Triton's Destiny

Part One

"See you later, Emilie!" Tristan waved over his shoulder and smiled as he left the warm, vanilla-scented atmosphere of the bakery, clutching a paper bag tightly in his fist. "Thanks for the snack!"

"Enjoy it!" the baker called from the kitchen. "Thank you for always delivering my messages so promptly."

He nodded and waved once more, stepping out into the humid, salty air, tugging his jacket collar up to ward off the chilly breeze from the ocean. Gazing to the west, he saw dark clouds gathering on the horizon and the waves in the harbor beginning to froth. A storm was brewing. Already, he heard sharp orders carrying from the ships docked along the pier, calls of 'batten down' and 'furl the canvas' and 'lash the yards' punctuating the brief silences between the fickle bursts of wind. Tristan shuddered as he watched the tall masts rising above the dockyards begin to sway. He wouldn't have gotten aboard one of those ships even in a flat calm; he didn't want to be anywhere near one of them during a storm.

A fresh gust whipped through his brown hair, sending it tumbling into his eyes. Shoving it out of his way, he huffed a frustrated sigh. He still had a handful of messages to deliver, but they'd have to wait until later. With the weather bearing down on Wyntos Key, he had no choice but to hurry back to the lighthouse to secure it just like the sailors were battening down their ships. Tucking everything into the pocket of his satchel, he secured the flap to keep it all dry and turned at the next street, hastening down the hill toward the point. He wouldn't have a lot of time, so he was already running through his mental checklist to secure the messenger birds' aviary. They were the most vulnerable and, therefore, his top priority. Looking to the horizon once more, he saw the sky's fury rolling toward him. His pace quickened. The last place he wanted to be was out in the open when the storm broke.

Just as he left the shelter of the closely packed town buildings, a fierce gale nearly knocked him off his feet, making him stumble on the boardwalk and forcing him to stop to regain his balance. He was beginning to think he wouldn't make it back to the lighthouse at all. Casting a frantic glance around, he looked for someplace to take shelter, but the only establishment that looked open was the dockside tavern, which was ablaze with light, as if in defiance of the weather. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to stay long. He didn't put a lot of trust in the transient maritime population, so the sooner he could get home, the better off he'd be.

The tavern door burst open as he reached for the handle and he startled, a high-pitched and very undignified yelp escaping from his gaping mouth. Dumbfounded, he stared into the steely grey eyes looking at him with cold disdain. Remembering himself a moment later, he gasped and ducked his head, stepping out of the way. "Sorry. Please excuse me."

"Will ya listen to this one?" Those cold grey eyes flashed with annoyance and their owner shoved rough, callused fingers through a shock of blond hair. "How very polite."

A man with silver hair laughed behind him. With his pale skin and light blue eyes, he looked like some ice prince of a northern kingdom. When he spoke, though, he sounded anything but cultured and refined. "Ain't got much use for manners 'ere, eh Zach?"

"Nope," the blond said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Which means this tenderfoot ain't no sailor. Are ya, boy?"

Tristan bristled. These men hardly looked older than he was, maybe by a year or two, but certainly not old enough to be calling him 'boy'. Their attitude intimidated him, though, and despite his indignation, he found himself mortifyingly flustered. "I... I..."

The third man tipped his head back and laughed at him. "A right eloquent git, ain't ya?" His brown eyes held no warmth in them and his equally drab brown hair was greasy.

Zach glared at Tristan again. "Ya obviously got no business here, so why don'cha run off like a good lad?"

"Run off home to Momma, whelp." The silver-haired man smirked.