The events in this story are all canon, pertaining to a character of mine named Arissa Quirke, more commonly known as Sparks, whose profile can be found if you follow the link right here: {Click}
I'm going to mention a just-in-case warning for some bloody-bits, but there's no violence to speak of, so yippee! It is set very shortly after the Great Fire that ravaged Port Silver at the Feast of Flames event during the Sea of Storms campaign.
SPARKS TO EMBERS
Her eyes stung, worsened by the brutal heat of the evening. When they were closed, the sun beat down on their lids, parching them, searing the already burnt and bloodied skin, while opened to a squint the rawness there would chafe painfully. It was hot on the ship, so the blood had soon congealed, leaving a sticky shell over her face. Now though, it had hardened to a wrinkled mask that marked the place where flame had met flesh. The fire had been agony, her flight a confusion of blindness, burning, and feet shredded on broken glass and splinters. But here on the deck of the cog were only sun and sea and sailors ignorant to the presence of their little stowaway, lying broken and lopsided like a ragdoll, a limp body splayed crookedly over a pile of reeking fishing nets.
At first she had been fearful, afraid that one of the sailors might find her and shout at her and throw her overboard. The cog was cramped and ill-sized for the nine men who sailed her, but somehow they never ventured far to stern (she knew she must be behind the cabin wall) and none ever chanced by the floppy ragdoll on the nets. Their captain gave no commands when he was in his cups, and more oft than not he was in several cups indeed, so she soon learned she need not fear her discovery.
It was not long until she began to wish it otherwise. Burned, blind, broken - she might as well have eaten horsehair for the cruel scratching she felt in her lungs, and once awakened from one blackness to the next, she had longed for water. When the first spray had lanced up from the rudder to oblige she had uttered a cry of relief, choked with joy, lifting her head but an inch to let the sea trickle down her face. Then the stinging had started, seeping stabbing into every scab and scald, and her jubilation dissolved into plaintive sobs of misery.
The water was salty. She knew she should have remembered; she could taste it on her lips, where a thin crust had pulled the skin tight and dry. It reminded her of the pies she stole from the market - the sort that were always flaky and crumbly, the ones where the pastry sticks to your lips and your fingers. None of those pies had been very salty though. None of those pies sent needles through her scabs and her blisters, though their vendors might have given her bruises. But you can run from vendors and bruises.
She had always been fast. In the big port she had liked to run over the roofs of the houses and factories, climbing up the walls and down the chimneys, up and in and out and in again faster than you could say stolen silver. Before, in the gutters, she would scurry this way and that, unseen and unhalted, picking choice foods from stalls and passing bakers’ trays like plucking peas from a pod. Those who had known her first called her a street rat and she proudly deemed them right; no-one eats finer than a rat in a city.
Even before the cities she had been quick. Faster than Pa with his grumpy smile and bad leg, than Ma, or Bradyn with his laugh that sounded like he was tumbling down a hill. Sometimes she would carry little Bonnie, though never very far, else Ma would scold her and make her write out more prayers. She hated writing, so she never remembered them. Maybe that was why the liars had chased them away in their golden dresses. Suddenly she felt twinge of longing for home, for the cattle and the hens, for the bright yellow fields with the crop so high you could get lost in them forever and ever, and she longed to see Ma and Pa and Bradyn and Bonnie wherever the liars had chased them. She was faster then too.
The sun was drifting downward now. She could not see it, but the cool of the shade told her nonetheless. Days ago she might have felt relief at the dying of the day. Now she only felt sleepy. She was very tired. Hand slipping a little, chapped fingers went to a pocket. Her arm trembled with the strain, and by habit her eyes opened a crack, though the blackness stayed. Her fingers closed around a small pebble. She smiled as a new blackness came to carry her to sleep.
I'm going to mention a just-in-case warning for some bloody-bits, but there's no violence to speak of, so yippee! It is set very shortly after the Great Fire that ravaged Port Silver at the Feast of Flames event during the Sea of Storms campaign.
SPARKS TO EMBERS
Her eyes stung, worsened by the brutal heat of the evening. When they were closed, the sun beat down on their lids, parching them, searing the already burnt and bloodied skin, while opened to a squint the rawness there would chafe painfully. It was hot on the ship, so the blood had soon congealed, leaving a sticky shell over her face. Now though, it had hardened to a wrinkled mask that marked the place where flame had met flesh. The fire had been agony, her flight a confusion of blindness, burning, and feet shredded on broken glass and splinters. But here on the deck of the cog were only sun and sea and sailors ignorant to the presence of their little stowaway, lying broken and lopsided like a ragdoll, a limp body splayed crookedly over a pile of reeking fishing nets.
At first she had been fearful, afraid that one of the sailors might find her and shout at her and throw her overboard. The cog was cramped and ill-sized for the nine men who sailed her, but somehow they never ventured far to stern (she knew she must be behind the cabin wall) and none ever chanced by the floppy ragdoll on the nets. Their captain gave no commands when he was in his cups, and more oft than not he was in several cups indeed, so she soon learned she need not fear her discovery.
It was not long until she began to wish it otherwise. Burned, blind, broken - she might as well have eaten horsehair for the cruel scratching she felt in her lungs, and once awakened from one blackness to the next, she had longed for water. When the first spray had lanced up from the rudder to oblige she had uttered a cry of relief, choked with joy, lifting her head but an inch to let the sea trickle down her face. Then the stinging had started, seeping stabbing into every scab and scald, and her jubilation dissolved into plaintive sobs of misery.
The water was salty. She knew she should have remembered; she could taste it on her lips, where a thin crust had pulled the skin tight and dry. It reminded her of the pies she stole from the market - the sort that were always flaky and crumbly, the ones where the pastry sticks to your lips and your fingers. None of those pies had been very salty though. None of those pies sent needles through her scabs and her blisters, though their vendors might have given her bruises. But you can run from vendors and bruises.
She had always been fast. In the big port she had liked to run over the roofs of the houses and factories, climbing up the walls and down the chimneys, up and in and out and in again faster than you could say stolen silver. Before, in the gutters, she would scurry this way and that, unseen and unhalted, picking choice foods from stalls and passing bakers’ trays like plucking peas from a pod. Those who had known her first called her a street rat and she proudly deemed them right; no-one eats finer than a rat in a city.
Even before the cities she had been quick. Faster than Pa with his grumpy smile and bad leg, than Ma, or Bradyn with his laugh that sounded like he was tumbling down a hill. Sometimes she would carry little Bonnie, though never very far, else Ma would scold her and make her write out more prayers. She hated writing, so she never remembered them. Maybe that was why the liars had chased them away in their golden dresses. Suddenly she felt twinge of longing for home, for the cattle and the hens, for the bright yellow fields with the crop so high you could get lost in them forever and ever, and she longed to see Ma and Pa and Bradyn and Bonnie wherever the liars had chased them. She was faster then too.
The sun was drifting downward now. She could not see it, but the cool of the shade told her nonetheless. Days ago she might have felt relief at the dying of the day. Now she only felt sleepy. She was very tired. Hand slipping a little, chapped fingers went to a pocket. Her arm trembled with the strain, and by habit her eyes opened a crack, though the blackness stayed. Her fingers closed around a small pebble. She smiled as a new blackness came to carry her to sleep.
Last edited:
