โ Scribed by Cronshaw, Jon
No coin nor oath required. For personal study only.
I.
Kat dropped from her hammock and opened her eyes. A kaleidoscope of views pressed into her vision, flashes of the Braun Sea's glittering waves viewed from the crow's nest, the unfurling of sails above, the oak beams stretching across the hold, the cannon catching the light of the emerging sun. Scores of aromas hit her at once, all distinct--tar, wood smoke, goats' milk, lemons, porridge, and the sea. The layering of sounds upon sounds--creaking, splashing, the shuffling of boots and crackling of flames.
The world lurched and the focus shifted to her eyes alone, her ears, her nose. It came like a jolt, a sharp stinging slap that cause everything else to drip away. For a moment, her perception seemed almost empty. But she sensed the warmth around her, the other sensations lingering at the edges of her awareness.
She scanned the cabin, past the hammocks and the other men and women, her head moving as if guided by a gentle hand. The other crew members moved in unison, like one organism made up of many parts.
The compulsion to scrub the deck overwhelmed her. The ship commanded her. She commanded her. She was the ship and the ship was her. A shuddering breath left her. She was not performing her task. She needed to scrub.
The other crew members filed out and she followed them up the steps and through the hatch, the others fanning out to carry out their own orders.
Stepping onto the main deck, she filled a bucket with water and soap flakes and dragged it towards the stern. Tar sealed the gaps between the oak planks, their surface coated in a trace of sea salt and the outlines of footsteps.
Crouching onto her knees, she dipped her brush into the water and started scrubbing.
She was faintly aware of the twinges in her back, witnessing them as if from afar. The pain was hers no more--the shell was just a body, another appendage of the ship. Something pushed her thoughts away from awareness. She should not be there. Whatever lingered of her will should be given over to the collective.
As she moved gradually along the deck, the sun rose and warmed her back, the shadows cast by the central mast growing shorter.
Views from the others on board passed through her mind like flowing water. A pair of hands wrestled with the ship's wheel. A stubby finger ran down a map, tracing a route along the Northern Reaches. Scores of ships dotted the horizon. Through the telescope she could just make out the standard of a white wyvern on a black field. The ships had lingered there for days, poised for something. They were not an immediate threat, but they blocked the route east.
All the while, Lat scrubbed and scrubbed. All she could do was work as the sun moved across the sky, the shadows from the mast switching direction, as if reaching towards the ships on the horizon, growing longer as the time passed.
She stopped suddenly when she reached the end of the deck and poured the bucket's grubby water over side. Her muscles throbbed and her knees were not as flexible as they had been at the start of the day.
Her body moved below deck.
She could only watch, helpless.
The taste of porridge hit her before she took her first mouthful.
She ate and chewed and emptied her bladder in the hole.
As the sun set, she climbed onto her hammock and closed her eyes while the other parts of her carried out their duties.
And, then, something slammed shut in her mind and she found herself alone.
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