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Normally, you could not pay the sky-people of Opealon enough to touch the ocean. So much so that it was a point of fact that they poured a significant amount of their own money to get as far away from that nasty ionic sea-sludge as possible.
Juneberry was sky-people, and Juneberry was touching the ocean. You didn’t even need to pay her anything.
The barf-worthy tides were shoring up a small fortune for Juneberry in scrap metal. Sure, the junkyard she had by the shack was alright, but something something “legitimate sea glass” and something something “risked my left wing for this” was a good enough tag to slap on her tinkered items to make them cost just a few extra bucks. Good enough for Juno.
Today, though. Today was not good for Juno.
Today it was raining.
As if she’d somehow collectively spat in the goblet of every blasted cloud-demon on the waters, the sky was flooding down like Heaven itself had decided to take a dump on the entirety of Opealon. The gated cities above might be comfortably nestled in the clouds, but Juneberry, spitting out her own hair, could only scream.
“Stars - and-n -d J-Jove and bleedin-” Through chattering teeth, profanity after profanity gargled out like she was a much younger, more hoarse and more purple sailor. It was so cold. Still, Juneberry kept her fingers locked tight around her precious cargo, the barely-rusted, clipped metal of a discarded propeller. Bunch of good that was doing her - a crosswind buffeted her wildly, and Juno yelped as she had to dodge another stray jagged peak. They were just shivving out of the water, like the most vengeful shishkabobs in the Crossroads, and for some reason they were aching for faerie-meat.
The problem, to be honest, wasn’t the rain. She could take her soaked jacket, the numbness of her fingers, the claps of thunder that made her ears flatten to her head. The problem was that it wasn’t rain.
With each mouthful she gulped down in between curses, Juneberry was becoming acutely aware that the rain was salty. Which means it wasn’t coming from clouds above. It meant that there was an ocean below that was turning itself upside-down. Some dark fog passed through her jacket, and Juneberry felt her fingers jump - the propeller, nearly plummeting down into the impossible depths. She could feel the call of it, the void, the nothingness aching for her to let her wings and her heart stop their fluttering. Fall. Darkness. Nothing. She could sense it, the way her wings creaked and groaned. The gears in the saltwater. The plant that powered it, the battering of the wind. Juneberry's arms trembled, and she hugged the propeller to her chest. It was so cold. She could feel the edge cut into her arm.
The words of the tentacled man rang in her ears. A storm the people of Opealon can’t outlast.
Junberry gritted her teeth, something hot and angry flaring to life inside her chest. Kill her? Kill her, over one stupid idiot piece of scrap metal she probably could’ve just dug out of the junkyard and lied about to her customers for? No. She was going to get home, and she was going to make her first million out of this.
“Yeah, whatever!” she shouted, over the gale and wind. “Pricks!”
And it was then - in some divine comedy - that her wings decided to give out.
Juneberry was sky-people, and Juneberry was touching the ocean. You didn’t even need to pay her anything.
The barf-worthy tides were shoring up a small fortune for Juneberry in scrap metal. Sure, the junkyard she had by the shack was alright, but something something “legitimate sea glass” and something something “risked my left wing for this” was a good enough tag to slap on her tinkered items to make them cost just a few extra bucks. Good enough for Juno.
Today, though. Today was not good for Juno.
Today it was raining.
As if she’d somehow collectively spat in the goblet of every blasted cloud-demon on the waters, the sky was flooding down like Heaven itself had decided to take a dump on the entirety of Opealon. The gated cities above might be comfortably nestled in the clouds, but Juneberry, spitting out her own hair, could only scream.
“Stars - and-n -d J-Jove and bleedin-” Through chattering teeth, profanity after profanity gargled out like she was a much younger, more hoarse and more purple sailor. It was so cold. Still, Juneberry kept her fingers locked tight around her precious cargo, the barely-rusted, clipped metal of a discarded propeller. Bunch of good that was doing her - a crosswind buffeted her wildly, and Juno yelped as she had to dodge another stray jagged peak. They were just shivving out of the water, like the most vengeful shishkabobs in the Crossroads, and for some reason they were aching for faerie-meat.
The problem, to be honest, wasn’t the rain. She could take her soaked jacket, the numbness of her fingers, the claps of thunder that made her ears flatten to her head. The problem was that it wasn’t rain.
With each mouthful she gulped down in between curses, Juneberry was becoming acutely aware that the rain was salty. Which means it wasn’t coming from clouds above. It meant that there was an ocean below that was turning itself upside-down. Some dark fog passed through her jacket, and Juneberry felt her fingers jump - the propeller, nearly plummeting down into the impossible depths. She could feel the call of it, the void, the nothingness aching for her to let her wings and her heart stop their fluttering. Fall. Darkness. Nothing. She could sense it, the way her wings creaked and groaned. The gears in the saltwater. The plant that powered it, the battering of the wind. Juneberry's arms trembled, and she hugged the propeller to her chest. It was so cold. She could feel the edge cut into her arm.
The words of the tentacled man rang in her ears. A storm the people of Opealon can’t outlast.
Junberry gritted her teeth, something hot and angry flaring to life inside her chest. Kill her? Kill her, over one stupid idiot piece of scrap metal she probably could’ve just dug out of the junkyard and lied about to her customers for? No. She was going to get home, and she was going to make her first million out of this.
“Yeah, whatever!” she shouted, over the gale and wind. “Pricks!”
And it was then - in some divine comedy - that her wings decided to give out.