The Wayward World

By Akravel Tamire

Upon this enchanted world, the curse of fate and stagnation has long been shattered, bringing about the end of the old kingdoms with promise of liberation from the drudgery of crude dirty lives. However, as new unknowns appear in this new age of machines and empires, one saying rings around the world: the arrow of time flies ever swifter, but it doesn't always fly true. Destiny is dead and gone; now, the future is known to none. Follow the lives of those living among these mind-wrought constructs through the decades as they chase new fortunes, new innovations, new conquests, aspire to champion grand empires, nay, superpowers in this ever changing world! However, as works of mind grow exponentially more powerful, the world sails ever faster into the unknown. Will the advancing clock herald a glorious tomorrow for everyone? Or, will it strike midnight once and for all? (Part 2 of 3 of the series A Dream's Bound)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Akravel Tamire
• Release date: Nov 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463066751

Akravel Tamire

There's nothing to brag about here, Akravel's just another person who likes history, science, a good story, and admittedly, video games a plenty. If anything, Akravel calls it a blessing that we live in a time where inspiration is easy to find, and works easy to share. Of course, such means would be pointless without someone on the other end; thank you for reading!

Book preview

A Dream's Bound: The Wayward World

By Akravel Tamire

Copyright 2019 Akravel Tamire

Smashwords Edition

Thanks for purchasing this book! By doing so, you are granted license to view this work for your own enjoyment only. If you enjoyed this book without purchasing it and would like to see more works from this author in the future, please buy a copy and/or tell a friend about it and get them to do so.

Disclaimer: This work is fiction and only fiction. All names, characters, businesses and other entities described in this book are entirely imaginary; any resemblance to real life names, people, or businesses is purely coincidental. Also, I don't always sugarcoat things; some of the characters are horrible people who do horrible things and say horrible words while they're at it. Read at your own risk!

Table of Contents

Arc 1: Irreversible Flow

Arc 2: Field Test

Arc 3: Above the Storm

Arc 4: Choosing Other Paths

Arc 5: Winters Bite

Arc 6: Carrying the Torch

Arc 7: Matters of Sovereignty

Arc 8: Theikos, Theikos

Arc 9: Entropy

Arc 10: Endgame

Arc 11: The Spoils of War

Arc 1: Irreversible Flow

Old tales speak of how the past would repeat itself, again and again, inescapably going back to where it started. The circle of time was a lingering thought clinging onto memories passed down from one generation to the next. In some ways it was a comforting thought, always an assurance that things would work out in the end.

Temeris...

He could practically hear his mother's voice speaking, an echo of his own memories released by a bleak sense of tragedy afar. A young dragon, he looked the part of the tail-bearing feather-covered people of this world--mirians--except he wasn't even quite that tall yet. Temeris's feathers were still a dull pale grey. He'd get his colors later in life, perhaps learn what his metal was, as all dragons had an affinity for a certain metal. For now, he kept most of his feathers covered in boots and thick pants, a basic white shirt, and a grey coat for the rain. Alas, he wouldn't be able to show his mother once he got his colors or metal. Indeed, like the thought of the circle of time, she was but a memory now...

Trailing into the year 4050, his mother, Xelqar, had arranged for his departure along with his siblings; they scattered to the corners of the world under humble caretakers and assumed names. He still knew his family line, even if he wouldn't be talking much of it. A wave of silence was felt across the whole crew of this sailing ship. His telepathic sense aimed to his homeland went silent... there was nothing left for him there. Nothing left at all.

He watched the land roll beyond the horizon as he traveled north into foreign waters. Perhaps he would return one day, to stand where he stood before, but it would only be ruins, a shadow of what it once was. Altavim as he knew it had ended. Time was no circle now; he could go anywhere, except back.

He knew the name of where he was going now. Itarem... an unremarkable kingdom of the equator, one of the fragments of land and sea that once stood together as Tavaria. From there he had no idea where he would go. Sent into the world with no guide, where would one go? The question of 'Then what?' bore down almost as harshly as memories of the past.

He was fortunate to have a family taking him in though, and he knew it. He'd taken on the new surname of Ymal, fitting for the region. He'd learned well from Xelqar to keep his promises and stay true to his word, his family, and his friends, something that had served him well so far in life, though his life was only beginning.

His mother had also left him with other gifts to help him along his way. He trailed back to the ship's hatch, pulling a loosely bound book out of his coat, flipping it open. It was something he did to pass the time and keep his mind distracted. Eleven years old and he was already a fan of several tales, curious of the world and its workings. He'd learned of the foundation of telepathy and telekinesis as well, all in a world where most cultures saw the 'brutish' males as being unfit for such fine cognitive work and so would deny him a title for it. He didn't really have any dreams of grandeur, anyway.

His mind wandered from the tale as the day drew to a close. He found himself staring more at the clouds. Feeling a drop of rain on his nose, he tucked the vulnerable pages of the tale away next to a teal-white feather, his one final memoir from before his journey began, a feather from his mother. He'd kept it tucked neatly away since leaving. Closing his eyes for a moment, he sat out in the rain, holding a hand out, an invisible funnel of telekinetic force gathering rainwater into an orb hovering above his palm. He opened his eyes to stare into it, for its surface carried an image of his own self.

Such thoughts of the past however, treasured as they were, were still merely memories. Ahead, his new home finally appeared, the city's expansive piers inviting him ashore, hard concrete sturdy underfoot as he followed the crowd. He never really trailed far from there though; though the grey brick of this island city had seen better days, it was the only true city in Itarem. Most of the city's seventy thousand inhabitants lived in sheds and huts propped up below skies oft charred with soot. As tempting as it would otherwise go fishing at the shore for some cheap food, the brown sludge washing up on the beach suggested it wasn't the best idea. Nobody cared if one put up a hovel there at least. The wonders of the mind had created many constructs and curious artifacts, though the materials used all came from works of chemistry, the downside of that all too visible at times. All that flotsam was downwind, the steady and reliable drive of the skies carrying the smog out to sea along with the ships carrying the finished goods. Any goods not sold abroad were sold beneath the glowing signs and displays upwind, the shinier part of town where those visiting from other lands tended to spend their time and money.

His new home was a simple but welcome shield from the sky. A hollow cube of wood and brick, it was better than a hovel and big enough to house a dragon---though not by much. It was fair enough as a place to relax and prepare the day's meals, though his surrogate parents, mirians of black and green plumage, his new mother and father respectively, could barely assure those meals. Though dragons ultimately lived far longer, they grew up at the same rate as everyone else, with all the food requirements that implied. Such yielded a choice between going hungry, or leaving for a hovel. They had enough surplus in prior years, such was why they were chosen, but with the upheaval at the end of Altavim's reign, times had gotten worse. Far worse for some. Temeris saw this and had decided to fix the problem, and so here he sat, waiting for his name to be called. It was an unremarkable office, flooded with paperwork where the visitors couldn't see, various storage gems casting their shine reflected from the amber quartz lights keeping the room lit.

Hearing the call, he stepped back past the next wooden door, taking a seat before the desk and the grey-feathered mirian who managed the dock's staff. Most places in Itarem didn't even bother with an office or anything more than simplest wooden sheds and piers, but the capitol city where foreigners visited needed its veneer of affluence. As such, working the dock paid relatively well.

The grey-feathered mirian looked up, her hopes high on hearing of a dragon, though she then looked down, and down some more to young Temeris as he sat across from her. She asked, Miss... Ymal?

"I'm a he. My feathers haven't turned yet."

Right... you'll have to be out of sight, and this is for tourist season only. She quickly pulled out a piece of paper. Most work wasn't so formal, but customs needed documents. Sign on the bottom.

He decided to read over it. She tapped her foot. Are you usually this slow?

What's this part about exclusion?

Never mind. She took it away from him, shook her head, and called out over the relay, Next!

He felt a pang of disappointment and frustration. Just like that! But, it'd already happened. Yes ma'am. As she seemed to value expedience, he made no hesitation leaving.

If even most grown ups can't read, why don't they want someone that can? I guess people don't like it when I ask questions.

Returning to town, he found few options. Some had opted to chase less honest professions in light of it... Temeris hadn't the lack-of-heart for that. What he did have however was time to spare in his search; fortunately it didn't take much in the end. The city's industry, crude as it was, was always hungry. There was no office or formality there, just walking himself into a warehouse-turned-crystal-plant, offering his services and having the foreman assign him a spot right then and there.

The more affluent regions of the world had a hunger for advanced works of the mind. Wisps of psychic power needed a lattice to anchor to in order to persist, either crystal or metal. For some ends gems dug up from the earth sufficed, but refined designs needed refined materials. The tropical climate was warm enough already... the heat of the chemical vat that dominated the interior of the plant was nearly unbearable along with the smell of it. On a good day the ducts above would all be working, cycling the air, though even then the smell of the growth pools persisted. It was boring work, at times mind-numbing though he took care not to let his mind wander too far. After all, the clockwork cycle of the machinery would carry on regardless what item or appendage an inattentive worker might put in its way.

All the same, the pay was clockwork as well. With all members of his new family chipping in, the threat of eviction was finally staved off, if narrowly. As such, he found the coming seasons, if difficult, at least quiet and stable.

I sometimes wonder why people wish for interesting years... it's not what it's cracked up to be, Temeris mumbled as he pulled off another month from the calendar. It was the coming of the busy season of summer, and he had more weight to carry around. Not that he had a problem with it, having grown over the seasons, now standing about twice the height of your average mirian. His feathers had turned a full deep blue, and his eyes carried a similar blue glow with a hint of purple. He'd seen a few horrible sights at the factory and learned well from them to avoid becoming one himself, though his sense of smell was long dead. All the same it was another day, and for once his hunger was satisfied as he gathered his things, carrying on a conversation with his surrogate mother.

Maybe not, but times change. Don't you think a dragon should find a life more than this?

I see no reason why I should expect more than anyone else, mum. I do more, I eat more, it balances out.

Maybe for now, but will it last forever?

Temeris pondered a moment, then sighed. His surrogate parents were no dragons... he never brought it up but the thought was in his mind already that they wouldn't last forever. As such he'd often been a bit distant from them. Having survived to adulthood, he'd thought about moving out... but with the wages offered to the average worker, the only choice for living alone was living in a shanty on whatever land nobody wanted, and none could house a dragon. Dragons were expected to be wealthy... there were no accommodations for one who wasn't. Nothing ever does last forever... but I carry no great ambition.

Few of us do; I just want you to be happy. I don't think you've ever really been satisfied like this.

Between watching my friends slowly lose their noses and eyes to the fumes... and the truth that the factory isn't even owned by anyone here... That company is part of the Croeth coalition, and we hardly see a scrap of what it makes.

No... but I'm not going to risk dinner on a gamble. All set, he gave her a gentle hug. Instead, I'll be back in time for it tonight.

Heading off, he spotted the sun about to rise. The sky was clear for once; it was another pleasantly boring day so far. As he arrived at his work, his mind caught the noise of something that used to be unusual: his supervisor was in an argument with the owner.

He overheard the latter win the argument with a question: Would you like to keep your job?

There'd been more such arguments lately. A new innovation was on the line---the monocrystal. Free of faults, such a gem was useful for applications on the cutting edge and fetched a tremendous value. Croeth's own core plants were the only limited suppliers so far; state-of-the-art steel and bronzework churned out cylindrical single crystals, gems and metals. His employers had managed to 'discover' one of the recipes from one of their 'contacts' in another company, and insisted on trying to replicate it... with their crude iron-built gemworks here. Unsurprisingly, all that had resulted to this point were useless foggy cylinders of half-glass.

His own overseer seemed a bit uncertain towards the news. Today we're at 350 degrees.

Orders were orders. Temeris nodded, leaving that to the vat crew. He tended to his own matters, fetching material to carry over his shoulders as they warmed everything up, beyond the normal heat. He was looking down as above him the mix of clear and faint yellow began to bubble into a deep purple sludge.

Splotches of purple appeared around Temeris as an unannounced rain started coming down inside the building. He immediately stepped back, dropping the bags away from the cauldron. Shouts both in voice and mind sounded out echoes, soon drowned out by the bubbling splash of a new and growing spill. This was no place for him, nor for the poor fellow caught by the spill on the catwalk. The one he spotted was a sythian, the mirians' blue-green featherless cousins from the sea. They tended to prefer agriculture to industry, and this was one of the reasons. No feathers, no protection. Rushing towards the metal-bound stairwell, Temeris snagged the screaming sythian and hoisted him over his shoulder, heading quickly out through the loading door. He glanced back to see flames rising back inside, caustic fumes billowing out the windows.

He set the sythian down, looking away from the poor fellow's contorted face to spot where the hot chemicals had washed over his legs, leaving behind a lack of skin. That sight had him closing his eyes for a moment to clear it from his mind. All the same, his supervisor was nowhere to be seen.

He called out in a broadcast of telepathy, Someone call the firemen!

Seeing a purge of the cauldron was imminent he circled the building, ushering all those in scrap-built homes nearby to leave, those who hadn't already. As he returned, a squadron arrived with a pump on a cart, connecting it to the adjacent building's power. A kinetic pipe did well for accelerating water, both over the flames and over the people, washing away the chemicals though the damage was already done.

Temeris had a grim expression the whole way home that day, returning on time as he'd promised, though with chemical-burned clothes, a few burnt feathers, and no cheer at all. Today was not a boring day...

Such was another day off the calendar, though there would be no more work there for him. His once-new family was more worried about him, though as far as he could tell he made it out without any serious harm, clothes excepted--not that they were worth much anyway.

Strolling past the warehouse the coming day drove the point home; the scorched walls housed only corroded slag inside. His former superior was still nowhere to be seen. He did his best to put it all out of his mind, moving on. The sight wasn't too much of a contrast with its surroundings though. Over the years he'd lived in Itarem, he'd seen what was already an uncomfortable state spiral further down. Most of the former apartments were broken down into squatter-villes; several times he'd served as an unpleasant surprise for those more desperate than malicious trying to take advantage of his family's relatively comfortable position. At least their hollow cube wasn't leaky under the tropical skies.

Most, seeking new work, would stroll about asking people and looking for signs. Temeris had quicker ways of surveying around. Ahead of the purple-blue glow of his eyes, he saw the noise and power of those buildings lucky enough to have powered machines, incandescent to the mind's eye. He also surveyed the air of those he saw around him, spending enough time searching to reveal who most wished for his presence. His search also had others giving him a similar gaze---not lowly workers but better-dressed women of the state. He caught their gaze and returned it briefly, though he got nothing of use from looking at them, as their minds were well obfuscated from curious onlookers.

He paid them little heed, as telepathic survey wasn't illegal, nor were they concerned with him beyond the occasional brief glance. He returned home, sorting his options, picking one out with plans to join yet another boring job the following day.

Come the next morning, he woke up early to find a notice under the door, preempting his plans. It was plainly and neatly written. None of his illiterate neighbors would have a use for it. Below the formal address was a plain summons to appear at the office of the Royal Navy of Itarem, no fluff, no frills, just a very insistent deadline of noon that day.

At last, interesting times have found me. I suppose Mum was right...

He mumbled a bit to himself, tucking it away. Wasting no time, he decided to arrive hours short of the deadline. Setting off as soon as he could, he arrived to find a relatively modern building at the address; there were a pair of banners dangling aside the glass-and-lattice door, each banner red divided by a green stripe with a silver lizard and grain emblem. The door was a bit on the small side, the ceiling low---all around a building built to compromise for dragons if marginally. Likely they weren't expecting any. Those passing by up front were surprised to see a colorfully feathered dragon wearing contrastingly dull rags strolling around.

A silent voice prodded at his mind. An arrow and line pointed the way soon visible to his mind's sight, leading him down the first corridor and immediately to the right, just like that, bringing him face to face with, not a recruiter... she had too much metal hidden under her jacket for that. A pure white mirian, she had an intellectual air about her; behind her blue eyes, plans were neatly seated within a mind trained for efficiency and speed.

He took a guess. Commander.

She corrected him. Captain, actually. She stared pointedly at him, her sight like a narrow beam though lacking any hostility. You know why you're here?

No. Conscripting dragons is forbidden by the lords' law of 4020... unless that's why you sent me a summons instead of a conscription notice.

"We don't exactly have psychic dragons available every day, Mr. Ymal. You've been hearing and reading about the Ceremor brigand problem? These social rejects are bleeding us dry, and we need new specialists to deal with them."

I'm just a factory worker. Surely there's someone more qualified to spend valuable shipboard space on.

You're literate, already well-read and trained in telepathy and telekinesis. You walk into my office talking about legal details, and you expect me to think you're 'just a factory worker'? I'm not sure where you learned all that but it's a full step above nineteen- twentieths of your peers. If you didn't hear the first time, we need specialists.

I'd thought I'd sooner be called a spy.

If you were brainwashed enough to be one when you arrived at age eleven, we would've seen it.

Fair enough. I'm thinking this is just a polite way of conscripting me despite the law.

She blinked, her pointed stare dulling as she finished scanning his cognitive air. "Seeing as you actually are everything the patrol says you are... that's right. And that's all for my time. The men across the hall will have your paperwork for you. You'll have tonight to get your affairs in order. Report in by hour six tomorrow."

He was more frustrated than anything else, but it was his duty as a citizen of Itarem. Yes ma'am.

And a note to myself to study the rank markings ahead of time, I doubt they'll be so tolerant now that I'm one of them... I've heard some very disturbing stories about what they do to conscripts. Seriously, I'd rather just stay in a factory.

He shook his head at the thought on the way home. A specialist was a fair step up from the effective slavery the rest would face, though he still was less than enthusiastic.

At the very least, our family won't go hungry.

He'd been waiting for his familiar mirians to return from their work.

You've found new work, Temeris?

"Better said new work found me. The queen 'requests' my presence aboard one of her majesty's ships."

They drafted you?!

Temeris hesitated a moment, finding little to say.

I thought dragons couldn't be drafted, but...

The queen does as she wills, mother. However, you won't go hungry, and...

Temeris could see well enough that she wasn't taking the news well either way. He looked aside briefly, stepping over and kneeling to give her a hug. Once it's done I'll return, with specialist training.

Promise me you'll come back?

He hesitated briefly, knowing he couldn't truly promise it. Then again, the odds of his dying were actually fairly low, and he had all the determination he needed. I give you my word.

It left a bad taste in his mouth, saying something he couldn't guarantee, though he didn't have it in him to say anything else.

Perhaps, in retrospect, my life may have been less interesting had I been sent to one of the more affluent regions. But, such is my lot as it is. Xelqar sent me here knowing that nobody would identify my lineage... that might be why I'm still alive despite it all.

At least, he still occasionally had the chance to speak with his family even as he attended the best training his state could offer. Apart from keeping himself and his new uniform in good shape, he received a basic education in shipboard affairs, sailing, and what the roomful of other intellectuals either too unfortunate or too well connected to bother leaving the country had to say on the equipment they'd gotten for their star flagship, the HMS Amkal Sarik.

The only appreciably imposing craft in their navy, the Amkal Sarik was just shy of 80 meters long and fully rigged, having two masts with space for a chimney for the charcoal firebox underneath. It was the only Itarem craft that actually had enough power for a projector gun on deck, which looked more or less as a riveted iron cylinder on a swivel with a seat for an operator and a waveguide for a barrel. It drastically amplified the telekinetic will of the operator and further focused it on a target point, allowing it to quickly turn the smaller gunboats and 'trawlers' preferred by the local pirate population into floating bonfires. Primarily, this ship patrolled the waters around their capitol and the merchant routes leading to it; as a secondary function it kept their opportunistic neighboring kingdoms, most of which couldn't afford to armor their ships either, from deciding they needed these islands more.

What it didn't do was impress anyone from more affluent regions. The Croeth coalition from the frosty far north, occupying the southern half of the region of sea formerly known as Leneu, controlled most of the merchant trade in the region around Itarem and there was nothing any of them could do about that. Among some, this stretch of formerly Tavarian waters was known as the Croethan Equator. Nobody bothered to argue against their Croethan imperial 'friends' overtly; after all, even the Amkal Sarik would hardly count as a support craft by the terms of Croeth's forces.

If only they would foot the bill for anti-pirate patrol...

Temeris would only be getting anywhere near the controls of the main projector if an emergency demanded it. His task, once out of the pit of new-sailor drudgery, would be making sure the powerplant and weather antenna were working right. It was easy to overlook that bit of curved metal looping over the top of the tallest mast, but it was one of the most important devices aboard---the ship's locus of telepathy---used for both checking the skies and checking the seas for nearby ships and activity on the islands. Often information was more useful than firepower, the words trailing down the mast bringing notice to the rest of the ship, letting them home in on troublemaking ships. Then they would either accept the criminal crew's surrender or track them so that the gunner could give them a reason to jump ship from what ragtag dinghies they were sailing in.

There was no compromise between physical and intellectual duty; it was a trying and ever-exhausted existence, though a respected one. In a society where the muscle was exclusively male and the mind exclusively female, the position of shipboard specialist was one of the few open to both. It was as close as a mindful male could get to the distinguished elegance of intellectual work, and as close as an action-seeking female could get to the fire and grit of battle.

In Temeris' case, his mind and body both were given a heavier burden. After all, a dragon takes several bunks worth of space, eats several sailors' rations, and as a result, must do several sailors' work. Still, he ate better than the basic conscripts. They looked no better than his peers at the factory did and were often sickly people, kept away from the rest to avoid spreading whatever ailed them. Crawling his way through the hatch into the service backbone of the ship, one of the only comfortable passages in the ship for most and narrowly large enough for Temeris, he passed over a pair of them. Having saved part of his own ration for just such an occasion, he quietly brushed past them. The exchange hidden from view, his surplus had vanished, and the two quietly tucked the bits of food away.

It was only a brief move to slink his way around the corner and into the assembly of spiraling copper and gems that took the ethereal wisps of distant minds and turned them into discrete knowledge. This time he made sure to pull his tail inside before the door shut, sealing him in the darkness. A flick of the wrist could conjure an orb of light if needed, though it generally wasn't. Shutting out the distant rumble of the firebox and converter and the sound of wind and water behind him, he closed his eyes and let his mind merge with the machine. He opened his mind's senses to spot the air of the captain, her gunners, the engineer, all the vital positions of the ship and outward, needing no windows to see to the horizon and a touch beyond.

Everything checks out, all ready.

Almost immediately he heard the thoughts of the captain echoing over the ship's mindscape.

>We have a new target to look for. A sloop called the Northern Gale, pretending to be a courier. She flies the unaligned emblem of the wayward isles.

Far to the east, the wayward isles were a newly settled region. They'd been previously left to nature, but like the continents, had at large lately preferred no state at all. While flying the non-flag of anarchy meant that nobody could be held accountable for the ship's deeds but the ship itself, any ship announcing its statelessness was immediately marked as suspicious by all naval craft who saw it. After all, though many who flew the non-flag were kind, honest, if stubbornly independent people, it was also a favorite for criminals and the occasional 'unofficial' military operation.

>Last she was spotted alongside the independent armored frigate Theikos. The Northern Gale hasn't been seen doing any piracy but she might be supplying the Theikos and acting as a ship's boat. Akal Patrol has spotted their crew trespassing and trying to break into the minds of every company overseer they find. We have clearance to intercept and board; we'll find out what they're doing and why. Assuming the Northern Gale hasn't changed course, we will intercept her in three days.

Temeris had kept a thermos on him, a good sour tea to keep disease at bay along with a touch of a kick to keep him alert. There was just enough room for him to reach back for it.

I have to wonder how pirates managed to get their hands on a powered frigate. You don't just steal something that needs a mechanized port to maintain.

He'd thought he'd kept his thoughts quiet, though they were overheard all the same.

>If they're not pirates, then it's up to us to remind them that these are Itarem waters.

Such was not a thought he was comfortable entertaining. That was sentiment common among the rest as well; if someone was looking to invade, their 'friends' in Croeth were usually a fair distance away, and a proper frigate would be a far more deadly foe than some random rowboat full of thugs.

Twice he found himself leaning forward at sensing a presence just beyond the horizon, finding they were just a passing ferry and a genuine courier. The third took him longer to resolve. He sent his sights across the ship's mindspace.

Spotted a possible match.

>Keep an active sense, Ymal.

Temeris preferred the stealthier passive option himself, though the captain's logic was that she'd know her foe if they tried to turn tail. The arc of his sight, a curve of deep blue-purple to the mind's eye shined visibly to his target. They were mostly sythians aboard a now-unnamed craft, a light ship bordering on what could be called a ship, twelve meters long and with a single mast, jib, and mainsail.

One particular sythian, deep blue-skinned with nearly black markings and sky-blue fins, wearing a bright white fabric shirt and light tan pants denying the sun's rays and rain alike, spotted the lightshow. She aimed her telescope over the horizon, avoiding the afternoon sun. Look at that...

What is it Pavae? The captain of the day gave her a narrowed look.

Someone's locked us in... and I think it's navy, have a look!

She handed over the brass telescope, the patterns fixed to its metal housing aiding the mind's eye on top of its usual use. It revealed the sweeping sight of a sailor's sense boosted by naval hardware. Soon it revealed the ship that glow was coming from.

Shit... shit!

What?

That's their flagship!

So? Most of their 'ships' are dinghies with guns strapped on.

You don't think they have something bigger to protect their main corridor with? Seeing it all the way out here means they're hunting us. Get on the lines. Their ship didn't really have a strict hierarchy save for the 'suggestions' of the quartermaster, though their captain---a particular brightly-colored sythian---tended to take charge during trying circumstances. Now she brought her voice to a shout. All of you, bring out all the canvas and let out the sheet!

They had planned to slow down for a while to hastily nail down a new name on their ship, but with a war machine on their tail, their always-impromptu captain turned their ship tail to the wind, angled slightly away from straight downwind to catch as much of it as they could. A pure sailing ship could still narrowly outrun a powered ship given a path following a good solid and steady wind.

Distant echoes of a stern mind carried over their heads.

>Northern Gale, this is the HMS Amkal Sarik of the Itarem Royal Navy. You're suspect for plotting raids on our businesses; heave to and prepare to be boarded.

Pavae's captain of the day wasn't about to respond.

>Heave to now or we will board by force!

Everyone... get rockets ready, aim ahead.

What'll we be facing ahead of us?

If we turn into the wind, they'll gain on us enough to hit our masts. If we spend time gybing, same thing. Straight ahead is an island and they'll have boats out on the water waiting for us. The way I see it, we'll have to sail right past them.

Pavae shook her head, but kept her thoughts to herself.

Easy money never really is easy. Damn it all, just ten minutes ago everything was going smooth, and now this. Wasn't the Theikos supposed to warn us if this was happening?

Rather, she did a quick look around. Everyone else was distracted... the sloop did have a dinghy of its own. She could practically feel the line of their pursuer's sight beaming right over their mast. The horizon very narrowly shielded them as it was.

As their craft rushed ahead by the winds, a silence fell over the deck. Their boat rocked as it crashed through the crests of waves, waves that barely affected the ship behind them, allowing it to gradually close the distance. Over the horizon, the masts of a sloop and two gunboats were seen. The crests and glow of the nearby island's hills and towns could be viewed only by a sliver over the horizon on the left. Nobody wanted to say anything but after seeing what awaited them, they all were glancing to that dinghy.

Set 'em ablaze, all we need to do is keep them busy!

Pavae could already feel several sights sweeping their deck. As they were going in a straight line either way, wisdom be damned, everyone kept toward the bow with what guns and rockets they'd managed to 'find' in their misadventures.

The cracking pop of several gunshots were heard---shots wasted at this distance, with returning fire crunching into the wood of the hull or zipping overhead. Pavae kept her head down, blind firing over the side. The pistol she'd taken for herself was a simple and cheap one, a basic muzzle loader with a pin on the back. A spark lock, a pop of energy from one's mind shot through the pin and set off the gunpowder under it. The cheap gun was still so inaccurate it wasn't worth bothering to try aiming anyway.

The rockets weren't much better. These were crude tubes little more than fireworks with flammable oil at the top; one launched them from a larger tube and hoped they landed on the other ship to set it on fire. More often than not they were wasted on the water.

Two of the rockets aimed aside to the boats standing guard carried sharp quartz tips shining under the light of the sky. These were sent sailing forth in an exchange, streaks of smoke shooting overhead and into the water as their own came down from its arc, one of the two simply shattering and falling into the water. Such was pirate craftsmanship. The other let out a brilliant blast of white as it sailed over a boat, a flash of scrambling light that dazed both the eyes and the minds of those below.

That was only one boat. As they approached, gunfire rang out from both sides. Pavae ducked down behind the wooden siding by the ship's cabin, spending more effort on keeping her mind and position masked from her onlookers. It didn't stop a bullet from punching a hole through the wood right in front of her nose, narrowly missing her head. That was a rifle round; it would've hit had she not been on the move. She flinched and turned to hide behind the stairs instead.

Pavae, get the hell over here!

She ignored her peers, casting her own sight out in an arc, spotting cannons lining up. This was the biggest bulk of wood she could find to hide behind, so she braced herself against the side of the stairs. With gun smoke already obscuring eyesight, the flashes of cannonfire lit the clouds like a barrage of lightning, split rounds with iron chain between flying forth through the fog.

The chain shot swept just over the deck. Hunkered down, Pavae saw chips of wood flying past her face, shot gouging the deck and cutting the ship's rigging to shreds along with everyone standing in sight, blood and chunks of torn flesh littering the deck along with the maimed bodies of her former peers.

She slowly stepped away, staring numbly at the bloody heap that had been her captain, seeing another of her peers writhing and screaming on the ground. Recoiling briefly on sensing the searing agony of her maimed peer, she brought her pistol to bear and fired right into his skull, silencing him. Tucking the gun away, she continued on to the remains of the captain. There were a handful of survivors, including her, but the sails were swinging about and torn. It would only be a minute or two until the warship chasing them got within range.

The whole job was over as far as she cared. Pavae dragged her former captain off to cover by the cabin, kneeling down to gaze into the dying mind. She rifled about among the memories as her former captain's fading consciousness began to release them. There was one final thought among them as well...

Pavae... w-wha-... you fucking piece of...

Pavae managed a brief grin despite it all. Having gotten what she needed, she quickly walked into the cabin and pressed her hand against the front end of the ship's strongbox. The captain's personal passcode was now hers, along with the contents of the box. She pulled the cold door open with a creak to retrieve the four small dark wooden tubes and coin sack within, slinging them behind her back before running back out to the deck.

Hey Pavae... the hell are you doing?!

Surviving!

And with that, Pavae leapt off the far side, abandoning the ship and its dinghy to dive into the sea. The shore of the island was narrowly in sight, but tropical waters were warm and sythians weren't known as people of the sea for nothing. She took care to keep relaxed, avoid exerting herself, and keep her mind quiet. She dove, swimming beneath the waves, letting the dust of spent gunpowder wash off, avoiding the rudder of a passing boat on the way out. They were far more concerned with the people she left behind than with her, though she did see a pair of streaks appear in the water, bullets sent down... one of them came down from the ship she'd abandoned, judging by the angle.

Periodically surfacing for air, she looked back briefly, long enough to see what had come of things, occasionally ducking down again to avoid being a rifle target. Another two of her peers had chosen to abandon ship, choosing the comfort of the dinghy Pavae had left behind. For their efforts, they were shot and cooked in their slow moving craft, streaks of flame sent down by opposing minds.

If I'm ever NOT taking something, there's a reason...

A line of red seared through the sky from the horizon---a shot fired from the Amkal Sarik as it approached. Not bothering to look back anymore, Pavae swam away from the whole scene, her tail boosting her speed as she made her way out of range of their sight. She was already most of the way to the island by the time they turned and parted, her former home on the sea going up in smoke briefly, soon doused with hoisted water as the Amkal Sarik pulled alongside to board. Pavae had doubts they would find many survivors, if any. As far as she knew, there was only one they missed, an arrangement that worked well enough for her.

They never even told me what were in these damn things. Well whatever it is, it's mine now! As soon as I find a way to get to another island...

She wasn't the best at planning, nor did she care to be. Plans in this profession never really worked out as-is anyway. With several gunboats and a ship-of-war plus dragon peeking around for her, she turned and ducked away from their sights, avoiding the piers and docks, and aiming for the beach outside of town. Coughing, she drew herself onto shore before coming to rest on her knees, panting as she looked up.

Hearing voices close by, she looked over to spot a pair of mirians looking her way. They were just beachgoers having gathered at the sounds of unexpected battle, a few of them giving her a curious look. There were plenty of voices and sounds, but no words to her mind.

I wonder if anyone here speaks Valnoran?

Shaking her head, she picked herself up and trailed off into town. Telepathy could bridge over the language wall, but with a compounding cultural wall, it was cumbersome at best, little better than frantic gesturing at worst. Looking around, she saw the people in this small town mostly scraping up whatever they could grow on the land, terrified of their 'protectors'. Taking a good look around, she saw what counted as lawmen here, themselves aglow to her mind's eye by their own active searching for troublesome sentiments. As she passively took it all in, she saw them without being seen herself; she plotted a path to the back of town, keeping her distance from them. She saw only three in town.

If anything, they'll remember my hat, and that's floating away on the tides now. Good riddance...

She smiled to herself, only to nearly step in a pile of filth on her way down the mud path. There was little here but huts and shacks made of crude wood and dirt brick, with the occasional open air building near the center of town for trade. There was no power or light to be seen anywhere. The buildings were built in a similar fashion to the flat-topped ones of the arid band, though in these rainy tropics, the roofs had a bit of a bulge in the center, the larger buildings at least having a rain gutter. The hovels many called home were just patched up whenever possible.

What a hole in the ground! But it's not like it's much worse than the one I crawled out of. At least where I came from there wasn't any idiot 'queen'. I can lay low here, for a while... but not more than a few days. They saw me swimming to shore, they'll be looking.

Trailing out of the collection of huts, she found several branching paths out along the shore and between the hills. An isle of moderate size, this land hosted three towns worth putting roads to and a few scattered hovels along the countryside. There was plenty of wilderness and farmland in between; she picked her route and headed inland under the cover of the tropical canopy. A gentle rain picked up, which further masked her movements. She occasionally looked back over her own shoulder, spotting twice the Amkal Sarik on the horizon, its dragon-minded sensory sweeping across the landscape. However, as decent as it was at pinpointing massive craft on the open ocean, it was less suitable for finding individuals hiding in rainforests. On the third look back, she saw the ship heading out under sail, and a few people seen as dots searching around the main trails.

Leaving the main trail behind for the rough terrain out of sight, she ducked under vines, past a couple of webs, finding a nice solid rock to sit on. Taking the tubes she'd stolen in hand, she plopped down onto the rock, but stumbled as it suddenly slid down, then scrambled back to her feet as she heard a loud hiss. Looking down she saw an insect about twice as big as her foot, eight-legged with a pair of sharp pincers, black with yellow stripes, and none too happy that she'd vandalized its home.

She winced a little, stepping back to draw her pistol, only to remember that her dip in the ocean meant all her gunpowder was lost. The angry bug continued its hissing and raised up, waving its pincers and really wishing she'd just leave. She saw this display, flipped the gun around in her hand, approached with her knife drawn in the other. She deftly clubbed it with the gun to stun it before stabbing it twice through its soft front end, only to find the pincer it'd snapped onto her hand in the process didn't open even after the thing was dead. Pavae hopped around, waving her hand frantically before using her knife to pry the claw off and leaving a bit of blood on a nearby tree.

She looked at the stinging gash in her hand with a sigh. It wasn't a major wound but it would become one if it got infected. There was one quick solution to that. Having a seat on the rock after entirely collapsing the late insect's home, she cleared the wound of grit as well as she could with rainwater. Conjuring a small ball of flame into her other hand, she held her wounded hand inside of it. Though she grunted and tried to stay centered, the pain broke her focus and the flame dispersed. Trying again, she carried on until she'd 'treated' it, adding a burn to the cut.

Close enough...

Finally with time to rest a moment, she looked at the tubes, then to the dead insect... after a bit of gathering branches and clearing a spot, it was easy enough to drop a bit of conjured flame on wood, even if it took some digging to find branches that weren't too wet. Carving the belly of rock's former inhabitant out, she hoisted the dead insect up on a sturdy stick, popping the exoskeleton with her knife, toasting it over the flame before taking bites out of it.

Well, it tastes better than it looks.

Finally with time to rest and comfort to rest with, she spent what time she had looking through her new acquisitions, prying the tubes open to find a series of cylindrical gemstones inside, one ruby for recursive storage---far beyond her skills to get into, and one map, recently printed, a fairly accurate chart of Itarem's isles and those of the surrounding waters. Marks were made at each point her former ship had met the Theikos. Several other marks, slightly older, were made noting several islands, including some they'd visited to 'investigate'. The captain never said why those trinkets and bits of information they'd made off with were important or valuable, but they meant a cut of coin to her either way. Several more were on the list...

I wonder what they'd pay if I held the trinkets and passkeys ransom? Actually, they'd probably just shoot me and take them anyway.

Also included was a set of simpler gems, holding patterns and codes to use to talk through telepathy to the Theikos's otherwise suspiciously silent communications officer. There was an odd golden scepter with an opal gem on the top as well. She marveled at it briefly, as gold was something she'd never seen before; it was something so rare on their world that many lacked a word for it. It was priceless.

Priceless, which means I can't sell it. A fine paperweight. But whatever it's for, it's important enough to keep locked away...

Finishing up with her impromptu meal, she looked back over her shoulder to the main path, staring a few moments to locate a few searching minds. Rather than wait for them, she tucked all of her goodies away, kicked dirt over the fire and walked to the hills, leaving her pursuers to discover only a dead campfire while she picked a new spot to rest at. Climbing a hill, she got a better view of the closest pier. It was sparsely equipped, as one would expect, though the piers here were wide with several anchors buried in the sands before the shelf. The dock was suited to receive any one of the floating towns, marvels of the sea born of millennia of seafaring practice and tradition. However, as assemblies of ships and floating platforms tethered and linked together with walkways in between, they grew ever more vast and sturdy lately, keeping pace with advances in science and engineering. Often given an allotment of barges growing plants entirely in rainwater and able to change their latitude as needed, they accounted for a fair portion of the food available on otherwise cramped islands. Nonetheless, they needed lumber and fuel; this island was a cheap source it seemed.

Making note of the paths around her, she planned out which areas she could roam while staying near enough to observe the locals preparing to receive a town and to reach it ahead of time. For the time being, she found a spot under the rocks on the hill to set down in. That night, she'd be under leaves shielding her from the rain, far away from any fire or light.

I'll bet they come on a schedule. A bit of a gamble swimming out and stowing away, but it's better than the certain doom I have staying here. If I'm lucky... well, maybe I can snag the trinkets, 'trade' them to the Theikos for a hefty sum, then scram off to build myself a big house on the continents. The Theikos rides on iron plates but her crew sounds weak. A beam gun won't help them much if zapping me also means zapping their own treasure. Actually... they don't even have a beam gun, hah!

She tried to smile a bit, but she couldn't quite clear her mind. It was all supposed to be a quick, smooth trip. She'd have money to move to more pleasant regions with and never have to look back again. That old sloop and the old plan was gone now; no going back to it. There was only moving ahead, into the foggy waters that were the future.

This was a matter Temeris, afar beyond the horizon, also found himself troubled by. All the same, even if the future was uncertain, he did appreciate having a role in choosing a path towards and through it. After all, if he and his peers didn't choose a path, he expected, others would pick one for them. Still, sometimes the past echoed on, a sound neither Temeris nor Pavae were fond of.

Arc 2: Field Test

It was just a word far over the horizon for Pavae: Theikos... who named a ship that anyway? Temeris couldn't find a language matching the name either, though he wasn't so quick to be dismissive of it. Striding along the side of the deck under a cool and cloudy night sky, he found himself pacing about, lost in his thoughts with nothing better to do in the half-hour of time off he'd been given. A few flashes of light gave him something other than work to think about; a pair of his peers managed to lock each other's limbs with a pattern printer gun, a tool normally used for machine repairs.

Stepping past, he looked at the two of them. Akasi, Tiam... enjoying yourselves?

Just passing the time. The two hopped about in a rather ridiculous fashion, each trying to aim the unwieldy thing with temporarily frazzled nerves.

Pulling out a piece of his ration he'd saved for a snack---a hard plate of condensed grain that passed as bread---he took a chomp, had a seat nearby, then nodded with amusement at the two. Carry on.

He only had a few moments before he heard his captain's voice in