Chapter Eight: Songs, Stories, and Swinging Fists

The sun crept over the horizon, casting a golden glow across the deck of the Whimsical Wave. Niklaus stretched his arms overhead, groaning as his muscles protested from the previous day's excitement. The tang of salt and mana-rich air filled his lungs, invigorating him despite the lingering soreness. He blinked blearily at the bustling deck, his fingers already drumming against his thigh, eager to dive into the day.

"Another glorious day at sea," Cindershard quipped from his side, the blade's voice laced with dry amusement. "Ready to charm the crew with your 'legendary' dance moves again?"

Niklaus chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "If my dancing doesn't sink the ship, I'd call that a win." His grin widened as he scanned the deck, spotting sailors hauling ropes, scrubbing planks, and adjusting sails with practiced ease. The rhythmic clatter of the ship's rigging mixed with the creak of timber, creating a melody that thrummed in his chest.

Determined to pull his weight, Niklaus jumped into the fray. He helped haul ropes, his hands slipping slightly before finding a firm grip. The rough fibers bit into his palms, grounding him in the moment. His restless energy found an outlet in the physical work, though his mind still flitted from one thought to another like a hummingbird on a sugar rush.

As the morning wore on, Niklaus's natural charm took over. He swapped jokes with the sailors, weaving tall tales that had them roaring with laughter. "Did I ever tell you about the time I outwitted a sea serpent with nothing but a spoon and a well-timed wink?" he declared, leaning against a barrel with an exaggerated flourish.

"A spoon, you say?" one grizzled sailor guffawed, wiping tears from his eyes. "What'd you do, feed it soup?"

"Precisely!" Niklaus shot back, grinning. "Turns out, sea serpents can't handle spicy broth."

The crew's laughter was infectious, warming Niklaus from the inside out. He thrived in the camaraderie, his fidgeting hands finding rhythm in the work and the stories. By midday, he had learned half the crew's names and more than a few of their secrets.

After lunch—a hearty stew that tasted suspiciously like the sea—Niklaus pulled out his fiddle. The sailors gathered around as he tuned the strings, the familiar weight of the instrument settling comfortably in his hands. He launched into a lively tune, the notes dancing through the air like sparks from a fire.

Soon, he led the crew into the familiar chorus of "Drunken Sailor," their voices rising with each verse:

"What shall we do with a drunken sailor, What shall we do with a drunken sailor, What shall we do with a drunken sailor, Early in the morning?"

The sailors stomped and clapped, their energy infectious as they belted out suggestions, from "Shave his belly with a rusty razor" to "Put him in the longboat until he's sober." The song's rhythm matched the sway of the ship, keeping spirits high as they worked. Niklaus felt the mana in the air hum with the music, weaving through the notes and lifting the mood even further.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the deck, Niklaus found himself leaning against the rail, watching the waves roll by. The day's laughter lingered in the air, but a familiar restlessness gnawed at him. He needed more than music to shake off the lingering tension from the previous day's fight.

That's when he spotted Jarek, a burly sailor with arms like tree trunks and a grin that could split a log. Niklaus had heard whispers of Jarek's past as a champion boxer in some far-off port. The idea sparked a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Hey, Jarek!" Niklaus called, pushing off the rail with a bounce in his step. "Fancy a friendly spar? I promise not to bruise your ego too badly."

Jarek's booming laugh echoed across the deck. "You've got guts, bard. I'll give you that." He cracked his knuckles, his grin widening. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

The crew gathered, forming a loose circle around the makeshift ring. Niklaus bounced on the balls of his feet, his energy crackling like a live wire. His heart raced, but it wasn't fear—it was the thrill of the challenge.

The first few rounds were lighthearted. Niklaus danced around Jarek's powerful swings, his nimble footwork and quick reflexes keeping him just out of reach. He threw in playful jabs, laughing as Jarek swatted them away like flies.

But as the match wore on, something shifted. Niklaus felt himself slipping into that hyper-focused state, the world narrowing to the space between him and Jarek. His movements became sharper, more precise. He dodged a heavy punch with a swift sidestep, countering with a well-placed jab to Jarek's ribs.

The crew's cheers faded into the background as Niklaus lost himself in the rhythm of the fight. His body moved instinctively, a blend of the martial arts of Lupé and the fluid grace of someone who had learned to channel his restless energy into something powerful. His strikes were quick and deliberate, his footwork a seamless dance of balance and speed.

Jarek grunted, shaking his head with a grin. "You're full of surprises, bard."

Niklaus winked, his breath coming in steady pants. "I aim to entertain."

The final round ended with both of them laughing, sweat streaming down their faces. Jarek clapped Niklaus on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

"You're not half bad, kid," Jarek said, his voice warm with respect.

"And you hit like a runaway cart," Niklaus replied, grinning through the ache in his ribs.

As the crew dispersed, still chuckling over the unexpected match, Niklaus felt a deep sense of satisfaction settle over him. The day had been filled with laughter, music, and camaraderie—and for the first time in a while, he felt truly at ease.

That night, as he collapsed into his hammock, the gentle sway of the ship lulling him toward sleep, Niklaus couldn't help but smile. The journey to Talinor was far from over, but for now, he was exactly where he needed to be—surrounded by friends, laughter, and the endless promise of adventure.

Before sleep claimed him, he found himself recounting some of the sailors' tales. He'd heard of the Selkies—the seal-folk from the northern isles who could shed their skins and walk as humans—and of the ghost ship that roamed the Southern Sea, its cursed crew forever bound to the waves. As he drifted off, he wondered how much of those stories were true… and whether he'd soon have a few of his own to share.