[Tiebreaker dice tossed. You are
Jet. Description, inventory, and skills updated.]
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Day 1.1 - Calm
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Kree~iik! Kree~iik! Kree~ikikiik!
Your eyes blur into usefulness with the incessant cries of the rats of the sky. Gulls. And you thought roosters were bad. They must be testing if you're dead, because those shrieks are awfully close and very much
grounded.
You smile, and with a quick and sandy side-roll, you swipe out in their direction.
Krii—auk!
The closest bird gets grazed by your fingertips. Its cry startles the flock, and feathers scatter to their wingbeats...all over your resting spot. Well, it was a temporary rest spot anyway. Shaded by the shadow of the beacon cliff and the shelter of a banana tree, the sand cushioned by your bedroll, you'd spent quite the cozy morning.
Still, the gulls are right; your time to rise is now, marked by the descent of the afternoon sun. You've slept out here all day.
You stand and brush some grit from your hair from your impulsive tumble and follow up by giving your bedroll a healthy shaking. The empty food satchel nearby calls to your stomach with a wailing dirge of hunger, a white feather caught in its seams hinting that the gulls have picked it clean of crumbs (what little you might've left). You gaze at it ruefully and sling its strap over your shoulder with one hand...and crack a banana from your shade-tree with the other. It'll do to tame your waking hunger.
The trek back to your adoptive village is short and well-shaded by the banana grove. Aloe plants, verdant and luscious, wave stalks of red blossoms as you pass, lining the trail with a smooth, green scent. Several of the leaves are more than ready to harvest. You consider them briefly before unsheathing your knife (you never leave home without it); you might as well bring something back. The matured larger leaves part with a sticky hiss in contact with the firestone blade, and you prop your harvest point-down in your bag to save their medicinal juice.
Thus laden, you continue walking.
Lenolia, the main fishing village on Florialis, is prosperous and peaceful. It lies in the shadow of the beacon cliff. There's the docks, where traders tie their boats, but most from the village just beach their craft on the sand. More inland lies the actual village. The houses are wood and with some metal, a few of stone. A select few are huts built in the old style with leaves and mud. Temporary dwellings, until the inhabitants are permitted or able to build more permanently.
It's just past lunch for many villagers. Most have resumed their daily tasks, and it shows in their use of their Gifts. There, a fireblooded artisan molds a searing lump with his bare hands. He must have incredible self control and strength of will, for not a single burn marrs the fingers that mold molten metal like clay. He seems to be making a statuette of Miragua, the serpentine Guardian of the sea, protector of the children of water.
Further on, a wind-fire-water trio harvests the juice of the blublo; the first makes a throwing motion towards the fronds at the height of the fragile trunk, stirring a stem-snapping blast that whirls down two dark blue gourds the size of a papaya. The second gatherer burns a hole through the stone-hard skin and hands the fruits to the third, who draws the nectar out without disturbing the bitter seeds and drains it into glass bottles. You've seen the trio trading cups of half-frozen juice to workers—another innovation to their combined abilities.
Small things. Wonderful things. But you, you can do none of that without a lot more effort. You long to be one of the Gifted but haven't yet decided how far you'd go, how much you'd risk to find your chance.
Uncertainty. What a familiar feeling.
You duck into a house with a sloping roof of tin and smile affectionately at the middle-aged woman at the table. She's working a pestle and mortar to a steady pok-pok-pok of stone on plant against stone.
Your nose twitches.
Garlic?
She raises her head when your shadow crosses the table, letting her coppery ponytail fall back. She takes in your windblown self and drags her gaze from your face down to the bag of pointy leaves you've set in front of her.
"Oh! The aloe! Thank you, Jet."
She pauses her work to wrap the leaves for storage. Merry is the closest thing to a mother figure you have. You assist her with small tasks when you visit—not as often as before you were apprenticed, but you can tell she appreciates whatever help you give. Everyday life in the village runs on trade, small favors, and the goodwill of neighbors.
"You'll be wanting the usual then," she says, already stuffing your satchel with something you can't see, hidden behind her sturdy frame.
"I got extra, so a bit more than usual," you reply.
"You drive a hard bargain. Us healers have to eat too, you know."
Her wink belies the chiding tone. You send her an unimpressed look. Healing might be the most prosperous job in the archipelago, especially for the children of fire, and Merry is Florialis' foremost fireblooded healer.
"Oh, all right. Sometimes I think you do this stuff just because I give you food."
You deny it quickly, but she smiles at you with a knowing quirk to her lips, and you know she's already slipped in more. Truthfully, you're already salivating at the possibilities. Merry is a wonderful cook.
"What're you going to do with those?" you ask, gesturing at the aloe.
"You already know how good of a balm for sunburn the juice is, but it can be drunk for good health too. It's pretty good mixed with blublo. It'll have to wait until I finish these doses, though—dumb teens and their dares, can you believe it? Eating bad fish, what'll they think of next?"
"Can't you just heal them? I've heard fireblood healers can bring a man back from the brink of death." You often wonder what it must be like to hold the essence of pure heat in your hands, to not be burned if you choose, to touch life manifested.
Merry chuckles, probably amused at your eagerness, as she often does. "That's a much more intensive sort of healing. Maybe if I was born with as much fire in my veins as my father. No, I need the aid of plants like this for my flame to be really effective, and people like you make it easier to do my job. Now, if there was a waterblood willing to do more than go fishing or adventuring, less people would have health problems!"
An old gripe. As you recall, water is better for healing physical injuries while fire burns away diseases.
Merry walks around the table and slings your filled satchel over your head to rest the strap on your shoulder. "Before I forget, my niece has been waiting for you. She'll be around the back cutting mint for me, if she hasn't climbed the pineapple tree again."
Nyla, harvesting? Those words sound awfully contradictory. She's never been the most patient of people. With that in mind, you thank Merry and leave with the bundle of food at your side.
Once behind the house, it's not hard to spot your childhood friend—indeed, she's seated right underneath the "crown" of the pineapple-shaped palm. She catches sight of you and grip-slides to the ground with a flutter of cinnamon.
"Finally awake, I see," she teases as you approach. "Getting ready for the night?"
You nod. She smiles. "Since Grampapa died, we haven't had a proper beaconmaster. He'd be proud of you. It's no easy job, and certainly not very exciting—thankless, he always said."
"That was probably his unlikable personality more than anything."
"Ha! You're right about that."
Your friend the daughter of Merry's sister—a fireblood—and of a waterblooded farmer. Granddaughter of Moram, the strongest fireblood to live on Florialis in recent history. You'd been his apprentice when he was beaconmaster.
"Anyway, anyway! Guess what?"
She's fairly twitching with excitement. More than usual, anyway. You can think of only one thing that'd get her like this.
"It's your Gifting Day tomorrow, isn't it?"
Nyla deflates slightly, but you shrug. It was kind of obvious. Her enthusiasm takes the hit admirably, and soon she's smiling again.
"Yep! It's finally my turn! I'm finally getting my waves!"
"You might be getting flames," you point out.
"Nooo! Not gonna happen—I'd be competing with Grampapa and Aunt Merry for the rest of my life!" The look of horror on her face is so comical you can't help chuckling.
She smacks your shoulder lightly. "And here I was gonna invite you, Mr. Flaky. I guess you're not interested, huh?"
Did—did she really just—
...She did. She's inviting you to watch her receive her element.
"I thought that was just for family!" you blurt out.
"Bah, it's not like that's a rule—just some old tradition that started for stupid reasons. Besides, you're one of us with all the time we've invested in you. Even Grampapa liked you, and he didn't like
anyone. That'd make you like...my younger cousin!"
You're nearly certain that's not the case and make sure she knows exactly what you think, to which she answers with the cursed phrase:
"You can't prove it~!"
She's not wrong.
Like a flicker of flame, Nyla's face becomes serious. "I know you've been looking for a way to get your Gift. Maybe you'll find answers if you watch it happen? We'll be gathering around sunhigh. That'll cut into your rest time, but...think about it?"
She probably sees the uncertainty on your face, because she rolls her eyes and adds, "It's not something we'll dress up for. We're not stuffy-stuff-stiff people."
With your last worry gone, you have no excuse. You'll definitely think about it.
"Just you wait!" she says with a grin. "When I get my waves, I'll leave the archipelago and go on a real adventure! I'll go to all the places in Grampapa's stories!"
You now sympathize with Merry about waterbloods.
Speaking of Merry...
"Don't you have some mint to cut?"
Nyla flushes and sputters, "I—You—I was just… get out!"
You laughingly bid your friend good afternoon and leave her to her task. You still have a few things to do before sundown.
At the outskirts of the village, you stop at a little mud hut. It isn't much, but it's yours, made with hard labor and a lot of trial and error.
The structure is a dome of packed mud and clay on a wood frame, barely chest height to you on the outside. Inside, you've dug it down to give you room to stretch your arms. It's just large enough around for a low bed, a table and chair, and a stone-lined storage hole. Nyla's said your place makes her claustrophobic. Even you're not sure why you built the place that way. It just felt right (and cozy).
You wonder if it's a quirk from your ancestors.
Hanging on the wall is your other prized possession: a cloak of sleek animal fur. Dark like the sea under a crescent moon, rubbed rough in spots by years of weather and the scouring sands, it retains a sense of solemnity that tugs at your gut.
"You'll be needing this more than I will, y'hear? Take it, fool boy!"
Along with the firestone knife, it was the only thing old Moram had given to you before he disappeared into the horizon forever. The cloak has kept you warm in the coldest nights, when the beacon could barely stay lit in the sea winds.
You've got your food, your knife, and your mentor's old coat.
Do you bring anything else with you?
[]No, you're prepared for the night.
[]Yes (write in)
Equipped for the night, you make your way back to the beach at the leeward side of the beacon cliff, where a group of fishermen is preparing for a night run, if their lanterns mean anything. You think they're a bit crazy for fishing when the moon is but a waning sliver in the sky. They're definitely waterblooded.
"Heya, kiddo, are you ready for another night at the beacon?"
...Or maybe just one of them is.
You turn to greet Jard, Merry's husband. He's the worst influence on Nyla (and on everyone else). Now, that makes the whole set of Moram's living family, by blood or not, that you've seen today. Maybe Nyla was onto something about you being practically family.
"How's the fishing tonight, hey?" he asks as usual.
Recalling the stars from last night, you make your answer: "Tela's bow will be low in the sky tonight, so you'll have a better catch to the east near dawn. I hope you like mackerel."
"I will never understand how that works, as if certain fish favor a certain star at a certain time of a star cycle."
You shrug. "I couldn't tell you. It's probably something in my blood."
Nyla's uncle laughs at your joke, made half in earnest. "Sometimes I think you consult the veterans and make up something star-ish to say. It's uncanny, that it is. Just as mysterious as a snowflake washing up on a tropical beach."
You wish he would drop the subject now. You might've been the one to bring up your blood, but the obvious reminder stings when coming from others, though not as badly as it once did. The silence must be cluing him in, because Jard clears his throat awkwardly.
"Well, ah… How about you come with us? Your star-seer ability might help. It'll be more fun than poking the fire all night."
From the twinkle in his eye, you know he's joking, but for a moment, a flash of longing beats in your chest. They're going out to the deep sea, and you… Well, you've never gone out far enough to lose sight of the island. But you also can't help noticing how stiff Jard's crewmembers have become.
[]Decline. He's joking, and you have a job to do.
[]Call his joke. The wind is probably not going to be that strong tonight, and you're feeling rebellious.
