The sea claimed another victim. The night’s emissary brushed against the depths of the ocean, a steel craft sputtering across a thundering expanse of watery death. The arts of tide triumphed over the arts of steel in a confrontation of drenching cold. It was a chart-breaking storm that severed the charted path of the vessel and left the emissary to slip and fall into the unknown. Just like that, a stream of consciousness drizzles out into a curious repose. The water has settled and the dawn has emerged on the secluded island of L’Ekogna.
Chukti emerged from her hammock disheveled and restless. She found some grass scattered on her person and quickly discovered that they were yanked out of her skirt. She had stirred tonight. The relentless sounds of the night gave her reason to believe that great uncle Pwequod was aware that she often split the pesto sauce unevenly in her own favor. Chukti started her day by polishing her late great uncle’s raho fish totem in tribute.