Storm Strider

Marisol had regained enough strength in her wings to glide through the wall of foliage, and while Hana may not be able to fly properly with one of her wings shot off, the two of them managed to enter the grotto without any trouble.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Marisol slid to a halt as she saw the warship and the Harbour Guards still spread out across the cave, harvesting whatever little resources there were for the ship’s repairs. About a dozen tents and tarps were strewn across the ferns, crates of remipede flesh unloaded and cooking on self-rotating skewers over small bonfires. Somehow they’d managed to turn the grotto into quite a cosy little camp in just the few hours she’d been gone—it was only midday outside, but at this rate, they could probably have an entire harbour built by nightfall.

[Do not underestimate the construction capabilities of humans with ant classes,] the Archive said almost absentmindedly as Hana landed on the edge of the cliff, immediately standing and taking cover behind her. [The repairs also seem to be moving along faster than Captain Enrique’s initial projection. At their current rate, they should be done in two weeks instead of–]

“Marisol!” Catrina’s voice pierced through the air, and everyone snapped their heads over to stare at the two of them. Marisol waved back at the pregnant lady rushing towards her—she was just glad everyone was still safe—but it was evident Hana didn’t share the same relief she did.

As Catrina, Enrique, and several Harbour Guards trudged over to hear any good news about possible replacement sails, Hana blurred in front of her and growled; a sharp, guttural sound that made Catrina flinch and all of the Harbour Guards draw their cutlasses at once.

“Damselfly Oracle,” Enrique breathed, eyes narrowing as he held his blade in front of him, beckoning the others to keep a fair distance from Hana. “What’s the meanin’ of this, lass? Yer goin’ out and pickin’ up strays now? That ain’t no stray. That’s–”

“I know, I know. It’s… not really that long of a story, honestly, but she’s with us. I can explain,” Marisol interrupted, skating between the Harbour Guards and Hana with a nervous smile; she glanced behind her and whispered at Hana as she did. “Hey, hey, hey. What are you doing? They’re with me, you know—the ones I said I was going to bring you to meet. Could you drop the teeth and claws?”

Hana glowered at her. “Danger. Won't.”

“They're not dangerous. They're with me. They're like me, people who work with the Worm God–”

“Marisol no colour because fast, fine. But them,” Hana said, pointing at the Harbour Guards one by one, “full black colours. Colours of death. Danger.”

“...”

Hana wasn't lying. There was no twitch of a brow, twist of a lip, not even an ounce of hesitation in her voice—Marisol glanced back at Catrina and the Harbour Guards, her gaze meeting all of theirs with a silent, appraising assessment.

No.

No way they're dangerous to the Whirlpool City.

She's mistaken about something–

“Get away from the cannibal, lass,” Enrique warned, voice urgent and tight as he gritted his teeth. “They're unpredictable, that lot. Sometimes they eat our boys, sometimes they don't. There ain't reasonin’ with any of them. I'll listen to ye all ye want later, but for yer own sake–”

“Enough!” Hana snapped. She jumped back to the edge of the cliff and began beating her wings, the strong winds ruffling the ferns and making the Harbour Guards stumble back. “Marisol no colour, okay, but plagas en mar marred with black colours! Must eat! Protect Whirlpool City!”

Then, she stuck four pinkies in her mouth and whistled, a shrill and ear-piercing sound that made even Marisol wince. Enrique and the Harbour Guards immediately dashed in to cut her down, but Marisol kicked a wide berth to make them back off, scowling at them and Hana.

Before she could even say anything, though, the grotto began to rumble. The walls of moss started to shake. The chasms outside the foliage wall groaned with a cacophony of fluttery, buzzing sounds, almost as though a swarm of desert locusts was riding a sandstorm, and then—the foliage wall exploded behind all of them, bright sunlight flooding into the grotto as a hundred Damselfly Oracles responded to Hana’s call.

Tch.

If she could summon so many of them in one go, why didn’t she just do it earlier?

[Do you want her and her brethren to swarm the Whitewhale Marauders and kill everyone on board indiscriminately?]

Marisol clenched her jaw, spinning around to face the horde of hovering damselflies with the Harbour Guards flanking her sides. All of the tribesmen had blowguns in their hands, and some were even carrying thick wooden blades with sawed edges, their metal insect masks keeping all but their glowing green eyes hidden. Judging by how frenzied their shouts and buzzes were, they were seeing the exact same colours Hana was seeing—pure ‘black’, for danger posed towards the Whirlpool City.

But that couldn’t be right. They were literally Harbour Guards, and the Archive had even confirmed their identities for her; could they actually be Marauders in disguise, having fooled her and the Archive for the better part of the past two months?

… Screw that.

As if she was so fast that she could be that inattentive to the world around her.

She stomped hard, stopping the Harbour Guards from bunching together with their cutlasses poised to cut, and glaring at the Damselfly Oracles from swooping down on all of them. There must be something in her eyes that made everyone shiver, but the result of her stomp was a terse, pensive silence—not even a single bird chirped outside the grotto.

“... We ain’t plagas en mar,” she shouted, jabbing a thumb at herself and the Harbour Guards, “and you ain’t mindless cannibals, either!” she said, pointing up at the Damselfly Oracles. “We were chased here by the Whitewhale Marauders, who’ve taken some people as slaves, and we wanna help you beat them down so we can rescue the innocents! We don’t care what you do with the Marauders, but even if some of them look like Marauders, they ain’t! They’ve all got whale lice stuck to their backs, so some of them have no choice but to fight back!”

Catrina tapped her shoulder anxiously. “Marisol. I don’t understand a word you’re saying, but I don’t think you should be negotiating with them, either. Even I’ve heard about them from–”

“You say you serve the Worm God and his Hasharana, right?” she continued, shrugging Catrina’s hand off as she jabbed a finger at one of the closest hovering damselfly; singling him out of the bunch as she turned around and thumbed at her nape. “You want proof I’m a Hasharana? Take a look at my nape! You see that little protrusion on my neck? That’s the system of a Hasharana, right?”

Some of the damselflies squinted, and some of them hovered closer to take a better look, but now they were starting to whisper amongst themselves. They did recognise the mark of an Altered Swarmsteel System; they were servants of the Hasharana.

She didn’t want to believe either the Harbour Guards or the Damselfly Oracles were lying, even if she’d only met the latter an hour ago.

“If all of you help us get our warship up and sailing again, I promise we’ll be out of your hair, and we’ll even help you take down the Marauders so you don’t have to risk your own lives!” she said, pointing at the broken warship behind her. “Hana will tell you! There may be lots of you—more than enough to overwhelm any enemy with sheer speed and numbers alone—but there’s still a hundred or so Marauders on that whale, and they’re not so shabby at fighting! If you guys fight them by yourselves, I’m sure lots of you will get hurt, so why not let us take the lead? Just support us, and we’ll do the rest!”

“...”

It was a rather convincing argument if she had to say so herself, and the Archive seemed to agree, but in truth, anything could go with the Damselfly Oracles. At the end of the day, she didn’t really understand what colours looked like in their eyes—would mere words from an colourless outsider sway them to ignore the colours they’d been diligently acting upon their entire lives?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But she had to get to the Whirlpool City no matter what, and if they really, really weren’t going to help her…

…

Marisol was just about to drag her glaives back when Hana clicked her tongue, whirling around to shout utter gibberish at her people. Even the Archive’s automatic translation couldn’t pick up her words for how fast she was talking, but she heard very well the responses from the tribesmen she was speaking too: they were all manners of ‘are you sure’ and ‘their colours are black’, all overlapping over each other, but Hana sounded insistent. She glanced back at Marisol every once in a while with a scowl, and… there was that look again.

Like Hana had known Marisol for much, much longer than a single hour, and it was the exact same look Kuku had given her back when he’d jumped off the tree to show her what ‘fearlessness’ looked like.

[... She may not be able to see the colours of your fate, but the colours of your past?] the Archive murmured, shaking its head. [Perhaps the Damselfly Oracles know everything there is to know about a person’s past as well.]

She was about to rebuke with a ‘no way’ when Hana turned back around and gave her—only her— a begrudging nod.

The damselflies hovering behind her immediately dispersed, half of them swooping onto the warship to poke at its holes, the other half flying across and out of the grotto to gather materials for the repairs.

Now, it was Marisol’s turn to face the Harbour Guards around her; gesturing at all of them to lower their blades and stop glaring at the damselflies with murder in their eyes.

“They’re helping us, cap,” she said, looking at Enrique pointedly. “It ain’t that long of a story. I went out looking for parts, had a brief tussle with them, and some of them were captured by the Whitewhale Marauders we accidentally stumbled upon. So, they’re helping us out now for both our sake and theirs. That’s all there is to it.”

For his part, Captain Enrique didn’t look the slightest bit relaxed even after hearing her explanation, and maybe that was all fine and well. The Harbour Guards evidently knew who the Damselfly Oracles were; there was no need to force themselves to act all friendly with their new helpers, but they did, at least, seem to understand they weren’t in immediate danger.

All of them lowered their cutlasses slowly, and Enrique shot her a scowl. “I hope ye know what yer doin’, lass. I trust ye, but… not them,” he said, before turning around and shouting at his men to continue with the repairs. Catrina gave her a slow nod before leaving as well, returning to inform the injured slaves in the tents about their situation; the Damselfly Oracles couldn’t repair the warship completely alone, so they still needed to guide the efforts if they wanted to get anything done.

Marisol wasn’t sure how they were going to coordinate since they couldn’t speak the same tongue, but the Harbour Guards were experienced sailors. Maybe they did know how to speak the damselflies’ tongue, so, for the time being–

She jumped when she felt Hana creeping up behind her, still hiding in her shadow as the young girl narrowed her eyes at the Harbour Guards.

“... Thank you, Hana,” she whispered, smiling softly down at the girl. “I promise none of them mean any harm to the Whirlpool City. You’re not breaking your contract to the Worm God. I’m sure there’s a reason–”

“Hana was wrong,” Hana whispered, refusing to look at Marisol as she continued squinting at the Harbour Guards. “Not all of them marred with black colours. Most… okay. Blue and pink colours. But just one of them… danger. Colour so black it overpower everyone else.”

Marisol frowned. “Hm?”

And Hana pointed straight at Catrina, emerald eyes burning with murderous intent.

“That one,” Hana breathed. “Large with child, death incarnate.”

“...”

It was a bit of a risk, but Marisol patted Hana’s head and shook her own head.

“That’s Catrina,” she said. “A friend. The daughter of the Harbour Guard’s captain. She’s with me.”

Hana didn’t look at all convinced, but as long as she kept her mutterings to herself and stayed her teeth from Catrina, Marisol didn’t really care if they could become friends.

This time was different; she couldn’t help but feel there was a ticking clock right behind her head, and something bad was going to happen if she wasn’t moving towards the Whirlpool City.

… How long do you think it’ll take them to repair the ship, Archive? She asked, chewing her lips as she watched the Harbour Guards work with the damselflies, directing to grab parts from here and there. A week? Nine days? Maybe eight?

[Seven hours.]

[I do not wish point poisoning upon you, but if you are going to face the Whitewhale Marauders in battle, I would recommend eating as much remipede flesh as you can stuff down your throat during this time.]

… And the Archive’s estimation wasn’t completely off whatsoever.

Sundown. Evening twilight hour. As the world outside darkened, the hundred or so damselflies that Hana had summoned for aid backed off from the grotto, allowing a smaller group of twenty damselflies to fly in with a dozen giant bubbles on their shoulders. After all, no matter how light or streamlined the warship was, it couldn’t sail through the sky by itself; they needed the bubbles to keep them afloat.

A fully repaired warship would help, too.

Marisol couldn’t quite decipher the expressions on the Harbour Guards’ faces, but she supposed they were some form of shock and awe and surprise—the very fact that the Damselfly Oracles managed to fix their warship from hull to sail in under half a day was already impressive enough, but they’d even sprinkled some upgrades onto the vessel.

The wooden hull was layered with hollow crustacean shells, giving the ship a spiky, more menacing look. The silver fish scale sails were replaced with bright orange carp scales instead, and these ones glittered like the sun even in dim moonlight. The tents and tarps and crates of food the Harbour Guards had spent all morning unloading were all flown back into the lower decks already, and now all forty-two of them were standing on the upper deck, watching as the damselflies stuffed the giant bubbles behind the sails and under the masts. This way, even if their hull received heavy cannonfire, they could continue flying through the sky as long as their sails were protected.

“... Ye’d think they were shipwrights born and raised in the city,” Enrique muttered, standing at the helm with Marisol and Catrina by his side; the damselflies who weren’t busy with the giant bubbles were pushing the warship slowly out of the grotto, making them inch towards the ledge. “I still ain’t a fan of them, and there’ll be hell to explain to my bosses after this… but I ain’t gonna lie. They did a damn fine job with the repairs.”

Marisol beamed at him, though her stomach was still rumbling and her whole body was in pain from having stuffed so much remipede flesh down her throat the past few hours. The Archive was right. She felt she really was going to die from point poisoning if she ate even just one more strand of insect flesh.

“Right… so we gotta repay them, yeah?” she mumbled, leaning against the railings for support as the ship groaned and creaked, ready to be pushed off the ledge. “Remember: we ain’t just saving the slaves from the Marauders. We’re saving the dozen or so damselflies they caught as well, so–”

“Stick to yer plan and shoot only where ye give the signal to so we don’t accidentally hit who we’re tryin’ to rescue,” he finished, brows drawing together as he glanced at her with a worried expression. “Yer plan’s damned reckless again, by the way. I know ye said ye can jump and glide around this strait with yer wings or whatnot, but we’re the Harbour Guards. We’re the ones who’re supposed to fight them Marauders off. To let ye fly off like that–”

“I’ve got a bone to pick with the Marauders too, cap,” she whispered, keeping her forehead pressed against the railings as she took deep breaths, one after another. “That one’s a bit of a long story, so no need to worry—a Sand-Dancer always lands on their feet.”

“...”

Captain Enrique grunted and faced forward, roaring at his men to man the cannons. Catrina quickly ducked into the captain’s cabin to stay far away from the combat. The damselflies finished stuffing the giant bubbles under the masts, and now the rest of them were pushing full speed ahead, sliding the stern of the warship right off the ledge.

They didn’t fall.

The bubbles kept them lifted.

And, with a bit of extra lifting support from the damselflies below the hull, the warship was sailing above the chasm—their glittering sails so bright and eye-catching that, through the fog on their left a hundred metres away, the giant white whale still anchored to the top of the island noticed them immediately. It let out a heavy, earth-rattling whistle as the Marauders in the wooden town lit their torches, burned their braziers; the anchors were raised, and then it began swerving towards their target.

Captain Enrique didn’t falter. While the damselflies scattered and disappeared under the chasm—no doubt still watching, though from afar so they wouldn’t get caught in the battle—the Harbour Guards on the upper deck turned their sails eastwards, guiding the warship towards the silhouette of the Whirlpool City on the horizon.

As planned, they weren’t just going to be fighting. They’d take the Whitewhale Marauders down, rescue the slaves and damselflies, and head towards the Whirlpool City to make up for lost sailing time all at once.

Marisol had pushed really, really hard for it.

She couldn’t afford to waste any more time, and she didn’t want her nightmare—her ‘fate’—to even have a chance of coming true.

So when the Whitewhale Marauders eventually caught up to them, the giant whale swimming side-by-side with their warship a hundred metres to their left, a roar of cannon fire exploded from the Marauders first—and they returned interception fire at the same time Marisol lifted her head from the railings, exhaling coolly.

… Just you wait, mama, she thought, glaring at the wooden town in the distance. Ain’t nobody gonna stop me from getting you that vial of seawater.

How many points do I have, Archive?

[One hundred and fifty-two.]

Unlock my final tier three core mutation.