Rover of the Sands
You remember Slugger’s face when he met you this evening at the stroke of six for your nightly pint. It was blanched an unnatural white and his fingers were shaking. But his fingers always shake. He can’t be long now for this world, that’s what everybody says. Yet for as long as you’ve known him, even in his deepest stupors, Slugger has never truly spoken nonsense. There has always been a kernel of truth, even in his most outlandish rantings. What’s more, Slugger O’Toole has never had an imagination of any kind. He never just sees things. But today was different. Again and again he repeated those three vague words: “I saw something.” Then you plied him with his first pint and his fingers stopped dancing on the table. But he never exactly retracted his words either, not after the second pint and not after his sixth. He even warned you with that nonsense about having Viola onboard. That at least you could understand. He’s always been a superstitious old fool, if also an innocuous one. It’s his apparent harmlessness that makes him seem friendly to you in a world grown so harsh and unforgiving.
You are standing in the relative comforts of the ship’s commissary, protected at last from the nightly squall. You quickly correct the heavy blackness around you with the oil lamp in the corner. This ship is built out of wood and trust. You can come and go in the kitchens as you like, provided you don’t take more than your share. So far, no one has looked askance at your late-night visits to satisfy Viola’s increasingly strange appetite. There’ll be no alarm raised if someone sees your lantern swinging again tonight from the rafters.
For a moment, you stand absolutely still. Slugger’s day job is simple enough. He cooks serviceable meals for the crew and their families. In the back, he operates a distillery whose contents go straight to the cantina, which opens at 18:00 sharp every day but Sunday. No one doubts that Slugger gets his fill in the backroom even before the appointed drinking hour. No one minds.
What exactly are you looking for? Something. You’re looking for a something.
You feel more and more convinced that you’re running a fool’s errand as you scan quickly up and down the long rows of benches and tables, behind the counter, in the distillery. You hear the rats scampering in the rafters and turn your light towards the sound to frighten them away.
A snarling witch's face stares back at you. Her twisted features are brought into stark relief by two hideously burning eyes. You gasp, but she's already gone. Shaking from head to toe like poor drunk old Slugger, you climb up on a bench and spread some rat poison along the rafter. Hopefully these little pellets won’t fall into anyone’s soup! You try to laugh your fear away.
What a vision that was! You doubt, however, that yours and Slugger’s were the same. The New Times have brought some odd changes with them, not least of which are the Apparitions. These things are officially supposed to be reported, even if they don’t usually lead to worse things happening. You yawn aloud. It’s been such a long day.
You are standing in the relative comforts of the ship’s commissary, protected at last from the nightly squall. You quickly correct the heavy blackness around you with the oil lamp in the corner. This ship is built out of wood and trust. You can come and go in the kitchens as you like, provided you don’t take more than your share. So far, no one has looked askance at your late-night visits to satisfy Viola’s increasingly strange appetite. There’ll be no alarm raised if someone sees your lantern swinging again tonight from the rafters.
For a moment, you stand absolutely still. Slugger’s day job is simple enough. He cooks serviceable meals for the crew and their families. In the back, he operates a distillery whose contents go straight to the cantina, which opens at 18:00 sharp every day but Sunday. No one doubts that Slugger gets his fill in the backroom even before the appointed drinking hour. No one minds.
What exactly are you looking for? Something. You’re looking for a something.
You feel more and more convinced that you’re running a fool’s errand as you scan quickly up and down the long rows of benches and tables, behind the counter, in the distillery. You hear the rats scampering in the rafters and turn your light towards the sound to frighten them away.
A snarling witch's face stares back at you. Her twisted features are brought into stark relief by two hideously burning eyes. You gasp, but she's already gone. Shaking from head to toe like poor drunk old Slugger, you climb up on a bench and spread some rat poison along the rafter. Hopefully these little pellets won’t fall into anyone’s soup! You try to laugh your fear away.
What a vision that was! You doubt, however, that yours and Slugger’s were the same. The New Times have brought some odd changes with them, not least of which are the Apparitions. These things are officially supposed to be reported, even if they don’t usually lead to worse things happening. You yawn aloud. It’s been such a long day.