Post by cookmi on Nov 5, 2018 23:51:56 GMT -5
The deep blueish gray waters of Mavros bay chopped against the salt-crusted hull of the little wooden fishing boat, and Bowen was glad. It was good to see land again; dark, beautiful cliffs and sandy shores surrounded him on three sides within the sheltering arms of the island. Bobbing up and down all day long for the last several days hadn’t agreed with his stomach any more than the fresh fish chowder he’d had the day he left Fort Hold to come here.
Ahead was a gaping hole in the cliffs where the waves had eaten away at the rock, creating a large cavern. The fisherman and his salty little wife, whom Bowen had bought passage with to the island, alternatively pulled on the tiller and wrestled with he small three-pointed sail until the craft was skimming directly towards the cave.
Bowen felt a rush of excitement as the little boat slid under the cavern’s mouth, the solid rock over his head blocking out the hazy sky like a great mouth which was slowly swallowing the world. Under the rock, the temperature dropped several degrees and Bowen shivered.
As the boat approached the docks, Bowen collected his belongings. There was a large, lumpy duffelsack which held his clothes and a few personal belongings. Then there was his pride and joy, a hand-crafted ashwood gitar, polished and waxed until it positively glowed. Finally, a sleepy and very seasick firelizard named Drune, whom Bowen found curled up in the gunwale in a pile of fishing nets.
Slinging his sack over one shoulder, his gitar over the other, and tucking the lizard under one arm, Bowen stepped off the boat and onto the dock.
“Well boy,” Bowen said to the decidedly groggy firelizard, “We made it—Mavros wherhold!”
Stepping up the wide stone steps carved into the cavern floor, Bowen made his way into the Harbor cave, eager to meet the people he was sure to be regaling with his music before the day was through.
Ahead was a gaping hole in the cliffs where the waves had eaten away at the rock, creating a large cavern. The fisherman and his salty little wife, whom Bowen had bought passage with to the island, alternatively pulled on the tiller and wrestled with he small three-pointed sail until the craft was skimming directly towards the cave.
Bowen felt a rush of excitement as the little boat slid under the cavern’s mouth, the solid rock over his head blocking out the hazy sky like a great mouth which was slowly swallowing the world. Under the rock, the temperature dropped several degrees and Bowen shivered.
As the boat approached the docks, Bowen collected his belongings. There was a large, lumpy duffelsack which held his clothes and a few personal belongings. Then there was his pride and joy, a hand-crafted ashwood gitar, polished and waxed until it positively glowed. Finally, a sleepy and very seasick firelizard named Drune, whom Bowen found curled up in the gunwale in a pile of fishing nets.
Slinging his sack over one shoulder, his gitar over the other, and tucking the lizard under one arm, Bowen stepped off the boat and onto the dock.
“Well boy,” Bowen said to the decidedly groggy firelizard, “We made it—Mavros wherhold!”
Stepping up the wide stone steps carved into the cavern floor, Bowen made his way into the Harbor cave, eager to meet the people he was sure to be regaling with his music before the day was through.