Setting Sail 6 - Midnight Mischief

The Gracious Pearl shuddered slightly as it tested the tensile strength of the bow lines rigged up to it. The lines held, the ship stopped with only minor resistance and Wilkes finally got to put his feet under himself again. Admittedly it was a rough transition. Having been sprawled out for hours, dipping in and out of consciousness had allowed him to ignore how sore everything was. His feet throbbed, his calves burned, his knees ached, and his thighs spasmed. Everything below his waist was ready to convince the rest of him into mutiny. However they had no will of their own and he wasn’t a captain but rather the only mind in this body. As he forced himself to walk he admittedly would’ve looked drunk to anyone outside the crew. Nearly tumbling every time one boot left the ground, only to catch himself before that could fully reintroduce him with the floor. He chuckled to himself until he reached the stairs. The newest challenge glared down at him. Nothing but measured movements and rough planks.

“... Damn.” Wilkes lamented. His hand fumbled through the half shadow covered stairway. The only lantern was behind him, and he wasn’t in the mood to stumble back just so he could risk breaking glass if he fell. Mowling and growling he trudged up the stairs. Every plank of the stairs creaked under leaden footsteps. He pushed open the hatch and finally took a step into the outside world.

A scattering of stars hung in the air, trails of cosmic dust painting the black background in shades of purple, orange, and green. He had never taken time to appreciate the sky before, but after nearly a day of nothing but clouds and boards he welcomed it. He sucked deep breaths of the cool night air into his beleaguered lungs. A contented breath escaped him as he finally relaxed. Something settled in him as he finally exhaled a heavy sigh. His shoulders dropped from where they had perched nearly level with his ears. Thinking back he gave himself a once over in the starlight.

Angry red lines in a fishnet pattern were pressed into his arms from what he could see. He didn’t doubt that the pattern spread along his back and legs as well. Marked with the weave of his novice apprentice’s hands and the softest rope they had on hand. Though the floor likely would not have been much better, probably would’ve been worse if he got slightly launched by any major waves. Perishing the thought, he trudged along the deck and onto the ramp. The apprentices had already cleared out, actually it seemed the rest of the crew had gone about their business and left him to sleep on the boat. He scoffed at that. The walk back wasn’t much worse than usual after getting banged up.The chittering of insects in the small bits of underbrush on the outskirts of the forest kept the night alive. Clouds rolled in from the west along the horizon, blocking some of the starry night.

The wind whistled in his ears for a moment, a small chill running up his spine. He glanced behind himself to see nothing there. Fried nerves proved every possible stimuli as cause for alarm it seemed. A warm night snuggled up with Daisy and perhaps Beatrice would do him well. HIs sore body longed for it more than anything. He pressed his hand on the shabby door to his shack, it creaked open with ease. A low grumbling came from the dim corner where Daisy had apparently curled herself up for the night. The soft clacking of claws on the wooden boards signaled her approach. Followed by audible sniffing from a snout then the lapping of a tongue on his shin gave the final notice of Daisy’s arrival. He sunk down to put a hand on each of her front shoulders and scratch idly while cooing at her. The two gave their happy greetings and exchange of pleasantries before she flopped onto her back belly up.

“Heya girl, you been good for Beatrice?” Wilkes asked her rhetorically “Whosa good girl? Whosa good girl?”

Daisy’s tongue lolled out as she barked happily in response. Clearly her best attempt at affirming that she was the good girl. The sailor pat her belly happily before checking on her food and water bowls. Seeing both were sufficiently full he nodded with a slight smile. He wouldn’t bother lighting a candle to poke around about anything else, it could wait until morning. As of right now he needed to strip down and plop onto his bed. Playfully nudging the ever loyal hound out of the way, Wilkes moseyed into his bedroom. There were faint protests from daisy before the trailing sound of claws and a soft canid sigh. He didn’t want her laying on his bed with him all banged up. One wrong step from her could agitate his aching nose or any number of the bruises spread across his body. He had promised not to so recklessly endanger himself, but here he stood having gone and endangered himself recklessly.

Clearing his mind he began to strip down for the night. First his shirt, then boots, followed pants and underwear in one fell swoop. Bare as the day he was born he crawled under the covers upon his mattress. The plush softness and familiar warmth enveloped him in pure comfort. The faint smell of lavender still clung to the right side where Beatrice preferred to curl up against him. He inhaled the intoxicatingly sweet scent of his lover and felt the last bit of him that held any tension finally unclench. Like letting go of a rope that burned your hands for clinging to it too long he collapsed into relaxation. For no reason he could place he began to tremble there, sprawled out on his bed.

He had met his father. Even in just passing. Even if just seeing the back of him. After nineteen nearly twenty years he had finally caught a glimpse of him. The first thing his father did was scold him. The second was to kick him out of whatever dream world let them speak. There was a word for someone that would do that kind of thing. It was usually reserved to describe someone of his station in life. Whoever his father is, he's a proper bastard. Could be faulted for the behavior, but couldn’t be blamed really. Surely being a god was more important than being a half decent father. The thoughts swirling in his mind continued to nip at him as he fought to lay his head to rest. The pillow was both too firm and too soft. Far too much of the wrong temperature regardless of how often it was flipped. There was no winning his situation as it stood, it became entirely untenable.

Eyes squinted shut with all the concentration he could muster, he forced the fleeting images of the field, his father, and the echo of his mother out from his mind. Instead he focused on lighter thoughts, airy subjects like fighting forms and dancing styles. That too ultimately proved more interesting than falling asleep. His eyes crept open and he swung himself from his bed, pulling his underwear back on for an attempt at decency before leaving his room. Shuffling steps led him to the small shelf in the main room he had occupied with the books. The book on elven movements piqued his interest first, so he decided to read it by candle light.

Its leather cover was a richer green than he remembered. Nearly as deep as oak leaves in the summer, with faint veins like that of the leaves themselves etched into it. It was tasteful and probably came from an old elvish tradition that was lost on him. Flipping through the foreword and general warnings about martial arts being a tool for only after failed negotiation, he began to study it properly. The pages were soft and had that old book smell, reading may be a hobby of his when he gets to be an old man by the sea. Well, if is probably more fitting all things considered but must even his whimsical thoughts be lined by the idea of mortality?

Chuckling to himself at his own internal debate he studied the depictions of the stances again. Limbs were to be loose but ready. Extended, but not fully outstretched. A distance that could snap between defending your own body and striking someone else’s. Weary as he was, he stood and copied the stance. Arms outstretched until his hands hovered level to his waist. Palms pointed in the same direction as his face. Feet shoulder width apart. He felt a bit silly striking what looked like something between a performance and martial pose. However elves were known for their grace, perhaps looking somewhere in that range was beneficial to them. He did note that rather than his beggar or boxing stance he could swing his limbs much more freely. The leaping and flowing maneuvers were likely to be far easier than if he tried to be rooted and boxy like what he was familiar with. He read through the visual aides for a few of the strikes he was meant to perform from it. Holding the book in one hand as he continued to strike the pose with the rest of his body. It seemed the simplest of attacks required the swinging of three out of four limbs even without leaving the ground.

For a standard kick, he was supposed to swing both arms to allow his torso to rotate so he could throw either his left or right leg clean to where head had been. A similar motion to the cartwheel kick Beatrice had struck him with. Further pages contained advanced forms of the kick that caused the fighter to leap through the air or find hand and foot holds on their opponent to deliver new kicks while airborne. That in particular interested him. Not practically but conceptually. He could use his opponent as a platform if he learned enough. If these kicks were designed to stun and force enemies to stagger, what would happen if they were suddenly hit by a gust of wind? Were there elven fighters that had discovered similar magic and already implemented that? Though something tickled in the back of his mind at the idea. He could use his already practiced style of striking and he could already cast a wind spell. He then hobbled out into the late night air.

The wind was cool against his skin. His eyes shone with a mix of glee and resolve as he stumbled along the edges of the dunes. There was an older palm tree not too far from his house. It was probably more than sturdy enough for him to try this out. The warm grit of sand beneath his feet that he had forgotten to put back into his boots he embraced the sensation. The tree loomed in the distance, 40 feet at its peak, he smiled up at it.

“Guess you’re the first sparring partner I try this on, try not to hold back against me!” He joked while speaking to the tree. A few punches landed against the thick bark of the palm, small splinters flying into the surrounding sand. Once he got a rhythm and could feel exactly where his shoulders were at in terms of punching, he decided to pick up the pace. Swinging harder, mentally driving his fist clean through the trunk. When no coconuts fell to shatter his skull he decided it was time to put his crazy idea to the test.

Slowly he wound the punch back, deep breathes from the stomach let his lungs push air through the rest of his body for a moment. His eyes closed gently, he imagined how it felt to cast without an incantation. How it felt to use strong gust so continually that his arms nearly hung limp at his side. To pour blood from his body to keep casting. If he treated the magic like a muscle, he could snap it in effectively with his punches. It wasn’t all that different from learning to put his shoulders, hips, and legs into punching for the first time. He just now had magic to add into the series of motions that needed to occur. But he also wanted the wind to fire after the blow connected. An attempt swing was thrown, but all he did was bust up the bark of the tree further. No wind rippled at his command. He tried to picture the magic clearly in his mind.

Another deep breath sucked air into his lungs in a way forming the wind that belonged to him and him alone. It traveled down his throat, to his lungs, then exploded outwards through his body. Imbibing him with what he needed. Picturing the wind swirling within his soul he finally found it. The Body of this spell. With a sharp exhale, his arm launched through the air. His fist connected with the bark. He felt the trunk shake and heard the leaves high above him rustle. Then wind rushed past him roaring in his ears for one brief moment before screaming past his body. An explosive force that rattled the tree further as the wind seemed to force it to bow before it could return to standing properly. As he opened his eyes he watched a few palm leaves begin to fall from the treetop they had previously been attached to.

“Huh, strong enough gust to shake leaves from a treetop. Neat.” Another idea tickled at his brain. If he could do it with a punch, could he do it with a kick? Glancing at the ground the question evolved. What’s the difference between a kick and a step? He gave a few gentle slaps to his own face before taking the elven fighting stance. He practiced the basics first.

The whirling elven kick proved difficult in his current condition, but the sand gave a soft enough landing that he didn’t feel particularly brutalized by his body crashing to the ground repeatedly. He even found himself laughing again as he would clamber up from the sand. Joking to himself as if the palm tree had put him there. He had found his whimsy again, and wouldn’t dare to let it slip away all too easily. Another kick, this time he properly connected his heel with the bark. A shower of splinters launched everywhere, and the sailor stopped to be sure there weren’t any lodged into his poor foot. Upon finding none he resumed his midnight mischief.

He took another moment to meditate as he had before. Imagining the wind swirling through his body down to his feet. Another kick snapped off and the wind answered him. The tree was once again forced to bow under the force of the wind following the strike. However he was also forced in the opposite direction when it swung back to its usual stature. Dodging the trunk’s attempt to lash at him once it straightened itself out. He gave a thoughtful nod.

“I can kick and punch with the wind. Long winded wind up. That’s what I’ll call it if I ever had to teach it.” He spoke to the open night air as a small group of insects began to depart the upper reaches of the tree. Their flight paths were rapid and bobbing, almost like tiny ships on an unseen ocean. Maybe one day he could fly too, assuming that’s feasible. He hadn’t managed to push himself with a strong gust unless he had something to catch the wind yet. He could try wearing some very flowing robes similar to his old toga. That’d be incredibly impractical to request though, and likely give old redbeard a thorough headache. He hummed in deep thought to himself. He would need to show his discovery to Beatrice. She was the one who originally gave him the idea to fight with his wind magic. Now he had at least a vague grasp on the application. The idea of launching her upward with it and then catching her princess style had its own allure. He grinned widely at the idea while practically skipping back to his shack to finally go to bed.

Unbeknownst to him, Dortas finally clambered down from the coconut tree with the worst case of dizziness that he had in his life. Never again would the gnome dare to sneak coconuts for a refreshing drink and then leave the empty shells near his mentor’s house again. The revenge was far too great to be worth the sweet treat. The poor lad stumbled home as if he were drunk at sea.