The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

15-1: Which Way's North?

The heat of the sun was unbearable; the afternoon air boiling, rippling off the sand, pelting him with waves of scorching air. He could have sworn the sun had it in for him. Could it not go and bug someone else, perhaps?

He rolled over, praying that some shelter would materialise above him. It didn't. He rolled over again, then once more just in case. Suddenly a rush of cold water overwhelmed him, pushing him back and filling his nose with salty sand.

Makyron tried to pull himself up, but the wave withdrew and took him with it. The next wave was kind enough to thrust him back up the beach, and he managed to claw into the receding sands, coughing and spluttering as the water retreated beneath him.

It took all the strength he had to climb to his feet and stumble back up to dry land. He patted himself off, sopping wet. He was still wearing his new suit, he noted; hopefully it hadn't been ruined by the sea water. Well, it was still a lot better than everything else he owned. Besides, he had paid for it with a pair of dirty underwear, and a rusty old sword he'd found discarded on the beach.

The fool had been delighted at the trade. Makyron didn't feel bad; the man had thought himself a hero, and had likely killed himself trying to climb the mountain. Goldryke Caves? No one ever made it there. And they certainly never made it back.

Makyron took a few more steps up the beach towards his campsite, and began searching for something to drink. He found a bottle of something. Empty. There was another bottle a few feet away. Also empty. He frantically searched the camp for anything that wasn't empty. There was nothing. Nothing at all.

Damn city watchmen must have stolen his stash – those two that had come through a couple days back. Searching for a shipwreck, they claimed. Hah! What a story. Robbing innocents of their precious few possessions, more like.

"Excuse me," said a soft voice.

Makyron turned back to the sea, and saw a young woman sitting on a rock, batting her eyelashes at him. He was stunned, blown away by her beauty, and spent many moments in stupid silence looking her up and down, studying every curve in her suggestive pose. But, for all her good looks, there was something a little odd about her. Where her legs should have been, she had... a tail!

"You... you're a mermaid?" queried Makyron, unconvinced despite his sight.

The girl looked herself up and down, then frowned back at him.

"Look, Makyron, I don't know what you are into, but this is pretty weird. I mean, how do you even... where do you...? Yes, pretty weird."

"Wh... What?"

"Allow me to explain," said the mermaid. "You drank two bottles of pure unfiltered alcohol, then passed out on the beach, and woke up in the scorching sun. You haven't had any water, nor have you eaten in two days. Even ignoring all that, you aren't exactly floating well above the sanity-line. The result: you are now hallucinating, and what's more, you are having a conversation with your hallucination."

"What?" he said, several feet under the load of confusion sprung upon him so early in the afternoon.

"There is a new tavern that recently opened up just a little way north of here along the coast. Why don't you go get yourself a warm meal over there?"

"What?"

"Remember? The city watchmen told you about it."

Makyron scratched his head. He was having trouble thinking. His head was throbbing, and the sun was burning his puffy eyes. There was only one effective cure for such a hangover, and he didn't have any to hand.