As ships went, this one certainly classified as being a unique sight on the water. It was a Shacean galleon, one that was painted the most hideously garish bright pink that one could comprehend. Its blaring color clashed with the blue of the sea, caused anything within eyesight to be drawn to gawk at it in horrified amazement. As if the pink hull was not enough, the ship's sails looked like a grandmother's quilt, a riot of conflicting colors, patches of different colored cloth sewn together. Even the ship's rigging sparkled in the sun, looking as if the ropes were spun out of gold, shimmering in the sunbeams that managed to pierce between the clouds in the sky. The paint of the ship was interrupted here and there by makeshift patches, proof that the old vessel had seen some action in the recent past.
The ship was called Dancer, and it was a ship that fulfilled a specific objective. She was a transport, carrying a troupe of circus performers from port to port, where they performed for the citizens. This day, she was returning from the mighty city of Dala Yar Arak after the troupe performed at the annual Festival of the Sun, one of the high points in Arakite society. On board her decks were circus performers, performers that would usually be manning the rigging and tending to the ship's needs as they plied the waves. But those performers found themselves to be passengers now, shunted aside by a crack crew of veteran Wikuni sailors, sailors trained for sailing a galleon. Wikuni sailors that had extensive battle experience, and could get the ship out of danger should it become threatened.
The ship carried more than simple performers or Wikuni sailors. Standing at the rail was a being that was rarely seen in the West, rarely seen anywhere except the trackless deserts that her people called home. She was a very tall woman, sleek and slender, whose height defined her more than her appearance did. Dressed in western trousers and a baggy white shirt made of silk that offset her dark skin, she looked very much unlike a lady with which a western man would identify. She had dusky brown skin, the result of generations of evolution under a mercilessly strong sun, but her hair was a silvery white color, a color that made it well suited to deflecting the sun's heat away from her head. Beyond her height or her hair, what made people stare at her more than anything else, was her exquisite beauty. The dark-skinned woman, with her pointed ears and her four-fingered hands and her silver-white hair, was noticed not because of any of those things, but because her face was the absolute epitomy of breathtaking feminine perfection. It was as if the anima that created the female had discovered the pinnacle of its achievement in the white-haired woman, and could now proudly boast of its creation. Delicate eyebrows framed large eyes that were the color of the sky, a striking feature in one with brown skin. A heart-shaped face sported high, ethereal cheekbones, a slender, pert little nose, and perfect lips that any man would find pleasure in kissing. A sharp, slender jaw supported that feminine perfection, rounded out a face that any painter would kill to capture on canvas.
The outstanding beauty of this woman could turn heads, but those with her had been around her for so long that her beauty no longer struck them with the same force at it had when they first saw her. To them, she was not a paragon of feminine beauty, she was Allia. A Selani, and a warrior at that. A gentle-natured woman with highly refined ideals of conduct and propriety, with a pride that was not arrogance and a careful, methodical manner that made her seem dependable and steady, who also happened to be one of the most lethal, dangerous, most highly skilled fighters the world had ever seen. She looked like a fragile maiden, but any who spent any time with her understood that there was nothing but steel beneath the silk of her skin.
As with the best of nature's most successful species, this Selani beauty was much more than she seemed. And therein lay her greatest advantage. She was one of the deadliest warriors alive, but she was also a Sorceress. Granted the innate ability to make contact with the magic of the Weave, it was an ability that most people overlooked in her, even herself from time to time. Allia was not one to use her magic for her every mundane task. For her, it was a tool that had use and purpose, but was not to be used unless necessary. Though her magical ability was eclipsed by the raw power of her blood-brother, or the clever adaptability and versatility displayed by her blood-sister, in her own manner she shined as brightly as they did. Among the trinity of the non-humans, who were studied and examined the world over, she was the one most often overlooked.
And that suited her just fine.
But these were not good times for her. Her brother Tarrin was alone, with no one but the erratic Faerie Sarraya to watch over him. Alone in the desert, her desert, a place with which she was intimately familiar, a place that would quickly kill the unaware or unfit. It was not a place for her brother, at least not without her there to guide him, teach him, protect him.
First Keritanima, her beloved bond-sister, was abducted by her father, and now Tarrin had also left her, leaving them to draw away those that sought to use them to get to him. The loneliness she felt was dramatic, poignant, leaving her feeling as if everything she held dear was being stripped from her piece by piece. She knew that she would see them again, but it was no substitution for having them there with her, to laugh with, to touch, to be near her and reinforce the powerful bonds of love and devotion that held them together. Though all three were different species, they were a family, a family more tightly knit and loyal to one another than any family united by blood alone.
Allia stood at the rail of the garish ship, staring out towards one of the escorting clippers with distant eyes. She ignored the voices behind her, though her warrior's mind kept track of absolutely everyone on deck at all times. Dolanna was behind her, seated on a small bench, talking with Triana. Jula-that dishonorable sugo!-sat beside Triana, as was her direction. Triana kept the younger Were-cat within arm's reach at all times. Camara Tal's voice also reached her, up on the steering deck, as she conversed with Renoit and a rat Wikuni by the name of Kergon, the liason officer and de-facto captain of Dancer now that it was being manned by Wikuni sailors. Phandebrass' rattling voice droned on and on as he interrogated one of the Wikuni sailors mercilessly, seeking some obscure bit of knowledge about which nobody other than him cared. Dar was nowhere to be heard on deck, but that was not unusual. Since Tarrin left, the yong Arkisian had been even more quiet than usual. Tarrin had been one of the few people the young man felt comfortable speaking with, and without his friend there, he felt very much out of place among the older, more seasoned members of their group. Dar found comfort in talking with her, but since Tarrin's departure, Allia had withdrawn herself from the others, and the young human did not wish to disturb her any more than necessary.
Time. It seemed so much the chore now. Time would return her family to her, but the wait seemed unbearable. She wanted to turn the ship around, to go back to the desert and find him, but she knew that that was impossible. She wanted Keritanima to give up on her mission in Wikuna and return to her, but again, she knew it was impossible. What she desired would come to her in time, but it was the time that she did not want to face. But the person did not choose the time, time chose the person. There was little she could do but endure, persevere, and wait out time's fickle nature.
Time aboard a ship was a time of both endless slowness and swift passage. The routine aboard a ship did not change from day to day, making every day drag from sunrise to sunset. But the passage of those days was remarkably swift, leaving one in a curious state of feeling like one was aboard forever, yet finding one's self surprised when the destination appeared on the horizon. It was so for Allia now, for many on the ship. Time dragged by from moment to moment, but they were only days from Suld. Days from where she met her brother and sister, days from the Tower of Sorcery, days from returning to the place they had fled so long ago. It had been a little less than a year, but it seemed more like a lifetime. They had left last fall, and here it was late summer, just before fall once again. They were returning to the place where it had all begun, where she met her brother and sister, where they had learned what they were and what it meant, where Tarrin had come to terms with Jesmind, where Jula had betrayed them. They were returning to the top of the circle, preparing to make another revolution.