Everett takes a small journal out of an inside pocket in his coat and he flips it open. Once of the pages comes loose and folds itself into a small paper bird-like drake.^[1] It smooths out the crinkles in one of it wings before awaiting instructions. Everett gives it a little bounce before it flits off to go find Marion and make sure the young man isn't lost forever in the maze of crates, barrels, ropes and tarps. 

He then returns his attention to Beak while they have some time to themselves. 

"Yes, actually. I have a small collection of them. You're welcome to borrow anything that interests you."

He waves her along to follow him towards the stern of the ship. They have to go back up onto the top deck but then are quick to step inside the ship once more through a set of wooden doors.

This new space is quite large compared to the room Beak and Marion were to share. There's a large table in the center that has a number of maps littering its surface along with a few map marking implements and a compass that has a broken face. An eclectic selection of miss matched pieces of seating decorate the room, and there a bed pushed into the back corner of the rectangular room. Half the curtains are drawn closed along the back wall which actually is mostly made of panes of glass that look out over the ocean behind the ship. A few oil lamps, currently unlit, hang from wrought iron hooks in the exposed ceiling beams.

More to Beak's interest would likely be the two large built-in bookcases that go from floor to ceiling on opposing sides of the space. The shelves are stocked nearly full to bursting with various tomes and texts of nearly any subject one could think of from varying years of publishing. Some look well worn and water stained, while others appear more pristine like they were fresh from the bookstore. 

Everett lets Beak freely peruse his collection while he closes the double doors behind him. After a moment, he breaks the silence between them. 

"Miss Beak, I hope I do not come across as insensitive or rude, but is it normal for your kind to seek out friendship in the living? Or is there something else you're after?"

Meanwhile, before Marion can get too lost in the bowels of the ship, a tiny little origami wyrm flutters over to the young man and lands atop his head. It's little paper jaw opens and in an uncannily similar voice to Everett's own it says, "And lo' he is found. Tossed upon the waves he was, but now the siren's call fills his ears and beckons him back to that familiar shore."

---

[1] Scribbles the Book Wyrm

After thanking Everett graciously once again, Beak set to browsing the selection of books by topic, seeing what all was available. Tales of adventure and derring-do would be entertaining, at the the very, but on the incredibly small chance he has any histories of-

Upon hearing that question, she turns to face Everett, but is briefly stunned into silence. The problem with someone like her being stunned into silence, of course, is that her mood becomes utterly unreadable; her skull cannot smile or frown, its eye sockets cannot grow any wider or narrower than they already are. It's... literally just a skull. And if Everett tries to discern any detail about the bizarre old woman's identity by peering into it, looking for a face behind the mask, there is only darkness; either the shadow cast by her hood, or some sort of... something is making it impossible to see anything besides solid black behind those eyes. No, Beak needs her telepathy to broadcast her moods and emotive cues as much as her actual words, and if she's too stunned for those....

"I... ah..." Ah, there we go. It took her long enough to think of how to answer that. "... In my home, the term was kakk nis darsak.¹ And no, most were mindless monsters. We saw them as blights upon the land, an affront to the great book, something to be exterminated on sight... which is why, now that I am one, I'm inclined to hide."

It is entirely possible that between the mutual euphemisms and vague references to "your kind," "they," and so on, Beak and Everett could actually be talking about two entirely different things without realizing. If so, then Beak hasn't noticed this potential miscommunication yet.

"I mean you no harm, I swear it. If I'm after anything, Mister Everett, it's...."

She goes silent for a few moments again. Thinking. Pondering how to phrase it.

"... Purpose."

Her pause allows some room for that word to settle in, before she elaborates.

"I won't keep you with an overly long story if you've duties to attend to, but in short... I had a home, once, and I lost everything. Everything. And then, everything seemed... irrelevant. What had I fought and worked so hard for, if it was all just... gone, either way, win or lose? And who's to say that anything I start to care about now isn't just going to disappear again in much the same way? To what end is... anything? I... in truth, I should not exist, Mister Everett. My body and ashkeeper alike should have been burned millennia ago. But here I am, and I want--desperately--to feel like there's a reason for that. I... haven't, yet."

"In the meantime... yes. I have been very lonely for a very long time. Can you blame me?"

---

¹ Literally "Those who flood the margins." There isn't an exact specific word for it in common, but it refers to that phenomenon when someone writes something like a list or a note, then realizes toward the end that the page is too small to fit the rest of the line, and so they start to write really small or at weird angles just to try to make the rest fit.

Marion was- abit lost
Well, not in the bad way, really! He knew is is on the ship and a ship is only that large, and even if Marion couldn’t tell the difference between all the clutter and barrels and all, he’s quite sure he’d find the room he came from again sooner or later. It seemed to be something he is rather used to by now, if his lack of concern is anything to tell by, that the young elf sometimes quite welcome a little detour and taking the long way round, and getting abit lost is just another happy little incident.

He explored some of the ship like this- the seasickness quite out and over by the grace of Everett holding the vessel smooth, Marion saw the water barrels before mentioned and had a little drink from it, and continued on. He had hear about songs of rum and sugar, and wondered which of the other barrels stored them- well he ought not to get ahead of himself now, and perhaps they would serve it beside the food. Now that his stomach was quite emptied, the little elf was getting somewhat peckish again.

It was then that the paper dragon found him.

“Oh- are you looking for me?”
Marion was quite utterly delighted at the little thing approaching him, and gently removed it from his head and cupped it in his palms- he looked at it closely and talked into it, hearing Everett’s voice come out of it. He didn’t know if it was two way or one, but he had always loved talking to small things like this.

“I’ve had a little explore down here while I was lost, and it was fun! Do you mean it’s time for me to go back- oh, can you give me some instructions?”

Everett listens to Beak closely, but maintains a non-threatening distance. He’s not really trying to pick a fight with the skeletal creature, not yet at least.

She confirms a few of his suspicions - or at least that’s what he believes - that Beak is an anomaly amongst her kind. That makes sense, and what she speaks of matches up with his own personal experience with such creatures.

It’s impressive though, that through some sort of fortuitous stroke of luck or some twist in the formulae arcanum that Beak has kept her wits and civility. Though, he can imagine it puts her in a much more challenging position. Being a mindless monster might be easier than living in the body of one but not having the mind of one.

She speaks of what she has gone through, the loss, the grief, the fear, and the loneliness. He can’t help but empathize with her. They’re not too different in the misfortune they have experienced, and he more than knows what it’s like to want to find some purpose and reason to move forward despite the unique challenges they must now live with.

He shakes his head. “No, I cannot blame you.” He gestures to one of the chairs as he takes a seat himself while picking up the broken compass from the table.

“It’s difficult being a survivor. The tragedy we experience, whether we remember it or not, it changes us. Those changes can feel impossible to overcome. Even when you’re on a path to healing, you never fully lose the scars. In a way, I am fortunate because I am not haunted by the memories of whatever tragedy befell me, but because of that I do not know what parts of me I’ve lost and it’s left me searching for purpose too.”

His gaze drops to the shattered glass face of the silver compass. As far back as he can remember, it’s always been this way, providing no direction for him to look towards. It’s useless and broken. He wasn’t so that long ago that the same could be said about himself. It’s through the generosity and kindness of others that he’s managed to keep moving forward. No doubt Beak just needs someone to do the same for her.

He looks back up to her vacuous, empty eyes. The challenges she faces with finding her purpose are different than his, but in this crazy world full of weirdos, there has to be a place where and people who will accept her just as he has been accepted.

“The world is vast. You’ll find your reason in time. And with young Marion around I don’t think you’ll need to worry about feeling lonely again.” He offers Beak a gentle smile. “He wouldn’t allow it.”

Down in the lower decks of the ship, the little origami drake flutters in Marion’s hand when its picked up off the young man’s head.

Its little jaw opens once more and the voice narrates once more.

“Away! Away! The seagull cried. Seek beyond that endless horizon, towards Solaria’s dwindling light. Cast off thine shadows and Lunala’s loving embrace, for she is quick to cast ye into Salina’s depths to drown in misery and torment.”

Everett likely assumed that that little creature would be at least slightly helpful. Perhaps he misjudged the quality of help it would actually provide. 

So.

Very.

Helpful.

The skeletal figure isn't quite comfortable enough to have a seat yet, but she is leaning heavier and heavier on that makeshift walking stick, Everett's words lifting at least most of the tension from the air. At the very least, Beak knows that she's not about to get attacked, put down like some monstrous abomination, as would likely happen were she back among her own people in this state.

She does tilt her head quizzically at the broken compass, her face... well, of course it's not betraying any obvious expression; it's a skull. But the tilted head does at least imply curiosity, that she's drinking in every detail she can as her gaze remains affixed to the device.

"... Mister Everett," she finally offers, her "voice" now lower, more solemn... but also more... open, somehow. Warmth? Compassion? "My people... we... they... we?" It's obvious that she seems to have some trouble with the notion of whether she still counts as one of them at this point. What's less obvious is why, especially if Beak and Everett are not talking about the same type of creature as much as each believes they are. "... My people believed in the great book. That every life in our clan had their names written in the book beyond the stars, a chapter for their life and their deeds, and an ashkeeper to commit everything to its celestial pages when the time came that their stories ended."

"... What I am saying is that we placed a rather high value on remembrance. I mourn a lost people whom no one else will, and you... don't know what it is you mourn. But...." Again she looks at the compass, pondering. "I would hear more of your story, if you would hear more of mine. In telling, there is... well, at the very least, the dead get a little less lonely." A wry, somewhat world-weary... not a smile, not physically of course, but the sort of... equivalent mood... the mental image of a wry, world-weary smile, broadcast in that same telepathic channel as her words.

"Though... not all cultures treat tragedy as mine did, I'm sure. If you'd rather not share, then I certainly won't pry. Either way, I've said this before in regards to your lodgings, but I mean it all the more now: Thank you, kind sir, for your hospitality."

"Away, away! The white gulls are calling~"
Now Marion was sure that he is not talking to Everett- the man did not talk like this at all. Or he could be under a curse of only being able to talk in... convoluted flourishes of words, maybe it's a side effect of certain magical items, like this one. Or it could just be the little paper dragon talking and itself likes to speak in convoluted flourishes of words. Either way, Marion was rather amused and is happy to go along with it- again, he was not in a hurry.

The elf thought briefly to Everett and Beak, before deciding that these two would be totally fine together, since they are both pretty nice people- and he wondered what they would talk about. Maybe about his travels? Oh, oh, maybe about sunken treasure and legends of flooded cities- for all they knew it could have been what Beak had been searching for!

Quite optimistic (perhaps abit overtly so, but his mood is much brighter now he isn't feeling so seasick anymore), Marion put the little drake back on top of his head once more, between the flowers and leaves woven into those golden locks, and asked it where he should go now.

"I will not say no to learning more about you. Compared to other Bog-a-boos I have met, you are surprisingly civil."

The last time he encountered an undead skeleton thing from the swamp was not a pleasant experience. It does keep him at least a little weary of Beak, but he hasn't detected any indication that she wishes to harm anyone. The other Bog-a-boo he ultimately ended up fighting was a lot more obvious about its intentions and bloodlust. 

"I'm afraid my story is quite short. I only remember the past year. Anything beyond that is clouded in a thick metaphorical fog." 

A fog he's tried to delve into a few times, but never really discovered any clarity hidden by the swirling mists. 

"I don't even know why that compass is sentimental," he gestures to the compass and then his missing arm, "or how I lost my arm. I just know that it's important and that losing my arm wasn't recent."

The list of what he knows is very short compared to what he does not. It's frustrating at times, but every now and then he gets inklings that help guide him to something that just feels correct. Like saying out loud that his arm is not a recent loss just feels correct to him. He had considered fixing his compass at one point, but the mere thought of it made him sick to his stomach even though he isn't sure why. It's odd going through life relying so much on what he can only assume is instinct or muscle memory, it's his only explanation for how quickly using magic has come to him despite having no memories of ever studying it. 

Nevertheless, Beak's story about her people's beliefs does explain the odd sense of compassion he feels in her words. It must be very strange for her to come across someone who has no story, or who is missing many pages of it. Odd how the world brings people together in such coincidental ways.

"You're welcome. I believe in first chances, and I know what its like to not be given even that much because people can be quick to judge. Though I will not pretend that my struggles are equivalent to yours. People just look at me and think I'm not capable, they do not see a monster and immediately reach for a sword..." 

His gaze drops down to the compass and maps on the table. A particular island in the middle of an interior see stands out the most to him in this moment. The looping calligraphy next to it spelling out the name of the center of all of Charon, a bastion of defense and the highest seat of power in all the lands - Sol City. 

"Sol City will be dangerous for you and Marion. You do know that, right?"

He looks back at Beak, searching the vacant hollows where her eyes should be for any sign of understanding in vain. 

Back further below deck, the paper drake settles itself down in-between the various adornments in Marion's hair. It's clear the creature has few concerns about giving any useful directions as it goes on to quote yet another excerpt from something it has made a meal out of at some point in its existence.  

"The witch's delicate hands adorned with ill-gotten gold gesture towards the murk of the swamp. 'I know what ails you, what weighs heavy on your mind. Let me ease your suffering.' Her song is sweet, her words dripping in the flower of long dead flowers. Further into the dark forest she leads her prey with hollow promises and-"

"Oi."

A tall moon elf with intricate tattoos running down his neck and across his shoulders and chest appears from an open doorway which appears to lead to the crew's share quarters. He wears a sweat stained blouse that seems two sizes too large for his frame hangs loosely off one shoulders and is just barely tucked into the high waist of his dark brown trousers. His hair is not white, but a dull pewter in color and is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail that trails down his back. He looks tired, and if he wasn't clearly of elven descent would likely have a mean 5 o'clock shadow going on. Instead he just has some bags under his eyes which are a dark stormy grey.

He looks down at Marion with a look of skepticism, then raises his eyebrow when he spots the Book Wyrm on his head. "Who're ye an' wot are ye doin' down 'ere??"

Beak gives the captain a curious tilt of her head. "I'm.. sorry, did you say bog-a...." There... may be some sort of misunderstanding, here, she only very belatedly realizes. "What... forgive me if this sounds silly, but... what is a bog-a-boo? That's not... is that your people's word for the undead? As kakk nis darsak was ours?"

If so, then they have, in fact, been talking about the same thing. If not, then the reveal when Beak relents and pulls down her hood will be more of a surprise to him than she was expecting it to be.

When her hood was up, looking into those vacant eye sockets revealed only darkness, only shadow, like gazing into the night itself. Whether that is a simple trick of the lighting, the shadows the hood casts when up, or some other effect, even she isn't quite sure. However, whatever the source of the effect, it lifts the instant her hood is down. Now, it's easy to see deep into those eye sockets and see... the back of the skull on the other side. Completely hollow. Really, what makes the "unmasking"--if one could call it that--so dramatic is more a function of what isn't revealed than what is. There's no hidden face inside or behind the skull... the skull is no mask. It was never a mask. This... this is her, isn't it? A living, somehow-reanimated skeleton.

With her secret revealed, she adjusts her posture, too... gone is the hunched-over "old woman" act, and entire decades seem to lift off of her from the simple act of sitting up straight--why, she's every bit as fit as you are. To the extent a skeleton can be considered fit, anyway.

There's really only one actual feature that the hood was concealing: a set of large fins or frills on either side of her face that, based on how much color one can still infer from beneath the desiccated browns from whatever process... mummified? fossilized? ... preserved them, must have been utterly resplendent in life. Other than that, she looks like the skeleton of any average Lizardfolk from around the region... it's rather amazing that the hunch hid that so well.  Just an undead lizard... well, mostly.  Lizardfolk are far from uncommon, especially in the Marsh Flats, but those fins are a truly unique feature... or they at at least set Beak apart from any of the modern-day Lizardfolk she's ever seen, anyway.

"I... am old," she begins, her tale starting with a very obvious understatement. You don't say?

"Something like... three or four thousand years ago, was it? The Marsh Flats were... not a marsh. The floods came later, and what was once a gorgeous and thriving plain was flooded and lost."

"My people... we called ourselves the Ibekki. You... likely wouldn't have seen their names in any history books that I'm aware of. Believe me, I've looked. No, scribes tend to concern themselves more with the tales of kings and conquerors, of battles that changed history... of the important civilizations. Ours was but one simple tribe, from one small village, minding our own affairs for the most part."

"... We were invaded. A rival tribe, a neighboring village... somebody. I never learned who. I was a warrior. It was my sworn duty to protect my people. I fought the invaders... and I died."

"... And then I woke up again, roughly... oh, fifty years ago? And it was all just... gone. The Marsh Flats had taken its place.

"For a while, I never even learned who had won that battle after I'd been so rudely ejected from it. Perhaps the Ibekki had won, had held out, and were able to preserve their peace and their homes... and then the floods came, and everyone died or dispersed. Perhaps the Ibekki had lost, had been wiped out... and then the floods came, and everyone died or dispersed. No one seems to regard one small village as important enough to have any records, or even to care when I've offered to record my own accounts...."

"It... it felt like it was all for nothing. I died for my home, for my Gri'kka¹, and even so much as who won that battle was lost to me--to the world--until very recently. If you look up the history of Marsh Flats, you will see this description: That there used to be villages there, and then the plains flooded, and now it's a marsh. That's... it. That's all. Who those people in those villages were, what sorts of lives they led... gone. Irrelevant. As if none of it had ever mattered to begin with."

"That's... why I must confess I'm out of touch when it comes to the struggles with the day, as well. Suppose you get invested in who's sitting on the throne right now... suppose you get so worked up over that you fight and die for them, or against them, whichever. Will any of it matter four thousand years hence? What if we're once again fighting over who gets to sit in a pretty chair in some entire land whose days are numbered anyway?"

She tucks her frills against the sides of her head, then pulls her hood back up once more. It's... quite amazing, now that Everett has seen the effect in action, how a simple hood over her actual face can make it look like a mask, like there might be something living behind those hollow eyes.

"... Ah, but I didn't mean to drag you down or dissuade you from whatever it is you fight for, Mister Everett. The living have their struggles and I mean not to dismiss their validity. I'm sure it's... worth it... to someone.... Feh. pay no mind to an old woman who's seen too much." It would seem that when her hood is back up, the actually-quite-spry skeleton gets really into character as that crone persona.

"I think I just... want it all to have meant something. I want someone out there to care that our people were here, once. Who they were. I want someone to remember. And... I hope you find what it is you seek, as well. I... wonder which is harder? To be the only person left who carries something long forgotten, or being the only person who's forgotten.... You've my sympathies, regardless."

She shakes her head. "Ah, but listen to me, getting all sentimental. I'll be fine. Thank you for the warning, but I'm used to danger by now. My kind is... not popular, anywhere I go. Never has been. I imagine Sol City will be no different, save for there being more people to to hide from."

---

¹ "Chief," roughly.  The spiritual and political leader of the Ibekki people.

Under the deck, the young elf had no idea of what sort of conversation is going on between his two friends- right now he's faced with a sloppily dressed sailor that looks like he havent slept properly for weeks and that, frankly, is one of the hottest sort of people to ever exist on the face of the earth.

"Hullo! I'm Marion. I think my cabin is supposed to be here somewhere, but I seemed to be abit lost."

Waving to the other with a good-natured smile, Marion briefly stared abit at the man and opted to look away somewhat sheepishly.

"- I do want to find them again, though, Everett and Beak, I mean- this paper dragon is his, right? I think he is trying to guide me with it, but it doesn't really give clear directions."
He seemed abit nervous about it, thumb twiddling and all, but it seems like he decided to say it in the end.

"... You look quite beautiful in my eyes, good sir. If you will accept it, I wish to gift you a flower from my hair."
The young elf's golden locks are adorned with foliage and blossoms- Hollyhocks and pink Begonias for today, leaves and stem woven into his hair, which the little paper dragon sits admist.

Everett returns Beak's curious head tilt with one perplexed head tilt of his own. "Isn't that what you are?"

He isn't too surprised by Beak's appearance since he had already kinda guessed what she was, even if that guess was not accurate. Still, she is unsettling to behold especially when she stops hunching and is nearly tall enough to scrape the top of her skull on the ceiling. What's more surprising to him is the lack of any plantlife holding the skeleton together and acting as muscles - a very key feature of all Bog-a-boos from what he knows.

"Uh, I'm not sure the origins of the name, but it is an undead skeletal-like creature that is found in the Marsh Flats. I just assumed you were one of them...oh Gods, I'm sorry. I hope I haven't offended you. I'm not well versed with all the different variety of undead and I just jumped to my best guess." 

He had just talked about the hardships of being judged by appearances and he had basically done the same to Beak, assuming she was an undead of the same variety to the ones he's faced before but just an outlier in how she's maintained her civility. He shouldn't have assumed, and now his reassurances to his nervous crew feel foolish in hindsight. He really doesn't know at all what Beak is or what she's capable of...

Luckily for him, his assumption has not deterred her from putting his mind at ease with the story of just what happened to her and her people. 

He listens closely to her words, her descriptions of what the land used to look like in a bygone era, her recollection of the events that lead up to her demise and the emotions of returning to some semblance of self after death. It's a lot to take in. He can't imagine how it must feel for her. 

"That's...quite the history you have...my condolences on your loss." 

He sits back in his chair a bit while Beak proposes a few hypotheticals around the passage of time and the futility of it all. It's not like such thoughts haven't crossed his own mind. After all, no one from his past has come looking for him...

"The people and the places you once knew are gone. That much is true. But I don't think your efforts were for nothing. When we don't try, we guarantee failure. When we try, we're fighting for a chance. Nothing is set in stone, no matter the odds. We have to pick our battles and weigh if we'd be content with outcomes should we choose not to fight. Even if the outcome is still not what you want, if you at least try then your frustration is more justified. At least, that's what I think."

He taps a finger against the map where the Marsh Flats appears. 

"You have a chance to give it meaning again. A chance to get people to care about your people and their history. You carry all that knowledge and history with you. You just need to decide if you're going to try to find those who will listen. I think, even though you know it will be difficult, deep down you know you want to." 

Or maybe not that deep down. Beak is a skeleton after all. Not much deeper to go than bone deep. 

"You've already made some headway. Marion would probably be more than happy to help. And I can take some time to think about what else you could try. The Consortium and the Mage's Guild might be worth reaching out to about sharing your knowledge and having it properly recorded. The biggest hurdle of course if convincing them that you're not a threat to anyone." 

And that certainly is not a small task in itself. 

Meanwhile, the conversation between Marion and one of the crew continues as Marion introduces himself. 

"Elleon," the sailor responds with a nod. "So, yer the one the captain was talkin' about." He eyes Marion up and down. "He wasn't kiddin' that yer like if sunshine could be bottled an' walk around talkin'." 

His eyes drift up to the Book Wyrm on the young man's head. "Aye, its name's Scribbles. Usually lives in the captain's spell book. Good luck decipherin' anythin' it says. Just quotes books from what I know."

Marion's words evidently catch the slob of a sailor off-guard as his pale blue skin significantly darkens and takes on a more purple-ish hue around his ears and cheeks. The flush to his face betrays how he tries to keep his aloof and don't-care attitude.

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "Er, well, whatever ye want ta do I won't stop ye... unless ye make a mess that I 'ave to clean up. Don't do that." 

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he does tidy himself up tiny bit by properly tucking the bottom of his shirt around the waist of his trousers. He also reaches down behind the frame of the door and pulls a pair of weathered leather boots out from under a bunk and pulls them onto his feet. 

"I can lead ye back up to yer quarters," he offers as he stands back up, careful not to hit his head on the top of the low door frame. "Easy ta get lost down 'ere if you ain't familiar with ships." 

The skeleton... well... she can't exactly smile; she's a skeleton. But when she uses that same telepathic channel through which she sends her words to broadcast her emotional cues, a similar effect is achieved. For a moment, one can look upon that same unmoving skull of hers and imagine it smiling.

"No offense taken at all, Mister Everett. It... was a good guess, in truth? I am an undead skeletal-like creature found in the Marsh Flats, technically." A soft chuckle, then her tone turns more serious.

"To the extent there are different varieties of undead, I... actually don't know what I am. All the more reason I don't mind the bog-a-boo assumption; that at least would have been an answer." A dry, weary chuckle, the kind one hears from a downtrodden soul who's learned to laugh because it's that or cry. "When I say I woke up around fifty years ago, I mean... I just woke up. It felt exactly like sleep, like the way time passes from night to the next morning. I took mortal wounds, closed my eyes... and woke up, millennia later."

"The nature of my resurrection has been something of a puzzle to me ever since. It's... usually some necromancer trying to make a bone minion, is it not? Or a walking corpse or a... a bog-a-boo, I suppose? Something with no free well of its own, something where the soul has moved on but someone or something else is using the body for its own ends... but... I'm still me. No one was there to give me orders when I rose. I just... woke up. Why? That's... perhaps the other reason I seek purpose. The hopeful belief that there's perhaps some reason I'm still here."

"And... you're right. Perhaps I'm to make that reason. I'm... not the best choice, if the gods wished to raise someone from my tribe in order to make sure our legacy was preserved. They should have picked our Gri'kka... a shaman... a healer... someone who actually knew all the lore and traditions I wish I could pass on. I was a warrior. A guard. "Dumb muscle," I believe is the expression one uses these days? But... I can still... try, I suppose...."

Another psychic smile-equivalent. "Thank you, Mister Everett. You are as wise as you are kind."

So Marion reached behind to loose up part of his braids, taking the layered bloom of a Begonias- The other was too tall for him to put it behind his ear, but he tiptoed, and slipped its stem through one of the thread-rings of his blouse, near the chest.

"Thank you- I would very much love that. Do you know how Scribbles came into being, though? It's just such a fascinating little creature- You quote books, he says? I wonder how many books you know. Do you like reading, or do you fold them into yourself?"

Seeming quite happy with himself and with a bounce in his step, Marion was as usual, curious- and he asked the latter part of his questions directed at the little dragon sitting atop his head.

"It talks in Everett's voice too. Does it borrow voices from other people, or does it mimic it? I have heard stories about fae stealing a voice, but I have met and got to tread a fae to dinner- well, he is very different from you or me, and he eats regular food just for fun but needs to eat mana to be satiated- but he is rather a charming fellow, very straight to the point and no beating around any bushes- so, I mean, those stories may be true but only to a certain extent, I suppose?"

"Hm." Everett puzzles over the information Beak has shared with him. "I'm not very familiar with how necromancy works, but I do think that you are an exception to the rule of how they normally work. If all undead were as reasonable as you, I don't think that people would be so eager to see them destroyed."

Certainly there would be more outrage about the eradication of undead if most of them were capable of such civil conversation rather than just rattling, groans, and god forsaken screeches. If it were more commonplace, you'd think there would be more stories of others like Beak. 

"Sometimes the responsibility for thing falls on the shoulders of not those who are best suited for the job, but those who have the potential to rise to the challenge. Maybe it's your fortitude that has played a part in your revival." 

He can't say for certain how or for what reason Beak is in the predicament she is in. No doubt the expertise of those more well-versed in necromancy and undead creatures may provide more insight. Perhaps he should bring it up to Lady Calyptra next time their paths cross. 

"You're welcome. We should probably go find young Marion," Everett suggests as he rises to his feet and gestures back towards the doors. "I was expecting him to find his way back to us by now. Hopefully he hasn't gotten stuck in something." 

Speaking of which, Elleon stands there a bit awkwardly as Marion tucks the flower into his shirt. It's too early in the day for this level of unexpected weirdness for him, even if it is well past dawn.

Once Marion starts chitchatting, Elleon steps around them and waves for the young elf to follow, preferring to talk and walk rather than risk lurking about where the rest of the crew might start getting odd ideas. 

"Magic, I think," he replies to Marion's question. "Captain is a mage, pretty powerful one at that. Even if ye won't find 'im braggin' 'bout it. Got 'is voice either cause 'e made it or cause it's bonded ta 'im. 'aven't 'eard it talk in anyone else's voice." 

Scribbles opens its little paper mouth. "'Doth mine eyes deceive me? 'Tis it not the sun and the moon that hang in the sky side by side? Opposites yet sharing the sky all the same.' The bard chimed in with a glimmer of starlight in his eyes." 

"I wouldn't pay it much mind," Elleon warns as he glances over his shoulder at Marion while ducking under a low support beam. "Nothin' it says makes a lick of sense." 

"My fortitude, you say...."

She certainly doesn't seem like the most impressive candidate as far as where she currently stands. She was never educated by the standards of her own people, to the point that someone who'd never heard of them before--someone like Everett--would have just as much right to call himself Gri'kka as Beak herself would at this point. She was a warrior, and... even as a warrior, she had but one job to do and she failed. She lost, she died, and so did everyone she tried to protect.

But... she's still here. Stars only know why, but she's still here, and she's still... at least looking at the prospect of bringing honor back to her people like a long-term project rather than something that's just completely hopeless and futile. It will be a long journey, but....

Fortitude. Hmm.

She gives Everett and agreeing nod before standing up, making sure her hood is on correctly, reapplying her feigned "old woman" hunch--the others outside this room still don't know, after all--and resumes leaning on that walking stick she clearly doesn't actually need. "Yes... Marion," she says, her voice somehow already sounding more crone-like than before. Is that the perception, the inner voice one applies to the telepathic signals from someone like her after she so changes her appearance, or does she genuinely have an impression, like a phony accent she slips on and off as easily as her hood? Or is the difference all just semantics, anyway?

"Where did he run off to, anyway? It shouldn't have taken him that long, unless...." Oh. He got lost. Of course he got lost. That lines up perfectly with what she knows about him.

“Oh, it’s rather cute, tho, and I like the quotes. There is a whimsy to hearing snatches of books with all their flourishing talk- good for thought sometimes, and a whimsy of dancing impromptu in your walk.”

At that, he skipped and did a little twirl. The stuff Marion wears on him often more resembles a short nightgown more than anything else, and the soft fabric flared out like a flower when he moved like that- which ended with a little stumble at the end, but he catches himself quickly with a giggle.

“Flowers and music and dance and poetry, I mean- you decorate your walls with art, your time with music, and there is always time for a little wondering about what the book dragon is trying to say.”
The two walked through the bowels of the ship, and Marion followed, always with something to ask or something to share- but a ship was not that large, and soon they reached the cabin that Everett had allocated to the two travellers, except Everett and Beal was nowhere to be found.

“Where’d you reckon they went off to? I wasn’t away for so long they’d go looking for me… right?”
The young elf went in and took Idun into his arms again, and looked about concerned about that idea.