Date: September 8, 2000 (Aether: January 24, 3907)
Place: Naglfar - Longboat - Ocean
Cast: Cyrene, Leif, Vladimir
Scene: Aesir, Najada, and Rusalka bicker during the journey, each of them wary and suspicious of one another, not to mention irritable from so many days crowded together in a single ship.

Naglfar - Longboat - Ocean:
      A dark dragon's head juts menacingly forth from the prow of this vessel, its carved eyes intent upon the waves as the ship slices through them. A tall mast pierces the heavens, and a vast, red-and-white striped sail depends from the beam at its apex. Sometimes the sail is unfurled, and it billows outward with each breath of wind to carry the ship closer to its destiny. Other times, the sail is still and lifeless, and that is when the men and women must man the oars, and cleave across the water through sweat and toil.
      The ship is home to some thirty men and women -- below decks are the bunks and cots, crammed in at close quarters along with provisions and supplies -- while above are the oars and sail and rigging and open sky. The ship rocks steadily with the motion of the waves -- a rhythm with which its passengers have become familiar, after so many weeks at sea.

As the longboat moves into shallower waters, Leif is once more attacked by the sea-sickness. At least this time he's able to keep food down, as it would be a shame to be weakened by malnutrition when they landed. But his face is slightly greenish and he spends most of the day in his berth.

Yet he has to come up for air sometime... it can get rather fetid down there. Instead of standing, the young Aesir sits on a coil of rope, hoping that will help settle his stomach.

The waters have been surprisingly calm as the boat nears the shore -- faint outlines of Empyrean structures appear further up on land, etched into the snow and fog pushed southward by this journey. Or perhaps, not surprising, if one were to notice an ebon form at the boat's bow, gliding effortlessly through the gentle waves, calming the waters as they go.

Vladimir glances skyward from time to time as his head pokes upward through the water, and on one of these times his gaze picks out the greenish cast of the Aesir youth on board. He doesn't smile -- he rarely does -- but he does feel amusement at the young man's plight. He closes his eyes a moment and places both hands on the surface of the water.

The waters swell, rocking the boat, and the ocean thrusts a pillar of water upward, carrying Vladimir up to the level of the deck. He deftly leaps onto it and the pillar splashes against the ship. No doubt that gesture did little to help the Aesir's stomach.

What was Leif thinking about keeping his food down? As the ship lurches, he very nearly loses what he ate earlier. "Gods, d'ye intend to kill me afore anythin' begins?" he gasps as he tries to make his stomach calm back down. He cannot wait to get back on land... he'll take the land or the air... not the sea.

A blue-green glare is cast to the Atlantean who leaps on board after the swell -- any Atlantean would get the same glare, for being so at ease in the blasted water.

Vladimir appears completely unaffected by the young man's stare, for he's probably received it many times from other Aesir with his pillar 'trick.' He does add a bit of a swagger into his stride, as if to emphasize the point that he is completely unaffected by the sway of the sea.

"You look as if you'd kill yourself, you don't need my help," Vlad offers in return, giving the green boy a once-over with dark eyes. "How come your people let some whelp come along to do man's work?" Is it a challenge? Perhaps. Maybe Vlad just want to see the boy try to stand and fight in his condition.

The comments are answered by a scowl, but Leif is a little too hot-headed to ignore the baiting. "If'n I do kill myself, it won't be at sea. If'n I'm gonna die, it'll be on land." Even though he feels like it right now. Maybe he will lose his lunch... once the Atlantean comes closer. Maybe he'll lose that smug-sounding talk.

A bit of a grin splits his ruddy beard as he replies to the age-taunting with, "Younger backs and younger arms c'n kill as well as old'uns."

It's obvious the Aesir's stomach isn't appreciative of the motion of the waters and the boat that sails on them, and certainly the older Najada isn't going to get near enough to become the target of a regurgitated meal. "And with those young backs and arms comes unearned arrogance and easily-agitated tempers. Cool your blood, I'm not the enemy."

Vladimir drops down onto the deck and, just for fun, creates random patterns with the water on the deck. Does he find his element more entertaining than the fiery youth?

The Najada's temper might be agitated if he were nauseous for weeks on end... Leif certainly thinks he has a right to it. "What d'ya want?" He finally asks out of exasperation... and perhaps to stop the elementalist from playing with the water on the deck. It's not helping.

The water pools together and forms itself into a perfect sphere, which Vlad tosses back and forth from one hand to the other. The water shimmers in the weak light, but it doesn't lose its shape.

"Do I need a reason to be on deck?" Dark eyes dance from the orb of water to the young Aesir, almost glimmering with some inner jest. "If you'd like, I could go back into the water, but you never know, I might get careless and..."

The ball falls from his hand to the deck with a small splash, but indicative of a larger one to come, possibly, if Leif is so ready to get rid of him. "I can bring you a bucket before I leave."

Leif bahs and stands, his wings cutting sharply into the air, "I couldn't care less, what ya did. Jus'... stop makin' m'stomach ill." All right, he's very close to whining... and he catches himself before degenerating into it.

With a deep breath of the sea air, Leif calms down and turns to speak again, "If ya felt th' way I do... what'd you be doin' about it?"

Vladimir can only shrug in response, for his attention is momentarily distracted by gathering up the ball of water again. "I wouldn't know, Aesir, I don't get seasick. But I wouldn't be sending one who can make it worse back into the element that seems to destroy your insides." The ball separates into two, and the twin orbs dance back and forth between his hands.

"Ah, do whatever ya want." Leif was trying to make some conversation that wasn't squabbling, and the overture is ignored. Fine. He will just sit and work on calming himself, and the other can juggle water. Maybe if he doesn't look at the orbs, it won't remind him of the roiling sea beneath him. "Not sendin' ya anywhere..." he finally mutters. Thorvald would have his hide if he tried.

Oh, is the dancing water disturbing the boy? Vlad seems completely unaware of this fact as he continues the watch the spheres jump back and forth as if they were as solid as stone. Thank Vodyanoi that they aren't stones, or they might cause damage when dropped.

He begins to hum, some Aesir song, surprisingly -- one that has been sung many times by some of the other winged being on the ship -- a loud and bawdy tune about war and plundering. The Atlantean's off-key humming does little for the tune -- it certainly doesn't sound as impressive as when belted from the lungs of the Aesir warriors.

That does it. "Enough!" The roar is just as impressive as any other that has been heard on the ship. Leif's queasy stomach is ignored and the green tinge to his features are gone as he strides to the water-juggling Najada. "Ye may be welcome on this boat, but ye'll not mock us!" Turquoise eyes glitter with anger as he reaches to the rather large sword at his side, "Ye c'n die like any other here can."

Vladimir glances up, the orbs of water hovering over upturned palms and quivering like a frightened child. The Najada, however, displays none of the intimidation that the water portrays. "Mock?" The singular worded question falls with true surprise. "Is it wrong to try and learn something of your people? It is a catchy melody. Do I not do it justice?" Obviously, the off-key hummer is also tone-deaf to his own singing.

Leif's lips twitches as if he wished to snarl but doesn't... quite. "No. Ye sing it too soft... and ye sing it all wrong." All right, so he has a temper to match his hair. "Do ye even understand what th' song is about?" These fish-folk don't seem to understand any feeling... they just mind-talk with themselves and stare. It's just plain creepy.

Drawn by the clamor aboard the ship, a pair of wide, ebon eyes, inky and bottomless, peer over the railing of the boat. They blink twice, thrice, but from the side of the railing with only sea below. A fair distance down, one could wonder how the pale, flat face with the too-large eyes manages to hold itself level with the railing. But for the moment, that head surely goes unnoticed in the hubbub.

Vladimir shrugs, as if the meaning doesn't matter as much to him. It's mostly a loud and rowdy tune sung by equally loud Aesir. Can he help it if the darned thing has gotten caught in his mind and converted to something more suitable for the quieter Najada? "Fighting, mostly," he finally replies, taking his eyes off the water once more to look up at the Aesir hovering above him.

Leif seems mostly recovered -- amazing what a surge of adrenaline can do. "Bah, ye make 't sound like a cradle-song." Noticing the figure at the rail, he scowls more... damned fish-folk are everywhere.

The figure rises, making no use of the ropes depending off the side. Flimsy wings flare and fold behind her as she settles onto the deck, a gust of wind tugging her hair in a swirl about her before dissipating. She cants her head, regarding the two men and the other activity on the deck with open curiosity, although it must be read in her eyes, since her face remains expressionless.

Vladimir shifts from his crossed-leg position to propping one leg up, knee into the air and sole of the foot on the surface of the deck. With the natural grace of the Najada people, he turns to regard the newest arrival. Dark eyes turn stormy as they alight on the Rusalki, and for once, he and Leif seem to be in a bit of an agreement. Do not count her among his number -- Vlad certainly doesn't.

And now Leif is truly outnumbered as one of the fish-folk women decided to come aboard. It's like being in a strange dream... he half-expects to wake up and be in his bed at home. His very still, unmoving bed. "Hail..." he greets grudgingly, going back to the other part of the rail. At least, this time, he's not green.

Cyrene returns the greeting aloud, since the Aesir is unable to detect the brush of her mind -- topaz ice and alien even to the other mind-speakers. "Hail," she voices, the accent that of one unused to speaking, remembering the words from a forgotten dream. And, Sedna be blessed, she even bares her teeth! An attempt at the Aesir smile?

Vladimir snorts in his disgust and turns back to his juggling act. His leg falls with a soft 'thud' to the deck of the boat and he resumes his crossed-leg position. Vodyanoi, why did those things have to come with them? Probably cause more trouble than anything -- at least that's his thinking. Vlad knows he's not alone in his thinking either, at least not with his fellow Najada.

Leif actually smiles at seeing the juggling fish-folk's discomfort. So, he doesn't like this one, eh? Turning on the youthful charm, he turns to the female and asks, "So. Which 'un are ye?" He hasn't bothered to learn the names of any of the fish-ones. But this could just work.

Cyrene lets her attempt at a smile pass, glancing expressionlessly at Vladimir, although the ease with which he juggles the water leaves a touch of wistfulness in her eyes, lacking the white ring found in Najada and Aesir alike. They might have more in common with each other than they do with the Rusalki, descended though the halfbreeds are from them.

Leif's approach brings her head back around, as well as a gentler smile, closer to the real thing. "I am Cyrene," she says quietly, somewhat rusty.

Vladimir leaves the two to their 'civilized' discussion -- he's more content to amuse himself with the watery orbs, now three in number. There is no mumbling under his breath, but his mind races with continued thoughts of anger and annoyance that those 'weirdos' have been journeying with them. His eyes follow the spheres as they crash as one to the deck, only to be formed anew and tossed from one hand to the next.

"I'm Leif," the young Aesir introduces himself. A glance is given to Vladimir and he can't hide a smug grin, "So... ye swim too, do ye?" Not the wittiest of conversation, but maybe enough to start the irking.

Cyrene returns another reply by way of letting her wings unfold, dull membranes in the dry air. "I fly under the water, but I suppose you'd call that swimming," she says, seeming quite amused at something. And unlike the Najada and her sister, the other Rusalka, she actually shows it.

Flying underwater? Vladimir snorts again at that statement, a fancy description for swimming, if one were to ask him. The balls of water rise and fall before his eyes, but his hands never move, as would be required by a regular juggler.

The greenish tinge returns at the mention of water. Leif has probably been traumatized by this journey, in as much as he'll never go swimming again. Too much of the adrenaline wore off, leaving him where he started. "Uhhh... gotta lie down," is his excuse as he beats a hasty retreat to his berth. Thrice-cursed water and thrice-cursed boats...

Cyrene cants her head after Leif, seeming disappointed, and shrugs, letting her wings fold against her back. She turns a curious eye to Vladimir, drawn once more by the juggling. She dares a few steps closer, peering at them with bright seal-eyes. "Is it very difficult?" she asks softly, still speaking aloud.

She's talking to him? Vladimir looks up from his 'toys' to find those seal-eyes looking back at him. That's another problem with those Rusalki -- their eyes just aren't natural. They give him the creeps. "Not hard," he grudgingly responds while the trio of spheres continue their dance. "If you have the ability," he adds with a quick glance to Cyrene, as if trying to determine if she would have such a talent.

Cyrene senses his intent in that glance and bobs her head, another Aesir expression. How is it she knows so many of them? "I do, but... it is very weak. My sister is much stronger. I always wished I was stronger in water than in air."

Vladimir has learned a few of the Aesir gestures on this trip, but more from a natural instinct to mimic those around than an intentional desire to do so. He certainly doesn't wish to be like the Aesir -- not with their extremely loud voices and over-acted behavior. And dear Vodyanoi, do they ever talk! It takes them forever to describe an event that a Najada could speak in one's mind in mere seconds. At least the Aesir are skilled warriors, or they'd be good for nothing.

"I'm not surprised," he retorts blandly as three spheres join together as one and then split into four. "Must be discouraging, being caught between air and water." Not that he really cares, mind you.

Cyrene seems to be, however, blissfully unaware of his disinterest for the moment. She cants her head the other way, seriously considering his comment. "Not discouraging, but... difficult. So many magics. It gets exhausting sometimes."

Cyrene adds, with a toothy grin, "I would think you'd feel discouraged, Najada, to be so limited."

Part of him enjoys 'showing off,' knowing she could not do anything near what he is capable of. Childish, perhaps, but he revels silently in that knowledge. The spheres dance higher and higher, swirling around each other and then fall to just above his palms, only to lift into the air once more. "I have no desire to control the air -- I don't live in it," is his gruff reply, eyes fixed on the water he can control.

Cyrene gazes at the levitating water with palpable envy, but that amusement lies eternally below every glance, every comment -- like the sea beneath the sheet of ice that forms in winter. "Neither do I, but it can be quite fun. I hope one day to be able to use it to touch the whales in the sky," she says softly, casting her glance to the heavens above. Another dash of wind tugs at them both, and she lifts an inch or two off the deck before settling down again.

"Whales in the sky," he scoffs, casting a glance skyward, finding only thick grey clouds covering them, heavy with the snows that have followed them from the north. "Do all your kind think in such idiotic terms? Whales are found in the waters." A quick gaze filled with storm clouds is cast upward to the Rusalka and then drawn back to the water-orbs.

Cyrene shifts her alien gaze, fathomless as ocean chasms over which they pass, back to the juggling Najada. The chill deepens, counterpart to the heat of anger that might show in the eyes of their cousins to the south.

"It is not id-i-o-tic. It is a sacred legend that has been told by the pod matriarchs for generations! The Najada know nothing but war and fighting. You have no capacity for appreciating anything finer," she scoffs in return, turning to look at the sea, seeking some sign of the orca male that follows them.

Vladimir has been snorting in disgust a lot today, mostly since the arrival of the Rusalka on deck, and he does it again, caring not one whit if the woman is insulted or not. Let them have their stories of flying whales -- what does one expect in a society of mostly women, anyway? He'll take a good battle any day. Perhaps now she'll leave him alone and he can return to the all-important task of amusing himself.

Cyrene narrows her eyes at him, the amusement gathering a dangerous edge. Seen by her as strands of silver, a breeze eddies by, tugging at the length of her hair and curving around Vladimir, first gently, then with more force. It tugs and pushes and pulls, as if it might lift him off the ground, if it could...

The circling orbs are caught off-guard and they splash to the deck, tumbling from the air one after the other. Vladimir scowls at the puddle before him and then swings a furious gaze at the woman who's magic pulls at him with an unseen hand.

"Don't tempt me, Rusalka," he warns with a deadly glint edging his words, as he makes attempts to pull away from the wind. On unsteady feet, he rises and stalks toward the railing of the ship. He doesn't dive in, but rather watches the ocean until a pillar of water rises from it.

He jumps into it and looks over to Cyrene. This is not over. "Enjoy your air," he says as if the words were distasteful to his tongue.

The pillar falls back into the ocean, dropping him beneath the water's surface. Perhaps as a final word, the waters turn rough, and the boat heaves to one side and then jerkily back again before eventually returning to the gentle rocking motion that has carried it through most of the trip.

Cyrene scowls after the man for a long moment before her usual jovial nature wins out. The splash of an orca breaching in the distance calls her attention, and she spins about, seeking the whale with her eyes, followed by a bright smile, both physical and mental.

She dives off the opposite side of the boat, giving no further thought to the disagreeable Najada in her joy to rejoin her Jhoi.

FIN  

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