Chapter 12 – Hard Pressed
"Sarah? Let me tell you about Sarah. She's a half-blood that wouldn't let you think otherwise; as capricious and beautiful as any elf, curvy and intelligent like a human and 'blessed' with the bleakest sense of humor I've ever seen. The captain says she worked in the gear pits in Pamor but she says that's not the case, insisting she's of noble blood.
A marchioness with a tongue like gold, appetites like a sailor and the cunning and tenacity of a gutter rat. She is both sheep and a survivor. . . .to put Sarah into a box is to count on one hand the time it takes her to carve her way out of it, by any means necessary. But almost always with a quick smile and sharp remark. You could almost imagine a time when these sorts of challenges would've inspired child-like wonder in her, but there's none of that now. It's about survival. Not every challenge is world ending, but she'll be gods damned if she's going to let it get in her way. She won't rest until it's sorted out to her satisfaction. I almost feel bad for her, but the captain says it's her way of coping with an insane world; becoming insane herself.
The trick to it, she (the captain, not Sarah) says (of Sarah's mindset) is to turn off concepts of right and wrong and do what's best. Be pragmatic and calculating. Serve it up with a friendly smile and a quick line of bullshit and you make out with everything you need. No one needs to see the self-destructive tendencies that drive her to skip meals and avoid forming close bonds, they only need to see the polished facade and not think to look at what's underneath.
Sarah likes it that way. Arm's distance and skin deep.
But I've seen what's under the skin; it's ugly. It's cold and lonely. A story scribed on a black scroll in flowing script sealed with ageless wax and stored inside a marble castle that no one will penetrate. And yet here I stand waiting for the portcullis to open, a fool librarian that would spend the rest of his life cataloging the words inside and try to bring their meaning to the rest of world.
Yes, I know Sarah.
I wish I didn't, but I can't help myself.
I love her."
Ithric Kettar
Journal Entry Recovered From Ship's Log of the RCME Lostariel Belencamp (Almoor, Estan Free States Registration) Originally stolen off the coast of Pamor, washed up empty of cargo and crew in Amoor.
~Sarah~
Insanity was a word Sarah hated. She liked to consider herself 'eccentric' if anything, but when it came to her plan, she had to admit there may have been a small amount of questionable math involved. She fumed on this from the fore of her new ship as it was carefully wheeled down a weathered trail. They'd paid good money– as in far too much for fair market value– for 'matched pairs' of horses from travelers heading to Sorash in order to make the miniaturized Brig transportable. Six horses in total towing what had to have been several hundred marks of white oak and all the wood working tools and provisions they'd need for a week. Even doing the rough calculations said their journey would take a month or more, their gold reserves were already dwindling and the chance of them having a bounty on their head was practically a given. Questionable math, yes.
But insane?
Maybe.
It was slow. The ship was large enough to take up half of the caravan trail that, despite the dirt being packed from frequent travel, still left an identifiable gouge from the six wheels she'd cobbled together to the frame she'd constructed to carry her new prize. Of course, there was the issue of the three days it'd taken to put everything together and get a working plan in order. . . .or the fact that they were riding around in a
boat
in a landlocked region. Even Keiter, someone who managed quite successfully to be unreadable to Sarah because of his reptilian features had an expression that said he was questioning her sanity.
In retrospect, he was probably right to. Not that she was going to say it. No, she was going to take another puff on her narcotic cigar and pretend the world didn't exist for a few more moments while the scent of strawberries and delirium eroded the parts of her brain screaming
good
ideas.
Like running. Like slipping the mooring of the boat and using their new horses to scatter to the winds.
But it was fairly apparent to the half-elf that her companions had no such designs in mind; Tessarie picked at her coat while watching Sarah lounge and Keiter, having finished adjusting his robes to be more fitting to his form, looked on; expectant. As though Sarah had any idea why she was doing what she was doing.
Not about to be upstaged by crushing doubt, she took another pull and smiled as the 'wagon' bounced and pitched against the trail. They sat where the hold would be amidst a plethora of tools and sundries, with only burlap sacks for furniture and nothing in the way of distractions. But Sarah had a plan for that.
It occurred to her then, as it had so often in the last couple of days, that she had truly gone off the deep end. In a moment of desperation, reaching for what
started
her problems in the first place was sickening. It was
obscene
to the memory of those who'd died in her creation. People she couldn't even name; people who were fa–
It wouldn't come.
That block that'd been erected in her sould when she'd taken her pact with the Engineer's cherub kept her from speaking of those who'd been important to her. She could remember them, if not specifically how they were, but any attempts to speak or think too hard about them swam away from her like a fish from a bear.
Gods above she had lost her mind. Another hit. No, she had a plan. She had an idea. Yes, Haras was right, the ship could fly– the math was still bouncing around between her pointed ears somewhere, they'd need to
build
it again but the ideas were there. Another hit. To honor Ithric. Lostariel. Gods it'd been so long.
"Sarah?" Tessarie said warily. "Are you okay?"
She smiled a far-off grin at the memory– little cheeks, beautiful green eyes. Or were they blue? Lostariel's eyes. . . "mmhm. . ." She went to take another hit, to dull the world even more. Maybe she could remember if she was high enough. Even thinking of their names brought their memory to her, something she'd never be allowed by virtue of her divine 'contract'. What a cruel joke, one's own family, the
reason
she became a priest in the first place. Stolen but just within view. She took another hit.
It'd been more than just her body that died attached to that anchor. She was an idiot to accept the bargain, she should've died– there was honor in suicide. There was peace. There was
mercy
in oblivion.
It was Keiter who stopped her, taking the cigar from her with little protest. He pitched it down the gaping hole in the floor where the exhaust port would have to go. "You're crying." He said softly, eyes turning to her.
"I miss them," she whispered.
"Who?"
"I– I can't."
