THE SUGARTIDE & THE FIRECRACKER
Despite the dockside chaos, Spice and Sila make a nimble, aerial duo. Flora sends her little white dragon swooping after Melita’s with a quick gesture and a sharp whistle, each small creature carrying a shell or two in their claws or tails. Below them, the wharves buzz with noise: the clang of crates being offloaded, the hiss of fresh fish frying, and the endless shouting of orders, prices, and curses.
For the most part, the shell drops go unnoticed beneath the tangle of ropes and sails. A few land precisely between planks or slip into tide-washed gutters with satisfying little plunks. But not everyone is so easily distracted.
"Oi! Skyships ain't supposed to hover that close!" one dockworker bellows, waving a length of rope like a weapon. "Anchor or fuck off!"
Others join in with complaints about breezes knocking over crates or hels scattering at inopportune times. Flora, from the helm, blows them a kiss before ordering the Sugartide into a lazy orbit, letting Melita and the Firecracker trail just behind in a loop of organized defiance. They don’t anchor. But they don’t fuck off either.
Just a few more shells to go and then they can be done.
HADAMA
With the eel gone and the reef at peace, Hadama continues his route with the same calm, deliberate rhythm that defines his rule. Each shell is placed with care, nestled among the coral shelves or tucked into alcoves between sea anemones and sand dollars. His colour choices remain deliberate, forming gradients like natural mosaics along the sea floor.
For a time, it’s almost meditative—the kind of underwater artistry that requires neither audience nor approval. Eventually, he'll reach into the shell pouch and find it empty.
Time to head back.
THE ARK
The galleon glides like a smug omen across the rocky outcroppings of Aumakua, its sails shining faintly with the lingering kiss of stormlight. The Ark’s presence—along with the shouts of "Important Safrin Business!" echoing from her decks—eventually drives most of the worshippers to take shelter within the lighthouse. Robes flutter as they disappear into the mouth of the building, some clutching their offerings with wary glances skyward.
Not everyone leaves. A few remain, curious or too devout to abandon their post entirely. One older woman mutters prayers under her breath while never breaking eye contact with the Ark, as if trying to out-glare the storm itself. Another teenage acolyte pulls out a notebook to sketch what she insists is a divine intervention mid-ritual.
Seems like the Ark is clear to get rid of the rest of her shells and head back.
7/8
Despite the dockside chaos, Spice and Sila make a nimble, aerial duo. Flora sends her little white dragon swooping after Melita’s with a quick gesture and a sharp whistle, each small creature carrying a shell or two in their claws or tails. Below them, the wharves buzz with noise: the clang of crates being offloaded, the hiss of fresh fish frying, and the endless shouting of orders, prices, and curses.
For the most part, the shell drops go unnoticed beneath the tangle of ropes and sails. A few land precisely between planks or slip into tide-washed gutters with satisfying little plunks. But not everyone is so easily distracted.
"Oi! Skyships ain't supposed to hover that close!" one dockworker bellows, waving a length of rope like a weapon. "Anchor or fuck off!"
Others join in with complaints about breezes knocking over crates or hels scattering at inopportune times. Flora, from the helm, blows them a kiss before ordering the Sugartide into a lazy orbit, letting Melita and the Firecracker trail just behind in a loop of organized defiance. They don’t anchor. But they don’t fuck off either.
Just a few more shells to go and then they can be done.
HADAMA
With the eel gone and the reef at peace, Hadama continues his route with the same calm, deliberate rhythm that defines his rule. Each shell is placed with care, nestled among the coral shelves or tucked into alcoves between sea anemones and sand dollars. His colour choices remain deliberate, forming gradients like natural mosaics along the sea floor.
For a time, it’s almost meditative—the kind of underwater artistry that requires neither audience nor approval. Eventually, he'll reach into the shell pouch and find it empty.
Time to head back.
THE ARK
The galleon glides like a smug omen across the rocky outcroppings of Aumakua, its sails shining faintly with the lingering kiss of stormlight. The Ark’s presence—along with the shouts of "Important Safrin Business!" echoing from her decks—eventually drives most of the worshippers to take shelter within the lighthouse. Robes flutter as they disappear into the mouth of the building, some clutching their offerings with wary glances skyward.
Not everyone leaves. A few remain, curious or too devout to abandon their post entirely. One older woman mutters prayers under her breath while never breaking eye contact with the Ark, as if trying to out-glare the storm itself. Another teenage acolyte pulls out a notebook to sketch what she insists is a divine intervention mid-ritual.
Seems like the Ark is clear to get rid of the rest of her shells and head back.
7/8
THE
Sugartide
