RP:A Change In The Itinerary

From HollowWiki

Summary: Barnabas and Lanara wash up ashore at their desired location, Rynvale Island, and continue their journey in hopes of performing a ritual that will save the life of Puddles, the shark horse. In order to get to the 'x' on the map, where they believe they will encounter a living kelpie, they must first traverse through Fog Forest. Things don't go quite according to plan as Lana is abducted by two islanders, and a fight between the sailor and her captors ensues, though, thankfully, Barnabas and Puddles are victorious and get the elf back on her feet. Nearing the end of the fog enshrouded forest, the trio comes upon smoke billowing above the treetops, and they turn down a path less traveled, to scope out the origin of the smoke.


Barnabas' beaming spirit didn't flinch while Lanara accosted him for his risk-taking. He had won the gamble, and so he grinned cheekily and shrugged at the elf, as if to say 'and?'. When she gave up her unimpressive intimidation attempts, the pirate performed a mock curtsey. "Ye can thank me when issal done. Get ready." Barnabas pressed his shoulder against the wall between Lanara and the door, clutching his sword scabbard in one hand and the latch handle in the other. With one final exhale, he peered over his other shoulder where Lanara stood before the hammock in the corner. "Deep breath now," he said before drawing his own lungful of air. The oxygen that Cranc Mawr supplied the cabin space with was especially rich, much moreso than the atmosphere outside the waters that the life sustaining molecules were ciphoned from. As such, Barnabas and Lanara would find themselves in a somewhat heightened state as their adrenaline began to kick in and their blood delivered that much more oxygen to their muscles and brains, and when they would begin their swim to the surface they would discover a lungful of the cabin air sustained them much better than they would have thought. After watching Lanara draw a breath he pulled the latch. The living membrane around the door twitched, and in a violent flash that would have splintered most any door it swung inward. It battered Barnabas against the wall to which he was pressed, predictably, and instantly the sea began pouring in. It roared and curled as the pressures equalized between the cavity and the ocean, gurgling and burping out giant bubbles of air up towards the surface. Barnabas had expected the door to slam against him, and after the rough smack he recovered quickly. About as quickly as it took the water to rise to his neck, really, which was actually quite sudden. And cold water it was! Like a mountain spring in Frostmaw, it caused Barnabas' muscles to cinch up and tighten all over his body, despite his blood coursing with adrenaline. He grabbed Lanara by the wrist and, perhaps a little roughly, yanked her behind him as he pulled against the doorframe and out of the cabin into the sea - which in the cold, tumultuous dark may very well have been the most perilous part of this entire mad venture. He let go her wrist once they began floating upwards off the deck after confirming she was there, and not badly injured. The light was an easy indication of their destination, as was the stream of air bubbles that meandered towards it. The rest of the sea was a dark dark olive hue, and visibility was quickly consumed in all directions away from the light source. Arms raised, clawed back, and feet kicking in an efficient syncronization, Barnabas ascended through the netting of various sail lines and rigging. About a dozen strokes and he was clear, and the light would have become much clearer and closer. So close, in fact, that the pirate could touch the rough stone dome that extended around the tunnel that led to it. It was just wide enough that he could extend the span of his arms within it, and that made swimming its short course an easy tasks. Towards the end of the tunnel, many beams of daylight began to dot the edge of its end, and vegetation of some tidal variety wriggled across it to cast something like a silhouetting where the light was obscured. Lanara could see Barnabas brush through the seaweeds, grasp ahold of a corner of gnarled, porous rock that comprised the exit, and pull himself out. Out of this little straw of a sea cave and into the world above. Shortly thereafter, a hand would plunge back down as an offer of assistance to pull her out of the seemingly bottomless tidepool. The shore up there was rugged, and covered in the continuous spray of waves upon rock. The sharp and porous formations covered the stretch of coast for almost an entire sight line in either direction, rising out in defiance against the sea that carved them. It was a tidal inlet of sorts; to their west a ways could be seen the solid rock that was the dome overtop the Cranc Mawr, and to their north and east the cliffs sloped down more invitingly to the curl of shoreline. Barnabas stood looking down at the small inconspicuous pool they emerged from, shivering wildly but not concerned that he still stood knee-deep in the basin. "That'll feck'n wake ye up!" he proclaimed rather loudly, though none were likely to hear over the crashing waves even if they were present. Barnabas raised a hand to his brow, peering through the font that was the battleground of land and rock for any sign of Puddles.


Lanara gives an almost imperceptible nod as he tells her to prepare before the hatch opens and the water begins to flood the small room. She inhales sharply, aiming to gather as much air into her lungs as possible, and all too soon this becomes a harsh reality. The door flies back from the pressure, Barnabas is tossed against the wall like a twig, and she finds that despite her grip on the hammock and her location, she’s also pushed back, though she thankfully doesn’t sustain any injuries. She keeps her eyes open, the salt water greeting them with an unsatisfying sting, as she sees the water rise to Barnabas’ throat, where it was already well over her own head. The urge to panic threatens to rise, and she does all she can to remain calm, for if she were to give in, her throat would constrict, thus reducing the air to and from her lungs. Her eyes narrow on the exit of the room, and as the male’s hand coils around her wrist, she doesn’t hesitate to follow. The elf is a strong swimmer, as she was as fond as the element of water, as she was about earth. She had spent her young climbing tall treetops, tumbling in the lives with her sister, wrestling playfully with forest creatures, and learning the ins and outs of the woods. Since arriving in Lithrydel, her first love had become the ocean, the life that inhabits the sea, and of course the long stretches of sandy beaches. And being that she spent many of her four years in this area beneath the sun and swimming in the water, she felt almost as much at home in the water, as she did walking amongst the forest floor. That was the true gift of being a witch. You saw the beauty in things that others took for granted. It went well beyond being able to control the elements of earth, air, fire, and water, for nature deserved to be respected and could deny you usage at any given moment. Lana slips through the hole in the door, and as her wrist is freed, she swims to the right of Barnabas, her long legs kicking powerfully behind her, as she makes a mad dash for the surface. This particular stretch of water is foreign to her, and the darkness surrounding them causes her heart to race, despite her best efforts of remaining calm. She slows her ascent as her tapered ears begin to ‘pop’ and the throbbing pain that soon follows, has her desperately shaking her head from side to side, as though trying to clear her head. During this, her left ankle becomes tangled in some seaweed, and thinking it an eel or sea snake, she screams, and takes a mouthful of water. As good as Lana was with animals, she had an irreversible fear of anything snake related, and she spastically jerks in the water, kicking erratically, and fighting with the moss green plant. Now is not the time to panic! Her arms burn from the constant pushing against the water as the sea weed threatens to pull her back, her air supply is dwindling, and her eyes are bloodshot from the salt content. In a last minute effort, she untangles from the plant and follows the cylindrical cast of sunlight that near the surface. Finally, after what seems like hours, she breaks the surface, a shivering, soaked to the bone, hot mess. The shoulder strap on her bikini lightly slips from making contact with a sharp rock, and she flinches as her collarbone suffers a bad scrape. She can hear, as well as feel, the stone violently digging into her flesh and she immediately presses her palm to the scrape. It’s not all that deep, though it hurts like hell, and blood begins to seep between her fingers, as she grabs Barnabas’ waiting hand, and is pulled entirely from the water. “Th-Th-Thank Y-You.” She stammers, as she collapses onto an oval-shaped smooth stone, raised a good two feet from the water. Lana shivers from head to toe, unable to recall ever having been this cold in her entire life. Even the snowy tundra of Frostmaw felt warm compared to this madness! As much as the chill and the early morning swim had jump started her into waking up, she also feels the urge to just curl into a ball and go to sleep. For a moment, her heads lolls to the side, as though she was going to take a nap, but at the last second she snaps her gaze to the expanse of the sea. Where was Puddles? She shifts, in case the captain wished to step out of the water, and attempt to dry off. She slips the backpack from her shoulders, wraps her arms about her slender form, and shakily rises to her bare feet atop the smooth stone, nearly tumbling back into the frigid water. She catches her stumble at the last second, straightens up, and peers at the seemingly endless expanse of sea through bloodshot eyes, which feel gritty. She blinks, everything seeming so blurry and distorted, and she nearly takes another tumble, but her reflexes kick in and she shivers in place. Huddling together for warmth would likely be a wise idea, but she feels awkward asking the sailor for a hug, and she didn’t want to draw attention to their location by building a fire, so she tries to ignore the incessant trembling and goose-flesh, and focuses on the sea. About a mile away from their location, the nose of the great-white surface, for a delicious gulp of area, before he submerges beneath the waves. “H-He’s Hun-Hunting.” Hopefully the sailor can understand her amidst her stuttering, and conclude that Puddles was merely catching an early-morning meal, before the pending ritual. Lana fidgets with the strap of the bralette and slides it back into place, nipping her lower lip as the fabric grazes the fresh wound. She doesn’t try to speak again, as the fact that her stumbling over words and shivering seems to be an annoyance, at least to her own pointed ears, and so she lifts her red-rimmed eyes to look at Barnabas. Without words, she was asking him what their next step would be, once they were to dry off and the numbness left their forms.


Barnabas, too, felt the cold fingers of hypothermia touching his core, but withstood it better than Lanara, perhaps, for having grown familiar with such deep chill through many miles and years hardfought for in bitter weather. His black silk trousers clung to his bony hips and slopped salt water against the large, smooth rock as he stepped from the shallows of the deceptive pool and up onto it. His tangled hair remained securely, maybe even faster fixed in their cinched bun of sorts after recieving a thorough saturation by the sea. In the daylight, the scope of his disfiguring scars could be better seen, their cross hatched three-dimensional pattern peeking out from beneath that oilskin haversack on his back, which now merely dripped the water from its large outer flap as if having seen a trivial rainstorm. The sailor's bloodshot eyes settled upon the breaching maw of that endearing shark-horse, then turned to Lanara who stood chattering away, chilled to the bone, on the large rock beside him. Struggling to summon dexterity to the extremities of his fingers, Barnabas clasped his swordbelt over his hip and without concession took up the bag Lanara had hauled up with her. Any objection to this would be firmly put down with a shake of his head. The duffle bag is hefted over the pirate's left shoulder and held there behind his head and atop his smaller pack with a right-handed hold upon its straps across hia chest. The sharp merciless rocks, with their hidden and unforgiving footfalls, made a considerable obstacle course in the two's half-frozen state. Barnabas recognized the lethargy that preceded the onset of extreme exposure, and though the sun was rising and thus gaining strength, the cliffs and the easterly bulk of the island cast them in a shadow and it wouldn't be long before the rolling cold wind and ocean spray would make returning to a functional body heat an impossible task before the midday rays reached them. That's why Barnabas gave Lanara no choice in the matter, and with a point of his soaked and bearded chin he indicated the route he meant to take through the jagged rocks. "That way," he said, as if it were an indisputable command, and he stepped off the rock and into the tidal waters that lingered between the stones and concealed all manner of hidden surprise and pains. He picked his way carefully, plotting what proved to be a safe course through the labyrinthine rock garden. At every potentially treacherous foothold or drop as he traversed, he would turn and acknowledge the hazard to his elven companion, all in determined silence beneath the roar of the waves. The soft wet sand of the sheltered beach was a welcome reprieve from the sharp jumble of rocks, and this instantly had Barnabas feeling a bit happier about his condition and taking an easier gait. Where the sand heaped, became drier and met the vegetation at the base of the slope, Barnabas set the duffel bag down. Not far off, a manageable footpath wound its way through the lush greenery and switchbacked up the gentlest portion of the cliff face and presumably crested the mountain which lay between them and the fog forest. With a tug of the buckle on his chest, the pirate loosed his haversack from his back and began uncinching the drawstrings under its flap cover. A wad of black silk is pulled from in there, expanding in his hand as the fine fabric tends to do, and pulled this over his head. A dry shirt, half-sleeved and deep-collared, felt good on Barnabas' goose-pimpled body. He looked to see how Lanara was faring, trying not to show his eagerness to reconvene with Puddles and disappear from the shoreline. If the witch needed time to dry and warm, he thought that their chances were good that they wouldn't be spied even with a small fire in such a remote piece of the coast and at such an early hour. "We can light a warmin' fire in the treeline some, if ye need it I s'pose." His taught tone showed his own body was siezed in the cold, and yet what he said showed he favored pressing on from the shore. "Otherwise, there's an old shrine up there..we get movin' up that hill, I reckon the sun up there'll dry us well enough."


Lanara looks at him as he lifts her duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder, about to protest, though as he handles it with extreme ease, she maintains her silence. Puddles, meanwhile, is having a grand old time chasing after fish, devouring them with a single swallow, and surfaces every few minutes. The shark half of him loved to be in the sea, and it wasn’t often that they were able to visit, as they’d been living in Venturil the past four months. The western expanse wasn’t all that impressive, at least not to an ocean dweller. Even the horse half yearned for mountain ranges, and large fields, to stretch his long legs without a care in the world. Despite the incessant shivering, the elf manages to smile as his charcoal nose breaks the surface. Her gaze remains transfixed on the shark-horse as she stands awkwardly on the smooth rock, though as the waves crash against the stone, every so often a more powerful wave strikes and covers her bare feet in frigid foam. Lana doesn’t complain, nor does she cry, she merely focuses on their reason for being here, and ignores the constant stinging sensation of the three inch scrape across her collar bone. She’d tend to that later, perhaps, or maybe she’d see to it once she rented a room at the tavern. Barnabas stands to her right, not a hair out of place, and his clothes clinging to his form, and despite her best efforts, she finds herself staring. Having grown up in a predominantly female village, where the only race was elf, she tilts her head to the side and spies the scars on his back. Eirik bore similar scars, from being enslaved in his youth, and she frowns. Who would want to hurt Barney? He was such a likable fellow! The fact that she feels concern is so alarming to the witch, that she nearly takes another tumble into the water, though her reflexes kick in. Not wanting him to think she was staring, or that she nearly plummeted into the sea, again, she bends at the waist and points her fingertips to her toes, in a feigned stretch. Those that knew the witch knew she wasn’t shallow, though her curiosity often got her into heaps of trouble, and though she wanted to ask about his disfigurement, she knew it wasn’t the proper time. Stretch complete, she stands up, and narrows her eyes as Barnabas is back in the water, and walking through an oceanic obstacle course, consisting of sharp rocks, slippery stones, footfalls, and likely sea life that would bring them harm. There could even be snakes! At this, Lanara groans, not desiring to have more of her silken flesh torn to bits by the jaggedness of the rock forms. But, seeing no alternative, and not wanting to get left behind, she slips back into the water, yelping as the frigid water seeps into her bikini, and fresh cut. The salt would cleanse it, though it also stung like hell, and she grits her teeth and tries to keep her upper half out of the water. Thankfully, most of the water is waist-deep, though the rush of the larger waves crashes against her form, nearly sending her sprawled out on the rocks she was trying to avoid. Her eyes fixate on the male’s form ahead of her, and she’s grateful that he points out where she should or shouldn’t step. Finally, they reach the sand, and Lana pauses to rub some feeling into her calves and thighs, as they were beginning to cramp from her being so tense in the water. The sand gives way to grass, and now she walks alongside of Barnabas, as the emerald shards of the earth tickles the soles of her feet. This felt familiar. This was much safer than traipsing through a channel of rocks and frigid water. The chill embedded in her bones hasn’t diminished in the slightest, though she’s almost giddy with excitement to be on land, and that’s what pushes her to take each step forward. Puddles swims nearer to the shore, a mere thirty yards out, and he’s in no hurry to give up the chase of the chum, which gives them some time to dry off, warm up, and make preparations for Fog Forest. Lana has been rather quiet since the hatch had filled with water, and she idly works on removing a knot from her elbow-length hair, feeling as unattractive as one could, in her state. She’s almost thankful that the pirate has his sights elsewhere as she can only imagine what she looks like, with her unruly hair, scratched shoulder, sudden paleness, constant trembling, and the ankle bracelet of seaweed that she just now notices. She scowls, aiming to remove the band, though his words ring in her tapered ears, and she pauses. “I have to say. The urge to warm up right here and right now would be a dream…But I think it’s best to keep moving. I don’t want any harm to come to Puddles, or for us to be discovered.” And so, they would trudge up the hill, and about halfway up, she gently taps Barnabas on his bicep. “Hey… You’re pretty awesome, you know that? I really appreciate that you didn’t just drop me in the water and take off. I think if I were able to find someone to sail me here, before you came along… I wouldn’t have been so lucky.” Those slightly bloodshot chocolate hues lock onto the side of his face, as she grows somewhat shy, and stops trying to work the knot from her hair. “Thank you for being an amazing sailor, and for warming up to Puddles. I’ve, uh, never met anyone that was able to get within three feet of him… He trusts you… As do I.”


Barnabas received Lanara's reply with relief. For some arbitrary reason, he had a gut of anxiety about being ashore and a great deal of concern for Puddles, who he spent a few breaths playing on the surface of the sea. So with another hefting motion, he took up the duffle bag again and began to follow the treeline with steps that made it easy for the significantly shorter legged elf to keep abreast. Before the climb began up the mountainside they would pass a towering effigy of two lovers in an otherwise decrepit and forsaken seeming shrine. What masonry that was still intact seemed to blend with the contours and natural harmony of the rocky cove's features. And yet, gold pillars remained timelessly rooted where the corners of the building used to be, gleaming untarnished and rising in an even more impressive display than the embracing stone figures. Barnabas didn't pay much mind to this as they first passed, but as the footpath switched back above it on the hillside and the canopy gave way, it was here that he set the duffle bag down and labored his breath upon bended knees. About halfway up the mountain, here, and it provided the first of a series of landscape panoramas. From where the path curled and carved back up the slope, Lanara could see down off slope below them an unobstructed and full-framed view of that ancient statue and resplendent gold pillars. The witch tapped the sailors arm after he'd sucked in a few rejuvenating breaths, and he offered a half smile beneath his beard in response for her gratitude. "Reckon there's hundreds o' men down there wouldn't say I'm an 'amazin' sailor'," he said almost woefully while standing up straighter and pointing with his single dark finger beyond the shrine below and on to the restless sea that continuously battered the rocks they had crawled in from. "Crazy as ye are fer trustin' me, I'm glad fer it." Barnabas looked from Lanara and down the trail into the tunnel of green where they had climbed from, watching Puddles plod his way up the path. "See, I've a fancy ring wot tells me if yer lyin'," said the pirate with a grin while turning back to her and lifting up his right hand to indicate the sickly looking digit and the silver band and jet stone that decorated it. "Wot've -you- got?" He allowed for a pause, but should she conjecture and answer she would be cut short. "Good will, 's'one, maybe...But moreover, I think ye had the most important o'gauges and motivations in yer pocket ye could have: necessity. Ye were against a posse an' th'sea back in Cenril. And in times of necessity, I've come t'find, things become clear. Ye see the different ways. The right way, like crossin' at a ford. Yer mind sharpens -intuition I s'pose. Necessity spurs action, a plan. Er fate steps in." Barnabas turned, there, to sweep an arm dramatically over the scene of the shrine below. "Selene an' Zaytor, methinks. Without riskin' t'sound like I'm passin' a collection plate, I really have been comin' o'mind that she's puttin' work out fer me to do, way things synchronize." He blinked hard a few times listening to his own words. "Er whatever's playin' fates. Maybe it's just how the stars laid out from some old dice game the gods played...I dunno. Just can't shake the feelin' that everything I do er say's already been written down." A snort escaped his lips, and he shrugged. "In any case, I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm escortin' a pretty woman an' her bloody shark-horse into a mist dragon's swamp, t'save 'is life an' meet one o' the last ovva race o'cursed sea-fae! Tell me another who can say they've fone th'same?" Barnabas was grinning quite broadly now. The combination factor of moving, getting out from the windy salt spray, and getting closer to the sun's domain had warmed him considerably. He would settle again into quiet to listen to Lanara's commentary, should she have any, and shouldered the duffle bag before pressing up the path further. It wasn't nearly as dramatic of an incline to reach the summit, but it would take a bit of time to follow the switchbacking gravel-strewn path. Barnabas was barefoot, but found no difficulty in treading atop the small stones. They were well above the treeline now, and as they rounded the southern haunch of the mountain they came, not just in full view of the magnificent sun, but also that of Rynvale. From the promontory flat, the distant city beyond set a beautiful backdrop. The sun had lifted above the skyline, glancing down upon belfries and stone shingles. The sounds of a faraway hammer striking iron reached them, followed by an intermittent whinny of a horse in the stables. Barnabas looked over the villas, towers, into the heart and center of the town where all was not as economically sound as it appeared, allowing his peripheral vision to discern the subtle grey movements of tiny bodies through the streets. The docks were as busy as ever, with ships jostling in a que for their turn to be inspected and unloaded at the quay, proving the worth of the venture that had them now steaming in the open sun.


Lanara pauses beside the statue of the embracing couple, admiring the flawless stonework, and as Barnabas heads up the path and eyes the statue from above, she remains in place, on the ground level. She takes in the workmanship and the fine etching of the couples facial features, running her hand along the smooth stone, and fully absorbing the magnitude of emotion that the artist hoped to invoke. Here, in an isolated part of the realm, before a forgotten shrine, was a symbol of the purest love. Being that she just ended a relationship, one would think this statue would bring the woman to tears, though in fact, it does just the opposite. Lana smiles, as though filled with a new hope, and she continues her ascent, to join Barnabas at the shrine. Seeing that he lowered the duffle bag, she unzips it and removes her pants, tank top, socks, and boots, before zipping it back up. Thankfully, during their walk her bikini had dried considerably, and though it was still damp, she wasn’t in the mood to go commando or wait for it to dry. She pulls on her pants, socks, and boots, and as she’s securing the laces, she hears the unmistakable sound of hooves upon the ground, and she looks up in time to see Puddles trotting up the path. “Puddles!” Ecstatic to see that her beloved companion appeared safe and sound, and that he was recently fed, she runs over to the shark-horse, and hugs him at his left shoulder. He dances in place, his long white legs stretching, as he thrashes his head from side to side, in a gentle motion. Clearly, he was equally as elated to see the pair, for as he is released from the tight hug of the elf, he wanders over to Barnabas, and studies him with those black beady eyes, before standing at his side. “Uh. I guess it’s your turn for a hug?” Lana giggles at the notion of the shark-horse requiring affection, and she lifts her arms to slip her tank top over her chest, only to yelp. “Ouch, ouch, ouch…” Biting back several curse words, she stomps in a semi-circle and inhales sharply, only to force the fabric over her upper form in a swift motion. It hurts. Like seven hells. But she’s not longer wandering about the island in a bikini, and it would provide some warmth and protection from whatever they encountered in Fog Forest. They continue on their way after a moment’s rest and as he mentions the ring that can detect if one is lying, her eyes widen, and she gently takes his wrist in her hand, so that she may take a closer look. “Hm… Ask me something. I pride myself on honesty. But I will lie, just this once, to see what happens.” Those big brown eyes lock onto his face, almost pleading, for she wanted to see if his trinket was all that he claimed. A few moments’ pass, in which he either declines her request or engages in her little experiment, and once it’s complete, he turns to ask her what sort of fancy devices she has, to gain knowledge of others. “I-I don’t have anything quite like that, I suppose. I have a woman’s intuition, and I’m generally a good judge of character.” As smoothly as her words end, his begin, and he gives a flawless description of the answer she had just uttered, causing her to smile. She enjoyed having the sailor along for the journey, and she was getting used to his pirate lingo, and found that she often hung on his every word. Puddles walks close to Lana’s side, and bows his head, as he suddenly stops short, as though he sensed that the petite woman’s legs were growing tired. “Aw. Thanks, sweetheart.” She obliges, and places her hands upon his back, takes a small jump, swings her leg over, and mounts the beast. Leaning forward so that her weight is evenly distributed, the shark head rises and continues walking at Barnabas’ side, at an even pace. The topic of destiny arises and she nods in agreement, not finding anything of use to say, as he pretty much summarizes it, and her thoughts mirror his own, in a way. “Zaytor? Was he a God? I come for a place far away from these lands… I’m familiar with the Goddess Selene, but I don’t believe I’ve heard that name in all my years.” Her gaze is drawn to the statue of the lover’s embracing, and as she waits for a response, wondering if he’d heard her, he continues gesticulating as he speaks. Did he just say she was pretty? “Oh. I wouldn’t go that far. Especially not with how I look right now…” Swallowing, and suddenly self-conscious, her hands raise again to work at that knot that had formed at the base of her long locks. As her hair continued to dry, the knot just becomes more intertwined, and she gives a yank so hard that it brings tears to her eyes. She’d have to purchase a comb at one of the shops when the ritual was complete, and she’d deal with it before a mirror. She’d also have a proper bath, a lengthy nap, some clean clothes, and a pitcher of sangria. Those thoughts dissipate as Puddles comes to another stop, and she trails her gaze from Barnabas’ form to that of the city that opens up below them. Immediately, her attention is drawn to the docks, and she watches as several ships are waiting in line, as those at the front fall under intense scrutiny, before they’re allowed passage. The realization that Puddles never would’ve set a hoof on the island hits her, and she sub-consciously stokes his velvety neck, as she gives the sailor a sidelong glance. “You were right. Our little swim through frigid, seaweed-ridden, serpent-hiding waters was the right choice… I think we have to head west, and then north to find the entrance to Fog Forest… Right?”


Barnabas brushed his hand along Puddles' back when he sidled up to him, fearlessly tickling around his gills as if scratching a friendly dog behind its ears. After Lanara had finished putting her dry layers on and took his wrist inquisitively, the pirate would press her hand against the ring with his own. "So I gather ye like snakes, yeah?" he would ask with a bemused twist of his lips. When Lanara would falsely affirm this, she would instantly feel the searing flash of heat radiate from the Inquisitor's Ring. Barnabas would reveal nary a microexpression of pain, however, suggesting that he had borne this artifact and its enchantment for some time. He could have easily taken up a line of question that would have been much more telling, or compromising, but he chose not to. As they continued up the winding path, Barnabas became quite elated to see Puddles bear Lanara onward, and as he talked his eyes shone brightly. "Zaytor. Patron o'fresh water, they say," he said as his gaze left the trail and the hill itself to survey Rynvale below the open overlook at the summit stretch. Down there, in the distance, was a myriad of alleys that the pirate knew well: the arterial delivery system that was constantly flowing through the subdermal layers of society. "Would've been a trick," Barnabas agreed, eyeing the ships trafficking the harbor and instinctively begining to play out little hypothetical theaters in his mind of how things may have played out in various scenarios. He seemed to grow distant, remembering the alcoves and hidden rendezvous that were the settings of so many of his memories down there in the city. "Wotsit?" he snapped back from his reverie, looking northwards to where the path fell away down the other side of the mountain. "Oh, aye -I b'lieve the foggy wood's just over th'other side now." He gave the sea another sweep before bouncing on the soles of his feet to regain his step with Lanara and Puddles. With his long, easy strides, Barnabas kept pace at the curious steed's left haunch. As the mangled old growth forest rose out of the valley like leafless lack setinels to engulf and consume the trail, a signpost rose out of the clay beside the path. The plank joined to the stake was cracked and faded from its time under the sun and wind, but the ominous warning carved into its face read as clear as it likely had when the marker was first driven. "Danger!" read Barnabas aloud, in a tone of impertinent mockery, as he came to stop before it. "Awful thoughtful o'the feller 'at stuck it here, eh?" he asked with a twist of his neck towards Lanara. The choking forest below seemed to portend danger in and of itself well enough, though. The mists that settled there, whether from vestiges of the sea fog that the breeze could not disturb or of magic, consumed any space or light between the black skeletal trees. As they descended into this eerie lowland, Barnabas began to sense the nature of the fog was otherworldly. It clung to him, hiding even his own bare toes from his view, and encouraged him to keep a hand upon Puddle's flank while they worked their way deeper into the fog-cloaked forest. Arms and gnarled faces seemed to lurch out from the mangled trees themselves as they drew near, giving an unshakable and almost instantaneous sense of paranoia to their tour. It was this nervousness that had Barnabas moving as a singular body with Puddles and Lanara, perfectly in step and attached where his right forearm made contact with the beast's left flank. The pirate fell silent. He knew horses were very keen and alert companions, and he wondered if Puddles' shark half lent him the ability to smell the fog. If that were the case, surely his guidance and cues should be closely heeded. It seemed the deeper they drove into the fog, the thicker and stickier it became until, before long, Barnabas couldn't even make out Lanara's face, despite being a mere arm's length away.


Lanara catches his smirk and she narrows her eyes as his chosen inquiry refers to snakes, of all things. She would have rather it been something personal, or insulting, for that matter. But snakes?! The mere word sends a shiver down her spine, and she scowls as she feigns her likeness for the vile creatures. “Aye. I just love snakes.” Warmth emanates from the ring, and her eyes widen as it deciphers her words and dubs it as a lie. “That’s… Amazing!” Her gaze travel upwards to meet his eyes, and she nips her lower lip. “That didn’t hurt you, did it? I’m sorry if it did, I just wanted to test it out, I guess I didn’t think about the effect it would have on you.” Lana assumed it had burnt or zapped his flesh, though the sailor didn’t appear to be in any discomfort. As they continue on their travels and he tells her about Zaytor, she listens closely, and nods, assuming that Selene had taken him as a husband or lover, at some point. Or maybe the mason that had designed the statue just thought they should be embracing as they both shared a love of the water. Whatever the actual reason, it made sense in her mind. Puddles plods along, his hooves making click-clock noises along the dirt as he remains alert to their surroundings. The sign marked ‘Danger’ is noted, and as Barnabas makes a comment, Lana can’t help but laugh and roll her eyes. “I know! As if we couldn’t figure that out for ourselves. The name of the forest, and the fact that it’s enveloped in fog are pretty good indicators that it’s dangerous. Spooky.” Danger didn’t deter the brunette though, as she lightly presses her knees to the sides of the horse, and the three of them step into the woods. At first, it’s not so bad, as she can see her two companions rather clearly, and then the fog grows heavier. Now, she’s able to hear Barnabas’ footfalls amongst the leaves and twigs, and feel the horse beneath her form, though she can only see a hint of their outlines. Then, the fog is so heavy that she can’t even see her own hands upon the shark-horse’s back, and as she speaks, she finds that the sound is somewhat muffled, as though the fog was entering her mouth and trying to fade her words as it was her figure. “So, yeah, this isn’t creepy at all. You doing alright there, Barney?” She looks back; to the left side of Puddles’ flank where she had last seen him, but as of now all she sees is a thick white mist. He could have been back in Cenril for all she knew, were it not for the sound of his steps, though even thoughts become distorted in this eerie forest. Every so often something seems to slip through the thick fog, and she’s unsure if it’s her mind playing tricks on her, or if something other than them lurks behind the unusual coverage. A low hanging branch up ahead remains camouflaged as they slowly near it, though Puddles stops short, inhaling deeply and his coal eyes remain focused ahead. Though he didn’t have the best eyesight on a good day, neither the witch nor the sailor could discern what he could have caught the scent of through the fog. “Uh, it’s probably okay; we only have a little further.” A lie. They had about six miles ahead of them, not including the fork in the path that would put them in the line of the fabled mist dragon, before they’d enter the clearing in which the Kelpie’s supposedly lived. Something lurked, and the uneasy feeling seeps into Lana’s form, though they couldn’t turn back, and so she nudges the shark-horse to press onwards. Seconds later, as they slip under that low hanging branch, two pitch-black, muscular arms, reach out and grab Lanara by the hair. The little witch is yanked off of the horse’s back, and she’s forced onto the thick branch, and though she kicks wildly, digs her nails into the man’s flesh, and screams at the top of her lungs, it’s all proves futile. The man knew the terrain, he seemed to be able to see in the thick fog, and he hadn’t come empty handed. He wields a dart, which he plunges forcefully into the woman’s neck, and within a second, her struggling ceases, as she falls unconscious. Those big brown eyes roll to the back of her head, before they close, and she lies limp in his arms. “Take er back to da Island. Sell er ta one o’ dem slave trada’s. We’ get good coin based on da looks of er, she’s a fightah doh… We may ‘av ta slap er intah shape when she wakes up. I’m goin ta disable er lil pet now. ” The elf is handed off to his partner, who holds her in his arms like a bride, as his partner readies another dart, prepared to strike the flesh of the majestic mount, whom is now rearing on his back legs, and thrashing his head angrily from side to side. They abducted his mistress and he is not happy! The two men, however, carry on, as though they encountered an elf on shark-back frequently. “Got it, Boss.” He leaves, walking amongst the treetops, and peers over his shoulder, his eyes glowing an eerie green as he sees clearly through the fog. “Hey, Boss?! What about her friend? The tall man?” That dart is lowered, and Lana’s main captor squints. “Wut man?” Clearly, he didn’t notice the sailor amidst the scuffle with the witch and the heavy fog.


Barnabas couldn't see the arms drop from the trees, but he saw Lanara's legs vanish into the fog above, and he damn sure heard her scream. As Puddles began bucking wildly and thrashing his fearsome maw about, the pirate had already dropped the duffel bag he carried and taken to motion. He stradled nimbly up Puddles' back, even as he thrashed about. There was no hesitation in Barnabas' movements, no trepidation for that menacing mouth. He displayed an acrobatic level of horsemanship, as if he were once an equestrian performer and Puddles was a disciplined, normal steed. With one lurch he had vaulted upon the bucking shark-horse, and after bracing himself briefly on his haunches with his left hand, he stood well-balanced with his bare feet splayed oppositely across the broadest portion of Puddles' back at his flanks. Responding to a shifting horse was not unlike certain chores aboard a heaving ship, and using his ankles, knees, and core strength Barnabas made the gymnastics seem simple, natural even. His dreadlocked head emerged into the lower canopy, tracking the shadowy movements that dashed across the branches and finding an ambusher perched there with a dart at the ready. He used his free hand to grab and tug the attacker's ankle from underneath him, and he would be sent plunging down through the thick fog in perfect line with Puddles' hungry jaws just as he finished warning his partner about the 'tall man' who would send him to such an unfortunate- if well deserved- end. Another vault and Barnabas had leapt from Puddles' back to the treetops from which the man had just been ousted. The twisted, ancient limbs overhung the thickest of the mist, and in addition to giving the pirate ample footing, it offered him a somewhat clearer vantage of their attackers' identity and numbers. He had almost expected a small tribe up there, coordinating the assault, but was surprised to find just the one, clutching Lanara's limp body. Barnabas hesitated briefly, trying to determine an approach that wouldn't find his elven companion plummeting out of the trees. It was just a second, but likely enough of a lapse that Lanara's captor had time to realize a very irate pirate, barefoot and dressed in black flowing silks, with a demonic-seeming agility and expression, was now bearing down upon him. He struck a terrifying form in the coalescing fog, and though his blade was yet sheathed, there was in his expression and posture shown no sign of mercy or quarter, only violence. Brackish eyes peered wide at him, bordered with bloodshot white, murderous and insane, and his lips contorted into an almost inhuman scowl. Perhaps he would turn for flight, perhaps he would simply drop his captive. A blink and he might miss it, though, for Barnabas cleared the foggy gap between the trees in an explosive bound. He had very quickly deduced that avoiding a fall from the treetops would be futile, and so he launched himself headlong from one treetop to the next with no caution given to momentum or gravity. He collided bodily with both the would-be kidnapper and his captive, and physics threw the entire trio clear from the canopy, of course. Barnabas' primary concern was for Lanara, and this being so, he had more tackled her than he had her captor. Wrapping his long arms around her before the lot went plummeting to the ground, the pirate rolled, attempting with only partial success to slow their combined mass by meeting the oncoming tree limbs with his haversack-adorned back. Twelve feet, maybe, they fell, with Barnabas hitting the mist-blanketed forest floor beneath Lanara's dead weight a little ways apart from their assailant. He did his best to spare her the brunt of the impact, but this may have been a compromising endeavor, since he now found himself sputtering in pain and for lack of wind as he rolled her unconscious body off of his. The tree limbs had not been forgiving, neither the hard ground. The moppish mass of woolen dreadlocks bundled behind his head might have saved him a cracked skull, or in the very least a sharp concussive blow. Barnabas rolled himself to his stomach, coughing into the road uncontrollably. The fog clung so closely to the ground that Lanara's nearby feet could hardly be seen even inches from his face -and somewhere just a few steps back on that foggy path was one, or maybe still two, attackers between them and Puddles. The suddenness of the ambush as well as the fall had Barnabas reeling some, but he had the tenacious instinct to grasp the handle within that ornately swept basket hilt of the sword at his hip as he pushed himself to rise, first to his knees and then to his feet. He turned to face the blinding, featureless fog, pulling free the black, heavy broad cleaver from its confines with a resounding ring, resolved to battle but quite unsure of who or what he was preparing to meet.


Puddles is frantic, his coal eyes rolling around wildly, as he struggles to catch a glimpse of Lanara. The shark head thrashes from side to side, chomping on vines and low hanging branches, as he unleashes his wrath. Sure, he couldn’t get up that tree, but he could raise hell. They had his mistress, the woman that had rescued him from constant torture and experiments as a pony. His savior, his life, his Lana. They were going to pay, dearly. As his spine lifts and he rears on his two back legs, his maw wide open, he nearly snaps from the sudden unexpected contact of the sailor. At the last second, he realizes that it’s Barnabas, and as the man springs to action, he calms, knowing that if the man could get into the treetops, he’d rescue his mistress. The shark-horse has a deeper respect for the half-kelpie, and he moves him a good three feet nearer to the tree. It all happens so fast, as the ‘boss’ is lining up the dart, trying to narrow in on his target, which has now moved out of line of sight. A blasted brand blocks his path! Scowling, he inches further along the thick branch, only to find that the tall man he hadn’t seen enter the forest, had latched onto his ankle. He scrambles to maintain his footing, his fingers digging into the thick bark of the tree, but his efforts prove futile as Barnabas gives a final tug, and the man loses his balance. Tumbling backwards, he falls through the heavy layer of fog, and right into the open mouth of the majestic beast thrashing below. Puddles happily munches on the man that brought harm to Lana, his needle-sharp teeth piercing through his flesh. The screams are heard through the forest, as blood splatters against the tree, and the shark-horse uses his voracious appetite to crunch the man into pieces, each of which is devoured. The dark-skinned male, dressed in camouflage holds Lana tightly to his chest, and is trying his damnedest to clear the forest before whatever has his boss, comes after him. He wasn’t stupid. He knew there was something strange about the woman’s pet. Sharks should be in the sea, not attached to the body of a horse! This whole place gave him the willie’s, and he nearly drops the unconscious woman, as he hears a noise coming up behind him, and his glowing hues narrow on the form of Barnabas. He spots him too late, and the man lunges at him, knocking all three of them out of the tree, like bowling pins. However, the lanes of this alley are shrouded in an eerie fog, and the though the tribesman hits the ground with a disgruntled groan, he’s quick to get up. He had sufficient training, and had taken many a tumble from treetops in his life; this was nothing more than that. However, their ‘leader’ wouldn’t be pleased if they didn’t have a pretty bargaining chip for the slave traders. They would be at the island by nightfall, and the elf was the most exotic creature they had ever set their eyes upon. She had dark hair and dark eyes, unlike most of her kind. And the body! They’d get enough gold to purchase more land, to expand their already growing tribe, and then some. Standing up, he unsheathes his dagger and stalks through the forest on foot, as the shark-horse laps up the blood of his fallen brother. “I’m comin fer ya! Dat girl belongs ta me. I ‘eed er fer a few hours. Den you kin ‘ave er back.” He doesn’t mention that she’d be long gone, shackled to a ship, to await whatever fate her new master would have planned. “Yew took da life of my brudda. Now ye pay in yer blood. Or ye give da girl to me. Da choice is yers, barefoot man!” The mist parts, just slightly, as he hears Barnabas unleashing a series of hacking coughs. The muscular savage narrows in on his location, and spies the vivid crimson feathers sticking out of the plunger in the neck of the elf. Bingo! Expertly swinging the machete to and fro, the sixteen inch blade sparkling with each precise cut through the air. His little speech has some to an end, and as he sees the pirate stand up and wield a cleaver, he charges through the fog, right arm lifted, only to be brought down with all his might, as he aims for the chest of the unsuspecting man.


Barnabas had settled his center of gravity from his waist to his knees, his heels lifting lightly to afford quick movements. That heavy cutlass rolled around in his hand almost hungrily as the hidden assailant's threats called out over the fog and the sounds of Puddles smacking down his 'brudda's' scraps. The first sight of his approach was the machete hacking madly through the fog, and instantly Barnabas reacted by dropping back and upon the ball of his left foot. His toes dug in to the damp sand and clay that made up the narrow, root-woven path between the trees, and as the ambusher came within striking distance and raised his blade for a calculated strike, Barnabas launched forward. Although it seemed a reckless movement, it was quite well-timed. The machete came down as the pirate lunged forward, and the blades met between their bodies in a clamor. The two were toe to toe now, and Barnabas' heavier sword dashed the machete aside with definitive ease. His sword followed behind it, across and out from his body, before being pulled forward in a rapid counterstrike that meant to introduce the steel basket and weighted pommel of the sword's lower haft in a most violent way to his attacker's face. Smoke and clutter were often factors in the various battlescapes of Barnabas' past, and the fog and roots underfoot now presented similar nuance. His bare feet felt the knotty roots that drove in and out of the sand and clay below, and after issuing the speedy counterstrike with his steel encrusted sword hand, the pirate launched back again. He fell into an even lower stance, holding the sword so that it trailed behind his crouching body and its length and reach would be harder read. Barnabas struck this low, threatening scorpion-like pose for a dramatic moment between the man and Lanara before he would again rush forward, meeting and intercepting any further initiative from his adversary, should he have already recovered. In one fluid motion Barnabas made two long strides from his low stance, spinning his entire body as a dancer in pirouette as he turned his cutlass and brought it at once from behind him to before him in an underarm arc. The blade took a route and possessed a sufficient weight and honed edge to cleave the man in twain from crotch to collarbone, and by spinning at its greatest extension Barnabas attempted to avoid the reach of the machete. If he had missed his mark, or should the blade have passed cleanly through as it might have proven capable of, the skillful swordsman would continue his spin and bring it down from above with one mighty, committed cleave.


The two men face off, the clanging of their blades meeting in perfect unison, before Barnabas gets the upper hand, alas shoving the machete to the side. The islander knew the terrain, so that was to his advantage, though the sailor was quick on his feet, and prepared to issue strike after strike. “Ey! I told ye, we kin drop dis, jes han da girl over.” His words are cut short as he’s struck low, in the thigh, and he narrows his eyes, readying a counter strike, as he backs up, aiming to get nearer to the unconscious brunette on the forest floor. The split second glance he gives to Lana is his undoing, as when he returns his attention to Barnabas, he finds that he’s become momentarily disoriented in the fog. “Dis ukin’ farest. It ill be mah endin!” He’s fuming, his palms are sweaty, and as he glances from one direction to the next, he finds that the sailor is spiraling towards him. There’s no time to get out of the way, as the honed blade pierces through his clothing, at the most sensitive part of a man, only to lift upwards, and exit from near his shoulder blade. He gasps, as he’s nearly disemboweled, and he stumbles back, dropping his machete into the dirt, which happens to land a mere inch from Lana’s face. Blood pours from his groin, torso, and chest, as forcefully as the waves of the ocean crashing against the shore, and in less than half a minute, he takes his last breath. Puddles reappears, the scent of blood enveloping him in a gore-fueled frenzy, as he canters over to the second dead body. There is fresh blood dripping from his open maw, from the last victim, though his appetite still hasn’t been satiate, as he lowers his head and chomps onto the tribesman’s leg, dragging him deeper into the fog. He’s heard dining on the carcass, though he’s nowhere in sight. The fog seems to be somewhat thinner now, as the day continues, and Lana’s long lashes flutter against her high cheekbones, as she wakes up. The first thing she sees is the tip of the blade sticking out of the ground, practically touching her nose, and she rolls away from it, which induces a wave of nausea. Everything is spinning in her drug-induced mind, as she fights the urge to vomit, and the clouds of fog seem to swirl violently, adding to her dizziness. She looks to her left and the needle of the dart pushes deeper into her neck, making her yelp, as she plucks it from her tender flesh. “What the fu-“ The elf had been strong through the whole journey. She had gotten through finding a sailor to grant her and her unique pet passage to Rynvale. She’d broken off her engagement. She nearly drowned, in frigid water, as she was assaulted by seaweed. Through it all, she kept her cool, went through the motions, and pushed forth. However, waking up alone, in a forest of fog that seems to be continually spinning, with a dart in her neck and a knife before her eyes, nauseas and dizzy, and missing a shoe, seems to be the last straw. She clutches her knees to her chest, and bursts into tears, her heart-wrenching wails echoing against the stillness of this dreary forest. Nearby she hears what she believes to be the crunching of bones, and her sides are on fire, likely the result of a few broken ribs. She last remembered being grabbed by a pair of dark-skinned arms. And then she had woken up on the ground, without any sign of Puddles or Barnabas. She’s scared, and shaking, unable to control her sobbing. Those beautiful chocolate eyes look dazed as she glances around, the effects of the poison-tipped dart still working its way through her system. The center of her lower lip is split down the middle, though the blood had congealed and left an ugly crimson stain. The knot in her hair remains, though the rest of her locks have become tousled and unruly from the scuffle. Her clothing is covered in dirt, pine needles, and spatters of blood that she knows belong to someone else. She winces as she tries to stand up, only to fall back onto her rear, the area once more seeming to spin, and she weakly curls into a ball. There was nothing left to do, but to cry and pray that the shark-horse and sailor were alright, and that they’d come back.


Barnabas’ emotionless face peered out of the fog as the man’s insides instantly become anything but, and after wrenching his cutlass down and free of its lodging in his ribcage and spine, the pirate wiped away the mess from his sword upon the dying man’s pant leg. He takes a long step over the carcass as Puddles trots on towards the scent of fresh blood, and as the shark-horse dragged away the morsel Barnabas made a small circle of their position, back to where the duffel bag of ritual items and the witch’s crucial belongings had been dropped. Just as he was satisfied that there was no further threat, the sounds of an awakened and quite disturbed Lanara pierced the fog. He sheathed his sword and the woman’s sobbing intensified. The tall, lanky man emerged from the fog towards her, his loosely flowing black shirt clinging to his shoulders and back around the edges of his knapsack and where silk met sweat, and the large bag was hefted squarely behind his head. Adrenaline had begun to fade away for the pirate, and each step closer to his elven companion seemed to set his back tighter and tighter until, once he made to kneel down beside the crying woman, he could not help but drop the duffel and take a sharp, pained breath. Lanara was curled up in a fetal position, wailing, and though Barnabas understood how traumatic and disorienting the sudden assault and chemical dosing must have been, he felt an urgent need to quiet it where they sat in the mist-choked forest. He did so gently, by placing a calloused palm upon Lanara’s shoulder while he squatted beside her. “Lana? Lana. It’s okay,” he said softly. “They’re gone. It’s okay.” He wasn’t entirely sure she could hear him. “Are ye alright? We need t’move -can ye walk?” Barnabas’ face was wrought with worry once Lanara would stir and look up, his cheeks besmirched with dirt and his tied-back dreadlocks stuck with branches and forest litter. Guilt, too, seemed to be written over his eyes, especially as he noticed the swollen puncture in her neck from the dart that had been embedded there, and the definite glaze over the elf’s usually warm and spirited chocolate-toned eyes. The pirate offered every assistance Lanara would accept finding her feet and testing them -not just a hand up, but full support by twining their arms together and behind their backs. “Don’t know who the hell those blaggarts were, but I don’t like lingerin’ ‘bout in this fog.”


Lanara doesn’t even hear Barnabas as he nears her location, though as he places his hand upon her shoulder, she shrinks away from the contact, thinking it’s someone that has come to finish her off, like the others. She looks up at the man, flinching as though she was expecting him to strike, and then he’s squatting at her side and saying her name. Confused, she blinks, lifting her head to gaze at his face, and though her vision is blurred and the world is spinning, she’s pretty sure she sees three of the familiar sailor. She aims her focus on the middle swirling image, trying to force the delusions from her mind, as he speaks to her in a soft, almost soothing tone. The elf seems to calm a bit, and her hand lifts to rub at the sore spot on her neck, wincing as her fingertips make contact with the puncture mark. “Wh-What hap-happened?” She seems timid, her words are greatly slurred, and she keeps narrowing her eyes, as though trying to only see ‘one’ of the male at her side. “Bar-ney. You ok?” Typical of the woman to be more concerned about others than herself, and waits for his answer, before replying with one of her own. “Ribs are bro-broke.” She doesn’t bother to mention the split lip or the effects of whatever they had injected her with, as those were pretty obvious. Puddles finishes his meal of the two meddling men and trots over to their location, pausing as he watches Barnabas interacting with Lanara, only for his gaze to drop to the duffel bag that had been lowered to the ground. The shark horse is of a higher intelligence than most beasts, and he picks up the bag with his mouth, holding it awkwardly between his rows of needle-sharp teeth. Miraculously, the strap doesn’t break, and he walks on through the forest, knowing the other two would soon follow. It was a pretty straight run, and if Lana was to turn off at any point, he knew her scent well and could retrace his steps to her location. Meanwhile, Barnabas is assisting Lana in rising unsteadily to her feet, and she scowls as she steps on a rock, awkwardly hopping in place. Eventually, her footwear is discovered in a pile of leaves, and she shrugs on the boot, missing her foot twice in the process. This was –not- how she imagined things would happen. How much time had they lost? Her senses are returning to her and she’s able to form complete thoughts, however the dizziness and nausea don’t seem to want to quit. She doesn’t even argue as the sailor slips an arm around her to help steady her, and she rests her arm on his back as well, trying her best to walk along, albeit slowly. He was right, they couldn’t linger in this forest, for the sun would be fading in a few short hours and they had yet to locate the kelpie, and perform the ritual. Time was ticking, and there could have been more psycho’s from that tribe that would notice if two of their best men had gone missing. The last thing the pair needed was any more resistance. It was bad enough that Lana was out for the count, and though Puddles was a force to be reckoned with, he couldn’t exactly climb trees or camouflage. And so, they trudged on, despite the fact that the witch would have liked nothing more than to remain sobbing in the fetal position in a pile of leaves. The incessant lurch in her stomach causes her to randomly stop short, without notice, and there are a few times where she elbows the man at her side, or collides with a tree. All in all, she’s miserable from the latest turn of events, she feels sick to her stomach, her vision has gone to hell, and every time she missteps the pain in her ribs surges through her upper body. The guilt in her drowsy gaze is evident as she slowly turns her head, to reduce the spinning of the forest, and looks at Barnabas. “I’m sorry.” Those two words speak volumes and her eyes well with tears, though she desperately tries to blink them away. She hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt, or to become such a burden to the sailor, and though she had considered him a newfound close friend, she wouldn’t be surprised if he never contacted her again, once this adventure had ended. Sunlight filters through the trees more heavily than before, and with her free hand, she shields her eyes which are super sensitive from that island cocktail she had been struck with, and she winces. “Ugh…” However, this was a good sign! Less trees and more light meant they were almost through Fog Forest.


Barnabas very much appreciated Puddles' thoughtful gesture of taking up the large awkward bag, and completely of his own accord. Never seen a horse do that! His back and side had begun to burn and ache, and he would have been gritting his teeth shouldering that duffel onward, and it would have made assisting Lanara impossible. As it were, the extra burden and clumsiness of sharing her weight had him occasionally cringing at unexpected small stones that rose up to press angrily against the soles of his bare feet. "Shut up," the pirate scolded as the elf tried to apologize -to him! He felt guilty himself, since sailing Lanara and Puddles across the pond was just half of the duty he had agreed to perform. His tone contained no notes of jest, either; he could see the delirium and dizziness inflicted by the islander's dart, and he knew firsthand the pain she must have endured from the fall. Talking, let alone apologizing, was simply a waste of energy. As they shuffled ahead into the fog, Barnabas found security in following their new, formidable lineleader. The mists made a mess of the pirate's sense of direction, and he could swear the path had them winding about. But on plodded Puddles, and confidently, and Barmabas faithfully followed the beast. Soon the fog began to disperse in a less choking and much more natural seeming spray. It no longer swirled and consumed the trees' feet or his own, and almost counter intuitively the lower canopy of the forest grew thicker and more lively where the fog sat less. So much so that, as Barnabas cast a worried eye to the left of the path, he found the brambles and foliage formed an almost impenetrable curtaib. The return of the sun also heralded the return of directional sense, but now the sound of water which seemed to echo from everywhere presented a new sort of disorientation. The sounds of running water? Perhaps it was the sound of droplets of condensation from the fog on the forest around them, dripping from the foliage to the ground. It was repeated, incessant, and seemed multi-directional through the still quiet. It caused Barnabas to search the thickets around them for its source while they painfully pushed forward, and in doing so, he caught not just the scent of woodsmoke but a glimpse of a blue plume piercing through the canopy to the south. He stopped, speaking then for the first time since telling Lanara to shut up, and lifted a long spindly left arm and an index finger to trace the column as it met the sky. "Oi, wot'sat, ye reckon? Who'd be campin' a-way out here?" Although he did profess to intimately know the whole of Rynvale Island, that was in fact just an exaggerated qualification on his part. He had only ever seen the low fog forest from the hilltops, and never been given cause to wander it. Whoever might reside or pass through here he could only guess. Pushing through the undergrowth definitely presented an issue for the pair, but it might be wise to know who they shared the forest with. Whoever it was, they were confident enough to burn a fire, which suggested they were less predatory than the blowdart and machete wielding ambushers that they had encountered on their way. Maybe they could even help them on their endeavor or to treat their wounds. Maybe it was the very object of their endeavors, the Kelpie -Barnabas couldn't venture a guess as to how such a being might live. The path led northward and would demand the two turn their backs to this unknown presence encamped beyond the thicket -something Barnabas did not fancy the idea of. He scanned the vacinity for Puddles and where his intuition led him, but he still didn't move from the crook in the road. He deliberated, watching the smoke rise and disperse over the tree tops, scratching his head with his left hand after having pointed it out to Lanara. "Think we ought t'figger out jus' who that is," he half admitted, half questioned to the witch.


Lanara widens her eyes as he tells her to ‘shut up’ and if he were to look at her face, he’d see a flicker of sadness in those big brown eyes, though being the queen of masking her feelings, she turns her head to the left and ignores the comment. He wasn’t the first to accuse her of babbling, and she did have a habit of going off on tangents. Had she said something offensive when he had found her sobbing on the forest floor? Clearly, he was pissed, and she honestly couldn’t blame him. It was all her fault that they were even in this predicament and deep down, she felt awful for getting the sailor involved in her affairs. What was she even doing!? She was trudging through a forest, enshrouded in fog, after a shark-horse, with a man she barely knew, in hopes of coming across a dangerous kelpie, so that she could use her magic to perform a ritual that she wasn’t sure would even work. Was this an attempt to mask the pain from breaking up with Eirik? Was she trying to prove something? She unhooks her arm from around Barnabas, and stomps along the ground, fuming, wishing for another dart to plunge into her neck. The effects were wearing off, leaving nothing behind, aside from the nausea and slight dizziness. The fire had returned to her eyes, and though she was in immense pain from the broken ribs, she was walking well enough on her own. She’d gladly take a hit of a drug, of anything, to avoid this moment of clarity. A bunch of ‘what ifs’ fill her mind, and for the first time since planning this whirlwind trip, she’s uncertain. What if she was putting Puddles in further danger? Barnabas? Herself? The fear she felt earlier is replaced with anger, and she snaps a branch from a nearby tree and breaks it into little pieces, before leaning against it, her ribcage on fire. Her slender arms wrap half around the tree, in a weird embrace, as though she were leaning on nature for comfort. She catches her breath, all the while avoiding making any eye contact with either the steed or the sailor. Lana was having one of her ‘moments’ and the guilt boils in her blood, threatening to spill forth like lava, so she closes her eyes, refusing to let any hot tears scald her cheeks. She was –not- weak. She –never- let anyone see her vulnerable side, and now should not be any different. As Barnabas walks past, following after their loyal companion that is guiding them through this treacherous abyss, she lifts her head to look at him. Her mouth opens, as though she’s about to tell him to turn back, that she wouldn’t make him risk anything further for her, or Puddles, and it’s then that he extends his arm, pointing skywards. Tilting her chin up, she follows the motion, seeing the cloud of smoke billowing above the treetops, and her gaze shifts from one of despair, to one of sheer curiosity. He had a point. Was someone actually camping out in this remote location? Would they be an ally…? Or an enemy? Were they in connection with the two tribesmen that had attacked them, when they had first entered the forest? Lana drops her arms from around the tree trunk, clears her throat, and returns to her previous place at Barnabas’ side, though she doesn’t bother with a verbal reply. She was weary of over thinking, exhausted from lack of sleep, and pained from her injuries and the island drug she had been injected with, and after being told to be quiet, she finds that she prefers to be silent, at least at this point. After a few steps, they come to a crossroads, and the path that leads straight ahead, the one that Puddles is taking, likely leads to the mist dragon and the area that the kelpie’s are rumored to be in, whereas the other path veered to the left, and led to the assumed ‘camper’ or at least to the source of the smoke. The sailor seems hesitant, though she gathers that he’s hinting at taking the unlikely of paths, and she licks her lips, looking from one path to the next, before giving a slow nod. The pair turns down the path less traveled, in hopes of finding a friendly face to assist them, though fully prepared should they encounter a foe. Puddles retreats, picks up their scent, and follows along, appearing at their backs after a few minutes, and Lana looks over her shoulder, giving the unique stallion a small smile. Apparently, they all were still in this, together.