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Calm. Examine the word. Think about what it means. Free of motion, free of disturbance, lacking movement: relaxed, still. Not agitated, not passionate, not fierce: tranquil, serene. It is a soothing word, because it implies that nothing is happening which, of course, means that you don't have to do anything. The world will take care of itself for a moment or two.
To a sailor, calm is a wind speed of less than one mile per hour. You can tell it's there because the ship has stopped moving.
Captain Grummond stood by the wheel of the
Cepolada, making the helmsman nervous. There was a cast to the orc's face that a charitable person might have described as "disgruntled." Someone else might have more accurately called it "absolutely pissed."
"No wind," he said, again. "And your wizard can't do anything?"
"It's not as if he isn't trying," said Deslock. "He says there's something interfering with his spells. Then he started talking about static and theoretical waves and power sinks and I stopped giving a shit. I'm pretty sure he was making stuff up about halfway through."
"Huh." Grummond grunted. He didn't like this weather, not at all. Calm is all well and good for monks with their skinny backsides glued to mountaintops, but for a sailor it meant slow death. And to be told that there was something stopping the wizard from calling up wind, well...that meant there was something out there to do the interfering. Something had scared away all the wind spirits, or whatever the hell wizards used to make a breeze. The captain hoped it was something like that, at least. The worst thought was that there was something actively negating Raven del Cid's magic, which would mean that something powerful enough to do that was taking an unnervingly
personal interest in his ship.
It was worrying, is all.
"Have him keep at it," Grummond said. "Maybe it'll help." Deslock flashed him an annoyed look.
"No, I thought I'd have him knock off for the day while we all just sit here," he said, sarcasm edging every word. "Of
course he's going everything he can. It's not enough, but he'll wear himself to the bone before he admits that."
"Right," said Grummond, ignoring Deslock in favor of glaring at the treacherously slack sails. The explorer made a little "Pah!" sound and stalked off.
To a sailor, calm means short tempers.
They'd left Smugglers' Isle behind long ago, indeed had fled from that place as though they were being pursued by demons. Which, as it turned out, they weren't, but no one saw that as any reason to slow down. They had made good time coming north off the Boundless Isles, striking out into waters uncharted and untamed. It had been as smooth a ride as you could ever ask for: stiff winds, clean air, enough clouds to give you the occasional shade and fish ready and willing to bite a line. While you couldn't call it relaxing--this was a
ship, after all, and everyone was crammed up in each others faces at the best of times--it was at least enjoyable in a wild, wind-blowing-through-your-hair way.
And now there was nothing. No wind, no speed, nothing but the hot glare of the sun and the gentle, almost unnoticeable bob as low waves moved the ship up and down. That motion was the only way anyone had of telling that there were waves at all--to the human eye, the sea looked to be flat as a millpond. Sailors leaned up against the rail, supine, having nothing to do for the first time in the entire voyage.
The sailor at the prow took his hat off and fanned himself with it. The sun beat down like a man with a vendetta and a red-hot iron, probing mercilessly at the ship. It didn't help to go below decks, where the heat was stifling instead of burning. You found yourself gasping for air within minutes. Better to stay on deck, despite the stillness of the air, despite the light of the sun punishing everything it touched.
The sailor rubbed a chin you could have used as sandpaper and glared at the sky. Normally at this time of day he'd be high in the rigging, wind blowing around him and work on his hands. Instead he was here, leaning on the rail, cursing at and pleading with every god he could remember.
The sun filled the sky and dazzled the sailor's eyes, and he put his hat back on. That didn't cut down on the glare as much as he'd hoped--there were little gleams dancing across his vision, like golden arrows. He shook his head and glared again. Nope, still seeing spots.
One of those spots was moving. Was, in fact, getting larger, a golden gleam moving at improbable speed across the sky. The sailor narrowed his eyes and shaded them with a hand, trying to get the glare to go away, but it was still there. Funny how the rest of the afterimages had already faded...
The sailor looked around, made sure no one was looking in his direction, and pulled out his prized telescope. A few seconds with that device proved what he hadn't believed when he'd seen it with his bare eyes. It was gold, and huge, and coming this way.
"Hell," he said. He turned, waving his arms and pointing desperately.
"Dragon!" he shouted, as loud as his lungs could manage,
"it's a fucking dragon!"
