A bath in the River
Adventure books might have appealed to Lirael in her youth, but now that she was older (and it must be said significantly wiser) she was fast becoming aware that life on the road wasn't how books painted it. She could still feel small morsels of her breakfast cinnamon cake sticking to her teeth and couldn't quite shake the longing for a morning bath in the hot springs of her Glacier home. Homesickness was the least of her troubles and if she was honest, didn't pang as much as expected. She didn't belong at the glacier and with the Dog at her side she would at least, never be lonely. The thought brought a small smile to her lips as she whistled for the dog and pulled up the anchor of Finder to set them on their way.
She had only just begun to feel like they were on their way to some kind of purpose, her mind drifting pleasantly, when a sharp bark from the Dog made her pay attention. She was pointing across the bow, back almost straight with tension, one paw raised in anticipation. Lirael narrowed her eyes at the intruder upon the water, raising a hand to her eyes to shadow the sun. It couldn't be.
"That looks like a metal bathtub," She said slowly. "With a man in it."
"It is a bathtub," said the Dog. " And a man. There's something else too...you'd best nock an arrow mistress."
"He looks unconscious. Or dead." She remarked, disliking such a surprise so early. "Shouldn't we just sail around?"
After all, curiosity was what had gotten her into the fix with the Stilken, but somehow she couldn't quite help herself. She found her hand going to her sword, loosening the sheath and preparing it for action. Following Dog's advice she held an arrow loosely in her hand, allowing Finder to steer a course closer to the tub. Lirael wanted to keep on going, ignore whatever it was and get on with the task at hand. The guilt sunk in her stomach like a stone; her fear and unwillingness to meet with strangers might very well leave this man in real danger. A bathtub is hardly a craft of choice, but more of desperation.
She tugged her scarf towards her eyes, shading her face from the stranger before they could approach; and caution demanded she lay arrow to string as she was doing now. No movement from the erstwhile boat did little to convince her that it's inhabitants weren't hostile. Yet he wasn't moving, reaching for his sword, he was still as death. Attempting to search him for any danger brought something much worse to her attention. Across his chest, was a bandoleer ---
"Bells! A necromancer!" She drew her bow as fast as she could, heart hammering in her chest. There was no guilt in killing a necromancer, only sound decision making.
"Wait! He doesn't smell like a necromancer!" Dog barked, but it was already too late. The bark had startled her into loosening her fingers and the arrow soared, less than a foot above the man's head.
She had only just begun to feel like they were on their way to some kind of purpose, her mind drifting pleasantly, when a sharp bark from the Dog made her pay attention. She was pointing across the bow, back almost straight with tension, one paw raised in anticipation. Lirael narrowed her eyes at the intruder upon the water, raising a hand to her eyes to shadow the sun. It couldn't be.
"That looks like a metal bathtub," She said slowly. "With a man in it."
"It is a bathtub," said the Dog. " And a man. There's something else too...you'd best nock an arrow mistress."
"He looks unconscious. Or dead." She remarked, disliking such a surprise so early. "Shouldn't we just sail around?"
After all, curiosity was what had gotten her into the fix with the Stilken, but somehow she couldn't quite help herself. She found her hand going to her sword, loosening the sheath and preparing it for action. Following Dog's advice she held an arrow loosely in her hand, allowing Finder to steer a course closer to the tub. Lirael wanted to keep on going, ignore whatever it was and get on with the task at hand. The guilt sunk in her stomach like a stone; her fear and unwillingness to meet with strangers might very well leave this man in real danger. A bathtub is hardly a craft of choice, but more of desperation.
She tugged her scarf towards her eyes, shading her face from the stranger before they could approach; and caution demanded she lay arrow to string as she was doing now. No movement from the erstwhile boat did little to convince her that it's inhabitants weren't hostile. Yet he wasn't moving, reaching for his sword, he was still as death. Attempting to search him for any danger brought something much worse to her attention. Across his chest, was a bandoleer ---
"Bells! A necromancer!" She drew her bow as fast as she could, heart hammering in her chest. There was no guilt in killing a necromancer, only sound decision making.
"Wait! He doesn't smell like a necromancer!" Dog barked, but it was already too late. The bark had startled her into loosening her fingers and the arrow soared, less than a foot above the man's head.