20th of Searing, Year 4622
It was a beautiful day. The sun gleamed in the sky above them, unobstructed by clouds. Wind flowed from one side of the Amoras to the next, colliding with the walls of the cities and towns that fortified themselves against Lotheric and his perpetually gathering storm. Alistair's eyes spanned out towards the distance, one foot hanging from the wooden deck as he clung to a pillar meant to anchor smaller boats. For five nights, he had been hunting a mage by the name of Lorkund, a Druskan who frequently privateered across the Amoras and even the Vinasir, called upon by the dissidents of an old Vethcairn tribe.
Alistair had pursued him from Genteven's coast, only for him to narrowly evade him and be blocked by a storm -- torrential rain that battered the fields and waterways of the Northern Marches, forcing the Griscian man to flee. He continued his pursuit down the riverbed the coming morning, finding remnants of him; dead and battered souls along fishing villages, whispers from husbands, children and wives too horrified to speak every detail.
He had no particular moral imperative in pursuing him, even still, but it certainly lessened any hesitation he might have had. There was no rationality in senseless brutality -- much of it did not even score him favors, prestige or gold. It was as if he existed, and thrived, for the purpose of being loathed.
When the sun fully rose, Alistair set out onto the water of the Amoras. He jumped onto the surface of the river, manipulating the water to let him stand on its surface with Sway. Then, beginning to walk forward, the liquid began to shift and cycle around his feet, the Risen manipulating the tide with Skiff so that he could skate across its surface at a rapid pace. He set off shortly after, jetting across the water's surface, his speed picking up until he was far exceeding that of the vessels that moved across its breadth, trading luxuries and necessities from waterfront to city dwelling. Alistair wore only a pair of trousers that fell shortly beneath his knees, the sun glaring down on his back, the wind embracing his skin as it rolled across. Water constantly sprayed from the river against his form, though he remained unbothered by it. He was used to that sensation, by now.
The sun rose high into the sky, an hour passing, then two. Finally -- eventually -- the Sunderer found his prize, another Risen skimming along the edge of a broad galleon, slinging thick shards of ice that impaled through the hull. He clung too closely to the ship to be struck by cannon-fire, and the rocks and furnishings flung by the men on deck did little to dissuade him; he strafed out of the way, pulling people off of the ship's edge with water that dragged them into the deep. A Risen was strongest at sea, and Lorkund made that known. He was, on his own, superior to the vessel that he assailed, and all of the men aboard.
Alistair fired a torrent of water at the Druskan, hitting him in the back and forcing him into the water from the pressure. He lost his footing and sunk beneath the surface, only to swim forward and quickly re-emerge closer to the mage. Lorkund gathered tendrils around him, limbs of water that the other quickly matched, each mage conjuring four before sending them out to wrestle one another. As their tendrils fought for supremacy, the Griscian skid forward on the water, rushing toward Lorkund and throwing a punch that materialized a block of ice, flung forward by the force. The Druskai dodged, reversing fluidly around the motion and striking forward with a horizontal whip of water. Blocking with his forearms, which he coated in water, the half-Orkhai grunted and closed what distance remained, wrestling the other man and subduing him, the two of them submerging into the water together and disappearing from the sights of the crew above.
Moments later, the mage rose from beneath the tide, a Sunderscrap clutched within one hand while the other dangled the Druskai's head, lifting it up by his long dreads. He spat out saltwater that had gotten in through his nose, his nostrils flared as he processed everything that had just occurred. Alistair lifted himself onto the deck with a rising mound of water, dropping the dead pirate on the wood and landing on his knees. Pocketing the dead man's Sunderscrap, he looked up frantically at all of the sailors around him, and breathed.
"Give me a room," he demanded. No one seemed privy on defying him; the sailors, in fact, began to laugh at his directness.
"No full rooms available, I'm afraid," replied the captain. "I've got space in storage below deck, though. We'll sneak you a bed and you'll be nice and lonesome on your way to Genteven. Sound fair?"
"Sounds fair," he muttered. Alistair stood up, spitting out some more water and shaking himself off. Shirtless and drenched, he stepped down the stairwell leading to the cabins, quickly making his way below deck to recuperate so that he could wash himself off. Once there, he settled down on a wooden surface, creaking beneath his glutes as he breathed in and out.
"Damn," Alistair began to mutter, reaching into his satchel and pulling back out the Sunderscrap, shifting its angle to view it in different lighting. "You were a rough one, I'll give you that."
