Promised

Through the Waves

Water churned, parted by bowing bowsprit and oar. Frothed foam glistening a schooner's keel, scraped then flung by hand and knife. Kerchiefed figures scrabbled nets, heaving cranberries to a oblong device. A glass encased backboard riddled by jutting spires.

Berries bumbled, sorted by size. Debris wrenched free, shook for salt then draped on palings. Nimble fingers nibbling berries too small for use.

Rosy sun bounded cloud to cloud, shimmering staircases above and below withering twilight. Second sun melted through wave spray, cool light grasped in the hand for a moment, flooding out as the boat hauled starboard, leaving hungry minnows behind, suckling skin with gasping mouths. Perpetually surprised these current fish, wonder what they think.

Lonely oar-man, bracing them still on undersea rocks, straining the oar 'til she arched, thrummed on the rudder an echoing tune, chanting heartily, chorusing really as was his captain right.

"Salt brine caked o'er the foreside baler! Salt brine caked o'er the aft most trailer! Salt brine caked o'er the topside layer, ear-ly in the mornin'!"

Berry-men answer him, threshing their nets, "Sail away, watch her rise up! Slave all day, 'til the salt grains dry up! Burn our way through tack n' curl up, ear-ly in the mornin'!"

Lantern bearer, oiling his boots, flame globe singeing beard hairs as he labored, pouring excess fire starter down his leathers, "Boil 'em in copper wit' eight pound sugar! Stir 'em clockwise under moonshine dripper! Drown it down when it turns next winter, ear-ly in the mornin'!"

"Sail away, watch her rise up! Slave all day, 'til the salt grains dry up! Burn our way through tack n' curl up, ear-ly in the mornin'!"

Bearing down the middle isle, the Athenaise and her crew dropped anchor at the presence of broiling smoke.

Drying his dress over blue flames, who knew glass, wood, and stone burned so hot, waving ecstatically as the ship grounded, Hervath gave a bow to the oar-man, "Avast Qarxtel! How fares the crop this morn?"

Wriggling his ears, Qarxtel leapt ashore, moving towards Augur's slumped form, "Bring me rope!"

Don't start, don't start Hervath. It isn't worth it. Be civil, be concise, "Come now, not even a acknowledgement? It's been three hundred years."

Tusks mashed, the goblin's tail slapping water, "Four hundred and six. Since you sunk my craft Hervath and lost a year's worth of stock. Like the daft pixie you are."

That was a new detail.

"Odd, I don't remember growing wings on my back."

Two other's approached, tossing Qarxtel tarred strands.

"You were probably too busy chatting up ogres to notice."

"You're worse than anything on your liquor."

Rolling his eyes, "Says the one who threw her clothes to the mizzen mast Xetxerl. I also don't recall you complaining when I sat on your lap mister Ouqxut."

Both goblins shrugged, helping lift Augur who was bound arms behind chest, legs tucked crossed, tied about his shins.

He was not going to appreciate that.

"Actually, I didn't bring that one here to be carted off. We've something to ask you."

Qarxtel waved his arm, settling to his post at the oar once more, "Your business not mine."

This was the issue working with Dusker's. Always so task oriented. Blue hued buffoons.

Civility. We're trying to be nice this time, remember? Your not allowed to cause another disturbance. In, out, look at the sleeping one, isn't he peaceful. Be as he.