Heatwave

Part 11

Outside the scrambling city of Wormster, opposite the side we started on, is a small town on the coast. Their main purpose is to manage the beach of docks there, and their main source of income is strictly based on the airships.

The houses are wide and low to the ground, their rooves covered in solar panels and perches for their tamed water-dragons. The coast was nearly covered in docks, which were built atop rock-beaches. Long planks of dark-stained wood reached out over the water and roped in the airships.

Airships look identical to the ships and boats of the old-world, the main difference is that these ride a few feet above the surface of the churning water. The gleaming metal bottoms get splashed with the water from below them but no barnacles cling to their undersides and no leaks fill their bellies.

"At'rnoon." A sailor nodded his head at us.

I smiled weakly and nodded back, surprised at the calmness of the seamen to the sight of Rahn. Then again, their streets are walked by man and water-dragon alike, so my confusion has no bases in reality.

"Excuse me," Rahn begged pardon, "Which of these vessels is headed to the Fellspire Mountains?

"Just a one." The sailor answered in a jerky sea-slang. "The Rackam," he said, pointing to a navy airship decorated in a bright yellow stripe, "and 'er chief, Capt'n Breck."

"Hmm." Rahn looked the airship over carefully, "and where can we find the good Captain Breck?"

"Oh, 'e's prob'ly drainin' the pub down thata' way."

I frowned at the illiterate sailor, Rahn nodded gracefully and said thank you, then walked down the street the man had indicated.

"Why do they talk like that?" I asked, slightly disgusted.

"Hmm?" Rahn hummed, looking dreamily at the airships and coast houses.

"Why do they talk like that?" I repeated, "With all the missing sounds and chopped off a's?"

"Oh," Rahn smiled with his shoulders, "It's just what the water does to someone, Eamon, just like how it can affect the way a man walks, it affects the way he speaks too."

I made a face signifying disgust, but Rahn didn't notice.

At the end of the dusty street was a dirty little cabin with the words The Great Lurker painted onto a chipped piece of washed-up boat debris. The walls were almost solid looking but the stale smell of the interior had dispersed to the air around the tavern as well. Inside, shafts of golden morning light settled reflectively onto sticky boat-debris tables and chairs and baked the spilt messes into the briny wood. The air was rank with the stench of sea salt and sweaty, unwashed men, the bartender was chatting idly with an obviously long-time customer, leaning over onto his elbows with a musty rag hanging stiffly out from between his fingers.

The sailors and other random consumers of the sea-side tavern gave hardly a glance to the great grey dragon walking deftly between their tables and stools; they did however take notice to the lonely young man standing parentless beside him.

"Don't got nothing nice 'nough 'fer ya, lad." Said the bartender as we approached.

"Actually, we're here looking for Captain Breck." Rahn explained, speaking pounds of intelligence into the room.

"Over in there corner."

Rahn nodded his thanks again and followed the bartender's nubby, pointing finger.

Captain Breck was a stout, bulky man with a short curly beard and a balding head of black hair. His white shirt had long since turned yellow to match his teeth and his breath was as bad as his sea-slang speech.