Kaina Wendreef
Feeder
High dawn crooked a yellow tide smile over distant seawalls half a day's skim out from Old Vapna, rumored seat of an ancient hubris. Little remained of note to survey beyond the waves. Brine lapped wildly, churning loud amidst a forest of sails; the feeders had set out to play. Bottomfeeders, scavenger barges under the ownership of entrepreneurial sorts that cased the Boiling Sea for shroud stones, congregated into a multiflorous blob of rusted hulls, a clatter of horns and shouts to belay the vessels' haphazard attempts to converge.
The noise pounded at Kaina's temples, puckered out a vein that squinted straight into the sunrise. A young man of discerning character, Kaina Wendreef set himself busy about righting his diving goggles. He fidgeted with the band, not quite finding a spot for the things to rest comfortably behind his ears. Naked but for a pair of fitted trunks and a vest bursting with pouches, his stride fell heavy against the barge's pine planked deck.
Christened the Boilbilge, the vessel suited well its namesake, cutting into the waves with a hiss of brine that cascaded over its sides. Pulleys, ladders, and a variety of hooks and rods decorated its facade, accentuated by the frenetic pace with which its sailors manned the apparatuses.
Kaina supposed he should have joined them.
The deckhands had yet to recall his name, however. They forgot him at the mess, neglected to dole out the equipment due to him, and overall maintained a nonchalance regarding his very existence.
"Fucking shoreborn," he said. Spitting his frustrations out at his feet, he kicked over a barrel that had the misfortune of being in his general vicinity, and he swore again nursing a pair of swollen toes.
The noise pounded at Kaina's temples, puckered out a vein that squinted straight into the sunrise. A young man of discerning character, Kaina Wendreef set himself busy about righting his diving goggles. He fidgeted with the band, not quite finding a spot for the things to rest comfortably behind his ears. Naked but for a pair of fitted trunks and a vest bursting with pouches, his stride fell heavy against the barge's pine planked deck.
Christened the Boilbilge, the vessel suited well its namesake, cutting into the waves with a hiss of brine that cascaded over its sides. Pulleys, ladders, and a variety of hooks and rods decorated its facade, accentuated by the frenetic pace with which its sailors manned the apparatuses.
Kaina supposed he should have joined them.
The deckhands had yet to recall his name, however. They forgot him at the mess, neglected to dole out the equipment due to him, and overall maintained a nonchalance regarding his very existence.
"Fucking shoreborn," he said. Spitting his frustrations out at his feet, he kicked over a barrel that had the misfortune of being in his general vicinity, and he swore again nursing a pair of swollen toes.