a merry life
Wren awoke to knocking, more knocking, and the smell of fresh tea being brewed in her room… somewhere. In her haze of sleep, Wren waited to smell burning but - nothing. Equal measures relieving and disappointing. Her senses awakening to the ever-soothing scent of smoke and yerba, Wren finally sat up, slow and languorous as she pleased, stretching -
“Wren! Wren Gaelfrost, are you up?”
- Followed by the sound of a somewhat irritated First Mate Anya calling out for her from the door. Wren tried to think of what could be the matter. Was it the work bench? Couldn’t be, because Wren had made sure to clean it up - somewhat. The kitchen? Wren hadn’t gotten around to tinkering with that yet. The newest handgun she’d lent Captain Anya? Probably not, because she’d seen it strapped to the Captain’s hip, and it hadn’t blown up yet. So that would leave…
Hm. Unless she accidentally left…
Well, it wouldn’t knock anything over. Maybe set fire to a coat tail or two, but honestly, it would serve to liven up the atmosphere. Throw in some excitement, because she was going to have to do some stuffy, stuffy old chores…
“Wren, I can here you rustling in there!”
“I’m up! I’m up! I’m -” Wren barely managed to stop herself toppling out of bed - “Coming! One moment -”
She managed to wrestle the door open, and was confronted with a semi-cross looking Anya - whose apparent cross-ness melted into exasperation when she saw Wren still wrapped in an oversized shirt, a torn pair of leggings, and one wrong slipper on her right foot. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Wren grinned up at her, then winced - she forgot she’d bitten the inside of her mouth the other day, and it was still healing.
“Did you need something?”
Anya paused, then her next words were - no. Words were an inaccurate descriptor. Anya sighed. A long, tired one that Wren long learnt to associate with exasperation.
“Captain Rhea is arranging for cargo to be moved onto our ship, but I need you to take care of something for me first.”
Another pause. Wren counted the seconds between the wait, and then realised she’d missed about two seconds between the twenty-third second and the twenty-fourth. So how many seconds did that mean Anya was quiet for? Thirty? Or thirty two? If she counted the silence as beginning from the end of Anya’s sigh, or beginning just as Anya’s sigh was dying down, then the discrepancy there would -
“- Ship’s hull - ”
But then silence was the absence of sound, and if Anya’s sigh was dying down then strictly speaking there would be the presence of sound. So then that wouldn’t be silence, and therefore Wren’s count of the silence wasn’t -
“Wren? Wren, are you even listening?”
“No, I’m not.”
The First Mate groaned.
“Of course not. You’re late for your work, and I find you still in bed.”
“It won’t kill anyone, Does something need fixing?”
That was interesting. Fixing things and making things were always interesting. Stimulating, interesting, and always, always something new to be found, to be experimented on.
“Yes.”
“Did one of them break?”
“It’s not - breaking.”
Anya’s voice was even, calm, but underneath that, Wren thought she heard a tiny strain in her voice.
“Repainting. We need you to help out with repainting after our last scrape out at sea.”
Wren could do that. She didn’t even need herself, if she could dig out the -
“Personally. I need you to do it personally.”
She knew what those words meant. Along with that tone.
“What’s the fun in that? You could have me working at the workshop while -”
“No.”
“But Anya -”
“No. Absolutely not. Unless you want me to make you re-paint the lettering, you’ll do it yourself.”
“… But the letters were neat, they weren’t curvy like last time…”
“Each of them were also a different colour for every different stroke. You will do this properly, or so help me.”
Woe. Woe was poor Wren, her artistic creativity completely, thoroughly unappreciated. That, and she hadn’t had a chance to let her pretty pretty little automaton to play properly. Where else was she meant to set her friend loose - ahem, ask her little friend to help? She’d even built a little carabiner setup so it could grapple anywhere on the ship, rappel down, and help paint whatever needed to be painted. How? A lot of wheedling, building, and asking a mage to help her with some of the trickier enchantments.
“… I don’t have to do it by today, do I?”
Anya frowned at her, and Wren held her gaze with a pout and slightly crossed arms. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that she was still dressed in an oversized shirt, and the fact she was wearing one slipper and the other slipper had gone missing.
Eventually, the First Mate acquiesced.
“… Get it done by the end of the week. Don’t forget to clean up your workshop, we’ll be setting sail after the Captain finishes her work.”
Wren perked up, eyes gleaming.
“Okay! I love you Anya!”
The First Mate showed no indication of hearing her. Instead, he was muttering something under her breath, massaging her brow with one hand walking away. Wren watched her go a mite longer, then turned back to her room, shutting her door.
In the cold light of day, and away from the warm, loving embrace of her bed, Wren took stock of her cabin room. The ship was silent, indicating either no one else had awoken and that Anya had decided to torment her, or that everyone else was off the ship - in which case, was a sign Anya liked her more than anyone else right now. Her little homebrew tea-clock had finished brewing up a hot cup of yerba tea, steaming on her bedside table. However, the cabin room’s silence was - unnatural. Strange, even. Bereft of the familiar clicking, whirring, and the squeak of metal against leather. Wren cast her eyes around the room, and found the nearby perch empty - and the porthole window open.
Oh, good lord. Well, less about going missing and more about where it’d flown off to, and what it was going to bring home. She’d deal with it when her wayward friend showed up at her doorstep. If she was lucky, her friend would bring her an extra tool… or more often than not, a rather judgmental look at her for whatever misfortune had befallen the ship. Or her toolbox. More often than not, her toolbox.
It was a matter of time to get ready in her (tiny) cabin and wash up at her (even tinier) wash stand. The galley and the mess hall was the natural next stop, and when Wren emerged, it was practically empty. She settled for a quick bite of cereal bar, tea, and then swung off to back to the back of the ship, where the painting supplies were kept - along with the necessary safety implements. No automatons for her today, if only because Wren had no clue how much she needed to paint - and what for.
Yes, they were meant to be doing shore leave. Yes they were meant to be meandering from the boat to the shore - but Wren was loathe to abandon her little workshop, much less her cabin. That, and if she needed supplies, she could always swing off the boat if necessary. That was, if she wanted to - because while she could turn a blind ear to silly human extremists yelling at deviants, it was distracting and annoying, and Wren wanted very much to stay in her own world. And if they didn’t listen to that, she’d just visit annoyance on them by hurling a bottle or two. Maybe three. She let herself imagine them covered in multi-coloured paint, and smiled in contentment.
Hooking herself onto the side of the railings, she waved to what she assumed to be one of her fellow crewmates. This one was a handsome one - sort of. Long black hair, but he had a stupid beard and a goatee and Wren thought he’d look a lot better if he’d shaved. Or at least gotten rid of the moustache. Instead of waiting for a response, however, she swung over the railing, rappelling down, letting her heart free-fall for a moment before her descent was halted by a particularly loud schink of metal against wood.
“Wren, be careful and don’t goof off!”
Wren looked down, and saw one First Mate Anya staring up at her, hands on hips. She waved merrily.
“I won’t break my leg! Promise!”
Another shake of the First Mate’s head, and the woman disappeared, trailing after another woman with blue face paint and light-green dreads, copper rings embedded amongst the ponytail. Their Captain Anya, who seemed to be smiling - or at least, from what Wren could see, she rather hoped she was smiling. Even further in the distance, she could make out sailors from a nearby human ship gesticulating at her, so Wren flipped them the bird and turned her back to them, humming as she pulled out the paint can and the brush.
If there was anything to be said about actually painting, it meant all Wren needed to do was to fill in the spaces between the faded, chipped off, magically seared off outlines. That left plenty of time for Wren to think about more exciting, interesting things: how to adjust the firing rate on the pistol to be a smidge faster, and not jam when someone decided to put confetti into the barrel; how to tune her friend’s wing so it would be more adaptable, smoother in flight; how to oil up the rigging so that it wouldn’t collapse at the slightest touch of someone inexperienced hopping on. Good, sensible things. Interesting things, given what she was put in charge of repairing.
Around her, the port of Goa murmured, people bustling beneath her as Wren painted away, humming an absent-minded tune. Commands being shouted and called. The scrape of wood and metal, wheels whirling away. Sometimes the clang of tools working away, and then shouted swear as someone inevitably mistook their thumb for a nail. It certainly hammered in the dangers of shipwrighting and repairs.
A movement caught her attention from the corner of her eye. From her vantage point, Wren swung around, still hanging from her rappel line. They were back again: the strangers wandering around the port. Someone had said they were human - but whether they were human human or human Deviant, no one could tell. What she did know, however, was that they didn’t seem to carry themselves like regulars. Always wandering off to the wrong corner, always keeping to themselves, doing nothing much except - loiter. That, and she’d never seen them get onto a ship either, whether they be paranormal or human. Strange folk.
She paid it no heed - not much, anyway, and she wanted to get this painting job as soon as possible done so she could get back into her workshop and work. Well, work on a few other projects she lined up for herself, at least. And if she could get back into her workshop without being discovered, at any rate.
As it turned out, it was too soon to hope: Wren was unceremoniously required to take shore leave in order for repairs and wards to be re-woven around the cabins, and that included hers. Something about making sure there was enough leeway to fit as many cabins inside the ship as outside, at any rate. That was the first sign of things to come.
That being said, her mood was lifted on the first night of her shore leave, when the beating of wings awoke her. She rushed over, opened the door, and in flitted a little mechanical bird - not a parrot. No, this was Wren’s pride and joy: her friend dreamt up one night when she felt particularly bored stuck at home. Leryda, a mechanical kestrel, upgraded, improved over the years - and with a little magic she’d wheedled out of a visiting mage, sentient. Sentient, protective, and -
Yeah, the look she was getting from the bird was one that was completely, utterly unamused.
“I had to evacuate my cabin,” she said by way of explanation, shoving her arm into one of her work gloves. The kestrel alighted, its filigreed metal feathers glinting in the light, still staring at her. “Also you flew off! You know I can’t communicate with you when you escape your room.”
More staring, and Wren sighed, gently petting its leather-and-metal head.
“Aw, don’t sulk Lery, you know I love you.”
Another pause, and the mechanical kestrel butted its head against hers, before flapping off to perch - uncomfortably - on the side of the table. Its claws dug into the wood, leaving deep gouges. Wren sighed, and hauled over a nearby coat rack with a few horizontal pegs.
“We’ll get back onto the ship start of next week,” Wren said finally, plopping herself down into one of the armchairs. “We’ll go hunt for ship parts, shall we?”
As luck would have it, Wren wouldn’t have her wish.
The next time Wren awoke, she awoke to knocking - no, not knocking. Pounding. Pounding, and the smell of burning. Not tea, but wood, and the roar of a crowd swelling around her. If there was any hesitation as to whether something was off, it was quickly dispelled by the flapping of mechanical, leather wings in her face.
“Lery, stop stop stop, what is -”
“Gaelfrost!”
Anya was using her last name. That was serious.
She threw open her door, only to see the First Mate looking like her non-existent feathers had been ruffled. Very ruffled. Wren blinked at her.
“Did something explode?”
“Yes, get dressed, and get out, something’s happening in the port -”
Something happening was an understatement. When Wren got out with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder and Leryda on her arm, the port was burning. Red flames licked the buildings, smoke twisting in the air. In the distance, there were the sounds of explosions going off - and screaming. Mesmerising, almost, and Wren wondered what could have made such a mess -
“Wren, stop gawking, you need to get onto the ship before they catch you -”
“Who?” Wren asked, turning to Anya. The woman only pushed her along.
“Go, I don’t have time to entertain you right now - the captain’s waiting, and we need to pull out of port as soon as possible.”
“Port? But Anya, are you even sure -”
We were on the right ship went mostly silent, because Wren was ushered to the gangplank where a few other crew members were waiting. She watched as Anya rushed off again, but she didn’t stand around to wait. She bolted as quickly as she made it back to her own cabin, the noise and the roar dying down as she sat there, cocooned in her own cabin. It was untouched, just as she’d left it - just as she liked.
The bell on the ship tolled, and Wren poked her head out of the porthole to see the chaos. And in that glimpse, as the ship began to pull away from dock, she saw a figure land on the platform, blue flames swirling around her, swallowing her. Oh. Anya.
