Another sleepless night. Arren hadn't written his sister in a long time, he feared that his letters were falling on deaf ears. This was troubling him for some time, where was she, and why had she never written him back? Arren felt like those he cared for were gone, left in a storied life while he pressed forward, past wherever he had been, past the life of a merchant and into a catapulting series of events over which he had no control. He resolved that when he was back in civilization he would seek her out.
Arren rolled over in his hammock strengthened by his decision to contact his family, and perhaps take matters into his own hands, damn the death warent on his head, he was an Illiathan, and must take up the mantle of his family sooner than later, he had run long enough. He closed his eyes finally, to sleep.
The ship creaked about him, he could feel the darkness consume the small cabin, it felt oppressive. Another noise made sleep nearly impossible, the deep rumbling of a drunken dwarf below him, snoring, clutching a jug of hoppy Free Islander ale. He had developed a fondness for the surly dwarf. Korrick made a perfect traveling partner, clever, sturdy and stubborn, no matter where Arren went, the stout mountain of a dwarf followed, only silent when he put his mind to it, the short fellow was overly opinionated and never hesitant to put those opinions to voice.
Geldezar and Idwell slept across the hall in the other cabin. Their room was always quiet, aside from the occasional kaw of that infernal crow. The boy Idwell had ceased to scare Arren, as did the decay of Geldezar, he had come to terms with them shortly after the death of the Shiek. Arren figured that he could only fear death for so long, and although Geldezar reminded him of the delicacy of his own flesh, the strength of his spirit and friendship showed through his fragile form. The boy on the other hand reminded him of himself. When he was younger, Arren had viewed the world with contempt, while he educated himself about philosophy and the ways of the world hidden for him in the pages of books, he resented other's ignorance toward the matters. Eventually he came to see the inherent wisdom in the most humble of men, but Idwell had not come to this point, perhaps he never would. Fortunately, Arren had not possessed the magical powers that were seemingly randomly bestowed upon Idwell, to tell the truth Arren would still be scared of the boy if it had not been for the fact that when his companions thought him in danger within the camp of the Sons of Candor, Idwell put his life on the line to save him. From that point Arren began to see Idwell in a different light. Perhaps the boy would never further change his strange and fearfully violent behavior but Arren felt responsible for the boy as Arren's brothers must have for him and he was determined to show him the compassion that he had been blessed with as a child.
With this fond thought Arren rolled back over to let sleep find him at last.
Creeeak, Crik, thud. thud. The sounds of the ocean were incessant.
Something cold still gripped him. He couldn't take it anymore, he quietly stepped down from his hammok and reflexively gripped his sword. Fear. Cold fear crept up the blade of his sword through its pummle, spiraled through his fingers and down his arm, resting at last in his heart.
"The Sand Blade"
The words found his lips before he thought them. Korrick rolled over smacking his lips, and continued snoring. The tiny cabin was stifling, Arren quickly slipped out of the room and rushed up the short flight of stairs to the deck of the small ship. The fear was heavier than the entire ocean upon his heart, he gasped for air and leaned over the railing of the ship, retching, wishing he could expel the entire sensation into the sea.
Nothing would come up. No fear, vomit, bile, no words. Briny air rushed into his lungs and he gasped for air. The Sand Blade was the most terrifying of the Sword Masters, his blade let more blood than a thousand barber's razors, and he served only the queen of Alk'Hara, who was a warmongering madwoman, as was evidenced in her latest actions.
Arren lifted his sword and began swinging it, rehearsing ancient footwork passed down by his family, the forms of the Sword Master who sired his bloodline. Could the half remembrings of an ancient swordsman's teachings serve him here? Arren wanted to throw himself upon his blade and end it here. He couldn't protect his friends from this man, and the sword in his hands had lost to the Sand Blade once before. There was nothing he could do except practice. Practice and hope that the day when the queen's assassin found him he was that much faster and that much stronger that he might actually stand a chance. So, Arren swung his sword wearing the wood smooth beneath his feet waiting for the dawn to find him, or sleep. He could not stop before then. He must be ready, or they would all die.
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