The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

17-1: A Scribe's Tale

In the beginning, there was a story. It wasn't a great story, admittedly. In fact, it was rather boring. It had characters, a plot, a beginning and an end, but it was poorly told. Then, one day, it was written on quality parchment with expensive ink, using a pen with a tip so fine that the paper almost giggled as the words were delivered.

Suddenly, the story was no longer boring, but full of intrigue, betrayal, romance, adventure. Full of life. A story told true, nothing missed. Aside from everything that was irrelevant, of course. But it wasn't the words themselves that made the tale become interesting. It was The Scribe.

"Did you get all that?" asked Tailfin.

The Scribe looked up from his parchment. Tailfin stood with a quizzical expression, swaying slightly as the ship rocked beneath them.

"Every single word, Tailfin. Precisely as you dictated."

"Excellent."

The Scribe nodded as he considered what he had heard. Tailfin's telling had been long and detailed and yet he still had some way to go to catch up to the present.

"This... love interest you mentioned," he asked. "Nothing ever came of her?"

"No," said Tailfin with a sigh. "I guess it wasn't meant to be."

"Of course. But she... she is important to your story?"

"Yes! Well, sort of. I suppose if I hadn't met her..."

"I understand," said The Scribe, jotting a note in the corner of the parchment. "Shall we continue?"

"Certainly," agreed Tailfin, pouring himself a drink and handing another to The Scribe. "The next part is probably the most important of all. It's probably the single most critical moment in my life, the one that turned me into... me! One of the few things about me that answers more questions than it raises."

The Scribe wriggled in his chair to find the most comfortable position while Tailfin took his own seat, sitting back with his fingers interlinked as he considered his words.

"Well," he said, tilting his head, "here we go. When I was—"

The ship shuddered violently and both Tailfin and The Scribe were thrown from their seats. They heard frantic shouting from outside, sailors panicking, and frenzied footsteps racing across the deck above Tailfin's cabin.

They ran out to search for the source of the disturbance. It was sunny outside; an unbroken blue sky stretched all the way to the horizon. A light breeze drifted across the deck, filling the sails as the ship glided with only a gentle rocking motion on the calm seas. The shore was a fair distance away, and there were no islands or rocks charted any further away than those hugging the coast.

The Scribe tried to make sense of the crew rushing over the decks with a distinct lack of purpose. One of them ran straight to him, grabbed hold of his shoulders, and shouted in terrified panic.

"I don't want to die!"

He stood there for a moment longer, stricken, pure fear in his eyes, then he turned and dived overboard.

The Scribe ran to the edge of the deck and looked over to see the sailor splashing frantically as he tried to swim towards the shore. He would never make it.

"What the bloody hell is he doing?" asked Tailfin beside him.

"It's the Whalebreaker," said The Scribe.

"You mean the current? I know, we have been fighting it for days."

"Not the current, no. The Whalebreaker."