Perx’s Backstory

  I woke up being dragged from my hiding spot by a man whose breath could strip paint. The ODL—Order of the Dawn's Light, those self-righteous paladins—were after me for some jewelry I'd liberated. Their security was terrible, full of holes. A ship leaving Takatari looked like my best way out, so I stowed away.

  "Well what have we here? A little stowaway got aboard!" The sailor grabbed my collar and hauled me toward the main deck, gripping my arm hard enough to bruise. "Let's see what the captain has to say about this. I hope you can swim, little Elfling, because the big man don't like to keep strays and we're a ways off shore!"

  He dumped me on the deck in front of the captain—a scarred man with a poorly-maintained beard and an absurdly bright yellow feather in his hat. The scowl on his face told me everything I needed to know about my immediate prospects. I stood and met his eyes. Years of dealing with my father had taught me not to show fear when someone was sizing you up for a beating.

  "What's your name, little Elfling?"

  "My name is..." I considered my options. Giving my real name might get me sent back to my father, which meant more beatings. Unacceptable. "My name is Tolis. Tol. And I'm a Half-Elf."

  "Well, Tolis-tol the Half-Elf, you're in luck. We lost our last cabin boy just recently, so the position's open. You interested, or would you rather swim home?"

  "Sure," I said, already calculating how to survive this. "What happened to the last boy?"

  The captain leaned in with a nasty grin. "Well, we're in a dangerous line of work. The little turd got himself stabbed in the gut, and we tossed him overboard so's we wouldn't have to hear him screaming no more."

  That's how I became Tol, then later Captain Steelsilk, The Stalking Seaman—different names for different situations, all designed to keep the authorities confused about who I actually was. Over thirty years, I killed more people than I care to count, sank dozens of ships, and drank enough rum to destroy a normal liver.

  The Matalis Ocean made piracy easy. Between the creatures, the storms, the wildshard effects, and the general chaos, plenty of ships went missing for perfectly natural reasons. Made it simple to hide our activities. Too much notoriety draws the Luminous Fleet's attention, which is why I changed names regularly. The Fleet's claims about how many pirates they've killed are probably exaggerated by half—most of us are just enjoying retirement somewhere sunny.

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  I was one of them until recently. Two years ago, I started questioning the path I'd taken. Wondering if things could have been different if I'd made other choices.

  The past two years have been surprisingly quiet. I had enough saved to buy a small place and pay for magical instruction. Moved to Candibaru on the Andovarran mainland and joined the Mage's Guild—which honestly surprised me as much as anyone. They probably accepted me so they could keep an eye on me rather than because they thought I had talent, but membership is membership. I even met the Archmage once, though I doubt he remembers it. The irony isn't lost on me—after years avoiding their detection spells, now I'm one of 'em.

  But wizardry has its limitations. The magic itself is fascinating, and the capabilities are impressive, but I miss the sea. At first, research kept me occupied, but lately I've found myself thinking about the roll of a ship on waves, the snap of canvas catching wind, even the peculiar camaraderie that develops when everyone's survival depends on working together. I miss being able to curse properly, too. Mages are far too concerned with shutting that down.

  What I don't miss—and I need to be clear about this—is killing people. My body count is higher than it should be for any one person, and I've decided that doing some good makes more sense than adding to that number.

  During my studies at the Guild, I've become increasingly fascinated by the theoretical constraints of teleportation magic—specifically the well-documented failure of such spells across significant bodies of water. The problem presents a complex interplay of arcane energies, elemental resistances, and dimensional mathematics that most practitioners have simply accepted as an immutable law. I disagree, and my decades navigating the Matalis Ocean have provided me with a unique perspective.

  My hypothesis, developed through extensive analysis of both classical texts and firsthand observations, centers on wildshards—those fragments of the Eye of Eternity that fell predominantly into the Matalis Ocean during the Wildstorm Apocalypse. Most wizards attribute teleportation failure to a simple "water blocks magic" principle, but this is a reductive oversimplification that ignores empirical evidence. After all, water-based magic functions perfectly well.

  Having spent considerable time sailing the Matalis, I've observed that wildshards embedded in the oceanic depths create what I've termed "dimensional resonance ripples." These ripples propagate through water at a frequency that precisely counteracts the dimensional folding process inherent to teleportation magic. This isn't coincidental—the wildshards were once part of the Eye of Eternity, a cosmic body that likely traversed countless dimensions before its destruction.

  My research suggests that conventional teleportation spells fail because they attempt to overcome this resonance directly, which is mathematically impossible given the concentration of wildshards in major bodies of water. However, by studying the temporal anomalies created by the Wildstorm Apocalypse, I've identified a different approach: harmonic synchronization.

  I've been developing a novel spell that doesn't try to overcome the wildshard resonance but instead synchronizes with it, using the wildshards' own dimensional frequencies as a carrier wave for teleportation. The spell incorporates a "wildshard harmonic matrix" that temporarily aligns the caster's magical signature with the unique dimensional properties of the wildshards themselves. In theory, this would allow one to "ride" the natural dimensional fluctuations created by the wildshards rather than fight against them.

  Initial small-scale tests using wildshard fragments I've collected show promising results, though scaling up presents considerable theoretical challenges. If successful, this approach would revolutionize maritime travel, commerce, and rescue operations—particularly in the notoriously dangerous Matalis region.

  If I could find a vessel willing to accommodate a somewhat reformed pirate with an experimental teleportation breakthrough, I might return to sea—this time as both sailor and scholar. After all, what better laboratory for testing water-based teleportation than the open ocean itself?