It has been a little over a month now since I first boarded the Aunt Hare and set sail toward Morado. I believe that I have begun to acclimate to this rather unsanitary way of life. At the very least, I have worked myself into a routine of sorts. I have spent the majority of my time either in my quarters or tending documents. It is relatively easy work, but there is a surprising amount of documentation to work through.
Admittedly, I have kept to myself for the most part. I do find Captain Siesko to be interesting, and while neither of us are much for conversation, I would like to think that we have built some sort of rapport. I also have interacted sparingly with Mister Malopher and Priestess Sophia, as they are fairly approachable and seem to have some patience for my manner of communication. Some interaction on occasion helps to pass daylight, at least.
We have experienced a number of storms over the weeks. It seems that the Argentian Ocean is more turbulent than Verous, or at the very least Aurumo. The storms seem to put the crew ill at ease. I have heard all manner of colorful language about our fortunes with the weather lately. I suppose it is difficult work to maintain our course in the midst of such powerful winds and waves, but on those stormy days, I often retire to bed early and sleep exceptionally well.
I remember last Golsday we hit a storm in the early evening. The darkened skies in the distance, and the faintest smell in the air heralded the storm to come much earlier in the day. The crew made preparations whilst I set about my usual routine. I enjoyed an early dinner as the Aunt Hare found the rain at the edge of the storm, then retired to my quarters. Sailors were rushing to their stations and Mister Malopher was working very hard to maintain order on deck. When I reached my room, I took some time to meditate and feel the weave flow through and around my body.
It was then that I felt thunder as it reverberated through Aunt Hare’s frame. There was a clamor on deck, which was drowned out almost entirely by the sound of rain. It was very soothing. The rhythmic rapping of the rain was like a mother whispering a lullaby to her child. The waves, of course, would be the rocking of her arms to soothe the fussy child. I could imagine the lightning streaking through the sky, painting the darkened clouds with flashes of light, like a gentle, reassuring smile. The thunder would soon follow, like a booming voice starting a mantra before a gentle, meditative hum.
So much does it soothe me that at times it feels as though I could listen to the whispers of the storm for so long that I might learn to speak back, but these are merely fantasies from childhood. I remember the way in which the villagers would speak of The Striking Tree, back in Vayu’Ped. They said it was cursed, or perhaps haunted. Whenever I looked at it, however, it felt like an old friend was watching over that tiny village. The storms always brought the worst out of the blacksmith in ways that the bottle never did, but I quickly learned that retreating to bed and letting that primal essence lull me to sleep was the simplest way to avoid his ire.
I do not miss those days. I do not miss that village. But I still think of that old striking tree sometimes. We are as kindred spirits, I think. Both of us have braved much, and yet we stand. We have channeled the storms that have threatened to fell us. We are marked by those experiences, but they give us strength.