When Lynda wakes up, it's early morning. So early, in fact, that the sun has yet to peak above the horizon. Redwake is calm and quiet at such an hour unlike the hours the residents are wandering its wooden paths. She sits up, listening to the seabirds calling in the distance, far away from the town, close to open waters. The fishermen should be awake to prepare their ships for a fishing journey and they would have been had the chief not disallowed them from sailing away from the port. Due to the hazards happening around these parts, he decreed to hold off such activities for the townspeople's safety after Lynda left his chair room.

Speaking of... She should start preparing to meet that mysterious hermit. Armour, weapons –she has to figure out how to acquire such items. As of now, she only has Morden's dagger (which is a pretty ornament now) and a stolen cutlass that she barely knows how to wield. Her swordplay is sloppy at best, befitting a desperate survivor, not a warrior or a knight. That's what she knows: stabbing, dodging, rolling out of the way. Staying close to the ground is as familiar as breathing, covering her back and slipping from one nook to the other are as natural as walking but that isn't enough. Had the townspeople not intervened when they had, she isn't sure if she could have kept up that irregular pace of clashing. The more skills she has in her arsenal, the safer the journey to Silent Ire will be.

I should ask one of the warriors to teach me how to properly handle a sword, while I find work somewhere. I need money for armour, maybe a new weapon, rations...

Gods, there is so much she needs to do and she has no doubt that more will pop up along the way. Where does she even begin? She saw an armoury and a forge yesterday; perhaps she'll drop by and ask for prices before she does anything else.

Going downstairs, the tail of the cloak flowing behind her, Lynda strides to the swinging doors. Or, she would have had Estrid not heard her footsteps and jumped out of the kitchen, the only room that's lit inside the homely tavern. Lynda almost jumps out of her skin when the woman calls out her name.

"An' where d' ye think ye're goin'?" there is a playful lilt to her voice. Lynda halts at the doors like a caught animal. She turns slowly, takes a deep, calming breath, hiding her hands under her cloak seamlessly.

"Ah, Estrid, I didn't know you were awake." she says. "Good day."

And she immediately turns to leave. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think that it would have been easy to escape Estrid so swiftly. The woman rounds the bar and runs at her, grabbing her by the arm and almost dragging her to a stool.

"Sit yer bum down, we're almost done with the preparations!" she slaps her on the back, a firm hand pressing her into the seat. "So ye don't have t' wander 'round town till lunchtime."

It's almost like she has made it her mission to make sure Lynda doesn't skip a single meal. It's weird and definitely does more harm than good to her business. Yet, for some reason, she keeps doing it. Lynda thought that the sense of obligation would have faded within the two days she's been here, especially now that the chief has returned and decided that she was free to stay at Redwake. She's free to stay, is the thing; she is not free to gorge on its limited resources –but Estrid insists.

A second person peeks through the kitchen doorway as Estrid busies herself with lighting some candles. It's a man in a white, puffy hat and light clothes. A scruffy beard borders his face, accentuating his rough features and sharp eyes. There is an apron tied around his waist, similar to Estrid, although his is stained with splotches of mysterious substances.

"Oh, would ya look at that!" he says with mirth upon seeing her face cast in candlelight. Lynda looks at him like a frightened cat. "You're Lynda, aren't ya? The one who fought off those pirates?"

Estrid sets the last candle on the bar and blows out the match.

"Don't mind 'er, she's a tad ski'ish still."

"From all that fightin', yeah?"

Lynda thinks to say 'no'. The fuzzy feeling in her blood wore off hours ago, and the numbness she felt in her arms after the fight has faded as well. She isn't on edge anymore, though the dark corners of the tavern are a little unsettling. Having no concrete answer of her own, she chooses not to talk at all.

"I didn't get t' meet ya when ya saved us. Name 's Asfrith."

"He helps prepare lunch 'n' dinner." Estrid adds. "Speakin' of, bring out a portion, would ye? I gotta take care o' me guest 'ere."

With a nod and a word of affirmation, Asfrith happily disappears back into the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans follows and if she listens carefully, she can just make out the crackles of a fire. Estrid turns to Lynda with a serious expression and she leans on the bar with her elbows to speak in a whisper.

"I heard ye're goin' out t' find the hermit on our chief's behalf."

Lynda blinks in surprise. News must spread like wildfire in such a small town.

"...I am." she doesn't bother lowering her voice, unsure of why Estrid is talking and looking at her like that in the first place. It's too early in the morning for this. "Is there an issue?"

"No, 'course not. But are ye sure 'bout this? I've 'eard that hermit 's a shifty character."

"I'll only ask him a question." Lynda tells her, glancing at the kitchen entrance. Asfrith's shadow disturbs the light, cursing loudly. Her shoulders tense.

"Listen t' me," Estrid lowers her head to look directly into her eyes. "A man must either be crazy or a god t' live alone like that. Be careful, 'kay?"

"Okay." and she says it more so Estrid stops putting second thoughts in her head than to promise to be careful. "I'm going to spend a day or two preparing, I'm not heading out immediately."

At that, Estrid sighs in relief. She straightens her back and flashes a smile.

"Well that's good to 'ear! Ye could drop by me sister to get some warmer clothes if ye need 'em, she's a tailor. Just tell 'er I sent ye and she'll give ye a better price."

Asfrith reemerges with a plate of vegetables and fruit not long after that. He slides the dish over to Lynda and settles next to the tavern-keep. She doesn't miss the towel that's half-wrapped around his pointer finger. He must've cut himself, she thinks and that is somehow... reassuring.

"You're headin' out to the ocean soon, aren't ya? Do ya know how t' cook?" he asks with a knowing look.

"I don't." she tells him with half a piece of apple between her teeth while glancing at their expressions. So Estrid told him about my memory loss. Figures. They appear to be close.

"Cookin' 's a very powerful skill. Anyone who sails the seas, 'specially alone, should know how to cook." he says with the tone of a teacher. "What do ya say 'bout comin' into the kitchen after you're done t' go over the basics?"

He certainly isn't wrong. To survive alone, one needs to know how to feed themselves; to be able to make something filling out of whatever appears to grow in the area. Especially with her fire magic, she's a human furnace. To learn how to cook would also mean that she wouldn't have to rely on Estrid for food –in theory. She can't burst into the kitchen during working hours and shoo the cook from the stove, can she?

"Sure." she agrees. You never know when a skill might come in handy.

=

Cooking with Asfrith proved to be an arduous activity. Lynda found out that she can chop an onion at great speed even through the tears and make dough rise out of its basket. The man said warm hands are best for kneading, so that's another thing her fire magic is useful for, apparently, and he put her to work once he felt how warm her hands are compared to his own (he even called Estrid to check if she had a fever). Until the sun rose, she was punching dough and pulling delicious loaves of bread out of the oven bare-handed. Of course, the poor cook screamed in terror when he saw that happen but he was relieved –and shocked– when he checked her hands and saw no damaged skin nor blisters.

In the morning light, the townspeople are very lively. The fishermen have resigned themselves to fishing off the docks and some of them have climbed on the neighbouring spires, competing for a better fishing spot. Sitting in small gouged holes, they cast their lines and nets into the limited space between the towering stones and while they're trying their very best to bring home the bread (or fish for that matter), Lynda doesn't believe they'll catch enough to store –the waters here are full of minnows.

On her way to the tailor's, she comes across a young girl who is frantically throwing bags and moving crates across the plaza. When she approaches her, she learns that the girl's name is Donna and that she lost a family heirloom during the pirate raid. Lynda promised to keep an eye open for it and continued on her way. Geirlaug, Estrid's sister, is more than welcoming when she tells her who sent her to the shop. The lady is immediately all over her, taking measurements with a numbered tape while Lynda stands as stiff as a log in the middle of the shop, cloak discarded on a nearby box.

"Me sister mentioned ye've got some memory issues," –of course she did, Lynda sighs through her nose but says nothing– "I had the same thing happen t' me when I was young. Somethin' fell on me 'ead and I lost track o' everythin'. Shop, family; I knew I had a childhood but I couldn't recall anythin'." Geirlaug pulls the tape away from her bust, scribbles something down on a piece of paper and wraps it around her waist. "And the sewing machine was familiar t' me. They had t' tell me I was a tailor. Funny, right?"

"I've noticed some... funny things too." she admits, then grits her teeth in thought. This woman had the same condition she has now and she's willing to give her point of view of the experience. Perhaps sharing a few things won't hurt. "The hilt of a sword fits perfectly in my palm but I'm clumsy. My magic has resurfaced but it feels... weak.", she takes a deep breath, "I guess I was expecting it to be stronger... I can't fathom how fire could become stronger. It already burns hot enough."

"Maybe ye're a warrior. I'm sure one o' our warriors would be honoured to show ye a thing o' two."

Another measurement taken and more numbers scribbled, Geirlaug is finally done with the tape.

"Was there a sign before you regained your memory?"

"A sign?" the lady looks up from her price calculation. She taps the charcoal pencil on the wooden desk, humming. "No, I don't think so. I just woke up one day and I remembered everythin' like not a day had passed."

Lynda's expression darkens. She'd prefer a way to tell that her condition was improving, not to hope that her memory would magically restore itself in a vague moment in the future.

"Ye must 'ave a family somewhere," Geirlaug's voice drags her out of her thoughts, successfully catching her attention. "Someone 's bound to recognise ye in these seas."

"You have a point."

Perhaps she could travel the seas after this. She could go out there and search for her relatives or at least people who knew her before everything. And who knows? Maybe Morden's little theory would come true on the way. Maybe, if she found her family, her memories would return –at least some of them. So, the gears in her head start turning, new hope alight in her otherwise dull, garnet eyes.

"Do you know anything about Frostmill?"

"Already thinkin' 'bout destinations?", Geirlaug smiles knowingly but then she looks her up and down studiously. Her mouth turns into a subtle frown. "Ye look pale enough but ye lack the accent."

Lynda puts on her cloak and secures it at the front, hiding her disappointment behind the pretence of adjusting the cloth around her shoulders. "I need to start from somewhere."

"Frostmill 's just a big chunk o' ice, sworn t' the Ravenna Realm. There's always one o' two Bronze Legion vessels patrollin' 'round there. We don't do much trade with 'em nowadays, the island 's been cursed, but ye should be able t' get 'em t' help–."

"Cursed?" Lynda cuts her off, intrigued. "How so?"

"Eh, so the news says. Ye should 'ave a read of the AGORA, that'll get ye up to date." the woman shuffles some papers that are piled on the floor behind the desk. Countless papyrus flyers and little boxes of string and buttons are messily rearranged in her search. She retrieves a slightly yellowed newspaper, which is apparently the latest issue of the AGORA. "Here, ye can borrow it. I know how disorientin' losin' yer memories can be. Tis for the best t' have a look."

Lynda takes the crisp, yellowed paper in her hands and examines the front page. The AGORA by the Juraserva... That name sounds familiar. Below the nameplate is a huge banner for the headline of the alleged 'curse' that has been cast over Frostmill Island. Following that are some less intriguing articles like a local prince breaking up with his girlfriend and a few bounties that have been reevaluated due to their corresponding faces committing more crimes. Regular gossip follows in the rest of the pages, something about the Navy defeating a crew of pirates and the list of unlucky criminals who will face their execution at Palo Town.

"Are you sure I can keep this?" she asks, taking another look at the execution list.

"Ye ain't keepin' it, ye're borrowin' it. Return it once ye're done, 'aight?"

She nods and folds the newspaper twice before storing it in the pocket of her trousers. Geirlaug shows her another paper –the one with the many calculations– and begins explaining everything on it. The fabric cost, the work hours and other things that support her claims. At the end, she also proposes a decent discount thanks to Estrid's referral and the fact that she fought off the pirates –and thank the gods for that because Lynda was about to faint at the sight of the original price.

"Ye run along now. I'll start sewin', so ye better return with coin." Geirlaug sees her out with a hard pat on the back and a playful grin.

—

After visiting the armourer, Lynda exits the shop disheartened. The total for both new clothes and a few pieces of armour that mostly covers the joints is so high, it'd be a miracle if she manages to amass the necessary amount in a few days. I could just delay the new clothes. Then again, she needs to return her borrowed clothing to Estrid before she leaves –lest she has to pay for damages too– and she needs to drop by the blacksmith to see if he could refine Morden's dagger. Add that to the total. "Ugh," This is a headache to keep track of.

A light breeze blows from the open pathway to the edge of the town, blowing the hood off her head and taking a few strands of pastel green with it. She tucks the misbehaving pieces behind an ear and turns towards the sea. A little break from all the noise won't hurt. The path leads to a maze built around the spires, leading to homes and small docks and little alcoves. Every now and then, there is a barrel of fishing supplies forgotten in a corner, yellow piles of fishing nets and bottles of alcohol.

The sea is calm. There is no one around to talk to or pay attention to. It's a little remote place where she can at least think, unlike the busy plaza and the bustle of the Red Fin. She sits at the edge, hanging her feet just above the glittering ripples of the water and crossing her arms on the bottom fence, then nestles her head in the nook.

What am I even doing here?

She should be looking for work. Barely anything has been ticked off the list, she hasn't done enough to warrant a break. Perhaps she could return to the town and see if anyone needs help with repairs. Maybe she could help Asfrith with dinner or some other kitchen chore. The fishermen will be fishing until late afternoon, so carrying their catches is out of the question for now. Her fingers stretch and tremble and she kicks her feet, nervous to remain dormant. What else could she do?

"Ye're lookin' a lil' lost there, lass." a feminine voice cuts through the silence, making Lynda almost jump out of her skin and bump her head on the top fence of the railing. Quickly, she stands up and moves away from the edge before regarding the woman who appeared behind her like a ghost. The woman is holding fishing gear, wearing a simple, brown woollen shirt and dark trousers and most of her hair has lost its colour but there is barely a wrinkle on her face. "Ha ha, ye're as jumpy as a school o' minnows!"

Lynda's cheeks flush bright red but she offers a timid hello.

"Pretty hard t' find someone in this part o' Redwake."

"It is very discreet." she agrees, awkwardly shuffling her feet. The woman beckons her to follow as she walks further down. The path is full of unnerving shadows and sharp corners.

"Tis the best fishin' spot 'cause o' how quiet it is. What were ye doin' sittin' over there?"

"Thinking." is the only answer she gives, preoccupied with watching the turns as if a monster would jump out of there.

The woman sets down the gear she's carrying on a little extension of the path that leads to a small dock. It's surrounded by spires that limit the space, though the water is visibly deeper. Lynda stops a few steps behind her.

"Thinkin' 'bout what? Got a fish ye're anglin' for?" the woman asks playfully with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"I– A fish I'm angling for?" it takes her a second to understand, "No! No, it's nothing like that!"

The woman laughs heartily. "Calm down, lass! Just tuggin' yer line!"

"Tugging my line... right."

A wooden rod is pushed into her hands without warning. Lynda fumbles to get a proper hold on it as the woman sits down, dangling her feet off the dock. She sits a respectable distance away from her.

"What 're ye doin' all the way over there? Come 'ere!" the woman pats the spot beside her. She awkwardly scooches a bit closer, not quite closing the gap between them. "Have ye ever fished before?"

"No."

The woman is more than happy to show her the ropes. Teach a man to fish and all that. Lynda catches on quickly, casting her line quite far into the deep water and receiving her praise. The only bad thing is that now she has to wait for a fish to bite... and with how things are, she doubts that'll be anytime soon. How did she even get roped up in this in the first place? The good thing is that the fishermen are paid for the fish they contribute to the town's storage house.

They have some small talk during their time spent at the docks, which passes with a surprising amount of bites. Their luck streak lasts till the sun begins to set. A basket of ice that the woman, Audbjorn, brought has been filled with fish: minnows, trout and others that Lynda doesn't recognise but is fascinated enough to learn. They've decided to split the catch and Lynda knows exactly what she'll do with her share.

"Sun 's goin' down, the fish won't be bitin' soon." Audbjorn says as she looks at the long shadows cast by the imposing spires. She has just reeled in a flounder and is in the process of gutting it.

"This will be the last one then– Woah!" Lynda is cut off by the fishing rod almost flying out of her hands. The line is straining as something has bitten the bait, fighting to get it off the hook. Lynda tries to reel it in but it's too strong.

"Ye alright there?" the woman asks, more amused than worried. Lynda doesn't get the time to respond, as she is swiftly pulled off the dock and into the water.

There is a lot of splashing and flailing of limbs before she dives underwater. Audbjorn merely watches, expecting Lynda to reemerge and the fish to swim away victoriously with its dinner. The splashing stops seconds later, no bubbles to indicate that there is someone beneath the surface. She begins to actually worry now; there is no fin protruding from the water to suggest a shark –not that they get close to Redwake's shallows– nor is there any blood flowing up. Where did she go?

She is one second away from running to the plaza to call for help when Lynda reemerges on the ramp of the opposite dock with a big, flapping tuna held tightly in her embrace. She is stunned. That fish must weigh at least half her body weight and it's alive, fighting to get back into the water and it must be stronger than the girl's twig arms but somehow– Somehow it can't slip away. No matter how much it wags its tail and its body spasms, her grip remains steadfast.

The fish is flopped on the wooden planks of the deck as Lynda catches her breath. A puff of fire evaporates the water off her clothes, surrounding her in a cloud of mist that she waves it out of her face.

"Goodness!" Audbjorn laughs in surprise, putting away her gear and running to her.

Estrid's jaw dropped to the floor when Lynda brought the fish to the tavern as a token of her appreciation.