Chapter One

He pulls the rope. It likely has a seafaring term, but he never did get hung up on those things. It was a rope on land so it was a rope on the sea. The only difference was that this one was attached to a sail.

It was the largest boat in the lake, but it did not inspire thoughts of grandeur when any looked upon it. It was unfortunately hideous, a gathering of wood and nails which somehow learned to float. The sail, however, was of a magnificent quality; a gift from the king.

The dead king, anyway.

He pulls the rope. The sail rises and the ship slows. Adrift on the surface of the lake, he drops an anchor. He is not fishing now in the same manner in which he was previously accustomed too. His two companions are gone and he fishes alone. Still, he did well enough to drop a net upon the surface and collect fish as they swim into it. He catches less and has to wait longer than if he’d drag a net across the lake as he sails, but at least in this manner he can manage. He is strong enough, at least, to retrieve what is inevitably a lighter load of fish from the lake.

Lake Scorn was named for the thorny vegetation surrounding it. It is a large lake, taking at least a full day to cross if anyone chose to sail the distance. It sometimes feels like an ocean to those at its center, but the water is fresh and the air is lacking in that salty taste which accompanies the ocean. However, the wind is also less bitter and so it is considered a fair trade. The river Tear, oddly, flows out of the lake instead of into it. It was once believed, then, that Lake Scorn was a natural spring, but the water is colder than much many have known.

The water is calm. The disturbance of the anchor is a memory. He allows the net to slowly slink into the cool depths. The water is not clear, it never is, and it soon fades from his vision beneath the thick crystal blue.

Around him he can see nothing but the blue sea of the lake. While the sky is overcast and gray there is no fog. A brief thought of concern flits through his mind as he wonders why there are no other fisherman for miles, but perhaps he had found a lucky spot and there would be plenty of fish here. The lake had not been busy with fisherman in quite some time anyway. Ever since the war ended there were simply less people to do work, as could be expected. His village on the north coast of the lake was a small one as well. Some fisherman still alive moved on to other endeavors such as hunting for game or filling in for the poor blacksmith. The town, while physically unharmed, had never been so empty as it was now. Many buildings were abandoned simply because no one was around to inhabit them. The homeless had taken to raiding these buildings and claiming them as their own and even then the number of empty homes outnumbered the total population.

He runs his hand through his thick brown beard, shaking the moisture out of it. Heading away from the ship’s starboard edge, he finds a seat on the deck and rests his legs. He is further in the years. Some grays have begun to appear upon his head, but he was fit enough. He had to be fit enough to keep things going. His children needed him, even if his wife did not. Three sons were lost in the war, as well as two daughters. The kingdom did not adhere to the strict expressions of a woman’s place as he did, but he was fighting in the war himself and not around to forbade them. But one daughter and one son remains. The daughter was near adulthood and wouldn’t need much more support, he knew. She was spunky, hopeful to follow the fate of her fallen sisters, but he did hope she’d be delighted by some young man to keep her out of harm’s way. The son was the youngest and he would most certainly be the last. Just fourteen years he was and he had taken to wearing a helmet at all hours of the day.

Why, the fisherman thought to himself. Why did I raise a family of warriors? The notion brought a sad anger into his mind. And why can’t they swing a sword worth a damn?

His knees ached. Definitely fisherman’s knees. Not a warrior’s knees. Yet when he was out there, when he was in it... somehow it didn’t matter.

The boat lurched sideways, nearly tipping over, and then settled again quickly. The fisherman was forced to assume he had imagined it until it had happened again. The boat had gone closer to tipping that time and had adrenaline not replaced his cognitive thought he may have become concerned that another movement on the boat’s part might be a problem.

He moved to the starboard side again where the net had been dropped. The ropes keeping it attached to the boat were pulled tight, strained. He could feel them aching to break. Something was pulling on the ship.

All around the fisherman’s ship the waters still appeared calm aside from the swells newly made by his boat’s violent movements. As the deck sloped again the fisherman regrettably unsheathed his knife and began to cut at the ropes. He was not aware of what could possibly be stuck in the net as he was only aware of small fish filling the lake, but he most certainly knew that even if it was subdued he’d surely never be able to pull something so large up into his ship for storage lest he sink it. He’d be better off jumping into the sea, claiming it as his home, and insisting that because the creature was in his home he had rightfully caught it.

With one more rope to cut a sudden calm made itself known in a most violent manner. It was such a sudden contrast to the recent events that it disrupted the fisherman’s senses and violated him in a way which he had never known. The boat was still, the water around the boat was still where it had once been violent. But now the whole of the sea was no longer a still painting. It raged with a thunderous perversion never before seen. Violent and horrible waves which sucked up all the sunlight leaving the fisherman and his calm boat in darkness. The light had dimmed smoothly and abrupt. Now he could not see his hand in front of his face if he had the desire to wave it there. As darkness hit him he had unfortunately not had his hand steadied on anything. He toppled over, unsure of where he was. The water received him graciously.