Fickle stepped towards the mast, grabbing some the ropes whipping about in the Highstorms wind. Someone had forgotten to tie them down. Lightning roared in the distance, briefly lighting up the sky. Fickle leaned against the ropes, holding them taught before weaving them into a knot. Everything needed to be tied down, including the masts. One accident and the mast would be torn off the ship, leaving them stranded with the Reshi until they could get a new one.

None of the other ships captains would be helping them. If they couldn’t get to the Tai-na every morning, then that left one less captain to trade for the treasure. So it was slightly important that they tied the mast down. Fickle was whistling to himself as he moved around, grabbing the flying ropes and tying them down. For some odd reason he was always able to hear his voice, no matter how loud the Highstorm raged.

Reaching out to grab a particular rope, Fickle found it frayed. Cut. He looked around, There seemed to be a black figure lurking near the aft. Inky black. The figure seemed to be staring at him, though Fickle couldn’t see their expression, he shivered.

“You there!” He shouted, his voice swallowed by the storm.

The figure didn’t respond, only stared.

Fickle started walking towards the figure, reaching for the long knife at his waist. He ducked under his previous work, only to find they’d been cut as well, the ropes once again flapping aimlessly in the wind.

He almost didn’t feel the cut.

Fickle turned to look behind him, seeing three figures he thought he recognized. He glanced back at the aft of the ship. Nothing. The figure was gone. Fickle’s legs buckled as he received another stab.

His vision began to darken… he thought he saw some light… at the edge of his vision… Another stab. He didn’t feel it. Fickle covered his face with his arms, the glow slightly stronger.

Fickle braced for another stab. It didn’t come. Peeking through his arms he saw the figure. Black. They looked down at him, shaking their head.

————————

Fickle opened his eyes. Then immediately closed them. Everything seemed bright compared to the Highstorms darkness. Spheres pooled around him. Each one glowing with stormlight.

Fickle grabbed one, and was thrown out of his body.

The ship was a double masted sloop, swift when needed but with a large hold for trading. Sturdy enough to survive a highstorm. Yet blood was on its decks, seeping off onto the side.

Fickle let go of the sphere in shock, before grabbing another one.

Lifeless. The spirit was gone. The body, bleeding from stab wounds, was being lifted up, and thrown off the side of the ship. Sinking. Bubbles of air escaping as the lungs filled with seawater.

Fickle let go of that one too, shaking. What was happening? Was it a consequence of his deal with that Amian? That man had warned him there’d be consequences of his deal. He looked around frantically. Spheres were everywhere, Fickle wasn’t sinking for some reason though. And most importantly, 

There was the figure.

Fickle had a good look at him now. He wasn’t just wearing black or in a cloak. Everything was ink-black. Like a skin covered in tar, but smooth. The man—was he a man?—was holding a sword. Long like a shardblade, but elegant and clean. The same Jet-black color as his skin and clothes.

”What’s happening? Was that… Am I dead?” 

The figure paused before answering, “Maybe. Are you going to let you be?”

”No. I have work to do” Fickle responded.

”Good. You are, but only as long as you want to be.”

Fickle extended his hand and said, “Sorry, I didn’t get you’re name”

”I am Jet. A Spren is”

”What about me? That was my body that got tossed into the sea!”

”A cognitive shadow is.”

”What?” Fickle asked

”Your string to the physical is not. But the stormlight made you are”

Fickle glanced at the spheres at his feet. He could still tell which one was the ship he’d called home. “What happens now?”

Jet smiled, “Your physical string is not. But your influence still is”

“You mean… you mean I can still affect them even though I’m… dead?”

Jet reached down to grab a few spheres at their feet, before tossing them to Fickle. “This is”

A Diary. Fickle’s diary. Left sitting in his rucksack with the rest of his belongings. He could imagine every word. The book seemed to be in his mind. He remembered every bit he’d wrote. He could imagine continuing to write, his handwriting spreading.

Surprisingly, his words seemed to be appearing on the book. The image of the book in his mind changing to add those words to the blank pages. Fickle looked astonished at Jet, “I can still write? It’s actually happening?”

”It is”

Fickle shook his head in awe, thinking back to the first page of Diary. Where he’d written Axies’ promise

“A favor for a favor: bring me those five items and I’ll tell you what you want to know”

Fickle grinned, this was gonna be fun. He began to write. The words appearing in the book on Roshar.