy in body. Zarik lifted himself up. Slow, gradual, he got to his feet and curled his spine until he towered at his lofty height. The slight heels of his boots tapped against the wet deck floor. He descended the stairs from the upper bow to where the sailors witnessed the result of their friend's heroism.

His expression steeled, a serious look to his youthful features, except for the twitched arch of his left eyebrow. Jorsie needled around and acted like he knew how things were, how things were going to be, and every bit of the pompous dolt he’d proven himself to be in the course of the Leviathan's threat. Zarik didn’t pay attention to his initiate, Kasoria, either, who’d served a role as well as any human swordsman might have. He did, however, look toward Graeslin as she fled… likely to go accomplish what he’d just finished: a good, powerful release of salty tears.

In the meantime, he understood the man - who clapped his hands and danced around with the pure joy of an ignorant nature - was still Den. He didn’t know much about the pirate, but Den was one of the more bearable sailors on the journey so far. It’d been obvious with any who had a smidgen of understanding people what he thought of Graeslin, and what she wanted of him. Zarik accepted one of the hugs given to everyone, and he patted Den’s shoulder.

The young mage, with crystallized wings, with lost magic and stolen dreams, wrapped an arm around Den’s shoulders and informed Briggs, “He needs to be checked and cared for injuries. Any lacerations, internal bleeding, the like. Find him a decent wine, clean water, and if you have any proper teas on this forsaken boat, bring them as well. The more medicinal in nature, the better.”

The other sailors deferred to Briggs, who nodded in baffled acceptance.

“Come on, Den. You can’t stay in these grimy clothes.” He forcefully guided the shorter man, even though Den tried to remain and celebrate. For there was dancing and singing, and his crewmates started drinking – in his honor, or was it simply to drink and forget the reminder of their own fragile mortality?

Zarik shook his head, then continued to guide Den into the warmest place he knew in the ship: Graeslin’s Cabin.

Driven by grief, she hadn’t remembered to properly lock the door. It swung open, and Zarik guided Den inside. He shut the door with his foot behind him, with the smallest glance to make sure that Jorsie hadn’t simpered his way to join them. Zarik would’ve slammed the door in his face, if needed.

“What does a posh ambassador know about these things?” was how he greeted Graeslin. He purposefully avoided looking at her. “Jorsie is no doctor.”

“Sit,” he told Den and it took him a few tries before he finally managed to get the man to settle in the chair. He pointed a finger at him, as if to warn him, then nodded slowly. “Good... Hold still, Den. Let’s get that for you.”

The slurred word, and claps, and even a momentary smack upside his head, did nothing to deter Zarik from his caretaking. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket, cleaned off the saltwater then the drool. The blond checked the face, noticed the many raw scratches and scrapes that were there. He inquired Graeslin without looking away from Den. “Do you have any cleansing ointments and bandages for wounds?”

Certainly, the captain tried to say one or two things but found herself mostly at a loss. A great loss. She managed to get up and acquire the items requested.

Zarik dried Den’s hair with a handtowel, then let the man gibber while he combed out the knots and tangles. While he did so, the biqaj hummed a cheerful tune. The humming centered Den on the melody, while he attended to getting the longer portions of hair out of the way and checked the scalp for any sort of injuries – lacerations, bruises, the like. He noticed a welt near the temple and fastened the hair away from it so that it could easily be monitored for future bleeding.

Briggs made it to the cabin, arms full of what had been requested and then some. Far more than Zarik needed, but he appreciated the options rather than having too few. He sorted through the items while Briggs, being closer to Den, stripped the man to check for any other visible wounds that needed to be cleaned out and cared for. However, as he sniffed at a satchel of tea leaves that vaguely reminded him of what used to help his father’s coughs, he heard the stilted choke of Briggs.

The man struggled to tend to his friend when that friend kept acting like a simple child about it. Zarik handed the satchel of tea leaves to Graeslin and instructed her, “Make tea.”

He went to the pirate and set a hand on his shoulder. Zarik said, “You can go if you need to. Thank you for bringing the items.”

“I’ll stay,” decided Briggs, his voice forcibly evened.

“Good,” replied Zarik. “Then mix some water with wine in a cup, and we’ll need to stitch that cut on his thigh. I’m not the best with stitching but…”

“We have someone for that,” asserted Graeslin, her voice far less even than Briggs, though she’d seemed to have recovered herself somewhat. She hurried to find the ship’s medic.

Only she returned a few bits later, with a shake of her head, and blandly said, “No… he… he was one of those left behind.”

Zarik had cleaned up the cut by now. Though his ears rang from how much Den started to resist. This wasn’t simple humming and combing hair. This was stinging pain while the wounds got cleaned out and Zarik checked the bones for any breaks or fractures. Den didn’t care for it and he made it known with yelped shouts and hits that proved he had every bit of physical strength as before. Fortunately, Briggs took it upon himself to restrain the worst of the punches away from Zarik’s face.

The door opened, and Zarik glanced over to see Jorsie start to enter. He pointed a finger at the ambassador and snapped, “Out!”

Jorsie mouthed like a fish without air, eyes bulged at the immediate dismissal. He hadn’t even gotten a foot into the captain’s quarters – let alone spoken a word yet.

“Get him out of here,” insisted Zarik. “He’ll only distract.”

Graeslin shut the door. Delayed muffled indignation sounded behind it, then the footsteps of the ambassador swiftly walking away.

Zarik exhaled lowly - then with the combined effort of Briggs to keep Den seated and away from harming anyone or himself, and Graeslin to hand him the necessary items – he took to stitching the cut on Den’s thigh. It wasn’t a nice job. It wasn’t tidy. A great deal of crimson blood flowed out of the cleaned wound. The stitching was uneven and jagged in the black threads, but he managed to get to the end and twist it secure so that it wouldn’t come undone, even if under duress.

Hands red, fresh blood smeared on his face from where he’d rubbed sweat away from his scarred forehead, Zarik examined a cut on the sole of the man’s foot and said, “This doesn’t need stitches, just bandages.” So, he tended to that next.

“You’re doing great, Den,” he spoke directly to the distressed man who’d gathered drool on the lower lip. Zarik couldn’t keep up with humming, not when he needed to focus, so he told Briggs, “Sing something soothing for Den, will you, please?”

It was a heavily accented lyrical shanty that Briggs chose, something about seductive mer women on an island. Zarik didn’t pay close attention, only felt glad that Den had stopped flailing or trying to get up from the chair. He tightly wrapped the bandages around the foot and ankle. His head ached from the few hits of fists, palms, and elbows that had gotten through over the course of the examination and stitching, but he could endure. If anything, a sort of sentimental familiarity caused Zarik to feel at home.

The tea finished steeping, and he helped Den drink some of it… but the sailor didn’t like the taste. Which complicated things a great deal more. Zarik offered the watered-down wine, which Den most definitely liked. The biqaj followed a basic instruction that he’d learned when caring for dazed, battered, and broken torture victims. One gulp of tea, then he rewarded Den with a gulp of the watered-down wine – and when the water-wine was gone, he had it refilled because it was important for the sailor to finish the tea.

“Is there any hope?” asked Graeslin while she drank from her own glass, though the contents were doubly liquored rather than diluted with water.

Zarik glanced at her while he held the cup out. Den had already taken to understanding the trade-off between the two drinks and eagerly followed along with it now. The biqaj said, “He’s healthy. And he’s still your Den. You don’t need hope for that. He’s right here, alive and on the mend, with us now.”

“In time, everything changes,” he added. He dabbed Den’s chin to wipe off dribbled wine. Zarik ignored the noise when he heard a scoff from the drunk woman. Instead, he looked at the seated man who stared up at him with a hazy look. Zarik could recognize through the haze that Den saw and heard him all the same. He knew the difference between those who were awake and those who weren't. No matter what the pirates believed about their friend, Zarik identified Den as awake.

He gently said, “Isn’t that right, Den?”

The remainder of the tea splashed in his face, followed by the cup thrown. It bounced off his cheekbone, then hit the floor and rolled away. Zarik picked up the washrag, and set to finish cleaning the man’s feet and legs so they could get him dressed in comfortable clothes, with a blanket. The wine would make Den drowsy enough to slumber once they laid him down to rest, though whether he would dream or not… Zarik didn’t know.

[Maltruism]

Though it was not likely to have been Zarik's goal, Graeslin burst into a genuine, delighted laughter. Had the Quacian not still been squatting in front of Den, wiping up the mess from his actions, she'd have flung herself on her first mate with tears of hope. "By the Fates, maybe he IS in there! It's just like him to have done something like that to anyone spouting a load of such crap! This isn't just one of life's changes, pal. This isn't an old man starting to show signs of senility, a young girl's first flow, or an old woman's menopause. This is not the natural order of change."

She had turned as she spoke, and now scrutinized the noble a bit more, her face hard. "I don't get you. What is your problem? You and your girls are all safe and the enemy is dead. Well, maybe you count me among them, I don't know. Yeah, so we got off to bad start and maybe it didn't get consistently better. So we won't be friends, what difference does that make? Why are you so...shorn of hope?"

She gestured to Den, "This is not MY Den. It's his body, sure; with care, his same looks, maybe even his same capability in bed. But his character may be lost permanently, his personality, his identity. I can't ask him for advice on solving a problem, or ask him to sing one of his songs. He's not there to respond. Jorsie tells me something to give me hope and you do your damnedest to cut it down. Is this revenge?"

She sat back on her heels and continued to puzzle him over, "Why now? Things were going pretty smooth lately between us. The risk we all took with the Leviathan was unavoidable, and you could have left. Again, you chose something, and got through it with nothing more than a good scare. Same with us. So you suffered nothing that we didn't also suffer. WE all lost friends among those that just died. You always kept yourself aloof from us. So you can't claim to have lost your best friend. Not here anyway. So tell me, what is it you've lost that we have not? What makes you so much more of a victim?"

Whether Zarik was of a mind to answer or not, Den turned Graeslin's focus completely away from the noble, "Los-ssst...not." he stammered slowly. He put a hand to his chest, "Den....Grrraes-sssslin." This last word accompanied a finger pointing at the captain, who dissolved into hugs, kisses and tears.

She looked back moments later through teary, red crescent slits, "You would have me relinquish hope? I would tell you to find it, though I have no idea where you lost it. Only you can answer that. And get off Jorsie's back. You can definitely use someone high up in Etzos' politics to get a decent start. But then again, I wouldn't want to impose any unwanted hope on you." The sarcasm was scathing.

Over the remaining trials, Den made no noticeable improvement beyond a few words that were not consistently employed with any linguistic or grammatical accuracy. But Graeslin stayed enthusiastic about their future, and her enthusiasm found eager ears among the surviving crew members. Going to Foster's Landing now had the extra goal of hiring a few replacements for those that had died with the Leviathan.

The clouds took on the look of those competing with the effects of a land mass and hopes rose further. it was short-lived though, as the presence of smoke was perceived. The lookout shouted down a warning of ships, "Dozens of them!" There was immediate lean toward tactical stations, but Graeslin held a hand aloft for a hold on anything further as she swept the spyglass to her eye. Concern and curiosity warred for dominance in her features.

"This doesn't make sense. There are ships from five different fleets here. Other pirates among them. The city itself doesn't appear to be burning, but the lands beyond are. Keep our heading for now." She continued to gaze.

After another break, she ordered a stand down from tacticals, "What in the Beneath's Basement is going on. Everyone is cramming the ships, and they are then putting to sea. But then they're just sitting offshore, or cruising sort of aimlessly. It's like they're picking up a load of passengers, but have no destination. And the other ships are stacking up in line to do the same."

The general consensus was to join the line. Since so many other able crews were doing it, there must be a good reason. By the time they'd secured their position, they could see what was happening. War had come to the region, whether Etzos was aggressor or defender was not immediately obvious here in Foster's, but the line of refugees was now plain. They were buying their way on board with whatever they had, and were only interested in getting away from land.

That made some degree of sense when the bigger picture was made clear as they loaded their passengers. Lisirra had brought plague and blight to the entire region, and many present were from outlying towns that now stood as empty ghost towns. There was no time to check for capable seamen among those crowding the deck, but Graeslin had hope that some would turn up. In the meantime, those few actually looking to depart the vessel were treated as madmen by those clambering aboard, but only for a few trills before being welcomed to leave and give space to the sane.

Jorsie knew where his duty lay and departed immediately. Graeslin sought out Zarik to hopefully part as something along the line of 'friends', but saw him fighting his way against the throng on the pier with his kids. There was some measure of relief in a slight path made for Kasoria, who radiated threat regardless of whether he was actually identified or not. Zarik and the kids followed in his wake.

She allowed a sad smile, speaking only to herself, "Good luck, Quacian. Acknowledge how lucky you've already been, and take hope from it. Whatever it is that troubles you, you'd best cast it off or swallow it down, or Etzos will eat you alive."

She turned away moments later, shouting through her megaphone for the hatches to be lifted, "WE CAN GET TWICE THIS NUMBER ABOARD, YOU BASTARDS! GET THESE FOLKS BELOW BEFORE WE FUCKING CAPSIZE FOR BEING SO TOP-HEAVY!"

She stopped suddenly and stared in wonder as Den's voice started to rise in song. His words were garbled and he seemed to only recall parts of one or two lines, but the melody was clear enough that a few others, passenger and crew alike, joined in in a mutual need for uplifted spirits. As they belted out the correct words, Den began to adjust his own to follow suit. Graeslin wiped her eyes and wished silently one more time for Zarik to recover whatever it was he'd lost.