Chapter Text

Prologue - The Tides

It was a sunny afternoon in late spring, the kind that made the zee look like glass and the streets feel soft beneath the feet. In Vages, where everything hummed with slick stone, and dirt, the city moved slowly, not out of laziness, but out of habit. People had learned long ago that time in Unday didn’t rush. It rolled like fog over Tyrre’s hills.

But she walked quickly. Though she could not run anymore.

Too quickly for someone her age.

An old albino Alsatian, wrapped in a grey coat, soaking the light in, moving with purpose through the narrow streets. Her fur greying on top of her albino fur.

Her paws were steady. She had stopped wearing heals at some point. Now, braced by boots.

Her ears twitched at every sound. One of her eyes cloudy.

Feeling the salt in the air.

But her mind?

It is smogged with fogs and mists. Suffocated with smoke. Filled with static wind and waves of white noise. Floating somewhere above.

She had forgotten things before.

This morning, she forgot to turn off the stove.

Yesterday, she forgot whether she’d fed her cat.

Last week, she forgot the name of the shopkeeper who sold her tea every Tuesday.

She had forgotten the appointment with the eye doctor for a while.

Now, today, standing just outside, in the streets of Vages, she realized something worse.

That the train would leave soon. But she had forgotten when it would be leaving.

So, she walked faster.

The streets of Vages were kind to her.

People nodded as she passed.

Some waved.

A few called her “Grandma”.

It was a sun-drenched day, the kind that usually invited leisurely strolls and quiet contemplation by the lapping waves that gave Vages its name.

The midday sun, a generous splash of gold across the cobbled streets of Vages, did little to warm the rising panic in the chest of the elderly albino Alsatian. Her fur, usually a beacon of calm, seemed to vibrate with her hurried steps. "Oh, deere, oh deere, oh deere," she muttered, her breath coming in short, puffing bursts. She gripped her worn leather purse, its contents jumbling with each hurried stride.

At the corner of Revoltjn Streyt, she paused.

Looked around.

Then whispered to herself:

“Whær was I?”

The vintage clock tower of the Vages Central Station loomed in the distance, its hands, cruelly, marching towards the hour, or leaving away from the hour, or the hour just in its place and the hand just on its way.

Her journey began in the quieter, residential lanes, where the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the salty tang of the zee. Low-slung, whitewashed houses, their windows adorned with bright and red, potted geraniums, blurred into a soft focus as she half-trotted, half-power-walked. A young rabbit, no older than seven, stopped mid-hopscotch to stare, his ears twitching with curiosity at her unusual speed.

The city, capital of the Ünited People’s Democratic Republic of Unday Isclands, was a study in practical beauty. Buildings of sturdy, unadorned concrete stood alongside older, more ornate structures, their facades softened by decades of zee air and the quiet hum of daily life. As she turned onto the wider avenü, the city's socialist pulse began to quicken around her. The architectural style shifted from cozy residences to more imposing civic buildings. The soundscape transformed from gentle birdsong to the cheerful chatter of citizens and the occasional clang of a tram. Unday had a vibrant, purposeful energy that she usually found comforting, but today it was a backdrop to her frantic quest.

A group of sturdy grey-furred badgers, likely workers going to the thorium and fusion energy plants, strode past her, their laughter echoing. To the north!

The streets grew busier as she approached the commercial district, known as Harbor District. Stalls burst with colorful produce, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from bustling cafes. Her boots clapped against the cobblestones of harbor district; her breath visible in the salt-thick air. Her albino fur, tinged golden by the flaring sun, stood out against the slate-grey buildings, their walls plastered with peeling concert posters for the Vages Wæv Festival—psychedelic ink illustrations of fiddle-playing seals and saxophonist otters.

She cut through the Marché des Maréys, where fishermen in rubber aprons haggled over glistening mackerel. Stalls overflowed with kelp crackers and jars of pickled mussels labeled “Cooperetev Marytim.” A raccoon vendor waved at her, holding up a steaming paper cone: “Kliyd shremp frytters, Granma? Fresh!” She shook her head “Nin, thanke” but paused at a booth selling Presc & Fils pocket watches. The clockmaker, a mole in round spectacles, was winding a timepiece engraved with Unday’s crest: three waves encircling a gear. “Acku-frei, medam,” he said proudly. “Tidal rotors. Always syncs wyth the harbor clocks.” She veered left, cutting through a small, impeccably maintained park. A bronze statue of a revolutionary hero, arm outstretched in a gesture of unity, stood sentinel amidst blooming flowers. The inscription below, in both English and Ondesy, spoke of "Liberty and ünity," the cornerstones of their triumphant revolution in 1957. A fleeting breath of thought of the past, of underground struggles and the fervent hope for a better future, breezed her mind, but it was quickly overshadowed by the urgent and uncertain present. The train. To Nordhaven.

She glanced at the watch face, 14:14 and hurried on.

A girl passing by on a bicycle looked up.

“J’okay, Gran?”

She blinked.

“I thenk so.”

She smiled.

“J're going up north, aren’t je?”

She stared at her.

“How dyd ju kcnawe?”

She shrugged.

“Well, that tiym hyre j’wer asking for directjns, Gran. Remembere? Sagd j're from thær.”

“Oh, it was ju, deere. Thankj, again. And oh no, I must be off, might be læt j’see”

“May I? Lende miy cyrcl?” “No, no it’s okay, littel øn. Ju must be off somewhær too?”

“It is okay, Granma. Just going around the Cty. I promiz I’dn’t gø too fast”

“Alright, alright then. I will kome along”

“Oh and, I am afraid we might have to gø fast, deere”

Emerging from the park, she found themselves on "Wævs Avenü," a wide thoroughfare leading directly to the station. The road was abuzz with activity. Buses glided silently past, and bicycles weaved through the pedestrian traffic. The air was cleaner. She spotted a vendor selling freshly caught fish, the iridescent scales shimmering in the sunlight, and another offering the distinctively briny scent of zeeweed vin. The latter made her stomach rumble slightly. It was a unique Ondesyn delicacy, a taste of the island's coastal bounty.

Vages Central Statjn loomed ahead, its glass roof ribbed with wrought-iron waves, a blend of socialist grandeur and concrete.

At the grand entrance of Vages Central Station, a magnificent structure of glass and steel, adorned with subtle socialist motifs. People flowed in and out, a diverse tapestry of Ondesyn life.

“Oh. J’re such a deere. Thanke and it was nisc meeting ju again.” “Happy to helpe! Gran.”

Inside the station, the air smelled like salt, ink, and warm brass. The scent of polished metal and old steam, even though the trains were electric, some lingering scent remained from older models, filled the air. The schedule board was electronic — digital clocks hadn’t caught on yet, and no one saw the point of changing what still ticked. The arrivals flickered in Ondesy and English:

TREN 7:30 → NORDHAVEN

Platform 3 – Via Klyroq, Brèyvek, Grensmark, Llyr Croxs

A bilingual poster beside the board showed a cartoon badger in a conductor’s cap: “TRAVEL COLÈKTEV! REPORT DELAYS PROMPTLY.” Below it, a mural depicted the 1957 Revolution: herons and foxes arm-in-wing, tearing down a banner labeled “Fawx Socialism.”

The Alsatian’s ears twitched at the muffled chime of the People’s Carillon — the state-owned radio’s melody, piped through speakers. Today’s tune was a jaunty synth-folk number:

“Tiym to rize, tiym to fluwe,

Wævs don’t aske whych way to gø …

Bylde the track, the zeyl raize,

Unday’s hertz will never swaye!”

Her ears twitched again at the sound of approaching paws. The bicycle left somewhere.

“Gran! Jor box je forgetd! Hyre.” She forgot she was even holding one the entire time. “Whoo, it was close, almost dydn’t notsce it was still on my bicyrcl”. She prayed whatever mind disease she has is not contiguous. “Well, Gran, let me holde this for je to the tren.”

“Oh deere, of course not. Ju hav helpn a lot.”

“Well, hyre I am, all the way hyre, so might as well dø all the way.”

“Oh.., al-right then. Thanke je Littel Comra.”

“Ga’vire Granma”

“Look Gran! The tren. Not even hyre yet”. They head to the platform, small talk on the way.

There was a line of passengers, mostly families and a few solitary travelers in front of her. She reached the platform as the train hissed to a stop—a sleek, boxy thing with zee-green paint and Ferrire Ondesy emblazoned in angular script. The doors slid open, releasing a gust of recycled air smelling of disinfectant. A weasel conductor in a navy uniform checked tickets.

They approached the gate.

The Conductor stood there, clipboard in hand.

He wore the standard Unday uniform — blue coat, red scarf, black gloves.

He glanced up.

“Ticket, if veo pleæs.”

She reached into her purse.

Pulled out a comb. A mirror. A tin of peppermints. Knitting needles. Half-eaten apple. Small, smooth river stone. Crumpled handkerchief. A letter from someone she couldn’t remember writing. And finally, after much rustling…

Nothing. No ticket.

“Oh deere,” she murmured. “Oh no” she heard her hushed gasp beside.

“I forgetd it it seems.”

Her paws continued their frantic search, a desperate dance within the bag. " Hyre It must be, it simply must! Must be en the box."

The Conductor sighed, a patient expression on his face. His eyes, kind and understanding, met hers. “It’s alright, Grandma.”

“No,” she said gently, still searching.

“No, I’v to finde it.”

“No problem, Granma. Veo can entere now. We're abowt to departe.”

But she wasn't listening. Her paws were still a blur, her focus entirely on the elusive ticket. "No," she insisted, her voice rising with a touch of panic. "No, I’v to finde it!"

The Conductor, ever patient, tried again. "Right, if veo want to, veo can always kome to me and geve it to me læter, Gramma, when veo find it. Just gete on the tren, pleæs I insist.”

“It’s alright Gran. Mr. Conductor says so.”

She stopped searching, her head snapping up, her albino eyes wide with a sudden, profound realization. The frantic energy drained from her, replaced by a quiet, almost bewildered despair. "No," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper now, the urgency replaced by a deep, unsettling confusion. "You don't understande. Hav to seæ The ticket. The statjn supposed to gø I don't remembere."

The Conductor blinked, his patient smile slowly fading. The old lady stood there, her satchel hanging open, her paws still poised for a search that now seemed utterly pointless. Her words hung in the air, a poignant testament to a mind slowly losing its grip. The train stood silent, a steel behemoth awaiting its forgotten passenger.

“Hmm, well, the box we can still searche. But pleæs let me helpe veo en. On the way we will sorte it owt.”

“And thanke Littel Lady.” “Is she gonna be okay?” “Don’t worrye. Okay she’ll be. I promiz.”

“Right, nisc meeting you Kid. And, let’s gø Gramma. Hyre, Let me holde the box. Right, hyre we go.”

“But don’t kcnawe whær I’m going.”

He touched her shoulder.

“That’s okay.” “We all riyd the tren blind sometiyms.” “Happens more than ju’d thenke.”

She looked at him.

Then whispered “What if I never get off?”

The Conductor smiled. “Then Unday will welkome ju back.”

The train glided north, its tidal engine humming like a zeeshell pressed to the ear.

In the aisle, a stoat in a tracksuit argued with a crow wearing a Syndicæt des Pechørs pin. “I’m just saying,” the stoat huffed in accented Ondesy, “if  us ‘buying local’ the stæt wants, whiy’s the Cooperetev’s vin and aqwa tasta likc zeeweed?”

The crow rolled his eyes. “Ju don’t saye. Caus it’s mækn vec zeeweed.”

Across the aisle, a porcupine family debated whether to buy fries from the trolley.

“Mama, pleæs?” “Nin, rot jor teeth th’ll.”

The City dissolve into patchwork fields. A bilingual sign flashed past.

KLYROQ – POP 3,2029

Cooperetev Agricola – Organic Barley & Tidal Beyt

Somewhere beyond the city, the land stretched wide. Rolling fields. Windmills spinning slow circles. Children chasing kites near the cliffs. The zee remembers. In fragments. In rhythms. In tides…