Watching closely, but never too closely, Slate chuckled to himself from his perch. His shawl, a pale weave of Skreep wool and Skrux stone, was a masterpiece of invisibility—as insulating as it was ethereal against the biting wind.

From here, he looked down upon Oosterskirt in all its “glory brickyness,” its “teetherin’ jolly homes,” and its “magnifgent... magnifficent...” well, however that word went.

It gave him an odd tingle to see it all from above. With a smirk, Slate imagined himself as a ruler in his own right—a ruler at great height over all the little tiny boxes where the little tiny slow-movers lived.

His favorite game was tracking the black spot known as Fin. Slate was sure—if he truly knew what a “sure” was—that Fin moved more than half of Ooster combined.

Up here, Slate found his freedom:

• The fresh air far above the “townies”.
• The lack of "townies" that plagued the streets.
• The right to roam wherever the wind allowed.

Tonight was an important night. The dark, very unwelcoming night was creeping in. The wind began picking up; rising swells thrashed plumes of slippery spray out of the sea and onto Ooster.

Only a fool in need of a bath would venture forth into such an unwelcomingly wet night.

Slate prepared for the hunt—and a well-needed bath.

Coming Soon

Coming Soon