Blood of the Sea, Chapter Four

Chapter 4: Cipher

Dionne

The water is bright, sparkling with sunlight across the surface, nearly blinding at times, but Dionne’s focus stays sharp as she whirls, spinning out of the way of rocks being thrown at her from other nearby tethered sections of the training platform anchored out here in the current off the shores of Thiene. Now and again, Dionne hefts the two-handed training sword and swings, making contact with a thrown rock and sending it flying back to the one who lobbed it her way. In this way, she dances; sweat beading on her skin as her muscles shift and pull taut under her skin.

Eventually, the others are out of rocks, and Nirra calls out, “Alright, time to cool off. Great work everyone.” As Dionne leaps across the platforms, mindful of the gaps and the water, training sword over her shoulder, Nirra, one of the older E’len who coordinates trainings like this, waves Dionne over. “You don’t have to throw rocks this next round. Give yourself a break. Swim around.” The older woman shrugs, pride gleaming in her eyes even though the words don’t come from her lips.

Dionne nods, beaming, “I’ll dive for a bit, then. Thank you.” She bobs her head in a rough approximation of a bow, the gesture returned by Nirra before Dionne sets the training sword down and dives into the ocean. The bliss of the cold water immediately envelops her, easing the heat building in her muscles, and revitalizing her as she begins swimming below the surface.

It is here, submerged, it is darker and colder where the sunlight doesn’t quite reach, but it is also one of the places where Dionne finds the most peace. Here, in Eulla’s embrace, and ashore, greatsword in hand.

The islands she calls home chatter with life. A constant balancing act between discipline and chaos. Measured in the busyness of lives being led, matters being attended to, and, Dionne smiles to herself, daughters being called upon.

Underwater, that all falls away until the only thing beyond the muted swish of her limbs through the water that she can hear, is the steady ba-dump of her heart in her ears. Her pulse beats against her neck, her suspended breath feathering against her diaphragm as the burn, the call for air, sparks along the edges of her being. One more moment, she tells herself. One more kick.

The fight, the need for air always overwhelms, however, and sooner than later, she finds herself bubbling up from the seafloor, water cascading over her face with the pull of gravity as she resurfaces and blinks the water from her eyes. Thiene lays behind her, the sea before her, but as she leans back, letting the water support her, her thoughts go to Gytheio, Astrophel’s home island, and then to Falun, the home of their Goddesses’ Voice.

The sunlight warms into her skin, causing bumps to rise at the temperature difference. She wonders idly if her lips have taken on a shade of blue yet, but the thought passes like the silver flash of a fish beneath the surface when something bumps against her arm. Yanking the limb away, she bolts upright in the water, searching about for what it could be, when she spots a glass bottle with a cork stuck in the opening. Frowning, she carefully plucks it from the water, mindful of the potential for broken glass, but finds it whole.

Inside, there’s a scroll of paper.

Glancing about her, there’s nothing unusual about the boats scattered deeper out at sea, nor is there anyone staring her way from the shore.

Keeping the bottle in hand, she makes for the coast, the mystery of the message defeating her desire to keep swimming, if only for the moment. Paddling, she wishes for Ryju, her faithful hydrurga, to appear and pull her in, but the ache of his absence is soothed by the knowledge that the sieche is coming up. The herd will be returning soon enough. Besides, I got out here, I can swim back in.

Once ashore, she throws on an oversized shirt, not bothering to dry off as she jogs toward her residence - a single occupant home perched upon the nearest bluff. Moss grows in a blanket across the roof and a few vines have started making their way up along the protected wall; the door is weathered, but swings open with a sturdy tug. Once inside, she finds a rag to dry her hands off with, setting the bottle on a low table and crouching by it. Where did you come from? She turns it over, but there’s nothing inscribed on the glass. No marks of origin. Just the paper inside.

She pops the cork, double and triple checking that her hands are dry enough, and pulls the paper free. Unfurling the rolled message, the handwriting loops and squiggles, but seems to be in a specific, measured manner. Down at the bottom, there’s a drawing of a crescent moon - Dionne can’t tell which of the three it would be - with some sort of building in the foreground. She flips the paper over, but there’s nothing on the back from which she could make heads or tails of what it is for.

Laying the paper down on the table, it curls in on itself, returning to the shape which would fit in the bottle. Dionne pushes some of her wet hair away from her face, plucks up the scroll, and goes to stand by the window in the main room, which points west, relatively in the direction of Huleva, one of the old, ruined watchtowers from ages past. Glancing down again, much of the ink has smeared under a smattering of water droplets. The crescent moon takes on a hazy edge, the ink slowly shifting toward the bottom of the page.

On the edge by her hand, the water traces a path left behind, but not in ink. This one, the font more runic in nature, closer in resemblance to the carvings her people do upon stone.

Fellabris be praised

Dionne drops the parchment in surprise. Who… is Fellabris? Her gaze flits once more to the sea, the bay calm and undisturbed as it sparkles at her. Just where did this come from?