68th of Fall, 511 AV
The sea rumbled.
The shack, half crumbling out over the dirty lane, was strangely out of place by the coast. Tufts of grass swayed madly under the biting wind, smoky, acrid whips lashing away from the squat chimney. There was a scent of rain in the dismal air, the rattle of shutters being closed. Ulric sat on his rickety bench by the door, regarding the splotchy, foreboding pewter skies, a clay jar of wine by his elbow and the tarry folds of a net strewn over his lap. There’s a storm coming, he thought, not sure if his mind was being tediously slow, or just cryptic.
The fisherfolk who hadn’t already landed their motley crafts were now scurrying to do so. Taking a firmer grip on his needle of fluted bone, he idly considered the curving prows of skiffs grinding upon the wet, stony beach among a rush of whitely foaming spray, the cracking of tawdry sails caught up in the cruel gusts, the creaking of worn timbers and long oars plying at their locks, the tautly straining ropes. There were a few cries, mostly from the fishwives that bided in their larger, but similarly crude shacks, for he could scarcely hear the outlying specks by the crafts.
“Wish I was out there,” he offered bleakly, casting a sidelong look at his Gasvik, whose blunt features and blue-tusked snout was the only part of him that poked beyond the door’s shadowy chink.
“Iasnnf gobe,” the Gasvik growled, swiftly receded into the murk and leaving him with only his thoughts. Ulric just gave a shrug.
“I love you, too,” he chuckled, unwinding the skein of rough twine as he wove his needle through a frayed patch in the net, mending the gaping rift as best he could. He worked steadily, the sting of the wind coloring his face red, pausing only when he heard the stark ravings of crows. Ah, my dear, cackling warders, he snorted, back to renew their somber vow of feasting on my putrefying flesh. I wish them joy in that, at least. If we go back to the mud, we might as well go usefully. He waved at them, the brief waver of his scarred palm perfectly matching the rustle of their dark, shabby wings. “Go on, tear at some other fool.”
Ulric resumed his labors, casting eyes over the crashing surf, the slate-grey, faintly greenish tinge of the breakers. He could almost taste the salty brine on his lips. He sucked in a deep breath, thought he felt the sting of an icy drop on the ridge of his bearded cheek. The fur cloak was inside, the hearth with its bright, warm tongues of flame, but for that instant, he only wished to sit on his lonely bench, to shiver and feel the tendrils of rain rushing through his hair, down his face.
The needle came to a halt, so he unwound more twine, bent again to the task. The sea rumbled. Hard, wet feet beat on the packed earth, nets slithering in their wake, a meager catch smacking wetly. There was a bark of a dog, the bang of a hanging shutter, the shriek of a baby.
And then a clap of thunder.
