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If there was one thing Warly could say he liked about this place, it was that, no matter where he went, there was always a view.
To inhale the salt of the sea, churning before him, washing over the rocks and bringing with it quite the soothing background static to his daily activities. Which, were really anything but soothing. Roughing it out here was… well, rough. Certainly not something a man such as Warly was cut out for, no sirree. But at the very least, he was managing.
In his time here, the culinarian had managed to carve out some semblance of a set of survival skills, as well as something that resembled competence in combat with the many hostiles of this land, when his heart wasn’t feeling like it was going to leap out of his throat at any given moment, that is. And for that she could say he was…. proud? Of himself? Warly wasn’t exactly sure what the feeling was, but these islands provided much time for introspection. Perhaps he’d figure it out soon.
He let out the breath, shoulders dropping as he did so. And from the pouch at his side, he pulled a piece of flint, specifically sharpened for the preperation of food. A rudimentary knife of sorts, meant for this purpose and this purpose alone. No sense breaking his more precious tools on the rocks. And as he did so, a heavy stone settled in his stomach, nearly as heavy as the hunger that it shared a space with. Though usually confident with such sharp objects, Warly found he was much less confident when there was a rather good chance of him being thrown by the waves with said sharp objects in hand.
Warly had learned better of putting his back to the ocean the first time he’d found himself out here. In little more than a half an hour, he’d been bashed against the rocks by the sea, and then sent into horrible, crushing, darkness, before again being released into the light. Like steam from a pot.
The terror that came with seeing his own body, mangled by stone and sea, washed up on the shore would never leave him.
But regardless of past experience, food was food. And good food was absolutely worth any peril he may find himself faced with in order to the acquire the means to make such.
Warly chuckled to himself. How a man must suffer for his art.
With another breath, he started off towards the waves. The sand stuck to his bare feet as he approached, water lapping at his ankles while he made his way towards the same rocks that so long before had been his end.
There were snails that gathered here, tasty little morsels that made wonderful snacks, and even better compliments to certain meals. One of which he just so happened to be planning to prepare when lunchtime rolled around.
The rush and lull of the waves, like the flow of patrons throughout the day, coming and going, left him as he clambered onto the battered stones. Though they bit into his feet if placed at the wrong angle, lack of shoes was something he’d been dealing with for a while. Nothing worth getting upset about anymore.
Using a hand to steady himself, he slid the makeshift blade under the limpet’s shell, prying it from it’s rocky feeding grounds and tossing it into the pouch at his side. The first of many to be collected this fine day, and surely not to be the last. As he worked, his eyes stayed on the waves, watching them for any sign that they may be headed in his direction and retreating if they did indeed chase him.
Re-steadying himself on a new perch, he again went to repeat the process, only to find this limpet in particular to be quite a stubborn little fellow who apparently did not want to be food.
“Come on now, you’ll be delicious.”
As he worked to pry the stubborn snail from the place it was so firmly rooted, a familiar grasp, cold and yet burning all at once latched onto his ankle, bringing forth a yelp as he swung the makeshift blade at the shadowy captor that had snuck up from the sea. From the shallow pool at his right, another burst from the water, and before he could react, the blade was knocked from his hand, landing with a splash somewhere farther off.
His heart hammered in his chest. Warly knew what was coming, he’d gone this way before. And this time, it would be his end.
Before he could struggle any more, the hands tugged harshly backwards, dragging him into the murky depths….
***
Warly gasped as the sea released him, coughing and sputtering while the salt made what wounds he had burn like fire.
Feeling around blindly, his hand found only wet sand in front of him, while to his left it found something familiar. An old friend to the very end and beyond. Adventures had and meals made.
It gave him some reassurance to know his cookware was still safe.
Warly lay there for a few long moments, resting in the gritty earth as the waves again lapped at his feet. Why had the sea let him go? Had it changed it’s mind? spat him out elsewhere? Thought better of-
“AWK! AWK! AWK!”
The sound startled him into a sitting position. That… That wasn’t a cry he’d heard in a long, long, time.
The call of a crow.
Now far more alert than he’d been previous, Warly’s gaze snapped around to the surroundings. No longer was the sand bleached white, but now a silty, earthen, color, while the sea was a dark, churning, grey. And though the air still smelled of salt, there was indeed the added stench of something dead wafting from further down the shoreline.
Beyond it all, the the churning waves and earthen beach and the terribly large dead thing at the beaches’ end, stood a forest. Tall evergreens, reaching towards the sun above, waving in the wind, flooded by the rolling sea of dark grass that faded into scrubby undergrowth, and beyond that in the far distance were rolling hills that only held more and more forest, as far as the eye could see.
Warly’s heart sank.
This was not good.
Not good at all.