The Minstrel

A Gift from the Sea

 It took many minutes of focus for the figure to take on any distinct characteristics, though it didn't help that Killian was much more intent on identifying what source there could be for the constant noise that now filled his ears. That, he surmised, was much more likely to be a real product of his environment, as opposed to whatever hallucination his frayed mind had conjured up. Slowing his ragged breaths, he focused on the steady tinkling noise until it took on a sharpened quality. No, not tinkling, he realized ... trickling. That was a much more accurate description, and if something was trickling, it was most likely to be -

He grunted with the effort it took to turn his head, digging a jagged trench in the ground with his chin as he craned his neck to the right. The movement caught his attention before his mind could ascertain what it was, or more importantly, what it meant. Less than ten meters before him, a rock wall stood sentry. A steady stream cascaded from its peak - hardly of a height taller than the average man - into the depths below. And if the water was plummeting into such depths, that meant that there was enough of it that it formed ...

Killian's body moved faster than his mind, as he expended the last dredgings of energy his battered body could conjure to drag himself forward inch by merciless inch. Every movement sent a shockwave of agony through his strained muscles that could only be ignored by the knowledge of the prize that was within reach. Killian knew he had triumphed when, with a final heave, he dug his knuckles into the moistened soil - now transformed into a gritty sand - and hauled his body forward enough so that he could see the faintest glow of his reflection cast by the moonlit noct in the waters below. Greedily he thrust his cupped hands into the clear pool; ignoring the murky cloud the grime of his own filth created, he didn't even pause to allow it to clear before scooping the cool life-saving liquid to his parched lips. A laugh that wouldn't be called entirely sane escaped the bard's throat in between hurried gulps.

He didn't slow until the burning in his throat had mostly subsided, and his muddled mind at last began to clear, albeit only by a trivial margin.

"You should at least wash the dirt from your hands before drinking."

Her voice came as a soft melody; a sharp contrast from the grating tones of the other specters. Nonetheless, it would do him no good to heed the critiques of a phantom. Killian took one final, long draught from the pool before painfully raising himself to his knees. He tested each of his joints slowly, wincing at the instant pain that ran through his arm as he flexed the fingers on his right hand. Something was definitely broken, he could tell from the feeling of the bones within grinding against one another, along with the beginning traces of a throbbing purple swell.

Using his left arm, he pushed up from his knees to his feet. Gratefully, he found it not too unbearable to stand. Slowly but surely, he limped his way over to where Thorian now lay, wobbling every few careful steps with the sudden dizziness that overtook him.

"Best be careful, you've hit your head hard in the fall."

"Watch all that, did you?" Killian muttered in irritation, keeping his focus on Thorian. He was unsure why he was even entertaining the vision.

"No. I only arrived a short time ago."

"Then how would you know?" Killian snapped, dropping to his knees before his fallen nephew.

"Because you've blood on your temple."

Killian raised three careful fingers from his good hand to the left side of his head. He blinked in surprise when what he pulled away with wasn't the stain of mud, but a dark and sticky crimson. As if on cue, the throb in his head became noticeable once more.

"That would explain what bore you from the aether, then." Killian retorted.

"I am not quite sure I understand you." Spoke the voice, though the bard did his utmost to ignore it.