About ten thousand tonnes of ancient rusting metal, paint peeling and blistering like a bad sun burn, noisy vibrating engine that rattled everything that wasn't strapped down, cutlery jitters across dinner plates, life boats on rusted chains, weather worn decks, cabins with port holes, bunk beds, berths, windows reverberating, waves relentlessly slapping and teasing the old maid of the sea, puffs of grey smoke drift lazily from the single tall funnel, dissipating into the otherwise still September air. Faust strolled into the lighthouse. There wasn’t a lot of space inside, a spiral staircase dominated the vast majority of the room. At the top, he opened a door to reveal an enclosed terrace. The breeze picked up; it’s heavy with salt. Gulls wheeling overhead screamed obscenities. Faust gripped the railing and peered at the crashing surf below.

With tears streaming down his face, he could do nothing but sit cross-legged on the sandy shore and stare at the horizon in front of him. Waves of a deep royal blue crept towards him before running away, only to repeat the process in a cycle that caused droplets of salty water to spray onto his bare, sand-encrusted feet. But beyond those magical waves were something even more amazing and breath-taking: The sunset. Beautiful smudges of coral, lavender, turquoise, and a fiery orange blended together to create a sight so astounding it swept me away from all of my worries, just like the waves creeping over seashells and stealing them in a matter of seconds. The last teardrop fell and hit the soft white sand, and a warm feeling of safety and security overwhelmed him as the sun dipped down below the horizon. The vast ocean in front of him was his home, where Faust belonged, a place to escape from his life away from the waves. Nothing could ever take that feeling away.

Dragonflies, bird song, serenity, survey the river, observe for fish rising, fly rod, landing net, fix reel to rod, thread the line, attach a leader, attach tippet, tie on lead shot to sink the flies, attach 3 flies, one scarlet and green, one blue and brown, one yellow and orange, all with a sharp curled barb at the end. Sit in meadow a riot of cow parsley, ragwort, buttercups, white clover and ox-eye daisy. Overhanging trees, insects falling in, good spot to fish, brown trout and salmon swim in easy casting range.The fisherman leaned against the sea wall with his pipe, smoke curling into the salty breeze. He lacked the extra chins and the beer bellies of other men his age, every part of him lean muscle and leathery skin. As he watched the street his eyes were as choppy as the ocean behind him, the sea choosing to send him home rather than grant the haul he was hoping for. The fish live another day and a long day of mending nets stretches ahead. By mid-morning the fishermen are on the beach to sell their catch to the housewives and restaurateurs. The beach smells of fish guts festering in the sun and the gulls cry overhead, coming for whatever they can get. If it wouldn't make him speak like a duck Faust would have pegged my nose, but at least the breeze took the worst of it away. The fishermen were fathers and sons, once in a while a daughter, and though the day is early for the customers it is late for them. They joked and smiled, yet behind it all was a hint of fatigue, a need to get on with clean up before they can take a much needed siesta.

Every drop was inconsequential, nothing in the grandness of the ocean. But when they all moved together, as one body- therein lied the power. From the surface it may remain tranquil for many days, months even, but its strength was not gone, merely dormant. Below the surface, no matter how still, are unstoppable currents moving unimaginable volumes of briny water many thousands of kilometers. From above it seems no more alive than a bucket of water, yet below is more life than the skies above or the the land it kisses. Truly it is another world, an alien landscape. It is one everyone should visit with reverence, not use as the toilet bowl and dumping ground of human toxicity.

It was time for the Coyote to finally start his first job in Oak Town. In the morning, the male picked up a job request at the town's request board. It was different from the one in Oak, much more modern than its time. The job request sheets were a bit updated, as well. Certainly the vibe that was provided in Hargeon differed from that of Oak Town, ingenuity at its best. The request was to create a distraction, one big enough to bring everyone there so that the client, some small time smuggler with big money, could finish his job with ease. And that brings everything to the present; Faust at the Hargeon Port, namely one of the biggest ports in Fiore, if not the largest. It didn't necessarily matter how he pulled the event off, so long as he did, the payment would come. So the Coyote did a simplistic yet effective measure and screamed. A few guards turned his way and came closer, but he needed more attention for Mr. Reagan or whatever his name was to consider the job done. As soon as one guard paced over, a pint of blood pierced through his body and knocked him onto the floor. The Coyote had shot him with a blood spell. Now, everyone was riling towards him and fast. The Coyote fled the scene, met with the client, and made his money.



*Note: Grimoire Heart members have a skill that gives them 10% off on quests.