It disappears when he turns to it. Beyond and below, the beach comes into view; boats line its shingle bank top, his work project among them—a white open cutter. The boat stands between two huddles of untidy buildings. The voice in his head chatters again. Pretend you hate this yard all you like, but you need it.
You have no other release from Mauree. He doggedly ignores the intrusive voice; calculating high winds with inconsistent squalls helps to do this. Each gust feeds currents of air to trouble the waters, before ascending the cliff to batter him. The whole channel churns in frothy wild circles around pinnacles of tall, sharp-pointed rocks protruding from the water—close to the cliff or out to sea, where they whip the high winds into violent eddies.
He grabs a stunted tree to steady himself and survey the tempest. Around the coast, just out of sight, Hurley endures the same weather—with so much ease; Hurley boatyard has a proper force field, not a mere field barrier. They can afford it. At double speed he battles the wind amid screeching seagulls as a shadow solidifies alongside him.
The dog takes form! He shivers.
I must get inside the yard to safety. He has no substantial form, but possible release alerts him to every move his captor, Derba makes whilst the old man desperately avoids direct contact to the beast.
Pick me up. They both watch a passing edgy younger man who descends toward a line of boats.
Torn between the path behind him and windblown seabirds risking everything for food and shelter, the young man fails to notice this stake and its lure. He passes it by, and its colourful filaments fade away, to disappear altogether. The man in the smock grunts with inaudible displeasure and points a crooked finger toward a glass orb suspended above a fissure of intense black. The beast connected to the orb stirs, and its eye glints red. Moments pass before the terrible apparition averts its baneful eye. Not this time Moolbol. Not this time. The dangerous game my master plays to use your power succeeds.
Has my release come once more, at long last? His trapped soul stretches and pulls—insides first, through a vortex to join this body. Greyed teeth draw near.
Hot breath smells unpleasant. The wizard points toward the man on the path. I want thou to draw him to my knife.
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Fear not the brightness, my friend. At night thee has thine own invisibility powers to use. He has phantom teeth able to bite, even kill the fearful.
Thou must stay him, an easy task for thou. No type of ghost can defy an elf, and soon my staff should claim Rodsorg for once and for all. Very few elves indeed have the prowess to defy magnetism. The dog will have to go on alone. He wastes no time climbing from the dog and slipping into welcome darkness. Belan enters the barrier and waits for the air pressure to adjust. Belan, himself no boat artiste, all but carries Creel. Their boat has a sturdy hull of knitted fibres, hardened to a glossy finish, then painted white.
To save space a steering wheel with an awkward pulley and wire system replaces the tiller. Every pulley has seized and needs renewing.
deskpompabandded.ml Belan surveys his job list. That will allow the painters to scrape and paint the hull. He goes to the mess hut and pours a mug of beverum.
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Hairline Creel has a brand-new bobbed quiff set in a rough, but effeminate, style. Belan discreetly listens to them talk, but one short sentence from Hairline Creel is enough for him. The razor cut angles the hair. Grong nods to Creel politely. His thoughts are restless and somewhat futile. All about how faith led back to manual work. Machines had done this crap in the old days, whilst people searched for immortality. The old prophet even managed to make death fashionable. This young store assistant shares overenthusiastic banter with Belan—almost anger but filled with good humour.
He smiles and puts a plank of wood under the boat to lie on and replace the keel band. For a short while he drills, seals and screws; then he stops. It sounds like the dog. Think man, think. Now, ah yes, the keel band.
He slides along the floor to get out for a better view, unable to turn due to space restriction. On the way his hair brushes against the sealant; he jerks his head away into a rounded, protruding screw. The plank slips and off-balance he squashes the sealant tube, face first. The momentum gouges a short channel through reluctant stones before the beach stops progress.
With a curse, he hits the offending screw with a hammer and hears Creel fumble with the ruined pulley in response. Belan rolls free to experience an unwelcome Nano-moment, where the pulley hurtles past his head to shatter a large pebble.
He ignores it; death by pulley far from his thoughts—instead he searches for the dog, without success. Shit job! He trudges to the toilet fingering his head but finding no blood. Pebbles crunching underfoot remind him of pleasurable fishing expeditions from his childhood. Work moves at a pace on the big boat. Belan dives straight in with light-hearted sarcasm.