The group had searched high and low across the island, using a small mountain at its center as a beacon to go by. The ship reached the island from the southwest, and the mountain was northeast at the time. It was easy enough to keep in mind, though Malcador was not paying too much attention. Some of the color was returning to his cheeks, but he was definitely not one hundred percent yet. He leaned on his obsidian staff to keep the sorcerer upright, and as the others paved the way with chopping cutlasses and machetes, Malcador began to feel a tingling in his mystical senses. 

There was a good reason why most staves and mystical items were, or were adorned with precious stones rather than sticks or couches or any inexpensive or random item. There was something about jewels that could more easily hold a weave of magic, allowing mages to utilize them as conduits of power. Even merely existing, precious stones could potentially collect magic in a residual fashion which could be seen by a very talented and sensitive wielding of the aether. 

"In the mountain," Malcador said breathlessly, clutching his staff like the wizened mentor who had taught him. He wondered how long the trek would last, and idly he took another sip of his waterskin. When he pulled it from his lips, the group had begun to move again. The sun beat down hot, and the bugs, though they had barely nipped Malcador, were large and cruel. He waved them away as best he could and continued on into the ferns and tropical trees as they traversed around the rocky outcroppings until they found a small pool. 

A pool with an opening under the water. 

"Oi, spellcaster!" Captain Bodaventure called, and Malcador was ushered to the front of the group. The sorcerer blinked and tried to stand tall. He blanched when the Captain ordered him to die. 

"With respect sir, why me?" 

"Because you got that water breathing spell, don'tcha?" Haldemar asked rhetorically. 

Malcador was about to say he could cast that on anyone, but it became clear to him that the Captain only trusted the spell if Malcador did it to himself. With a sigh, he began to chant.