Tragedy of the Shackleram: Chapter 4... or 5?
Tethysi pride themselves on their memories, being able to pull facts and the page reference of the source at will. It was a mark of the deterioration of their survival gear and the whispering madness of the realm they found themselves in that the Grand Council could no longer precisely remember the shape of their adventure thus far. They refused to allow their pride to be sullied any further, and sullied it would be if they were to fare poorly in this race of the damned. That disgrace seemed inevitable as the Shackleram fell further and further behind, reduced almost to half of their original number of carriers to push and lift the immense weight of marble.
It was Zu, ever one to think outside the box, who came up with the idea, developed while watching Jornir's wingcannon swinging on its strap. All of their weapons were showing substantial wear, even the star pumice of the titular order's silent commander, but Jornir was as fastidious with their weapon as any devoted soldier, and the cannon was still in working order for the time being. The three on the boat worked feverishly while the others continued to push, gathering whatever could be spared in an attempt to fasten the wingcannon to the stern. Nite ran the calculations, and provided the grim truth - to reach the speeds they would need would require far more ammunition than the weapon had, in the form of the now-withering quills running back from the base of the barrel - a veritable 'quillt' would be needed! The meaning was clear, even couched in a pun, and the Tethysi solemnly held the wingweapons that had served them for so long, before handing them up to the boat. Last of all, Sezorah fastened on their beloved wingkhopesh, and Nite gave up Long's Word, the blade of the founder of the Order of the Pun Crown.
One additional effort was needed. Elvand identified that the straps would not hold the force needed, especially with the constant slow decay they were under. In this situation, only they could provide what was needed, with the very powers that made them an outsider, powers they had acquired infiltrating the entertaining setting of a magical world, and become stuck with in the climactic battle against the dark lord when their Autobiography was damaged by that being's overwhelming power. While the commander of the Order of Pumice steered, Nite and Sezorah would keep the cannon firing, the group of Jornir, Zu, Kyua, Grist and Calligan keeping the boat level, while Elvand - floating above the ship yet locked to its every movement - held everything together.
The trigger was pulled. The wingcannon, so heavily modified now it would have been almost impossible to use as a weapon again, with the scattered remains of its fellow feathered arms lashed across its surface, erupted with force. Nite and Sezorah hung on for dear life, their fingers burning as the heat made its way from the firing chamber back to the trigger, the device not designed for this prolonged explosion. Jornir tore muscles in their arms holding the front of the boat steady from below as they rocketed through the water, refusing to put in any less effort than the weapon they sacrificed for this task. It was working. The shadowy shapes of their competition appeared, then began to flash by, barely avoided by their unperturbed navigator's quiet control. When the weapon finally died down, the eight warriors with only a couple of weapons left to their name breathed shaking sighs of relief, grinning at the success they had achieved and the razor-thin margin of disaster averted. The means of that aversion, and the cost, became clear a moment later, as ash flaked down across the boat and water.
It had been a fool's errand. The deterioration was too great. The wingcannon would fail mere seconds in, and the remaining energy would burst out in all directions, putting an end to the Grand Council. This is what Elvand realised the moment the trigger was pulled, and this tract would be the last page of their damaged Autobiography as it fell, unable to return itself to the Grand Libraries of home, to the fate promised to every child of Tethys 13. Elvand could have escaped. Individual teleportation was simple, only made complex if others were brought into the mix, others like the Grand Council. They could have escaped alone, left the others to their fate. The very fact that the others survived was proof that this thought was dismissed the instant it arose, for any hesitation would have left no time for what happened next. Elvand summoned all of the power they had grown to despise, the power that, some whispered, made them no longer a Tethysian. They brought it to bear to stall the entropic decay of the jury-rigged contraption on the boat's stern. Non-viable. Not due to ability, but scale. The entropy was not something that could be affected in part, not a curse that came to things individually. It was a part of this realm, every point the same as the whole. Still no hesitation. No thought of failure. Elvand Ganrinsspawn did not fail, not when faced with the laughing fiend that now returned to their thoughts, not when faced with a realm entire. With a monumental effort of will - their last - Elvand halted the entropy of the entire Land of the Dead for one minute. When that minute ended, it flowed back through them.
Five remained to push the Shackleram and its three occupants to the next stage of the race.
