• EASTERN GLARKIS, POST FLOOD ERA. DAY FIVE.
INAIA COULD NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT. The former pirate Lord, Percival van Tuane was legging it hard, down the moors hill. He was scampering like his arse was on fire. No shit. "Look at this bitch." She dropped the woodpile in her arms. "Just look at him! Goin' fa it lak there's a sailboat in sight, which can ferry him away from captivity. Goddamn wuss!"
"Eh! You can't make this shit up." Another voice joined her. It was Tarchon, alias Ponytail: the last son of Glarkis. The others had only found out his real name three sweltering nights ago.
As Tarchon laughed, he dropped also his smaller pile of wood—mostly kindle, and following he was Thyra and Kambili. The two had the larger log for the night fire between them; over the few days stranded on Port Glarkis' grassy fields, the two had forged an unlikely alliance. Though, the word, pact seemed a better fit for what was actually going on between them.
