Fogwalker - Chapter 2

Pulling up to port was always an exercise in dexterity and strength. Less so when one had access to reality bending powers, but more so when doing it alone. Carve, like most of the floating islands in the Lornian archipelago, had a raised port. Suspended high above the Godsfog - to prevent ships from crashing against the island or ragdolling in the surf - a system of pullies, cranes, and ropes held hundreds of ships aloft. Thousands of thick cords of rope hung down around the island, stretching down into the Godsfog, ready for passing sailors to catch and tie off around their ship. 

Carve’s docks had been shaped conically, where the rock of the island gradually got wider the higher up one went, and stretched a quarter league out over the Godsfog from where it met the surf. This allowed for a lot of the docking lines and bays to be positioned under the island - comparatively, at least, when one considers that most of the archipelago relied on a single line of port, Carve had several. Tiered, going inward.

Oliver had quickly finished furling his sails and securing his windrider to the hanging ropes. Pulling the ship up to the port above should have been easier in his opinion. Especially for a major trade island like Carve, where they had the resources to implement some of the more recent advancements of Ceramistry. Like automated lines that could lift frigates and galleons out of the fog with little effort, or maybe even one of those ship elevators that he had run into a year prior. No, Carve was still using those awkward wheel-and-crank systems that relied on the crew to pull their own ship skyward. 

Every attached rope had to be adjusted perfectly so as not to tilt the ship on the way up, and absolutely nobody was keeping watch from above, so you just had to trust that the ropes had been properly maintained. Then you had to manually crank a shipboard wheel to slowly raise it out of the fog. 

Back-breaking work for a whole crew. Work that would have doomed Oliver if he lacked magical powers. 

Oliver sat back against the main mast, idly listening to the dull thunk of the anchor tapping on the wooden pillar. A finger traced a continuous circle on the deck, matching the slow spin of the crank a few feet away. What would have been something that took the effort and focus of three men, relegated to an afterthought.

It might not have been overly tough for him to pull his own ship upwards, but Oliver still found himself annoyed at the antiquated technology he was forced to utilize. Not for the first time, did he regret his middling power. A stronger fogwalker could simply lift a ship upwards, commanding gravity with a whim. Hell, a stronger fogwalker would not even need a ship in the first place. 

Fogwalking was a strange power. Around thirty percent of Lorn’s population claimed it, though with widely varying strength. However, few living people understood its exact mechanics, or even the method for surviving its acquisition, even those who lived with it. On the higher spectrum, there was virtually no limit to the things one could do. Create or quell storms, shoot fireballs the size of an island out of their hands, or create massive, dazzling illusions. All stories told in hushed voices to children at night, or tavern songs spread far and wide. Tales of heroes and villains of ages long past. Of kings and founders and mysterious wanderers. Everything had its root in a fogwalker on Lorne. Someone who, against all odds, could stride the Godsfog as an old friend, rather than a deadly obstacle. 

Oliver, however, along with the vast majority of his fellow fogwalkers, relied on tools to focus that power. Tools that could otherwise be used for the exact same purpose by any normal person, just with less finesse, more focus, or the risk of extreme fatigue. Anyone, for instance, could pick up the diamond-shaped charm that hung off of Oliver’s bracelet, and rearrange their kitchen from the doorway. Oliver, though, could use it to sail his boat without a crew. 

So how would one gain such abilities? None on the Lornian archipelago were born with them, so how did they come about? It was simple, really. One just had to touch the Godsfog, and hope to survive contact. Dipping a hand into the surf would be enough. A splash at sea could have you walking away with the ability to blot out the sun, or rearrange the islands. The only problem is that it would more likely cause an explosion, and everyone around them would die.  

Oliver himself gained his abilities as a child while out fishing with his father, Oliver. Yes, they were both named Oliver, and no they did not use the Junior or Senior suffixes. Like I said, Lornians were shit at naming things. This is a theme. It will become apparent, and annoying. 

Also, the concept of fishing in a massive cloud might confuse you, but I promise you, there were fish to catch in the foggy sea. 

Oliver did not notice his newfound abilities until weeks after the voyage. Tools worked better in his hands than before, and he no longer felt tired after firing the kiln in his father’s shop. The thing that sold it, though, was one boring morning he spent swinging his legs off the side of his home island, shooting imaginary lasers out of his hands into the Godsfog below. It was nothing more than a child’s game, where reality doesn’t matter, and expectation was never part of the equation. But then the Godsfog seemed to humor him. It reacted, as if someone had thrown a small boulder in where he had been aiming. 

His parents nor friends believed him for nearly a year after the fact. The sad, frustrated look on his face was hilarious, and I really wish someone had taken a picture. We could have used it as a cover for this thing.  

Oliver never could place the moment he came in contact with the fog. At least one night was spent staring at his ceiling, wondering just how lucky he had been. 

The sound of a small bell broke Oliver’s trance. His finger halted its rotation on the deck, bringing the ship to a stop - now level to the docks of Carve. A twist of his wrist saw the crank locked in place from across the deck, and two more secured the lock with a heavy knot of rope. 

“Well-”

Oliver jerked, nearly tripping over the railing. 

The lanky man paused and shook his head. “I know I’m not that quiet.” 

“There was a bug.” He had legitimately forgotten about his passenger.

“Sure.” The lanky man agreed easily. “Anyway I would like to apologize for what I said before. It was not a comfortable trip, but you got us here much faster than I would have thought possible. I suppose that’s what I asked for - and I’m not dead in the fog, so there’s that.” 

Oliver shrugged, mostly unbothered after having gotten a chance to rest. “You paid for fast, not comfortable.”

“That’s what I just said.” The man sighed. “Though you will forgive me if I never commission you again. That was more than terrifying.”

“Yep. Thank you for your patronage.”

Oliver’s flippant dismissal sent the man grumbling off his deck. A satchel clasped to his chest protectively, and a wary eye cast around. The last view Oliver caught of the man, he was turning a corner at a dead sprint. 

Carve was one of the larger islands in the western archipelago. Like many of the islands that neighbored the slipways, it was a veritable fortress. Not so much to defend against a siege, but built to withstand the weather. Storms and stray winds were more than common on this side of the Godsfog, and the best defense was a physical barrier. The island was little more than a massive floating boulder, with an entire city ant-hilled into it. Twisting caves that carved their way through the rock, miraculously forming a bustling city. 

Get it? Carve was a city carved into the island? They thought they were being clever. 

Most islands just built a large wall, and outfitted them with the same ceramic talismans that lined their ships. It was enough for relatively mild winds, far from the slipways, but stormy areas required a different approach. Hence, Carve. 

Oliver marveled at the bustling port, or what he could see of it from the middle-of-the-pack height of his mooring, anyway. He rested his arms on the railing of his windrider, watching the cacophony. Hundreds of dock workers and sailors, moving crates, trade goods, and other luggage on and off of ships. Ships that hung hundreds of feet above the surface of the Godsfog - both above, below, and all around him - kept from swaying out of control by taught ropes anchored to the surrounding rock. 

He glanced, somewhat jealously, at one particular ship that was docked near his own. It was a frigate - something he couldn’t hope to sail by himself, but it was positively riddled with some advanced looking ceramistry that he had been trying to install on his windrider for months. Four shipboard port-winches, self-furling sails, what he thought looked like a heated deck from his angle, and even a Quickkeel. 

While the hull of just about every Lornian ship looked the same - covered entirely in an iridescent, ceramic glaze that allowed it to float on the Godsfog, the keels had some interesting variety. The one on Oliver’s windrider was a simple fin that stretched about an arm’s length further down than the rest of the hull, and wrapped up the stern. A basic shape that kept it upright on the foggy ocean, and allowed for detailed maneuvering.

A Quickkeel was a bit different, and Oliver really wanted one. Consisting of three, fanned out fins that started at the prow, and extended half a ship length past the stern into a sharp point, a Quickkeel could move a ship forward without needing the wind. It required a fogwalker to use it for any feasible amount of time, but installing one could cut travel times in half. 

To prevent himself from drooling (he didn’t entirely succeed), Oliver tore his gaze away, only to see something almost as interesting. 

Some distance below, he noticed a sailor touch a stack of crates, only for it to glitch out of existence and reappear on the deck of her ship. Interest temporarily peaked, he watched her teleport three more groups of cargo before she, herself, appeared on the ship. Oliver had never heard of a charm that allowed for teleportation in any sense. That was one of the fogwalker-only abilities told of in children’s stories, and rarely seen in person. That’s not to say he hadn’t seen it before, but it had only been once. A sour experience, if he was honest with himself, since he had been teleported into a fountain. 

Granny Elle was a hoot. 

Point was, he was looking at a fogwalker well above his ability. The fact that she was loading a ship with cargo, and the state of her clothes painted a picture that tilted Oliver’s head in confusion. I just put my finger on it, but Oliver couldn’t. He just felt like something was off about the situation. Props to him for recognizing that, though. 

The thought drew him to his wrist, which he turned toward himself to get a better look at his bracelet. It was a simple bronze chain with six charms hanging off of it. Each charm was the size of a fingernail and gave him use of some magical power or other. The diamond-shaped one that I mentioned earlier allowed for a version of telekinesis, for instance. All of which played a part in Oliver’s profession - the tools of his trade, if you will, but he was more wondering what it would take to make a teleportation charm at this moment, than anything else. 

“Welcome to Carve, Wayfarer.” 

Oliver craned his neck over his shoulder to find a port officer looking at him expectantly. The tired bags under his eyes telling a story of a long day, despite the fact that it was mid-morning. Or perhaps a long night, with no caffeine. 

“Morning.” Oliver offered.

The officer nodded, and brought around a clipboard and pencil. “Name?” 

“Oliver.”

“Purpose for visiting?”

“Looking for work.” He responded succinctly. He could respect the man’s need for a no-nonsense interaction.

The officer nodded again, having already written the answer before Oliver spoke it. “Profession?”

“Ceramist, but I’m a generalist, really.” Oliver pushed off the railing, the interesting woman below long forgotten - but not so much that Quickkeel - and made his way towards the overworked (or possibly hungover) man. 

The officer nodded a third time. “You’ll find no shortage of work, then. Crew number and names?”

“Just me.” 

At that, he paused and glanced at the ship, then back at Oliver. “Fogwalker?”

“Yep.” 

The officer checked a box on the slip of paper he was writing on. “New ordinance waives the toll for Wayfarers for the first month of docking. Credentials?” 

Oliver hummed and reached into his shirt collar. “Well that’s generous.”

What he pulled out from around his neck, right next to his fog repelling medallion, was a silver chain with seven beads along its length. Each made from a different material.

The man studied the beads closely. “You weren’t kidding with the ‘generalist’ thing, huh?” With one last check marked off on the paper, the officer tore off the top layer and held it out for Oliver.

He folded, and pocketed the paper with a nod. “Thanks.”

“Have a good day. Someone will be back in a month if you’re still here. Be on the lookout or we’ll drop the windrider to make space.” 

Oliver chuckled at the threat. They would strip it clean and sell it, though he didn’t doubt that the officer would rather just drop it into the Godsfog. If he was as tired (hungover) as the man before him, he would probably want the same. 

He watched idly as the officer moved along the port for a moment, likely heading towards another newly docked vessel, before opening one of the smuggler’s stashes and retrieving a few tools. Unknowing that if he had done so minutes before, the port officer would have been much more scrutinizing of his visit. He also did not consider that his passenger hadn’t checked in with the port authority, nor that he didn’t think to mention the lanky man at all. 

It seemed that Oliver’s passenger had indeed picked a discrete mode of travel - though it relied heavily on sheer luck, and the goldfish swimming around in Oliver’s noggin. 

Tools in hand, Oliver stepped off his windrider and walked along the dock. He had a Wayfarer Hall to find.

Oh, and if you’re wondering, goldfish exist everywhere - not just wherever the hell you grew up.