A Dream of Ships and Magic

I shielded my eyes against the harsh yellow glare emitted by the lantern hanging outside the door. It and the hundreds of others lining the street were the only light sources to be had at this early hour, for the sun had yet to bless us with its morning appearance. I stretched my arms to relieve my shoulders of their morning stiffness and filled my lungs with thick, salty air. After a satisfying pop somewhere in my upper back, I lowered them once more and made my way towards the docks. With every step towards the sea, the air thickened with an offensive odor of brine mixed with day old fish. The smell seemed to cling to everything on the street. Each small, square house was coated in the stench, assaulting my nose. The homes across the street showed no signs of movement. Perhaps the owners were trying to hide from the foul odor themselves. I shook my head and rubbed my cheeks to warm them, then slipped my hands into a pair of cowhide mittens. I needed to hurry to the market.

Despite my distaste for early mornings, I knew it was the only chance I had of securing a fish before the Glacial Fishery got their hands on the new catches. Once they had packaged and sealed the fish, it would not only be less fresh but also twice as expensive as the catches sold on the docks. I only hoped that the private fishermen had managed a successful hunt during the night. I thrust my hand into the pocket of my pants and felt a disappointingly small number of silver pieces rattle against one another. Alas, there would be no great dinner tonight even if I could haggle out a good deal. From further down the street, I heard the clatter of a hanging wooden store sign rapping against a wall and braced myself for the impending gale. I clutched at my leather cap as the gust of frigid wind whipped between the houses, bringing with it a new smell: the warm aroma of cinnamon. My eyes widened, and I broke into a run. The smell of cinnamon this early in the morning meant but one thing: fire magic; in Port Glacier, where there was fire magic, there was a ship mage.

As I rounded the corner at the end of the street, I turned my eyes towards the docks and the frozen sea beyond them. Hints of the approaching sunrise had begun to tinge the otherwise gray sky with streaks of pink and red, which were reflected onto the ice below. Closer to shore where the ice was less plentiful, the surface of the sea was calm, giving the docks a strangely serene appearance. Small wooden dinghies bumped harmlessly against the soft rubber edges of the smaller jetties. I watched a pair of mangy wharf rats scramble along the green, algae-infested wooden pier that extended a few hundred feet into the sea. Their beady red eyes flicked back and forth as they searched for any hint of food, greasy fur shining uncannily in the morning light. They paused by a pair of wooden crates, their noses twitching curiously as they tried to determine if the contents would be edible. Apart from the rats, the port was mostly empty; my only company was a few sailors who had likely not yet slept as well as others seeking out cheap morning bargains. However, we were not to be alone for long.

Cutting a wide swath through a sizable layer of sea ice was a large, wooden vessel boasting three massive cloth sails. Crimson and yellow tongues of flame erupted toward the icy sea below from a man stood on the bow, melting the ice enough that the iron plating on the ship's hull could slice through it with ease. Several parraspray followed behind the ship, their great red feathery wings flapping excitedly as they tried to snatch the fish-filled nets tied down to the ship's deck. One of the larger birds swooped low towards the ship with its claws outstretched and was met with a blinding flash of light and an accompanying crack of thunder, sending its smoking body tumbling backwards and into the frigid water below. The rest of the surrounding parraspray let out piercing screeches as they wheeled higher into the air and headed back out to sea. I saw their sword-like talons glint in the dawn light as the creatures departed and shivered. As always, I was thankful for the guards and mages who kept the lethal beasts from preying on Port Glacier. Life was hard enough without worrying about 6-foot tall birds hunting us on our own streets.