Set in Sunflower Sunsets.
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An old, rickety boat, now half-filled with water, floated slowly across the midnight-laden bay. The waves roved up and down, a sick feeling building in the gut of the raft’s sole passenger as it drifted sluggishly in an indiscriminate direction. There were still many miles to the shore, and the boat would surely sink before it reached the other side. The luperci’s body quivered in anticipation, and her eyes gazed upon the still empty horizon with a quiet prayer for her life. It was dark, she couldn’t see anything. But she’d come this far. Her journey could not end now. Not on this silent night, not in a watery grave.
Wintersea had lay on the beach for hours, simply breathing. The swim from her sunken ship to the shore had felt like an eternity—but five hours, floating and swimming alternatively, was a small price to pay for a new life. She sat up, shielding her eyes as the sun peeked at her from its resting place, beginning its daily ascent into the calm, summer skies. At least the day wasn’t cold, she thought in morbid optimism.
Quietly, she began the third leg of her journey. Gathering her belongings, which had been placed meticulously into a bucket, she discarded the thing that had kept her items safe and dry, and she began to fix herself. Tying a small throwing knife to her leg, she wrapped her sarong at her waist and then spent the next hour or so in the rising sunlight, wrapping the old scars on her ribcage with long strips of gauze. They were soggy, disgusting, and ached slightly from marinating in the seawater for so long—this was the best she could do with what she had. After wrapping her chest and skinny ribs tight, she grabbed a brown satchel that contained a book and some other small items, and started walking.
The lone traveler had walked quite some ways before she needed to rest. She stood at the edge of a sunflower field, nearly blinded by its brilliant, yellow expanse. Unwilling to walk through the stalks, she merely found a tree to rest beneath on the outskirts. There were plenty of birds flittering about, but Winter felt much too tired to hunt then. She merely watched them with a sort of subdued attentiveness, willing one with her stillness to come close enough for her to grab without effort. This wasn’t likely to happen.
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