Germat had, initially, regarded the tranquility of the ocean floor as an unmixed blessing. In the gathering twilight, it had appeared a matter of some few hundred yards to the columnar outcrop, and the idea of a brief respite from jeers and thrown tankards was distinctly appealing. The dropped jaws of the residents of Hunliet Crossing as he took his first few steam-shrouded steps had been gratifying.
Now there was no light, beyond the luminescence of an occasional hunting or fleeing fish. Sometimes one would follow his own faint refulgence for quite a distance. At least one had been sufficiently distracted to fall victim to a scissor-jawed bonefish, which had regarded him balefully for a moment before seeking more familiar prey.
The mathematics of the situation were rapidly becoming dire. How much had he taken, from the autumn sun of the crossing, from its bonfires and hearths, before being ousted? How many steps would that buy?
He ran his fingers, stub-tipped and rough, along the curve of his horns, freeing an errant strand of bladder-wrack. Germat was quietly proud of his horns, although others of the people regarded their length and profusion as gauche. Ostentation, he had always felt, was a virtue- in horn and in scale.
Thus distracted, it was a few moments before he properly noted the false dawn of wave-crests above. The upward slope became acute, and he broke water on a pathetically small ledge of sand, beneath an overhanging bolus of rock.
He rolled onto his back, scales dull and matte, prime-vent respiring brackish steam instead of proper smoke. The effort of sorting out great-legs and less-legs to stand seemed impractical, for the moment. The tedious process of clearing brine and grit from vents and spiracles was not to be thought of, although, blessedly, his satchel had retained its seal throughout.
Sun-eyes, gazing upward through half-lowered lids, returned a vista of black-on-black, unrelieved by stars until he tilted back to pass the curve of the overhanging mass.
Hunt-eyes produced a slightly more nuanced view. Clinging moss, pollen, insects. Respiration.
Something interesting, Germat mused, for a time when I am not about to die.
Now there was no light, beyond the luminescence of an occasional hunting or fleeing fish. Sometimes one would follow his own faint refulgence for quite a distance. At least one had been sufficiently distracted to fall victim to a scissor-jawed bonefish, which had regarded him balefully for a moment before seeking more familiar prey.
The mathematics of the situation were rapidly becoming dire. How much had he taken, from the autumn sun of the crossing, from its bonfires and hearths, before being ousted? How many steps would that buy?
He ran his fingers, stub-tipped and rough, along the curve of his horns, freeing an errant strand of bladder-wrack. Germat was quietly proud of his horns, although others of the people regarded their length and profusion as gauche. Ostentation, he had always felt, was a virtue- in horn and in scale.
Thus distracted, it was a few moments before he properly noted the false dawn of wave-crests above. The upward slope became acute, and he broke water on a pathetically small ledge of sand, beneath an overhanging bolus of rock.
He rolled onto his back, scales dull and matte, prime-vent respiring brackish steam instead of proper smoke. The effort of sorting out great-legs and less-legs to stand seemed impractical, for the moment. The tedious process of clearing brine and grit from vents and spiracles was not to be thought of, although, blessedly, his satchel had retained its seal throughout.
Sun-eyes, gazing upward through half-lowered lids, returned a vista of black-on-black, unrelieved by stars until he tilted back to pass the curve of the overhanging mass.
Hunt-eyes produced a slightly more nuanced view. Clinging moss, pollen, insects. Respiration.
Something interesting, Germat mused, for a time when I am not about to die.
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