RVA: The Red Vixen at Sea, Part Eleven
Nov. 3rd, 2016 08:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalMelanie and Rolas, lacking food, water, and options, start hunting for their mysterious watchers.
Note: After some consideration, I've revised the main manuscript to reinstate Rolas' memory loss, which will be Plot Important later.
* * *
The night wore on interminably. Melanie spent it trading naps with Rolas, though he stayed up far longer than she did. When she did sleep she used Rolas’ lap as a pillow, his tail curling over her chest to ward off the chill. Even so she still felt exhausted as dawn finally broke, her pelt itching as the seawater dried off from her afternoon swim.
“So do we stay or explore?” Rolas wondered out loud. He grimaced in embarrassment as his stomach let out a loud grumble.
“Explore,” she said reluctantly, probing her lips with her tongue, feeling the dried and cracked surface. “We have to find food and water, especially water, before we’re unable to move.”
“You shouldn’t be expending too much energy,” he said in worry.
“Would you rather leave me behind?” Melanie asked
“Absolutely not.” He stood up off the table, and helped her down. Together they made their way down the stairs to the beach once again, holding paws as they stared at the sun bleached, rusting pier leading out into the water. “If I had some plastic sheeting and a bucket we could at least make a solar still for water,” he said thoughtfully. “And if I had a fishing line we’d be good for food. No, drat, we can’t trust the planet’s biology.” He glanced down the beach, in the direction of the sunken Windskimmer. “Of course we could use my boat’s sails, and there are plenty of sealed food packs available, if I could salvage them.”
“You try to swim in your condition and I will tackle you again,” Melanie said firmly. “Tackle and hogtie you.”
“You’d need a rope for that,” he pointed out amiably.
“That’s a point,” she agreed. She walked over to the pier and sat down on it, feet dangling into the water. Rolas remained on his standing, keeping an eye on the treeline while he picked up dead wood and tried to form a large A.N.B., the traditional Foxen Protectorate code for distress.
Chore done, he trooped back to where she was sitting. She looked up at him and said, “We haven’t been to the other side of the island yet.”
“More walking,” he pointed out. “More energy consumption. More working up a thirst. Especially given...”
“If your next words are ‘your condition’ I shall punch you in the snout, Rolas,” she interrupted. “Whoever our mysterious stalkers are, they have to have a camp. We haven’t seen one on this side, so it must be on the other. I’d rather find it first and track them, rather than get ambushed.”
He frowned, but followed it up with a reluctant nod. “I can’t fault your logic there.” Offering a paw, he helped her to her feet. Together they began walking towards the island’s far side, keeping close to the treeline in case they needed to dash under cover unexpectedly. After a half a kilometer, Melanie mentally checked off “dash” under cover, and replaced it with “crawl”. She kept going only by virtue of leaning on Rolas’ arm, her feet dragging in the hot sand.
“Got to stop,” she huffed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Rolas reassured her. He helped her sit down on a log at the edge of the treeline. They had just reached curve of the little bay opposite from Windskimmer’s last resting place. Rolas looked around it speculatively, as he sat down beside her. “Huh,” he muttered.
“Huh, what?” Melanie asked, raising her head to meet his eyes. They were bright, his ears perked up in curiosity.
“This bay,” he said, gesturing out to the water. Compared to the other side of the island, the waters here were almost flat, barely a ripple of waves coming up on the shore. “Look at it. It’s on the opposite side of the prevailing winds, which are blocked by the hills, and fairly deep from what I can see, a natural harbor. But the dock we found was on the northern tip of the island, almost athwart the wind and the current. Why build it there instead of here?”
“Margo’s crew were space pirates, not sea pirates,” she pointed out. “Perhaps they didn’t know any better.”
“That’s one possibility,” he allowed, not looking convinced. He stood up again, tail waving to whip sand off the tip, walking up to the edge of the water, looking out into the clear blue water of the bay. Then he looked down, foot pads brushing away a bit of sand that had formed into a sort of ridge about ten centimeters high, running from the shore into the trees.
“What are you looking at, Rolas?” Melanie called out.
“Not sure,” he replied. “Come over and see.”
“Urgh,” she muttered, levering herself to her feet, her back creaking. “What’s so interesting?” she demanded, as Rolas kneeled down and started brushing more sand off the little ridge with his paws.
“This ridge,” he said. “If it was formed by wave action it should be parallel to the shoreline, not perpendicular.”
“Maybe it’s a tree root?” Melanie offered.
He frowned in doubt. “Awfully big tree.”
“A rock?”
“Awfully long rock.” He brushed at it some more, finally revealing what appeared to be a gray, rubbery tube as thick as his fist. “Ah, it’s some kind of hose.”
“If it leads from the water onto the island, maybe it’s a feed line for a desalination plant,” Melanie said, her voice rising in excitement.
He grinned at her. “You might be right. Even if it isn’t, it’s a lead to our mysterious watcher’s camp. We find them first, maybe we can find out what they’re about, perhaps even negotiate with them, if they’re reasonable.” He patted the rubber tube fondly.
It twitched.
Note: After some consideration, I've revised the main manuscript to reinstate Rolas' memory loss, which will be Plot Important later.
* * *
The night wore on interminably. Melanie spent it trading naps with Rolas, though he stayed up far longer than she did. When she did sleep she used Rolas’ lap as a pillow, his tail curling over her chest to ward off the chill. Even so she still felt exhausted as dawn finally broke, her pelt itching as the seawater dried off from her afternoon swim.
“So do we stay or explore?” Rolas wondered out loud. He grimaced in embarrassment as his stomach let out a loud grumble.
“Explore,” she said reluctantly, probing her lips with her tongue, feeling the dried and cracked surface. “We have to find food and water, especially water, before we’re unable to move.”
“You shouldn’t be expending too much energy,” he said in worry.
“Would you rather leave me behind?” Melanie asked
“Absolutely not.” He stood up off the table, and helped her down. Together they made their way down the stairs to the beach once again, holding paws as they stared at the sun bleached, rusting pier leading out into the water. “If I had some plastic sheeting and a bucket we could at least make a solar still for water,” he said thoughtfully. “And if I had a fishing line we’d be good for food. No, drat, we can’t trust the planet’s biology.” He glanced down the beach, in the direction of the sunken Windskimmer. “Of course we could use my boat’s sails, and there are plenty of sealed food packs available, if I could salvage them.”
“You try to swim in your condition and I will tackle you again,” Melanie said firmly. “Tackle and hogtie you.”
“You’d need a rope for that,” he pointed out amiably.
“That’s a point,” she agreed. She walked over to the pier and sat down on it, feet dangling into the water. Rolas remained on his standing, keeping an eye on the treeline while he picked up dead wood and tried to form a large A.N.B., the traditional Foxen Protectorate code for distress.
Chore done, he trooped back to where she was sitting. She looked up at him and said, “We haven’t been to the other side of the island yet.”
“More walking,” he pointed out. “More energy consumption. More working up a thirst. Especially given...”
“If your next words are ‘your condition’ I shall punch you in the snout, Rolas,” she interrupted. “Whoever our mysterious stalkers are, they have to have a camp. We haven’t seen one on this side, so it must be on the other. I’d rather find it first and track them, rather than get ambushed.”
He frowned, but followed it up with a reluctant nod. “I can’t fault your logic there.” Offering a paw, he helped her to her feet. Together they began walking towards the island’s far side, keeping close to the treeline in case they needed to dash under cover unexpectedly. After a half a kilometer, Melanie mentally checked off “dash” under cover, and replaced it with “crawl”. She kept going only by virtue of leaning on Rolas’ arm, her feet dragging in the hot sand.
“Got to stop,” she huffed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Rolas reassured her. He helped her sit down on a log at the edge of the treeline. They had just reached curve of the little bay opposite from Windskimmer’s last resting place. Rolas looked around it speculatively, as he sat down beside her. “Huh,” he muttered.
“Huh, what?” Melanie asked, raising her head to meet his eyes. They were bright, his ears perked up in curiosity.
“This bay,” he said, gesturing out to the water. Compared to the other side of the island, the waters here were almost flat, barely a ripple of waves coming up on the shore. “Look at it. It’s on the opposite side of the prevailing winds, which are blocked by the hills, and fairly deep from what I can see, a natural harbor. But the dock we found was on the northern tip of the island, almost athwart the wind and the current. Why build it there instead of here?”
“Margo’s crew were space pirates, not sea pirates,” she pointed out. “Perhaps they didn’t know any better.”
“That’s one possibility,” he allowed, not looking convinced. He stood up again, tail waving to whip sand off the tip, walking up to the edge of the water, looking out into the clear blue water of the bay. Then he looked down, foot pads brushing away a bit of sand that had formed into a sort of ridge about ten centimeters high, running from the shore into the trees.
“What are you looking at, Rolas?” Melanie called out.
“Not sure,” he replied. “Come over and see.”
“Urgh,” she muttered, levering herself to her feet, her back creaking. “What’s so interesting?” she demanded, as Rolas kneeled down and started brushing more sand off the little ridge with his paws.
“This ridge,” he said. “If it was formed by wave action it should be parallel to the shoreline, not perpendicular.”
“Maybe it’s a tree root?” Melanie offered.
He frowned in doubt. “Awfully big tree.”
“A rock?”
“Awfully long rock.” He brushed at it some more, finally revealing what appeared to be a gray, rubbery tube as thick as his fist. “Ah, it’s some kind of hose.”
“If it leads from the water onto the island, maybe it’s a feed line for a desalination plant,” Melanie said, her voice rising in excitement.
He grinned at her. “You might be right. Even if it isn’t, it’s a lead to our mysterious watcher’s camp. We find them first, maybe we can find out what they’re about, perhaps even negotiate with them, if they’re reasonable.” He patted the rubber tube fondly.
It twitched.
