The sun was rising swiftly in the
east, spreading its burnt rose welcome across the sky and racing to clash with
the banks of rolling gray fog that chased us into the bay. The ship was
slipping softly between the Capes, towering above on either side like great,
stony sentinels of the mythical land beyond their gate. The brash and blue
Bairdwyn Sea, crossed these last many weeks, receded gradually into the morning
mist behind us, and the far shore beckoned, crowned by the sprawling harbor
town of Berea, all limned in gold-washed light.
I clutched my small sack of
belongings close with one hand, gripped the freshly-sanded railing with the
other. The sun-bleached sails above were full and snapping, tattered about the
edges, but sound and tight against the tangy wind. I gazed up into the rigging,
aware of the crew-members who scrambled gleefully about their duties, eager to
reach Berea Town harbor and shore-leave beyond. Their graceful, effortless
movements in defiance of gravity stirred the obstinate part of me that had
always longed to fly. It was said that those who dreamed of flight would find
their dreams true in Ryndoon. I was rationally skeptical, yet stubbornly
hopeful.
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