THE SUGARTIDE & THE FIRECRACKER
As Flora and Melita begin tossing shells into the rainbow-dappled water, the first few vanish below without incident. A couple of turtles blink slowly at the intrusion but paddle on, wholly unimpressed. But not all the turtles are so chill. A teenage group of them—if their mohawks of seaweed and general fuck-around energy are any indication—start circling below like rowdy kids at a pool party. One plucks a shell from the reef and starts tossing it between flippers. Another seems to be throwing gang symbols at Sila.
Flora and Melita now face a logistical problem: the turtles aren’t angry, just kind of obsessed with the shells. And unless the pair want to spend the next two hours playing underwater fetch, they’ll need to get creative.
"Alright, they had their chance. I say you let 'em have it." However Mel took that was fine with Flora.
HADAMA
The ribbon eel continues its mimicry, now close enough that Hadama can feel the shift of water as it slithers behind him. It makes no move to attack, but its presence is more than ornamental; it’s watching him. Studying him. When he places another shell, it coils tightly around a rock nearby and opens its mouth—not in aggression, but in eerie mimicry again. Then it closes it. Waits.
Eventually, as Hadama rounds the final bend of his shell circuit, the eel dips into a crevice below and disappears entirely...only to reappear ahead of him, now flanking the next location. Its ribbonlike body loops and drapes itself across a coral ledge in near-silent challenge, staring.
...weird.
THE ARK
Jack’s lightning streaks through the mist with a sharp crack, a spear of white-hot brilliance that sears the fog into momentary clarity. For a breath, all is still. Then the voice stops.
The glowing lights flicker, stutter—then scatter, zipping across the water like startled fireflies. The fog remains, but its pattern shifts—no longer floating aimlessly but moving in tendrils, like fingers grasping for the Ark’s sails. The compass keeps spinning. The hels return, circling above in agitated spirals, but the water remains navigable...for now. The shells can still be dropped, but the Ark’s time in Aumakua’s waters is no longer casual.
They’ve caught the attention of something bigger than a siren, so best hurry up so you can fuck off.
5/8
As Flora and Melita begin tossing shells into the rainbow-dappled water, the first few vanish below without incident. A couple of turtles blink slowly at the intrusion but paddle on, wholly unimpressed. But not all the turtles are so chill. A teenage group of them—if their mohawks of seaweed and general fuck-around energy are any indication—start circling below like rowdy kids at a pool party. One plucks a shell from the reef and starts tossing it between flippers. Another seems to be throwing gang symbols at Sila.
Flora and Melita now face a logistical problem: the turtles aren’t angry, just kind of obsessed with the shells. And unless the pair want to spend the next two hours playing underwater fetch, they’ll need to get creative.
"Alright, they had their chance. I say you let 'em have it." However Mel took that was fine with Flora.
HADAMA
The ribbon eel continues its mimicry, now close enough that Hadama can feel the shift of water as it slithers behind him. It makes no move to attack, but its presence is more than ornamental; it’s watching him. Studying him. When he places another shell, it coils tightly around a rock nearby and opens its mouth—not in aggression, but in eerie mimicry again. Then it closes it. Waits.
Eventually, as Hadama rounds the final bend of his shell circuit, the eel dips into a crevice below and disappears entirely...only to reappear ahead of him, now flanking the next location. Its ribbonlike body loops and drapes itself across a coral ledge in near-silent challenge, staring.
...weird.
THE ARK
Jack’s lightning streaks through the mist with a sharp crack, a spear of white-hot brilliance that sears the fog into momentary clarity. For a breath, all is still. Then the voice stops.
The glowing lights flicker, stutter—then scatter, zipping across the water like startled fireflies. The fog remains, but its pattern shifts—no longer floating aimlessly but moving in tendrils, like fingers grasping for the Ark’s sails. The compass keeps spinning. The hels return, circling above in agitated spirals, but the water remains navigable...for now. The shells can still be dropped, but the Ark’s time in Aumakua’s waters is no longer casual.
They’ve caught the attention of something bigger than a siren, so best hurry up so you can fuck off.
5/8
THE
Sugartide
