Some rest and recuperation are in order to finish up the day after the previous struggles and injuries.

Aalistair, and any who choose to aid him, are able to strip the bodies for the anticipated arrival of the morticians.

Wraith and Aeletheros, while inspecting the damage, find a cracked spar they really would like to replace; that be done well enough.  A good day's work, maybe a day and a half, and the Fate will be in as good shape as ever.

In reply to Wraith Zephyr (msg #440):

Mirna shakes her head briefly, realizing she's handled the situation badly, and goes back to watching the activity on the dock, looking for anyone headed towards the 'ship.

In reply to GM (msg #443):

Wraith wipes his brow and says, "I could use some Aquavit right now."  His flashes his shark-grin and says, "I would settle for the worst Tazian ale at this moment."  He looks at the spar again and says, "Well, although I am still hesitant about lingering in this port long enough to repair this, we may as well get it over with."

Aeletheros busies himself with the repairs, letting the others deal with the cleanup of the dead. He knows the sooner the repairs are done the sooner the windship can depart, hopefully to avoid more issues with the Kang. He hopes that there will be sufficient materials to effect the necessary repairs.

Aalistair completes the sorting of equipment, repairs continue, and within the hour, a crew of morticians arrives with bearers to remove the dead, Zosha negotiating briefly with them.

Wraith watches the morticians carry off the dead.  "Perhaps I spoke to harshly about those warriors," he says.  "I know not why but this ordeal brought out a disconcerting darkness from within me.  I hope that I never reach a point at which life or customs become meaningless.  Even the worst adversaries deserve respect and repose in death.  I know not why I suddenly forsook those considerations."  The airman shakes his head and continues to work.

"We all have moments when we slip and become less than we would like ourselves to be," Aalistair says as the morticians take the bodies away. "The hardest part, perhaps, is to realize that others have those slips. Though we may judge others by our own highest standards, we must struggle to acknowledge that not only they but ourselves as well sometimes do not quite make the goal."

In reply to Aalistair (msg #449):

Wraith smiles.  "How was it that you broke away from the strictures of your faith, pilgrim?  I must admit that I have encounters other followers of your faith and they are less tolerant than you."

Aalistairs mouth sets into a hard line. For the span of a few heartbeats he stares at his hands while he checks some of the rigging of the Fate. "In truth, I have never broken from my faith, Cymrilian. But, as I said, sometimes we are most blind when it comes to our own stumbles." He sighs, shaking his head.

"Forgive me," he says, perhaps as much to himself as to Wraith. "I suppose the heart of it lies out here." He looks up, eyes scanning the mountains, the distant plains, the blasted landscapes of the Wilderlands. "The Heirarch back home issues forth proclamations and edicts. And while I trust that his heart is in the right place and he walks in the grace of Aa, I have learned that the standards we faithful hold ourselves to at home do not hold out here in the wider world." He looks down at the rope in his hands for a moment, seeming to study the knot; perhaps as if he expects the secrets of the world to be made manifest.

"Some years ago, I was leading a band of pilgrims across these lands. A windship, not too much different from this one, I suppose though I am no expert as well you have observed, crashed not far from our line of travel. Aa says we must give charity to those in need, aid to those who cry for succor. There is usually a price for such aid, but..." He shakes his head again. "No matter. The ship was burning. It had gouged out a great strip of land when it crashed. Smoke and ash and dust were clouding the air. I and another acolyte ran forward to pull bodies from the crash. There were survivors there too, helping us. In the smoke and dust and ash, one man looks much like another, and all you care for is to stop the cries of the scared and the wounded." His eyes slide shut, his jaw clenches. "Afterwards, the dust cleared and we washed the ash from our skin as we performed ablutions for the dead. I discovered then that the acolyte, Aadonis, had been injured. He'd opened a door and a ball of sorcerous fire enveloped him. A man pulled him free. Aadonis survived, but he was hurt. The man who pulled him free was a Zandir. Another survivor of the vessel was a Cymrilian, much like yourself. My immediate superior insisted that our first duty was to the pilgrims, that we should press on to the designated campsite so that the pilgrims might pray and cleanse themselves before nightfall. I... insisted... that our first duty was to those who most needed our help. Plus, Aadonis was in no state to travel. My superior left me in charge of Aadonis's care, as well as that of several of the pilgrims who were assisting in the care of the wounded from the ship. I spent several days with the Cymrilian and the Zandir, with my fellow Aamanians. We are all much alike, despite all of our differences of faith.  We bleed the same. We seek comfort the same." He opens his eyes again, their gaze going from the spot on the deck the Kang recently occupied. "We die the same."

"We do indeed die the same," says Wraith, fixing his gaze upon the bloodstained deck.  "I have seen my share of splintered windships.  You're fortunate that there were survivors."  Wraith pauses a moment and says, "You know, that crash sounds a bit familiar.  I seem to recall some scuttlebutt a few years ago about a ritual going awry aboard a Cymrilian craft. There were also hints of a Tanasian mutineer.  I may be speaking of an entirely different matter, but it sounds similar."  Wraith smiles.  "Rumors are the cheapest form of currency.  One is advised to place little value in them.  One hears these sorts tales all the time."  He pats Aalistair between the shoulders and says, "With regard to sailing, methinks that you shall prove to be a topnotch deckhand in no time at all."

As the day closes with the suns setting, all are tired, and some still hindered by their wounds from battle.

Mirna sets watches, causing the Arimites to grumble -- they were looking for shore leave, and it sets them off complaining about too much work, little pay, and so on.  The Marukans who have remained on board bear it better, with resignation.

The night passes uneventfully, and a night's rest restores the crew physically, mentally, and for some, emotionally and spiritually.

The next day consists of much work; loading and unloading goods, as Zosha busies herself trying to make deals, with some portion bringing Aalistair in tow when re-supplying the windship; repairs and replacements of ropes and sails; Wraith and Aeletheros manage to get a new spar in place -- the wood is not the top choice, but it will do.

The second day in Maruk draws to a close with everyone tired but pleased with the day's work.

Up on deck, work resumes in the morning at a steady pace.

By midmorning, most of the repairs are complete, and the Wind of Fate is again in peak condition.

Aalistair, freshly shaven, head gleaming in the morning light comes up on deck. He finds a place free from activity and kneels on the deck. He opens his copy of the Omnival and gingerly places down upon the boards. He opens it to a section of prayers and begins to loudly call upon Aa the All-Seeing.

"Oh, great and powerful Aa, mighty in Your sight, cloaked in radiance and glory, Your humble servant beseeches you your aid. For You have turned Your great and mighty eye upon this least worthy of your followers. For as this one's sight is small and narrow, Yours encompasses all. Widen Your follower's eyes, guide Your follower's gaze, pull back the curtain of your great creation-spanning plan to reveal what You in Your wisdom must."

As he finishes, he clasps his hands together and kneels over the book for a time.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:43, Thu 12 Jan 2012.

Aeletheros busies himself in the early light, flitting from place to place on the windship like an avir, making sure everything is in readiness for departure. He smiles and nods in greeting to those arriving on the deck before returning to his tasks.

Wraith moves around the deck, watching the crew, inspecting the repairs, one last time, and prepares to embark.

Rammid busies himself with his duties as a crew member of the windship. Every so often he stops to look out at the city that was once his home.

All is busy upon the deck, and in the rigging, as repairs complete, and the windship made ready to depart.

Wraith inhales deeply as he stands at the helm.  Thankful that he and the rest of crew and the crew are off.  "Anywhere is better than here," he says to himself.  "That fight was awful," he continues.  "I hope it doesn't portend that worse awaits."

Aalistair slowly closes his prayer book. He lifts it in two hands, clutching it to his chest. His eyes hold a spot on the horizon.

"Rammid," he calls. "You are familiar with these lands, yes? This is your home?" He lifts one hand to shield his eyes from the light of the suns. "There. To the north-east. The mountains. It there a tower there, over-looking the plains and the pass?"

Rammid says,

"Yes, this was my home."

He shields his eyes from the suns and looks to the northeast.

"There are several towers my friend. Each in a worse state of repair then the last. In my youth, we would scout around the pass and beyond."

Aalistair's shoulders fall for a moment. "Several, you say?" He seems slightly discouraged. "But... but is there one in particular that affords a view of the Plains?"

Rammid shrugs his shoulders, "I am sure one of them provides a better view than the others. Should be easy ti figure out which one once we get close."

Preparations continue, as the small crew bustle about making all ready.  The rush to and fro, following the commands called by Wraith and Aeletheros.

Finally, all the reports are called back in, all is ready, lines cast off, and ready for the pilot to take the Fate on its heading.

Aalistair heads to the wheel-deck to speak with the pilot (Wraith, currently? Aeletheros?).

"Out there, towards the pass. There should be some towers. Ruins, mostly. I don't know much about how to fly these ships of yours, but I do know the Plains. Rammid might be some help as well as he knows these lands better than I." He falters, making a sign of the Eye over his chest. "What I'm getting at, in a rather elaborate fashion, is that those towers may hold some clue as to what we seek. However, by the same token, anything in those towers chose that ground because it affords a long view over the land below. Is there someway we might approach with delicacy?" He motions idly with his hands. "From behind, or... or... or from very high above where we might be unnoticed?"