I Only Tame Dragons

This ancient fortress-barge was created during an earlier era on Drakha. When a Valernian prisoner, a sky dwarf, earned the Dragonborn trust, she was allowed to design and build a Vaala-powered ship, which she later used to escape captivity.

Nobody knew what became of the engineer afterward, but the ship's presence here hinted at her horrible end.

The fortress-barge had been buried since the great battle that devastated the region where the Catacomb Reaches now lie and had remained buried and forgotten for eons, until now.

There were six arbalests mounted on the Warsled's deck, which may be rotated in any direction. Each arbalest as a stationary ranged weapon that could be operated by a single creature.

The weapon had a range of approximately 35/130 meters.

"We're out of the mounds, but we're trapped inside this thing," Horizon muttered.

The undead were closing in, their glowing eyes fixed on the immobile vessel.

Horizon's heart pounded in his chest as he loaded one of the spears into an arbalest, yanking the lever just as Rysamora had shown him.

The weapon hummed to life, releasing a powerful bolt that whizzed through the air, striking one of the undead dragons in the chest. The creature crumbled, but dozens more took its place.

Von worked quickly beside him, loading another spear and firing off a shot that took down another undead dragon. But it wasn't enough.

Rysamora stood at the helm. "Keep firing!" she shouted above the chaos.

Horizon could feel the tension in the air, the pressure mounting as the undead horde pressed closer. Each bolt they fired slowed the army's advance, but the Dracolich stood untouched, its hollow gaze locked on the Warsled, biding its time.

"Come on, come on," Horizon muttered through gritted teeth, desperately willing the ancient vessel to move, to do something — anything!

[QUEST! Get the Warsled moving. REWARDS: 5 AP, 100 gil]

The Warsled's hull groaned under the strain, energy pulsing brighter and faster now. Yet it remained anchored in place, a sitting target.

"Horizon, over here!" Von called, gesturing urgently toward one of the walls.

Horizon approached, his eyes tracing the cryptic runes etched into the stone. He couldn't make sense of any of it, but Von could.

"What does it say?"

Von's brow furrowed as he examined the ancient markings. "I can't decipher everything, but I've managed to piece together some of it. I'll tell you what I understand. This vessel — it's more than just a ship. It's a storage for raw magic, or what they call lifeforce . .

. Vaala. But over the millennia, the Vaala here became corrupted by necromantic energy from the Catacomb Reaches."

"So how does this thing work?" Horizon questioned.

"To activate it, the ship needs to be 'brought back to life.' The Vaala crystal that powers it must be fed — by the lifeforce of a living being. Someone has to touch the crystal and pour their Vaala into it. But—" Von's expression darkened.

"But . . . ?" Horizon didn't like the way this was going.

Von's voice grew more serious. "If we have mana in Eternia, the citizens here have Vaala. But only the original citizens carry enough of it."

"So we just need some native to touch the crystal, right?"

Von's face hardened. "Not just touch it. They have to sacrifice their entire lifeforce to power this thing."

"What?" Horizon's stomach lurched at the revelation.

"There are only a handful of people here with enough Vaala to make this thing fly."

Suddenly, a squad of Nix'udjar on flying mounts swooped down, shaking the Warsled violently.

"If we don't act fast, those creatures are going to tear us apart!" Atyan shouted at the others, powering another arbalest.

"But who has enough Vaala to power this thing?" Horizon asked.

"I'll handle it," Tulemo stepped forward, his voice calm.

Von immediately shook his head, his face etched with concern. "No, Tulemo. You can't. You're Vodgo's right hand."

Tulemo's expression remained steady, unwavering and determined. "I'm the only one here with enough Vaala to power this ship. I know how it works. And let's be honest . . .

I'm old. I can't fight like I used to. Linji has surpassed me in medicine, and my time has passed."

Von's face tightened in protest, but Tulemo stood firm, resolve shining in his eyes. "There's no use for me here anymore. This is the only way."

The air grew heavy as Tulemo's words hung between them, and the ship groaned beneath the weight of the decision.

Horizon and Von exchanged wary glances, uncertainty flashing in their eyes. Horizon's gaze shifted toward the others. Rysamora sighed heavily, knowing what was coming. Vodgo, too sick to protest, remained silent. Linji pursed her lips, while Atyan couldn't hide her satisfaction — a rival for leadership was about to be removed.

"Tulemo . . ." Von began, but Tulemo cut him off, his voice calm yet resolute.

"Horizon, Von," Tulemo addressed them both, his tone somber. "I know there's been tension between us, but I beg you — save the Amberskin. Save Vodgo."

Von's arms crossed, and glanced at the pale form of Vodgo before replying, "I didn't exactly volunteer to be on this ship. But here we are, so I don't have a choice here."

Tulemo forced a weak smile. "Then do what must be done." With a deep breath, he placed his hand on the Vaala crystal.

The moment his hand touched the crystal, a ripple of raw energy surged through the vessel. Tulemo's body convulsed as his Vaala — the very essence of his life — drained into the ship. His skin shriveled, his eyes sank, and in mere moments, his once-vital form became a desiccated husk.

But the ship awakened.

Runes flared to life, pulsing with a brilliance that mirrored Tulemo's sacrifice. His lifeforce had replenished the Warsled, and in return, the ship absorbed his spirit. His spectral presence, bound to the vessel, became the ship's undead helmsman. Whoever held a tether to the ship could now control it — his life, or what remained of it, forever linked to the Warsled.

Rysamora stepped forward, grasping the ship's controls. The vessel groaned and lurched as if shaking off the dust of centuries. Slowly, it began to move, sluggish at first, but then it gained momentum, accelerating to a steady speed of 12 miles per hour — fast enough to outrun the undead horde below.

But not the Dracolich.

As the Warsled picked up speed, Horizon spared a glance at the sky, spotting the Dracolich's ghostly form among the remaining flying units. His heart pounded, but for now, they had escaped the immediate threat.

A soft chime echoed in Horizon's mind. He had completed the quest and received his rewards, though he didn't have time to inspect them just yet. At least, for now, they were finally getting out of this cursed place.