#least he came round and built a boat to sail the seas

[gossip-girl-of-middleearth]

how're you doing today?

Craving the ocean and am currently making potentially consequential life plans to chase that good salty water

[lumosinlove]

Relic Keel

(Warnings in tags)

part i

Sirius woke up with the sun for one reason only. He wanted to see the far off, white sails of Lupin’s boat.

Some people came to Hogwarts Island for the yearly trade show in Helga. Some people came for the resorts. Some came for the waves, perfect for surfing. Some came for the history.

If Sirius hadn’t already lived there his entire life, he would have come for those white sails. But he’d always been here. This island didn’t let many go. Not even Lupin’s boat truly went. It always stayed in view, never even close to a dot on the horizon. Sirius only ever saw the tourists really leave. And they didn’t count. They were strangers.

Sirius pushed himself up from the mattress he’d dumped on the floor one day and never bothered with again, and glanced at Saint, who had fallen asleep on the porch hammock. A book was clutched to his chest. James got them for him, from the island bookstore or his father’s library. Anything he wanted. He even told Saint to keep them sometimes, but Saint never would.

“If I’ve read it, I’ve got it up here,” Saint would say. “I don’t need people asking questions about how I got them anyway.”

“Tell them the truth,” James would say. “I got them for you.”

Saint would just laugh. Everything about Saint was sunny, all the way down to his honey brown skin and bright smile, his golden hair and his amber eyes. Sometimes his laughs weren’t though. Sometimes things about Saint promised storms.

“Or one of the Gods,”—a Hollow word for Godric’s inhabitants— “could say I stole them,” Saint would always reply. “And it’d be all over from there for this St. Clair.”

St. Clair was the name given to all the kids of the island who didn’t have one. It was the name of Godric’s church and orphanage, and Saint Clair was the saint of the island. They thought they were doing a nice thing, giving orphans a name.

The Hallow called him Saint because he wasn’t one, though, and that was why Saint liked it. He wasn’t a St. Clair. He was no saint. No one was.

“Pretty fun,” Saint would laugh. “To be known for what you’re not.”

“Not to mention,” was another one of his sayings, “I get to go around telling all the people of the island that they can worship me in bed.”

Only Sirius knew his real name.

Hogwarts Island had four neighborhoods. Hot all year round, and just off the coast of Guadeloupe in the French territory of the West Indies Islands.

Your island paradise! said the sign on the main port dock in Rowena.

Sirius had spray painted that sign. More than once. Saint liked to replace the dice with site, just to freak people out a little. The tourists took pictures of it anyway, and then of each other. Zinc covered faces, or barely covered girls on spring break. It didn’t matter. They would all be gone in, at most, two weeks. Hogwarts was small, and the neighborhoods kept to themselves. Tourists were both a part of and outside the dynamic.

First, and northward, there was Godric. Money, money, money. Great manors lined the streets, built in the days of French occupation. They were still mostly filled with the old families—Potter, Lupin, McKinnon, Evans, Deveaux. Sirius always swore that more money went to these peoples’ golf courses and gardens and swimming pools than to food and water. It was also where the main hotels were. Griffin Beach was lined with villas and hotels and resorts, all either pointing outwards towards the endless ocean, or inwards, towards the pools and bars and Gryffindor Golf course.

In the western part of the island was Rowena. Rowena was where the island’s port was. It was where the tourists came in, only to get swindled into paying too much for crappy hotels, for their drinks, and for surfboard rentals.

To the East lay Helga. Anything anyone needed, they found it in Helga. Rows and rows of the finest craftsmen. Helga held the other part of Hogwarts’ main income. What the tourists didn’t cover, Helga’s treasures and their yearly trade show did. 

Finally, there was Salazar. The snake of the South, people called it, because it wound all the way out to the skinniest, most pointed part of the island. Salazar was equal part money and dirt. Salazar held more old families, more old money. The Montagues and Capulates, Saint liked to say, the Jets and Sharks. Lestrange, Carrow, Meadowes. Black. The houses, Gothic and looming and built within inches of each other, were the maze of the drug dealers. One quarter of it, at least. Normally, Sirius Black would have nothing but hatred for his home arrondissement, the one he hadn’t re-entered in almost seven years now, for fear of never escaping again, but Salazar had produced Dorcas, after all. And Dorcas was one of Sirius’ closest friends. Doras gave Salazar, if not a redeemable image, proof that it wasn’t a complete hell-hole. There were rarely any cross-over. Godrics stuck to Godric, Salazars to Salazar, and so on. Unless there was trouble.

But then there was The Hollow. It was a sliver of a place, right on the northern-most shoreline. Ironically placed beside Griffin Beach, just outside of Godric. A small slice of land dedicated to…no one really knew who. Runaways, like Sirius? Do-what-you-wants, like Dorcas? Godric-rich-boy-looking-for-a-thrill, like James? Or had you been born there, like Saint?

To the island, they were like the poor of Ancient Rome, slanting wood against the outside of the city’s walls for shelter. But it didn’t feel that way. Not to the people inside.

Some knew what they had done to end up there. Some didn’t. Everyone knew that was it though. You didn’t make it out of The Hallow. Saint liked to say that you had to make it in. Like some A-lister Godric club. A tangle of too low wires, stollen cable, junk yards and thatched, patched houses. More surfboards outside of houses than cars.

They called their little piece of wood leant against the Roman wall Grimmauld Place. Grim old place, in French. Sirius didn’t know why. It wasn’t grim to him. It had always been called that, forever, named by just another somebody that no one knew. A shelter, gorgeous and haphazard, built by different inhabitants over the years, that was half on the ground and half in the trees. Rope ladders, rope bridges. Spirals and spirals of it. Warm, hanging lanterns all the way up into the branches of the biggest oak tree Sirius had ever seen. Like fireflies. None of Godric’s window screen mania. You wanted the sun on your face, you wanted the ocean breeze, you’d deal with a few mosquitoes. Sirius knew that the sun, the sand between his toes, his friends, just a level below…it was worth it. He’d never forget the first time he’d seen it, Saint looking over the railing, much younger, and telling him to fuck off. He’d take it over the dark halls he had grown up in any day.

Sirius planted his feet on the floor and pushed himself up, going to the sink for a glass of water and so he could stare out the window some more. There it was. Sirius loved that boat. The sailor sailed it like they were trying to escape, too. Only, Sirius couldn’t think of a reason a Lupin would want or need to escape. He’d seen their house plenty of times, almost everyday when he went to work at the Potter’s. But that boat…it didn’t fit anything else about the Gods, except perhaps that they could afford it. Sirius loved that boat, he loved its billowing sails, and the looping script reading, Wolfsbane, its name, across the side.

The sky was just beginning to give up dawn, and Sirius wanted to be closer.

He put his glass down and shoved his feet into his flip-flops. Saint was closer to falling out of his hammock now, and dappled in the pale light between palm trees. Sirius gave the hooked fabric a kick, and Saint flailed awake.

“Fucker,” Saint said, one eye open and voice groggy.

“I can’t sleep,” Sirius said. “Let’s go do something.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.”

It was all Sirius needed to say. Saint threw a hand over his eyes before rolling to his feet and stretching his back. Sirius stared out over one of the railings of Grimmauld and all he could see was ocean. He looked for his boat, his white-sailed perfect thing, and then turned away. He’d have time to watch again at the beach.

The Hollow was grand to Sirius, mostly because it was the farthest away from Salazar that one could get. At this point, Godric, as much as Sirius hated it, felt like a point of protection. If Salazars hated the Godrics, they’d hate having to go through them to get to the Hollow even more. But the Hollow was great for other reasons.

Shack Beach was theirs. No tourists. No villas or hotels that shooed you away from the private bars and lounge chairs. It was empty, and so it was full. And the waves. Oceanic rollers that pushed you up, that let you get your feet under you, or forced you down beneath the surface in a tumble of salt and sand. Not so great during a hurricane, but glorious for this.

Sirius hefted his board under his arm before throwing it into the sand and stretching his arms back, then up above his head. Saint was doing the same beside him, his wooden, sea-soaked cross hanging around his neck.

“D’accord, Black,” Saint said. “Wagers?”

“Whoever gets the most air has to play lookout for Dorcas,” Sirius said. “And dinner.”

“High stakes,” Saint whistled lowly. “Fine.” Saint’s smile was sharp. “Go.”

They took off at a run.

The water, although warm, was the shock Sirius needed. Saint beside him, as always, and the unknown weight of creatures and water below them. It was terrifying and thrilling. The ocean floor was dark this early, but Sirius stared down at it anyway as they sat on their boards, waiting. They didn’t need light for this part anyway. Sirius could recognize the telltale pull of the tides in his sleep.

“Oh,” Saint drew out the sound, tilting his head back. “I feel it, baby.”

Sirius turned wordlessly back towards the shore, Saint following with a flash of a smile, as they began to paddle. Sirius felt the lift, the curl, heard the water begin to rush and rush, faster and faster. The water kissed his feet and hands. Sirius jumped himself up and let out a long whoop, laughing as he gained his footing with a few twirls before pushing himself up towards the crest. He curled around the top of the wave and there was the Wolfsbane again, just for a moment, before it disappeared to the sea again. Sirius, for a moment, had felt like he was sailing beside it, with it.

They could stay out there for hours, always had been able to, but Sirius had work soon. They went until Sirius felt thoroughly salt-drenched, lips parched. Dragging their boards, they collapsed together in a small thicket of palm trees, up the beach a little. It was like a small cave of bark and wind-rustled leaves. There were still a few stars visible, and Sirius closed one eye and connected them with his finger.

“Dipper?” Saint said.

“Just Orion,” Sirius sighed and dropped his hand. “We learned that in school.”

Saint snorted. “When’s the last time we went to school?”

“True,” Sirius laughed, then, “You should steal the Wolfsbane for me."

Saint looked over at him. “What is it with you and the Lupins’ boat?”

Sirius just shrugged. He didn’t know. “I miss sailing, maybe.”

“You know Kris will let you take one of his out at the marina,” Saint replied.

“I don’t want to get him in trouble. He already lends us the motorboat, anyway.”

“You’re all trouble,” Saint said, and then he knocked their ankles together when they had been quiet for a few moments.

“Well?” he asked quietly as the sun began to warm them.

Sirius turned to look at Saint, sand in his hair. He laughed. They both knew what that meant.

“That sort of day, huh?” Sirius said.

“I’m asking for you,” Saint said. “I can go wherever I please, Dorcas has Marlene, but you…” Saint made a tisking sound. “Oh, Sirius Black. You lonely creature of the sea.”

Sirius scoffed. “You’re always so romantic.”

“Come on,” Saint propped himself up on an elbow and pressed a warm palm to Sirius’ bare chest. “It’s nice. It’s nice because we know each other.”

“Why do you always do this to me in public places?”

Saint raised an eyebrow and looked around the empty sands.

Sirius knew Saint could feel his chest rising and falling beneath his hand, knew that if he dragged it down some he would feel Sirius stirring in his swim trunks. Saint was his best friend. It was easy with Saint. There was no risk of losing Saint. Except maybe to Saint Clair, but they never went to Salazar, and Salazar had yet to come to them.

“Come here,” Sirius sighed, as if he was entirely put upon, and Saint made a pleased noise and leaned down for a kiss. He tasted like the sea, salty and smooth. Sirius pressed a hand to his back, coated with sand.

“Sandy hand jobs,” Sirius grumbled into his mouth. “My favorite.”

“There’s no sand in my mouth,” Saint breathed out and threw a leg over Sirius’ hips, mouth moving down to suck at Sirius’ neck. Sirius let his eyes close, hand squeezing around one of Saint’s strong shoulders.

“That’s true,” he said.

The barely there light in the sky cast Saint’s skin in blue, his light curls taking on the color, too as he kissed down Sirius’ chest, whose breathing was coming faster. He bit playfully at Sirius’ hip when he reached the band of his swim shorts and Sirius laughed, hitting his head lightly.

“We gotta go soon.”

“So?” Saint looked up with one of his sharp smiles, his freckles sprinkling his brown skin and honey eyes.

Sirius did love Saint. They loved each other, in their own way. For a long time now, they had been all each other had. Some type of love had to grow out of that. It just had to.

He was warm and felt safe as Saint’s mouth slipped over him, nursing him slowly. Sirius threaded his fingers into Saint’s salt-tangled hair and let his head loll back in the sand.

Sirius didn’t relax often. Saint knew that because he was the same, even if he pretended he wasn’t. The closest Sirius got, besides this, was in the ocean. Something to focus on. Something to look for and be careful about. Something to love.

He breathed out slowly, trying to quiet his mind and pass all his attention to Saint. He was stiffening quickly to full hardness from the wet heat, and his hands in Saint’s hair moved with his movements, sounds soft.

Sirius let himself stare out at the ocean again. The Wolfsbane was filled with wind, the double pontoons tilted so that one was a little ways out of the water. He could only barely make out the sailor’s silhouette. He didn’t know which Lupin it was. They was skilled though, very skilled. Sirius would do anything to have a sailboat of his own that he could take out every single day. He envied the sailor.

It didn’t take him long to come, not with Saint knowing his body so well. Soon, he was open mouthed, back arching as Saint pulled his orgasm from him.

Saint smiled when he leaned back, sitting on his heels and tucking Sirius back inside his shorts. “Worship me yet?”

“Always,” Sirius panted. “What do you want?”

“Have you seen your mouth?”

Sirius hummed and surged up to kiss him before knocking him back into the sand. They wrestled, rolling and laughing together in the dune, before settling with Sirius on top, hands pinning Saint’s wrists.

“Go on,” Saint grinned, then parroted, “we gotta go soon.”

“So romantic.”

Sirius reached into Saint’s suit and took his cock, hot and throbbing into his hands, biting his lip at the way Saint’s mouth dropped open. Saint really was beautiful. Sirius thought there must be something wrong with him to not want him in the way that he should.

“Life’s not too bad,” Saint sighed after, as Sirius rolled to lay next to him again. “Island. Surfing. Sex. We’re basically The Beach Boys.”

Sirius laughed. “Basically.”

Saint made a disgruntled noise. “Is it weird that we aren’t in love?”

“Yeah,” Sirius replied. “It sort of is.”

“Do you wish we were?” Saint looked at his profile.

Sirius returned his gaze, their noses close. He nodded, sand shifting in his ear. “Sometimes.”

“Gosh, we suck.”

“We really do,” Sirius patted near where Saint’s swimsuit was still askew. “Literally.”

Saint let out a loud laugh, pulling his trunks up, and Sirius a long groan.

“Gotta go to work.”

“Poor baby,” Saint said.

“You also have to go to work.”

“Poor me.”

“You also owe me dinner. And your Dorcas’ look out. I won.”

Saint sat up. “Then I gotta go to work.”

Sirius smiled and looked back out over the waves. The white sails were pushing back West, towards Lupin House to dock. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to see them filled and tilting again.

~

Dorcas slung her backpack on while Saint all but forced the Jeep into park. She hopped out of the door-less side and turned to grin at him, elbows resting against the hot metal of the rusty blue sides.

“One hour,” Saint said, already kicking his seat backwards and pulling out his earbuds. “Then I have work. Don’t think I won’t leave you here.”

“You’re a saint, baby, really.”

Saint flicked his sunglasses down over his eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

Dorcas waved him off before jogging lowly around the back of the McKinnon’s gardens, skirting the gate until she found the bent out posts. She threw her backpack through first, before sliding through herself on her stomach. The manicured grass stained her tank top green in places, but Marlene wouldn’t care. Marlene was an angel. Dorcas was positive.

Marlene’s father, not so much.

Dorcas kept away from the vast windows until she could pull herself up one of the drain pipes that led straight to Marlene’s bedroom window. She crouched, sneakers wedged against roof tiles, and tapped on the glass.

At first, all Dorcas could see through the window was Marlene’s familiar bedroom, the sunlight partially reflecting herself back at her, her chin length dark hair, backwards hat and tank top. In the rest, Marlene’s bright walls, once white but now covered with posters and Marlene’s paintings. Concert posters, random letters from the Hollow’s old abandoned movie theater marque that Dorcas had brought her, and the oil paint in swirling shapes or stroked to form friends’ faces. Dorcas saw her own face many times, and the sight was warmer than the hot sun.

Then, Marlene was there, blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She pressed her forehead to the warm glass briefly before pushing the window, sticking with the heat, open.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Dorcas said.

“D,” Marlene sighed, and pulled her in.

Marlene was an angel. Dorcas was sure.

~

Saint felt uneasy in Godric. He probably always would. He kept his earbuds in, but tapped off beat and nervously, glancing back at the McKinnon house every once in a while. All these houses looked the same. The lawns were so green that they rivaled the sea, aqua and glimmering in the sunlight. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like the women, seemingly ever out for a morning speed-walk with each other, died blonde hair piled high on their heads, who stopped to ask, Do you do lawns? What about pools?

Saint merely slid his sunglasses off, smiled at them, and they were lost. Their eyes went bright, their mouths giggly. Boy from The Hollow, they would whisper to their friends later, so sad to waste such a face—

Saint had always been beautiful. He knew that. But it didn’t matter so much when you were from where he was. In Godric, beauty was key. Anywhere else, it was a waste.

And then they’d see his neck. The cross with the 7 singed there, hanging around his neck.

Oh, they’d gasp, oh, sweetheart, you’re one of those St. Clair Church orphans aren’t you?

A waste. A waste.

The nuns—waste of space, wasteofspacewasteof—

Saint hated the Godric men, with their linen pants and green juices. Walking their property lines and greeting each other each morning, like Roman elite on their salutatio.

Saint was here for Dorcas, who for some reason had decided to love one of those men and women’s daughters. He could never.

That was the surest way to be a waste. Why love them? Why love anyone who was raised like this? By these people?

There was an excitement that came with The Hollow for the Godrics. A strange fascination, animal and exotic. Marlene, to her credit, didn’t have it. She loved Dorcas, too. James Potter…Saint liked James well enough. But both he and Marlene could still go home every night. They didn’t live it. Not like Dorcas, not like Sirius, not like himself.

Yes, Saint would say. I do lawns. I clean pools.

Saint grinned sweetly. Sultry.

He’d also steal their favorite gold necklace.

~

“So, Remus, what do you plan to do with yourself this summer, sweetheart?”

Remus looked across the dining room table at his parents. His mother was looking at him expectantly, knife and fork poised, and his mind had still been with the wind and the sea.

“I know the history museum is always looking for volunteers, which looks wonderful on a college application,” his mother continued when Remus had paused for too long.

Remus nodded, hoping to keep his expression pleasant, and cut his pork chop. “Maybe. I was hoping to lean in a little bit of a different direction.”

“Oh?”

“Just sailing, I mean. Racing. There are prizes, some of them with money attached. Good for scholarships, or…”

Remus’ father chewed slowly. “Oh. Well, yes. But you have the mornings to do that. Something more productive with your day, maybe. What are the other boys on the team doing, for example. Maybe ask James or Luke or Thomas. Well, maybe not Luke, given everything that happened this year.”

Remus only nodded again, biting down everything else. But he wanted to race sailboats, run with them, he wouldn’t say. What could be more productive?

“Yeah,” he said instead. “I’ll look into some options around town.”

That, made his mother and father smile.

Julian sat to Remus’ left swinging his legs and looking between them all.

“Can I go out on Wolfsbane?” Julian asked hopefully. Julian, through Remus, had developed an incredible love for Remus’ sailboat and wanted nothing more than a ride.

“Absolutely not,” Remus’ mother said. “Not until you’ve finished your lessons at the Club.”

The Club. Dreaded words. Gryffindor Club, what Remus and Marlene secretly called The Yacht, was the most prestigious private club on the island. You needed a two-member invite. It was beautiful, but it was all walls. Closed off from the rest of the island. People came here, stayed at the club, and didn’t even see. The pools were not the ocean, and the cuisine was not Hogwarts cuisine. Remus wasn’t even sure his parents knew anymore, although he knew they had once. Early on. He didn’t know what had changed. You fall into a crowd, maybe.

He would get Julian out and about one day, when he was old enough. Remus himself spent his time on all parts of the island, in all neighborhoods—almost. He loved Helga more than anything, with its nicknacks and beautiful, dream-like creations.

Except The Hollow.

He’d never gone. Almost, once, on a dare from James when they were thirteen. There were nasty rumors. He’d only seen it from the sea, the deserted sands of Shack Beach and clusters of houses. And the rumors looked true enough. He knew James went sometimes, knew who he was friends with. The only reason he didn’t get shit for it at school was because everyone liked him too much. Remus thought they liked the fact that James could get away with it, too. James could get away with anything. He was a Potter.

Everything except me, Lily always said, and Remus smiled at the thought.

They’d all be out of here in a year anyway. At least for a while. College was like a promise-land. Remus was so sick of this island, but not the ocean. He’d miss the ocean.

The Lupins had been on Hogwarts for nearly one hundred years—a short time, compared to the Evans and McKinnon families. An even shorter time compared to the Potters and Deveaux. One hundred year old new money? Remus thought it was a ridiculous statement but, compared to the other Godric families, they were new. It was relative. Relative money. The Salazar families had been there even longer, Remus couldn’t quite remember their stories.

Remus couldn’t imagine how no one had wanted to go out and see the world. This island was his home. He loved its every shore and nook. But he…wanted. He wanted with the sea and the wind and his Wolfsbane with its twinning pontoons and white sails. It’s tiny below deck cabin that snugged in a bed for nights lulled by the waves. Nothing outside but water and the stars.

After dinner, Remus climbed up the tall, winding stairs to Bane Tower. It had been named by his great, great, great, grandfather, also named Lyall, like his father. A play on words. Lupin, wolf. Wolfsbane. Bane Tower. Sometimes Remus felt like he was just another word game. Remus and Julian. Raised by the wolves.

“It kept him sane, the stars,” Remus’ grandfather had always said. “Quite literally, I mean. Madness runs in our family, Remus. Who knows when it might pop up again. And they kept him almost sane, I should say.”

The stars kept Remus sane, too. They were a map on the ocean, and an escape on land. He didn’t have to think when he looked at them. Maybe that was what was dangerous about them. Hypnotic. Mirrored by the haphazard lights of The Hollow, right along Godric’s shore.

Remus’ grandfather had died of madness. That’s what they said. Remus had watched him go. He missed him.

It didn’t stop Bane Tower from being the perfect place to see the stars.

~

For Gods, the Potters were good people. Really, for anyone the Potters were good people. They were kind to Sirius, and payed him well. Mostly he looked after their boat, but he would also do chores around the house, run errands for this and that for Mrs. Potter.

It was how he had met James. Really met him. School didn’t count, Sirius had disappeared when he was eleven from his old life and that meant, what friends he might have had at Hogwarts Academy were no more. No one liked a run-away. No one really liked a Black.

The Potters weren’t prejudice. Did they have more money than Sirius could picture? Yes. But they were good. It was the only reason Sirius had even considered liking James again. And still, that didn’t mean he understood why James still hung out with him—them. James was the only one from Sirius’ old life who had decided to reconnect. It was strange. Sirius had nothing to offer him.

It had only gotten stranger when, about two years ago now, he’d brought Lily Evans, who had in turn brought Marlene McKinnon. The boys and the girls had been taught separately when Sirius had still be there, and so Lily and Marlene were vague memories for Sirius. Dorcas—homeschooled—and Marlene were gone for each other almost immediately, and Sirius had theories about Lily and James. None of them had ever brought anyone else, so, Sirius assumed, the rest of his old schoolmates had turned out to be the assholes he expected. Gods in their own territory, up on Olympus, reaping their spoils on the backs of others. Lacrosse playing, secret addicts to something, who drank too much, lived for the summer, and liked boobs more than themselves. Then again, James hung out with those people, too. It was hard to figure out.

But weren’t they all.

“Black!”

James, in all his leather boat shoes and pink swimsuit galore, was jogging up the dock to meet him. Sirius gave a nod, but kept sweeping last night’s rain from the decks, the morning sunshine hot on his neck.

“What’s up?” Sirius said.

“Throwing a party,” James said. “Thought maybe you and your crew would want to come.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You’re inviting us to a party?” They were famous, Godric’s boisterous parties. Drugs, alcohol, swimming pools, and the ocean. The best mix.

James nodded. “That I am.”

Sirius laughed. “Pots, that place will be crawling with Gods.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “On our turf, where we aren’t so outnumbered that, when the police show up—because they always do—we’re the ones who get blamed just for existing. And for the Crucio that’ll be there—and don’t try to tell me someone won’t bring some.”

Crucio. Hogwart’s powdery nightmare.

“Fine,” James said. “We’ll make it one of yours, then. Your turf, you name the place.”

“Why?”

James grinned. “Maybe I like transcending boundaries.”

“Maybe Marlene wants to see Dorcas.”

“Maybe.”

Sirius straightened and leaned on his broom, looking at James squint at him in the bright sunlight reflecting off his glasses. He was wearing a navy Castle Lacrosse t-shirt that decidedly did not go with his shorts.

“Maybe,” Sirius said. “But it’s gotta be at Shack Beach.”

James whistled. “That’s pretty deep territory. You know Felix will make its rounds.”

Crucio was the island’s greatest gift, and its greatest curse. Some people called it Crucio, some called it Felix. The drug wasn’t very addictive chemically, but its effects were powerful. Sirius had heard that it allowed the user to hallucinate memories. Past, distant or near. It could keep people coming back for more, time and again, hoping to relive things—or desperate to see something different. Crucio wasn’t addicting, but memories definitely could be. Good thing Sirius didn’t value his past.

Sirius stuck to the name Crucio. It was torture to live like that, not luck.

Crucio meant a good and steady cash flow for the suppliers. Like Dorcas. Sirius and Saint basically lived off of her income—not that she could do much without answering for how she accumulated it. It was a strange gift, a tedious life, but Dorcas seemed to like it.

Sirius stared James down. “And if it does, no cops will show up to tell about it.”

“Deal,” James sighed. “You’re fucking hardcore, Black.”

“Sure,” Sirius said.

“Potter,” came a voice from the end of the dock.

They both looked and Sirius stiffened as soon as he did, feeling self-conscious clutching his broom. Remus Lupin and Luke Deveaux were standing there, aviators on and Castle Lacrosse tank tops. Luke’s flashy Jeep was waiting in the circle driveway of James’ house. It was Luke who had spoken. Remus stood a few steps back. With their sunglasses, Sirius couldn’t tell where they were looking.

“Let’s go,” Luke said simply.

Sirius turned away before they could, pushing rain water harshly into the sea.

“Yeah,” James said, voice softer this time. “Coming.”

Pity. Sirius could practically feel it.

“Ten tonight?” James said to Sirius. “Sound okay?”

“Okay,” Sirius said without turning around.

He felt the vibrations of James jogging back down the dock, but didn’t turn to watch the three Gods go.

[theiceandbones]

Nova Scotia Bones: a brief listing of famous haunts in Canada’s ocean playground

Nova Scotia is a lobster-shaped granite peninsula that juts out into the North Atlantic on Canada’s east coast. It’s ancient, it’s damp, it’s rocky, and it’s home. It’s also wildly haunted. The impenetrable granite bedrock that we live upon seems to act as its own tomb for the energies of those who departed their earthly vessels on the volatile shores and in the coniferous boreal interior. Or, perhaps, it is our own maritime culture, one that is freckled with memento mori, that adds fuel to these legends that have been passed on through the ages. A culture that lives and dies by the sea is no stranger to tragedy and haunts, eventually one learns to live alongside them. For better or for worse. 

I’ve collected a few ghost stories that have stood out to me over the years. When one grows up in Nova Scotia these are a select few that everyone speaks of, some may be lesser known but still thoroughly chilling. These will be arranged in order of popularity. 

1. The Young Teazer The Young Teazer was an American privateering schooner who, in June of 1813, would find herself in the waters of Mahone Bay being pursued by the British fleet. Her commander, a Lieutenant Johnston, knew that if he were to be captured he would most certainly hang, and knowing this, he ordered his crew to abandon ship in a major way- the Teazer was exploded, all onboard except for eight perished in the blast. It is now a well-known local legend that on a warm summer’s night, one may still see the reflection of a ship on fire in Mahone Bay’s quiet waters. 

2. The forerunner It’s just now occurred to me that I cannot possibly continue without speaking of the forerunner. This phenomenon features extensively within Nova Scotian folklore and is a key aspect of maritime superstition. A forerunner is an omen of death. It may take the shape of the doomed themselves, their scent, a light, an overwhelming sensation of dread directly linked to the individual, a falling photograph of or other object related to the individual, or one’s name being called by the individual. When expecting company, a traditional maritime host will set the large Pyrex kettle on the stove, always containing at least half a dozen teabags, to boil, but sometimes the recently-expected guest may not arrive- ever again. Here are a few selected tales of forerunners from Nova Scotia’s past. 

Anyone who is familiar with the series Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark will remember the story of “The Thing.” What they may not know, however, is that this story is based on a real event which happened in Victoria Beach, NS. A Mr. Thorne and his friend, Joe, were out walking at night when they spied behind a neighbour’s house a long, spindly, pale creature dressed in a white shirt, black trousers and black braces peering back at them. Well they had no idea what this creature could be and so they ran back to Joe’s house after it had given them a right spook. Eventually the pair returned only to discover that now the creature was standing atop the fence in the neighbour’s yard, a fence so old it crumbled under a person’s touch, and that’s when it was decided they were done chasing this thing for one evening. 

Years later, Joe took ill with consumption and died. Mr. Thorne, his ever-faithful friend, had stayed up with him right up until the very end. Joe’s condition had wasted him away so powerfully he was nary more than skin and bone by the time he’d passed. Mr. Thorne through the years had been hesitant to tell this story at all, for a good reason. Because, he says, toward the end of Joe’s life, lying in bed in his graveclothes, he looked just like The Thing.

In Liverpool, NS, a Mrs. Viola Oickle was seated at the kitchen table playing cards with her friends when she looked up and in the window, plain as day, was her Uncle Ernie. “There’s Uncle Ernie” she said, they’d heard the latch on the door open, but Ernie never showed. After cards she decided she’d go round to Ernie’s house to check on him, and there he was, peeling apples on his front step fit as a fiddle. However, mere hours later, Ernie had died of a heart attack at his home. 

Marion Bridge in Cape Breton is home to a wealth of ghost stories, of course the forerunner is one of these. In addition to one’s apparition, three knocks may also be an omen. A Mrs. MacGillivray tells the story of her mother waiting up one night for her father to come home when she heard the sound of a wagon being pulled by horses up the road. They stopped, then came three knocks at the door- which was strange, but her mother figured he may need a hand with something outside. Looking out, she realised no one was there at all. Of course she knew what three knocks meant and feared the worst for her husband. Eventually he returned home in his usual health, but her mother was still confused. A while later the body of a man was found up a nearby road and the men who’d discovered it stopped at the house to change horses at night. They knocked three times on the door, exactly the same sequence of events which transpired when her mother had heard the knocks before. 

3. Treasure The province has a storied history of pirates and privateering, so it comes as no surprise that stories of buried treasure are quite popular. As superstition has it, when digging for treasure, one must not speak until the task is done. If a word is spoken, the treasure will never be found. The spirits of pirates go to great lengths to ensure this, one tale tells of a man digging for a hidden treasure with his wife and young daughter. His wife pipes up, “oh would you look at those monkeys!” This is eastern Canada, as such there are no monkeys native to the area. Unsurprisingly, there were no monkeys to be found, and the treasure itself was never uncovered. Speaking of pirates

4. Black Rock Beach/Maugers Beach In Halifax’s early days as the port city it remains today, it was no stranger to pirates. Pirates, however, were not so welcome in Halifax as one may assume. When a pirate was caught in Halifax, they would be hanged and displayed in an iron cage at Black Rock Beach at the harbour’s mouth, or at Maugers (pronounced locally as Major’s) Beach on McNab’s Island a little further out. This is how the latter gained its name as Dead Man’s Beach. 

5. Other phantom ships Nova Scotia’s ties to the sea are a major part of its cultural superstition. From “red sky at night” to “never sail if you see a forerunner,” seafaring superstitions are etched into the fabric of life around here. It comes as no surprise, then, that there are so many stories of ghost ships in the mix. One such story comes from 1874, an experience of a Captain Hatfield from Fox River, NS as he was sailing from Cuba to New York. Asleep in his cabin one night, he felt three taps on his shoulder and a voice urging him, “keep her off half a point.” He figured this was the mate or another of his officers, but they each assured him it was not them. He felt the tapping and heard the voice again. As he was growing annoyed, he got up to look around and saw a man climbing up the ladder but was not dressed like the others onboard. Nevertheless, he got up and gave the order to keep the ship off half a point. When morning came, a wreck was spotted half a point off course of his ship, and onboard came Captain Amesbury of the schooner D. Talbot, his wife, child, and his crew. Captain Hatfield recounted the story of the night before to the captain and his wife, to which the wife informed him the man he saw was her father who had passed ten years prior. 

A story from Seabright of a fishing vessel that was lost in a sou-easter tells of a captain who’d not turn back as the other boats did, but instead dared the lord to stop him from staying behind. The ship was lost, of course, and for ages onwards sailors would recount seeing a bright light at night that disappeared during the day. It would tack when the respective vessel tacked, but no one ever saw the shape of the boat itself- just its light. But, as sailors do say, one can feel a ship just as one can feel a person nearby. 

6. St. Paul’s face in the window This one dates to the time of the Halifax Explosion which occurred on the 6th of December 1917. St. Paul’s Church is the oldest building in Halifax, its foundation having been laid in the year of the city’s founding in 1749.  As legend has it, the deacon of the church was standing in the window parallel to the Narrows of the harbour when the French munitions ship, Mont Blanc, exploded. His profile remains in the window to this day and can be seen via Argyle Street. 

7. The Black Window House Another Halifax legend, the Black Window House on Robie Street has a long history of superstition. It was built in 1840 for the first elected mayor of Halifax, William Caldwell. It is said to be haunted because of its infamous black window. Local legend states that once a man peered in the window and saw witches dancing their dance of death on the verandah. When the witches caught him spying, they turned the window black. 

8. The Town Clock One of Halifax’s most iconic landmarks is the Town Clock on Citadel Hill. This is one of the few surviving round structures designed by the Duke of Kent during his visit to Halifax in the late 18th century. It is said that before the clock was constructed, there existed a well near the site where it stands today. A young girl was reportedly playing near this well when she fell in and died. Her spirit is said to remain in the clock tower to this day. 

9. Citadel Hill No discussion of Nova Scotian haunts is complete without discussing Citadel Hill. The Halifax Citadel is today a national historic site, however in the past it was used as a fully-operational military fortification and is one of the best-remaining examples of a star fortress worldwide. Ghost stories from the Hill are many and varied, and some workers have reported seeing strange phenomena themselves such as footprints behind locked metal grates. In the month of October, ghost tours are given by costumed interpreters at the site where famous stories are recounted. Some guests report their hand being held by a smaller, invisible hand, others talk of seeing a ghostly man in the uniform of the 78th Highlanders Regiment walking the grounds only to disappear. It is worth noting that the Citadel never once fired a shot in anger. 

10. The Five Fishermen This popular (and pricey) Halifax restaurant serves up fine dining and spirits...not always of the alcoholic variety. Restaurant staff over the years have reported cutlery flying off of tables, seeing apparitions in the washrooms turning the taps on and off, doors closing on their own, and hearing their name called when no one is around. The form of a grey figure is also said to wander down the staircase. 

11. The gallows For a time after Halifax’s founding, a gallows was set up on the corner of what is now Lower Water and George Streets. Public executions were a spectacle that could be viewed by all townspeople of all ages. According to local legend, on a clear night the ghost of a hanged man is said to be seen swinging by his neck in the spot where the old gallows used to stand. 

12. Dagger Woods I cannot stress enough how creepy and unsettling this area is. In northern Antigonish County there is a forest known as Dagger Woods. In this forest, there is said to live a demon known as the Hidey Hinder who steals unsuspecting visitors to the underworld, the person is never seen or heard from again, supposedly vanishing into thin air. People travelling through the woods report hearing strange and frightening cries that they cannot place, and, understandably, avoid the area afterwards. The woods are the subject of a song by the same name by Nova Scotian folk metal band, The Stanfields. 

13. Peggy’s Cove Peggy’s Cove is by far one of Nova Scotia’s most popular tourist destinations. As a lifelong resident of Nova Scotia, I encourage you to visit this beautiful point but please, PLEASE, stay off the black rocks for god’s sake. Anyway, the ghost who is lucky enough to live here is, of course, named Margaret. The story goes that Margaret and her husband settled here after a shipwreck claimed the lives of their children. Margaret was heartbroken, and so her husband decided to cheer her up. He made his way onto the rocks where Margaret would often sit and lament her lost children and performed a dance for her, but it would turn out even worse- he slipped and fell to his death. In a fit of agony, Margaret threw herself off the rocks and into the sea, and her ghost is said to haunt the rocks of Peggy’s Point to this day.

14. Caledonia Mills, or Mary Ellen’s Spook Farm Back in 1922, the MacDonald family lived on a farm in Caledonia Mills situated in Antigonish County. Their adopted daughter, named Mary Ellen, was not held in high regard. A series of fires that had taken place during the winter devastated the family, and Mary Ellen was said to be at the root of them; it was believed she was born of an evil spirit. When she denied these accusations, she was sent to live in an asylum. Her spirit still resides in her farm, and to any unlucky visitor who’d like to bring back a souvenir, they might find that mysterious fires start to ignite in their own home. Best to leave the farm in one piece.

15. Horton’s Cove This is not one that’s widely known to many, however it is a story very personal to myself. On a spot of land in Guysborough County, the remains of a young boy who died in the early 20th century are buried. The grave is unmarked and the boy’s cause of death is unknown. That being said, his presence can be felt in both the field and the hills around where his resting place is said to be, and trust me when I say there is no feeling quite as unnerving. 

16. Cole Harbour Poor Farm/Bissett Road Asylum In the 1920s there existed a mental asylum in a quiet part of Cole Harbour, outbound toward the harbour itself. The building is no longer there, said to have burnt to the ground in a fire, however the spirits of its residents can be felt in the vacant lot on the hill where it used to stand. Across the street on the edge of a sprawling field is a small fenced cemetery containing ten unmarked white crosses. It is rumoured that these graves house the remains of children who used to live in the asylum, though it is more likely that these graves were intended for adult residents. It is not yet known whose remains these are. 

Dealings with the paranormal and superstition is a way of life for many in Nova Scotia. It is our maritime history and culture which largely feed these beliefs, whether one believes in them is entirely up to the individual themselves. One thing that isn’t so easy to shake, though, is the sensation that there’s something in the trees or that field over there. Say, what’s on the water? 

[semperintrepida]

The Puzzle in the Wanting

Kassandra threw the ladder over the edge of the Adrestia’s deck as a felucca glided alongside, and she held her torch out over dark waters, casting flickers of orange light upon the smaller boat’s sail and decking as shadowed figures moved below. The moon hovered at the horizon, lighting a path across the waves so radiant and inviting it seemed like they all could have stepped upon it and walked straight to Delos.

It would have been an easier trip, to be sure, instead of slipping away from port in the darkness and sailing to a cove where Kyra could meet them. Kassandra had tried to persuade her not to come to Delos at all; after their successful raid on the supply caravan, Podarkes had doubled the price on Kyra’s head, and it would have been safer for her to stay out of sight on Mykonos. But “safe” wasn’t a word Kyra thought much of, and once Kassandra had revealed her intention to take out the weapons stash on Delos by herself, Kyra had rolled her eyes and said, “I’m going with you. It’ll be safer if someone watched your back.”

Down below, one of the shadows stepped up onto the ladder and began climbing. The felucca turned and headed back for shore. Then Kyra emerged into the torchlight, and Kassandra took her hand and helped her find her footing on the Adrestia’s deck.

Kyra had come ready to fight, with her bow and quiver slung across her body and a xiphos sheathed at her waist. She’d tied the sleeves back on her chiton, exposing her shoulders and the long smooth muscles of her arms.

Kassandra smiled and said, “Welcome aboard,” as she slid the torch into a holder on the rail beside her and Barnabas came over to join them. Kyra’s skin was cool against her own, and Kassandra allowed herself to enjoy how it felt, just for a moment, before she let go. “Kyra, this is Barnabas, Captain of the Adrestia. Barnabas, Kyra.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Barnabas said, extending his hand.

They clasped arms in greeting, while Kassandra bent down and began pulling up the ladder.

“Thanks for the ride, Captain. I’ve always hated swimming to Delos.” Kyra said it breezily enough that Kassandra couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not.

“Aye, it’s dangerous,” he said. “Especially with the ‘maw lurking beneath the waves.”

“Don’t go swimming when Sharpmaw’s around, because he’ll bite your foot off—”

“—and come back for seconds,” they said in unison, before breaking into laughter over their shared joke.

“You’re from Mykonos,” Kyra said.

“Yes, and they’ve been telling that story since I was a boy.”

“You know, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen Sharpmaw once.”

“And I’ve never seen Zeus, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Like the gods — or like love, I suppose — he’ll show up when you least expect it.”

“A philosopher as well as a sea captain. Does the Eagle Bearer pick all her companions so wisely?”

At that moment, Gelon’s voice snapped loudly across the deck: “For fuck’s sake, boys, when I said row, I meant more than one stroke a year.”

“No,” Kassandra said in answer to Kyra’s question.

Gelon swooped past them on her way to the fore of the ship, saying over her shoulder, “Sorry, Commander. Apparently all that beach time left the crew too tired to row.”

Kassandra waved a hand after Gelon’s disappearing form. “And that’s Gelon, the Adrestia’s first mate.”

“She’s an excellent sailor,” Barnabas said, “But even her curses know how to curse.”

“I was fortunate to run into Barnabas when I did,” Kassandra said.

“But it was I who was the most fortunate, because at the time, a terrible criminal was trying to drown me in a pot of water, until she showed up…” He loved telling this story, and he gently guided Kyra back towards the ship’s helm as he dove into the tale.

Kassandra wandered to the fore of the ship and found Gelon shouting down the hatch that led below decks. Then Gelon spotted her, slammed the hatch shut, and stood up to meet her. “So that’s the infamous Kyra.”

Kassandra handed her the rolled-up ladder. “In the flesh.”

Gelon let out a low whistle. “You know how to pick 'em.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’ve got two good eyes and my blood’s as red as yours. You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

“Too bad she’s already taken,” Kassandra said, ignoring Gelon’s skeptical look. “How long till we drop anchor?”

Gelon lifted her face to the sky and studied the constellation of the turning wagon. “An hour. Maybe two if the currents suck.”

“Good. Let me know when we reach the inlet.” Kyra’s contacts on Delos would be waiting for them. The Adrestia would send a signal, and the rebels on Delos would send over a boat.

Barnabas was still telling his story when Kassandra rejoined them at the helm’s upper railing. “…and she took his precious obsidian eye, and stuck it up the goat’s ass! The poor thing ran off like a harpy was after it.”

Kyra looked at her. “You didn’t.”

“I put his eye where it belonged,” she said with a shrug.

“Not only that… She told the Cyclops if he wanted it back, he should get it himself.”

“What did he do then?” Kyra asked.

“He wasn’t happy, I’ll tell you that!” Barnabas said. “He pulled out this huge mace, and his men drew their swords. And she just stood there, her armor shining in the sun like she’d been blessed by the gods…”

“My armor was shiny because it was new — I’d just gotten it.”

“Blessed by Apollo to deliver his shining justice, she was. And when this bunch of thugs ran at her with murder in their eyes, she just stood there, looking bored.”

“I was trying to draw them away from you, since you didn’t seem interested in running for safety.”

“And leave my front row seat? The gods had never answered my prayers so… directly before, and I wanted to experience the moment!” He peered at Kassandra, reliving the memory. “Then she finally drew her sword and that spear of hers, and… I swear to the gods… she fought like Achilles reborn.”

“I thought four against one were pretty good odds.” Kyra didn’t need to know her opponents in this particular scrap were three terrible swordsmen and one muscle-bound lunkhead who moved about as fast as a boulder lodged in a hillside.

Barnabas’s voice seemed to stretch under the weight of his awe. “It was the way she moved — faster than any warrior I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my share of battles. She cut those thugs to pieces, and made it look easy.”

“I believe it,” Kyra said.

“Kassandra saved my life. So I offered her the use of my ship, and my services as captain.” He smiled slyly and winked at Kyra. “The fact that I get to watch a gods’ blessed hero at work is just a bonus.”

Blessings could be so close to curses, but Kassandra would never tell him that. “I got a ship and a friend out of that deal.”

“Yes! The gods smiled upon us both!” he said with a grin. “And I hope they keep smiling — we’re coming up on the southern point.” He shifted his gaze to Delos, a dark shape against the sky dotted with motes of light. “You’ll have to excuse me, it’s my turn to take up the helm and keep us off those rocks.”

Kyra leaned back against the rail and watched him hurry away. “How long have you known each other?”

“A year.”

“That’s all? You were on Kephallonia a long time, then.”

“Close to twenty years.”

“What made you leave?”

“Someone offered me a job. It was a way off the island, and I was more than ready to go.”

Kyra’s brow creased with delicate lines, as she tried to figure out where these tiny pieces fit within the thread the Fates had woven for Kassandra. “What did your family think of you leaving?”

Kassandra didn’t get a chance to answer, as a whistle sounded from the foredeck, followed shortly by Gelon bounding up the stairs to the helm. “The lookout spotted an Athenian sentry boat. We could go the long way 'round, or turn the lights out and slip by.”

She looked for the moon, and found it a sliver above the horizon. The moonpath that had once seemed so substantial had become a small pool of quicksilver that shrank the longer she looked at it. Soon the only light would be the ones shining on Delos, and the smaller specks on the islands in the distance that blended in with the stars. “Lights out and quiet, then,” she said to Gelon, before turning back to Kyra. “I’m afraid the answer to your question will have to wait.”

“Yet another reason for me to curse the Athenians,” Kyra said, a half-smile at her lips. Then she turned away from Delos and faced the sea and its enigmatic darkness, and as Kassandra followed Gelon to the foredeck, she wondered how long that list of reasons would be if Kyra were to write them all down.

.oOo.

“So, what’s the plan?” Kyra whispered. “Other than pretending to be tree nymphs.”

They were hidden in a thick stand of bushes outside the Athenian camp, the sky above them just beginning to glow. Dawn would arrive soon, and the soldiers asleep in their tents would stir along with it.

“I thought you were the strategic thinker.”

Kyra turned to her, and even in this light Kassandra could see her roll her eyes. “Shoot the sentries, stab the sleepers.”

“Very catchy. But let me have the sentry with the torch.”

Kyra merely nodded and drew an arrow from her quiver.

The Athenians had built the camp within an ancient ruin, at the end of a road gouged with wagon ruts and pocked with hoofprints. The sentry with a torch stood watch at the entrance to the camp, where the road ended at a gap between the ruin’s crumbling outer walls. There were two more sentries at the camp’s back corners. A total of three sentries to watch over an unknown number of soldiers sleeping in the tents. Light security for a place so important, but then again, this was Delos, where spilling blood was illegal and everyone feared Apollo’s wrath.

Apollo was the very least of Kassandra’s worries. Of more pressing concern was getting to the outer wall without being seen. The wall was a long run of rough-hewn stones, chest high, with a sharp corner at the end closest to the sentry. She crouched, then chose a curving path that used the corner to block the soldier’s sightlines.

Above her, the sky reflected the halo of torchlight from where he stood on the other side of the wall. She could hear him breathing, and the creak of his armor as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

She drew her spear, her grip tight around its leather-wrapped handle. Then she vaulted over the wall, took one long step, then another, and drove the spear into the base of his skull. Time slowed, lengthening like thread from a dropped spindle, and she plucked the torch out of the air as he toppled to the ground. She didn’t want an uncontrolled fire waking up the rest of the camp.

The interior of the camp was lit by scattered oil lamps. She snuffed the torch out against the dirt road, its jeweled embers shining in the dark, and when she looked up again, she heard the quiet twang of a bowstring, then a second twang, and then two sentries became two bodies sagging down to earth. She really could get used to Kyra’s idea of backup.

She crept across the grass to the nearest tent. Listened for a moment and heard quiet snoring from within. Lifted the flap, let her eyes adjust to the light, and saw two sleeping forms. Then she was inside, flicking her blade once, twice, and afterwards, neither man would wake again.

There were two more soldiers sleeping in the last tent. She eased her way through its opening, crouched above the nearest man, lifted her spear — and he suddenly woke up, eyes wild, mouth wide. She dropped her knee onto his chest and clamped her hand across his mouth and stabbed him in the throat. The other soldier slept on, but his slumber was unsettled. He murmured nonsense and rolled over in his bedding. Death came for him swiftly and silently. What had he dreamt of before he found himself on the banks of the Styx?

Back outside, she wiped her blade on the flap of the tent and rinsed her hands in a basin of water on a nearby table. The sky had brightened to a pale, rose-colored glow, and she could see the crates of weapons scattered in piles around the camp.

An oil lamp rested on a post next to the tent. She picked up a jug sitting at the base of the post and smelled it. Oil. Perfect.

She flung the jug at the closest pile of crates, where it shattered into a spray of shiny droplets on impact. But before she could even pick up the lamp, a bright streak shot through the air and struck the pile. There was a loud whumph, followed by an impressive ball of flame as the entire pile of weapons went up like a pyre.

Kassandra turned and saw Kyra standing nearby with her bow in her hand and a smirk on her face.

They lit up pile after pile in short order, until there was only one remaining. Kassandra searched the camp, looking for another oil jug, and as she rummaged through shelves full of supplies, she spotted an amphora among a stack of empty vessels. She lifted it and read the stamp on its lid: Pramnian wine. Now that was a find. She tucked it back into place and kept searching until she found the oil she sought. Then she handed the oil jug off to Kyra while she went back to claim her prize.

Just as she was pulling the wine from its hiding place, she heard Kyra’s voice behind her.

“What have you got there?”

Gods, Kyra was quick. The last pile was already up in flames.

Kassandra turned around, hiding the amphora behind her back.

“Let me see it.”

“You’re not my polemarch,” Kassandra said, pivoting her body to keep the wine out of sight as Kyra darted from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of it.

Kyra put one hand on her hip and used the other one for punctuation. “So you’re a Spartan again? How convenient. Let me see it.”

Kassandra smiled benevolently. “No.”

“I’m paying you!”

“You haven’t given me a single drachma yet. Come to think of it, you’ve been costing me money.” She started counting on her fingers. “Docking fees for the Adrestia… Boarding fees at the stables….”

“Those are your problems, not mine.” Kyra had both hands on her hips now.

“Your curiosity is your problem, not mine.”

“You’re really not going to show me, are you?”

She pretended to think about it. “I might be persuaded… but until then, no.”

Kyra threw her hands up and turned on her heels. “Fine!” she said. “I don’t care what you found.” She took three steps up the road, then looked back over her shoulder. “I mean it.”

Kassandra shrugged and didn’t start walking until Kyra was several steps ahead of her. From that vantage, she could enjoy how Kyra’s irritation had permeated her very movements — including the sway of her hips. Provoking Kyra was proving to be highly entertaining.

After a while, she called out after Kyra, “Probably not a good idea for us to stay on the road. Patrols and all.”

Kyra whirled around. She waited until Kassandra came close; then, with lightning quickness, her hand shot out and grabbed the edge of Kassandra’s chestplate at its neckline.

“You…” Kyra said, voice like smoke, her weight shifting with the intent to pivot Kassandra around. She had to have known Kassandra could be moved only when Kassandra wanted to, but she seemed to expect it would happen anyway, like she’d expect the sun to rise in the east. It made Kassandra curious, and instead of rooting her feet to the ground, she let Kyra turn her and push her backwards off the road and into the forest.

“Are…” Kyra said, and she kept pushing, until Kassandra could sense something solid coming up behind her, and she dropped the arm holding the amphora to her side just before her back ran into the trunk of a tree. Kyra stepped close — so close they could have kissed, close enough for Kassandra to catch her scent: faint woodsmoke, and the sharp, spicy sweetness of laurel.

“Annoying,” Kyra finished. Her indignant tone made Kassandra smile, but Kyra’s knuckles were warm against her skin and she wondered if Kyra could feel how hard her heart was pounding. It was taking everything she had to stop herself from doing something rash, which was puzzling. She’d never been this tentative, this cautious with someone before.

She drew in a breath, then held up the wine. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to damage this.”

Kyra glanced down at the amphora. “You sneaky, sneaky misthios. Pramnian wine.”

“I was thinking we could share it later.”

Kyra’s eyes shone in the morning light, and her voice softened. “You surprise me. And to think I nearly threw my blade through your neck.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“Not even you, Eagle Bearer?” She still hadn’t moved her hand.

Kassandra’s first impulse was to tell a joke, some throwaway line about being the next best thing to a god, a line she’d prop up with confidence and a smile. But something made her answer honestly. Perhaps it was Kyra’s skin touching hers, or how close Kyra was standing, or her sudden certainty that Kyra would see right through anything less than the truth, that made her say, “I am far from perfect.”

Kyra smiled gently. She released her grip on Kassandra’s armor, but instead of pulling her hand away, she set her palm against the center of the chestplate. “Maybe so,” she said, “but I like what I’ve seen.”

Kassandra knew the layer of bronze between Kyra’s hand and her chest had made the gesture safe enough to be possible, but it didn’t stop her from cursing her armor for being there, for separating Kyra’s skin from hers. And worse still, she had no idea what Kyra wanted; Kyra’s eyes were studying her intently but gave no hint of the conclusions being drawn behind them. She let the moment stretch as long as she could bear, before she put on a smile and said, “Am I free to go?”

The hand on her armor jerked away as Kyra returned from wherever she’d gone to tally up Kassandra’s measure. She flushed and looked everywhere but Kassandra’s eyes. “We should probably get moving.”

“Yes,” Kassandra said agreeably, cradling the amphora of wine as she let Kyra lead the way through the forest. It wasn’t long before they reached a game trail that made travel far more easier than hacking their way through the underbrush.

Kyra picked up a long, straight stick from the side of the trail and began using it to skewer leaves on bushes and trees as she passed. Her aim was unfailingly accurate, and her wrist moved with such precision that she made very little noise, just the stick whipping through the air and the quiet thhk of leaves plucked from branches. Eventually, she said, “I learned this game from the huntresses at the Temple of Artemis.”

“My mother taught me one like it in Sparta. All we needed was a stick and a pine tree covered in cones.” Sometimes the game was to knock all the cones off as fast as possible. Other times it was to touch all the cones without making any fall. A game of coordination and muscle control, eyes to arm to wrist, skills useful when wielding a sword, or dagger, or javelin. Even the games of children served a greater purpose in Sparta.

“Do all Spartan women know how to fight?” Kyra switched from stabbing to parrying, her stick striking each branch with a solid thwack.

“My mother does.” Present tense was the hopeful tense. “But she’s an exception. Most Spartan women just learn the basics of hand-to-hand. The real combat training is reserved for men.”

“How did you learn?”

“My parents taught me the fundamentals. They start early in Sparta, as soon as a child can walk. But I wasn’t there long enough to learn how to fight like a true Spartan.”

Kyra’s stick hand hesitated, but if she had a question, she didn’t ask.

Kassandra wanted her to keep talking. “Did the huntresses also teach you to shoot a bow?”

“They did. I think they harbored secret hopes I’d join them one day.”

“As accurate as you are, I’m not surprised. So why didn’t you?”

“I’ve only wanted one thing in this life: to kill Podarkes with my own hands. Vengeance has left little room for anything else.” The thwacking was louder now, her stick hitting the limbs and branches with more force.

“What will you do once he’s dead and the rebellion is won?”

Kyra stopped walking. She waited until Kassandra drew up next to her, and said, “The sad truth is I have no idea.”

Kyra was a glimpse of Kassandra’s future. She knew she’d already let her search for her mother all but swallow her whole, while the vengeance she planned to take out on the Cult merely sat there, waiting its turn. And when she thought of what she would do after every Cultist was dead, she saw nothing but a vast and empty space. “I’m beginning to think we have much in common.”

“Is that so? And what would that be?”

“I know what it’s like to be driven by an overwhelming need, and I’ve had to fight and claw for everything I have. Seems to me you’ve done the same.”

“We should probably compare notes sometime.”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“Along with a great many tales, I’m sure. But what will I bring?”

The question was a trap. Kassandra made a show of thinking about her answer, then resumed walking up the path without saying anything. After a few steps, she turned around and said, “Your bow… And yourself, I guess.”

“You guess? You sure know how to—” Kyra didn’t finish.

“How to what?”

“Nothing,” she muttered. Perhaps she was catching on to how much Kassandra enjoyed needling her. “What do you want with my bow?”

“I have some questions.”

“Such as?”

“Find some time for us to compare notes. Then you’ll find out.” Just an evening with Kyra was all she wanted, someplace safe, where they didn’t have to worry about Athenian patrols, or the rest of the world for that matter, where they could trade questions and she could find out the things about Kyra she wanted to know: how she’d escaped from Podarkes as a child, how she’d learned to throw a knife like that, how she’d gotten that scar on her forehead. The answers would fit together like tiles in a mosaic. The full picture was what she wanted to see.

And maybe she’d even be able to figure out if Kyra wanted anything from her.

.oOo.

They were crossing the forested hillside above the Sanctuary of Apollo when Kassandra caught the scent in the breeze. She stopped moving and breathed in deeply. There it was: metallic and cloying and all too familiar. “Do you smell that?” she asked Kyra, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Smell what?”

“Blood.”

Kyra shook her head.

Kassandra placed the wine in a hollow between the roots of a nearby tree and drew her spear. The scent was faint, and she began moving across the wind, turning as the wind shifted, narrowing down the direction of its source. Kyra followed close behind; alert, but mainly curious.

The scent had to be coming from a pile of boulders and exposed rock in the slope up ahead, the pile about as far away as a good javelin throw. Kassandra headed in its direction, picking her way carefully through the thick underbrush, and soon her hunch was confirmed: there, on the ground, was a drop of blood. It had been there long enough to turn the dark red of garnet but hadn’t yet begun to dry. She pointed at it with her spear, and Kyra nodded wordlessly and drew her sword. Another few steps forward revealed more blood, some trailing northwards, the rest leading up to the rocks.

They were close enough now that Kassandra could hear labored breathing and the faint sounds of something moving between the boulders. She readied her spear, then felt Kyra change course behind her, turning back to see Kyra begin climbing up the hillside on a path that would let her flank whoever — or whatever — was hidden nearby.

Kassandra rounded the boulder and found a woman leaning against the rocks, her tunic stained dark red, her bloody hand brandishing a dagger.

Kassandra held out a hand, and said, “I mean no threat.”

The hand holding the dagger dropped, and the woman slumped as if exhausted by the effort. She wore an eyepatch, and her good eye stared at Kassandra. The eyepatch wasn’t new, but the wound at her belly certainly was. “Come to turn me in to the priests?”

Kassandra knelt outside the woman’s dagger range and said, “Depends on what you’ve done.”

“Don’t know if anyone told you, but it’s illegal to spill blood on this gods-forsaken island.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Shame nobody told the beast roaming around.”

“Beast?”

“I’d call it a bear, but I’d be lying. It’s a nightmare sent by Artemis.”

“How’d you run into it?”

Kyra’s voice sounded from the rocks above them. “I’d bet good drachmae that she smuggled it here.” There was a blur and a thump as she leapt down and landed next to Kassandra. “You’re awful far from home, aren’t you stranger? And giant bears don’t just appear on Delos.” Her tone was frosty, as if she’d summoned Boreas himself into every word.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman said.

Kyra crossed her arms. “We’re wasting our time here, misthios.”

There was something about the icy edge to Kyra’s voice that told Kassandra to play along. “Agreed,” she said, getting ready to stand.

“Misthios? Wait, wait. Look. You’re right,” the woman said, nodding at Kyra. “We were smuggling the bear. To Kos. But Poseidon had other ideas — sent a storm that smashed our ship upon this damn island, and that evil beast broke loose. It went right for the crew.” She grimaced with pain and looked at Kassandra. “They were my family, and I’ll pay you good drachmae to put that bear down before it kills anyone else.”

“At the rate you’re bleeding, you’re not going to live long enough to pay me,” Kassandra said. She glanced at Kyra. “Are physicians illegal here too?”

“No, but the ones here are living on the edge, that’s for sure.” She gestured to the woman. “We could take her to the camp. There’s a healer there.”

“Let’s go, then.” Kassandra pulled one of the woman’s arms across her shoulder, and Kyra did the same with the other, and together they lifted the woman to her feet.

“What’s your name?” Kyra asked.

“Iola,” she said, in between panting breaths. “My gratitude to you both.”

“Thank us once we reach camp,” Kyra said. “It’s a long way over rough ground, and you’ll be cursing us most of the trip.”

It wasn’t long before her words proved to be true.

.oOo.

Barnabas was waiting for them at the camp, and he hurried over as soon as he saw they’d brought an extra person with them. He helped Kassandra ease Iola onto a cot while Kyra hurried off to summon the healer. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“We burned the weapons to ash. But it was slow going on the way back.” She looked at Iola. The woman’s eyes were closed, her skin nearly white.

“And who is this?” he asked.

“Captain of a smuggling ship run aground. Got mauled by a bear that escaped from her cargo and ate the rest of her crew.”

He glanced around, as if expecting the bear to jump out from the bushes at any moment. “And where is this bear?”

“I’m going hunting for it shortly.” And she would, after she took a few moments to rest and work out the kinks in her shoulder after carrying a load upon it over hill after rocky hill. She also needed something to eat.

He looked relieved. “The Adrestia’s ready to depart at any time.”

“Good. While I’m gone, make sure she” — a nod to Iola — “makes it on board the ship. We’re taking her back to Mykonos with us.”

“Aye, Captain.”

She wandered away, then, but not before she heard him kneel beside Iola’s cot and begin murmuring, “Great Asklepios, I beseech you, hear my prayer…”

.oOo.

Some time later, after Kassandra had eaten, and gone through her armor piece by piece to ensure it was ready for the next fight, she sat with her legs straddling a wooden bench, drawing the blade of her spear across a whetstone.

The steady shhshht of metal against stone was soothing. She’d realized something earlier, as her fingers had brushed over her chestplate looking for dents and damaged hinges: she hadn’t felt any pleasure killing the men in the Athenian camp that morning. There was satisfaction, yes, in accomplishing what they’d set out to do, but none of the warmth, or the silky, sensual delight that followed every time she killed. There was also none of the craving for more blood, and none of the queasiness from coming off the murderous high. There’d been no high to come down from.

She wondered what had made this morning different from all the days that had come before.

Her hand trembled, upsetting the course of the spear and disrupting her rhythm. She stopped sharpening, and breathed in and out, deeply, until her hands became steady again and she could resume sliding blade over stone. What had been different this morning?

Footsteps behind her, someone light and quiet. She didn’t turn around to look.

Kyra’s voice floated over her shoulder. “The healer says Iola will probably survive. She stitched her up and gave her something to knock her out. She’s not happy you want to move Iola onto your ship, but Barnabas wasn’t hearing any of that.”

Kassandra smirked as she imagined his ire, but the strokes of her blade remained constant.

“He’s keeping watch over Iola,” Kyra said. There was silence for several moments, then: “He’s a good man.”

“He is. One of the very few in Greece.”

Another silence. “We left the wine up in the forest.”

“I’ll get it on my way back.”

“So you’re going after the bear. By yourself.”

Kassandra lifted the spear and began testing its edge with the pad of her thumb, checking for nicks that had escaped her efforts.

“The bear that just killed an entire shipload of hunters and smugglers. Sometimes I wonder if you’re just confident, or if you have a death wish.”

“Yes, it’s a miracle I’ve survived this long.” She picked up a scrap of linen and began polishing the blade with it.

“If I offer my help, will you refuse it?”

“Looking for a cut of some drachmae?”

“I don’t care about the drachmae.”

Kassandra put the cloth down. “This isn’t your fight, and I wasn’t going to assume you’d want to take part. But if you want to help… I won’t refuse you.” She tilted the blade, caught Kyra’s reflection in its bright surface before she rested it across her knee. She chose her words carefully. “I’ve enjoyed our work together.”

Kyra moved closer, and she curved her hand against the base of Kassandra’s neck, holding onto it as she leaned into Kassandra’s shoulder. Kassandra closed her eyes, stopping herself from her want, and a surge of anticipation coursed through her body and across her skin, as if she were standing in a storm, holding her breath while the air charged around her and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, holding on as she waited for the strike of lightning. But Kassandra didn’t know if she should be anticipating Zeus’s fury or something else entirely. Then Kyra’s voice slid across her ear and brought her back to here and now. “So have I, Kassandra,” she said. There was a smile in her voice, and perhaps something more. “I’ll get my bow.”

And then she withdrew her hand, breaking contact, her footsteps fading in the air, leaving Kassandra’s skin tingling and her heart rumbling in her chest like distant thunder. No, she wasn’t going to be able to stop herself for very much longer.

Part of the Elegiad. Go back to the previous story, or on to the next...

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 29: The Big Chill (Transcript) - 7th March 2016

tw: graphic violence

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Some places are more frightening than others. It’s hard to nail down a specific reason why, but even so, I can’t think of a single person who might disagree. Some places just have a way of getting under your skin. For some it’s the basement, for others it’s the local graveyard. I even know people who are afraid of certain colours. Fear, it seems, is a landmine that can be triggered by almost anything, and while history might be full of hauntingly tragic stories that span a variety of settings and climates, the most chilling ones – literally – are those that take place in the harsh environment of winter: the incident at Dyatlov Pass; the tragedy of the Donner party; even the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 took place in the freezing waters of the north Atlantic. Winter, it seems, is well equipped to end lives and create fear, and when I think of dangerous winters, I think of Maine, that area of New England on the northern frontier. If you love horror, you might equate Maine with Stephen King, but even though he’s tried hard over the last few decades to make us believe in Derry and Castle Rock and Salem’s Lot, the state has enough danger on its own. Maine is also home to nearly 3500 miles of coastline, more than even California, and that’s where the real action happens. The Maine coastline is littered with thousands of small islands, jagged rocks, ancient lighthouses and even older legends, and all in the cold north, where the sea is cruel and the weather can be deadly. It’s often there, in the places that are isolated and exposed, that odd things happen, things that seem born of the circumstances and climate, things that leave their mark on the people there – things that would never happen on the mainland. And if the stories are to be believed, that’s a good thing. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The coastline of Maine isn’t as neat and tidy as other states’. Don’t picture sandy beaches and warm waves that you can walk through; this is the cold north, the water is always chilly and the land tends to emerge from the waves as large, jagged rocks. Go ahead and pull up a map of Maine on your phone, I’ll wait. You’ll see what I mean right away – this place is dangerous, and because of that, ships have had a long history of difficulty when it comes to navigating the coast of Maine. Part of that is because of all the islands - they’re everywhere. According to the most recent count, there are over 4,600 of them, scattered along the coastal waters like fragments of a broken bottle. One such fragment is Seguin Island. It’s only three miles from the mainland, but it’s easy to understand how harsh winter weather could isolate anyone living there very quickly, and when you’re the keeper of the lighthouse there, that isolation comes with the job. The legend that’s been passed down for decades there is the story of a keeper from the mid-1800s. According to the tale, the keeper was newly married and, after moving to the island with his bride, they both began to struggle with the gulf between their lives there and the people on the coast. So, to give his wife something to do with her time – and maybe to get a bit of entertainment out of it for himself – the keeper ordered a piano for her. They say it was delivered during the autumn, just as the winter chill was creeping in. In the story, it had to be hoisted up the rock face, but that’s probably not true; Seguin is more like a green hill pretruding from the water than anything else but, hey, it adds to the drama, right? And that’s what these old stories provide –plenty of drama. When the piano arrived the keeper’s wife was elated, but buyer’s remorse quickly set in. You see, the piano only came with the sheet music for one song. With winter quickly rolling in from the north, shipping in more music was impossible, so she settled in and made the best of it. The legend says that she played that song non-stop, over and over, all throughout the winter. Somehow she was immune to the monotony of it all, but her husband, the man who had only been hoping for distraction and entertainment, took it hard. They say it drove him insane. In the end, the keeper took an axe and destroyed the piano, hacking it into nothing more than a pile of wood and wire, and then, still deranged from the repetitive tune, he turned the axe on his wife, nearly chopping her head off in the process. The tragic story always ends with the keeper’s suicide, but most know it all to be fiction. At least, that’s the general opinion, but even today, there are some who claim that if you happen to find yourself on a boat in the waters between the island and the mainland, you can still hear the sound of piano music drifting across the waves.

Boon island is near the southern tip of Maine’s long coastline. It’s not a big island by any stretch of the imagination, perhaps 400 square yards in total, but there’s been a lighthouse there since 1811 due to the many shipwrecks that have plagued the island for as long as Europeans have sailed in those waters. The most well-known shipwreck on Boon Island occurred there in the winter of 1710 when the Nottingham Galley, a ship captained by John Deane, wrecked there on the rocks. All 14 crew members survived, but the ship was lost, stranding them without help or supplies in the cold winter. As the unfortunate sailors died, one by one, the survivors were forced to eat the dead or face starvation, and they did this for days, until fishermen finally discovered and rescued them. But that’s not the most memorable story from Boon Island, that honour falls to the tale of Katherine Bright, the wife of a former lighthouse keeper there in the 19th century. According to those who believe the story, the couple had only been on the island for a few months when Katherine’s husband slipped while trying to tie off their boat. He fell and hit his head on the rocks and then slid unconsciously into the water, where he drowned. At first, Katherine tried to take on the duties of keeping the light running herself, but after nearly a week, fishermen in York on the mainland watched the light flicker out and stay dark. When they travelled to the island to investigate, they found Katherine sitting on the tower’s stairs. She was cradling her dead husband’s corpse in her arms. Legend has it that Katherine was brought back to York along with her husband’s body, but it was too late for her. Just like the lighthouse they had left behind, she was now cold and dark. Some flames, it seems, can’t be relit.

There’s been a lighthouse on the shore of Rockland, Maine, for nearly 200 years. It’s on an oddly-shaped hill, with two large depressions in the face of the rock that were said to remind the locals of an owl. So, when the light was built there in 1825 it was, of course, named Owls Head. Give any building long enough, mix in some tragedy and unexplainable phenomenon, and you can almost guarantee a few legends will be born. Owls Head is no exception. One of the oldest stories is a well-documented one from 1850. It tells of a horrible winter storm that ripped through the Penobscot Bay area on December 22nd of that year. At least five ships were driven aground by the harsh waves and chill wind. It was a destructive and fierce storm, and it would have been and understatement to say that it wasn’t a wise idea to be out that night – on land or at sea. A small ship had been anchored at Jameson Point that night. The captain had done the smart thing and gone ashore to weather the storm inside, but he left some people behind on the ship. Three, actually: first mate, Richard Ingraham, a sailor named Roger Elliot, and Lydia Dyer, a passenger. While those three poor souls tried to sleep that night on the schooner, the storm pushed the ship so hard that the cables snapped, setting the ship adrift across the bay. Now, it’s not exactly a straight shot south-east to get to Owls Head, it’s a path shaped more like a backwards “C” to get around the rocky coast, but the ship somehow managed to do it anyway. It passed the breakwater, drifted east and south, and finally rounded the rocky peninsula where Owls Head Light is perched, all before smashing against the rocks south of the light.

The three passengers survived the impact and, as the ship began to take on water, they scrambled up to the top deck – better the biting wind than the freezing water, they assumed – and then they waited, huddled there under a pile of blankets against the storm, just waiting for help. When the ship began to  actually break apart in the waves, though, Elliot, the sailor, was the only one to make an escape from the wreckage. I can’t imagine how cold he must have been with the freezing wind and ocean spray lashing at him from the darkness, but standing on the rocks with his feet still ankle-deep in the waves, he happened to look up and see the lighthouse on the hill. If he was going to find help, that was his best option, so he began to climb. He was practically dead by the time he reached the lighthouse, but when he knocked, no one answered. A moment later, the keeper of the light rode up the path on a sleigh, having been out for supplies, and realised at once that Elliot needed help. He took him in, gave him hot rum and put him into a warm bed, but not before Elliot managed to whisper something about the others.

The keeper immediately called for help and gathered a group of about a dozen men. Together, they all travelled down to the shore, where they began to look for the wreck of the ship and the people who may still be alive onboard. When they found the remains of the schooner, the men began to carefully climb across the wreckage, looking for signs of the other passengers. It was treacherous work – the wood was encrusted in ice and each step swayed dangerously with the waves. When they finally found them, they were still on the portion of the deck where Elliot had left them, but they seemed to shiver whenever the light of the lantern washed over them. Climbing closer, the men discovered why: Ingraham and Dyer were both encased in a thick layer of ice, completely covering their bodies. They were frozen. Not taking any chances, the men somehow managed to pry the couple free from the deck of the ship and the entire block was transported back up the hill to the lighthouse. All that night, they worked fast and carefully. They placed the block in a tub of water and then slowly chipped away at the ice, and as it melted, they moved the limbs of each person in an attempt to get their blood flowing again, and somehow, against all logic and medical odds, it worked. It took them a very long time to recover, but Ingraham and Dyer soon opened their eyes. Ingraham was the first to speak, and it was said that he croaked the words “what is all this? Where are we?” Roger Elliot didn’t survive the aftermath of the shipwreck. Maybe it was the trauma of climbing up the hill to the lighthouse, soaked to the bone and exposed to the freezing winds of the storm. Perhaps it was an injury he sustained in the shipwreck itself, or on the climb to the lighthouse. Dyer and Ingraham faired better, though. They eventually recovered and even married each other. They settled down and raised a family together in the area, all thanks to the man who died to bring them help when all seemed lost.

Later stories from inside Owls Head lighthouse have been equally chilling. Although there are no other tragic events on record there, it’s clear from the first-hand accounts of those who have made Owls Head their home that something otherworldly has taken up residence there. The Andrews family was one of the first to report any sort of unusual activity on the property. I can’t find a record of their first names, but the keeper and his wife lived there along with her elderly father. According to their story, one night the couple was outside and looked up to see a light swirling in her father’s window. When they climbed the stairs, they found the older man shaking in his bed from fright. Some think he might have seen the old sailor, a common figure witnessed by many over the years. When John Norton was keeper in 1980, he claimed to have seen the same apparition. He had been sleeping, but when a noise woke him up, he opened his eyes to see the figure of an old sea captain standing over his bed, just… staring at him. The old sailor has been blamed for mysterious footprints that tend to appear in the snow, footprints that could be found on the walk toward the house. The prints never seem to have an origin point, and always end abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Others have claimed to feel cold spots in the house, while some have gone on record to swear that brass fixtures inside the lighthouse, fixtures that were usually tarnished and dark, would be found mysteriously polished. None of the keepers have been able to figure out who was doing the cleaning for them, though. There have been other stories as well, tales of a white lady who has been frequently seen in the kitchen, of doors slamming without anyone in the room, and of silverware that has been heard to rattle in the drawers. Despite this, though, most have said that they felt at peace with her there – more at peace, at least, than they are with the old, bearded sailor.

In the mid-1980s, Andy Germann and his wife, Denise, lived there while tending the light. They moved in and settled into life on the harsh coast of Maine. Andy divided his time between tending the light and a series of renovations to the old lighthouse, which left the yard outside rather chaotic and full of construction materials. One night after climbing into bed, the couple heard the sound of some of the building supplies outside falling over in the wind. Andy pulled on his pants and shoes and left the room to go take care of the mess before the wind made it worse. Denise watched him leave, and then rolled back over to sleep with the lamp still on. A short while later, she felt him climb back into bed. The mattress moved, as did the covers, and so she asked out loud how it had gone, if there had been any trouble or anything unusual, but Andy didn’t reply, so Denise rolled over. When she did, she found that Andy’s spot in bed was still empty. Well, almost. In the spot where he normally slept beside her, there was a deep depression in the sheets, as if an invisible body were laying right there beside her. Of course, it was just the dent where Andy had been sleeping moments before. At least, that’s what she told herself, but thinking back on it later, Denise admits that she has doubts. There were moments when she was laying there, staring at the impression in the sheets, that she could have sworn the shape was moving. Maybe she was too level-headed to get upset, or perhaps she was too tired to care. Whatever the reason, Denise simply told whoever it was to leave her alone, and then rolled over and fell back asleep. At breakfast the next morning, she wanted to tell Andy about the experience, thinking he would laugh it off and help her to explain it away, but before she could, he told her his own story. It turns out Andy had an unusual experience of his own the previous night. He explained how, as he had exited the room and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, he saw what he could only describe as a faint cloud hovering close to the floor, and this cloud, he said, had been moving. According to Andy, when he walked down the hall, it moved right up to his feet and then passed on through him. That’s when Denise asked Andy where the cloud had been going. “Into the bedroom,” he told her. “Why?”

You don’t have to travel to a lighthouse to bump into tales of the unexplained or otherworldly. You can hear them from just about anyone you meet, from the neighbour down the street to your real estate agent, but lighthouses seem to have a reputation for the tragic, and maybe that’s understandable – these are, after all, houses built to help save lives in a dangerous setting. It might be safe to say that the well for these stories runs deeper than many place – but are they true? Like a lot of stories, it seems to depend on who you talk to. Keepers across the decades have had a mixed bag of experiences. Some see odd things, and some don’t. Maybe some people just connect to the stories more than others and go looking for hints and signs where there are none. One recent family described their time there as “normal”. They never saw ghosts, never watched objects move, and felt right at home the whole time they were there. Another family, though, acknowledged that something unusual seemed to be going on in the lighthouse. They would find lightbulbs partially unscrewed and the thermostat would constantly readjust itself – perhaps whatever it is that’s haunting the lighthouse is just very environmentally conscious. It’s easy to laugh off most of these stories, but we’ve never lived there, we’ve never heard or felt something that can’t be explained away, and like most samples of data, there’s always the outlier. Another family who lived at the lighthouse in the late 1980s claimed to have experienced their fair share of unusual activity, though. One night, while Gerard and Debby Graham were asleep, their three-year-old daughter, Claire, quietly opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She stared into the darkness for a moment, as if carefully listening to something, and then climbed out of her bed and left the room. Her little bare feet patted on the cold floor of the hallway as she made her way down towards her parents’ room. Inside, she slowly approached the side of their bed, and then tapped her father on the arm to wake him. When he did wake up, he asked Claire what was the matter. The little girl replied that she was supposed to tell him something. “Tell me what?” he father asked. “There’s a fog rolling in,” Claire replied, somehow sounding like someone infinitely older. “Sound the horn”. When he asked her who had told her this, the little girl looked at him seriously. “My friend,” she told him, “the old man with the beard.”

[Closing statements]

[chrysaliseuro2019]

Shaken And A Little Bit Stirred

Our three weeks in Greece has gone by in the wink of an eye. We have loved all of it. While Milos has been our least favourite (but still very enjoyable), Folegandros was scenically stunning and the town intimate and magical. Little streets and alleys lead into squares and while tourists have definitely found it, it’s lovely to see the locals having hung on to their little houses, out on their porches in the evenings chatting away. The tourist crowd are mainly couples or families so no pumping dance music to detract from the gentle vibe.

The Peloponnese is a must-see and I hope this has come through in the blog. As a tourist in July wanting to go where the crowds aren’t this is the place. And there is something for everyone; history buffs, museum enthusiasts, hardy hikers or beach sloths. So much to see, so much to do and a month there would not feel too long.

But today we leave and it’s a mega travel day so up and about doing chores. First off was shuffling the odd piece of still damp washing on our balcony washing line (one of the small and welcome creature comforts of an extended holiday) to take full advantage of sun and breeze. Then packing of cases which is becoming increasingly strategic commensurate with additional purchases, followed by getting the hotel to print out our flight boarding passes. Breakfast, then the final odds ‘n sods into the cases in readiness for our lift from Hotel Riga’s to the port.

Hotel Rigas was delightful. While only 2 stars, the room and balcony were enormous. But the bathroom this time was the size of 2 telephone booths and only room for one person due to an oversized awkwardly placed door which to close you practically had to stand on the toilet. Fortunately after 36 years of marriage, modesty is a concern long forgotten. The staff were the real standout with brother Panos and Christos the front office charmers. But the real star of the show was the housekeeper, who when we returned to the room after our first day out, had hung up our clothes, put things away in cupboards and done a through tidy up. It felt like mum had been in doing a Spring clean . I wanted to pay her one way fare to Fergie Street.

Ferry due to leave at 11.25am and arrived only 10 minutes late which was a relief. Systematic disembarkment for the Milos foot passenger and car arrivals followed by and orderly boarding by those leaving. This was in stark contrast to the Athens leaving fiasco necessitating dashing hither and thither avoiding a reversing oil tanker, taxis, buses, boxes on the wharf, cases, the passenger carrying a canary in a cage and a lot of agitated passengers. Piraeus Port Authority could do worse than do a study trip to a few islands for a few tips on traffic management.

Ferry went via nearby islands Sifnos & Serifos gradually filling on its way to Piraeus. Happily the sea was calm and the boat steady with the 4 hours passing quickly and uneventfully. Food onboard was also worthy of mention for the wrong reason. We shared a smoked turkey, cheese and mayo sandwich. The less said about that the better.

The TVs were showing some FINA Watersport competitions including the Greeks versus the Sth Koreans at water polo. It was Goliaths vs The Punes. The score of 13-2 representative of the physical strength imbalance. Chris was surprised the Punes didn’t turn tail and head straight back to Sth Korea when they caught sight of their opposition. Next on were the prissy-glittery-glammed-up teams of synchronised swimmers. We were half watching it (Chinese coming first followed by the Japanese, who we thought only average, then Ukraine) when the TVs changed to another station. Because all Greek discussion is loud and intense (and our Greek has not progressed beyond yassas and efcharistó) we had no idea whether it was the Midday Show, a regular news bulletin or some current affairs show. With no more synchronised swimming our books got 100% attention until we docked at 3.30pm.

Things were going too well for them to last. So they didn’t. With our ferry due at Piraeus at 3.30pm and our flight to Rome via Trieste due to depart at 7.10pm it was going to be a bit tight to take a train so we’d contacted a car transfer company which sends quotes. First quote arrived on Tuesday for £65 then decreased incrementally over the 3 days to £30. There seemed to be no time limit as to when you could accept the offer so we made sure the ferry was (a) going at all and (b) not delayed before we committed. As soon as we sailed we booked the transfer and emailed the driver to confirm the booking advising what ferry we were on expecting someone to be there when we arrived

Needless to say they weren’t. Port of Piraeus is not our happy place. Meanwhile my phone reconnected to the internet and I received a message from our niece asking if we were ok after hearing about the earthquake. I didn’t think anything more of it.

Meanwhile I put in a phone call to our organised driver who knew nothing of the booking and said he would call me back. Five minutes and no call back so I called him back only for it to ring out. Chris called him but the +44 English prefix probably gave it away cos he didn’t pick up that call either. So several calls to the company who didn’t seem be able to sort a driver resulting in my ire being raised about taking bookings that can’t be filled etc. We await a refund. But the bigger problem was time was on the wing and it was now 4.30pm so we went in search of a taxi.

Taxis in the port area were all pre booked so we found a taxi rank and asked the price. €80/$120!! Tell them they’re dreaming! Already pissed off about pre-booked driver no-show I got into a debate with the driver saying “We would take the taxi and trust the metre”. His bluff was ”It would be more expensive”. I countered “That would work better for you and we’ll take our chances”. His final response was “Take the bus lady” so we walked off in principle. (Think Chris reading my mood thought silence was his safest option.) I asked his mate also in the taxi queue but it was clearly a cartel cos he looked sheepish as he quoted the same which saved him losing face in front of his thieving mate. At this stage I thought my principles might cost us dearly with a missed flight (and I’d have a lot of apologising to do and a lot of extra Holmesglen shifts to cover the cost of lost flights) when we tried to flag down a taxi joining the rank who waved us off. But sometimes sticking to your guns pays off because a little modern Mercedes came around the corner driven by a taxi angel called Lorenzo who stopped as we waved him down. Quote €50. Deal! As he was loading the bags Lorenzo excitedly asked us if we’d felt the earthquake. So this explained the change of TV programming and the text message checking in on us. At around 2pm central Athens had experienced a 5.6 earthquake followed by aftershocks. We googled it and sure enough it was Athens’ first earthquake since the one in 1990 which resulted in 146 deaths and many more injured. Lorenzo who was driving through the city at the time said you don’t feel the movement of an earthquake when driving so he wasn’t aware what was happening. He said people were running out of buildings and dropping to the ground causing him to wonder if it was a terrorist attack. Fortunately there seemed to be no damage and deaths this time.

We were finally on our way to the airport with Lorenzo who determined the usually fast freeway route was jammed (we assumed as a response to the earthquake) taking 1.45 hours so the slower coastal route was a better option. The traffic around Piraeus was appalling but this bloke had the same traffic mindset as Chris....never, ever, ever sit in a traffic jam. We belted down bumpy narrow backroads made even narrower with cars parked on either side as we avoided the bottleneck around the port. The traffic was still heavily congested but our driver took every advantage of space by cutting in at the front of queues, forming extra turning lanes etc. It was quite the performance.

Not only was he determined to deliver us to the airport on time, he loved a chat. He was an Albanian in his mid 30’s married to a Greek with with two primary school aged children. He had been a semi professional soccer goalkeeper and along with taxi driving worked as a goal keeper coach. He proudly told us that only goal keepers can coach the skills of goal keeping. Lorenzo kept us entertained with stories saying when he was young he was popular because he wanted to play keeper whereas it was usually the fat kids who were lumped into that role because all the aspiring Ronaldos wanted to be the goal kicking stars. Another one we enjoyed was that his father used to regularly dink him 24 kilometres on the back of his pushbike in Albania to see a soccer match. The distance wasn’t the only issue as the roads built by the Italians post WW2 hadn’t received any attention from the communist government leaving them rutted, potholed and crumbling. Lorenzo and his dad’s bums must have been black and blue after those 48 kilometre round trips. He was also very interested in our lives so by the time we arrived at the airport at 5.50pm we were thoroughly relaxed with our faith in taxi drivers restored. We happily handed him €60 which he thought generous. We felt certain we were on the better end of that deal.

Flight to Trieste had a Rome stopover. The first leg to Rome left on time and was fine. After landing when the seat belt lights were switched the bloke beside me on the window side stood impatient to get off and leaned all over the top of me breathing heavily - he was not a small man. Usually I would get up too but with leg room being tight and row 24 being towards the back of the plane I stayed seated waiting for the 23 rows ahead to get themselves organised. This did not please bully boy next to me. After putting up with him literally right over the top of me panting I eventually stood at my middle seat. He took this as an opportunity to lean over me attempting to reach up into the luggage hold to drag his oversized case down. With the two irksome experiences at Piraeus still rankling I was not in the mood to be hassled. I refused to move and pushed back against him thwarting his attempts. When I finally moved out toward the aisle he reached over and dragged the case down telling me to move off before the people from the row in front. I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn’t moving until they were out of their seats in to aisle. Could excuse him if he was a peasant or had another flight to catch, but indeed he was well dressed and did not go to transit when we got off. That made 3 strikes with the no-show and thieving taxi driver so my patience was sorely tested.

Fortunately for everyone, probably most of all Chris who’s cage doesn’t generally get as rattled as mine, we had a spare seat for the next flight.

Landed at Trieste just before 11pm so had been on the go for 12 hours. Luggage arrived quickly making a dash to catch the 11.15pm train possible. We arrived at the station with the train pulling in. However we hadn’t had a chance to purchase tickets and with the machine caught in a loop, the train stopping for less than a minute and the guard less than helpful with advice we had to let it go. The only tip he gave us was not to buy the tickets on train as they were €50 more expensive that way (sounds to me like a euphemism for fine). Gave up on the train, taxis €60 (A$100) so not prepared to pay that. Instead we waited and caught the bus whose ticket machine also wasn’t working. No machine =no pay. Suited us. Took 45 minutes to get to TriesTe central station but enjoyed talking to a young helpful Slovenian man who had lived in Sydney for 3 months and a young Romanian woman who works as a purser on one of the small cruise boats that was hit by the big liner in Venice recently. Fortunately for her she was on leave at the time.

Grateful that Chris had booked our hotel not 5 minutes walk from Central Station. To top it all off our room stunk off cigarette smoke and the window shutters refused to open. Night manager couldn’t open them either so a quick move into neighbouring room which proved to be far nicer. Needless to say both knackered. Hope the travel Gods go gently on us tomorrow.

[xaz-fr]

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Set in a fantasy world of the semi socialist society Fey Alliance with magic, dick head dragon riders, benevolent necromancers, and even bigger dick head gods of mischief. The Zealous Servant is the story about a guy named Spayar who, has to keep his crown prince of a bff from being murdered by his entire family by murdering them first. Though Spayar just wants to take a nap and find a cute boy to kiss and not have to worry about his corpse potentially being dragged through the street after a war. Better win that shit then.

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My favorite thing about Spayar is that no matter how cool he is or becomes this chapter still happens and shows he’a fucking idiot lols.

On the few clear days in the Meltong Basin during the wet season Assarus came to life like an ant hive. Most people tried to stay indoors as often as possible in the autumn because it rained nearly every day, so when the sky was clear and the weather warlockd predicted no rain everyone made sure to make the most of it. Spayar was on his mare in traffic, Duren sitting in front of him, sitting straight up and looking all around. Thankfully Spayar still had several inches on him or it would be a problem. 

His mare barely noticed the extra weight. She had a deep brown coat, thick legs, and great big hooves with great feathering. She was a horse who's ancestors had once worked the fields and now were the mounts of royalty and their favored. Von had gifted her to Spayar three years ago when Spayar complained about always having different horses wherever they went. Now she was his, he couldn't even begin to think of how expensive a horse like Spayar's was, trained for battle and didn't even flinch when her rider used magic. Not to mention the size, she was massive, and everyone got out of her way.

"Where are we going?"  Duren asked, turning around to look at Spayar, holding onto the pommel to keep from falling off.

"You'll see," though of course Duren knew why. He'd begged and begged Spayar over breakfast to show him how to ride and Spayar had given in if only to just make him shut up. By now they were leaving Bellringer and into South Garden which looked like it was trying very hard to mimic the style of Nedrag and the Garden with it's clean, boxy, buildings and covered in fauna. The city of Assarus or Surassa themselves had no one culture. They were a melting pot of all the provinces, and thus all the kingdoms the Alliance had conquered in its two thousand year being. Parts of South Garden looked like Nedalia or Dalican, there were motifs from the Yellow Hills in South Garden and he saw symbols from the city Peonia painted on the sides of buildings. People from the west of the Alliance had settled South Garden, much like the east had settled in Bellringer with it's gray stone buildings and clocks and its focus on craft rather than aesthetic.

"Shouldn't we be going outside the city?" Duren asked since South Garden was further in and really Spayar just wanted to get to Tradesmens as quickly as possible since unlike Peonia it sometimes mimicked itself after South Garden was one of the most twisting and confusing districts in the capital other than perhaps Cat's Cradle, even the Mire and Downriver were more organized than this.

"You'll see," Spayar just said again pushing his mare through a busy intersection full of people. When they saw his big war horse they jumped out of the way. Spayar was trying to be nice but he was getting annoyed with how busy this damn city was and he had a big horse. Big horses won over busy pedestrians.

"I can see Swan Island from here," Duren pointed once they finally got through South Garden and into Tradesmens. Spayar looked and indeed they could see the holy island from here over the low buildings and warehouses of Tradesmens, meaning Spayar was way off course. "Are we going to Swan Island?" Duren asked, confused.

"No," even as he made his mare head for the river. They came up to the walled bank of the Meltong and could see Swan Island easily. A small lake had formed here in the Meltong river in a low part of the land before it continued its journey south to the Break and the Fea’staal Sea. behind. Swan Island sat in the middle of the lake and it was a large, beautiful park, filled with temples. From here they could see people going in and out of them and people on horses or people enjoying the sunlight on the grass or under the trees. 

"Can we go to Swan Island?" Duren asked.

"I thought you wanted to learn to ride," Spayar said.

"Yeah I know, but we rarely go to Swan Island."

"Another time. I'll take you and the girls on Asumsest if you want," and he turned his horse to start down the road, running parallel to the river, towards the Winter Palace at the top of the hill in the distance. Tradesmens was full of canals that went into warehouses from the river and looked more like something from the country of Tipin or even Joti than anything else. Bridges spanned every canal for horses and pedestrians, though they were too steep and high to allow bigger boats through, so carriages had to take other routes. Few people were on the River Road but there were a lot of boats in the river. The Meltong was always full of boats and today was especially bad since it was full of trade ships and barges as well as personal boats with brightly colored sails or sides. At the very least both the river and the river road were orderly. 

The River Road wound north and east, through parts of South Garden, where Spayar didn’t let anyone get in his way lest they get trampled by war horse hooves, and then through the entire length of Uptown. The Hillsman children all went to school in Uptown. Mostly because their father could afford the cabby ride there and back every day and Anora’s private secondary schooling there. It was a wealthy neighborhood and it seemed like the was a bank on every street from every major city in the Alliance. At the last everyone moved with purpose here, no dawdling or frolicking about like in South Garden. Here people were all business and people stayed on the side walks and out of the traffic of horses, carriages, and some strange two wheeled contraption Spayar had never seen but flew down the street as quick as any horse. It looked like a buggy but wasn't pulled by a horse. He have to look into that.

When the River Road finally dumped them into Fey's Shadow Duren turned to Spayar accusingly. Spayar just rose his brows at his brother. Duren frowned the Hillsman frown at Spayar and turned back around. In Fey's Shadow the roads were wide and well kept, the manses behind their tall, thick, walls, were every style in the Alliance. The wealthiest people lived in Fey's Shadow and most nobles had houses here as well, and built their mansions in the style of their home province. You could see the entire gambit of architectural styles in Fey's Shadow from the low, spider web-like dwellings of the Wren-Kel, to the tall, low eaved, state house of the Peony. Spayar kept his horse on still and Duren's head kept moving, looking all around, trying to see everything. A lot of the houses were out of sight behind the walls but he tried, to caught glimpses of them through the gates.

At some point they came to the Twin Switches bridges, where the Meltong looped back around to itself and were only a few hundred feet apart. Two identical bridges built in a northern style spanned both parts of the Meltong and as they crossed the first bridge you could sort of see over the thick, protective, wall of the North estate. Duren raised himself up in the saddle a bit as though to see better before sitting back down. The North estate was the most heavily fortified estate they’d seen thus far, and the largest. Spayar knew there were bigger ones than the North’s, but it was up there.

“Who lives there?” Duren asked Spayar.

“The Norths,” Spayar said.

“Wow,” he said, “Do you know them?”

“By reputation, now sit down I can’t see,” and Duren turned right way round and sat properly as they started to cross the second Switch. Very shortly after they’d passed the North estate the road started to slant upwards to the Palace which gleamed like a snow capped mountain from the peak. 

There were no walls around the grounds of the Winter Palace, just like the rest of Assarus. There hadn't been an attack on the capital in two thousand years when neighboring nations had thought the young Alliance weak. Even the Federation wasn't stupid enough to attack their northern capital. You touched Assarus and a wrath that couldn't be imagined was unleashed. Not since Sinou's death had anyone tried to take Assarus or rather, Surassa, with any serious intent. The first Asuras had made sure the fear of what the Le'Acard could do would be felt through the ages until the end of time.

No one stopped Spayar as he rode up to the palace and Duren started to shift in front of him in wonder. It was above Duren to ever think of coming to the Winter Palace. His brother had been born and raised in Bellringer and he wasn't a knight, or a courtier or anyone of importance really.

Spayar didn't get too close to the Palace, instead he went around to the side where the stables were, where his own horse had been bred. A stable hand came out to see him when he got closer. "Sir," he bowed when he saw Spayar. Spayar recognized him.

"Oh stand up Jill," Spayar said, unimpressed. The stable hand, Jill, looked up, a rueful smile on his face like what Spayar did to Von Jill bowed to Spayar to annoy him.

The oldest son of a talented seamstress Jill was a spry young man Spayar's age with a gap in his front teeth, large ears, big green eyes, and hair the color of a carrot that stuck out wildly from any hat he tried to wear. They'd been sort of friends before Spayar had met Von, more friends because their mothers were friends. After Jill had finished his mandatory schooling in Bellringer he’d begged Spayar to get him a job in the Palace. So Spayar had and now he worked in the stables, right where Jill wanted to be with his love of animals. "You ain't impression' no one,” casually taking on the low born drawl of those in Middleton where he knew Jill lived, across the river from Bellringer.

Jill laughed and stood up straight, walking over to take the mare's bridle as Spayar dismounted with a grunt. Damn horse sometimes felt too big for him, even with his long legs. "Wha'cha here for?" Jill asked.

"Riding lessons, c'mon Duren," he held his arms up for his little brother. Duren dragged one leg over the saddle so he was sitting with both on the same side and then slid down into Spayar's arms. He wasn't strong enough to catch Duren anymore, his brother too big for that, but he could make sure he got to the ground safely.

"For who? You? You’re one of the best riders I know," and Jill sucked on his gap.

"No no, for my brother," Duren stood behind Spayar. He didn't know Jill, Spayar wasn't surprised, the damn guy slept with the horses now and rarely went home to Middleton despite talking like he'd lived there his entire life. Spayar also didn’t see or mention Jill like he did his actual friends. They’d been boys together but had nothing in common anymore and didn’t really interact except for times like these. "I need an easy horse, lower to the ground than her," he patted his mare's neck fondly.

"Wan’a pony?" he asked, "We have a few of ‘em marshy geldings.”

"Yeah, that sounds fine."

"You got it," and then he turned back towards the stables, leading Spayar's horse away. As he did Jill yelled, "Mavok, get one of the ponies saddled up!"

"Who was that?" Duren asked him.

"A friend," Spayar said, Duren just looked confused. "What?" he asked.

"You have other friends other than the prince?" Duren asked.

"Of course I do," Spayar said irritably. Spayar had a lot of friends, though few good ones, and countless acquaintances he knew more about than he had any right to. "Vondugard isn't my only friend."

"Seems like," Duren said, making a face, "dooim says so a least."

"Dad doesn't know half the things I do," thank the gods for that. “Don’t listen to everything dad says, he’s not always right.”

Duren frowned, not liking Spayar talking about their dad in any negative light. “Why do I have to ride a pony? I want to ride a horse," Duren decided to complain about that instead.

"A pony is fine to start with and probably as much as a horse as you'll ever ride," he patted Duren's shoulder. Duren looked at him sourly. "You're a smith brother, not a knight, you got no need for a horse."

"What about you then? Are you a knight?"

"No," Spayar agreed. Gods no he wasn't a knight.

"Then why do you have a horse?"

Spayar laughed, "More than just knights own horses, Duren. You see people not knights on horses don't you?" Duren nodded slowly. "A horse is just expensive. Expensive to buy, expensive to care for, expensive to house. I'm really lucky to have a horse like mine. But you," he tapped his brother's nose, "will be fine with a pony for today. Once you get better we'll move you to a horse."

"Okay," Duren said, Spayar could see the wheels of Duren's mind turning. But before he could figure it all out Jill was back leading a pony, fully saddled. It was a fairly tall pony, rather thin, with long, narrow, legs, but still many hands shorter than Spayar’s mare.

"Here w’are, one of them marshy ponies of LoHanJo'in," meaning it was a Adoshade horse. They'd bred them from the water ponies who lived in and around the Boggart swamps that took up most of LoHanJo'in province. They were just tall enough to stand above the water line most places and short enough to stay out of the way of the lower branches of the trees in the swamps and small enough to squeeze between trees to escape predators.

"Thanks," Spayar said and Jill handed him the lead.

"His name's Ollie, ‘e's a good boy," and Jill patted the pony's rump, Ollie swished his tail.

"We'll have him back before lunch probably," Spayar said.

"No rush. Hillsman can take him out as long as he wants, Stablemaster said that."

“Really?’ Spayar asked, raising his brows at Jill.

“Aaaah, not in so many words,” Jill said, grinning a gap toothed grin.

“Great,” Spayar said, half laughing, “Take care of my horse while I'm out."

Jill laughed, "She'll be a princess while she's here," he promised.

Spayar grinned and motioned to his brother to follow him as he led him and the pony away from the stables. "Spayar," Duren asked as they went to a field. Unlike most of the land around the capital the hill the palace sat on was hard ground. It was why Spayar had picked up here and not just anywhere, Duren wouldn't have to worry about potholes or wetland.

"Yeah?" Spayar asked.

"Does your horse have a name?"

Spayar looked up from where he was checking the pony's bridal, "Uh... no," he realized. He'd never named his horse. Three years and his horse didn't have a name. It had honestly never occurred to him.

Duren hadn’t been expecting Spayar to actually agree with him that his horse didn’t have a name. "It doesn't?"

"I guess not," Spayar admitted and looked back on his life choices where he hadn’t named his own horse.

"You should name her," Duren insisted.

"I wouldn't even know what to call her," Spayar said, "I always just call her girl."

"That's a terrible name." Spayar frowned, now he felt weird about it. How had he not noticed he'd never named his own horse? He’d had her for three years. How hadn't anyone noticed? Or what if they had but had felt like it wasn’t their place to point it out? Maybe everyone knew Spayar’s horse didn’t have a name and wondered what was wrong with him. It made Spayar feel self conscious about the entire thing. He couldn’t just go around asking people if they knew his horse’s name either because then if they didn’t know then they would. "You should think of a name for her," Duren said.

"I guess," Spayar said, though honestly giving his horse a name now would be more weird since he was so used to her not having one. "I'll think about it, now lets get you up.” Mainly he just wanted to get off the subject of his horse not having a name. Hopefully Duren would forget that they’d ever had this conversation.

He showed Duren how to mount a horse. Duren climbed onto Ollie's back with only a bit of trouble. Spayar handed Duren the reigns and saw that Jill had also given him a long lead line as well. Thanks Jill. "Marshy ponies are really well trained," Spayar told his brother to continue to stay off the subject of his own horse. “So you just need to give it a little nudge to get him going. With your heel... yeah like that," and Duren got the pony to start to walk. "Not so tight on the reins," he said as he let the lead rope out.

"How do I turn?" Duren asked.

"Pull them the direction you want them to go. Not too hard," and Duren did so. The pony started to moved in an arc with Spayar as it's center point. Spayar turned as the pony walked and Duren was so focused on the pony it was like he’d forgotten his brother was an absolute idiot.

"Spayar," Duren said after he'd walked the pony around Spayar in a circle a few times "what's a gelding?"

"It's a boy horse that can't have children."

Duren was paying attention to the pony when he asked, "Like you?"

"What! No. I'm not a gelding," thank the gods he wasn't. He rather enjoyed all his equipment, and all their functions.

"But you can't have children," Duren looked at Spayar.

"I am fully capable," Spayar said, trying not to be irritated. Duren was only eight, he was allowed to be stupid. It was surprisingly difficult to not be angry though. "I just won't."

"Cause boys can't have babies?"

"Exactly," Spayar said, "And a gelding is a horse who's been castrated. It's different."

"Well what's castrated mean?"

"It means they cut the balls off." Spayar laughed at Duren's horrified face. His brother looked down at his lap like to assure himself he was still in one piece. "They only do it to horses,” he assured Duren. That didn't mean Spayar couldn't think of at least a dozen reasons or crimes that would get a man castrated, and not just the balls either.

"Why do they do that?"

"To make them calmer."

"But what about making more horses?"

"They don't geld all the stallions Duren," Spayar sighed, "and the Adoshade only gift out or sell gelded marshy ponies, so other places can't breed them."

"Why?"

"Politics, don't worry about it," yeah only Spayar had to worry about that sort of stuff. "Try and make your pony go faster," Spayar encouraged to get them off the talk of horse balls. First making Spayar come to the realization his horse didn’t have a name and now horse balls. Something was wrong with his little brother. Duren tapped the pony again and Ollie started to go faster.

They were out there for a while until Duren said his legs hurt. "Owww," he complained as he got off Ollie. "Why does that hurt so much?"

"You aren't used to it," Spayar said, patting Ollie who looked ready for a rest and to not go in circles anymore. Duren was rubbing the inside of his thighs, looking pained. "Lets head back to the stable, I'm sure Ollie wants his lunch," and he started to walk, Duren rubbed for a few more seconds before following.

"You rode all the way to Peonia and back in like two weeks,” Duren said, looking at Spayar with something like awe.

"I did," he agreed.

"Didn't it hurt?"

Spayar shrugged, "It's just uncomfortable. You get used to it honestly, from being in the saddle so much."

"Doesn't your dick hurt though?"

Spayar snorted, "Usually the whole area just goes numb before it starts to hurt."

"You've ridden a horse with a numb butt?" Duren cried, eyes wide.

"Yeap," Spayar said. "But I ride all the time. The more you do the less it hurts."

"Oh," Duren looked contemplative a moment. "You're not a knight, right Spayar?"

"Nope."

"Then what are you? You can fight and do magic like a knight and a  warlock, but you aren't are you?"

"I'm not a knight," Spayar said, "all magic users are warlocks, you know that."

"Then what are you?" Spayar thought about that a moment. What was he? "Spayar?"

"I'm thinkin'," Spayar said as they approached the stables. Jill didn't meet them this time and they entered the building. "Hello," he called. The royal stables were huge and each stall had a name plaque beside the door. Despite that it was easy to get lost and it wasn’t best to wander without a stablehand to guide you. "Hello," he called again. It'd take them forever to find Ollie's stall on their own. He sighed and started down the stall lined corridor, at the very least he could find Ollie's stall. Though he also needed to find his horse. This was probably a horrible idea. Where was everyone?

They walked through the stables to the other side where there was a covered area that led to one of the two large courtyards that stood guard next to the large looping drive at the front of the palace. There they found seemingly all the stable hands, standing back and out of the way. In front of them was a gilt carriage pulled by a team of four, black, horses of the same sick as his own made and standing beside it was a fair haired woman who was yelling at the holsters. Spayar recognized her by voice alone, it was Von's second oldest sister; Obi. 

"What's going on?" Spayar asked one of the stable hands quietly, thankfully Duren had enough sense to be silent.

"Her highness keeps changing her mind about what she wants," they said, frowning. "First she wanted white horses, than brown horses, now black horses, and only females. Something' wrong with the carriage, this or that uhg.” 

"Well... I have a pony that needs to be put away," Spayar said.

"At least it's something to do, what's his name?"

"Ollie."

"Right, I'll take him. You got a horse, sir?” they said and took Ollie’s lead. Meanwhile Obi was still yelling, irritated something wasn't happening fast enough. Spayar hated Obi. Spayar genuinely hated few people, but Obi was one of them. She was a handful.

“Yes, she’s a royal breed, dark brown coat, white hairs, Jill put her away for me.”

“Ah, I know that one. I’ll bring her here, sir,” and they left with Ollie.

Spayar turned around when he heard Obi crack one stable hand across the face. "Do not talk back to me," she yelled at the man who was now on the ground, hand over one side of their face.

"Apologizes your highness, I was merely-

She stepped on him, stomped was more a correct term honestly. The stable hand cried out, his sound of pain startling the horses. "I said do not talk back to me!" 

"I'm sorry," the stable hand stammered. Spayar knew he shouldn’t intervene. He didn’t really have much to do with the other royals unless they put themselves in front of him. It was less messy and he wouldn’t get to know them and feel bad when he plotted their murder. He was about to turn away and take Duren with him when he recognized the stablehand. He cursed to himself. Of course it had to be Jill. Of course it had to be because Can’dhe liked to torment him. Liked to put things in his way and test his character.

He looked down at his brother and saw his brother recognized Jill as well. What would it look like if Spayar just turned a blind eye? How could he explain to his baby brother that it was better if he didn’t get involved? He couldn’t. Not after Spayar had called Jill his friend. What sort of person left their ‘friend’ to be beat over nothing. He sighed a little. He was about to do something stupid and reckless and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

"Learn to listen when your betters speak," Obi spat made to stomp on Jill again. This time Spayar flicked his hand to cast a spell and caught her heeled foot in mid air with a messy weave that clung to the air on spider silk connections. It did hold her though. She whirled on the stable hands accusingly, fire in her cerulean blue eyes. "Who's doing that?" she demanded.

Nothing for it. He’d started this, he had to finish it. Spayar stepped forward, leaving Duren with another stable hand who didn't need to be told to hold his brother back. "Hello your highness," he bowed to her neatly, extending his arms a bit and wishing he was wearing a bit nicer clothes. Anyone watching saw it as mocking but Obi, unobservant as always, saw it as respectful. What she did see was that he didn’t bow nearly as low as he would to Von or even the king. The king. Her nostrils flared angrily.

Obi was the prettiest of Von’s siblings and loved the gut, emulating all the most popular styles from there. Obi had long, delicate, golden locks she wore in immaculate ringlets of the Dalicites. Her nails were always freshly manicured and painted like a Nedalian. Today they were apple red with yellow tips. Her bright blue eyes were ringed in Aldashi style liner, the wings conservative like she’d done them herself and was intimidated by them. They weren’t nearly as long or elegant as Tassa’s. Even her clothes were western Alliance with a high hem on her skirt over a pair of lace tights and a bodice that showed off her flat, golden, stomach and pushed her breasts together while keeping her shoulders bare. For the aesthetics she was lovely. Under that gilded facade she was a miasma of stupidity and temper made of methane that just needed the slightest spark to erupt in either spouting off something so ignorant it actually gave you pause, or she’d turn you inside out with a temper tantrum.

"Spayar," she said his name like he was a piece of shit on her shoe, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Keeping you from hurting an innocent man," Spayar said calmly, standing up again. He didn't avert his eyes when he spoke to Obi either, he didn't know how to anymore. Von demanded that Spayar looked at him on level when they spoke and he did it out of habit to all people of standing.

Obi looked down and sneered at Jill who swallowed. "If I want to it's my prerogative," she said and snapped Spayar's weave holding her leg like he knew she would. This time when Obi made to stomp on Jill Spayar uttered one word and Obi lost her footing and fell ass up on her back. There was a stunned silence in the courtyard. Here Spayar had to play carefully or he’d have a fire on his hands. He wasn’t a pyromacer either and Von want here.

"That man is under your mother's employ and thus under the protection of the Le'Acard," Spayar said, hands behind his back so no one could see how hard they were trembling. He wasn't angry. He was afraid. He wasn't afraid of much but pissing off someone who could kill him effortlessly was one of them. Von wasn't around to protect him from his sister like sometimes. It was one thing to kill your brother’s best friend when he was alone, it was quite another to do it in front of him. Especially a d’aelar. Normally that would make him immune from most attacks by the Le’Acard. Not from Obi. Obi didn’t care. When she was angry or insulted and not handled carefully she’d take on anyone.

Obi stared at him like she couldn't believe he'd really just done that. He'd just humiliated her in front of a bunch of stable hands. "What are you looking at?" she snarled at Jill who was also staring, slightly slack jawed.

"Nothing, your highness," he looked away quickly

She got to her feet and marched over to Spayar. Obi was shorter than him, but it didn't matter, she was like fire. Literally she was fire and was a pyromacer like her brother Von. For a second Spayar thought the tips of her coiled hair sparked and became flame. Not unheard of for a powerful pyromacer. "You would do such a thing?" she hissed.

Spayar kept very calm. Obi won when you talked back, when you got angry. He'd seen enough of her fighting with Teldin, Tallalsala and Dellin to know how she was, what she did, and how temperamental she was. When Obi started to smolder if you struck back in anger like she did she’d just ignite and you’d lose. It was something that happened often enough and only staying perfectly calm in the face of her wrath would see her be handled out of that spark of rage. “I would," he said. 

"I am a Le'Acard, you would lay a hand on me?" she demanded, fire in her eyes, her breath as hot as a forge on his face.

"I did no such thing-

"You still-

"I simply stopped you from making a mistake," he just talked right over her. The only way for Obi to hear you was to just talk over her.

"Me? A mistake?" she laughed.

"So you would rather me tell the stable master you beat one of his best stable boys and then he would tell your mother?" Spayar asked her curiously.

Obi froze. She hadn't thought of that. Of course she hadn't. Obi was an idiot of the first degree. Of Von's siblings she was the least he was worried about because Obi didn't have the patience or brain power to plan a coup, let alone the temperament to see it through to completion. She might know Tallalsala was meeting with the Clan and Teldin had the White Foot and Wren-Kal in his pocket, but that meant nothing to Obi. It was like telling her there was a particular bad thunderstorm outside. It would pass, as it always did. "My mother?" she asked and it was like Spayar had dropped a block of ice on white hot iron.

"Yes," Spayar said, "Asuras Virilia takes great pride in the horses her stable breeds, and thus those who work there. You wouldn't want her to know you were abusing them would you?" Spayar was talking out of his ass of course. Obi was too dumb to know differently. She believed everything people told her. A temper with gullibility did not make a good match and was how you threw sand over the tinder of her temper. He looked at the carriage, "Didn't you have somewhere to be, my lady?" he asked her rather innocently, switching topics and confusing her by now being worried for her well being and her time table.

"I do," she said slowly, unsure what he was doing or how to react appropriately since just a moment ago she’d been ready to burn him alive.

"I would hate for you to be late," there was a driver already sitting in the seat up front, staring at Spayar like he was crazy. "Since I'm sure it's terribly important if you need to go."

"It is," she said and pursed her lips at him. She hadn't even realized what he was doing. How did Von have a sibling like Obi?

"I'm sure they're waiting for you," he moved his fingers and the carriage door opened, beckoning Obi.

"This idiot-

"Had the best intentions your highness. You really shouldn't worry about such trvilalries," and already Obi had gone from being mad at him for humiliating her to complacent and ready to do what he said. If you didn’t set her off Obi was actually very easy to deal with. It was just she was easily set off. You just had to use a certain tone with her and she cooled down and did what you said once you showed her that yes; you were the boss here, not her. Honestly she was a bit like a horse. If the rumors were true she was ridden about as much as the common use horses in the stables too. "Driver," he called, "where are you going?"

"We're going to Mirin, my lord," the driver said. The capital of Kou. That made Spayar slightly uneasy. A million possibilities ran through his head about why Obi would be going to the capital of Kou. She had to have a handler, behind the scenes, trying to put her on the throne. If only so she’d be a figurehead.

"That's a long way," Spayar said, “Who are you going to see?”

“The Lady Lenni,” she said. Spayar wracked his brain. Who was the Lady Lenni?

“Well if you don’t leave soon it’ll be too late in the day to make any way down the Westernlance. You wouldn’t want to put off seeing her another day would you?”

“No,” Obi said adamantly.

“Then we should get you on your way,” he said, barely even in the moment with Obi. He was thinking of who the Lady Lenni was. He helped her into the carriage and Spayar closed the door with a pleasant smile. He waved to the driver once he stepped back and the driver, who finally had to look away from his stupefied amazement at Spayar, flicked the reins to put the horses into a trot. Obi would be out of the city before she realized Spayar had manipulated her and she’d told him where she was going and who she was seeing.

"That was amazing," Jill said from the ground. "How'd you do that?"

"I have a lot of practice dealing with Le'Acard," Spayar offered Jill his hand. Jill took it and Spayar hauled him to his feet. Jill wasn't  really wounded, but he was a bit battered. "Go to the palace healer, get healed up, if they throw a fuss say I sent you."

"You're right amazing Spayar," Jill said.

Spayar just shrugged, "Go on, me and Duren are for home."

"Right right," Jill said, and dusted himself off a bit. "Thanks," he said again, grinning his gap toothed grin at Spayar. Spayar went back to find his brother, "What you lot standing around for?" Jill cried at the other stable hands, "You gots stuff to do, so go do it!" and they scattered.

Duren was standing with his mare and another man that made Spayar stop dead, the warm feeling of victory over Obi leeching away instantly. 

Teldin was holding onto Spayar's horse’s reins and standing next to Duren like it was the most natural thing he could do. "Your highness," he bowed to Teldin much lower than he had for Obi. Unlike her Teldin actually garnered real respect. 

As with the rest of the past few generations of Le’Acard Teldin was fair and blonde, his hair in last decade’s style of long and slicked back. Unlike some of his siblings his skin was the color of flour and his eyes were such a brown they were practically black. He had mean eyes like an owl's and a long, proud looking face. He was well built and filled his autumn coat well. This was the man who threatened Von's life, and thus Spayar's own life; the oldest son of the Asuras.

"What can I do for you, your highness?" Spayar asked, straightening. As he did he noticed that twined around Teldin’s neck was a long, leaf green, snake with eyes too smart to be an animal. A shapeshifter. Spayar knew who it was instantly and it put him on more edge than he already was with Teldin’s appearance. Sade was a powerful warlock and shifter and practically Teldin’s second in command. She was practically another Spayar. Why would she be here with Teldin now?

"That was very impressive," Teldin said, he had the voice of a singer, the type you could listen to forever. "Not many people can so expertly manipulate Obi out of a rage," he said it thoughtfully but also like he didn’t actually care.

"You're too kind, your highness," Spayar said.

"Where's my brother?" he asked.

"Vondugard, your highness?"

"Who else would I ask you about?" though they both knew realistically Spayar probably knew the whereabouts of all the Le'Acard children despite only having been in Assarus a few days since his trip to the gut.

"I don't know. I just came home from serving time a few days ago. He wasn't here when I arrived,” he lied.

Teldin put a mean stare onto Spayar but he didn't flinch, didn't move a single inch. "You're a good d'alaer," Teldin said and cocked his head at Spayar in a very predatory fashion. "But you're wasted on my brother." Teldin knew Spayar was lying. He knew and knew Spayar knew he knew but pushing Spayar to answer would get him no where nor would it actually help him. He was just testing Spayar, like he always did, to see what he could get out of him.

"Your brother takes very good care of me," Spayar swallowed. This wasn't the first time Teldin had approached Spayar about changing his alliances. Teldin and Tallalsala had both done it, since they were the two better players on the field. They knew what it meant that Von had a d'alaer and they didn't. Sinou had had a famous d'alaer who helped him conquer the first realms of the Alliance. It was the opinion of most of the Alliance and especially the Le'Acard that Asuras who had a d'alaer on their sides were more competent rulers, better  in every way. That they could instill such zealous devotion in someone meant they knew what they were doing. Teldin, Tallalsala and Dellin all hated Von in equal measure they were jealous of him because he had Spayar; his d'alaer.

Spayar was the d'aelar of this generation, the first one since since the early eighteen hundreds. His kind weren’t common and there was only ever one at a time. If there were more they’d constantly be compared until one was proclaimed the true d'aelar in the style of the d'aelar of old. The only way to get the benefit of a d'aelar now was to either kill Spayar and get your own or convince him that it was in his best interest to side with them. He’d been on the end of enough threats to himself and his family and promises of the world, stars and everything in between to know that it was serious for the Le’Acard. They knew the importance of his title, what it meant for them and the nobles, commoners and soldiers of the Alliance in the coming Conflict. The greatest Asuri had d’aelar. They wanted one too. Unfortunately there was only one Spayar.

"I would do better," Teldin said, "whatever he does for you I can do better.” Not the first promise Teldin had ever given him. “Or whatever he doesn’t do for you,” and Spayar did his best not to just grab his brother and bolt. It sounded like he was being courted and not asked to betray his best friend. Knowing Teldin there was all sorts of meaning behind those words and promises he’d follow up on to get the advantage over his siblings. Spayar did his best to not think about Von like that, let alone his viper of a brother.

"I'm not interested," Spayar said instead, once again putting his hands behind his back so Teldin wouldn’t see how they trembled. He just wanted Teldin to leave him alone. "I am Vondugard's d’aelar. His d'aelar I shall stay. As I’ve said before, I want nothing from you, Teldin,” he said. Sade’s body extended out towards Spayar a bit and the human eyes in a snake’s head were reproachful.

Teldin frowned, “You’re sure? Now’s the time to pick sides, d’aelar. Do you really want to be one of those who visits a temple of Lemp?” All the hair stood up on Spayar’s body. Most of the time just the presence of a d'aelar by a Le’Acard’s side was enough to rally most of the nation to them and they’d come through and sit on the throne. But sometimes, it wasn’t. The crown heir in question was killed. D’aelar knew they wouldn’t be spared after a Conflict’s close like their donalim. The only way out was to leave the Alliance and never return, leaving behind everything and one you’d ever known, or kill yourself. Since suicide was against their religion and the will of Lemp necromancers would assist people in their suicides. The d'aelar who went to temples of Lemp were a select few, and they all did so out of shame and grief when their best friends, or - in one case - their lover, had lost the Conflict.

“Careful,” Spayar said slowly, to not betray the hard beating of his heart. “Your dread is showing, your highness,” he said and bowed a little. Sade flicked her tongue at Spayar hatefully and he wondered what the hell had just gotten into him to say that to Teldin’s face. The prince wasn’t the least bit amused.

Teldin dropped his mare's lead and walked away without goodbye. Spayar's heart was all the way up in his throat as he walked away. He lurched forward, grabbed his horse’s lead and his brother’s hand and dragged them away.

"Spayar-

"Later," and Spayar said and stopped long enough to help Duren onto his horse. He scrambled up after his brother.

"But who was that-

"Duren," Spayar said sharply and kicked his mare into a canter to get away from the stables. “Not. Now.” He looked over his shoulder but didn’t see Teldin. Thankfully Duren didn’t ask any more questions and Spayar could focus on putting as much distance between them and the Palace as humanely possible. It was of course this time, when Spayar felt the stress of Teldin and the Conflict on his shoulders, that he remembered that Lady Lenni was the name of a the High Priestess of Belladha, goddess of wisdom. What a stupid thing he’d think of now and what a pointless person Obi was going to see. Spayar didn’t know if he was more annoyed with himself for knowing who Lenni even was, or for thinking about that instead of the fact that Teldin had just promised him if he didn’t join him that he’d make sure Spayar visited a temple of Lemp.

He really hated the royals.

[thomasstalsworth]

Walkabout I

Waves lapped at the hull of the ship.

It was a reasonable vessel. A sloop, small enough to be crewed by one. At least, by one who was confident and capable. Thomas could claim half of those requirements. He was certainly capable on the sea, no matter the craft of vessel. But given recent events, he did not feel awash with confidence. Still, he busied himself about the sloop. With a few knots, he lashed the helm's steering to the rigging of the ship. The course was clear, and easy, and the weather favorable. He would likely not need to adjust anything for a half-day or more, not until the sprawling hilltops of the Highlands were in view.

Thomas peered back behind himself and his little vessel. In the mid-morning light, he could still make out the guard towers of Barrowfield against the horizon. Some sense of dread filled his chest. It was a sinking feeling, one that nearly gave him to turn the sloop around. Behind him lay the only real home he'd have had the pleasure of knowing, people that seemed to care for his being and station. Yet, after everything that had transpired leading up to and after the Baron's return, Barrowfield felt like a knot he had no hope of loosing. If nothing else, it left him twisted and confused regarding the reason he had ever had cause to make home there, and the reason – if he was honest – that he'd stayed so long. The Baroness. The Lady Sydor. Elaianna.

Her name bubbled in his mind. The urge to smile diminished as he repeated her full name. Against the brisk, Arathi trade winds he whispered it, “Elaianna Sydor.” That surname made his throat pinch up. Thomas put his hands to the short railing at the edge of the hull. A gust of warm wind filled his sails as it rose away from the cold ocean waters, propelling him forward. The sloop's speed began to pick up, eventually leaving the little dots of Barrowfield's towers behind, past the horizon.

She was married. Even if not in heart, she was in fact and in law. Despite a life's career as a sailor, a working man between ports, Thomas did take great stock in marriage. It was always an idea he had stowed faith in. Perhaps he put it on a pedestal given his own, years ago.

With so much having happened between the Baron and Baroness, and the messy state of his own life, he needed time away. A walkabout. Some time to stretch his legs and his sail and put old worries to rest. It made him ache to be apart from what had become his home – his family. But he needed this.

Thomas swallowed, turning to double check his knots. They were sound. Given the easy waves and the fine weather, he should be to the Highlands northeastern coast by the early evening. The heading was set, so he moved to the tiny cabin built into the aft of the sloop. A sparse, tight space, but enough to hold a cot and some storage. He sat himself on the edge of the bed, taking some comfort in the gentle rocking of the ship's hull. Eventually, with the soft sound of the ocean beyond, he fell asleep.

Dreams came and went. None were too foul to be called nightmares. By the time he had awoken, he could not remember them wholly. Only images, splitting little moments of people and places and things – one's lost. Thomas shook his head to push away the night's fabrications. With a grunt, he rose and went from the cabin to the deck of the sloop. The sun was low in the sky, and he could see the high rising coast of his destination. It did not take him long to get the ship ready for landing. He knew these coastlines quite well, and against the dimming light he could already see his favorite cove.

The coast was much like Arathi's own. It was a rocky, gray-sanded wealth of land that hid many caves and landmarks. Hard to get lost, if you paid any attention to the lands around you. Thomas brought the sloop in to the shallows slowly, carefully steering away from where he knew the hidden sandbars to lay. It was fully evening by the time he had moored the vessel and drawn up the sails into tight knots. The routine of it calmed him, and as he went about the familiar work he was even smiling. The cove went further into the mountainside, and he followed it in with a plump satchel on his back.

The trek through the cave was pitch-black. The only light came from a small torch he had wrought from the driftwood on the shore. It burned well enough to give him cause to see as he made step through the familiar dips and rises of the cavern system. He knew the path to take that would eventually open up east of Kirthaven. Right near his destination. Thomas frowned in the dim light and sucked from his waterskin. It was not a place he wanted to go, but somewhere he needed to.

As he tread, he began to sing. Soft and low at first, but rising a little as he found the tune.

“Well I thought I heard the old man say … “

An errant rock nearly tripped him, and he caught himself with his spare hand.

“Leave her Johnny leave her … “

A spider's web covered one of the smaller tunnels. Clearly no one had been here in years.

“For tomorrow ye will get your pay … “

In good time, especially considering his older age now, he made it out of the caves.

“And it's time for us, to leave her … “

The moon was bright. While not quite full yet, it still shone with a silver brilliance against the inky evening sky. The illumination was enough that he could staunch his torch and still see clearly. The Highlands were as beautiful as he recalled. Wide, and sprawling with foothills that still bore the last survivors of summer's flowering. Thomas' face split wide in a toothy smile.

Soft grass curled beneath his feet. He had tread the rest of the way up, coming nearly to the top of the nearby mountain. It was not the tallest, but it held a grand view of the Highlands as they spilled down toward the delta. By the tilt of the moon, Thomas gauged it to be near to midnight. He'd made good time. But now, standing just afar from a small stone arch some yards away, he stopped to catch his breath. The grassy path up the mountain had been easy going, one foot in front of the other. The mess kit in his satchel clanging occasionally as he took a larger step here or there. Yet here, just yards away from his destination, he needed a moment to recover.

Somewhere, off in the distance, Thomas could hear the beating of wings. Both eyes moved skyward, scanning about for what he assumed to be a nearby gryphon. He saw nothing, shaking his head. The Highlands were always loud with the sounds of wildlife – mostly the gryphons. Magnificent creatures. One's he admired despite his complete lack of capacity to tame or befriend them. A smile grew low on his face as he recalled trying to learn to ride them. She had attempted to teach him, and he failed spectacularly each time. The memory brought a soft exhale from his lips. He moved forward.

Past the stone archway, on a spout of grass that came out like a shelf on the cliffside, there were a series of stone cairns. Each one was made of differing stones, crystals, and trinkets. He stilled. A fresh welling of emotion made it hard to breath. Maybe it was just the higher elevation – or so he told himself.

Further toward the edge of the cliff, there was a cairn stacked tall with many rounded stones and roughly polished gems. It was a beautiful thing, rustic and surrounded by trinkets of homecraft. A plush, palm sized gryphon stuffed with straw. A well-wrought stone hammer than was inlaid with runes and dwarven scrollwork. A kite shield, once freshly painted, now faded to a dull red with the symbol of the Holy Light. Atop the cairn, balanced precariously, a tiny wooden boat with a green sail.

Thomas fell to his knees before the cairn, tears roaring down his face. Every effort he had made to hold himself together came apart here, before her grave. Mora. Mora. – He repeated her name over and over, whispering it against the winds that curled around the cliffside. Somewhere, in the distance, came a beating of wings. Thomas laid his palms to the grass, pulling up handfuls as he doubled over with his head to the earth.

“M-Mora … I am so sorry. I am so sorry, I-I – I'm sorry.”

Few words made it past his lips, most of what fell from him was sobbing, pleading apology. The night air was cold, but nothing against the heat that filled his face and chest. He missed her. He missed her so much, but he had always put it away. Sent his longing and his loss and his regret out to sea, sank it beneath drink and comedy and work and all else he could measure to bite back the knowledge that she was gone. Thomas howled, letting everything he had held in himself for all these years without her come to surface, finally. The noise that left him echoed across the foothills, carried on the cliff's wind. In the distance, in response, there came another beating of wings.

“I miss you. Oh, gods and Light and all else above, I miss you Mora. I miss you, and I wronged you, and I'm so damn't sorry I c-couldn't … couldn't keep you safe. My loch, my lorn, my dwyar … “

He sat there on his knees, barely able to see with the hot pinpricks of tears that welled in his eyes. Then, as he blinked them away and swallowed down the rawness in his throat, he saw it. Perched on a tall standing stone beside her cairn, was a gryphon. Well – it held the form of one, at least. Thomas came to his feet, alert suddenly. But the sensation of danger, of adrenaline faded quickly as the creature stared at him. It was ethereal. Where its wings ought to have been, there were little lines that shone like starlight. Instead of eyes, two luminescent dots glimmered in its head. A spirit.

Thomas took a step forward, reaching out toward it. Confusion was well and firm in his chest. Though the emotion that was still crawling out of him made him wish -- was it her? Could it be? He was no man of the earth, or nature, or spirit or magic. He only knew what was in front of him, here and now when he felt so low. One fat fingered hand came out, reaching in vain up toward the spirit beast.

“M-Mora .. ? Mora, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. My dwyar, please. P-please, be safe. Please. ”

The words left him in a whisper, begging, fighting against the howl of the wind around the mountain. The beast drew out its wings, bringing them to their full length against the night sky. Thomas stared, standing dumbfounded by the brilliance, the elegance of such a thing. Through the transparency of the spirit, he could see the stars behind its wings. He had only a sparse moment to take in the sight, to try to form some kind of thought or word until –

With a resounding roar, the gryphon flew forward, straight through him. Thomas felt some warmth rush through his body. Every vein seemed alight with the sensation, leaving him standing taller, sucking in air. He turned, watching as the beast flew away, off and against the backdrop of the mountain.

Confusion filled him. He put his gaze back to her cairn, vision no longer stained by tears. Thomas slowly came to sit in the grass, watching the little boat atop the stones. Somehow, it stood tall, tiny green sail rippling with the wind. A little smile started to grow on his face. He felt something odd, a soft sensation that started in his chest and grew until it seemed to bleed across his whole form.

Peace.

It wasn't until early morning that he left. Where he had sat, settled into the soft grass right in front of the cairn, now burned a candle. It was no grand thing, merely a small pillar of tallow with a tiny wick. But it burned, bright and warm against the mountain's wind. Every year, he told himself. Every year. He owed her that much, surely. Every year.

The trip back to the cove seemed easier. His breath came swifter, and fuller, and his muscles and bones did not ache as they used to. A few grunts left him as he scrambled down through the cavern's tunnels, scraping over rock and stone to reach the main cave again. Closure. He felt closure. It left him moving lighter, and easier. As he tread through the cavern, a puff of laughter left his lips. Maybe he would begin to feel better. A literal weight lost from his soul. It was much, much more than he deserved. A blessing, surely. One he intended now to repay in greater measure. Purpose propelled him forward out of the cave, and toward his ship. Maybe this would make the next leg of his trip easier. The harder path was still ahead.

As his mind swam, he did not pay great attention to what was in front of him. It was mid-morning now, and the sun illuminated the little encampment he had made in the cove. The sloop bobbed a little where he had moored it in the water. And beside it, boots stuck into the sand, stood a dwarf. He faced away from Thomas, watching the horizon with his hands laid on his belt. At the sound of Thomas' own boots treading over the sand, the dwarf turned to face him.

“Draignar,” Thomas spoke first.

“Trogg,” the dwarf responded, putting one hand up to run through his enormous, graying beard.

The gray sands of the coastline crunched under the dwarf's great weight. He tread toward Thomas, coming to stop only a couple of feet away. There was disdain in his eyes, burning blue against the many tanned wrinkles that swallowed up his face.

“Y'have no right. I only regret I weren't there meself ta' hurl you off tha' mountain.”

A shaky exhale left Thomas, and he settled his footing.

“She was my wife. I have every right, y'know that.”

That sparked something. The dwarf curled his face up in a scowl, and roared.

“She was my daughter! Everything I ever said about you was true, to the bone! You are the reason she is gone. Don't spit at me about your right ta' anything. You are a foul, craven shit. You were then, you are now. Go. You know what I'll do to ye if I ever see you again.”

A stern expression came over Thomas. It brought his auburn brows down tight to his eyes, and he pushed out an exhale through his nose. They stared at each other.

“I know. I've seen you peel and bloody nicer men than me. But you'll see me. Every year. I don't care how'n fel and damnation you care about it. She was my wife, Draignar. Of all tha' foulness I've done in my life, none of it was ever with her. Y'know that. That's why you let me marry her. Or did y'forget that? I know yer' pain. Whether you want ta' believe it or not I damn't well do. We both lost her.”

His voice was even, and neutral. At least, up until the end.

“And … we both know it was my damn't fault.”

The old dwarf stared at him, anger and resentment still fresh in his face. But it slowly softened. Not by much, but enough. With a low grunt, he began to remove his shirt. The woolen garment came away and he laid it on the sand. He jut his chin toward Thomas.

“Aye. It was. If you want ta' see her grave again, put your fuckin' hands up.”

So it was going to be a fight. Thomas gave a curt nod. He had expected this. Well – he had expected to be shot dead if Draignar or any of the family had seen him at all. This was better. With a fight, he had some small chance of not dying. He'd had enough of that for a lifetime.

“Fine. But don't y'go crying and bitching when I tie that ugly fucking beard around your ankles and drag you back ta' Copperhome like a kill't hog.”

While it was almost imperceptible given the old dwarf's massive beard, there was indeed the hint of a smile. It lasted only a moment, but it was there. He put his thick arms up, fists curled. Soon enough, Thomas did the same – bare-chested as well.

The first blows came hard, each man trying to overtake the other quickly. They had each had their share of fistfights. A barehanded fight needed to end quickly or it would drag out into a bloody endurance match. Neither man wanted that many bruises, or broken bones.

Despite his older age, Draignar took the advantage early. He was strong, and stout, and held all the fury of the Earthen still in his bones. Each fistfall took the air from Thomas' lungs, though he held firm. Hit, hit – counter. Over and over again, they were both sweating and coated with sand from ankle to waist. Eventually Thomas managed to ram his knee into Draignar's face, coating his beard with blood. That was enough. One moment dazed was all it took for Thomas to get the upper hand, knocking the old dwarf to the sand and pinning him. He fought Tom's grip, but could not come free against the strain of the human's muscles. Many years at sail had given him greater strength than most men.

One of the dwarf's massive hands came out to clap the sand.

Thomas released him.

Both men stood shakily, cursing and bleeding and already beginning to blacken in places from the bruising that was sure to come soon. Thomas put two hands into the surf, bringing up the seawater to wash the blood from his eyes and lips. Draignar simply spit, moving to retrieve his shirt. He began to walk into the cove, toward the tunnels Thomas had just come from. Over his shoulder, he called out.

“Yearly. No more.”

There was still the taint of disdain in his voice, but Thomas heard the rest beneath. Some minor, tiny kernel of respect. It was enough. A breath came in, and out. It took him longer than usual to ready the sloop, given the burn in his muscles and the throbbing of his wounds. As he pushed out, and took onto the vessel, he looked back to the sands that were splotched with blood.

Then – the wind took the sails and he was moving off toward the ocean. While his wounds burned -- and he had to spit blood that was pooling in his mouth twice -- Thomas felt good. Peaceful, in irony. The mid-morning sun warmed him and the winds were keen, taking him easily out to the open water. With a length of rope, he lashed the helm to set his heading.

South.

To Redridge.

[feynites]

Hello, the anon reading to her mother here! I passed on that you were happy she enjoyed your story and I think she's a little starstruck; she's still not used to a community where writers and fans interact freely haha. She then told me not to bother you too much, but to ask if you could write about Zevran showing Brosca Antiva City for the first time? She's always had a difficult time picturing Antiva beyond the fact that it's Spain-esque. She wants to hear how beautiful it is!

The trip to Antiva is a longone.

She and Zev get on their boat in Amaranthine, very nearly undercover of darkness. They don’t set sail until morning, but they’re both eager toavoid having her recognized.

 It’s not that she doesn’t really want to check in with anyone else,per se, it’s just that she doesn’t want to have to go and deal with some othercrisis (or ten) before they can even get out of the docks. The two of them steer clear ofthe keep, and the wardens they spot on patrol as they make their way to the port. The last letter she got from Nathaniel had been depressing, but at least not urgent. She’d collected it topside, from a warden drop box she’dset up herself, not long after reuniting with Zevran.

Most of the wardens she’d recruited for the Amaranthine keep aregone. Anders, Justice, Velanna, Sigrun – all had left no less than a week aftershe had set out to investigate the Deep Roads again. Orlais had sent over a man, Jean-Marc Stroud, to mind the territoryand oversee some repairs in her absence. He’d brought a load of Orlesian recruitsalong with him, and part of her thinks she’s going to have to… deal with this,somehow. At some point. The Ferelden distaste for Orlesian soldiers is still strong enough toextend towards wardens, from time to time, and from Nate’s accounts, Stroud’sabout as charming as mud and nearly as thick.

But Zevran’s got businessin Antiva, and that’s important, too. And she honestly doesn’t think she couldhandle more months of fending off darkspawn and dealing with warden politicsand the horrors therein. Not… not now. It feels like she’s been shunted fromone crisis to the next, from politics and werewolves and abominations, armiesand archdemons and talking darkspawn, the surface and the Deep Roads and enoughhorrors to make her almost miss Dust Town. Assassins, she can handle. Assassinsare normal.

The sea, though…

She almost regrets it once they’re on the open water. The sway ofit disorients her, and the sky overhead and the vast, choppy blue all aroundmakes her feel dizzy. She empties her guts over the side of the boat so manytimes that she loses count, and after a while Zevran even stops making quipsabout land-legs and develops is a furrow in his brows instead. He pours enoughginger tea down her that by the time they dock, she’ll be happy to never tasteit again.

Her first sight of the Antivan shoreline is kind of anticlimactic.Mostly because she’s just focusing on staring at the ground and resisting the urgeto kiss it. By the time they make it to an inn, she’s recovered enough to atleast look around some, though. Bright,she thinks. The first thing that catches her eye are the flowering vines thatgrow along the outer walls of the building they’re heading for. Ruby redblossoms hang like bells from a shaded canopy, casting coloured shadows overwindows with wooden shades. They’re a good ways away from the docks, now, sherealizes. Zevran had led her quickly enough, carrying two bags on his back andlooking so intent and so assured of where he was going that she, in herstill-nausea-addled state, hadn’t even thought to question it.

"A dwarf!" a man exclaims, before they’re even at thedoor. "We don't see many of your kind around here." He has the darkerskin tone that seems more common on this side of the sea, and he towers besidethe frame of his doorway, standing just beside it. His voice has the lilt of athick Antivan accent, but unlike most of the sailors they’d travelled with, hedoesn't try to speak to them in the smooth and fluid native language that shecan't really understand.

He hardly glances at Zevran. She’s not sure she likes that. Butmaybe it’s the novelty.

“I guess not. Where would we come from?" she replies, as Zevtakes a look around. He’s checking something, but she can’t really say what.

There aren't any dwarven cities in Antiva - none outside ofFerelden and Orlais, in fact - and having suffered the trials of traveling viaship, she can't imagine that many dwarves would subject themselves to itregularly enough to raise a good surface community here. Even if the sun iswarmer, and the air has turned from the drab grey of rainfall to a salty-brightscent that feels strangely refreshing, she doubts it would be worth the trauma.Particularly as she's not far enough from the docks to avoid the strong stinkof fish and... whatever else makes the sea smell so strongly. Salt, for onething.

The inn-keeper raises an eyebrow. "Well, they'd come fromwherever you came from, maybe," he replies, running his hands lightlyagainst one another. Finally, he glances at Zevran. His eyes linger on Zev’stattoos for a moment, and his back straightens a little when he does.

"No sane dwarf would subject themselves to that trip,"she replies

Zevran shifts, then, moving his cloak just enough to reveal thecoin purse at his hip. He glances at her.

“No cowardly one, I would say,” he counters.

But when he speaks next, he looks to the man by the door. And hiswords come out in an elegant rush of Antivan. Swift and sharp, and faster thanshe can keep up with. She watches his lips move for a moment. He’d taught her alittle of it, in between her rounds of vomiting. She’d already known some Antivan, of course, but most of itwas the sort of thing that had limited use. ‘Mi amor’ and the like. She catchesjust enough to know that Zevran’s asked about lodgings.

The man’s gaze lights up with professional interest, and he ushersthem inside. The inn is nice. Nicer than most of the places in Ferelden, infact, with thick off-white walls and bright, multi-colored curtains hangingover arched doorways. It's clean, too, as near as she can tell. No mold on thewalls or dirt on the floors, and the rug in the entryway looks only a littledusty.

Zevran talks very quickly in his native tongue, and while shedoesn’t make out a lot of the specifics, she can tell that he’s being firm about something. The innkeeper transitions,in short order, from all but ignoring him, to making appeasing gestures and addressinghim almost entirely. She catches a few stray words. Mostly the haggling; Zevhad been very intent on showing her how the currency worked and explaining whatthe general cost of things should be.

It takes a little longer than usual, but eventually, they get aroom, and a bath, and a platter of food. Crusty bread and soft-cookedvegetables and little round balls of cheese. Once they get inside, though, shetakes some time to just sit with her feet on the floor, and her back againstthe wall. There’s a chair, but it’s too tall for her comfort. The bedframe islow, though, and surprising enough in itself. Most inns this small don’tusually have such things. Zevran checks it, pressing down on the mattress andthen giving her a wink when it proves steady.

She chuckles at him. The ring she gave him gleams on his finger.

“Come,” he says, extending a hand towards her. “You will feelbetter with a change of clothes and the ship grime scrubbed off of your skin.Trust me.”

She doesn’t doubt him, really. She can feel the way her clothesare sticking to her, the way her sweat has permeated the fabric and the itchingof her scalp from it.

“I just need one more moment,” she requests, though. Antiva doesn’thave a lot of darkspawn, she thinks. Some, but not a lot. That might explainwhy it just feels… different, here.Muffled, almost, but not in a bad way. It’s like some tether or other that she’snever quite been wholly aware of has slackened. She might like it, she thinks,but right now, between the sea and the sky, it’s making her feel dizzy.

Zevran frowns a little, and moves towards her.

“You are not feeling sick again, are you?” he checks.

“No,” she assures him. “Just… getting my balance back.”

He accepts that, with a nod, and after half a second, settles ontothe floor beside her.

“Perhaps the sea voyage was a poor idea,” he concedes.

“How else were we going to get here?” she counters. After a beat,she reaches out and takes his hand. Threading their fingers together. She runsher thumb over one of his callouses, and tips her head back against the wall.

Zevran lets out a tremendous sigh.

“Well, we are here now. No more ships for a while,” he reasons.They’ll have to go back at some point, of course, but she opts not to mentionthat. For the time being, Antiva will do, and she’s not in any hurry tocontemplate return voyages. That’s a problem for her future self to deal with. She’soff the boat, and on dry land, and there’s a bath waiting and Zevran besideher, and honestly that food platter is actually starting to seem a little bitappealing, too. The metal bath tub looks just the right size for a dwarvenwoman and a slightly-built elven man.

She can work with this. Happily, in fact. Sea air’s still betterthan dust.

Another minute more, and then she sits up.

“Alright,” she says, giving Zev’s hand a squeeze. “The sooner weget out of these clothes, the better.”

He chuckles.

“Always a woman after my own heart,” he agrees.

But even though their hands roam quite a bit, they don’t actuallydo anything much beyond helping one another undress and wash. The clothprovided is serviceable, and there are three bottles of… stuff, which shethinks seems like a bit much, but Zevran grins happily and then explains thatone is for the body and two are for hair. He shows her how they’re supposed tobe used. One of the bottles for hair smells like honey. She grins as she worksher fingers across his scalp, playing with it a little, and enjoying the way heleans back into her touch and relaxesin the water.

Water which has turned muddy and cold by the time they’refinished. Still, they’re both clearly feeling a lot better by the time they getout, and she finds she has enough energy to tuck into the food platter.

The little round cheeses are spongey and strange, but she likesthem best.

“We will have to find better clothing for you, now that we arehere,” Zevran muses, as he munches on some of the bread, and busies himselfwith taking stock of their travel bags.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” she wonders, honestly baffled. She’dbrought three sets, all good for travel, and even for the perils of weather. Zevran tsk’s, though, andshakes his head.

“For slogging through muddy Ferelden and fighting darkspawn?Nothing. But we are in Antiva, now, and there is the sun to contend with. Youcannot wear so much wool and leather, you will overheat.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Ferelden has the sun,” she feels compelled to point out. Sheknows, it was one of the most disconcerting moments in her life to look up andsee it. The first week she spent on the surface, she kept worrying that it wasgoing to fall down.

“Ah,” he says. “But it is not Antiva’ssun. Trust me, you will be thanking me for this.”

Well, he would know better than she would, she can concede. Thesun still looks like the same glowing orb of disconcerting fire to her, but then again, it’s impossible tolook directly at it. So maybe she wouldn’t even notice if it changed. It’salways going up and down, too. Maybe at some point over the sea, another suncame and swapped places. Maybe that’s why the light falling in through thewindows looks different, on top of everything else.

It’s a light that likes Zevran better than Ferelden’s grey skies,she thinks. He’s still naked as he goes through their bags, one hand holding athreadbare, off-white towel that he occasionally presses to his hair. He looksbright, too, here. Polished by this sunlight. Maybe it remembers him? Can thesun do that? She watches him for a long moment, as she picks up anotheroffering from the food tray.

If she was the Antivan sun, she thinks, she would have missed him.Would be happy to welcome him back, too.

Eventually, he catches her staring, and raises an eyebrow.

“See something you like?” he teases.

“Mmhmm,” she confirms. “The man I’m going to marry. I always likethe sight of him.”

Zevran grins, at that, in the pleased way he’s taken to gettingwhenever she mentions their plans. They’ll get married in Antiva. He knowssomeone, he’s said, but honestly, she doesn’t much care about the particulars.It’s being married to him that she’slooking forward to. A wedding was never one of her dreams – never even one ofRica’s dreams, truth be told. But if he wants some kind of party or aparticular place or people, she’s not going to object.

He puts down their bags and comes over and kisses her.

When he pulls back, she picks up one of the little cheeses, andpops it into his mouth, in turn. Playful and light, the sea voyage memoryfading to the background almost completely, now.

“I almost cannot believe we are in Antiva,” he admits. “But thefood actually tastes good, so we must be.”

She kisses him again. Just on the surface of his lips, while hechews.

“Are we going to have to go smell boiled leather, too?” sheteases.

Zevran hums.

“We may,” he decides. She doesn’t think he’s actually joking, atthat. But that’s fine enough. Some part of her is curious, too, to see more ofthis place that made Zevran. She feels an odd sort of resentment for it, and anodd sort of gratitude, too. It made him the same way Dust Town made her, butwhile she’d be fair enough with never setting foot in Orzammar again, Zev’salways missed this place.

They pass some more time with kisses and quips, then, until Zevranfinally deems some of the clothing she brought sufficient ‘for now’, and thetray of food has been emptied. Once they’ve redressed, they wander back outinto the inn proper.

By then it's almost evening, and a few other patrons have trickledin - most of them coming just for drinks and meals, it seems. They look likedock workers, and talk in loud tones that remind her of inns and taverns theworld over, despite the fact that they’re all speaking Antivan. There’s a goodmix of humans and elves among them, and while she merits a few curious glances,no one calls out to ask if she’s a warden.

They don’t linger for very long, anyway. Zevran’s of a mind to getto the market, and seems convinced that the encroaching night won’t be an issue.The innkeeper stops them just briefly to ask something about ‘morning’, shecatches, but Zev waves him off and just says a polite ‘no’ in return. They slipback out through the door they came in by. Their bags are left behind, butreally, there’s nothing particularly of value in them. Just clothes and some travelgear, and a writing kit for all those letters which Grey Wardens are apparentlyobliged to send.

She still hasn’t really told anyone where she’s gone off to. Shefigured it would be better to actually bein Antiva before she did, lest some crisis emerge and stop her.

At this point, she feels only a little guilty about it. But Zevran’sarm is around her and the streets look orange in the evening light, and shefinally has enough of her own back to really look around and appreciate it.

Antiva is big. Big, bright, and well-populated, with wealthydistricts and tall buildings piled atop the poorer communities and slums, notterribly unlike Orzammar in that sense. The colours here are vibrant. There arefew of the subdued greys and browns which hold prominence in Denerim andAmaranthine. Instead, everywhere she looks, there are flowery yellows and richgreens and light, eggshell blues, broken up by the occasional deep red, burntorange, rosy gold or vivid purple. Most of the buildings are pale, and inplaces the light strikes them with a brightness that makes them shine, and doesa serviceable job of disguising the shadows and the wear-and-tear on some ofthe older structures. She can still see places where plaster has peeled orpaint has come off, and the sea air has worn some of the places closer to thedocks down in strips of flaked paint and faded awnings. But it looks warm andsort of peacefully ill-repaired. Down the main road and opposite the sea, shecan make out a great green hill, dotted with what looks to be manor buildingsand estates.

It's remarkably beautiful, she thinks – but there are still longshadows in the alleyways.

The streets are filled with all sorts of folk as people make theirway home from work, or out to late jobs. The movement of bodies reminds hermore of Orzammar than a human city or the Dalish camps. Up on the surface, sheknows, activity slows down once the sun starts to set. Humans and elves and dwarvesalike, and even qunari, probably, retreat to their homes or taverns, abandoningtheir work until the light comes back. Elves a little less swiftly than humans,having fewer luxuries of free time and better eyesight to make the early nightappealing to them. Zevran had explained it to her once, though she can’trecollect how it came up.

Underground, of course, it's different. The fountains of magmalight the streets constantly, and always at the same brightness, so there is no'day' and no 'night'. There are hours where more people sleep than others, wheremore shops are open, or where this tavern or that bar is closed so as not tocompete with the other. It doesn’t have the same sort of overwhelmingconsistency, but, she’s gotten used to the surface ‘shutting down’ at night.

And yet, as she wanders through Antiva she sees people - mostlysmall, skinny elves - lighting torches here and there along the wider roads,trying to fend off the darkness for those who seem set to work another shift.People still move like they’ve got business to see to.

The torches smell strangely familiar, and when she remarks on it,Zevran casually pulls one down to show her. She finds that it's filled with athick, bronze oil that burns very, very slowly. All at once she recognizes thescent - it's milder, but rather like the vile, black sludge that some of theminers in Orzammar bring up from the working tunnels around the Deep Roads. Thesame substance that is used to light some of the fancier fountains in thepalace and market districts. Stealing a pot or two of it could fetch a goodprice for a nimble-fingered youth who knew a good fence, way back when. Itprobably still does.

She wonders if this stuff has come as far as she has, or if thelocal Antivans dig their own tunnels in the absence of dwarves, and mine itthemselves.

“I cannot say,” Zevran admits. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” she concedes. “Just curious. I wonder if I everunwittingly sold stolen oil that made it all the way to Antiva.”

He gives the torches a considering look, at that.

“I wonder if I ever used your oil to light an evening,” hecounters, and seems taken by the whimsy of the unlikely idea.

One of the children barks a complaint at them, though, and Zevranwaves back and throws a coin at the skinny girl, before putting the torch backin its proper place.

“They get in trouble if they run short of oil, or break any of thelights,” he explains.

She looks towards the little figures.

“Are they orphans?” she wonders.

“Some, maybe,” he says, with a shrug. “So far as jobs for childrengo, it is one of the better ones, so a lot of them will have families, too.”

That’s familiar enough, she supposes. Lighting torches had neverbeen fit work for Casteless in Orzammar, but there had been jobs that werebetter than others. Anything away from the middens was usually worth fighting overthe privilege of doing. It takes her back in unexpected ways, watching thechildren dart through the passersby; overlooked, almost invisible, but thelight follows them wherever they go.

As night settles in, Antiva City’s greens begin to fade, and theyellows, reds, and golds all gleam, and firelight spreads like the jewels on anoblewoman’s necklace. Dotting its way along the rich-looking hills. The seaseems terrible in the dark, though. Black and fathomless, as the waves lapagainst the docks. The dark of the ocean reminds her of the dark of the depths.

She wonders if that’s why they light up the night, when othersurface folk seem content not to.

The market they get to is certainly bright enough. There are morestreet lights, but also some which look to be done by magic. She thinks shesees some mages, and some Tranquil with sunburst markings on their skin, sellingwares that look different from the enchanted goods for sale in Ferelden. Butthe mages aren’t the only ones hocking their goods, and there are enough peopleand traders about that the crowd soon moves them in another direction.

Zevran seems content to flow with it. She follows his lead, andkeeps an eye out for pickpockets, or other trouble. Some part of her – some partthat she’ll probably never be entirely rid of – half expects to hear someoneshout at her. Casteless in the market. That part is always braced for guards tocome and chase her out, for someone to throw something. A shoe or a brokenbottle or a curse. The lights in the market blot out the stars well enough thateven looking up can’t quite remind her that she’s topside. The sky just seemsblack as any deep cavern wall, now. But the abundance of tall folk help, andthe eyes that linger on her seem to do so more from curiosity than distaste.And on some other level it’s steadying, too. From the marketplace, they can nolonger hear the eerie sounds of the sea.

Zevran keeps an arm around her shoulders.

They pass vendors selling cloth and charms and sweet-smellingperfumes. Fresh produce does not seem to be a good nighttime business, atleast, but there are a few stalls selling roasted nuts and dried preserves, andthings that would be too heavy for sticky fingers to covertly nick from thedisplays. They pass jewellers and carvers and blacksmiths, and stop at onepoint to admire a boxed knife set at a general goods dealer. The seller is busywith other customers, though, and the blades would need a lot of restoring tobe good enough by their standards.

Eventually, their leisurely tour sees them to a stall sellingclothing. Clothing in light fabrics, and bright colours of a match for thesorts of vivid dyes she’s already seen around the city. Part of her thinks it’sfancy, noble sort of stuff. Frippery. The kind of clothes you wear when you don’thave to get your hands dirty or your ankles wet, and you want to show off aboutit. But then she looks closer, as Zevran chats with the seller, and finds thather gauges are all off. The dyes might be bright and the fabrics might belight, but there’s none of the fancy needlework or decorations that come withnoble finery. Some of the fabrics are rougher than they’d seemed. And the cutslook like working clothes, as near as her eye can tell.

It’s just more of Antiva’s brightness, then. Sinking into theclothes as well as the buildings.

There’s not much made in dwarven sizes, but after some chattingthe woman minding the stall takes some measurements, and they go over a fewitems. She speaks some common, and makes a point of saying a few things in it,asking about pants and skirts and even directing them to a cobbler further downthe square. Zevran tips her, and they make arrangements to come back tomorrow,when some of the articles they’ve managed to pick out can be modified to fit adwarven frame much better. And he also selects a couple of tunics and a set oflight trousers for himself.

Even in the flickering light, the shade of blue he picks looks sobeautiful against his skin that she can’t help but tell him so.

“I missed colours,” he admits, a little ruefully. “Ferelden dyesare… not good. Except for the green. There is some nice green over there.”

“Do all these dyes come from Antiva?” she wonders, as they headfor the cobbler.

“No,” he admits. “Some do, but I know some come from Rivain andNevarra, too. And Orlais. Though Orlais buys much more than they sell. It’s easierto get in Antiva, though. Something about how trade works. I actually have noidea of the particulars there, to be honest.”

She laughs.

“You can’t regale me on the nitty gritty of Antivan trade?” shejokes.

Zevran sighs in mock despair.

“Sadly, no. Not in this field. I could tell you more about thefish trade, or the leather trade, but even there, I fear some of my knowledgeis outdated, at least.”

“I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” she promises.

The cobbler is interesting, though ultimately their boots areserviceable enough, and he lacks anything that is of the particular leather andstyle that Zevran seems most taken with. His stall is close enough to the roadthat it’s easy to circle back to where they started from, even moving with theother foot-traffic, and not long after that, they begin to make their way backtowards the inn. By then she’s shifted into holding Zevran’s arm, and hasrelaxed enough that she’s no longer watching anyone unless they drift too closeby.

They pass a tavern along the way. A particularly talented bardsings out into the night. Voice echoed by the lyrical strumming of some stringinstrument or another.

“So,” Zevran asks, once they’ve gotten past the tavern. “Firstimpressions! What do you… what do you think of Antiva?”

He looks just a little bit nervous.

Well.

This is the place he’s been telling her about for years, now,after all. His home. The one he’s been sick for; the one with a sun that loveshim, and streets full of colour, and nights full of light.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells him.

He beams at her.

“The most beautiful place in the world, I told you so,” heasserts, with more confidence now. She can’t help but smile back, as they carryon towards their inn again.

“The most beautiful place in the world,” she confirms. Much to hisdelight.

But really, if it makes him so happy… she’s willing to concedethat it might well be.

Even if just for that.

[writerspink]

K-12 Words

K

dry wet shoe ten long stay yellow watch inch cup time words same six bones black child ear most page work white five arms snow main nine water head eggs rain test seven root law fall cow red doctor baby feet room rule one blue dark legs wind skin ball green two ever car body box orange gave door four europe picture wish purple ready try neck brown through sky grass air sign whether dance pink eight drive too sat gray three hit man love hand the of and a to in is you that it he was for on are as with his they I at be this have from or had by but not what all were we when your can said there use an each which she do how their if will up other about out many then them these so some her would make like him into has look more write go see number no way could people my than first been called who oil sit now find down day did get come made may part

1.1

anything syllables past describe winter even also eleven moon fruit sand apple women nose solve Math problem plus minus equals stone pants shirt starry thousand divided just train shall held short lay dictionary twelve suddenly mind race clothes learn picked probably raised finished end plaid years bill place hundred different drop came river milk beautiful square lake hole fingers flat sea type over new sound take only little work know live me back give most very after things our name good sentence man think say great where help through much before line right too means old any same tell boy follow want show around form three small

1.2

interest job because such think thirteen subject answer letter meet north length need times divide (by) times table edge soft months present energy point sound log south wide members exercise flowers set found things heart cause site brother teacher live read billion another distance written kept direction developed wall east happy million world must house turn west change well twenty felt put end does large big even here why ask went men land different home us move try kind hand picture again off dress play spell air away animal page mother study still learn should America

2.1

paragraph weather window third believe discovered simple gone paint new store form cells matter follow perhaps cannot good means around line center kind reason move forest sentence return instruments beside represent wild study back farmers sum difference product quotient remainder mother animal land region record summer general caterpillar scratch modern adjust passenger promise equal creak almost croak book dainty song high every near add food between own below country plant last school father keep tree never start city earth eyes light thought head under story saw left don’t few while along might close something seem next hard open example begin life always those both paper together got group often run

2.2

misty poor caution pest phrase life startle squirm alone centaur rise mountain above illustrator footprint temperature decorate country sweat sometimes hair smiled everything began thick compass themselves enough took although splendid crowded second act attach sly talk wonder let’s whirl someone Africa borrow beat belong blink per fasten pain begin drenched bed shell free earth tiny slippery count factors important until children side feet car mile night walk white sea grow river four carry state once book hear stop without late miss idea eat face watch far Indian real almost let girl mountains cut young soon list song being leave family it’s

3.1

drowsy bashful hatch glad copy possible wicked grin sibling shovel run verb sail polish ride young steep case Indian laughed soil appear bolts costume melody narrow behave howl example flee together lot filthy alarm spiral selfish idea conductor fight rolled middle glacier tree dizzy gather sneaky already construct every miss lively metal couldn’t gold plant mask chat nation hear either bundle section near rescue face divide sob celebrate family loosen jealous crash chimney daily own cozy ripe cut son natural serious carry care paper broken cue within body music color stand questions fish area mark horse birds problem complete room knew since ever piece told usually didn’t friends easy heard order red door sure become top ship across today during short better best however low hours black products happened whole measure remember early waves reached

3.2

being instead ache exactly hard speed buy age late artistic close affordable fraction eyes appetite complain sleep seem eat below remove rusty grow glum stormy trust enormous scale open add grab upset weed denied expensive story terrified lead jumped died basket side bear bend list tomb while batch grateful father gleaming dress light sprinkle amount exclaim result yank leave cheat whimper angle outside remain heap champion surprise dodge moment fancy squeeze pretend village shriek city thunder rapid iron striped don’t attitude bell hat tug isn’t applause children honest cross spring freezing listen wind rock space covered fast several hold himself toward five step morning passed vowel true hundred against pattern numeral table north expert slowly money map farm pulled draw voice seen cold cried plan notice south sing war ground fall king town I’ll unit figure certain field travel wood fire upon

4.1

pattern cave hope mile group travel blush killed seed bottom hide important let ticket timid pounds restart silent cranky keep real bright quite curved repeat trip without dart consonant mountains quiet apologize roar grip groan bolt food injury century exhausted cabin atmosphere floor it’s scold transportation delighted giant hill something build fog method rough left everyone obey deserve speak therefore soon french switch until pushed state knob hobby between surround collect fire I’ll arrive road happened certain top order astronomy inches club catch farm nibble color yourself received connect told gaze check wear English half ten fly gave box finally wait correct oh quickly person became shown minutes strong verb stars front feel fact street decided contain course surface produce building ocean class note nothing rest carefully scientists inside wheels stay green known island week less machine base ago stood

4.2

round award crowd slowly yet products, goods, services vowel himself strange whose draw team hold feel flood sent save stood yard notice warn enemy deep please flap coast music wrote safe blast behind island lizard figure famous garden correct whisper listen joined clear share net thus calf maybe cried piece fold seen england decided bank fell pair control clean telescope trouble glass float morning horse produce course hunting rest step statement contain shouted filled zigzag accident cents instrument fly single express visit desert seeds chew dome experiment break gravity against branch size low plane system ran boat game force brought understand warm common bring explain dry though language shape thousands yes equation government heat full hot check object am rule among noun power cannot able six dark ball material special heavy fine circle include built

5.1

mark wealthy row feeling across attention ran map students inside design art mouth ring skill hot during shelter full till log (book) blossom discard bring quickly scientists party town covered wise early cram grain harm goal pause inform heal clue fame freeze badge pimple dim missionary diet dumb rod march agree stick government bulb mall ban greed skiing poison stove image grew fact material dangerous flow gap ago stack explain didn’t strong voice true drawing surface gift corner cloud since king dawn pulled dozen friends greedy burning upon knew insect decimal nervous pay foot weak smooth aware steady serve lost nonetheless beach front atlas questions less cost slight motor banner wire area carefully separate equation local minutes fast table plan fine waves fair sing dive suppose boat thousands shape among toward gas factory birds wait understand sure ship report captain human game history reflect special brave bounce though else can’t matter square syllables perhaps bill felt suddenly test direction center farmers ready anything divided general energy subject Europe moon region return believe dance members picked simple cells paint mind love cause rain exercise eggs train blue wish drop developed window difference distance heart site sum summer wall forest probably

5.2

include cage language base red brain building feast better built demolish excess leap tower ocean plains cold claw information scholar climbed woman worry strand heavy herd common ground damp pack choose president least increase half english invent class measure dash tremble object become doubt became bare wheels continued shiver engine core couple business stars week peak numeral brought nothing touch reached uncle symbols however rumor evening inasmuch (as) force curious heat career system valley dust flock spray robber practice lonely remember luxury warm heard calm rock frighten leader difficulty best gum cheer key support universe stream bit usually fish parade balance money note cliff stand proof you’re pale machine complete cool shown street today shy easy several search unit war power caught settle itself fuel mention fresh planet plane straight period person able direct space wood seal field circle lady board besides hours passed known whole similar underline main winter wide written length reason kept interest arms brother race present beautiful store job edge past sign record finished discovered wild happy beside gone sky grass million west lay weather root instruments meet third months paragraph raised represent soft whether clothes flowers shall teacher held describe drive appreciate structure visible artificial

6.1

afraid absorb british seat fear stretched furniture sight oxygen coward rope clever yellow albeit confess passage france fan cattle spot explore rather active death effect mine create wash printed process origin rose swift woe planets doze gasp chief perform triumph value substances tone score predict property movement harsh tube settled defend reverse ancient blood sharp border fierce plunge consider terms vision intend total schedule attract average intelligent corn dead southern glide supply convince send continent brief mural symbol crew chance suffix habit insects entered nursery especially spread drift major fig diagram guess wit sugar predator science necessary moisture park ordeal nectar fortunate flutter gun forward globe misery molecules arctic won’t actually addition washington cling rare lie steel pastime soldiers chill accordingly capital prevent solution greek sensitive electric agreed thin provide indicate northern volunteer sell tied triangle action opposite shoulder imitate steer wander except match cross speak solve appear metal son either ice sleep village factors result jumped snow ride care floor hill pushed baby buy century outside everything tall already instead phrase soil bed copy free hope spring case laughed nation quite type themselves temperature bright lead everyone method section lake iron within dictionary bargain loyal resource struggle vary capture exclaim gloomy insist restless shallow shatter talent atmosphere brilliant endure glance precious unite certain clasp depart journey observe superb treasure wisdom

6.2

prepared journey trade delicate arrived track cotton hoe furnish exciting view grasp level branches privilege limit wrong enable ability various moreover spoil starve dollars digest advice sense accuse pretty wasn’t industry adopt loyal suggested blow treasure cook adjective doesn’t wings tools crops loud smell frail wisdom fit expect ahead lifted deed device weight gradual respect interesting arrange particular compound examine cable climate division individual talent fatal entire advantage opponent wouldn’t elements column custom enjoy grace theory suitable wife shoes determine allow marsh workers difficult repeated thrill position born distant revive magnificent shop sir army struggled deal plural rich rhythm rely poem company string locate church mystify elegant led actual responsible japanese huge fun meat observe swim office chart avoid factories block called experience win crumple brilliant located pole bought conditions sister details primary survey truck recall disease radio rate scatter decay signal approach launch hair age amount scale pounds although per broken moment tiny possible gold milk quiet natural lot stone act build middle speed count consonant someone sail rolled bear wonder smiled angle fraction Africa killed melody bottom trip hole poor let’s fight surprise French died beat exactly remain fingers clever coast explore imitate pierce rare symbol triumph ancient cling disturb expose perform remote timid bashful brief compete consider delightful honor reflex remark brink chill conquer fortunate fury intend pattern vibrant wit

7.1

capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

7.2

evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

8.1

apprehensive dialogue prejudice marvel eligible accommodate arrogant distinct knack deposit liberate cumulative consequence strive salvage chronological unique vow concise influence lure poverty priority legislation significant conserve verdict leisure erupt beacon stationary generate provoke efficient campaign paraphrase swarm adhere eerie mere mimic deteriorate literal preliminary solar soothe expanse ignite verge recount apparel terrain ample quest composure majority collide prominent duration pursue innovation omniscient resolute unruly optimist restrain agony convenient constant prosper elaborate genre retrieve exploit continuous dissolve dwell persecute abandon meager elude rural retaliate primitive remote blunder propel vital designate cultivate loathe consent drastic fuse maximum negotiate barren transform conspicuous possess allegiance beneficial former factor deluge vibrant intimidate idiom dense awe rigorous manipulate transport discretion hostile clarity arid parody boisterous capacity massive prosecute declare stifle remorse refuge predicament treacherous inevitable ingenious plummet adapt monotonous accumulate reinforce extract reluctant vacate hazardous inept diminish domestic linger context excel cancel distribute document fragile myth reject scuffle solitary temporary veteran assault convert dispute impressive justify misleading numerous productive shrewd strategy villain bluff cautious consist despise haven miniature monarch obstacle postpone straggle vivid aggressive associate deceive emigrate flexible glamour hazy luxurious mishap overwhelm span blemish blunt capable conclude detect fatigue festive hospitality nomad supreme

8.2

exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

9.1

stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

9.2

feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

10.1

install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

10.2

warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

[yeahwesaidthat]

TWWS: The Best of D&D

Ladiiiiiiiies and gentlemeeeeeeeeeeen! Welcome to the ultimate showdown: THE BEST OF D&D!

This post contains the best of the best of the D&D/RPG posts over the years of TWWS, all the way from the beginning. At the end of the post, there will be a link to a survey where you can vote for your favourites in each category (other/3.5e, 4e, and 5e) and nominate MVPs for each category. If the person you want to vote MVP has only been referenced as “Player,” just note down what quote they’re responsible for. A week from today (or until enough of you fill out the survey), Round 2 of the competition begins.

Everybody roll for initiative!

Overheard During Other RPGs

During Hackmaster, about a bottle label: SB: “It says ‘Thou shalt not question the DM over inane shit!’”

Overheard During D&D 3.5e

Unarmed damage?: MM: “It’s the difference between a slap and a bitch-slap.”

So wrong it's right: MM (IC): “I like your spunk.” KH (OOC): “So does [gay player].”

Rogue equipment: KB (IC): “I need [boots] that are…soft-sounding.” MM (IC): “We have socks.”

Describing a character: SO: “She is built like a brick shithouse.” DM: “She shits brick houses.” Bubbles: “She makes brick houses shit bricks.”

When the party has two rogues: KH (IC): “I can find it!” KB (IC): “I can find it better.”

RD (IC): “[Wizard], if you do not stop right now, I will arrest you for terminal stupidity, and I can assure you, I will find a law against it!”

A discount on services rendered: SO: “What’s 75% off of ‘I run and do whatever you ask without question’?”

Calling for divine help in very specific situations: MM: “Please state your current medical emergency.” KB: “Head-splosion.” SO: “If you have been stabbed, press one. If you are currently being stabbed, press two.” MM: “If your head’s detonated and you’ve launched into a wall, press three.” RD: “Why did you press three? We never expected anyone to press three!” SO: “We don’t know what to do in this medical emergency! Please dial again!”

IO: “[Wizard] is going to say - ” KB: “Can I tell you why this is a bad idea?” IO: “No.”

Proper procedure when everything goes to hell: RD: “[Cleric] goes outside and makes a magic circle, sits in it, and cries.”

KH (IC): “That stupid fucking son of a flea-ridden bitch cunt wizard - ” MM (IC): “Oh, him.”

How to pray to the god Ao: KB, KH, and MM: “I throw my hands up in the air sometimes sayin’ heeeeey-oh! I worship Aaaaaaa-o!” Bubbles: “[The wizard’s] gaaaaaaaay-o!"

Overheard During D&D 4e

SIDE NOTE: A Quiplash commentary on D&D 4e: A more environment-friendly alternative to toilet paper - 4th ed character sheets

What we think we saw - again?: Player: “If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and weighs the same as a duck, it must be a witch.” KH: “It’s a witch.” RJ: “Build a bridge out of 'er!”

Healing needed: Player: “I have a mess kit, will that help?” WS: “Only if you want to make a mess.”

Captain: “Neverwinter ho!” Dwarf: “Hos? Where?”

SB: “Eventually you end up at the most popular stall in the market.” Player: “Porn?”

About attacking a character that may or may not be good: SB: “Wait, what’s your alignment?” Player: “Lawful Paranoid.”

Taunting the kraken: Player: “Your tentacles are so short even an anime girl wouldn’t take 'em!”

Questioning the legitimacy of an NPC: SB (IC as Priest): “I have a degree in polytheism from the University of Phoenix Online!”

Making sure it’s really dead: SB: "You kick the head and it goes sailing through the open door of the tomb. You hear a voice in the darkness go ’Gooooooooal!’”

Killing the undead: SB: “Congratulations, you choked something to death that doesn’t breathe.”

Mass undead murder: Player: “We made a ghoul-ash. An evil gumbo, really.”

Architecture: Player: “I like big buttresses and I cannot lie.”

Interesting kills: SB: “You decapitated him with a bludgeoning weapon.”

About flying books: Player 1: “The window opens in! How do they fly out?” Player 2: “They’re paperbacks."

Player: “Thank God I decided to engage the dragon in melee.” MW: “You’ll never hear that in any other D&D campaign ever again.”

Player: “Is the food still on the table?” Three Of Us: “DON’T EAT IT!!!”

Overheard During D&D 5e

Annoying Teen: (about his character) “Would he still hate me?” AD: (not about his character) “I think everyone hates you.”

Don’t mess with a dire bear: JI: “There’s one inside who attacks the bear…" (rolls) "...and misses horribly ‘cause he shits his pants.”

JI: “He doesn’t have 100 hit points. He has 95.”

Demonic insight: KH: “I say in Infernal, ‘Peace! We mean you no harm!’” JI: “There’s no word in Infernal for ‘peace.’” Retroactive Edit: Demons actually speak Abyssal. Devils speak Infernal.

Animal form disadvantages: AD: “I’m going to bite [the zombie].” Everyone Else: (mass noise of disgust)

JI: “You feel a pinch in your mind as if she’s flipping through your yellow pages.” AD: “That’s got to be a euphemism for something.” ST: “Oh, yeah, baby, turn my yellow pages.” JB: “Turn to ‘F’ for fun.”

What happens in every religious venue in every D&D campaign ever: JB: “Here is the church, here is the steeple,” KH: “Open the door, and here are the zombies.”

KH: “Did you sneak off to her house in the middle of the night?” ST: “Does that sound like something I would do?” KH, AD, and CD: “Yes.”

JI: “You guys came in here - ” AD: “ - like a wrecking ball - ”

Post-adventure considerations: KH: “[Rogue] wouldn’t know what to do with her life.” AD: “She can bail herself out of jail.”

Switching to melee for a change: CD: “Let’s see if this ‘offense’ thing you do all the time really works.” (rolls a critical hit)

The logistics of being swallowed by a sea monster: ST: “Am I going to take damage if I move further along his digestive tract?”

EC: “If you had leprosy and your ears fell off would you be a deaf leper?”

Identifying mysterious cults: KH: “What’s the Cult of Howling Hatred?” EC: “The Westboro Baptist Church, obviously.”

DR: “Apparently your god has personally intervened due to your badassery.”

A Mass Effect cameo on a dexterity check for dancing: EC: “If you roll a one, you dance like Shepard.”

EC (IC): “So what you’re saying is that it’s very dangerous and we shouldn’t go in. I’ll take point.”

Things to worry about in combat: KH: “You don’t have enough hit points to take it like a man, honey.”

The ends justify the means?: Bubbles: “Did you have fun role-playing an interrogation?” DR: “You guys are fucked up.”

KH: “How do you stun-lock a Terrasque?!?” JB: “Fourth Edition.”

ST: “Do we have to kill them before we eat? I hate murdering on an empty stomach.”

About a revenant and a possible lover: EC: “Well the beast is committing necrophilia and the necro is committing bestiality…” DR: “What happens in Faerun, et cetera.”

Rolling high on a seduction check: DR: “Frankly, I didn’t think you’d go down this road.” KH: “Oh, I went down all right.”

More on the seduction roll: Bubbles: “Try to convince her to come with us. The way she came with you last night.”

About a nonviolent kua-toa: Player: “He’s a paci-fish.”

About dealing with face-hugging enemies: CD: “You swung at yourself and missed?” AD: “I swung at myself and missed.”

ST (IC): “I’ll be staying in the boat unless you have need of my specific skills.” CD (OOC): “Dying first is not a skill.”

About cultists: DM (IC): “They are water people. Maybe they’re just going with the flow.”

About a minotaur who keeps missing: DM: “At least when you put a bull in a china shop he’ll break shit.”

About bottles of brandy: EC: “I have two questions: how many of them are there and how many of them can I carry?”

Ideas so bad they’re good: KH: “We’re gonna blow up the temple with the distillery.” F: “The temple, the lich, half the plot…”

About going forward: KH: “Against our better judgment.” DM: “What better judgment?” KH: “Good point.”

About shooting arrows: KH: “'Nock’ yourself out.”

About using a lot of magic: JS: “We’re blowing a big load here right now.”

JS: “You wanna go up the shaft?” ST and T: “That’s what he said.”

About flirting with an efreet: JI: “Below her waist is a trailing cloud of black smoke, so you’re not getting anything.”

Questioning the guardian imp: Player (IC): “What happens if someone disturbs the sarcophagus before your time is up?” WS (IC): “There’ll be six more weeks of winter.”

MR (IC): “Trying to undercut me on my quest to restore my former glory?” KH (IC): “You have no glory to restore.” Other Players: “Oooooooh!” SW: “Quick, someone cast heal!”

When talking with a spirit: MR (IC): “You can’t just ask someone if they’re dead! That’s incredibly rude! The correct term is ‘mortally challenged’!”

After a petrifying encounter with some basilisks: BC: “I always thought she was stone-hearted.” KT: “I dunno, I thought she rocked.” JS: “I am going to kill all of you.”

What to do with windmills: KH: “If we had a lance, we could go tilting.” MR: “Cavalier idea.”

Quest priorities: Player 1: “No one’s going to pay us to do it right now. It’s not worth the attention.”

JF: “Roll to see if you hit me by accident.” KH: “Oh, I’d hit you on purpose.”

K’s paladin chastising A’s paladin about her sex habits: A (IC): “I thought you were the paladin of joy!” K (IC): “Not that kind of joy!”

About a previous edition of D&D: KH: “[What] the hell couldn’t you do in 3.5?” SW: “Win.”

KH: “Technically you’re underage.” ST: “That’s never stopped me before.” AD: “You or your character?” ST: “Do I have to answer that?”

D: “We’re gonna make the Underdark great again!” ST: “We’re gonna build a wall - a really big wall in the Underdark, and we’re gonna make the gnomes pay for it.” A: “We pay for everything already! Screw you!”

About a character who caught fire: T: “He’s not rolling initiative; he’s rolling on the ground.”

T (IC): “Let’s go before the men’s egos get us killed.”

JB (IC): “My god believes in good opportunities. Not dying is a good opportunity.”

Passing on some bad news: JI (IC): “[Chief] not sick!” AD (IC): “He was when we were done with him.”

To a healer: KH (IC): “I don’t suppose you have a cure for the common cold?” JI (IC): “I’m not a miracle worker.”

Reassuring a woman scorned: AA (IC): “Go tell her - all men dogs.” JI (OOC): “Says the cat.”

To the tune of “Like a G6”: ST and KH: “Roll a d6, roll a d6!”

KH: “Of course it’s always about dirty sex - I’m a bard!” AD: “The hell are you two talking about down there?!”

To a mindflayer, about a stupid character: KH (IC): “I’d offer you his brain to eat, but I don’t think he has one.” JS (IC as mindflayer): “I don’t eat junk food.”

MGW: “It’s Tza…Zsa…his name is Jasper.”

Saying goodbye to the barkeep: MR (IC): “I’ll be back visiting the northern parts soon.” KH (OOC): “And then you can visit her southern parts.”

About a questionable NPC: ST (IC): “I would never dream of hurting you!” KH (IC): “I would.”

About prison visitations: JB (IC): “How often is it that a [gypsy] walks in here voluntarily?”

Failing a romance/persuasion check: AA: “Ooh, she cast Zone of Friend!”

Preparing for a swamp adventure: CD: “I want to buy some insect repellant.” AD: “What, your personality doesn’t drive them away?”

About a magic boat: JB (IC): “I saw it grow!” ST (IC): “Are you sure you didn’t rub it? That sometimes happens with wood.” JB (IC): “You would know.” ST (IC): “You wouldn’t.” JB (IC): “Tell that to my two children.”

About an injured drow: MGW (IC): “Look at that poor girl! She has a black eye! You can’t see it, ‘cause her skin is black, but still!”

Last-minute aliases: RD (IC): “Unfortunately, no, my name is Dick Ballsenshaft.”

To a half-orc and Sir Bearington, regarding weirdness: MGW (IC): “…but for me to assume you’re in a loving relationship with a talking bear is where we draw the line?!”

Wisdom for stealing magic items: KC: “Anything that glows goes.”

About fleeing: RD: “I’m going to run like an Amazon employee during the holidays.”

MGW: “You were doing so well until everybody died.” JF: “D&D in a summary.”

Once more about fleeing: RD: “A smart man knows when to run like a little bitch.” J: “Why do you think that’s the first thing I did?”

Recapping the previous session: A: “There was a shitshow, but we got away with it.” S: “So the usual, then.”

About creature size: MR: “Is an ettin large or huge?” MGW: “I think he’s just large.” A: “He’s probably large but pretends he’s huge.” AS: “Typical guy.”

When a pervy character is disgusted by a perv: RD: “Dear Kettle, I have an issue with your current hue. Signed, the Pot.”

A: “He told us to send a message.” KH: “A sword in the stomach is a message.” SW: “The Lannisters send their regards.”

The pervy paladin: A: “I used Lay On Hands. I healed him.” KH: “Yeah, but where did you lay your hands?” MGW: “Wherever she wanted.”

About our tactics: SW: “We put the 'fun’ in 'dysfunctional.’”

About possible activities: MGW (IC): “I know you’re a tiefling, but we’re all the same color in the dark, right?”

Interesting weapon material: MGW: “You all take a moment of reflective silence.” JB: “Nah, I’m just cleaning my bone.” KH: “Technically that’s a moment of reflective silence.” KC: “Not if you’ve seen the barbarian do it.”

Scrying like bad cell reception: KH: “Switch to AD&D.” JB: “Can you scry me now?”

About the taste of human: SW: “You would know.” A: “Nah, I don’t swallow.” MR: “This conversation is making me uncomfortable.”

Wrestling prep: MR (IC): “I want a good, clean fight.” A (IC): “No we don’t.” JB (IC): “What’s a clean fight?” A (IC): “It means you have to take a bath first.” JB (IC): “What’s a bath?”

MGW: “There’s a bridge that looks like it may have collapsed at some point.” JB: “Is it a-bridged?”

Beautiful references (read in Rorschach’s voice): AA: “I’m not grappled with YOU,” ST, AA, and KH: “YOU’RE grappled with ME!”

About remaining spells: KH: “I have three 1st-level slots and one 2nd-level slot.” CD: “Those are 'keeping people alive’ slots.”

Dealing with extra-limbed gorillas: ST: “Uh-oh! They must have been forewarned!” AD: “What makes you say that?” ST: “Forewarned is four-armed.” AD: -_-

Negotiation skills: AD: “It’s just me trying to bullshit him.” JI: “Why don’t you make a bullshit check?”

Trying to figure out if the staff is necromantic: CD: “We could kill a mouse in front of the staff. We could kill a mouse with the staff. How much is it to buy a mouse?”

JB: “Anyone die while I was gone?” SW: “Not on the outside.”

Wizarding limits: JS: “You may not polymorph your zombies into t-rexes.”

Zombies aren’t too smart: BC (IC): “Bobs, attack the closest gnoll!” Bobs: (run at gnoll party member) KH (OOC): “Et tu, Bob?” JS (OOC): “If this doesn’t belong in your blog, I dunno what does.”

Far too relatable: JS: “Twenty psychic damage.” BC: “I’ve taken more psychic damage from my mother.”

Worst-laid plans: KH (IC): “I have a very bad feeling about this.” MR (IC): “You should.”

Our go-to combat tactic: MR: “Are we going to stupid the guy to death?”

Zing!: MGW (IC): “If you join me, I can make you the greatest dwarf who ever lived.” TP (IC): “I am the greatest dwarf who ever lived.” Whole Table (OOC): “Ooooohhhhh!!!”

Another verbal duel with a sea god/character class limitations: KH: “I would say 'what is a god to a nonbeliever,’ but I’m a cleric.”

Activating the mysterious device: BC (IC): “We did it! I wonder what we did?”

Business as usual: KH: “This seems like a bad idea, but go ahead.”

Old adages: MR: “No plan survives contact with the enemy.” (IC) “But then, no enemy has survived contact with us!” (OOC) “Was that quote-worthy?” KH: “Yes.”

KC: “She can ride me. I don’t care.” KH: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) KC: “…I’M A BEAR IN ARMOR.”

Advantageous druidic inanity: KC: “Are you still riding the flying bear?” MR: “It’s flying now?” KC: “Yeah, he flew up to unlock the door.” AS: “…So he’s a flying bear with armor…”

Spell modifications for humourous purposes: MR: “Using a Dex[terity] save for Zone of Truth means they’re literally dodging the question.”

About a wild, crazy, out-of-left-field hypothesis: RD (IC): “I figured if you pulled something that big our of your ass there’d be bleeding involved.” MR (IC): “…That’s between me and my proctologist.” SW (OOC): “Did you take fire damage for that? That’s like Taco Bell levels of burn.”

As is per usual: MR: “We may have once again survived this by the skin of bullshit.”

Take the survey and vote for your favourites!

[moosetrackart-old]

Captain Stanley "Smolpoxx" Evergreen (UPDATE)

Captain Stanley “Smolpoxx” Evergreen By me (for school) Long ago, there was a pirate by the name of Captain Stanley “Smolpoxx” Evergreen, who loved to sail the seven seas(and then some!) in his ship he nicknamed The Leyford II. On his ship, he went around plundering and educating people on the impact his ship and others have had on society. This is the time he happened across a small town on another ship. “Aye, lads and lassies! What be your plans today? I am here to plunder and educate your minds!” “Oh my stars! Captain Smolpoxx!” a woman yelled in surprise. “Row away!” “I can’t let ye do that!” So, the pirate captain had a running start before he hopped onto the other ship. “Now, gather ‘round, me hearties! I will be tellin’ ye all about how me ship and others that have impacted yer society!” Everyone besides the Captain sighed and sat in front of him, a regretful look on their faces. “It all started many years ago…. “According to the ancient scriptures of Wikipedia.com, the amount of years ago the impact began was around 45,000 years ago. My boat, actually, was just made four days ago. I’ve been pirating ever since! Anyway, 45,000 years ago… Hm… Well, that is at least when the first seaworthy boats were made. Of course, that would immediately impact the society of the world, since they be new… “Now, I have more references. I not be pulling all this out of me pirate’s stash of cold hard cash! Me second reference be about the myths versus realities of pirates, since it be what most people think about when referring to us. “I have got me reference this time by Wired.com. This be just a sample, but still, it speaks truth: Pirates said "Arrrr" and "Mateys" and such. I’m sure this won’t surprise you, but no, they didn’t. They had particular ways of speaking, especially among the British pirates, but the phrases we associate with pirates came from Hollywood. “I be an exception to this, since I come from a special breed of pirate, obviously. But it’s true! Not all of us say these ‘Hollywood’ phrases that ye be hearin’ these days on your television sets or on ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’ on the 19th of September! Aye, it be sad how ye people treat us.” The pirate captain sat down with his legs crossed, shaking his head once. “Anyway, once again… “Another thing that ‘website’ said was the myth of women being too weak to be pirates! I’d be lying if I’d say that’d be true! Nay, these myths are bananas! Okay, I shall focus now. I can debunk this myth.” Stanley breathed in through his nose before taking it off to reveal a woman’s face! “Aye, ye see? Not all female pirates are wimps! In fact, I be one of the strongest, undocumented female pirates on all seas, ever! ”Now, before ye say anything, I want to reveal some other female pirates who were strong. The source this time be Mentalfloss.com: Anne Bonny, Mary Read, Sadie The Goat… The list goes on!” The owners of the ship gasped at the reveal. “Why’s your name Stanley then, luv?” a motherly woman asked. “Oh, that just be me name. And Smolpoxx is spelled incorrectly, since I not be carryin’ the disease; people call me that because they call me a disease!... Aye, this reminds me of how contagious the actual smallpox disease actually is… The website pirates.hegewisch.net tells me that ‘small pox was almost always fatal and contagious. After an incubation period of 10-14 days the disease comes on suddenly, is quite painful and would kill the patient within three weeks.’ Ye all be lucky I don’t have that disease; all of ye would be dead in a very short amount of time! Boats help carry this disease if the people on board are down with the sickness. When those people make it to the harbor and leave their ships, they can make the disease travel with interactions between humans and objects that could spread the disease by coming into contact with such a thing. The ships carried the original diseases the people had with them, and thus spreads smallpox or whatever disease to others. “Anyway, let us continue. “Me ship is build out of wood for its main body, and within it lies a light concrete layer to stop water if it attempts entry. The wood in the main a part of me boat is often used- Ashwood. InternationalTimber.com agrees with me there, as that is where I got me idea! Using this type of wood is very popular, since it is buoyant, while still strong and bendable.” “Ok,” said a teenager. “How does this all impact society?” “Well, when I was in school, I learnt from me teachers, Miss Holub and Mister Banno, that these boats- minus piracy -are very helpful for transporting goods, such as crates o’ fish and bottles of water; travel, or sometimes migration; and they can be used for war! I have had to use Ol’ LeyFord II here to fight before, as some other pirates were not being very nice, to speak kindly. Another thing they are useful for is for something called cultural diffusion. This means ‘the spread of cultural beliefs and social activities from one group to another’, according to examples.yourdictionary.com. Using boats helps transport all these beliefs because ships and such are a common form of travel, and it brings people together to share their experiences. The more travel, the better!” “Wow, Captain Stanley! You are really smart!” a little girl cheered. “Goodness, lassie, thank ye! I like to inform people on this subject, as it is important for people to know what kind of damage or aid boats can do for people! Would ye like to hear a pirate story? I’ve got time,” Captain Smolpoxx hummed with a smile. “Sure!” “Tell us!” “We also conveniently have time, for some reason.” “Alright! Now, it happened when I built me boat…” A flashback began. Stanley had a hammer in her hand, tapping some nails into place on her hand-made ship. Two men disguised as beggars walked behind her before speaking, “Lad, please aid us. We’re very poor, and we don’t have a home.” “Well, what are yer names?” “It be us, Captain Stanford Treefall!” one whisper-yelled as he threw off his coat. “And Co-Captain Fidds McGutter!” the other cried out, following in suit of his captain. “And what do ye want from me?” Smolpoxx asked half-heartedly, obviously tired because of her current endeavour. “I don’t have much. Ye can take these two gold pounds. I made them meself.” She handed them the gold and turned back around, tapping more nails into place. “That be it?” Stanford asked, looking at the shoddily-made coins. “That be it?!” “What kind of trick are ye pullin’, lad?” Fidds added, putting a hand on her shoulder roughly. “No tricks being pulled here, lads. Now, run along. I’ve got me boat to make.” When the others didn’t leave, she spun around with the hammer and pointed it at them. “Do I have to whack ye faces in and make them be a part of me boat? Or do I have to just ask politely again?” She was becoming impatient. “Aye, lad, it be alright,” the blond pirate(Co-Captain McGutter) agreed nervously. So, the two rogue pirates ran off.... Now, it was back in the present. “They be very lucky I wasn’t Blackbeard, as he would have gone to do me threats to the two men.” Everyone on the currently pirated ship was nervous as heck, and they were afraid the pirate plundering herself would do the threats she managed to throw at the pirates of the past. “Don’t worry, ye lads and lassies! I’d never lay a finger on ye! ‘Sides, there be children here!... I can see you’re still doubting me. Trust me, me sword has never been used for bad, minus a little bit of threatening and sword-fighting. I’d never hurt ye! Ye listened to me tale and the knowledge you needed, so I’d say I have had my purpose here!” Captain Stanley hugged everyone on the ship after they accepted her explanation before leaving. “See ye later!” The end! Hope you enjoyed!

[ittybittymicroraptor-blog]

Chapter 4

Ashvale sat on the northern coast of Morosa, just far enough south to be accessible all year round by large vessels. The cool waters upwelling from deep chasms offshore brought waves of nutrients to the shore line. For many years the rich and bountiful waters had sustained a large and healthy fishing industry in Ashvale, despite the near permanent ice field that lurked just a few hundred metres off the edge of the water. Strong, cold winds blew down from the very north, providing power to the huge triangular sails of the fishing fleet. These winds had stripped the surrounding land of all but the hardiest of gorse and heather so that the town was visible from miles around. The buildings here were made of various materials, houses standing until they had become too damaged by fierce storms, and each one built softly rounded to deflect the blows of the wind. 

Ashvale had a single central high street along which all houses and buildings were built along. At the end of the street lay the dockyards and the harbour wall, small and large vessels rocked in the gentle swell as the huge stone harbour walls bore the brunt of the tide. Rickety pontoons spread out across the entire harbour in a complex maze, with huge vessels tied to the harbour wall itself, with the smaller vessels sheltered near the shore. A rough pebble beach lay either side of the dock access that was covered in equipment set aside for mending. Jennie breathed in the brisk air and wrinkled her face, the stench of rotting fish wafted off of the beach, covering any smell from the cargo that was being off loaded next to her. Walking out onto the cobbles she found her foot crunching into the beach, into the skeletons of hundreds of fish. The corpses lay in a thick mat at the high tidal mark, a stark white line against the dark pebbles. Using a stick, Jennie separated one of the skeletons from the mass. Huge fine rods extended from the back, side and tail that were barely thicker than a pine needle. Many of the rods had been snapped or bent, presumably whilst the animal was alive, Jennie thought. " That there is a Proelius skeleton stranger. A fine fish, in taste and looks, wouldn't like to fight one though," an old woman sitting at the top of the beach called down to Jennie. The woman was small, pinched and bird like and radiated warmth from her smile, like a happy russian doll bundled in a huge red parka jacket. Beside her was a large wicker basket into which she was slowly loading perfectly smooth pebbles. "It doesn't look like a fighter, what with all these spines, and it looks like there wouldn't be much meat on it either." Jennie replied back, hooking the fish by its eye socket to get a better look at it. " Them fish don't like others in their homes, see? Shame there's too many of 'em in the water, they can't help but fight. Tide brings what's left of 'em into the harbour and dumps 'em here." The old lady mused, " Stinks the place to buggery!" She laughed softly and began to stand up. " Say, have you got somewhere to stay tonight? Because I 'avent seen you round here and I wouldn't want a kind girl like yourself to be out and about this evening." " Erm, no, ma'am, not yet, I was hoping to get a room in the hotel this evening. And besides I wouldn't want to be a burden." Jennie smiled. " Then you'll 'ave great difficulty doing that Miss, hotels are always booked up on this night, and besides they'll be keeping a few rooms aside to help stragglers. Please I insist." The woman nervously tweaked her face into a smile. " Erm, I don't know Ma'am, I would have to think about it first." Jennie replied. "Well if you take me up on my offer, my name is Doris and my house is the little blue wooden one about halfway up the street." She smiled sweetly and begun to hobble back up the street, clutching the basket of pebbles she had been collecting. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When Jennie got to the small market stalls were already beginning to pack up their goods. Hurrying over to the grocer Jennie grew curious about the rush. " Hi, What can I get you today Miss?" The grocer asked with a hand on his hip. " Errr, I'll have a pound of apples, one of bananas and oh the same of cherries please, " Jennie asked, " Hey, what's going on this evening? Why is everyone packing up their stalls so early?" The grocers body tensed and his shoulders lowered, for a moment he glanced down at the floor and shuffled awkwardly. "It's the red tide Miss, no-one wants to be outside then, at least unless they got a death wish. And before you ask any more questions, we don't like talking about that outside. It's not safe nor polite. Now that will be 10,000  Pokédollar," He stared Jennie down with burning eyes, " Now it's going to get dark soon, I recommend finding a place to spend the night, since the hotel will be full now." He quickly gave Jennie her bags before beginning to throw crates into the back of his produce van as fast as he could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With no choice Jennie walked up the road to the old woman's house. She found it easily enough. It carried the same simple wooden slat style of the other nearby homes but had been painted a soft duck egg blue. Stepping off the street and through the small wrought iron gate she found herself in a tiny but well loved front garden filled with decorative shrubs in neat little borders. Piled up against the front wall was a small pile of chopped wood, kept dry by the overhanging porch. Jennie knocked on the door and waited patiently as she listened to the older woman slowly removing all the locks from the door. Gently the door opened to reveal the old lady, who inspected Jennie for a second before a moment of recollection passed over her face. " Ooooh hello Dearie, come in, come in. Just put your stuff down next to old Mira. The kettle is just boiling so sit down and get warm." Doris smiled as she re-bolted each and every lock on the heavy wooden door, " Actually Dear, could you get the top deadbolt for me, it's been a while since I have been able to reach it and it would bring me a lot of comfort knowing the door was firmly locked." Once Jennie finished with the bolt she turned around to take in the front room of the house. It was small but cosy, painted in a warm auburn colour with every surface draped in thick soft throws. To the very back she could just see a narrow kitchen complete with a polished white range cooker and rows of shining copper coloured pans. Nestled against the right wall was a large, round wood burning stove, atop which sat a large kettle that was gently simmering away. Around every other wall were stacks of shelves covered in old fishing hooks and pieces of boat equipment. Mira was an aged Torkoal who was sat in a concrete bed in the near left corner near the stairs. She was sleeping with heavy breaths and twitched every now and then in her dream. Above her was a glass cabinet full of delicately arranged smoking pipes. " Have the pipes caught your eye my dear? They belonged to my husband, rest 'is soul. When 'e died dear Mira wouldn't move from the mantelpiece where 'e kept 'em, silly old reptile. " Doris shook her head wistfully, " But you don't want to be bored by my old musings, come away from the door and sit over here, the red tide will begin soon and I don't want you near the door." Slowly the kettle began to whistle and shake around on the stove. "Tea dear?" " That would be great thank you. " Doris slowly poured the hot water into each mug and dropped a tea bag into both before bringing it over to the coffee table. She had already placed a saucer, a small jug of milk and some spoons out. Gratefully Jennie took the mug and warmed her hands with the soft warmth of the porcelain. As she took a quick sip she saw Doris stare at the door as an eerie quiet hushed the normal sounds of the sea. From beyond the waves came a long, deep moaning and a hushed crying noise. Ice crept up the window panes, waking the sleeping Torkoal, who rushed over to her companion with surprising speed. Pre-emptively Jennie released Ninetails who began to growl at the door. Outside the mist thickened until Jennie could see nothing but whiteness. Occasionally she heard the sound of dragging chains and wood. Then came the eyes; blood red and glowing with anger. They streamed past the windows in jerky, awkward movements as though they were swaying with an invisible tide. " It has begun." Doris whispered as the front door began to rattle, " But don't worry dear, that door has held them off for many years without fail. Oh my, in all this rush I never asked your name." " Er-er-er-er Jennie." Jennie stuttered, taken aback by the old lady's sudden calmness. " What is going on? What the hell are they?" " This is the red tide, the night where we must remember our mistakes." " But- What? How?" Doris sighed, "well, I suppose it won't hurt to tell you..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long ago the town was even more prosperous than its modern day port, they were famous for hauls of Delcaedes, huge animals with streamlined bodies and triangular fins. The creatures provided work for entire families, fathers and sons would haul entire Delcaedes from the water and bring them to their wives and daughters on the harbour wall where they would cut away the fleshy fins and discard the rest of the animal, still living into the waters just outside of the harbour. As the town grew, more drastic measures were taken and the Delcaedes were herded into bays just around the corner from the town where the fishermen would collect the fins on mass, leaving the animals to drown. But overtime the numbers dwindled until the hunt could only happen on one day of the year. Eventually the fishing had to stop, no Delcaedes could be found and the hunt had to be called off early. The morning after the failed hunt a thick fog rolled into the town along with the cries of thousands of the animals. The fishermen debated setting out into the fog until the sun had begun to touch the horizon. One young man volunteered to look and set out in a small row boat equipped with the brightest light. Hours passed and the number of people waiting out the night dwindled until dawn when only the man's wife remained behind. As the sun rose over the horizon the fog began to clear. Drifting battered into the harbour was the row boat, washed in on a tide thick with red blood. To the woman's horror she found her husband inside the boat, dismembered and struggling for breath against the pain and blood loss. At his feet all of his limbs had been carefully arranged into the basket he had intended to use for the Delcaedes. Enraged the fishermen set out with the encroaching fog of sunset that evening to gain retribution for the young man. Again their vessels returned with the fog's retreat at dawn. Limbs torn off and arranged in the same way. With the sunset of the third day the fog rolled further into town and brought the Delcaedes. With them they brought water, flooding the town with a great sticky red wave. They watched for movement and dragged all who touched the water down into it, drowning them in blood. For the rest of the night the citizens of Ashvale cowered in their homes, praying that the waters would recede and leave their loved ones unharmed. It did not. The tide ebbed with the rising sun, revealing each murdered townsperson. Some had been mutilated in the same way as the men on the boats; Others were tangled in fishing nets and traps, their lips blue from asphyxiation. Most had been drained of every drop of blood in their body, helping to fuel the surge of the tide. The next year, on the anniversary of the first red tide the Delcaedes surged back into town to repeat the slaughter, taking any who had not learnt their lesson from the previous year.  The Delcaedes returned every year after that until the residents of Ashvale had learnt to lock their doors and hide inside for one night of the year.

[Excerpt from Jennie's notes: The Delcaedes don't take a single form like many other Pokémon. They appear to take the form of many different species with many different death methods. Peering through the upstairs window I was able to make a few rough sketches of the animals and some of them do seem to be missing their fins. However they seem to have replaced them with disturbing ghostly versions of them. I'm afraid of what some of the other animals in Morosa are like if the field guide I am using rates them as a least concern dangerous animal.]

[reekierevelator]

Going Home

A Short Story by Brian Bourner

Arnie’s Audio Diary

 19 January 2015

I’m assailed again by memories of long ago.

It was winter, early dark. We were just ragamuffin kids standing on the pavement outside the shop’s open door, our nostrils flaring in response to the overpowering smell of malt vinegar and burning fat.  

From inside, behind the counter, came the familiar soft slurp of wet fish being slapped in batter, immediately followed by the spit and roar, spark and sizzle of the fish being deposited in the deep fryer.

Petey salivated, preparing to crunch his teeth through the crisp, heavily salted batter and into the chewy white cod.

Joe lifted his arms from the counter and swung his big shock of bronze hair towards us, away from the jars of pickled eggs and onions. He grinned, a big twelve year old’s confident grin, one leg bending at a jaunty angle behind the other as he caught my eye.

Behind the imitation white marble counter with its grey veins, Paolo’s sunken eyes drooped sadly.  The elderly shop-keeper was still recovering from years of detention on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien.  Something I didn’t know about or understand at the time.  A heavy-set man in an off-white apron, he posed a question and Joe turned back to answer just as Paolo’s steel spatula plucked the fish from the boiling fat and laid it on a white sheet of paper he’d already spread with his other hand.  

A portion of crisp golden chips was instantly shovelled on top, salt and vinegar generously applied, and the whole wrapped neatly in newspaper, all done in one single fluid movement in the same time it took Joe to pull the pound note from his trouser pocket. Somehow Joe always had money when he came to see us.

The till pinged, coins rattled, and Joe pocketed the change that Paolo thrust towards him. Then he stepped out into the cold air, posing proudly with the steaming food, and we quickly closed in around him.

Joe always asked for the bag to be left open, knowing the extent of our hunger and that we couldn’t bear to wait even the other half a minute it would take to open a closed parcel up again.

As we skipped and shuffled down the street, hopping round lampposts and gutters, our eyes bright and our breath condensing in the cold air, we dipped our fingers into the splendid cornucopia at will, plucking out long chips running with vinegar, chunks of white fish, and lumps of crunchy batter, stuffing it all in our mouths without formality. I knew manna from heaven could surely not taste better than such a fish supper. Only Joe was less than euphoric, his ideas still stuck in the old country, and managing a carping comment about the stupidity of people who substitute imitation vinegar for mayonnaise.

 20 January 2015

It’s strange the things that fix in the memory. That chip shop tableau always stays clear and fresh and I hold it dear.  My elder brother Joe, Johan, my twin Petey, Pieter, and me, Arnie, Armin, enjoying a moveable feast in the cold, grey, winter streets of an immediate post-war Edinburgh. A night of unalloyed pleasure when we had hot food to eat, a place to sleep, and respite from the bombs and bullets, the perennial fighting and screaming, that had plagued our lives in Holland.

We were immigrants, three children whose parents, as I later discovered, had been deported to the camps for organising our escape.  Father had been a small tenant farmer, mainly sheep. Mother looked after a few chickens. We were born and lived in the wetlands south of Rotterdam.  As the war continued we were left with nothing to eat.

We three children left occupied Holland in a small boat, sailed across the North Sea in 1941 by a friend of our father’s, a fisherman who had already planned his escape.  His boat was too small to take our whole family.  Johan was eleven. Me and Petey had just turned seven. We arrived frozen and hungry just up the coast from Hull.  Joe had been taught enough English at school to be able to explain our position when we were stopped and taken to a police station.  

Our father’s friend talked of someone, a fisherman, a man he had run into before the war. He knew he lived somewhere in Scotland called Prestonpans and he was sure that he would help him out.

After a few days we were given travel warrants and bundled onto the train for Edinburgh.  But on arriving at Waverley our father’s friend made it clear that though he’d got us across the water, and out of police custody, he couldn’t supply accommodation.  The Scottish fisherman with whom he was vaguely acquainted had only had a very tiny cottage, with no room for more than one visitor. When he bade us farewell we were lost.  

We spent the next two days hiding in the city, a feral existence of sleeping in graveyards and scavenging for food.  The police found us one night at a Grassmarket soup kitchen and we were packed off to a big cold building, standing in its own grounds, and run with strict discipline.  It was called the Dean Orphanage.  Joe explained several times why our parents had sent away. We knew it was for our own good but we missed our parents very badly.

All the same, the orphanage did provide proper beds, and there were adults around organising things. There was food too, though seldom enough of it. The basic meals provided barely kept hunger at bay.  All the same, our basic needs were served.  So Petey and me, being so young and having just survived an extremely tough few weeks at sea and then living rough, resolved to stay. Joe was happy to let us.  But being that bit older he didn’t want to be confined to care himself.  He ran off again, determined to look after himself and be his own master even in this strange new town.  

But afterwards he would often sneak in to visit us.  One day he said he was now called Joe rather than Johan because it made life easier for him. And a year or so later the orphanage authorities sometimes allowed him to take us outside.  We’d go down to Stockbridge and he’d treat us to a fish supper. He’d found a house in Newhaven where a fisherman let him sleep on his floor so long as he helped with gutting, boxing, and transporting his catch. But he resented that a place to sleep was the only payment he ever received for his hard work. He didn’t think he’d stay there long.  

As well as fish and chips, Joe sometimes provided us with other small luxuries, toys and boxes of sweets.  But as we settled into the orphanage and our stay extended into its second and third years his visits gradually tailed off.  

It was after we’d been in the orphanage several years and the authorities were starting to think of our lives after we left that they decided our names sounded too German and they officially registered as Peter and Arnold Miller instead. That was when we became Pete and Arnie. It wasn’t till we actually left the orphanage that we discovered the name on all our documents was Miller instead of Mulder.

I remember the day in 1945 when Joe visited the orphanage for the last time. That was when he told us he was having to go away. He said we might not see him for a long time but not to worry.

When we asked why, what had happened, he said something about soon turning sixteen and having problems finding work. It meant people like him sometime had to move far away.

We never saw him again.

  21 January 2015

The memory of that night outside the chip shop burns brighter than the memory of Pete’s funeral.  He was fifty-one, a confirmed bachelor.  He’d been lucky enough to find a job in the wireworks when the orphanage decided it was time he started looking after himself. That was where he worked the rest of his life. He was simply smoking a cigarette in the canteen when he fell off his chair with a massive heart attack. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Unfortunately, the similarity of the rituals around death, and their relative brevity, mean his funeral is now mixed and muddled in my mind with many others before and after.  Which songs were sung and who was attended has merged and blurred with numerous other almost identical dark suit and black tie occasions held at one crematorium or another.

Pete’s death left me, the surviving brother, as the last custodian of our family’s story.  That’s partly why I’ve been recording a diary on this little digital thing that clips on to the collar of my shirt or jacket.  

The problem, of course, is that I am now eighty-one, my wife Jessie is long dead from lung cancer, and my body is increasingly paralysed with multiple sclerosis. I can move a finger of my right hand, which is handy for the recorder, and my head still works. Otherwise I’m virtually incapable of doing anything for myself.  At least I have no children to burden with all these problems.  

 22 January 2015

Today Jake accompanied me in my wheelchair on a ‘walk’ all the way along Portobello Prom from King’s Road to Joppa.  A lot of new housing has been built and there are pubs and cafes where the old Marine Ballroom, Fun Fair, and Open Air Swimming Pool used to be.  For the first time in years I briefly wondered what Breskins, the little Dutch town I escaped from all those years ago, would look like nowadays.

Jake is my full-time carer.  He’s only twenty-six.  If he would shorten his shoulder length hair and shave a bit more regularly he could be a handsome young man and maybe even find a proper girlfriend at last.  He often wears a black T-Shirts.  One is emblazoned with the word ‘Ramones’.  I asked if they were a music group and he sheepishly admitted that they were, but all five members are long dead.  It’s the same check shirt over the T-Shirt and black jeans most days too, but at least he’s reliable.  And he copes with the dirty work without flinching. Occasionally, when he’s sick or on holiday, they send another carer to substitute. But mostly it’s just me and Jake.

Jake fancies himself as a man prepared to handle any emergency and I generally indulge this conceit.  He likes to have a penknife in his pocket and odd tools hanging from his belt. Sometimes there’s a set of spanners, a small screwdriver, or a torch hanging there.  But when a tap washer fails Jake’s immediate response is to phone a plumber.  And when the plug on the electric kettle was a problem I had to instruct him on the simple process of replacing the fuse.    

My own working career is long behind me.  With nowhere to go after the orphanage I joined the army. I’ve been a soldier, a clerk, a shop assistant, and a scrap dealer amongst other things.  I made a little bit of money before my body started to seize up altogether, but now I feel pointless.  Maybe my whole life has been pointless.  These days it’s fairly joyless and sometimes painful. I can still listen to the radio, watch TV, or read for short stints, but my social life is non-existent.  I feel I’m treading water and that my quality of my life has shrunk to very little. My condition means regular bouts of hospitalisation. I’m tired of being just another bed-blocker, just another old coffin dodger. In fact I think it’s time to call it a day.  

That Swiss place, Dignitas, was in the news again today. I briefly tried to broach the question of voluntary euthanasia with Jake. Unfortunately, his reaction was one of such shock and anger that I was immediately silenced.   We’d come almost the whole way back to King’s Road before Jake could bear to talk to me again in anything more than monosyllables. He mumbled something about the sanctity of human life and how he’d been brought up to believe only God had the right to take lives.

 22 January 2015

I settled in Scotland when I was very young and I’ve lived all my life here. I saw no reason to do anything else. There was nothing to take me back across the sea.

But now, after all these decades, I have decided to go home.  Back to Holland, where the radio tells me they understand about ‘unbearable suffering with no prospect of improvement’.

I’ve checked it all on the computer. I could equally choose Belgium, but I suppose the Netherlands has a little more meaning for me.  I made contact by email. And now the papers have all been drawn up, legally signed and delivered.  I’m determined.

I refused to let Jake try to talk me out of it today.  So in the end he very reluctantly agreed to be my travelling companion, to care for me on my last journey.

 23 January 2015

Jake is trying to avoid thinking about the purpose of the trip by filling his mind with detail.  He’s organising almost everything, all the preparations for travel – the heavy clothes and travel blankets, the medical equipment, the passport, the train tickets, food, money, and the electric wheelchair.  Only the payment for the treatment is left and fortunately I only need one finger to transfer the money from my online bank account. I’ll do that as soon as I’ve finished this entry.

I tried to talk to Jake about death, about beginnings and endings and how to give the whole thing meaning.  But he’s only a man doing a practical, physical job. He’s not a therapist.  The progressive eclipse of physical wellbeing isn’t something with which he’s yet had to concern himself. He thought I must be worrying about the afterlife, about whether I’d end up in heaven or hell.  He’s never had those dreams where life becomes more and more of an ordeal, where the Grim Reaper is always lurking around the next dark corner, where your body is already so useless and paralysed that you can’t turn back and run. All you can do is scream.

Epistemologically, I was actually more concerned with what justifies living. But I accepted that existential conundrums aren’t really Jake’s cup of tea. I suppose I can justify myself in economic terms.  I’ve earned a little capital. I can afford to shop, eat, get a haircut.  But then what?  Sleep, go to the toilet, switch on the radio or tv, just survive.  I can’t help anyone.  I need Jake to brush my teeth and shave me in the morning, to actually do the shopping and make the meals. Frankly, I’m no good for anything these days.

People generally do work that is ultimately aimed at helping other people survive, perhaps even live more comfortably than before, maybe even enjoy life.  So is the meaning of life just that life is for living and for helping others to do so too? Well, almost any animal could say the same.  How many animals would choose to live a few more years if they were cripplingly disabled by ill-health, a decrepit body just patched together and barely functioning? But only humans are allowed, sometimes at least, to make that choice.

And if that is the meaning of life, then how can death have any meaning?

 20 May 2015

Final confirmation arrived today.  The date and time are fixed.  I’m committed. All I have to do now is turn up.

Over the next few days I’ll check over my Last Will and Testament. There’s a few quid in there for Jake.

Then I’ll say my goodbyes to those few neighbours who still recognise me.

 23 June 2015

Since I’ll be dead in two days this will probably be my last diary entry.

The big black taxi arrived bang on time at six-thirty in the morning and I drove my heavy maroon wheelchair up the ramp into the rear compartment.  Jake sat in the front talking to the cabbie while I embarked on my trip to oblivion.  

At Waverley Station Jake guided me on board the London train.  Then I watched out the window as the coast and countryside sped past while the train hurtled south. It was a clear, cool day and by mid-morning the carriage was fully lit in sunshine.  I was distracted by back gardens stretching down to the tracks. They flashed by in bright reds, blues, and oranges, riots of summer colour.

Jake sat separately in the seats in front of the wheelchair space, reading newspapers and listening to music on his headphones.  As far as pop music is concerned his tastes are eclectic.  His headphones sometimes leak noises he calls hip-hop and sometimes I recognise old tunes from the nineteen sixties.  

I stopped asking exactly what he is listening to after he rather guiltily mentioned ‘Knocking on heaven’s door’ and ‘It’s alright Ma (I’m only bleeding)’ – titles not guaranteed to cheer me up. I remembered the line from that latter song that ‘he not busy being born is busy dying’. That seemed to simply transform life into a depressing drawn-out death.

My mind wandered back to thinking about whether life was purely random and accidental or might actually have some purpose and meaning.  And back to life not being just for human beings. Did all those dinosaurs, that lived on Earth far longer than human beings, have lives with meaning or purpose?  Or fruit flies that live only minutes?  Is mankind the only thing living massaging its ego with theories of purpose?

The train became busier and more crowded at each halt as it journeyed further south. A tall young lady in a light brown suede jacket and jeans, furiously flicking through messages on her mobile phone, charged on board at York, throwing a canvas backpack into the rack. She took off her jacket to reveal a pretty red and yellow striped crop top and bounced into the seat next to Jake, her short fair hair falling towards the little screen.

Jake abandoned the headphones and managed to strike up a conversation.  I had to wait until the train had almost pulled into King’s Cross and they were already best friends before Jake finally deigned to introduce me.  

“Arnie, this is Doutzen.  Doutzen, meet Arnold Miller, he’s the guy I’m looking after just now.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Her English was impeccable.  I would have liked to shake hands. But ‘Doutzen’?

“You’re Dutch?” I queried.

“Yes, I am. But I’m working in Yorkshire.”

“She’s heading back to some place called Middelburg to visit her parents.” put in Jake, “Prefers trains to boats and planes.  She’s catching the Eurostar to Brussels, same as us.”

So then the three of us made our way, me in the electric wheelchair driving a path through the mobbed, sticky, luggage strewn tunnel, into St Pancras International and the other two keeping up behind. But in my mind’s eye I was contemplating flat green fields next to white waves cresting on an open sea. It was that old place, Breskens, on the Westerschelde in Zeeland, where I was born, the town I’d fled from as a child. And from Breskens I knew it was only a short distance across the Scheldt to Vlissingen and Middelburg.

I twisted my head round towards Doutzen.

“Does the ferry still run between Vlissingen and Breskens?”

“Oh yes, for sure”, she replied.  “But only for walkers and cyclists now, since they opened the tunnel under the Scheldt nearly twenty years ago. You know the area?”

“I used to,” I said, and inwardly lamented that since arriving in Britain I’d neglected my Dutch so much that I could now only talk sensibly to this young Dutch woman in English. “I was there a long time ago.  Some interesting medieval buildings.”

She frowned.  “No, I don’t think so.  Very boring twentieth century architecture I’m afraid.  Nice modern harbour though.  Good place to visit for the Visserijfeesten.”

I think it must have been what they now euphemistically refer to as a ‘senior moment’.  For, of course, I’d heard about it fifty years ago. My memory was playing tricks. The Allied carpet bombing in 1944. My old home town utterly destroyed, another reason it had never seemed worth returning.  The town was resurrected in brick and concrete in the fifties.

“Visserijf…?” Jake queried.

“The famous Fishing Festival,” she supplied. “It’ll be happening over the next few days.”

In St Pancras we boarded the Eurostar for Brussels. Near the wheelchair space there were several empty seats so Doutzen abandoned the one she’d booked and sat beside us, which pleased Jake immensely.  I fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of sun shining on the green polder, and only opening my eyes as the train juddered, braking as it pulled into Brussels-Midi.  

Before I was fully awake Jake was helping me to drive the electric chair out towards the low platform and he whispered confidentially “Doutzen has invited me over to her parents’ house for a visit if I can find the time.” A few moments later Doutzen’s eyes were glistening, smiling down at me.  I thought sympathetically, but maybe it was in hope.

Once we’d arranged ourselves on the platform she said “I think we go our separate ways now Mr Miller. Maybe I’ll see you next time in York.  Have a lovely time. Goodbye.”

She swung her canvas backpack over her shoulder, gave a little wave, and strode off towards the platform designated for the IC train to Middelburg.

Jake’s eyes followed her. As the crowds absorbed her his chin dropped to his chest. He turned to me glumly, a picture of thwarted hopes and despondency.

“What did you tell her I was doing here?” I asked.

“I said I was looking after you while you had a little holiday.”

“Holiday?  A rather long holiday from life, I suppose.  But it would have taken a very hard man not to have had some sympathy for Jake. I wasn’t that man.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t really care.  If you feel she’s that important go after her.”

“But your appointment …”

“Oh well, the best laid plans…I’m sure I’ll be able to reorganise it for another day.  It just goes to show that dying is always an uncertain business, even when it’s euthanasia. I still have some money. If you like we can go on and find a hotel in Middelburg for a day or two.”

Jake straightened up and his eyes beamed as if someone had just switched on his electricity.  “Stay right here,” he said, “and look after the luggage. I won’t be long.”  And he ran off down the platform with a long loping stride that I could only lay back and admire.

A few minutes later he was back, his arm entwined in Doutzen’s and both giggling merrily.  Having established my agreement to the change of plans Doutzen led the way towards the train for Middelburg.

For the hour or two on the train Jake and Doutzen sat squashed together and talked intently.

Arriving in Middelburg Doutzen was able to recommend the lovely Van der Valk Hotel which catered perfectly for the wheelchair-bound and fortunately had rooms available.  I booked two adjoining rooms for me and Jake and checked carefully on what assistance the hotel staff would be able to offer me, knowing I shouldn’t expect to rely so heavily on Jake for the next day or two.

Once settled in I phoned the Clinic, just in time before they closed, to re-arrange the date.  They weren’t particularly reassuring.  The administration implied I was backing out at the last minute and that was by no means their first experience of someone having come so near only to mentally remain so far away, phoning at the last minute to cancel.  Their tone wasn’t at all helpful, focused on emphasising that payments already made could not be reimbursed.  They said they’d look at possible alternative dates and rang off saying they’d get back to me.

 24 June 2015

It looks like I’ll be keeping my diary for at least another day or two.

This morning I encouraged Jake – and he didn’t need much encouragement – to accept Doutzen’s invitation to spend the day with her.  To give him credit he did say he’d stay if I didn’t think the hotel staff would be able to cope.  Feeding someone and taking them to the toilet isn’t something many hotels can handle properly.  But the hotel staff were keen to try it and in the end they looked after me well.  

All the same it did become a little boring driving my electric wheelchair round the hotel’s small garden, stopping occasionally to admire flowers or watch the changing cloud formations.  I did have plenty of time, of course, to update my diary.

No-one called from the Clinic.

 25 June 2015

This morning Jake said that Dot – apparently he now had a pet name for Doutzen - was grateful to me for helping them to have time together yesterday, but she felt guilty about me being excluded.  

Soon after breakfast Doutzen herself turned up at the hotel wearing a short denim skirt and a jolly pink top under her suede jacket.  She had driven over in her father’s car.  Jake greeted her as if they’d been parted for months.

“Let’s all go on a trip,” she suggested. “I can drive the three of us the short distance to Vlissingen, the neighbouring town. Then, rather than driving through the tunnel, we could take the little scenic ferry trip over to the Fish Festival in Breskens.”

I agreed enthusiastically before remembering. “But my electric chair – it would be too big and heavy for a car.”

She’d already thought of it.  “My father’s car is a nice big estate car.  With the back seats lowered, and with its low stowage floor, the electric chair still might not be possible but it can certainly accommodate an ordinary wheelchair, and the seat belts will work to hold it firmly in place.”

“Well…,” I hesitated.

“The hotel is happy to lend us one of their light manual wheelchairs.”

I succumbed.  A little sea air and a visit to my old home town was a much better prospect than moping around the hotel driving the electric wheelchair, worrying about fixing an alternative date to die.

Everything worked out just as Doutzen had planned.  We reached he harbour and Jake put a woolly hat on my head and wrapped blankets round me. A light wind was blowing white clouds across the sky and the salty sea air was bracing. I sniffed the ozone as Jake pushed me on to the little ferry.

The ferry was carrying maybe twenty or thirty passengers as it bounced across the waves. White gulls spun sqawking overhead in the blue-grey sky while Jake and Doutzen sat cosily together on a bench fixed to the deck in the unroofed open area. When sea spray reached them they cuddled closer together.  My wheelchair was parked in the small enclosed passengers’ cabin.

Very soon the smell of fish hit us as we entered a comparatively large harbour that I’d never seen before.

“The new harbour was built for the fishing fleet.  But then the fishing industry died,” Doutzen informed me. “But they kept on with the fish festival.”

Indeed, there were very few boats in the harbour, just one or two small ones creaking at their moorings as our bow wave hit them.  But the quayside was full. All along the shore there were people crowding around little stalls with either orange, or striped red and white or blue and white awnings. Once ashore the air was full of a guttural hum, crowds of people conversing happily in Dutch.  And there was the strong smell of fish and chips frying.   Groups of family and friends were gathered together and stood chatting and laughing, their fingers dipping into paper cones of chips and mayonnaise. Childhood memories of my brother Joe resurfaced with a vengeance.  

We mixed with the festival throng, wandering round the stalls and displays. Besides fish and chips, some stalls sold bottled beer and others pieces of domestic craft work - needlework, pottery, home-made greeting cards . We ate fish and chips with relish – Jake and Doutzen putting a paper cone on the blanket over my knees and feeding me with chips and pieces of fish using plastic forks. We looked at the various display boards planted between the stalls. The Dutch texts were beyond me but the photos of the town, mainly black and white, taken over the last hundred years or so, were fascinating.  When I wanted more explanation Doutzen was always ready to translate the texts and sometimes add more detail to the information boards provided.  There was an old post-war photo of people queuing for food handouts.  One of the grainy figures in the queue reminded me a lot of Joe and the memories flooded back.

We were just thinking it might be time to be leaving when suddenly, there, straight in front of me, stood Joe himself. He was exactly as he’d looked the last time he’d visited us in the orphanage; the way he held himself, grinning under a shock of bronze hair, one leg casually twisted behind the other. He was maybe sixteen years old.

Jake noticed the shock that registered on my face. He asked with some concern “Are you feeling ok Arnie?  Your face has just gone white as a sheet, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It took me a few moments to remember that if Joe was alive today he would have to look even older than me.  But the likeness was uncanny.

I explained the reason for my surprise. To set my mind at rest Jake drew Doutzen towards him and they approached the boy to apologise for the fact that I’d been staring at him.  Doutzen explained it was just that he looked very like someone I’d known.

I was tense. “Ask him his name” I shouted, somewhat over-aggressively.

“My name is Joran Djikstra,” the boy called back, defensively but in perfect English.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be bad mannered and offensive; it’s just that… well, your grandfathers’ names then?  It would settle a troubling question in my mind if you would tell me.”

The boy hesitated. Doutzen spoke to him quietly in Dutch, no doubt reassuring him that I was just an old man and it would do no harm to humour me.

The boy walked over to me, leaned down and spoke carefully. It was as if I was a small six year old again with Johan towering over me.

“Arjen Djikstra, that’s my grandfather on my father’s side. My mother’s father was Johan Mulder.”

I could hardly take it in. I was flabbergasted.  But I had to face the unpalatable truth.  I suppose the reason was obvious, though it had never occurred to me before. Joe, feeling himself an adult at sixteen, had surely found some way of returning to Holland in 1945.  He’d left his two eleven year old brothers in the safe care of the orphanage.  I suppose he didn’t know what he’d find back in Holland and didn’t want to put us in danger.

Jake had also picked up on the name the boy mentioned and leaned into my other ear.  “ ‘Mulder’?  Did you not tell me once that was your real name Arnie?  Some kind of relation maybe?”

“I’m fairly sure this boy is my great nephew,” I agreed in a whisper, and Jake puffed out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows in a performance of mock astonishment.

“Oh, really?” he said disbelievingly.

Turning back to the boy I had to bite my tongue to avoid calling him by my elder brother’s name. “Joran, this may seem a little bizarre but I think we may be related. Could I possibly speak to your mother or father to check this is possible and I’m not just fantasising?”

And so, following Joran, we weaved through the crowds to a stall whose awning was a giant red, white and blue striped Dutch flag. This canvas sheltered a number of chairs grouped roughly round half a dozen small tables. While we watched and waited, Joran moved between the tables and stopped at one where a group of men were in conversation, glasses of beer and paper plates piled high with chips in front of them. He spoke to a middle-aged man in a brown leather jacket over blue overalls. The man’s smiling face became a frown of concentration.  Eventually he rose, a little usteadily, excusing himself from the company, and followed Joran over to where I was waiting. As he approached I could see his eyelids were drooping over slightly glazed eyes.  Clearly he’d been having a very good time.

The man’s English was passable but not nearly as fluent as his son’s.

“Hello. My name Rutjer Djikstra.”  He held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you Rutjer.  I’m Arnold Miller.  I used to be called Armin Mulder.  I’m afraid I’m not able to shake hands - I would if I could.  Jake and Doutzen here,” – I nodded in their direction – “are my, er, friends.  Your son mentioned his grandfather, Johan Mulder.  I wondered if you knew much about him?”

“Ja, ja, for sure.  Johan is born here.  Lived all the time here.  Little farm, sheep, outside town, near the polder.  Hard struggle young boy on his own.  No vader or moeder to guide him.  Married Alexia. All died now though.  Their daughter, Beatrix, my wife.”

I was shocked at how much the news of Joe’s death affected me. After all these years it was still a blow. I couldn’t stop a tear falling.

I managed to ask, “Did he ever say anything about the war?”

“Ja, ja, one of the lucky young boys.  Escaped to England with brothers.  Had fine time.  Was angry with England about months in Jeugdgevangenis, - how you say it – borstal, - for stealing things – food, shoes, toys for brothers. Kwam terug naar huis, - how is it, - came back home, - came home on  vissersboot, after Nazis gone.”

“Fishing boat,” Joran interjected.

“Ja, on a fishing boat.

“So he stole things to try and help his brothers and as a result ended up spending time in a young offenders institution. Did he ever say what happened to his brothers?”

“Talked sometimes, de jongens, Pieter and Armin.  House they were staying closed down.  Once, twice tried to trace Mulders in England, but never with luck.

There were more tears in my eye as I admitted, “My God, so it looks like we were lost to each other just because in Edinburgh we had no idea where Johan had  gone, and in Breskins he couldn’t trace us because he didn’t know they’d changed our official name to Miller. And having a police record he wouldn’t be welcome back in the UK to look for us.”

By the time we’d all had a drink together, told each other our stories, worked out my relationship to family survivors, and eaten our last portions of chips, it was getting quite late.  Rutjer insisted I should come another day and meet Beatrix, who had been at the fair earlier but had gone home early. That was when Doutzen realized with a start that the last ferry back across the estuary had already sailed.

“We’ll have to hire a taxi to Vissingen,” she insisted.

But Rutjer interrupted our deliberations.  “Nee, nee,” he said “cost a lot. Too much money.  I have small boat.  No used much now.  So no problem.  Must help my new familie, er, relative, eh?  Too tired myself now but Joran ferry you over quick and bring boat back.”

Joran looked simultaneously proud and surprised at his father’s suggestion.

We didn’t like to refuse Rutjers’ generous hospitality so we said our farewells and followed Joran towards a concrete ramp which ran down into the harbour. It was no doubt intended for vehicles to bring in or tow away boats on trailers. It made for an easy approach by wheelchair.

Darkness was falling as Joran stopped beside a small launch tied up to a capstan on the quayside. It rocked, squeaking quietly against a couple of old tyres slung over its side as a bulwark against the stone harbour wall. Little more than a large rowing boat it had a sentry box wheelhouse and decking that only covered the forward section around the wheelhouse and a square section at the stern. Its white paint was peeling, its varnished brown woodwork starting to rot. Thin metal posts linked by a rusting chain guarded the port and starboard.  To facilitate fishing there was no fence along the square ended stern. There were pools of water sloshing around above the wooden hull in the hollow between the decked areas.  The boat put me in mind of my work in the scrapyard many years ago.

Jake and Joran lifted me, still in the hotel’s manual wheelchair, on to the little half deck at the stern, Jake making sure the wheelchair’s brake was on. I sat facing the wheelhouse. Jake helped Doutzen step aboard carefully and they held hands leaning on the wheelhouse. Then Joran jumped on, slipping past them into the tiny sentry box. We waited expectantly as Joran turned the key. After several attempts a small engine wheezed into life, putt-putting erratically.

Jake exchanged a wary look with Doutzen and me. Doutzen was clearly dubious about the boat’s seaworthiness, her forehead wrinkling into a worried expression. But Jake held her hand, reassuring her with a hug.  And anyway, the lights of Vissingen seemed hardly any distance away at all.

“Are you sure you’re ok there,” Jake asked me, pulling the woolly hat down over my head. “You’ll be very exposed if a wind gets up or it starts to rain.”  

I shook my head and smiled, poo-pooing Jake’s fussiness and dismissing any concerns he and his girlfriend might have about me.  I wanted to show trust in my great nephew just as I’d trusted his grandfather all those years ago.

“Don’t worry Jake,” I said. “I’ll be fine.  And if anything happens it’ll be my own fault.”

Instead of worrying about cold or rain, I decided that as I’d be parked by myself on the stern deck for a while, I might as well pass the time updating my diary.

“This boat reminds me of one in which I once crossed the North Sea,” I said in a loud forced tone of confidence so that Joran could hear me.  He turned his shock of bronze hair back towards me and smiled appreciatively.

Doutzen was still apologising for forgetting to check the return ferry timetable when we were already halfway across the estuary.  An easterly wind had got up and the engine was so weak that it seemed we were being pushed more out to sea than straight across the estuary.

“Certainly my mistake as much as yours Dot,” a conciliatory Jake was saying when the engine suddenly emitted a low sigh and cut out.  We were left bumping up and down on the waves.  

The silence on the boat was deafening.  The moon’s face seemed to be laughing at us. Doutzen stared down at the water gradually swelling in the foot of the boat.  Jake’s eye was on the moving coastline, watching as the tide coming in swelled as it ran up against the strong flow of fresh water flowing from the Scheldt. The little boat was drifting, the river water combining with the wind to force it quickly further out into open sea.

Lines of anxiety spread rapidly across Joran’s young forehead, but he didn’t panic. Like Joe he was prepared to confront the challenges life threw at him.

“Does anyone know about engines?” he asked, but unfortunately drew a blank in response.  Then he tentatively suggested that we might try bailing out the water.  But Jake and Doutzen had nothing with which to do that except cupped hands, and that proved wholly ineffectual. As the boat started sinking lower in the water, panic showed in Doutzen’s widening eyes.

“I can’t swim,” she repeated several times, her voice rising as it strained to suppress a growing hysteria.  

“Me neither,” Jake added disconsolately, drawing Doutzen closer to him, and trying to comfort her with soothing words.

Joran dropped his head guiltily. “Old fishing communities – very superstitious people – they see learning to swim as tempting fate – so I was never taught either.”  

I became very aware that safety equipment on the dilapidated and seldom used boat was non-existent. There was no short-wave radio of course, but neither were there any lifebelts or flares on board. If the boat went down we’d all drown.

Joran and Doutzen scrambled for their mobile phones.  But it soon became obvious that on the open sea reception was faint and garbled to the point of non-existence.

Jake rummaged around in his pockets and eventually retrieved a small torch that hung from his belt.  But no-one knew the morse code for S.O.S.  Instead, he and Jorin took turns simply waving the tiny beam of light out towards the big commercial harbour at Vissingen that we were increasingly drifting further away from.

“I’m sure it’ll attract someone’s attention ,” Jake said, rather desperately hoping someone ashore would want to investigate our situation.  

The water was still rising.  Jake stepped into the bottom of the boat to check and was stunned to find himself soaked well above the knees.  He looked towards me, his face drawn, and though he said nothing I could see the fear in his eyes.

“Soon the water will fill the boat,” Doutzen almost screamed.  Jake pulled himself out of the water and, shivering, held her tight.

The situation was genuinely terrifying and, like the others, I struggled to stay calm in this crisis.  

But for all that, I was still capable of enough clear thinking to recognise that the boat’s buoyancy would be greatly helped by reducing the weight of its cargo. Unfortunately, the only cargo was the four people on board.  I understood my own body weight, together with that of the wheelchair and blankets, was exacerbating the problem. I couldn’t bear the thought of me being the cause of Joe’s grandson drowning, of me bringing such grief to Beatrix, his mother and Joe’s daughter. I hated to be the cause of Doutzen and Jake being so ruthlessly torn apart so soon after finding each other.

Just as wholesale hysteria was about to consume us Jorun spotted a set of red lights flickering into life in the fast disappearing Vissingen harbour.  

“A rescue boat,” shouted Joran with desperate relief. “The coast guard has seen us.”

“Yes, they’ve picked up the torchlight at last,” Jake said, exhaling heavily.

“But the boat is sinking so fast. Water will soon be lapping over the sides,” howled Doutzen, splashed her legs around in the ever-deepening water. Jake held her tightly but words could no longer assuage Doutzen’s terror.

“How long do you think it will take for the lifeboat to reach us,” I asked Joran urgently.

“From Vissingen to where we are now, maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

“The boat will have sunk long before that,” wailed Doutzen.

She was right. At the rate the water was rising I calculated it would only be ten minutes before the boat went down, leaving us all floundering around in the freezing water.  The only chance of staying afloat longer was less weight.  I estimated that removing me and my wheelchair would provide at least the extra ten minutes needed until the rescue boat arrived. And I was here to die anyway.  It seemed my life, my death, suddenly had purpose and meaning after all. Maybe this had always been the reason for my existence.

I nudged my arm with my chin and let it fall to the side of the chair next to the brake lever.  With my one working finger I pulled on it as hard as I could and breathed a sigh of relief as the brake lever released.  

As the small boat’s bow rose up over the next wave, Jake, Doutzen, and Joran were all staring with desperate anxiety towards the flashing red lights which had now moved away from the shore. Doutzen clung to Jake, hoping against hope that his little torch might save the day, that the lifeboat might reach them before they drowned.

There was still a lovely smell of fish and chips that lingered on the blanket over my knees where my last meal had lain.  I stole a last loving glance at Joe/Jorin and made a silent wish for Jake’s future happiness with Doutzen.

 And they say dead men tell no tales.  But if you’re listening to this it’s only because I managed to use my chin to knock the audio recorder off my coat collar so that it dropped on to the deck just as my wheelchair rolled backwards in response to a lifting the bow and leaving the stern pointing downwards.

The wheelchair would have run backwards quickly across the small section of stern decking, fast enough so that it tipped over when it hit the boat’s rim. With no guard rail to stop it, me and the wheelchair would have been dumped with a small splash into the North Sea.

So I suppose I must now be back in my natural home, lost somewhere between Holland and Britain. But even sinking to the sea floor I would have been thinking of having finally served my purpose in life and death. I’ll probably be arriving at the bottom before anyone even notices I’m gone.

[albinohare]

Woman on a mission: what drives Dee Caffari? How the pioneering sailor went from PE teacher to Volvo skipper

For Dee Caffari, skippering a Volvo Ocean Race Team has been the culmination of an extraordinary career (so far!). So why doesn’t she feel like she’s made it yet? Helen Fretter talked to Dee on her round the world adventure to find out.

Leg 4, Melbourne to Hong Kong, Day 12 onboard Turn the Tide on Plastic. A candid moment where I caught Dee Caffari staring out the hatch. What is she thinking? Photo by Brian Carlin/Volvo Ocean Race. 13 January, 2018.

Dee Caffari puts most of us to shame. She turned up in the cliquey world of offshore racing in her mid-twenties without a reputation built on years of Figaro or Mini Transat racing, no childhood spent dinghy sailing, no private backer, no technical advantage. No leg-up at all, in fact. And yet she was the only skipper in this year’s Volvo Ocean Race who has also completed a Vendée Globe. She has achieved so much.

Dee is a big believer that anybody can do the same. That can be a little confronting, leaving those of us who haven’t realised such dreams feeling a bit like a failure. For the pros who spent a lifetime racing off Brittany or the IJsselmeer it must be disconcerting to have someone who did a fast-track Yachtmaster course line up next to you on the skipper’s rostrum.

Perhaps because of that the armchair critics have not always been kind. Some questioned her lack of podium results, but in offshore racing a huge achievement lies in getting to the start – and an even greater one in getting to the finish. And that is what Caffari does – she gets around (the Volvo Ocean Race was her sixth lap of the planet). 

Actually, looking back at her 2008 Vendée Globe what stands out is how she finished just five hours after Brian Thompson (who, with a Jules Verne title, nobody could accuse of not being performance driven).

Leg 8 from Itajai to Newport, day 9 on board Turn the Tide on Plastic. 30 April, 2018. Skipper Dee Caffari.

She has just completed the Volvo Ocean Race skippering Turn the Tide on Plastic. It is the second time she has led a crew around the world, and it is, in many ways, the perfect job for Caffari. It is also not a role many others would have taken on. But this is a woman who set off on her solo round the world record attempt in 2005, against the prevailing winds and currents, having never actually sailed single-handed before. Caffari is not easily daunted.

How did she work her way from being a newbie Yachtmaster to having one of the most complete and accomplished CVs of any offshore sailor?

“I’m stubborn and bloody-minded, and wasn’t going to take no for an answer,” she muses. “It’s about building connections and networks, and taking opportunities as they arise, and I’ve been very fortunate to be in the right place to do that. I’ve also had to be a bit more resilient than most.” 

“She makes smart decisions, and she’s prepared to put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into making it happen,” observes Brian Thompson, who also raced with Caffari in the 2009 Transat Jacques Vabre, and navigated on Turn the Tide on Plastic. “She’s not afraid to have a big goal and work really hard to get to it.”

She may have come into the sport late, but her first job gave her a rich seam of connections. Starting out at Mike Golding Ocean Racing as a nipper on his corporate sailing programme, she joined a team that included Graham ‘Gringo’ Tourell, who was boat captain for Dongfeng, Jonny Malbon, as well as Golding himself. For a rookie it was the perfect teaching ground.

Dee (Denise) Caffari aged 6 in 1979 aboard her father’s motor yacht the Jolly Rotter en route to Holland.

Allie Smith, who recruited Caffari straight from her UKSA Yachtmaster course, recalls: “Every step of the way she learnt from the best. So she learnt how to sail a Challenge 67 yacht from Mike [Golding]. And then when she got her Open 60, who did she turn to to tune the boat up and learn from? Mike again.”

Dee’s approach was to learn, and work, and then learn some more. “Dee would always ask questions,” says Smith. “‘Why are you doing that?’, ‘Why are you doing it that way?’”

Golding recalls: “When she was made skipper of the 67 she literally spent three days just parking the boat in Ocean Village, going into all the horrible difficult spaces.”

“Whenever she was given a task, with each successive job, she was thrown straight into it in the deep end. And each time she rose to the challenge and did it really well.”

But going straight from the classroom to a top-level campaign meant she had to hold her own.

“I used to be able to get her into tears pretty easily,” recalls Golding. “I think she was quite highly strung then. Not intentionally, but neither was I going to let things go by just because she was a girl.”

Emotions run high

When Caffari later announced she was going to skipper a team in the Global Challenge (the pay-to-sail, westbound round the world race sailed by crews of 18 amateur sailors with a professional skipper), Golding was concerned that Caffari was too sensitive. “My fear was that Challenge crew can wither you! They are very intelligent people who’ve made money and time to do the race, they’re used to being the boss, and they can cut you to ribbons.

“So I said: I fear you’re going to have to harden up. And she obviously did, because she had to.”

Briefing her Global Challenge team

When she skippered Imagine it. Done in the 2004 Global Challenge Caffari not only survived some challenging crew politics, but gained respect for how she handled a potentially life-threatening situation on board when one of her crew developed severe internal injuries. 

Golding said he noticed a huge change in her on her return. “I think that emotional side had gone for her, she had a confidence that wasn’t there prior to the Challenge.”

But the ebullient Caffari we are used to wasn’t always so positive. After the Challenge, she rolled straight into a solo west-about round the world record, an experience she describes as ‘an emotional rollercoaster’. So, in preparation for the Vendée Globe two years later she worked with a sports psychologist.

“That was probably the biggest growth in my sailing I ever had, learning how to manage me,” she says.

“I used to easily say what I didn’t want to happen: I didn’t want to let people down, I didn’t want to come last. But I would struggle to say what I did want to happen. 

“I learnt that I had to practice positive language, and completely turn that on its head.

“Even now, my default setting when I’m stressed is I can feel myself going back to the negative. I have to have a word with myself and change my language again. And as a result I’m much more positive.” 

Timing is everything

That positivity has been thoroughly tested in the Volvo Ocean Race. The Turn the Tide on Plastic team was a late entry put together by Volvo, the UN Clean Seas campaign and Mirpuri Foundation. It has been stunningly timely – as the race ramped up the plastic oceans issue became a hot topic globally, giving Caffari the kind of platform that commercially backed teams could only dream of. 

It was also timely for Caffari, who told me in Alicante how before Tide came her way she had been throwing herself – unsuccessfully – at other teams trying to get a trial for this edition of the race. 

The opportunity to skipper a campaign was huge, but daunting. The project came with unique challenges – stipulations that six crew should be under-30, at least one Portuguese. The budget and timeframe meant there was little warm up, sailors needed to be fit and ready to go, but many of the youngsters had almost zero ocean racing experience before they set off. 

Performance analysis was rudimentary compared to some teams. In Cape Town we chatted about how teams had been analysing the onboard footage during the Atlantic leg and she was intrigued that some had allocated resources purely to that. “We’re still going “’Oh, that’s a nice picture!’ We are just so not on that level,” she joked. 

So it has been a surprise to many just how close Turn the Tide has run some of their competitors. For much of the first Lisbon to Alicante leg they were neck and neck with Brunel – so when Brunel complained of rudder issues Turn the Tide watch captain Liz Wardley forthrightly told me she felt it was patronising, and suggested that Tide’s performance out of the blocks had rattled some of the Volvo stalwarts.

The team continued improving: on the final approach into Auckland Turn the Tide on Plastic was in front. They clung to the top three until the final 20 miles, when Mapfre and Dongfeng relentlessly hunted them down the North Island’s coast. Turn the Tide eventually finished 5th and even Dee seemed lost for words. 

On the northward Atlantic leg Turn the Tide sailed near-faultlessly, in the front half of the pack for the entire leg and enjoying several days in pole position. Two days away from the finish they again seemed set for a podium finish, but it would be a three-way fight. 

An onboard video shows Caffari explaining the situation on deck; she’s met with nervous silence. “Come on, yes Dee!” she rallies them. Clearly the crew wanted to believe the podium is still in grasp, but had been denied it too many times. They were denied it again, as the light winds and fog of Newport rolled Turn the Tide back to sixth.

She commented in a post-leg interview. “Yet again I’m stood here saying for the fourth leg running, ‘They didn’t get the result they deserve’. So I’m kind of stuck as a skipper on how to pick them up and get going for the next leg, but that’s what I’ve got to do.”

Rallying the troops is something Caffari is good at, and she’s often praised for her people management skills – even if at the beginning of the race she wasn’t entirely confident in her, abilities. “I [do enjoy it] although I think I’m not very good at it,” she told me before the start in Alicante. “I get stressed by it. I don’t want to get it wrong.”

She talks about her crew with more of a sense of responsibility than the other Volvo skippers; part mother hen, part enthusiastic school sports coach. Her management style is based on nurturing strengths.

“I’m not very much a dictator,” she observes. “I don’t tell them all what to do. I go OK, this area is yours. Are you OK? Do you need any help?” 

Leg 10 from Cardiff to Gothenburg.

So good at empowering her team is Caffari, that she revealed in Cape Town she felt almost redundant at times. “I kind of feel like I’m second to [the navigator] and then I go on deck and Martin [Strømberg] is running his watch and Liz is running her watch and I don’t really fit in there, so you end up being quite isolated. And as a leader you generally are. It’s lonely at the top.”

Thompson explained they later restructured so Caffari also ran a watch, a move Caffari said she hoped “might restore my confidence a bit!”

Despite the billboards plastered around Volvo Race villages with her name and face on, Caffari is instinctively modest. She admits that for much of her racing career she compared herself to sailors with entirely different backgrounds. “Even now, when you’re in an environment where you have Olympians or America’s Cup sailors, you’re like ‘Oh, what have I done?’ And actually, there’s a bit of a reality check, that in fact I’ve done quite a lot.”

But as the race was drawing towards a close, Caffari was taking stock. “I think if I was honest with this campaign, there isn’t another skipper that could do what I’ve done with the team I’ve had and the timescale and budget I’ve got. 

“But I want to show how close the racing’s been with a result as well. I do believe what we’re doing is right, but my concern is if you look at the scoreboard we look no different to Team SCA, yet how we’re racing and how this campaign is going is so much better.

“The team deserve it, and I think we’re probably the one team where every other team would be happy if we got that result.” 

She’s right – after the Auckland and Newport finishes, rival skippers like Charles Caudrelier commented on how cruel the result had been for Turn the Tide. It says a lot about the respect and goodwill Dee and her team have earned. With three legs to go, Caffari remained as determined as ever.

“I don’t want the sympathy vote, I want to justify it on the water.”

Postscript: After this article was published in the July issue of Yachting World magazine, Turn the Tide on Plastic finished Legs 10 and 11 of the Volvo Ocean Race in 5th place, their best results of the race. This left the team tied in 6th place overall with Team Sun Hung Kai Scallywag.

In order to break the tie, Caffari’s team had to beat Scallywag in the in-port series, which meant not only finishing ahead of the Hong Kong team in the final in-port race in The Hague, but finishing with at least one boat in between them to give them a two point advantage. In the final in-port race Turn the Tide on Plastic were 4th, ahead of MAPFRE and Vestas 11th Hour Racing, with Scallywag in 7th. This gave Caffari and team 6th overall in the in-port series and overall Volvo Ocean Race.

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Surviving the OSTAR's perfect storm the full story of the racers rescued in Force 11 summer gale

Just seven of 21 starters finished this year's OSTAR/TWOSTAR shorthanded transatlantic race after a violent storm in June left four skippers in need of rescue and forcing others to retire.

Thor Magni rescue of Furia. Credit Atlantic Joint Task Force

Solo sailor Mervyn Wheatley set out from Plymouth for Newport, Rhode Island on 29 May this year with stirring tunes belting out from his beloved Tamarind, the Formosa 42 that he had owned for nearly two decades. This was to be the 73-year-old's fifth OSTAR, and a 19th transatlantic for the former Royal Marine and Clipper Round the World Race skipper.

Eleven days later he was preparing to scuttle the yacht that he described as like another limb, and step aboard the Queen Mary 2 luxury liner after a 70-knot storm rolled Tamarind, battered the 21-boat OSTAR and TWOSTAR fleet, and set in motion a huge multinational rescue effort across the North Atlantic.

On the morning of 9 June a plunging low pressure system swept across the fleet, reading 964mb at its centre lower than the fatal Fastnet storm of 1979 with winds of 60-70 knots and 15m confused North Atlantic seas.

Established in 1960, eight years earlier than the Golden Globe Race, the OSTAR was the first ever solo yacht race a controversial idea when Blondie Hasler proposed it, racing against the prevailing westerlies. Organised by the Royal Western Yacht Club, the race retains a distinctly Corinthian spirit.

Many skippers are vastly experienced (Wheatley has five Round Britain & Ireland and seven Azores and Back Races to his name), but this event is a world away from professional ocean racing. This year run in conjunction with the double-handed TWOSTAR, 21 competitors of 11 nationalities took part in yachts varying from a 35ft three-quarter tonner to an old Open 60.

Race director John Lewis comments: The natural pattern of things for the OSTAR is a series of low pressure systems coming over from Newfoundland. The forecast was going to be westerlies, and these guys expect that: it's wind on the nose for 3,000 miles normally. But we've never encountered such an intense storm at this time of year. They called it a winter north'easter in Canada.

The 2017 edition began with a week of mild winds for most competitors. I couldn't believe it was as benign as it was, and we were going well, recalls Wheatley. Most of the time the VMG was looking pretty good. It was as good an OSTAR as I've had, up until then.

Wheatley recalls that in the 24 hours before the storm the wind had built steadily, from a Force 5, to 6, then 8. He received a message via satphone from a friend with a weather synopsis but, thinking it was simply a well-meaning gesture, didn't review it in detail.

I was being a bit thick really, he remembers. I should have thought 'I wonder why he's suddenly decided to send me this synopsis?'. But I just thought he was being a nice chap.

Instead, he prepared the yacht for a heavy, but not especially severe night, and turned in. By 2100-2200 I'd handed all the sails, because by then it was gusting Force 9. Then I ran the engine to charge the batteries and went to bed.

Secure in his bunk and unaware of the building storm outside, Wheatley was woken as Tamarind suffered a sudden and dramatic knockdown.

I have no idea how far down we went. For sure the mast was well below the water, he recalls.

A floorboard punched a hole in the saloon window, while the rest of the boat was awash with food, floorboards and kit. Realising he had no power, Wheatley set about pumping out the yacht manually.

It took me a little over three hours to get the water out of the boat, he recalls. Then I went up to the cockpit and discovered that the EPIRB had been ripped out of its bracket, and had ended up at the back of the cockpit.

At this stage it hadn't even occurred to me to activate the EPIRB, but it was apparent that it had been transmitting for probably four hours.

Initially Wheatley tried to turn the EPIRB off, to no avail. Further examination revealed that the wind vane had been damaged, and a hefty steel bar connecting the steering gear was cracked. As he assessed the damage, an aircraft flew overhead, and the reality of his situation hit.

It was Royal Canadian Airforce C-130. The Hercules. I called him up, and he came back, and I couldn't speak. I was very taken aback. I was just suddenly hit by this sort of emotional wave, he recalls.

Mervyn Wheatley aboard Tamarind at the start of the 2017 OSTAR.

Rescue of Tamarind by QM2.Photo Dave Ashby

Rescue of Tamarind by QM2. Photo Dave Ashby

Mervyn Wheatley rescue from QM2. Photo by QM2 staff

International rescue in the North Atlantic

In fact the Hercules was just part of a major rescue effort swinging into action, coordinated by the Joint Task Force in Halifax, in conjunction with rescue authorities in Falmouth, Portugal and elsewhere in the US.

The crew of Jeanneau Sun Fast 37 Happy activated their rescue beacon three hours later, some 170 miles north, by which time the Joint Task Force had broadcast a request for any private or commercial vessels which might be able to assist.

The following morning the Bulgarian crew of the Luffe 37 Furia, Mihail Kopanov and Dian Zaykov, also activated their EPIRB, escalating the scope of the rescue. Furia was within range of a rescue helicopter, while first on scene was an oil and gas supply vessel, the Thor Magni, and a fishing survey plane.

Italian solo sailor Michelle Zambelli on Illumia 12 sent out a distress call on 11 June, some 315 miles off Newfoundland after suffering keel problems following a suspected collision. A Cormorant helicopter was sent, refuelling en route on an oil platform, and Zambelli was able to board his liferaft and drift clear of Illumia 12 before being rescued by the Canadian Air Force helicopter diver.

Between the Furia and the Tamarind we were looking at a little over 700 nautical miles, explains Canadian Royal Air Force's Captain Marc Saucier, aeronautical coordinator for the rescue. Aircraft took off in relay to ensure each yacht had a plane overhead, with multiple flight crews rotating in after 13-hour shifts.

Circling high above Tamarind, the Canadian Hercules pilot tried to drop several spare VHF radios on a long line to Wheatley, but all missed. The first Hercules was replaced by a Portuguese aircraft, then another Canadian one, before a carrier ship arrived on scene at around midnight. However, it quickly became clear to Wheatley that the cargo vessel might not be his saviour.

I called him up and he said 'How would you like to get on board my ship?'. Which was not really the question I wanted to hear. It was a bulk carrier. It became apparent he had no climbing nets, there was no sign of a ladder, and there was certainly no plan about how to get me aboard.

He actually came very close. It was a good bit of seamanship because it was still blowing quite hard, and he came within about 30m, and my blood ran cold. I just thought, no f***ing way.

Rescue of Happy.

Rescue of Happy.

Abandon ship transatlantic Mayday

Having decided to wait until morning, Wheatley made himself a freeze-dried meal, but gave up on it as inedible and headed back to bed, adrift in the Atlantic.

The following morning a Hercules returned and told Wheatley that the Queen Mary 2 was on her way. This time the ship's captain swiftly formed a plan for how he was going to get aboard.

The 245m cruise liner manoeuvred so close that at one point Tamarind banged into her bow-first, spreaders scratching down the paintwork. The rescue plan worked, though, and Wheatley was retrieved by jet boat and safely hauled up to an upper deck.

His sturdy American cruising yacht, with its beautiful solid teak interior, complete with bathtub, was scuttled. I knew I could do something about the window, I could have put some board across it or some sailcloth. I could have repaired the steering cable, I have a spare steering cable on board, and I've changed them before. And I reckon I could have repaired the windvane. So ostensibly I had a viable boat, he recalls.

However, what happens when we hit the next gale? Both I and the boat would be in a fairly parlous condition. Everything was completely soaked, all the cushions, all my clothes, I could not get dry and it was bloody cold. I had very little in the way of food, and I was also slightly worried about the water.

The only sensible thing to do would have been to sail back to the UK, which is downwind, 1,500 miles. That would have been without any lights, no AIS, no radar, no power, and I thought going into the Western Approaches, in any sort of calm and I would just be sitting there, very vulnerable.

And finally, he recalls after a pause to compose himself, there was the effect it would have on my family. It would take at least two weeks and there would be no communications at all. So, that was really the clincher.

The Dutch crew of the Jeanneau Sun Fast 37 Happy, Wytse Bouma, 55, and Jaap Barendregt,62, were the second team to send out a distress call, having been dramatically rolled end-over-end and dismasted.

Happy was in 6th position and had been ably contending with Force 8 winds for a couple of days, before Barendregt says that they became concerned. We saw the first weather forecast on 8 June of quite a serious depression coming up ahead of us. The depression was so large in scale we could not sail around it; it was moving towards us.

They altered track onto a south-westerly course as they tried to contend with 15m seas and 55-58 knots. Even before we entered the eye of the storm, in one big wave Wytse was catapulted across the boat and had an 8cm cut on his head.

Thor Magni rescue of Furia. Credit Atlantic Joint Task Force

Pitchpoled and somersaulted

Once we entered the eye of the storm the wind reduced somewhat and we could actually bandage it. But we knew we still had to sail out of the depression, which would take another 24 hours including 12 hours of really strong winds.

The duo had been hand steering for around five hours when disaster struck. We were taking turns, so one person on deck, keeping the boat on course on a broad reach running with the wind and waves under storm jib.

When the accident happened, Wytse was steering, it was five in the morning, so still dark, and I was downstairs with all my gear on.

A very large and very steep wave lifted the back of the boat, and we started to surf or almost fall down the wave. The bow on the port side buried itself in the water, and the whole yacht kept being pushed from behind and it literally made a somersault, upside-down. The mast broke. Wytse was under water.

Very quickly we spun around. Wytse was still attached [by his lifeline] but he was hanging over the starboard side of the railing. He was fixed to the centre of the boat, and dangling over the railing up to his middle.

Although Happy had been well prepared for such an eventuality, with floorboards and cupboards secured, Wytse was still pelted with objects that had come loose including winch handles. He hurried on deck, and worked to free his co-skipper from the tangle of ropes across the cockpit, only later noticing the blood streaming down his face from a gash to his head.

The pair began to tackle the worst of the rigging, and raised the alarm. After another complex rescue including multiple aircraft, and another aborted attempt to board a container ship, they were safely transferred by liferaft onto the Netherlands flagged ocean-going tug APL Forward some 24 hours later, where they found themselves en route to the Bahamas.

Looking ahead to 2020

Of the 21 boats that started the race, just seven continued racing with others retiring to the UK, Ireland and the Azores after suffering damage. The winner was Andrea Mura on his Open 50, who arrived in Rhode Island four days ahead of his nearest rival.

He's a special man, he's now won two OSTARs, so he's up there with Loick Peyron, commented John Lewis. The TWOSTAR winner was the German boat Rote 66, while Conor Fogerty on Bam won the Gypsy Moth prize.

The next OSTAR is scheduled for 2020. I've put my name down, says Wheatley, who admitted having an eye on a new yacht just a few hours after stepping back onto English soil.

The making of a violent storm in the Atlantic

This started showing up in forecasts as a very powerful system with four or five days' warning. By this point the fleet had already been at sea for a week and had passed though two low pressure systems, one of which produced gusts close to 40 knotson the nose. Six had already retired.

Initially it showed up as a disturbance between Bermuda and the Chesapeake,but the GFS, ECMWF, Metoffice and PredictWindmodels all agreed it would very quickly develop as a powerful storm of an intensity rarely seen in mid-summer.

Predictions were for sustained westerly windsabove 50 knots and gusts into the mid- or upper 60s on the south side of the system,and for a time north-north-westerlies of a similar strength associated with the cold front to the west of the system. To the north of the centre, however, the forecast was for winds as much as 10-15 knots less than that.

This explains why some boats, notably Zest and Mr Lucky, routed north, sacrificing distance made good in favour of seeking less severe wind and seas. The leaders were sufficiently far west and north and escaped relatively unscathed having only skirted the edge of the system. Tamarind, Happy and others were caught in the strongest part of the storm.

By midnight on 8 June, when the fleet had been at sea for 11 days, the storm was mid-Atlantic, centred at 49N, 34W, and right over the path of the fleet. At this stage it was still a compact weather feature, less than 600 miles across, but with a central pressure of only 964mb 15 millibars below that of the 1979 Fastnet storm. Canadian forecasters described it as being on a par with their strongest winter storms.

Significant wave heights of up to 7.5m were forecast to the south of the centre of the system. While that's somewhat lower than the reports of 10-15m waves, that figure is still higher than the roof line of a two-storey house. In any case, significant wave height is defined as the average of the highest third of the waves, so one in six would have been larger.

Recent research into rogue waves suggests these may be up to 3.7 times the significant wave height, which would be well above the 15m maximum reported waves.

We have to go back to the 1976 OSTAR to find a comparable storm. A low of 972mb that had developed off Newfoundland hit the fleet on 14 June when it was in a similar position.

Summer storms are often remnants of hurricanes, such as ex-hurricane Bertha, which delayed the start of the 2014 Sevenstar Round Britain and Ireland Race. It's worth noting that, although the Atlantic hurricane season officially starts on 2 June, it doesn't reach peak activity until September, so these storms tend to be found in late summer.

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