Marine Misadventures of a Magicless Kind
- Thread starter Lithos Alto
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
Day 1.3 - How... Juvenile
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Day 1.3 - How... Juvenile
-
You take a sturdy, straight branch from your woodpile and ready it for the battle ahead, using your firestone knife to burn off the twigs. Your makeshift staff swooshes through the air; it has a decent heft to it.
Your first and biggest advantage is that nightgulls hate the beacon more than they hate you. They'd absolutely loathed your old mentor (the feeling was mutual). Good thing you're not a trouble magnet—they'll ignore you until you start fending them off.
Second, once the fire strengthens to blazing, their whirlwinds won't do more than blow air on it...as long as they can't get into position for a gale blast to scatter the kindling. All you need to do is knock enough of them out of formation and not get the beacon blown away in the process.
...The sunlight has been completely absorbed by the ocean. As you settle in a spot just outside the ring of firelight, you think you're prepared. Maybe.
"Concentrate, fool boy! Don't rely on sight. The elements in their purest form are invisible, and wind is the most deceptive."
They nightgull flock is in half force tonight, with some still licking their wounds from yesterday, but with the inexperienced young flyers throwing in an element of random, you have your work cut out for you.
They strike first with bloodcurdling shrieks.
Kruaaaw! Kru—eek!
...And leave behind a spray of burning feathers and the scent of seared seabird. Three of them—juveniles, by their gray undersides—lie injured from their rookie mistake.
The rest, still gliding outside the circle of light, cry out in a frenzy, some descending into view, mere shadows with a navy sheen.
You've since circled around to the side of the first entry and lash out with your coat, the makeshift net bundling down four on the wing, which you smack with your staff several times before shaking the contents over the cliff edge.
Now, they know you're there.
Kruaaaw! Kruaaaw! Krueek!
You hear more than see the flock split, looking for the predator who dared invade their territory. Bad luck to them. You're back out of the light.
You wreak havoc in the dark with your staff, never staying still too long, crouching to avoid detection—well, collision—and striking at any bluish shadow, leaving a wake of injured birds on the clifftop, keeping the rest disordered, unfocused, and in chaos. The scattered individuals that throw invisible air at the fire barely cause it to waver.
Work as usual. Maybe you were feeling anxious for no reason.
Something hard clonks the top of your head. You stifle a cry of surprise and whip your uncovered eye upward. A juvenile hovers overhead, alone. You nearly relax...then you realize what it dropped.
A stone.
Your blood freezes. If one learns that, they all will. You can't let it get away.
Distracted, you miss the low-flying gull that crashes into your chest; the force takes your balance with it, and you stumble to regain your footing. You can feel the nightgull colony shifting focus. To you.
...You're in the firelight. Whoops.
On one hand, with you just a speck against their bigger, hotter target, they can't see you very well. On the other hand, with the beacon at your back, you're forcing the veteran birds up out of swinging range. Not good. Not good at—
Kruaaaw!
You startle at the call from the ground. And suddenly, you're slamming facedown to the ground under a crush of gale force winds. A portion of the flock hovers over you, flapping powerfully, keeping you plastered against the clifftop.
You glare murder at the juvenile perched a couple paces from your face—the cursed featherbag had given you the slip! It joins its brethren with a smug flap as several birds pierce the winds at high speed, intending to do the same to your skin.
At least they're focused on you and not the beacon.
...And you're crazy for that thought.
You roll in that well-practiced motion and strike outward with your staff, skimming feathers, wingtips, webbed feet—
Kruaw!
—but you miss the one that rakes your upraised arm. You smash it down in revenge before it can regain its bearings.
The loss of a companion doesn't stop the lessened flock, and they throw a gust at the beacon in passing. The fire flickers but blazes back with a roar, a touch stronger than before. You groan with a pained smile; the beacon's stabilized, and you don't mind a little fanning of the flames. It's hilarious when the gulls help you do your job.
After many long moments of scrapping on the ground with the miserable little birdbags, you get enough breathing room to roll back into the shadows.
There's probably a good thirty of them left, judging by their cries. You grimace, square up, and bring your staff to bear.
You keep at defensive attack for a while longer, breaking up the larger group when possible and drawing their attention when not. Despite the evil juveniles poking beakholes in your strategies (and slashing through your rope, the villains!), you're the one left standing on the clifftop, and after an exhausting bout, the last bird takes off, floundering, and drops over the edge with an enraged squawk.
A huff of relief escapes you. The beacon has barely been stirred, and you have only a few nasty scrapes and bruises to show for it. You've staked your claim tonight, and the gulls will leave to preen away their burned pride...but they'll be back tomorrow, and the night after, and the night after, so long as their grudge against fire holds.
And you'll be ready for them.
What do you think helps you most under pressure?
[]Your quick mind
[]Your determined heart
[]Your natural strength
Whichever it is, you huddle down near the beacon and use your staff to poke the kindling into place. Your sleek coat is a shelter from the night zephyrs that travel over the waters and across the cliffs. It embraces your shoulders like a mother would their beloved child...or Merry when she's feeling oddly affectionate.
Speaking of Merry—you scrabble like an overgrown crab to retrieve your satchel from the crack to see what she packed. To your delight, she's given you four plump sweet potatoes, roasted in banana leaves for their smoky flavor and glazed with crystallized blublo nectar—her signature sweet-and-energetic combination. The midnight lunch of champions.
You know you asked for extra, but… You shake your head with a soft smile.
"She still packs for two."
Perhaps it's Merry's silent way of mourning her father. You've never asked.
In your mind's eye, Moram's solid figure, aged but unbowed, sits in the flittering light, with a sharp word on his tongue and a story to drive it home. For all his gruffness, he believed that you, however Giftless, could take his place on the clifftop and hold it. You've proven him right so far. He'd be proud.
...though he'd complain you didn't climb down the cliffs with your knife to "finish off those cursed dragonspawn."
-
The night passes without further note, other than the lanterns of fishermen bobbing out in the waters, drawing away from the cliffs and into safe harbor. In the distance, silhouetted against the sunrise, a dark speck of a boat rides the waters. You can't make out its identifiers, but it's a large one if you can see it that clearly. It'll probably be at the shores of Florialis by noon.
Noon. Just around Nyla's invitation to her Gifting. You do want to go, but a tinge of uncertainty still clouds your thoughts.
Will you attend Nyla's Gifting?
[]Yes.
[]Yes, and find a gift (?!).
[]Yes, and make a gift (write-in).
[]No, you're going to check if you're right about that boat.
[]No, you need every hour of rest for tomorrow night.
Day 1.3 - How... Juvenile
-
You take a sturdy, straight branch from your woodpile and ready it for the battle ahead, using your firestone knife to burn off the twigs. Your makeshift staff swooshes through the air; it has a decent heft to it.
Your first and biggest advantage is that nightgulls hate the beacon more than they hate you. They'd absolutely loathed your old mentor (the feeling was mutual). Good thing you're not a trouble magnet—they'll ignore you until you start fending them off.
Second, once the fire strengthens to blazing, their whirlwinds won't do more than blow air on it...as long as they can't get into position for a gale blast to scatter the kindling. All you need to do is knock enough of them out of formation and not get the beacon blown away in the process.
...The sunlight has been completely absorbed by the ocean. As you settle in a spot just outside the ring of firelight, you think you're prepared. Maybe.
"Concentrate, fool boy! Don't rely on sight. The elements in their purest form are invisible, and wind is the most deceptive."
They nightgull flock is in half force tonight, with some still licking their wounds from yesterday, but with the inexperienced young flyers throwing in an element of random, you have your work cut out for you.
They strike first with bloodcurdling shrieks.
Kruaaaw! Kru—eek!
...And leave behind a spray of burning feathers and the scent of seared seabird. Three of them—juveniles, by their gray undersides—lie injured from their rookie mistake.
The rest, still gliding outside the circle of light, cry out in a frenzy, some descending into view, mere shadows with a navy sheen.
You've since circled around to the side of the first entry and lash out with your coat, the makeshift net bundling down four on the wing, which you smack with your staff several times before shaking the contents over the cliff edge.
Now, they know you're there.
Kruaaaw! Kruaaaw! Krueek!
You hear more than see the flock split, looking for the predator who dared invade their territory. Bad luck to them. You're back out of the light.
You wreak havoc in the dark with your staff, never staying still too long, crouching to avoid detection—well, collision—and striking at any bluish shadow, leaving a wake of injured birds on the clifftop, keeping the rest disordered, unfocused, and in chaos. The scattered individuals that throw invisible air at the fire barely cause it to waver.
Work as usual. Maybe you were feeling anxious for no reason.
Something hard clonks the top of your head. You stifle a cry of surprise and whip your uncovered eye upward. A juvenile hovers overhead, alone. You nearly relax...then you realize what it dropped.
A stone.
Your blood freezes. If one learns that, they all will. You can't let it get away.
Distracted, you miss the low-flying gull that crashes into your chest; the force takes your balance with it, and you stumble to regain your footing. You can feel the nightgull colony shifting focus. To you.
...You're in the firelight. Whoops.
On one hand, with you just a speck against their bigger, hotter target, they can't see you very well. On the other hand, with the beacon at your back, you're forcing the veteran birds up out of swinging range. Not good. Not good at—
Kruaaaw!
You startle at the call from the ground. And suddenly, you're slamming facedown to the ground under a crush of gale force winds. A portion of the flock hovers over you, flapping powerfully, keeping you plastered against the clifftop.
You glare murder at the juvenile perched a couple paces from your face—the cursed featherbag had given you the slip! It joins its brethren with a smug flap as several birds pierce the winds at high speed, intending to do the same to your skin.
At least they're focused on you and not the beacon.
...And you're crazy for that thought.
You roll in that well-practiced motion and strike outward with your staff, skimming feathers, wingtips, webbed feet—
Kruaw!
—but you miss the one that rakes your upraised arm. You smash it down in revenge before it can regain its bearings.
The loss of a companion doesn't stop the lessened flock, and they throw a gust at the beacon in passing. The fire flickers but blazes back with a roar, a touch stronger than before. You groan with a pained smile; the beacon's stabilized, and you don't mind a little fanning of the flames. It's hilarious when the gulls help you do your job.
After many long moments of scrapping on the ground with the miserable little birdbags, you get enough breathing room to roll back into the shadows.
There's probably a good thirty of them left, judging by their cries. You grimace, square up, and bring your staff to bear.
You keep at defensive attack for a while longer, breaking up the larger group when possible and drawing their attention when not. Despite the evil juveniles poking beakholes in your strategies (and slashing through your rope, the villains!), you're the one left standing on the clifftop, and after an exhausting bout, the last bird takes off, floundering, and drops over the edge with an enraged squawk.
A huff of relief escapes you. The beacon has barely been stirred, and you have only a few nasty scrapes and bruises to show for it. You've staked your claim tonight, and the gulls will leave to preen away their burned pride...but they'll be back tomorrow, and the night after, and the night after, so long as their grudge against fire holds.
And you'll be ready for them.
What do you think helps you most under pressure?
[]Your quick mind
[]Your determined heart
[]Your natural strength
Whichever it is, you huddle down near the beacon and use your staff to poke the kindling into place. Your sleek coat is a shelter from the night zephyrs that travel over the waters and across the cliffs. It embraces your shoulders like a mother would their beloved child...or Merry when she's feeling oddly affectionate.
Speaking of Merry—you scrabble like an overgrown crab to retrieve your satchel from the crack to see what she packed. To your delight, she's given you four plump sweet potatoes, roasted in banana leaves for their smoky flavor and glazed with crystallized blublo nectar—her signature sweet-and-energetic combination. The midnight lunch of champions.
You know you asked for extra, but… You shake your head with a soft smile.
"She still packs for two."
Perhaps it's Merry's silent way of mourning her father. You've never asked.
In your mind's eye, Moram's solid figure, aged but unbowed, sits in the flittering light, with a sharp word on his tongue and a story to drive it home. For all his gruffness, he believed that you, however Giftless, could take his place on the clifftop and hold it. You've proven him right so far. He'd be proud.
...though he'd complain you didn't climb down the cliffs with your knife to "finish off those cursed dragonspawn."
-
The night passes without further note, other than the lanterns of fishermen bobbing out in the waters, drawing away from the cliffs and into safe harbor. In the distance, silhouetted against the sunrise, a dark speck of a boat rides the waters. You can't make out its identifiers, but it's a large one if you can see it that clearly. It'll probably be at the shores of Florialis by noon.
Noon. Just around Nyla's invitation to her Gifting. You do want to go, but a tinge of uncertainty still clouds your thoughts.
Will you attend Nyla's Gifting?
[]Yes.
[]Yes, and find a gift (?!).
[]Yes, and make a gift (write-in).
[]No, you're going to check if you're right about that boat.
[]No, you need every hour of rest for tomorrow night.
Last edited:
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
This a joke, a "ditto" vote, or are you actually writing in a mysterious golden beetle for unknown purposes? (._.)?
Last edited:
Vyslanté
The self is a prison
- Location
- European Union
It's the usual way to say "I agree with [Person] and vote the same thing as them"
Day 2.1 - A Gift and a Gifting
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Day 2.1 - A Gift and a Gifting
-
...You need a gift for Nyla. It's even in the name of the day! But for all that you don't need anything, you own very little. You don't have a clue what to give, but you'll figure something out before noon, right?
-
Dawn breaks, and as the shimmer from the horizon stretches for the shore, you let the beacon burn out. The sea breeze helps cool the dying embers as you clear out the pit for the night to come.
Before you leave, you gather up the bodies of the few mature nightgulls that'd fallen to your staff and carefully pluck their long, smooth pinions and tail feathers. They might be good trading with their dark blue iridescence. That done, you roll the carcasses off the edge to feed the fishes—it wouldn't do to let them rot up here.
You descend from the cliff and traverse the shaded forest back to your hut instead of curling up in the banana grove.
Surrounded by earth, the sound of waves serenading your ears, and exhaustion weighing your eyelids, you take a well-deserved rest.
-
"Kruaaaw! Kruaaaw!" "It's a trap! It's a traaap! Get me out! Release this Kruakkk at once!"
...Your dreams just can't be peaceful, can they? The stupid gulls are invading your sleep too. With your ire ruffled, you can't get back to sleep.
It's silent. You slow your breathing and count to three between inhale and exhale; you begin to drift off.
Then something sharp sinks into your hand.
"Ow! What—"
"Kruawww! Kru-kruaaaw!" "You! You got me into this! When I get free of this trap, I'll pluck out your eyes and eat them in front of you! Seaspawn!"
Fully alert, your eyes pinpoint the culprit in the dim light.
"You."
A juvenile nightgull—no doubt the same one that kept throwing rocks at your head—lies half-nestled in your food satchel, a mere arm's length from your face. It must've returned to the clifftop after your night-dinner and snuck into the bag while you watched the beacon.
You shove the cursed bird back into the satchel and tie it shut, ignoring its frantic wriggling as you sling the bundle over your shoulder. You're awake now. You might as well see what people are selling—maybe you can trade the evil featherlump for something better.
"Krmmmph! Krmmmph!" "I am Kruakkk! And I say you will pay for this insult to a child of the wiiiinds!"
-
...No luck. The immature dragonspawn is more trouble than it's worth; not even pet traders will take it. The feathers you gathered from a night of gullwhacking, though, fetch a bargain in a basketwoven cage and a thick covering to keep the thing quiet. Its demented screeching when you emptied it out for inspection might've helped with the last one.
...It says something about how worthless the miserable creature is when the feathers of its brethren are worth more. Some fishermen even pay in fish for their corpses, so it's worth even more dead! Nevertheless, you don't have time to head back to the shore, and you don't dare release it here.
You're stuck with it.
And with all your scrambling to ensure the bird can't cause trouble, you're out of time, and you still don't have a good present for Nyla.
Wait.
A moving target counts as a gift, right? Even if you intended on trading for a knife or bow or...something. Yeah, the newly Gifted could have precision problems with their element at first. It'd be useful.
You glare at the covered cage in your arms. "Pray that Nyla's fireblooded, bird, because if she doesn't roast you, I will. Pepper-stuffed young nightgull, skewered over hot stones, basted with lemon juice, sprinkled with spicy herbs, and served in a half-pineapple… It has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?"
Though if what Moram says is right, its very meat will try to choke you when you swallow. You're not sure if you want to risk your throat on petty revenge. You dislike cold dishes.
-
You arrive at Merry's house just before noon and see Jard at the doorway, sharpening a curved filleting knife. Waterstone—you recognize the blade's wavy grain. You'd be jealous if you didn't have one of fire.
The man looks up and waves you over with a smile. "Jet! You're a little early. Merry and Nyla are probably still clearing up shop."
You nod in greeting and sit a little ways away with the cage at your side. Jard glances at it curiously but doesn't mention it, which you're thankful for.
"How was the night?" he asks. "You were right about the mackerel—they're pretty much all we caught. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's far better seafood than limpets."
You give him an abbreviated summary of your night at the beacon. He laughs.
"Warned you, didn't I? You'll have to cast off with me one of these days. There're far friendlier creatures in the water, and everyone who lives surrounded by this much water should take a leap sometime. There's more out there than this archipelago."
"I want to go out there someday," you admit. "I hear the sea in my sleep, even in my dreams. It's been calling me for a while, but I've always had things to distract me from it."
Jard studies you with new eyes. "Sounds like you've got some real wanderlust there, kiddo. You sure don't lack desire, and you know I'd help you out where I can, so what's keeping you?"
My debt to you and Merry. Nyla. Moram.
"...I can't just leave the beacon," you say at last. "I'm the only one I know who doesn't mind the job."
The man's regard sharpens. You resist the urge to squirm—it's not usual you see Jard's serious face.
"You know, Jet," he begins, "Moram had more of a wandering spirit than anyone. He knew most the importance of following a call. If you go, leave this island, and never return, he'd understand—we all would. Though, you'd have to deal with Nyla wanting to come along!" he laughs. "Kiddo, point is, you're not stuck here. You don't owe this place anything except who you were yesterday. Get out while you're young—live a little! See the world beyond this little archipelago! You won't regret it."
"...I don't know the first thing about boats."
"What am I, a landlubber? Oh, you young people—you all never want to ask for help unless you're in deep fish guts. If old Moram hadn't snatched you up first, I'd have made you my navigator soon as you were tall enough, with your crazy star knowledge. Still would."
The ties that bind you to the island are few but strong. One day, the call might overpower even those bonds, but today is not that day. Jard can see it in your face, and from his nod, you know he understands.
You'll think about it.
The two of you spend a few minutes in amiable silence before Merry and Nyla arrive. Jard stands to greet his wife and niece with a sweeping hug.
"Welcome back, my Merrymaid, little Nyl. You ready for this?"
"Good noon, dear husband. I think you'll find we're both prepared, though I certainly can't match this one for enthusiasm."
"Gerroff, Uncle! I'm ready. Been ready. Totally good—excited, yeah—can we start already?"
Merry nudges her niece. "Aren't you forgetting something? Look who hasn't slept in and 'chickened out for the best day ever.'"
Nyla twists around in her uncle's embrace to see you standing there with one hand raised in greeting. She grins.
"You made it! See, Aunt Merry? I told you he'd come on time!"
"She was afraid you wouldn't wake up, was considering waiting right at your door and banging a pot until you woke," Merry informs you with amusement.
"I was not!" your friend says indignantly, her cinnamon hair whirling with her head. "When did I even say that?"
"Nyls, you were probably thinking so loudly that the words came out of your mouth."
"Uncle!"
Amid laughter, Nyla grabs your hand and drags you into the house, followed by Jard and Merry.
You leave the cage outside the doorway where the thing can't cause trouble.
-
After a quick lunch—your breakfast—you all are relaxing on large, flat cushions on the ground placed in a rough circle, with Nyla facing Merry and you facing Jard.
It's starting. You're going to witness something you never thought you'd see: the rise of a new Gifted. You're not sure who's anticipating it most; you see the light in Jard's eyes and the tremble in Nyla's fingers. Even Merry is a touch too calm, and you...you're barely remembering to breathe.
Then Merry begins to speak, her alto tones ringing with an air of tradition and ceremony, heavy with the weight of her ancestors.
"We are here to witness the passing of the Gift to Nyla, daughter of Nylan and my sister, Pirra. I, Merry, daughter of Moram and Lani, being of close blood and kin, acknowledge my right and role as Gifter. If any can dispute this claim, speak now."
You and Jard remain silent, and you wonder if that bit was all that necessary, considering.
Merry nods and continues. "Listen well, my family, and know there are many versions of the tale of the Gift of the Firstborn; I will tell it as my father, Moram, told me at my Gifting many years ago.
"Ancient times ago, the Esser of Fire, Water, Wind, and Earth formed their domains, and within each, they created the Firstborn: the phoenixes, the seal kin, and the dragons. Earth, watching the children of his brethren, wished instead to create beings that could take joy in all their territories. And so, with the help of his fellows, he produced the first humans, and, as they had been given the blessings of the four Esser, they could freely traverse every sphere.
"But the good times were not to last, for some humans desired the power of true creation, and with all the true elements at their command, they fought for control over the domains. In the clash of elements, Earth's heart and domain were sorely wounded, and he fell into a deep slumber; thus, the three remaining Esser tore their blessings from humanity, leaving them powerless against the monsters that rose from the battlegrounds—creatures corrupted by the spilled blood of the earth. Even some of the Firstborn were twisted in this darkness, and many fell to the claws and fangs of the once-noble beings.
"The surviving Firstborn, horrified at the slaughter, pleaded on behalf of their younger human siblings. The Esser would not rescind their judgment, but they allowed the Firstborn the ability to take human form to grant their children the right to their blood-domain, that humanity could defend itself from the risen darkness.
"Thus are we connected to the earth through our physical bodies and to the sun, sky, or sea through our hearts; and just as the Firstborn granted their human descendants the Gift for their protection, so do I, who share your blood, pass it to you."
Merry places her hands over her heart, and when she withdraws them, a tiny flame, like a sunbeam on a candle, translucent but for the waver of air, burns in her cupped palms.
"Nyla, you've proven yourself both reliable and responsible when needed, and trustworthy to both family and friends. I know of no reason why I would not share the Gift with you, my niece."
You're not breathing when she leans toward Nyla and pours the colorless fire into her shaking hands. Merry's far too experienced to burn anyone on accident, but you know instinctively that this flame would never hurt the one it was meant for. It sinks into your friend's skin, and she gasps as if waking up from an intense dream.
"May your heart and blood show your destiny," Merry says, ending with the ceremonial words of parting. And with that, the Gifting is over.
Nyla gazes at her hands as if they were forged anew, and for all you know, that might be so. "I-I got it," she murmurs. "I hear… I knew… I knew it! I've got my waves!" she cheers.
Merry catches her in a hug. "You take after your father, then. He'd be proud of you—him and your mother both. Congratulations, my little Nyla."
"Aunt Merryyyy," she groans.
Jard stands, picks her up, and spins her around.
"Not so little anymore, eh?" he chuckles. "I'll have to take you out to sea sometime. You'll love it!"
"Oh, no, dear," Merry says sweetly, "she's going to learn everything I can teach before you take her gallivanting out in the open oceans!"
You watch the scene with fondness curling your lips. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, knowing you don't have parents or blood relations. It's nearly worth it, knowing such good people, even if you never get to share the bond they have with each other.
With that, you stand and lope softly towards the doorway. They could use some family time, and you feel like you're intruding. You've paid witness to something wonderful today. Priceless. That's enough for you.
"Looks like roast nightgull is on the menu tonight, eh?" you mutter to the cage at your feet, right by the door.
As if summoned, Nyla bursts out at your heels.
"Wait! Don't go just yet!" she calls.
"I needed some air. I'm not leaving right away," you deny.
"Good, 'cause I haven't given you your present yet. Here, this's for you."
...Your present?
She presses something into your hands, something smooth as pearl and cool as a shaded stone. You goggle at the object; it is a single scale as big as your palm, silvery with a hint of blue, so shiny you can see your surroundings reflected in it. Like holding a piece of still water.
"I found it on the beach a few days ago. You wouldn't believe how hard it was not to show it to you right away!"
You hold the scale up, and large brown eyes stare back out of a face that could've been carved from lightly-roasted coconut meat. Your skin looks darker in contrast with your hair, which is as pure white as usual, but you've never realized just how different you look from everyone else, and you'd known you were different.
Bolstered by your silence, Nyla continues, "I know you'd never get yourself a mirror 'cause you're not the kind to care about that kind of thing, but I figured you couldn't refuse if it was a gift. You know, so you could see yourself a little how I see you."
Yeah. You can see it now, far more clearly than before, just how much blood you share with this island. Wherever your relatives are from, it's nowhere near here.
Your friend must've seen something in your face, because she stammers out, "D-don't think of it the wrong way, Flaky. I told you before—you're family! Family!"
...Then again, it's Nyla. She always means the best, and honestly, you're touched that she put that much thought into your gift. You'll take it for what she intended, despite your first assumptions.
That makes you feel a bit guilty about your return present.
"I'll try to remember next time," you assure her. "Uh… right. Here. Congratulations on getting your waves." You hold out the covered cage and hope for once that the positive half of the rumors about you are right.
She gasps in faux shock. "You're giving me something on a day that's not my birthday? You, Mr. Minimalist? Mr. 'The-clothes-on-my-back-are-all-I-need'?"
"It's your Gifting Day present."
Nyla snorts. "Pff, silly! Yeah, it's Gifting Day 'cause of the whole Gift thing, but it's actually tradition for the Gifted to give something to everyone else—that's me! I'm the one giving stuff, like Uncle and his new knife, and Aunt Merry's new hair tie, you know."
Now you feel dumb.
"...It was a little last-minute anyway," you mutter. "I could just get you something better for your birthday?"
"No way! You of all people got me a gift—I'm not complaining. Give it!"
You reluctantly hand over the cage, and your friend wastes no time whipping off the cloth covering.
"Kruawww? Kruaaaw!" "I, Kruakkk, have endured the murderous mutterings of this madman until I, too, feel the encroaching madness in my mind. O, give me fire, give me the storm, and never let me see my homeland again, but please, save me from this pepper-obsessed, pineapple-loving heathen!"
If you hadn't dealt with it for as long as you have, you'd almost believe the young nightgull's forlorn appearance; its wings are spread and its head is plastered to the ground as if it's prostrating itself for mercy's sake.
"Happy Gifting Day," you say into the pause, ducking your head to avoid seeing Nyla's face.
"...Seriously, Jet? A nightgull—the Malevolent Wind, Moram's Bane, terror of the night seas, cursed dragonspawn? This is the best Gifting Day present ever!"
You're not looking at her, but from her voice, you know her eyes are shining like the horizon at dawn. And when she throws her arms around your torso in a hug, you remember that Nyla's not other people. She could find treasure in the most worthless object. Knowing that, you feel a hundred feet taller.
"Alright," she muffles in your shoulder, "you can stop grinning like a duck with a defect. I can feel your neck muscles with my forehead."
You let her go. The grin, however, stays put. Your friend shakes her head and mimes flicking a pebble at you.
"How did you even get one?" she wonders, eyeing you critically.
You shrug. "It's evil. Things like that have a way of creeping up on you and hiding where you least expect them." Literally. "Whenever you think of me, throw something at it. It'll deserve every throw."
"I might end up burying it by the end of the day."
...Wait, what?
Before you can ask, she's already changed the subject. "So, what're you doing the rest of the day? Normal people don't sleep in daylight, you know."
Hm… What will you do?
[]Hang out with Nyla. Show her the view from the beacon cliff—you rarely see it during afternoons.
[]Hang out with Nyla. There might be something interesting at the boat from earlier.
[]Take your leave. Nyla should spend time with her family, and you need supplies for tonight.
Day 2.1 - A Gift and a Gifting
-
...You need a gift for Nyla. It's even in the name of the day! But for all that you don't need anything, you own very little. You don't have a clue what to give, but you'll figure something out before noon, right?
-
Dawn breaks, and as the shimmer from the horizon stretches for the shore, you let the beacon burn out. The sea breeze helps cool the dying embers as you clear out the pit for the night to come.
Before you leave, you gather up the bodies of the few mature nightgulls that'd fallen to your staff and carefully pluck their long, smooth pinions and tail feathers. They might be good trading with their dark blue iridescence. That done, you roll the carcasses off the edge to feed the fishes—it wouldn't do to let them rot up here.
You descend from the cliff and traverse the shaded forest back to your hut instead of curling up in the banana grove.
Surrounded by earth, the sound of waves serenading your ears, and exhaustion weighing your eyelids, you take a well-deserved rest.
-
"Kruaaaw! Kruaaaw!" "It's a trap! It's a traaap! Get me out! Release this Kruakkk at once!"
...Your dreams just can't be peaceful, can they? The stupid gulls are invading your sleep too. With your ire ruffled, you can't get back to sleep.
It's silent. You slow your breathing and count to three between inhale and exhale; you begin to drift off.
Then something sharp sinks into your hand.
"Ow! What—"
"Kruawww! Kru-kruaaaw!" "You! You got me into this! When I get free of this trap, I'll pluck out your eyes and eat them in front of you! Seaspawn!"
Fully alert, your eyes pinpoint the culprit in the dim light.
"You."
A juvenile nightgull—no doubt the same one that kept throwing rocks at your head—lies half-nestled in your food satchel, a mere arm's length from your face. It must've returned to the clifftop after your night-dinner and snuck into the bag while you watched the beacon.
You shove the cursed bird back into the satchel and tie it shut, ignoring its frantic wriggling as you sling the bundle over your shoulder. You're awake now. You might as well see what people are selling—maybe you can trade the evil featherlump for something better.
"Krmmmph! Krmmmph!" "I am Kruakkk! And I say you will pay for this insult to a child of the wiiiinds!"
-
...No luck. The immature dragonspawn is more trouble than it's worth; not even pet traders will take it. The feathers you gathered from a night of gullwhacking, though, fetch a bargain in a basketwoven cage and a thick covering to keep the thing quiet. Its demented screeching when you emptied it out for inspection might've helped with the last one.
...It says something about how worthless the miserable creature is when the feathers of its brethren are worth more. Some fishermen even pay in fish for their corpses, so it's worth even more dead! Nevertheless, you don't have time to head back to the shore, and you don't dare release it here.
You're stuck with it.
And with all your scrambling to ensure the bird can't cause trouble, you're out of time, and you still don't have a good present for Nyla.
Wait.
A moving target counts as a gift, right? Even if you intended on trading for a knife or bow or...something. Yeah, the newly Gifted could have precision problems with their element at first. It'd be useful.
You glare at the covered cage in your arms. "Pray that Nyla's fireblooded, bird, because if she doesn't roast you, I will. Pepper-stuffed young nightgull, skewered over hot stones, basted with lemon juice, sprinkled with spicy herbs, and served in a half-pineapple… It has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?"
Though if what Moram says is right, its very meat will try to choke you when you swallow. You're not sure if you want to risk your throat on petty revenge. You dislike cold dishes.
-
You arrive at Merry's house just before noon and see Jard at the doorway, sharpening a curved filleting knife. Waterstone—you recognize the blade's wavy grain. You'd be jealous if you didn't have one of fire.
The man looks up and waves you over with a smile. "Jet! You're a little early. Merry and Nyla are probably still clearing up shop."
You nod in greeting and sit a little ways away with the cage at your side. Jard glances at it curiously but doesn't mention it, which you're thankful for.
"How was the night?" he asks. "You were right about the mackerel—they're pretty much all we caught. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's far better seafood than limpets."
You give him an abbreviated summary of your night at the beacon. He laughs.
"Warned you, didn't I? You'll have to cast off with me one of these days. There're far friendlier creatures in the water, and everyone who lives surrounded by this much water should take a leap sometime. There's more out there than this archipelago."
"I want to go out there someday," you admit. "I hear the sea in my sleep, even in my dreams. It's been calling me for a while, but I've always had things to distract me from it."
Jard studies you with new eyes. "Sounds like you've got some real wanderlust there, kiddo. You sure don't lack desire, and you know I'd help you out where I can, so what's keeping you?"
My debt to you and Merry. Nyla. Moram.
"...I can't just leave the beacon," you say at last. "I'm the only one I know who doesn't mind the job."
The man's regard sharpens. You resist the urge to squirm—it's not usual you see Jard's serious face.
"You know, Jet," he begins, "Moram had more of a wandering spirit than anyone. He knew most the importance of following a call. If you go, leave this island, and never return, he'd understand—we all would. Though, you'd have to deal with Nyla wanting to come along!" he laughs. "Kiddo, point is, you're not stuck here. You don't owe this place anything except who you were yesterday. Get out while you're young—live a little! See the world beyond this little archipelago! You won't regret it."
"...I don't know the first thing about boats."
"What am I, a landlubber? Oh, you young people—you all never want to ask for help unless you're in deep fish guts. If old Moram hadn't snatched you up first, I'd have made you my navigator soon as you were tall enough, with your crazy star knowledge. Still would."
The ties that bind you to the island are few but strong. One day, the call might overpower even those bonds, but today is not that day. Jard can see it in your face, and from his nod, you know he understands.
You'll think about it.
The two of you spend a few minutes in amiable silence before Merry and Nyla arrive. Jard stands to greet his wife and niece with a sweeping hug.
"Welcome back, my Merrymaid, little Nyl. You ready for this?"
"Good noon, dear husband. I think you'll find we're both prepared, though I certainly can't match this one for enthusiasm."
"Gerroff, Uncle! I'm ready. Been ready. Totally good—excited, yeah—can we start already?"
Merry nudges her niece. "Aren't you forgetting something? Look who hasn't slept in and 'chickened out for the best day ever.'"
Nyla twists around in her uncle's embrace to see you standing there with one hand raised in greeting. She grins.
"You made it! See, Aunt Merry? I told you he'd come on time!"
"She was afraid you wouldn't wake up, was considering waiting right at your door and banging a pot until you woke," Merry informs you with amusement.
"I was not!" your friend says indignantly, her cinnamon hair whirling with her head. "When did I even say that?"
"Nyls, you were probably thinking so loudly that the words came out of your mouth."
"Uncle!"
Amid laughter, Nyla grabs your hand and drags you into the house, followed by Jard and Merry.
You leave the cage outside the doorway where the thing can't cause trouble.
-
After a quick lunch—your breakfast—you all are relaxing on large, flat cushions on the ground placed in a rough circle, with Nyla facing Merry and you facing Jard.
It's starting. You're going to witness something you never thought you'd see: the rise of a new Gifted. You're not sure who's anticipating it most; you see the light in Jard's eyes and the tremble in Nyla's fingers. Even Merry is a touch too calm, and you...you're barely remembering to breathe.
Then Merry begins to speak, her alto tones ringing with an air of tradition and ceremony, heavy with the weight of her ancestors.
"We are here to witness the passing of the Gift to Nyla, daughter of Nylan and my sister, Pirra. I, Merry, daughter of Moram and Lani, being of close blood and kin, acknowledge my right and role as Gifter. If any can dispute this claim, speak now."
You and Jard remain silent, and you wonder if that bit was all that necessary, considering.
Merry nods and continues. "Listen well, my family, and know there are many versions of the tale of the Gift of the Firstborn; I will tell it as my father, Moram, told me at my Gifting many years ago.
"Ancient times ago, the Esser of Fire, Water, Wind, and Earth formed their domains, and within each, they created the Firstborn: the phoenixes, the seal kin, and the dragons. Earth, watching the children of his brethren, wished instead to create beings that could take joy in all their territories. And so, with the help of his fellows, he produced the first humans, and, as they had been given the blessings of the four Esser, they could freely traverse every sphere.
"But the good times were not to last, for some humans desired the power of true creation, and with all the true elements at their command, they fought for control over the domains. In the clash of elements, Earth's heart and domain were sorely wounded, and he fell into a deep slumber; thus, the three remaining Esser tore their blessings from humanity, leaving them powerless against the monsters that rose from the battlegrounds—creatures corrupted by the spilled blood of the earth. Even some of the Firstborn were twisted in this darkness, and many fell to the claws and fangs of the once-noble beings.
"The surviving Firstborn, horrified at the slaughter, pleaded on behalf of their younger human siblings. The Esser would not rescind their judgment, but they allowed the Firstborn the ability to take human form to grant their children the right to their blood-domain, that humanity could defend itself from the risen darkness.
"Thus are we connected to the earth through our physical bodies and to the sun, sky, or sea through our hearts; and just as the Firstborn granted their human descendants the Gift for their protection, so do I, who share your blood, pass it to you."
Merry places her hands over her heart, and when she withdraws them, a tiny flame, like a sunbeam on a candle, translucent but for the waver of air, burns in her cupped palms.
"Nyla, you've proven yourself both reliable and responsible when needed, and trustworthy to both family and friends. I know of no reason why I would not share the Gift with you, my niece."
You're not breathing when she leans toward Nyla and pours the colorless fire into her shaking hands. Merry's far too experienced to burn anyone on accident, but you know instinctively that this flame would never hurt the one it was meant for. It sinks into your friend's skin, and she gasps as if waking up from an intense dream.
"May your heart and blood show your destiny," Merry says, ending with the ceremonial words of parting. And with that, the Gifting is over.
Nyla gazes at her hands as if they were forged anew, and for all you know, that might be so. "I-I got it," she murmurs. "I hear… I knew… I knew it! I've got my waves!" she cheers.
Merry catches her in a hug. "You take after your father, then. He'd be proud of you—him and your mother both. Congratulations, my little Nyla."
"Aunt Merryyyy," she groans.
Jard stands, picks her up, and spins her around.
"Not so little anymore, eh?" he chuckles. "I'll have to take you out to sea sometime. You'll love it!"
"Oh, no, dear," Merry says sweetly, "she's going to learn everything I can teach before you take her gallivanting out in the open oceans!"
You watch the scene with fondness curling your lips. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, knowing you don't have parents or blood relations. It's nearly worth it, knowing such good people, even if you never get to share the bond they have with each other.
With that, you stand and lope softly towards the doorway. They could use some family time, and you feel like you're intruding. You've paid witness to something wonderful today. Priceless. That's enough for you.
"Looks like roast nightgull is on the menu tonight, eh?" you mutter to the cage at your feet, right by the door.
As if summoned, Nyla bursts out at your heels.
"Wait! Don't go just yet!" she calls.
"I needed some air. I'm not leaving right away," you deny.
"Good, 'cause I haven't given you your present yet. Here, this's for you."
...Your present?
She presses something into your hands, something smooth as pearl and cool as a shaded stone. You goggle at the object; it is a single scale as big as your palm, silvery with a hint of blue, so shiny you can see your surroundings reflected in it. Like holding a piece of still water.
"I found it on the beach a few days ago. You wouldn't believe how hard it was not to show it to you right away!"
You hold the scale up, and large brown eyes stare back out of a face that could've been carved from lightly-roasted coconut meat. Your skin looks darker in contrast with your hair, which is as pure white as usual, but you've never realized just how different you look from everyone else, and you'd known you were different.
Bolstered by your silence, Nyla continues, "I know you'd never get yourself a mirror 'cause you're not the kind to care about that kind of thing, but I figured you couldn't refuse if it was a gift. You know, so you could see yourself a little how I see you."
Yeah. You can see it now, far more clearly than before, just how much blood you share with this island. Wherever your relatives are from, it's nowhere near here.
Your friend must've seen something in your face, because she stammers out, "D-don't think of it the wrong way, Flaky. I told you before—you're family! Family!"
...Then again, it's Nyla. She always means the best, and honestly, you're touched that she put that much thought into your gift. You'll take it for what she intended, despite your first assumptions.
That makes you feel a bit guilty about your return present.
"I'll try to remember next time," you assure her. "Uh… right. Here. Congratulations on getting your waves." You hold out the covered cage and hope for once that the positive half of the rumors about you are right.
She gasps in faux shock. "You're giving me something on a day that's not my birthday? You, Mr. Minimalist? Mr. 'The-clothes-on-my-back-are-all-I-need'?"
"It's your Gifting Day present."
Nyla snorts. "Pff, silly! Yeah, it's Gifting Day 'cause of the whole Gift thing, but it's actually tradition for the Gifted to give something to everyone else—that's me! I'm the one giving stuff, like Uncle and his new knife, and Aunt Merry's new hair tie, you know."
Now you feel dumb.
"...It was a little last-minute anyway," you mutter. "I could just get you something better for your birthday?"
"No way! You of all people got me a gift—I'm not complaining. Give it!"
You reluctantly hand over the cage, and your friend wastes no time whipping off the cloth covering.
"Kruawww? Kruaaaw!" "I, Kruakkk, have endured the murderous mutterings of this madman until I, too, feel the encroaching madness in my mind. O, give me fire, give me the storm, and never let me see my homeland again, but please, save me from this pepper-obsessed, pineapple-loving heathen!"
If you hadn't dealt with it for as long as you have, you'd almost believe the young nightgull's forlorn appearance; its wings are spread and its head is plastered to the ground as if it's prostrating itself for mercy's sake.
"Happy Gifting Day," you say into the pause, ducking your head to avoid seeing Nyla's face.
"...Seriously, Jet? A nightgull—the Malevolent Wind, Moram's Bane, terror of the night seas, cursed dragonspawn? This is the best Gifting Day present ever!"
You're not looking at her, but from her voice, you know her eyes are shining like the horizon at dawn. And when she throws her arms around your torso in a hug, you remember that Nyla's not other people. She could find treasure in the most worthless object. Knowing that, you feel a hundred feet taller.
"Alright," she muffles in your shoulder, "you can stop grinning like a duck with a defect. I can feel your neck muscles with my forehead."
You let her go. The grin, however, stays put. Your friend shakes her head and mimes flicking a pebble at you.
"How did you even get one?" she wonders, eyeing you critically.
You shrug. "It's evil. Things like that have a way of creeping up on you and hiding where you least expect them." Literally. "Whenever you think of me, throw something at it. It'll deserve every throw."
"I might end up burying it by the end of the day."
...Wait, what?
Before you can ask, she's already changed the subject. "So, what're you doing the rest of the day? Normal people don't sleep in daylight, you know."
Hm… What will you do?
[]Hang out with Nyla. Show her the view from the beacon cliff—you rarely see it during afternoons.
[]Hang out with Nyla. There might be something interesting at the boat from earlier.
[]Take your leave. Nyla should spend time with her family, and you need supplies for tonight.
-Do you check out the boat?
-[]Yes
-[]No
[]Take your leave. You have to prepare for the night...but it wouldn't hurt to invite Nyla to whack some nightgulls.-[]Yes
-[]No
-Do you check out the boat?
-[]Yes
-[]No
-[]Yes
-[]No
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- Location
- Location Location
[x]Take your leave. You have to prepare for the night...but it wouldn't hurt to invite Nyla to whack some nightgulls.
-Do you check out the boat?
-[x]Yes
-Do you check out the boat?
-[x]Yes
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Darwin flip it all, I underestimated people's need for a waifu! XD
I mean, you're gonna get on that ocean in the future whether you like it or not, destiny calls and all that, but hey, I guess it's in-character to wait.
Nah, juvenile nightgulls are quite dull to look at, unless you like that kind of soft gray color. Their feathers darken to dark blue as they age.
Edit: maybe an African Gray if you squint very, very hard from a long distance away.
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- Location
- St. Petersburg
I don't need a waifu, I need a boat! And to finally get off the island!
...maybe take Nyla along if her water magic helps her row. No procrastinators allowed!
...and maybe take revenge on that parrot for all the grief his brethren have caused us, by scaring him to death with quoting all the recipes we know. Which would be hard without Nyla, since we kinda gave it away.
...
Okay, it's official, we are eloping. It's not like we even have to try too hard.
*may or may not be serious*
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Vyslanté
The self is a prison
- Location
- European Union
You should have read the fine print when joining SV: Getting a waifu is always the priority number one
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Irl, people would call you crazy for wanting to leave a paradise island that has (almost) everything you could ever want or need. I mean, some people outright hate their blood relatives, so they wouldn't even care about the things you do.
Hm.
Day 2.2 - Reflective Perspective
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Day 2.2 - Reflective Perspective
-
You are Nyla, daughter of Nylan and Pirra, and you've lived on Florialis for as long as you can remember. You had parents...once...but they died when you were barely three years old, leaving you alone. But Aunt Merry and Uncle took you in, and they raised you to the girl you are now; you love them as if they were your mother and father.
That sadness is in the past; today is the best day of your life! Not only did you get your waves (as you knew you would), but your best friend is actually going out of his way to hang out with you!
...Admittedly, his choice of location is kinda...well, typical, but it's fine. Flaky practically lives on the clifftop for half the sky-cycle (but if you were in his place, you'd want to go somewhere other than where you spend most of your waking time).
Eh. It's been at least ten years since you last visited the beacon with the snowhead. Your apprenticeship with Aunt Merry is rigorous on most days, and that's without the help you sometimes give Uncle with the boats, and by the time the beacon's lit, you're in bed, sound asleep. It's like you and Jet are from different worlds that only cross in the early evening.
You can't deny how beautiful the view is from the beacon. The afternoon sun glitters on the sea, and the rush of the waves clashing against the black cliffs resounds in your ears and somewhere deeper, like an eye newly-opened in a world you thought you knew.
It calls. The water calls your name, whispering comfort and promise and home. It's good you're not alone, or you might give in to the siren song and throw yourself over the edge into the mercy of the ocean's fickle whims. It'd be so easy to forget… But you don't. You are Nyla, and you are a child of water, but you were a Giftless child of earth first. Just like your best friend.
"You all right?"
Jet's deep brown eyes are filled with concern, and you do your best to cope, to wipe that emotion from his face. Inhale—one...two...three—exhale. Finally, you nod and step a little farther from the edge.
"Yeah, I can take it—it's a bit overwhelming, that's all," you assure him. "The water's a little loud, but it's not like I'm hearing it with my ears. It's more like...like I'm feeling a song."
"A song?"
"I can feel things that I couldn't before. Like...the ocean's always been there, but now I know it's there. Always. It sings, or speaks, or something. Like it's singing a song I've always known but never heard until now, and I can't make out the words."
"But if you listen hard enough, you just might," he murmurs.
Your best friend has that faraway look on his face again, the same that was always on old Moram's. You don't know how, but Jet understands. He's always gotten you in a way others don't. You're the same.
...Except that he's the kind to get things done early, the weirdo. Even as you find your equilibrium with the sea, he's getting a head start on the night by piling stuff in the beacon circle. But for such a dependable and responsible guy, he's still carrying the uncertain boy he was when you first met. He's just gotten better at hiding it.
You sit across from him and bring your knees to your chest, studying his quiet features as he stacks another layer of wood in the pit, with hands roughened by honest work.
Work, but no real ambition.
"Hey, Flaky," you say, and wait till he hums in acknowledgement, "do you like working the beacon? Like, actually enjoy it?"
A shrug. "I'm the only one who's fine doing it."
"That's not what I asked. Doesn't it get kinda boring up here?"
His lips twitch in amusement. "Extremely. I fight off the forces of evil every night with nothing but a stick and my wits."
...You have a mind to reenact the time you first met him. Back then, you'd seen the back of his head over a rise and thought it was snow—the wind-tossed water that blankets the lands in the far-distant north—and you'd always wanted to make a snowball. You weren't expecting the handful of snow to yelp in pain or to be attached to something, or rather someone.
Yep. When you first met your Flaky-haired friend, you pulled his hair and made him cry. Good thing you were experienced in apologizing for misdeeds, 'cause your friend can carry a long grudge. He probably gets that from Grampapa Moram.
Funny, scary Grampapa. He'd been to Jet like Uncle was to you, practically a father; they'd complemented each other somehow, like two interlocking pieces with one other big piece missing. You could never figure out what that last bit was before old Moram died, leaving your friend with an old coat, a knife, and the beacon.
"Flaky idiot," you mutter, flicking a pebble at your best friend's feet. "You spend maybe half of your waking time completely isolated from people. Doesn't it get lonely?"
At least before, he had Grampapa, but he doesn't even have him now. The pieces that fit got torn away. Nothing fills the space but memories.
"Lonely…" Uncertainty furrows the brows under his white hair. "...Maybe," he answers after a long pause. "I've been a little restless these nights."
"Is it...the sea-longing?" you ask quietly.
You anticipate and dread his answer.
He says nothing, but his eyes and his silence speak what you've known for years. Jet doesn't want to stay on Florialis, but uncertainty keeps him here. One day, that uncertainty will leave, and so will he. Maybe in a year. Maybe tomorrow. If you were more selfish, you'd keep it from happening. It'd take only two words.
Don't go.
But how many years of tradition did you trample when you invited him to your Gifting? You don't care, as long as that lost look leaves his eyes (the way yours were once). Why? Because out of everyone in the whole world, you understand him, and he gets you.
You wish everyone else would quit staring at his hair and see him the way you do. He's not some fortune-bringer, good or bad. He's your best friend, your not-cousin, your…
He's many things. But in the end, he's Jet, your Flaky flake of a snowhead. A quiet young man with too-old eyes and a too-strong sense of duty, thoughtful to a fault, with a hidden vengeful streak (which is funny 'cause he's too nice to follow through most of the time. But cold shoulders hurt.).
With a sigh, you join Jet on the ground-side edge of the beacon, and his shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. Yep. He was worried. But you're glad he trusts you not to be overwhelmed by your Gift, just as you trust he'd pull you back if you were.
You don't know if it'll be you or him who leaves first, so you take each moment with him as if it'll be the last time you meet, and hope, someday, that your paths will join again on the wide-open sea.
-
-
You are Jet, and you're more relaxed now that Nyla's withdrawn from the cliff edge to your side. She can hear the ocean: not just its crashing, but its song. Is it the same one you hear, the one that calls you at every moment, wherever you are? You're not sure, but whatever's calling her seems more potent than your own sea-longing. Potent and dangerous.
You now understand why the waterblooded don't man the beacon. It's close to the water, but not close enough.
...The wind's picking up. You're used to the cliff winds, but your friend isn't. She's hiding a shiver behind tense shoulders, though she could just be off balance from her Gift. She won't ask. You won't offer. But you shuffle closer and move your coat to drape it over both your shoulders.
It's Nyla who breaks the silence, pointing to the open ocean. "Hey, that big ship from this morning is leaving already? The crew were a little odd, all gray and stuff. Super twitchy. One came to the shop for medicine, and he jumped when I dropped a garlic. Wonder where they came from?"
Was it the boat from last night? You cast your gaze over the docks with surprise when your inkling is confirmed. It's a full-sized ship. You've only seen a couple of those in your life.
"They sailed here from the east," you tell her. "I saw them on the horizon last watch."
"Then they basically stopped for supplies and left. Must need to get somewhere in a hurry." She turns her blue eyes on you with a turn that startles you. "Hey, you have the scale with you, right? Take it out and I'll show you something cool."
You glance to your clothes, where you'd bound the marvelous scale, and slide the reflective object from its folds. It nestles coldly in the palm of your hand.
"Put it over your eye and take a look," she bids.
You do so, with the curve outward, and suddenly, you can see the side of the ship as if you were right beside it. You pull it away and look down at Nyla.
"A spyglass?" you say wonderingly, turning the piece in your hands.
A mirror and a spyglass? How does it work?
She grins. "You really thought I'd get you something that has no practical use? I thought you knew I know you well enough."
Fair enough.
You shrug, fit the scale back over your eye, and peer outward at the ship. The Red Herald, proclaim the crimson letters at its side. She's picking up speed rapidly, all sails cast into the winds, angling towards the northeast. It's bigger than you realized then, probably holding an upper limit of 450 passengers.
You can barely make out the motley crew, but they are...strange. Just as Nyla said, they are very gray in both hair and clothes, which are worn near ragged by the sea. Their locks vary only in shade, from a rabbit-fur softness to a bluish steel, and the men are otherwise unremarkable beside their foreign appearance.
The man perched aft stands out above all—a man whose silvered hair is tinted with the barest reflection of blue, framing a grim expression that weathers him to Jard's age. By the sword at his side, you think him the captain of the vessel, though he's been scoured by the same elements as his men have.
His expression, you know all too well. It's the face of a man who's tried everything but still couldn't win.
"I've done all I can for you, boy. You'll have to do the rest yourself. You're no fool for living, but I… all I wish is to forget. Perhaps I'm the fool after all, eh, Jet?"
You tuck the scale back into your clothing and quietly wish them safe travel. Wherever that man's destination, you hope he'll be at peace in the end.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Nyla says, tracing the ship's distant figure with a finger. "Uncle says ships usually dock at the big island, so it's kinda weird this one came here. Their sails remind me of bedsheets."
Her cinnamon hair blows into her eyes, and she swipes it away with a huff. You nod absently, and your hand drops back to the ground. When had it risen?
Nyla turns beneath your coat and wraps an arm around your shoulders. Your neck muscle twitches in contact with her wind-chilled hand.
"You could just tell me if you're cold," you say, moving to give her the rest of your coat. She elbows you in the ribs before you can. "Ack! What was that for?" you grumble, holding your side.
Nyla shakes her head, and you know you're in the wrong...somehow. "Just stay still, Flaky. Enjoy the moment," she says, sinking back against your side.
She fits against you far too easily, like water conforming to the earth. Like a river or a stream to a canyon. But when earth moves, water merely changes course. You let out a breath and settle back, back in your thoughts.
Water. The sea. Boats… Jard's offer. It tempts you more than you like. More than it should. To learn how to strike out from this place, to find your destiny out there on the wide sea… you want to know.
Your gaze slides to the cinnamon-haired head resting on your shoulder. Would she miss you when you part ways? Because you will, someday. You...you want answers about your past too much to stay put. And for all she talks about adventure, despite what Jard says, she probably won't be following you—she'd probably leave before you make up your mind.
You were silent when Nyla asked about the sea-wandering, because you, as usual, are uncertain.
What do you really want?
-
As the sun tips over, washing the western sky in vermilion hues, Nyla leaves you to your task with one last hug, ending a day that you'll treasure in your memories forever...but not without first extracting a promise to have you see her tomorrow. Not that you want to disagree.
The day was shining, but night is falling, and with Nyla's departure, so are your spirits.
You'll be having plain old bananas for lunch and dinner—time passed you by when you were having fun. It's already shaping up to be a harsher night for you, as the natural elements bring their power to bear; despite the lower numbers of able nightgulls due to last night's rampage, the wind's been picking up all afternoon, and...you didn't get to replace your gull-snapped rope tether.
You have only yourself to blame if you get blown off the cliff and die. Shows what happens when you completely put the fun over the practical.
Day 2.2 - Reflective Perspective
-
You are Nyla, daughter of Nylan and Pirra, and you've lived on Florialis for as long as you can remember. You had parents...once...but they died when you were barely three years old, leaving you alone. But Aunt Merry and Uncle took you in, and they raised you to the girl you are now; you love them as if they were your mother and father.
That sadness is in the past; today is the best day of your life! Not only did you get your waves (as you knew you would), but your best friend is actually going out of his way to hang out with you!
...Admittedly, his choice of location is kinda...well, typical, but it's fine. Flaky practically lives on the clifftop for half the sky-cycle (but if you were in his place, you'd want to go somewhere other than where you spend most of your waking time).
Eh. It's been at least ten years since you last visited the beacon with the snowhead. Your apprenticeship with Aunt Merry is rigorous on most days, and that's without the help you sometimes give Uncle with the boats, and by the time the beacon's lit, you're in bed, sound asleep. It's like you and Jet are from different worlds that only cross in the early evening.
You can't deny how beautiful the view is from the beacon. The afternoon sun glitters on the sea, and the rush of the waves clashing against the black cliffs resounds in your ears and somewhere deeper, like an eye newly-opened in a world you thought you knew.
It calls. The water calls your name, whispering comfort and promise and home. It's good you're not alone, or you might give in to the siren song and throw yourself over the edge into the mercy of the ocean's fickle whims. It'd be so easy to forget… But you don't. You are Nyla, and you are a child of water, but you were a Giftless child of earth first. Just like your best friend.
"You all right?"
Jet's deep brown eyes are filled with concern, and you do your best to cope, to wipe that emotion from his face. Inhale—one...two...three—exhale. Finally, you nod and step a little farther from the edge.
"Yeah, I can take it—it's a bit overwhelming, that's all," you assure him. "The water's a little loud, but it's not like I'm hearing it with my ears. It's more like...like I'm feeling a song."
"A song?"
"I can feel things that I couldn't before. Like...the ocean's always been there, but now I know it's there. Always. It sings, or speaks, or something. Like it's singing a song I've always known but never heard until now, and I can't make out the words."
"But if you listen hard enough, you just might," he murmurs.
Your best friend has that faraway look on his face again, the same that was always on old Moram's. You don't know how, but Jet understands. He's always gotten you in a way others don't. You're the same.
...Except that he's the kind to get things done early, the weirdo. Even as you find your equilibrium with the sea, he's getting a head start on the night by piling stuff in the beacon circle. But for such a dependable and responsible guy, he's still carrying the uncertain boy he was when you first met. He's just gotten better at hiding it.
You sit across from him and bring your knees to your chest, studying his quiet features as he stacks another layer of wood in the pit, with hands roughened by honest work.
Work, but no real ambition.
"Hey, Flaky," you say, and wait till he hums in acknowledgement, "do you like working the beacon? Like, actually enjoy it?"
A shrug. "I'm the only one who's fine doing it."
"That's not what I asked. Doesn't it get kinda boring up here?"
His lips twitch in amusement. "Extremely. I fight off the forces of evil every night with nothing but a stick and my wits."
...You have a mind to reenact the time you first met him. Back then, you'd seen the back of his head over a rise and thought it was snow—the wind-tossed water that blankets the lands in the far-distant north—and you'd always wanted to make a snowball. You weren't expecting the handful of snow to yelp in pain or to be attached to something, or rather someone.
Yep. When you first met your Flaky-haired friend, you pulled his hair and made him cry. Good thing you were experienced in apologizing for misdeeds, 'cause your friend can carry a long grudge. He probably gets that from Grampapa Moram.
Funny, scary Grampapa. He'd been to Jet like Uncle was to you, practically a father; they'd complemented each other somehow, like two interlocking pieces with one other big piece missing. You could never figure out what that last bit was before old Moram died, leaving your friend with an old coat, a knife, and the beacon.
"Flaky idiot," you mutter, flicking a pebble at your best friend's feet. "You spend maybe half of your waking time completely isolated from people. Doesn't it get lonely?"
At least before, he had Grampapa, but he doesn't even have him now. The pieces that fit got torn away. Nothing fills the space but memories.
"Lonely…" Uncertainty furrows the brows under his white hair. "...Maybe," he answers after a long pause. "I've been a little restless these nights."
"Is it...the sea-longing?" you ask quietly.
You anticipate and dread his answer.
He says nothing, but his eyes and his silence speak what you've known for years. Jet doesn't want to stay on Florialis, but uncertainty keeps him here. One day, that uncertainty will leave, and so will he. Maybe in a year. Maybe tomorrow. If you were more selfish, you'd keep it from happening. It'd take only two words.
Don't go.
But how many years of tradition did you trample when you invited him to your Gifting? You don't care, as long as that lost look leaves his eyes (the way yours were once). Why? Because out of everyone in the whole world, you understand him, and he gets you.
You wish everyone else would quit staring at his hair and see him the way you do. He's not some fortune-bringer, good or bad. He's your best friend, your not-cousin, your…
He's many things. But in the end, he's Jet, your Flaky flake of a snowhead. A quiet young man with too-old eyes and a too-strong sense of duty, thoughtful to a fault, with a hidden vengeful streak (which is funny 'cause he's too nice to follow through most of the time. But cold shoulders hurt.).
With a sigh, you join Jet on the ground-side edge of the beacon, and his shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. Yep. He was worried. But you're glad he trusts you not to be overwhelmed by your Gift, just as you trust he'd pull you back if you were.
You don't know if it'll be you or him who leaves first, so you take each moment with him as if it'll be the last time you meet, and hope, someday, that your paths will join again on the wide-open sea.
-
-
You are Jet, and you're more relaxed now that Nyla's withdrawn from the cliff edge to your side. She can hear the ocean: not just its crashing, but its song. Is it the same one you hear, the one that calls you at every moment, wherever you are? You're not sure, but whatever's calling her seems more potent than your own sea-longing. Potent and dangerous.
You now understand why the waterblooded don't man the beacon. It's close to the water, but not close enough.
...The wind's picking up. You're used to the cliff winds, but your friend isn't. She's hiding a shiver behind tense shoulders, though she could just be off balance from her Gift. She won't ask. You won't offer. But you shuffle closer and move your coat to drape it over both your shoulders.
It's Nyla who breaks the silence, pointing to the open ocean. "Hey, that big ship from this morning is leaving already? The crew were a little odd, all gray and stuff. Super twitchy. One came to the shop for medicine, and he jumped when I dropped a garlic. Wonder where they came from?"
Was it the boat from last night? You cast your gaze over the docks with surprise when your inkling is confirmed. It's a full-sized ship. You've only seen a couple of those in your life.
"They sailed here from the east," you tell her. "I saw them on the horizon last watch."
"Then they basically stopped for supplies and left. Must need to get somewhere in a hurry." She turns her blue eyes on you with a turn that startles you. "Hey, you have the scale with you, right? Take it out and I'll show you something cool."
You glance to your clothes, where you'd bound the marvelous scale, and slide the reflective object from its folds. It nestles coldly in the palm of your hand.
"Put it over your eye and take a look," she bids.
You do so, with the curve outward, and suddenly, you can see the side of the ship as if you were right beside it. You pull it away and look down at Nyla.
"A spyglass?" you say wonderingly, turning the piece in your hands.
A mirror and a spyglass? How does it work?
She grins. "You really thought I'd get you something that has no practical use? I thought you knew I know you well enough."
Fair enough.
You shrug, fit the scale back over your eye, and peer outward at the ship. The Red Herald, proclaim the crimson letters at its side. She's picking up speed rapidly, all sails cast into the winds, angling towards the northeast. It's bigger than you realized then, probably holding an upper limit of 450 passengers.
You can barely make out the motley crew, but they are...strange. Just as Nyla said, they are very gray in both hair and clothes, which are worn near ragged by the sea. Their locks vary only in shade, from a rabbit-fur softness to a bluish steel, and the men are otherwise unremarkable beside their foreign appearance.
The man perched aft stands out above all—a man whose silvered hair is tinted with the barest reflection of blue, framing a grim expression that weathers him to Jard's age. By the sword at his side, you think him the captain of the vessel, though he's been scoured by the same elements as his men have.
His expression, you know all too well. It's the face of a man who's tried everything but still couldn't win.
"I've done all I can for you, boy. You'll have to do the rest yourself. You're no fool for living, but I… all I wish is to forget. Perhaps I'm the fool after all, eh, Jet?"
You tuck the scale back into your clothing and quietly wish them safe travel. Wherever that man's destination, you hope he'll be at peace in the end.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Nyla says, tracing the ship's distant figure with a finger. "Uncle says ships usually dock at the big island, so it's kinda weird this one came here. Their sails remind me of bedsheets."
Her cinnamon hair blows into her eyes, and she swipes it away with a huff. You nod absently, and your hand drops back to the ground. When had it risen?
Nyla turns beneath your coat and wraps an arm around your shoulders. Your neck muscle twitches in contact with her wind-chilled hand.
"You could just tell me if you're cold," you say, moving to give her the rest of your coat. She elbows you in the ribs before you can. "Ack! What was that for?" you grumble, holding your side.
Nyla shakes her head, and you know you're in the wrong...somehow. "Just stay still, Flaky. Enjoy the moment," she says, sinking back against your side.
She fits against you far too easily, like water conforming to the earth. Like a river or a stream to a canyon. But when earth moves, water merely changes course. You let out a breath and settle back, back in your thoughts.
Water. The sea. Boats… Jard's offer. It tempts you more than you like. More than it should. To learn how to strike out from this place, to find your destiny out there on the wide sea… you want to know.
Your gaze slides to the cinnamon-haired head resting on your shoulder. Would she miss you when you part ways? Because you will, someday. You...you want answers about your past too much to stay put. And for all she talks about adventure, despite what Jard says, she probably won't be following you—she'd probably leave before you make up your mind.
You were silent when Nyla asked about the sea-wandering, because you, as usual, are uncertain.
What do you really want?
-
As the sun tips over, washing the western sky in vermilion hues, Nyla leaves you to your task with one last hug, ending a day that you'll treasure in your memories forever...but not without first extracting a promise to have you see her tomorrow. Not that you want to disagree.
The day was shining, but night is falling, and with Nyla's departure, so are your spirits.
You'll be having plain old bananas for lunch and dinner—time passed you by when you were having fun. It's already shaping up to be a harsher night for you, as the natural elements bring their power to bear; despite the lower numbers of able nightgulls due to last night's rampage, the wind's been picking up all afternoon, and...you didn't get to replace your gull-snapped rope tether.
You have only yourself to blame if you get blown off the cliff and die. Shows what happens when you completely put the fun over the practical.
What will you do tonight to protect the beacon?
[]Same strategy as before. Find a good stick.
[]You have a woodpile and rocks from the cliff. Build a makeshift shelter around the beacon.
[]You have a firestone knife. Use it for everything—it burns both wood and flesh.
[]Ignore everything. Concentrate on making the fire bigger to survive the winds.
[]Write in.
[]Same strategy as before. Find a good stick.
[]You have a woodpile and rocks from the cliff. Build a makeshift shelter around the beacon.
[]You have a firestone knife. Use it for everything—it burns both wood and flesh.
[]Ignore everything. Concentrate on making the fire bigger to survive the winds.
[]Write in.
Last edited:
- Location
- SV's Only Complete Persona Quest
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x]You have a firestone knife. Use it for everything—it burns both wood and flesh.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
Another victim claimed by the vicious nightgulls. When will their reign of terror end!?
I'd too get tired of living if all I had to do was fight back some birds.
[x]You have a woodpile and rocks from the cliff. Build a makeshift shelter around the beacon.
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
Never.
They're nocturnal seagulls with aerokinesis and a blood-deep hatred towards fire. Basically murderous rabbits with wings. They multiply....I mean, technically, there was an easy way to get rid of them. But you all locked it. The hard way is much, much more dangerous, probably not worth the risk, and you haven't encountered it yet.
- Location
- Location Location
[x]You have a woodpile and rocks from the cliff. Build a makeshift shelter around the beacon.
Day 2.3 - Black Sky
Lithos Alto
Herald of Red Herrings
- Location
- Inside my head
-
Day 2.3 - Black Sky
-
You lay out a framework of branches a foot wide around the beacon in a semicircle around the beacon, which allows the light to be seen from the seaward side. Some larger rocks serve to wedge the base together. You stop when the woven wall reaches waist height. Any taller, and you risk the winds blowing it over.
The sky is black tonight; a fell omen, for a new moon looms in the dark. Only stars pinprick the darkness. No sane man would cast off tonight, you think, but there's a chance. You tie the strip of cloth over one eye and ready yourself. Duty calls.
When the nightgulls attack, they come on silent wings; the wind muffles their flight. The only sign of their assault is a flash of iridescent blue and the whump of air against your barrier. It staggers and lists but holds...for now.
No juveniles rush the beacon. It's an adults-only dance tonight. A fierce zephyr catches you at the knees, and you barely keep from buckling.
...Not just the adults, but their rambunctious grandparent. You can fight gulls, but you can't fight the true elements, the intangible forces—not when you're at the border of their domain.
Another gust tugs your coat toward the edge with you attached to it. It's all you can do to keep your balance. In response, you cast your coat aside and pin it with a large rock; it's better than having it drag you to your doom. Your movement and the beacon will have to be enough for warmth, at least until the winds die down. If they die down.
The moonless sky wails mournfully. Pitifully. But it's a lie. Wind is the most deceptive of all the elements, and your usual opponents find this too, a couple losing course on the wing to be smashed down by you.
The dance at the border between earth and sky is fierce and cold in the light of the beacon. You're doubly careful without a tether, but with the cutting gusts pushing you to and fro from both gull and sky, you're feeling quite grim—a wide contrast from your pleasant afternoon.
It's not long before dark blue bodies litter the fire circle—you're in no mood for playing around tonight, with the wind screaming that you don't belong here! You count twelve birds lying slain or injured.
You switch your eye patch for a moment to face the light, quickly shoring up the shelter around beacon.
Kruaaaw! "For the Black Dragon!"
Number thirteen smashes into your face at full speed as your eye is dazzled by the light. Dazed, you swipe at the creature to throw it off only to realize its talons are tangled in your hair like a fly in a web.
The nightgull buffets your head with both wings, each boxing your ears with sheer air pressure, destroying your balance. But you know where it is; you slap upward and grab, tear, rip the bird from your hair, uncaring of the white strands in its talons or the stickiness of blood seeping from scrapes and clawing, and fling the thing to the rocky clifftop.
You try to stand upright, ears still ringing, the balance, the roll, surf-and-wind fuzzing everything to gray noise. You miss a step, stumble, and pitch over. The beacon...it's farther away than you remember. It's so easy to lose orientation in the dark. And now…
.
?!
.
.
You're
.
falling.
.
.
.
.
Terror is your reality.
You crash feet-first into the frothing black, the impact jarring both breath and senses from your body. The waves swallow you instantly; it feels like a giant hand is restraining your struggles, and you do struggle, fighting to get air into your lungs.
Your mind switches with a click to engage the peril.
From the deafening roar of the surf and the few stars not hidden by the overhang, you've fallen off the worst side of the cliff, where the breakers surge forth and dash against the black rocks, some worn smooth while others lie jagged beneath the surface.
The sea inhales, and you duck underwater with a desperate lungful of oxygen, the lingering sting of salt drying your throat. The bearing wave hurls the water mercilessly. You're tumbling, spinning, with your sense of direction washed away.
Air!
The swell throws you up, out, and the night sky surrounds your vision. Breathe! —under again.
The upwelling shoves you forward, and you bash into a rock with the force of a dying wave—clench! You cling to the outcrop desperately before the sea can drag you away, back to the deeps, into a domain you're trespassing on. Had the wave been any stronger, you'd be stunned or critically wounded.
But others are forming right behind it. You don't know how long you can withstand the onslaught.
Your body's cold, soaked, and bruised all over, cut up by the rocks; every little wound burns, doused by saltwater, and your veins course fear through every limb. It's enough to make a lesser man give in and curse his birth. But you, you take a moment to groan, grit your teeth, and curse the nightgulls with all the pain in your feet and lower legs. It'll be a miracle if nothing's broken.
You're alive… for now.
The cliff blocks the beacon's flame from your sight, allowing only enough light to silhouette the clifftop towering overhead, as if taunting you with just how far you've fallen. You've gone over before, but never on a night so dark into a sea like pitch. Never alone.
You Fire-blasted old man, how did you ever deal with going in after me?
All you have is your firestone knife, a mirror-spyglass scale, a weather-battered body, and your brain. No Gift. No control. Barely any light. You've never been more afraid. But in spite of the fear, the adrenaline, the desperation, your mind is clear and you don't lack the will to live.
The beacon can take a little beating. You made sure to take out all the gulls you could, and neither they nor the winds had destroyed your makeshift wall...yet.
But you'll never find out if it'll hold if you don't get back alive.
You'll never find out… anything.
You could die here, alone, unknown, bloodless, mourned by maybe three people. The domain of Water forgives no trespassers.
Day 2.3 - Black Sky
-
You lay out a framework of branches a foot wide around the beacon in a semicircle around the beacon, which allows the light to be seen from the seaward side. Some larger rocks serve to wedge the base together. You stop when the woven wall reaches waist height. Any taller, and you risk the winds blowing it over.
The sky is black tonight; a fell omen, for a new moon looms in the dark. Only stars pinprick the darkness. No sane man would cast off tonight, you think, but there's a chance. You tie the strip of cloth over one eye and ready yourself. Duty calls.
When the nightgulls attack, they come on silent wings; the wind muffles their flight. The only sign of their assault is a flash of iridescent blue and the whump of air against your barrier. It staggers and lists but holds...for now.
No juveniles rush the beacon. It's an adults-only dance tonight. A fierce zephyr catches you at the knees, and you barely keep from buckling.
...Not just the adults, but their rambunctious grandparent. You can fight gulls, but you can't fight the true elements, the intangible forces—not when you're at the border of their domain.
Another gust tugs your coat toward the edge with you attached to it. It's all you can do to keep your balance. In response, you cast your coat aside and pin it with a large rock; it's better than having it drag you to your doom. Your movement and the beacon will have to be enough for warmth, at least until the winds die down. If they die down.
The moonless sky wails mournfully. Pitifully. But it's a lie. Wind is the most deceptive of all the elements, and your usual opponents find this too, a couple losing course on the wing to be smashed down by you.
The dance at the border between earth and sky is fierce and cold in the light of the beacon. You're doubly careful without a tether, but with the cutting gusts pushing you to and fro from both gull and sky, you're feeling quite grim—a wide contrast from your pleasant afternoon.
It's not long before dark blue bodies litter the fire circle—you're in no mood for playing around tonight, with the wind screaming that you don't belong here! You count twelve birds lying slain or injured.
You switch your eye patch for a moment to face the light, quickly shoring up the shelter around beacon.
Kruaaaw! "For the Black Dragon!"
Number thirteen smashes into your face at full speed as your eye is dazzled by the light. Dazed, you swipe at the creature to throw it off only to realize its talons are tangled in your hair like a fly in a web.
The nightgull buffets your head with both wings, each boxing your ears with sheer air pressure, destroying your balance. But you know where it is; you slap upward and grab, tear, rip the bird from your hair, uncaring of the white strands in its talons or the stickiness of blood seeping from scrapes and clawing, and fling the thing to the rocky clifftop.
You try to stand upright, ears still ringing, the balance, the roll, surf-and-wind fuzzing everything to gray noise. You miss a step, stumble, and pitch over. The beacon...it's farther away than you remember. It's so easy to lose orientation in the dark. And now…
.
?!
.
.
You're
.
falling.
.
.
.
.
Terror is your reality.
You crash feet-first into the frothing black, the impact jarring both breath and senses from your body. The waves swallow you instantly; it feels like a giant hand is restraining your struggles, and you do struggle, fighting to get air into your lungs.
Your mind switches with a click to engage the peril.
From the deafening roar of the surf and the few stars not hidden by the overhang, you've fallen off the worst side of the cliff, where the breakers surge forth and dash against the black rocks, some worn smooth while others lie jagged beneath the surface.
The sea inhales, and you duck underwater with a desperate lungful of oxygen, the lingering sting of salt drying your throat. The bearing wave hurls the water mercilessly. You're tumbling, spinning, with your sense of direction washed away.
Air!
The swell throws you up, out, and the night sky surrounds your vision. Breathe! —under again.
The upwelling shoves you forward, and you bash into a rock with the force of a dying wave—clench! You cling to the outcrop desperately before the sea can drag you away, back to the deeps, into a domain you're trespassing on. Had the wave been any stronger, you'd be stunned or critically wounded.
But others are forming right behind it. You don't know how long you can withstand the onslaught.
Your body's cold, soaked, and bruised all over, cut up by the rocks; every little wound burns, doused by saltwater, and your veins course fear through every limb. It's enough to make a lesser man give in and curse his birth. But you, you take a moment to groan, grit your teeth, and curse the nightgulls with all the pain in your feet and lower legs. It'll be a miracle if nothing's broken.
You're alive… for now.
The cliff blocks the beacon's flame from your sight, allowing only enough light to silhouette the clifftop towering overhead, as if taunting you with just how far you've fallen. You've gone over before, but never on a night so dark into a sea like pitch. Never alone.
You Fire-blasted old man, how did you ever deal with going in after me?
All you have is your firestone knife, a mirror-spyglass scale, a weather-battered body, and your brain. No Gift. No control. Barely any light. You've never been more afraid. But in spite of the fear, the adrenaline, the desperation, your mind is clear and you don't lack the will to live.
The beacon can take a little beating. You made sure to take out all the gulls you could, and neither they nor the winds had destroyed your makeshift wall...yet.
But you'll never find out if it'll hold if you don't get back alive.
You'll never find out… anything.
You could die here, alone, unknown, bloodless, mourned by maybe three people. The domain of Water forgives no trespassers.
How will you survive?
[]Resist. Try to swim against the waves toward the beach.
[]Resist. Try to get a foothold on the cliff to climb back up.
[]Stay still. Cling to the rock as long as you can and wait for help to come.
[]Go with the flow. It might wash you ashore.
[]Go with the flow. Resist if you think the danger is high.
[]Write in.
[]Resist. Try to swim against the waves toward the beach.
[]Resist. Try to get a foothold on the cliff to climb back up.
[]Stay still. Cling to the rock as long as you can and wait for help to come.
[]Go with the flow. It might wash you ashore.
[]Go with the flow. Resist if you think the danger is high.
[]Write in.