Vec
TimemasterDeck. Mess.
At the bottom of the valley in which Innocent's cottage had rested lay a stream which went on to adjoin with the river running through his birthplace, and from it he had always washed and drawn water. Its stones were smooth, browned and muddy and many times through the years he had slipped on them. The familiar memory kept him calm as Sidwell stepped slowly over the spray-damp and uneven tangle of grounded vines looking for a tree to clamber up.
He slipped once as the ship rocked, losing control of his weight without actually falling. An overgrown cylindrical object provided a good strut to balance himself on his windmilling arms, though he couldn't tell what it was, or even what it was made of, for what bronze remained exposed was dark, uneven green with age. Sidwell stepped onto the stairs with gratitude that he had not fallen any further.
The mess had a sense of familiarity to it after his waking room, for here again the light was feeble and the growth was comparatively subdued, for the grate was partially blotted with growth and struggled to illuminate the wide-spun corners of the room. Reminded of his childhood, Sidwell could easily tell the function of the chamber, for though the monastery was more organised with its chests and barrels, the layout of the benches was clearly meant for community, for eating. Sidwell peered into the corners, but his eyes took time to adjust to the dim. If Tamtam was here, she had already gone out of his line of sight.
He took a glance back up the stairs, waiting for the children to come down to safety, wondering if he should go back up and see if they were struggling. He decided to give them a few seconds longer while he observed the room. Some voices waited for him as usual as Sidwell unlidded and peered into the closest barrel, inhaling. The scream and sudden, putrid air of burning oils startled him into tossing the wooden lid and clutching himself, staring around desperately. The voices. The voices of the damned were burning and their demons were screaming. Perhaps the room below him was Hell itself. ...Ubi vermis eorum non moritur et ignis non extinguitur. 'Where the worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched'.
-But I am not in Hell. And the barrel most certainly was not either. Wrapping his arms around the barrel, he threw his shoulder into work and tipped it, almost hurled it across the mess deck. It rolled little but spilled its contents far over the wooden floor, soaking and dripping into the cracks to the room below.
Sidwell stared into the floor with wet feet, struggling to understand what he had tried to do. The worm doesn't die, the fire isn't quenched. What could I do? Slowly his brain tugged the first switch to understanding that the places where souls went were finally corporeal, above abstraction. If he could save himself now, it would not be through abstinence. He looked for another barrel.
At the bottom of the valley in which Innocent's cottage had rested lay a stream which went on to adjoin with the river running through his birthplace, and from it he had always washed and drawn water. Its stones were smooth, browned and muddy and many times through the years he had slipped on them. The familiar memory kept him calm as Sidwell stepped slowly over the spray-damp and uneven tangle of grounded vines looking for a tree to clamber up.
He slipped once as the ship rocked, losing control of his weight without actually falling. An overgrown cylindrical object provided a good strut to balance himself on his windmilling arms, though he couldn't tell what it was, or even what it was made of, for what bronze remained exposed was dark, uneven green with age. Sidwell stepped onto the stairs with gratitude that he had not fallen any further.
The mess had a sense of familiarity to it after his waking room, for here again the light was feeble and the growth was comparatively subdued, for the grate was partially blotted with growth and struggled to illuminate the wide-spun corners of the room. Reminded of his childhood, Sidwell could easily tell the function of the chamber, for though the monastery was more organised with its chests and barrels, the layout of the benches was clearly meant for community, for eating. Sidwell peered into the corners, but his eyes took time to adjust to the dim. If Tamtam was here, she had already gone out of his line of sight.
He took a glance back up the stairs, waiting for the children to come down to safety, wondering if he should go back up and see if they were struggling. He decided to give them a few seconds longer while he observed the room. Some voices waited for him as usual as Sidwell unlidded and peered into the closest barrel, inhaling. The scream and sudden, putrid air of burning oils startled him into tossing the wooden lid and clutching himself, staring around desperately. The voices. The voices of the damned were burning and their demons were screaming. Perhaps the room below him was Hell itself. ...Ubi vermis eorum non moritur et ignis non extinguitur. 'Where the worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched'.
-But I am not in Hell. And the barrel most certainly was not either. Wrapping his arms around the barrel, he threw his shoulder into work and tipped it, almost hurled it across the mess deck. It rolled little but spilled its contents far over the wooden floor, soaking and dripping into the cracks to the room below.
Sidwell stared into the floor with wet feet, struggling to understand what he had tried to do. The worm doesn't die, the fire isn't quenched. What could I do? Slowly his brain tugged the first switch to understanding that the places where souls went were finally corporeal, above abstraction. If he could save himself now, it would not be through abstinence. He looked for another barrel.
