43rd of Fómhar, 1503
I received an invitation to an art gallery opening today. It's from the same man, Diarmaid, who was here some weeks ago painting while Mam and I worked our food stall. Said he was going to different locations around the Isles to paint scenes of "pastoral Seanachaisian life." Well, I have no clue why on Bodi's blessed earth he'd invite me. I talked his ear off the whole time he was painting, and the lad seemed rather annoyed by me! Unfriendly sort, he is.
Honestly, I don't particularly want to go. I don't want to spend my time with someone who doesn't give me the time of day, for starters, and more importantly, Mam needs help with feeding the good folks of the island. She keeps telling me that she can manage the place without me and is insisting I go. She thinks it'll be good for me to go out and see the world while I'm still young. She wouldn't listen to my protests against it, so I begrudgingly agreed. She also gave me this journal and said I should write about my experiences, so here I am.
I'm glad Diarmaid included a note with the date of the event in our calender, or I would've missed the bleeding thing otherwise.
52nd of Fómhar, 1503
Old man Mac Coitir stopped by the stall for lunch today. We hadn't seen him for a few weeks, and when he sat down at the counter, he radiated stress. I didn't want to pry if he didn't feel like sharing the story, but I was worried about what would have him in such a state. Mam was worried, too. He must've sensed our concern, because it wasn't long before he launched into the story. Orders for live fish from the mainland had come to a near halt, apparently, and the blockade is making sea transport really difficult. Still, he needed to get one of his most loyal customers in Belarian their usual shipment, and he didn't want to disappoint. That's when Mam had to pipe up that I was going to Belarian for an art gallery opening on the 7th. To my surprise, he offered to take me! I didn't think it'd be possible to travel to the mainland by sea after he mentioned a blockade happening, but he reassured me that it's not impossible, just much more difficult than normal.
He told me that I needed to leave very soon — the time he'd be leaving to deliver his shipment, in fact — if I wanted to be in Belarian in time for the opening. Mam also told me that I needed to be prepared to stay there for at least a month or more. I'm home now, and I've started packing accordingly. Mam gave me her pearl necklace to wear to the event and on days when I needed to be a little more dressed up.
I should really get back to packing, but Mr. Mac Coitir's story has my head spinning... Why is there a blockade in the middle of the Ephemeral Sea? What's going on? Am I even right to be nervous about all of this? I have to try and shake the feeling off, though. I can't let it dampen my enjoyment of the trip, especially when I'm not exactly the most enthusiastic about it to begin with.
55th of Fómhar, 1503
I'm on the Mac Coitir's ship now. Mr. Mac Coitir and his family have been nothing short of lovely. I offered to cook for them while we're on this journey as a thank-you for the favor, at least dinner every night, but they insisted I didn't have to. I'm doing it, anyways. I won't take no for an answer. I need to show my appreciation in some way.
I had to go around to the north end of the island to board because their ship was docked there, so we got to sail by the Isle of Seanachai on our way out. That island really is quite the sight. Folks who live there are showier than those of us who live on Oileán na Slatiascairí. The entire coastline that I could see was painted with the pinks, oranges, and yellows of autumn-flowering trees and shrubs, with blooms resting on their spiraling branches like delicate clouds as their stems rose from the swirling silvery mists that blanketed the ground. Tiny motes of light danced among them, twinkling in the morning air amidst the shaded comfort of the understory.
Their houses are much grander, too. Much more heavily ornamented with sculptural decorations. As we passed, I saw motifs like suns, harps, representations of the wee Fair Folk like pixies, and a lot of flowers, vines, and foilage generally adorning their façades. They like to gild these with gold or silver instead of the pearlescent gilt like we use. If their exteriors are this theatrical, then their interior decoration must really beguile the senses! Among all of these exteriors painted lavender, pastel yellow, peach, light green, all manner of light, airy colors, I thought I saw a brick house or two with some lovely ornamental brickwork. Those houses have to be well over 1500 years old, built before the Bargain. I'll have to remember to tell Aoibheann about them when I get back from my trip. They're nuts about all of this historical stuff.
I'd best walk away from the edge of the ship now. One of the Good Neighbors is sunning on some smooth rocks out in the middle of the sea. She hasn't spotted me, but I don't want to risk offending her if she decides to look over her shoulder. Seeing all of the flowers in bloom have made me hungry for sweets, besides. I'm pretty sure I saw some roses and cardamom in the kitchen, so I can whip up a batch of my favorite milk sweets.
55th of Fómhar, 1503, pt. II
We've since pulled away from Oileán na Slatiascairí to head towards the mainland. Before we sailed too far off the coast, Mr. Mac Coitir came and informed everyone that we'd need to glamour ourselves to look like humans. I asked one of his sons, Niall, to guide me on what to do because I had never seen a human before. No one besides other Seanachaisians ever comes and visits our shores, except for the chancers who come to go bother the Good Neighbors in the enchanted spring, if old Muirne's stories are to be believed back home.
Anyways, after he was done helping me, I took a good, long look at myself in the mirror to see the overall effect. My ears were these short, small, rounded things. My coloration was duller, my curls limper, and the opalescence was gone from my eyes. Are humans actually this boring!? Even with all of that, my facial features were apparently still too Seanachaisian to pass for human, but according to Mr. Mac Coitir, that won't matter much from a distance. Some sailor's work clothes rounded off the uninspiring visage, and my drab transformation was complete.
Afterwards, I saw Mr. Mac Coitir pull out a note he got from the Ó Fathaighs and begin to read it attentively. Then, with immense focus, he went and glamoured the whole bleeding ship! Gone were the intricate decorative carvings and soft peach and yellow colors mirroring a Seanachaisian sunset, hidden away by the image of a drab wooden hull with strange symbols painted on the side and alien flags flying. The Ó Fathaighs said in their note that these were the proper marks that identified us as a Bechtlarite merchant vessel and would keep us out of trouble with the patrols. Mr. Mac Coitir did seem unsure of all this, though... I get the feeling this is the first time he's been out on the Ephemeral Sea since the blockade, and he doesn't know if this'll work.
He's an honest man, so I know he'd rather not have to lie like this. I don't much like it, either, and the idea of having to hide makes me dread the trip even more. I mean, how much danger am I about to put myself in, and for what? An art gallery opening for a man I barely know who I have good reason to believe will treat me coldly. At least the familiar calm waters of the Ephemeral Sea bring me a small measure of comfort, and we've got fortune at our backs, with a southwesterly wind pushing us along towards the Carrig River. I'm going to try and get some sleep.
56th of Fómhar, 1503
We came up on about 5 frigates today. As soon as they crested the horizon, Mr. Mac Coitir started sweating bullets... It was a patrol.
He had gotten forgeries made of the proper documentation he needed in case they wanted to board the ship, but today, his face turned sheet white when he thought he had forgotten them at home. All we could do was sail forward and act like nothing was wrong. We just had to hope that the information the Ó Fathaighs gave him was correct and that he had glamoured the ship properly. Mr. Mac Coitir seemed on the verge of an anxiety attack the entire time, though.
The minutes dragged on forever. I chatted with Niall, Eoghan, and Seán as they worked, trying our best to make it seem like nothing was amiss. Internally, though, we stewed in dreaded anticipation that at any moment, we'd receive some sort of signal that they'd want to board.
As the patrol disappeared under the horizon behind us, we all breathed a deep sigh of relief. Nothing happened. We were able to pass well enough as a Bechtlarite merchant ship that they didn't feel the need to stop us. I can definitely see what Mr. Mac Coitir meant when he said that sea transport was difficult. That was unnerving... Anyways, I'm turning it in early tonight. That's enough excitement for me for one day.
Of course, as I wrote that, I heard Niall yell from somewhere else on the ship that he actually found the papers. Grand.
57th of Fómhar, 1503
I woke up earlier than usual today. To be expected, I suppose, for going to bed early. Had I woken up at my usual time, I would've missed the sight that greeted me as I stepped out onto the deck in the wee hours of the morning. Countless ships-of-the-line sat in a neat row in the middle of the Ephemeral Sea before me, imposing behemoths that dwarfed us by comparison. They were adorned with nothing but iron cladding on their hulls, and that coupled with the multitude of gunports with cannons ready to fire made them cold, unfeeling, and menacing.
This was undeniably the blockade.
Seán was already awake, as well. He came up and stood beside me to take in the sight of the blockade for himself. I glanced his way, and he met my incredulous look with a knowing, world-weary smile. We stood there wordlessly for a while before he mentioned it being a good time for breakfast. With our glamours up and field tested against the patrols, we felt confident we'd have no troubles sailing through to the other side to reach the mainland, especially now that we've found those papers. Still, it's easy to see why our good men and women who make their livings on the open sea would be scared and intimidated by the blockade. I don't even want to think about what happened to those who came before us before they figured these little tricks out. What did we even do to deserve to be punished just for living our lives? It's cruel.
The blockade is behind us now. We're about halfway to our destination, and I don't really anticipate anything exciting happening that'll be worth writing about.
59th of Fómhar, 1503
The ordinarily crystal-clear green and blue waters of the Ephemeral Sea grew duller and cloudier as we approached the coast of the mainland and the mouth of the Carrig River. Beyond a merchant vessel or two here or there, all of the boats around us were much smaller fishing boats, all similarly marked and flying strange flags. Our glamoured ship didn't look out-of-place at all.
Once we entered the Carrig River, we didn't have too far to sail until we reached a large dock jutting into the water from a nearby fishing village. These buildings were so desperately sad... Sided with either wooden boards or plaster with roofs of thatching or wooden shingles, my heart aches for the people that live here. We dropped anchor and tied off the ship, and Mr. Mac Coitir stepped off the boat to greet what looked like a more well-to-do human man, but he was still wearing such a dull outfit. Maybe you have to look to the wealthy of Bechtlarite society to find humans leading artistically-inspired lives? It is Diarmaid's patron that's housing me for the duration of my stay, after all...
I couldn't make out a word of what Mr. Mac Coitir and who I assume is his customer were saying to each other, but the human man was both sad and apologetic, which transitioned to a feeling of deep appreciation. If I had to guess, they were speaking about the blockade. As I was offloading my own luggage while his three sons were doing the same with the containers of live fish, Mr. Mac Coitir suddenly gestured to me in the middle of his conversation, and the human man gave me a polite nod. I walked over, and he told me that his customer, Julian, agreed to take me to Belarian in return for the extra difficulty faced to bring him his shipment.
I don't fancy riding with strangers, but trying to walk to Belarian with all of my luggage with how dangerous I assume things are for Seanachaisians on the mainland feels like a fool's errand. Besides, I trust Mr. Mac Coitir's judgment, and they had already loaded my luggage into their caravan.
Mr. Mac Coitir's last piece of advice to me before we pulled off was to keep my glamour up. This trip is already off to a great start...
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