Guffy grunts and squeaks with excitement as Osytha’s hands reach forward to accept the relinquished pup.“Art tha a feisty radish?” she croons. The wriggling, neck-licking answer she receives is certainly an emphatic one, whatever its meaning. “Mun Ah be chuckin’ thee into t’ pottage now, boyo? Or picklin’ thee for a compost?”
She nuzzles him softly between his skewed ears before setting him back down on the ground. Pale sand, grits of marlstone, water-smoothed pebbles, and the dark, swooping facets of flint crunch gently under paw and feet as Osytha, ever-shadowed by her wee mongrel, goes back to her saddlebags and excavates the bundled rations from earlier.
“Ee, nay.” The cloth comes out and its corners are peeled back to expose the medley within: dense and lightly fried purplish strips of dried dulse, robust havercakes, pickled rock samphire, and of course — a whole salted kipper. “Best not ’ave too much,” she continues, filling one of the cakes with a bit of everything for herself before offering it toward Lock once more, “just a bite to keep me goin’. Ah dursn’t get pogged when there’s, well… when there’s sae much to…”
Osytha stares over at the rows of laid-out bodies awaiting her. Their details are almost all recorded; now comes the arduous task of hauling them higher up to where the pyres are coming together. Down here, the smoke will likely spread and roll over the tiny village once it scales the cliffs, and a rising tide could well drown them before they’ve burned through, anyway. It should be better up the cliffs. And if they can get it all going hot enough.
“… Hmm?” She glances back at Krava as the words slowly register. Then, her eyes widen with unpleasant suprise. “Wait. A sea serpent? You’re sure?”
Those worried eyes slip around Lock’s arm over to the rising waves. Osytha’s gaze seems as a mirror, reflecting blue depths and grey winds. “We still mun get t’ bodies moved off t’ beach,” she declares, “and jus’ now, but t’ rest shall ’ave to wait. We mun start preparin’ for whativver’s comin’ reight away. The people ’ere mun prepare.”
Not least because it’s going to take time and effort to get through to them. People rarely listen when faced with really bad news, particularly when it demands considerable action on their part. They will not want to deal with the thought of having to leave their homes and so much behind. Not when it is so much easier to chalk it up to some outsider’s nefarious, enigmatic plot against them. But they need to be warned. They need to be given every chance to get ready for whatever the tide brings.
She nuzzles him softly between his skewed ears before setting him back down on the ground. Pale sand, grits of marlstone, water-smoothed pebbles, and the dark, swooping facets of flint crunch gently under paw and feet as Osytha, ever-shadowed by her wee mongrel, goes back to her saddlebags and excavates the bundled rations from earlier.
“Ee, nay.” The cloth comes out and its corners are peeled back to expose the medley within: dense and lightly fried purplish strips of dried dulse, robust havercakes, pickled rock samphire, and of course — a whole salted kipper. “Best not ’ave too much,” she continues, filling one of the cakes with a bit of everything for herself before offering it toward Lock once more, “just a bite to keep me goin’. Ah dursn’t get pogged when there’s, well… when there’s sae much to…”
Osytha stares over at the rows of laid-out bodies awaiting her. Their details are almost all recorded; now comes the arduous task of hauling them higher up to where the pyres are coming together. Down here, the smoke will likely spread and roll over the tiny village once it scales the cliffs, and a rising tide could well drown them before they’ve burned through, anyway. It should be better up the cliffs. And if they can get it all going hot enough.
“… Hmm?” She glances back at Krava as the words slowly register. Then, her eyes widen with unpleasant suprise. “Wait. A sea serpent? You’re sure?”
No. Not on top of everything else. We can’t handle something like that again, can we? It had taken White Port’s garrison, its battery of scorpions, and a fortuitous collection of weavers to prevail against that leviathan. We don’t have a fraction of those resources here. If it’s intent on destruction, we can’t…
Directive: form plan of action and contingencies. Prioritise evacuation of Hytheness.
Those worried eyes slip around Lock’s arm over to the rising waves. Osytha’s gaze seems as a mirror, reflecting blue depths and grey winds. “We still mun get t’ bodies moved off t’ beach,” she declares, “and jus’ now, but t’ rest shall ’ave to wait. We mun start preparin’ for whativver’s comin’ reight away. The people ’ere mun prepare.”
Not least because it’s going to take time and effort to get through to them. People rarely listen when faced with really bad news, particularly when it demands considerable action on their part. They will not want to deal with the thought of having to leave their homes and so much behind. Not when it is so much easier to chalk it up to some outsider’s nefarious, enigmatic plot against them. But they need to be warned. They need to be given every chance to get ready for whatever the tide brings.