Page 8 of Vasmora

As the mage stared off, another scream echoed through his mind, and he glanced away. “I don’t.”

A hefty figure stumbled down the staircase, holding a corked bottle of what must’ve been grog, as was the common drink amongst the crewmen. His wildly unsteady gait suggested he’d gotten into it long ago. That, or gotten his hands on a potent concoction. “Buncha pathetic ratkissers! Stinks like a shit can in here.” He belched and stumbled to the side, knocking into the capstan. The first mate, Dolion presumed, given the whistle dangling from a chain around his neck.

Torryn tensed beside Dolion, his grip tightening around the blade he held.

Smiling, Dolion rested his hand on Torryn’s arm. “Fear not, my friend. We’ve been fortunate to avoid hostility on our trek, but make no mistake, we are well protected.”

The first mate scanned over the gundeck and seemed to set his eyes on Allura. “We’ve got women! Good and proper ladies, not the scurvy rats down in steerage.” As the man stumbled closer, Torryn shifted, flipping the blade around in his hand with such subtlety, Dolion almost didn’t notice.

“Let us establish our boundaries, shall we?” Dolion whispered to him, feeling the hum of the stones intensify against his chest as the man drew closer.

“How would you ladies like to join me in my quarters? Lot nicer than sleeping amongst cattle,” the drunk said, stumbling a step to the side. He offered a rotted-toothed grin toward Torryn.

Rykaia smiled and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “And just how do you imagine you and your small cock intend to satisfy two women at once, hmmm?” She tipped her head, expression turning to pity as she held up a bent pinky. “I hear too much grog makes a man … soft.”

The man’s lips pulled to a snarl. “Only a whore would speak that way to a man.”

Torryn jerked forward, and again, Dolion gripped his arm. “Perhaps you might keep on, good sir,” the mage said, as cordially as he could muster. “We’re weary and looking to rest for the long journey ahead.”

The first mate broke into a laugh, the crew men behind him laughing along with him. “A rest? Don’t you know what happens on these long journey’s, good man?” His bushy brows raised. “Folks get scurvy. Gotta be tossed overboard to keep from spreading. You’re looking a little piqued, if you ask me.”

“All the more reason to keep your distance,” Dolion said with amusement.

“You fucking Elvynirans. Think you’re so smart. Nothin’ but a bunch of pointy-eared cunts who belong back in the ice mines.”

Dolion ground his teeth at the same time Allura gasped. Few things were more insulting than referencing the early days, when Elvynirans were captured by Solassion imperialists and forced into the ice mines. Known as the Dyuvastum, or long waste, as it was referred in Elvynese, thousands had perished to starvation and unspeakable torture.

Torryn sat forward, his blade subtly tucked in the sleeve of his cloak. “Say another word, and you’ll find yourself tied up, mouth to ass, with your grog corked by your tiny cock.”

The stranger swayed on his feet and grabbed his crotch. “Mention my cock one more time, and you’ll watch as my men each have a turn with your women.”

“Awww. Gotta let the others do what your tiny cock can’t, ‘s’at it?” Gods be damned, Rykaia kept on with her taunting.

“Whore!” the stranger snarled, splashing her with his grog.

Torryn tossed his bucket of vomit, the bits of slimy food chunks sliding down the man’s face.

Laughter shook out of Rykaia, and as the first mate flicked the puke from his hands, Dolion couldn’t help but chuckle himself.

“You rotted pig’s ass! Grab your weapons, men!” the first mate commanded, and the crewmen behind him jumped to their feet, gathering at his back.

A blade cut through the air toward Torryn.

And bounced off the invisible protective boundary given off by the stones.

Torryn snapped up the blade from his cloak and chucked it at the man who’d swung, nailing him in the shoulder. The crewman let out a yelp of pain and gripped the blade’s hilt with trembling hands. While the boundary was designed to deflect threats to anyone contained within it, it certainly didn’t spare anyone on the outside.

Fast as a snake’s strike, Torryn threw off his glove and reached out beyond the barrier, gripping the man’s ankle. The crewman tumbled to the floor with an outcry, his face growing pale and thin, as the much bigger man sapped the vivicantem from his opponent. While the assassin had no formal glyph powers, his abilities certainly weren’t lacking. All he had to do was touch another mancer to weaken them.

The first mate lurched toward Torryn, but tumbled to the floor as a flash of light flickered like lightning bolts over the shape of a dome around the four of them. A gut-wrenching cry of pain echoed through the gundeck, quieting the ruckus of the others flocked around their fallen crewmate. When the first mate pushed to his feet, Allura gasped again, and Rykaia kicked back.

“Godsblood,” Rykaia said, lips twisted to a grimace.

The skin on half of his face had completely dissolved away, revealing glistening flesh and bone, his teeth barely clinging to their exposed gums. His eyeball had slipped from its socket, hanging by one small thread of nerves. He raised his shaky hands, turning them over to show exposed flesh and bone, then touched his dangling eyeball. “‘At is … sis?” he mumbled, absent of lips and half his tongue.

When he turned around, his men cursed and gasped, backing away. Some of them returned to their spots between gun canons.

Dolion cleared his throat, kicking off a piece of the man’s skin that’d landed on his cloak. “We’ll call it a warning. Now, unless you’d like the other half to match, I recommend you return to your quarters. You’ve got quite a bit to clean before infection sets in.”