“Now the question is…. How?”

The young man was peering from the tall grass. The last six, seven, meters distance where the greenery still obscuring his figure. More than that was an empty stretch; a patch of land that had been cleared from any remaining vegetation. 

Admittedly, his invisibility still held, the crumble and bubble of the spell’s mana sheen still chugging and running. Redirecting, reflecting — camouflaging his figure to a mere see-through. Yet despite knowing that the spell had again and again stood the scrutiny of use, it was not in him to bet his entire safety on something that most likely would be effective for like, you know, average people. You see, if there was something in common between dust that kept getting blown to his nose and a whirlpool outside which had and currently still gobbling people by their veiny, spiky tentacles, it was both of them remind him — screamed at him, that the man, the scary non-human maybe-man was not in any damn way average. This — this seemingly mundane, fluttering layer of tall grass was not just his second layer of defense. Wrought from countless d-glucoses, the stitched glycosidic bonds were a bulwark which made a grand protection that eased into both polymers and denial.

The plan — his plan was simple actually. Found a boat, any boat. The type didn’t matter, the built whatever. It just needed to transport him across to Clar in the most expedient way possible. Good right? Elegant, simple. Unfortunately, that elegant and simple plan had been stumped by a similarly elegant and simple fact. There were no people.

There were no people. Nil. Zilch. None. The dockyard was deserted with only wind and scattered crates lying about. Case in point, that boat. The one nearest to him. The thing had its anchoring rope tied halfway with a knot that would require no more than a stray wave before the whole thing unravel. Leaving it lost to the lake’s mercy. 

Then there were the casks. The casks. At least two were laying sideways — left strewn. Which was insane. The things were expensive for god sake. No, not what inside it (even though he must accede that whatever inside it should also be similarly expensive). Just the casks — the casks. The things were like five gold apiece. He would know, he bought ten for storing his gailen distillate. The cooper somehow managed to justify the price by citing that softwood wouldn’t be able to bend like that without some complicated proprietary process. Which he an uninitiated customer buying from a local monopoly, could only not. And now, one of them even thrown offshore? Without anyone trying to recover it? Impossible unless the whole dockyard was abandoned. He clutched his shirt as it popped in and out from under the wharf. 

Now if he was some kind of old-timey detective. The one who sported a leather criss-cross deerstalker and munching on a cancer-inducing calabash, he might have been able to deduce as to where the people had left (as the why was well too obvious). 

It’d be something like ‘Ha, the scuffs mark here were 37.89 degrees relative to that dent over there, Mr. Sidekick! It also three centimeters deeper! So our victim must have been hit by a blunt weapon, managed to stay awake, shanked the perpetrator in the gut, and forced him to summon an abomination from the thirteenth hell itself to finish the deed! Also he was eating a taco with too much cilantro when the thing happened.’ Something like that.

But of course he was not. And because he was not, he was forced to make an educated guess based on wholly non-salient data points. Read: bullshitting. 

Oh well. It didn’t matter anyway. Most likely they just went away from the clearing.

What did matter was, how? How could he cross this lake? 

There were three boats. Thus as follow three options. First there a dinghy, drove it yourself. Workable. Maybe. The oars were just laying there so it was a simple case of hopping and rowing. The thing was, he never, you knew, row a boat? He meant, sure he saw people rowed them on movie, they kind of move their hand around in a circular motion. But that was it. Circular motion, circular motion, rinse and repeat. Which sound you knew, simple. Too simple. There must be some kind of technique involved. For example, how did you steer? He was far from an expert, but that kind of applied momentum — the rowing movement, would only direct him to one direction; backward. Did boats, had, he didn’t know, a steering wheel installed? That was unlikely.

“Maybe that one...”

The second option — the high double-decker. The gleaming white and green stood proud in the wind, breaking waves, few that dared to strike its body. The bow curved not in a sharp angle but a wholly elliptical curve almost squarish. It was the one with the rope didn’t fully tie. 

For this one, his plan hinged on the hope there was at least a person inside the vessel he could bribe to run it. Or as it went with this world, the existence of convenient ‘On’ rune-button that could you know, turned on the ship. Yeah… Not exactly a plan, but so rowing there. The distance from here to the island was around six, maybe seven times the distance from the rhopis cage to this tall grass. And he reached the tall grass within six minutes running at his full speed.

Still, it was quadratically better than the last one; the third option. This was ...unique. The third looked like made by somebody who saw a tandem bike once and thought it would be neat to make a boat that looked like it. The boats (if it could be called that) were how could he put this, creatively shaped. The first one looked like a cup on a merry-go-round, which was, well ...something. But the second one, oh dear, the second one. It looked like a cross-section of star-shaped baking mold which followed by the one that looked like, well, ...a bowl. A very pink, pink bowl. Together they were tied with some kind of ropes or chains, the lake reflection made his vision a bit fuzzy. 

Anyway, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it. Should he row it? Because if he should, what should he do if — when the thing inevitably stuck, the chains got tied or one of the boats wrecked or something. With that kind of design, didn’t it mean he must tow all of them?

Yeah, no.

Well, it looked like his choice was clear. Throwing one last look around, ever gingerly he pushed against the grass, trying to match his rustle with the sway of blowing wind.

“Hello… Anyone here?” 

Euca walked. Well, tip-toeing — fighting the dizzy spell that popped the first minute he stepped on this boat. One of the many, many reasons he refused Derek’s fishing invitation. 

It wasn’t that he hated fishing per se. He could certainly appreciate the lure of sitting outdoor, reclining under the sun’s warmth and how you weren’t more than three steps from a sweet lime pop. It just that every time he moved he could felt the ground wobbled. While not as bad as the step ladder he used to climb to the boat itself (that one was totally shifting his weight halfway), realizing that the ground below his feet was not, well, ground was not a good experience for his stomach.

“Helloo…”

He shouted-whispered again. Cracking as he tried to project the low volume across the room. How those singers did it again? It’d be great if his voice could, you knew, retain more clarity. Didn’t even need to be a perfect squillo, just a thrown clear note. That way people inside (if there any) would not mistake him for a thief or something. 

It was not until the thirtieth second, he realized that maybe calling people clad in invisibility would be very similar to how that scary man spoke. You knew, hindsight. Sighing and with the slowest motion he could, he tiptoed toward the lower deck door, crouching so his height never once exceed the boat’s hull. 

His hand reached toward the latch.

CREAAAK...

Really? Really? He swore, cursing at the blasted door. If he ever survived this, he’d make it mandatory that all doors that he could get his hand on would be well-oiled on the hinge. This thing could kill people! 

“Hello, anyone there? I—I’m not that sca— I’m—I’m looking for anyone who could drive this boat… I could pay… Hello?” 

No answer.

The room was still, unerring. The only sound there were just the waves outside, crashing, and of course the wobbly steps of his feet, pushing against the wooden flooring. 

He gulped and shut his eyes for a second, calming himself before fully stepping inside. The place wasn’t large. At most it’d be the size of his old bedroom, except it was twice in length and half in width. There were few benches attached to the side likely for the passenger to sit and several one-person chairs and desks. Few cupboards nailed to the floor and one small door; a storage closet.

He knocked on that.

“Sir… Ma’am… Hello. Can you please help me, Sir, Ma’am. My sister stuck—”

Empty.

A mop, two buckets, few fishing poles, and bundles of net. There were other things of course, tools and supplies he didn’t recognize. But people? No. No.

Sighing, he closed back the door and inched toward the front.

The front that was partitioned with another door. 

It was ajar.

“Hello… anyone? Anyone?”

No answer. What greeted him the moment he stuck his head inside was a chair, wooden and padded with fur. The thing had fell on the floor as the table beside it was wet — puddles of water were pooling on top of it. A piece of fabric was sticking on the table’s side, fluttering. Whoever owned this boat had left in hurry, he concluded, clicking his teeth. Did it mean he had to use that dinghy? He pretty sure he’d be out of breath halfway, no, not even halfway, thirdway. Also without steering, he’d basically dead if even one wave decided to blow him sideways.

Righting up the chair, he slowly sat. Looking at the ‘control panel’ in front of him. Which as it turned out was well, way more discouraging. A pulled-up blinds, a window frame looking through the lake upfront, and one, single steering wheel. One, steering wheel. The wooden type you commonly saw in pirates movies. 

He rummaged around the wheel. Behind it, below it. He even ran his finger under the chair and top of the deck for good measure. Just in case the mechanism was hidden by indentation or something. And as it turned out... nothing. There was no mechanism. No ‘on’ button, no lever, nothing. Just one freaking wheel. He meant he hoped. Like really hoping that it was somehow magically powered. After all, the outside didn’t have anything resembling a sail (not that he knew how to use it). 

“Honestly. What else did I miss? Hmm. Maybe a little—”

—push. He swirled mana to his eyes, flicking his vision the realm of sense. Instantly a layer appeared, swathe of weft and weave in the sky and little bobs of blue and brown floating around. He since knew that most colors was, well, aspect. Representation of magic in form of idea. Blue meant water, darker blue meant sky. Lightning was yellow-orange tinged, and fire varied in redness depending how high its temperature was. 

Others were more ...varied. Earth was mostly shades of brown, but put a plant on it and it suddenly would have a tinge of green. The green then would be retained by the wood even though it had been cut and processed, albeit in slightly different form. Which instead of just bob of unadulterated color floating aimlessly, was, well… a mix. Sometimes in the form of orbiting facets with one predominant center, other times were clustering of similars, or just mishmashed of swirls, like paint layer that hadn’t been quite thoroughly mixed.

This one though, the steering wheel which vision said was made of wood and thus should only have aspect of brown and green, appeared to be entirely blue; seafoam green. And the blue was, well, whole. There were no bubbles, no truss, no crack, no split. Instead, it was a blob of continuous, seamless light. As if it was made from a smooth ball of clay. 

The wheel glowed and ebbed — pulsating. The only thing that was remotely similar to this — this magnificent piece was pebbles. Or mana crystal. But even those were way, way smaller. Not even a tenth of the steering wheel’s volume. 

“Could it be…”

DUN.

What the— 

DUN.

It just a little push! 

DUN.

He watched in horror as the spark of mana he flicked ran and ran through the wheel. It spread from the center ring and formed branches upon branches of lichtenberg. Lapis. Solid. The thing even spread to vision instead of staying put in the realm of sense. The light, white, was getting brighter as the thump getting louder.

DUN.

He did it now! He exploded someone’s ship! Scrambling, he almost slipped as he pushed the chair down reaching to the d— 

Ping.

“Sister, has not Theshipe angered still?”

“Indeed brother, his wrath still permeated yon. This human is quite foolish.”