Episode 20 – Across the Briny Sea

A Night in Hom-En-Optre

The harbor winds of Hom-En-Optre carried the sharp tang of salt and spice, mingling with the sizzle of cooking fires and the chorus of laughter, arguments, and merchants crying their wares. Beneath lantern-lit arches of polished sandstone, the party found lodging in the Crescent Lyre, a tavern nestled into a tiered alley descending toward the docks. Its sign was shaped like a harp cast in brass, half-melted and humming gently from a minor enchantment.

Within, the air was warm and rich with the scents of cumin, lemon, and roasting meat. Patrons lounged on cushions and low benches, dipping flatbreads into clay bowls and sipping sweet hibiscus wine.

Their dinner was a decadent spread. Bowls of ful medames, mashed fava beans simmered with garlic and oil, arrived first alongside warm rounds of aish baladi bread. Next came lamb slow-roasted in honey and dates, the meat falling apart beneath a thin glaze of spiced sweetness. Alongside it, saffron rice shimmered golden, dotted with pine nuts and sultanas. Pickled lemons and olives arrived in small ceramic dishes, and a salad of purslane, cucumber, and tomato dressed in pomegranate molasses brought a cool bite to balance the heavier fare. Dessert was basbousa soaked in rose syrup, and small clay cups of thick black coffee closed the meal.

Faylen lingered longest at the table, absently spearing olives as the others yawned or stretched. Marcho tucked his brooch under his tunic and headed to their chamber with a murmur about checking the locks. Makhulim grunted, satisfied, and muttered about sharpening This and That. Nayzungit offered a quiet prayer to Angradd before retiring.

The rooms were simple but clean—cool tile floors, thick rugs, and shuttered windows that creaked faintly in the wind. The sea’s distant hush was the last sound before sleep took them.

The Holy Stranger

A rustle.

Then a footstep.

Faylen’s eyes opened first—used to watching shadows. Marcho was already half-awake, reaching instinctively for Courage beneath his pillow. Makhulim was snoring but ceased as Nayzungit sat bolt upright.

“Who walks in shadow unbidden?” growled the cleric, his darksight eyes peering into the shadows.

A figure knelt in the middle of the room, head bowed, palms open.

“I mean no harm,” the man said in a voice like wind through reeds. “My name is Theyr-Rha. A servant of the spirit flame. Visions led me here.”

He was old but lean, wrapped in layered linen robes stained with travel and time. His eyes glowed faintly gold, not with magic, but purpose. His hands bore ritual scars, and a pendant hung from his neck—an icon of the Dawn-Keeper, a regional name for the sun-god.

“I saw the city of Kethys in smoke. The jungle devouring. Serpent eyes in the dark. I saw the Briny Sea cracking. And four lights in the dust. You must come.”

Marcho narrowed his eyes. “You broke into our room.”

“Would you have heard me through the wall?” Theyr-Rha countered.

Faylen asked, “And you think we’re the lights?”

“I do not think. I saw.”

They debated briefly, but the man’s sincerity—his trembling urgency—left little room for suspicion. Theyy-Rha refused food, taking only water and prayer. They agreed to leave with him at first light.

Brine Skimming

Morning in Hom-En-Optre came bright and brisk, with the wind shifting westward off the Briny Sea. Their meal was sparse—dried figs, oil-dipped bread, and black coffee taken in silence. Theyr-Rha led them down switchback steps through the harbor cliffs to a secured dock, where a strange vessel waited.

The brine skiff was long and narrow, its hull of resin-pressed reeds and alchemical glass. Instead of sails, it had copper tubes and rotating fins along its sides. The deck was smooth, marked with runes and pressure plates.

Marcho’s jaw dropped. “That’s not a boat. That’s an experiment.”

“It skims,” Theyr-Rha said simply. “The waters of the Briny are more salt than sea. Solid enough to skate. We must make haste.”

As they stepped aboard, the crew—silent robed navigators with glowing tattoos—took positions. With a deep rumble and a sudden lurch, the skiff shot forward, the hull skipping across the surface like a stone.

The Briny Sea stretched in silver-blue veins beneath them, crusted and cracked, steaming faintly in places. The clouds above were high and thin, casting ghost-like shadows that danced with the rolling mist. The wind roared.

By midday, strange things were passing around them.

The Shipwreck

A craft, split cleanly in half, its sails torn and fluttering in windless air. Barnacle-covered statues of unknown origin half-embedded in salt floes. A flock of skyfish—levitating eels with gliding fins—surged past, pursued by a shrieking bird with two heads.

Faylen stared, wide-eyed. “Is this… magic?”

Theyr-Rha nodded. “The Briny is older than magic. It remembers the world when it bled light and sand.”

Makhulim held both axes ready, watching the horizon. “Don’t like this place.”

Nayzungit knelt in the bow, whispering prayers.

At one point, a great salt fin breached beside the skiff—easily the length of the vessel. It rose silently, glittered, and sank again without a sound.

Time became strange. The sun seemed to stand still. The horizon never neared.

The Far Shore

At last, the skiff shuddered and slowed. The southern edge of the Briny Sea was a jagged salt delta, broken by veins of crimson clay and brackish pools. A narrow dock rose above the chalk-white crust, and a small caravan of black-plumed camels waited there, draped in crimson cloth.

They disembarked in silence. The skiff vanished into a mist bank the moment their feet touched the cracked earth.

The caravan leader, a dark-skinned woman in scale armor, saluted Theyr-Rha and led them across the short crossing. A river, sluggish and iron-scented, twisted through the pale sand and was forded by barge.

Beyond, the town of Kethys came into view—low stone buildings nestled against a cliff face, half-ringed by walls and watchtowers. Palm fronds stirred in the breeze, but the banners above the gate were torn.

Inside, the air was tense. People moved with urgency. Doors were barred. Temples bore sigils of protection.

Theyr-Rha led them swiftly through alleys and back lanes to a small chapel of pale sandstone. The interior was cool and shadowed, the ceiling painted with constellations in gold leaf. It smelled of incense and crushed petals.

He lit a censer, motioned for them to sit, and began.

The Jungle’s Edge

“There is a place west of here—the Mystic Jungle. It should not have grown so near. The green has crept unnaturally. The serpentfolk raid under the new moon. They take children. And worse, there are other things. Fey, but not. Crooked, twisted, like reflections in broken glass.”

Faylen tensed. “Fey… creatures?”

He nodded. “They wear the skins of deer. Speak in birdsong. They tempt with illusions. We lost three scouting parties. Only one man returned, his eyes burned out, laughing.”

Marcho glanced at Makhulim. “Lovely place.”

“Why us?” Nayzungit asked.

“Because you are not from here. You are not tangled in this place’s history. And yet, the spirits—those that still whisper—named your coming. You shine like fireflies to them.”

The group exchanged uneasy looks. Exhaustion was sinking in.

“Sleep here,” Theyr-Rha said. “The warded walls will keep the dark from whispering.”

Nightfall in Kethys

The chapel was lit by a few oil lamps, their light flickering over old tapestries and carved stone. The party took their rest in a side chamber—bedrolls on woven mats, the scent of cedar and dried herbs lingering.

Makhulim sat cross-legged, axes beside him.

Marcho leaned back against a pillar, staring up at the stars etched in gold.

Faylen dozed near the entrance, her hand curled around Charm, eyes fluttering.

Nayzungit prayed in whispers until he too drifted off.

Beyond the walls, the wind rustled leaves that shouldn’t have been there.

Something in the jungle was watching.

And waiting.