
1st Cylus, 720
It was the creaking of the wood, he understood. That croaking had become like the whine of a pig, screeching itself into his ears and hammered further into the skull by the sound of the crashing waves on the side of the vessel. The wind whistled all around, and the skies would flash their lightning like a feline would shine their teeth - a feral demonstration of power. The sound of water dripping somewhere, nowhere and everywhere at once, had become the twisted, malfunctioning metronome for this dysfunctional symphony of chaos. There was more to it, of course, and should Zekuseeyros see beyond the bucket and hear above the aforementioned elements, his sea sickness would’ve escalated into sea pneumonia. No need to be dramatic, of course.
With every heave, the man would curse upon the elements and yet fail to escape their hypnotic power. The words of the captain were stuck on a loop, repeating the same old phrase that had become a catalyst for his current plight; “... had a little setback, aye.” And a setback it was, forcing the already long journey onto the unstable end of the season. By the time the sun had began to hide, the skies and the seas had turned to rebels, as if forced in a tumultuous adolescence marked by their disregard for the established order. Storms would arise a few breaks in advance, then last bits before dissolving again. Wandering caskets of ice would come in and float south, as if migrating to softer climates for reproduction. Even mortals, in all their complexity and overall unchanging natures would find themselves crazed by this sudden void that would swallow them for thirty trials. Best the world be chewed and swallowed whole than to let it fester in the darkness like maggots on the flesh, the aukari thought bitterly.
There had been a setback, yes. It had cost some of the crew peace of mind, but for Zekuseeyros’, it had cost him his will to live. Never having been a fan of water in general, the idea of being surrounded by hundreds of miles of water with just a layer of wood in between had wormed itself into his brain and left him daft. Three trials now, with this unrest at sea, he had been glued to the bucket he almost felt he’d have to carry it for the rest of his days, much like his helmet. This helmet, glued by its owner by whatever magical means for whatever nefarious purposes, had now become a trap not only for its owner’s head, but also for his substances. Details being unnecessary, it is enough to state metal was not a permeable material, and that neither sweat, vomit, or the curses released by the acidic tongue could find an easy exit. Imagine, then, the scene, but imagine it vaguely lest the voyage claims the sanity of someone other than Zekuseeyros.
Suffice to say, the man had been cursed in more than one fashion. Fatigue had set in, and so he was caught unaware of the status of the vessel. Every so often he’d hear noises filtering their way into the helmet, albeit his defeated awareness could not make out the cries of the crew, the ringing of bells, the sounds of a busy dock or the mewing of the seagulls. He heard it, felt it, and recognized it only after passing out for an unknown amount of time, and by then, the swaying of the ship had slowed, the storm seemed to have been gone, and the pitter-patter of the passengers' feet had faded. The croaking of the wood had, thankfully, also ceased, and with it, the aukari found enough strength to stand. A deeply cynal thought whistled past his mind. ‘I sure hope my impossible quest doesn’t involve sea travel’. Having caught this thought, an immediate sense of shame and regret struck him, and back down he went, kneeling and pressing a hand against his chestplate. He thought of Faldrun - begged him forgiveness.
Still sea sick but able to stand and move, Zekuseeyros gathered his belongings and climbed to the deck. It was an arduous task, this climbing. Not being particularly strong at this time, the fact he was heavily armored and that he carried heavy equipment on his person made him focus on using his legs rather than make his lower back suffer. Not the first time he had been sick, and not the first time he had climbed out of a hole. Any alcohol enthusiastic could surely relate. On the deck, he was greeted with the chilling blast of Scalvoris’ Cylus, a cold, humid nightmare that sent a shiver down his back. Through the visor in his helmet, he gaped towards the torch-lit dock.
A bad omen crept over him.