The deal got hammered out, but not without some friction.
"One ship," Vaelros said, fingers tented on the table like he was praying over cards. "Twenty crew max. I want names on every one of 'em. No hired blades. No drifters with tabs running in every harbor."
Guildmaster Dorian Vaskyr scowled into his cup. "That's barely enough hands for a trip like this."
"I'm not gearing up for battle. I need quiet. Folks who won't flap their gums. And room to breathe."
Dorian leaned back, giving his wine a lazy swirl. "And this... breathing space. You're warding her, right?"
"Yeah."
"With what, exactly?"
"Shields. Toughness. A bit of haste."
The Guildmaster's eyes sharpened. "No blood rites."
Vaelros kept his tone even, steady. "I don't touch blood. No spirit chains. No midnight goat slaughters. My work's straightforward. Built on purpose, nothing else."
Dorian let out a bark of a laugh. "Magic's never straightforward. It leaves marks."
"Only if you're fumbling in the dark."
They locked eyes, the room thick with it. Then Dorian blew out a breath. "Alright. But once you're done, I poke around myself. Anything smells off, we're done."
"Deal."
Ten days on, the ship's prepped.
She's a sharp little number, the Ashen Gale dark hull, built for slipping through shadows. Sails a muted gray, figurehead this coiled serpent with wings tucked like knives. The crew Dorian rustled up? Solid types, kept to themselves, just wary enough to not pry too deep.
Vaelros hit the deck at first light, boots off, brush in one fist, jar of silvery goop in the other. The stuff caught the dawn glow ground pearl, resin from ghost nettles, and a bead of his own sweat mixed in. No blood. Just grit and focus.
He took his time, daubing symbols down the hull, up the masts, over the rudder. Each one sparked quick, then melted into the grain, gone like fog on a window. Barriers against weird magic. Braces for the keel when things got rough. Up front, a mark to catch the wind, make her fly.
Captain Raveth Marr wiry, gravel-voiced, eyes like brewing thunder eyed him from the quarterdeck, arms folded tight.
"What's that one for?" she grunted, jerking her chin at a fresh spiral by the anchor.
"Blocks prying eyes," Vaelros said. "We slip off the map. Harder to tail."
"And that?"
"Keeps her steady. If the waves start acting up."
She snorted. "You make the sea sound like it's got a mind."
He glanced her way. "It does. Especially out there."
Dorian showed midmorning, two shadows in tow and a flask of spiced rum dangling from his belt. He hung back, watching Vaelros scratch away, then finally piped up.
"You're sketching phantoms."
"More like laying down laws," Vaelros shot back. "Ship'll follow 'em. The rest of the world's another story."
Dorian arched a brow. "This isn't some blood trick, is it?"
Vaelros waved the brush. "Ink, salt, bones of intent. That's it."
The Guildmaster climbed aboard, trailed fingers over the rail. "Feels ordinary."
"Good. Till it ain't."
Raveth sidled closer. "You're not planning to make her sprout wings or slither like an eel, are ya?"
Vaelros cracked a grin. "Only if we're going under."
Come dusk, the wards were set. Crew started stowing gear jerky, barrels of water, pickled odds and ends, plus those crates of tomes Vaelros wouldn't leave behind. The Ashen Gale bobbed easy in her slip, but the air had a buzz now. A tightness humming in the planks.
Magic, knotted into wood and canvas.
Vaelros lingered at the bow, staring into the fading light. Behind him, the Guildmaster and Captain muttered low, voices edged with doubt.
They didn't get it. Not yet.
But they would.
Soon enough..
[ his dragon has been picked out it would be the purple one and he will have a pet a familiar Komodo dragon basically the only magical thing that's is going to be about it is that is will grow big like a almost to the size of a Dire Wolf but smaller obtain this at the same place he would grab his egg have other eggs of the Komodo dragon but they are not his familiar but he will have a bond to them enough like skin changing]