The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

17-2: A Scribe's Tale [continued]

The tender scraped against the sand as they were washed onto the shore. It had been a battle getting there – of will as much as strength – but they were victorious nonetheless. The Scribe would recount the tale in words one day, once the quest was complete.

"Where are we, do you think?" asked The Scribe.

"You didn't write this part already?" queried Tailfin with a smirk.

"I've been a little preoccupied, paddling for my life."

"I remember," said Tailfin, stretching his arms as he gazed along the forested coastline. "Well, we are on the edge of Rordynne Forest. Judging by where the sun is setting, we are on the south coast. And, if my eyes don't deceive me, there is a rather large rocky peninsula over there that looks remarkably like The Hook."

The Scribe strained his eyes and nodded in agreement.

"About a day's walk, do you think?"

Tailfin glanced at the tender pulled up on the shore, then stretched his arms again as he turned back to the sun with a calculating look on his face.

"A day's walk, yes. We can leave the tender here. There is a shipwright near the peninsula that can see us home – for a hefty price, of course. But I could do with some rest if you are happy to wait until tomorrow to start moving?"

The Scribe glanced around nervously, searching deep into the forest for any unfamiliar threats lurking in the darkness.

"Do you know how to start a fire?"

"Do you think that I came to be the most powerful crime lord on Renryre Island without starting a few fires here and there?"

The Scribe shrugged with a chuckle, and watched as Tailfin began collecting tinder and preparing it on the beach above the waterline. With little effort, he struck two stones together and forged a wild spark that dived into the leaves, and a flame burst out of the twigs. He dropped a few larger pieces of driftwood on the fire, and then sat casually beside it, admiring his work.

"You keep that talent well away from my stack of parchment," said The Scribe, as he sat beside the fire.

Silence fell upon them as the sun set and the fire flooded the beach in crimson light. The forest remained impenetrably dark, shadows on the border leaping in time with the spitting flames. The Scribe watched the erratic dance with growing unease, imagining that at any moment, one of the shadows would take a life of its own, bursting from the darkness into their camp.

"Where is the coin?" asked Tailfin.

At Tailfin's interruption, The Scribe broke his gaze, happy for the distraction.

"It's in the Godstone."

"In the Godstone? Inside it?"

"That's right."

"Well, that's great," said Tailfin, shaking his head. "How are we supposed it get it out? Have you seen the Godstone?"

"Not with my own eyes."

"Not with... what does that mean? Who's eyes have you seen it with?"

"My father's," he said. "The stone lies facing not the west nor the east, not the north nor the south. It watches not the sun nor the moons. In stands, a monolith, outside of our reality yet within our sight. It exists beyond our understanding; larger and more perfectly formed than nature should allow; weightless, yet still it burdens the land beneath it. Only by the blood of the true-hearted devotee may it be unforged; its strength is not borne of rock, but of the gods themselves. It is the Godstone."