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The Eirlund sun peered down on the world. Like a great baleful eye of fire, it observed from on high. Eternally silent, but brighter than any flame that the inhabitants of Verdigris could conjure up. It was an implacable thing, as weak as it was, still provided the light and paltry warmth needed for life to survive.

None of this was known to Rudan as he stared up at it from the little fishing boat. To him, it was just the Last Star. All he knew of it was that it was strongest and brightest during the Season of Flame, and weakest during the Season of Ice. And that it was very far away. As he sat in the boat, his back craned over the edge of the vessel, he pondered just how far away it was. Not even the highest peak could touch the Last Star, so it must be very far away indeed. Nobody could say where the Last Star had come from, or if it might disappear like all the other stars in the sky, and it was the fervent hope of many that it never did. Endless night was not an appealing thought to anyone. Rudan shivered at the idea of it himself, but he was also excited by such a thought. Night-time was secretive, shrouded in mystery and confusion. The otterlad often spent hours at a time staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, divining patterns cast by the darkness as his eyes tried in vain to penetrate it. The difference between the appearance of the village in night and in day was also attractive, in a hauntingly beautiful fashion.

Still, if the Last Star did fade, everyone agreed the consequences would be disastrous. There was only so much wood to be used for tinder and torch, after all. And even the new-fangled fat-torches made from the blubber of the huge salkies weren't all that sustainable. Even an otterlad as absent-minded as Rudan knew that.

A particularly strong wave slapping the keel of the boat jerked the boy from his reverie. He jumped and winced as the spray splattered across his face, cold and stinging. Suddenly, Rudan regretted his hurried decision to sit at the fore of the little boat. Sitting up, he looked at his father, but the older otter hadn't noticed. That was something he was grateful for, thanking the Ice that Gart was too busy fiddling with the cloth padding wrapped around the rudder-handle. Now that he was paying more attention to the world before his muzzle, Rudan peered past his father, back towards the coast. The mountain range was the only thing still distinct. The rest of the land was a fuzzy greyish line that marred the otherwise pretty union of earth and sky upon the horizon. They must have been at least a mark out onto the sea. Faintly, in the back of his head, the otterlad heard a little voice saying;

"If the boat sinks, you can't swim that far." He tried his best to ignore it, but suddenly the little voice was commenting on everything.

"The sail looks worn."

"That looks like a patched hole."

"The boat shouldn't be creaking this much."

"It looks too old to float."

All of these and more were perfectly valid concerns that Rudan had thought of before the voice, but he had at least tried to forgot about them - or ignore them. The voice was doggedly persistent, turning his eyes and his thoughts away from the mainland. Struggling with the voice, Rudan tried his best not to stare at the circle of different-coloured wood between his feet, which had been used to plug a hole in the bottom of the boat. Now was really not the time to think these morbid sorts of thought, so instead, Rudan dragged his gaze up to watch his father.

He was surprised to find Gart staring right back at him pensively. As soon as each otter realised the other was staring, they harrumphed and swallowed respectively, and looked away. Gart was the first to break the awkward silence.

"So! Found your sea legs yet, lad?" He asked gruffly. It was rather a pathetic conversation opener, highlighting to Rudan once again how uncomfortable his father felt around him. Suppressing a sigh, the otterlad nodded.

"I think so, Father. I don't feel seasick." He replied briefly, having decided not to admit to his worrying about the condition of the ship. He didn't want to give Gart cause to worry and lecture him before they even reached the fishing marker. When they got to the bobbing log, anchored by a long copper chain and a rock, Rudan would have plenty of other things to be lectured about. Thinking of the impending tedium made his shoulders hunch on reflex. Gart noticed.

"Are you sure, lad? Just stick your head over the side if you do." The older otter said, not unkindly. He watched his son shake his head insistently and a frown creased his face for a few brief moments, but then his countenance relaxed. "If you say so." He grunted, and returned his attention to steering.

The sun continued its long, slow climb towards the top of the sky, casting the boat's shadow behind it upon the top of the deep blue waves. They had been sailing for an hour before reaching the fishing marker, something that worried Gart. Rudan heard him mutter something about "migrat'n" as he fussed about with his harpoon. Luckily for Rudan, it seemed that he wouldn't have to fumble with the large tool, for his father produced a thin tallwort branch. At one end a length of sinew was tied, and dangling down from the length of sinew was a hunk of meat. They were after spinefish, Rudan realised. Spinefish were carnivorous after all, and would be able to smell the blood seeping from the fresh meat.

The otterlad tried not to blanch too visibly as the baitstick was foisted off onto him, holding it as far away from his disgust-wrinkled nose as possible. All the wonder and beauty of sailing had faded in an instant, replaced with a repulsion that coiled deep in Rudan's gut. It settled in beside the shame he already felt, snuggling up to the dread he also felt. Meanwhile, Gart fed the end of a rope-length through the hole in the base of his harpoon's haft. Tying it off, his grasped the center of the haft in one large paw and raised it above his head, making a few mock-throws. Rudan knew he was testing the balance of the tool, it wouldn't do to have it too weighty on either end, or it would be difficulty to throw accurately. When the adult otter had finished his preparations, he fixed his son with an expectant, if cheery gaze.

"Let's get to it then! You know what to do with that baitstick there, right lad?" He asked, and grinned from ear to ear when Rudan nodded. "Great! Go to it then!" The youngling nodded and stretched out his arm, hanging the baitstick over the slowly rolling waves. The hanging meat kissed the surface, and then began to bob upon it. Blood drained slowly from the hunk of cut flesh, blooming in sinuous, serpentine clouds that stained the water around the boat maroon.

The smell of the meat was at once appetising and stomach-turning for the poor young otter, who was forced to stare at the meat as it floated merrily upon the ocean. Next to him, Gart crouched in the little fishing vessel, his arm cocked back with the harpoon clutched in his hand tightly. They were both taut and wary, their eyes scanning back and forth around the soaked flesh, searching closely for any sign of the distinctive arrangement of dorsal fins that gave the spinefish its name. Rudan kept a tight grip on the baitstick, hoping that they didn't attract a salkie. The huge beasts had hides as thick as the Verdigris Patina and with one hit from their tails, they could reduce a boat of this size to splinters. They were gargantuan monsters of the deep, and yet with their copper ship, the villagers had managed to slay a fair amount of them. They were a rich bounty of food and supplies, each and every one being towed back to the village, so that all the fishermen could join in the butchery and speed the task. As he thought of this, Rudan suddenly wasn't certain who should be more afraid. Himself, or the salkie who hadn't been hunted yet.

At night, if one were to walk by the coast, they would be able to hear the plaintive cries of the salkie, apparently mourning another lost brother. Sit was an eerie sound, an ethereal song that resonated in the eardrums of anyone who heard it. A popular rumour was that the salkie could enchant a man and cause him to commit suicide, a superstition that the villagers attributed to their hunting of the salkie. Despite this and other grim legends, they continued to pillage the bodies of the beasts they snared. Rudan hoped he would never attend such a hunt, he had heard tales of chasing down the beings until they were exhausted, only to prick them endlessly with harpoon and spear. Gouging out the eyes was also done, to make it harder for the great beasts to flee.

A jerk on the stick in his paws brought the otterlad back to the present. A spinefish was attacking the meat on the line, thrashing about violently as it used its powerful jaws to tear away little chunks of flesh. No sooner than Rudan had realised what was happening, than Gart hurled his harpoon. It was hardly a difficult throw, and Gart's aim was true. The harpoon plunged through the spinefish's scales and impaled it upon the metal head. Suddenly, the spinefish's struggling ceased, the froth and bubbles dispersing, leaving only ripples in their wake. Gart pulled the rope hand over hand towards him, until he could grasp the harpoon and haul it clear of the water with a mighty heave, the ten-pound fish shoved clear of the harpoon head. It flopped limply into the bottom of the boat and lay still, almost directly between Rudan's footpaws. Blackish-red blood seeped from the corpse and stained the wooden hull of the vessel. The otterlad lifted his footpaws away from the encroaching pool, biting his lip with an expression of repulsion on his face.

Gart looked from the spinefish to Rudan, and his countenance tightened. His son, balking from a paltry amount of blood like that? At his age, Gart had been happily gutting his tenth kill and eating the soft kidneys raw to revitalise himself after the long hunt. And here was his boy, his blood, shying away from a fish. Gart gritted his teeth and thrust the harpoon at Rudan.

"You take the next one, boy." He said gruffly, restraining the urge to query the boy on his cowardice. Rudan fumbled with the baitstick and the harpoon, trying to hold onto both tools until Gart snatched the baitstick away and swung his arm out, returning the hunk of flesh to the water. Rudan clutched on tightly to the harpoon , with no small amount of difficulty. He barely stood taller than it, and just balancing it across his knees was making his legs hurt.

Thanks to the blood still coiling in crimson clouds in the water, from both the spinefish and the hunk of meat, it wasn't long before another spinefish swum cautiously up to the boat, darting back and forth through the water and bumping its flank against the hunk before zipping away.

Both Gart and Rudan tensed as it came in for another pass, and this time it locked its mean little jaws around the meat. Rudan knew what he had to do even before he felt Gart's paws gripping him roughly, almost painfully, pulling the otterlad's arms back into the correct positon before releasing them. The sudden removal of the older otter's paws and weight, though, knocked Rudan off-balance, and he toppled backwards in the boat. The harpoon fell from his grasp and clattered into the bottom of the vessel as Rudan landed beside it. The boat was set to rocking back and forth perilously, with Gart's thunderous curses easily audible over the increased slapping of waves.

Rudan lay still and kept his eyes squeezed shut, face burning with shame beneath his fur as he listened to his father curse a few more times. When the Angler's Mirran has stabilised, Gart grabbed the harpoon and glowered down at Rudan, virtually radiating disappointment. The otterlad couldn't bring himself to meet Gart's gaze, instead staring at the spinefish in the bottom of the boat, with a sick feeling in his stomach. He suddenly sympathised with the fish, and fancied that the harpoon had felt rather like his father's gaze on him did now.

To his credit, Gart didn't shout or rant or rave, for a change, instead jamming the baitstick back into Rudan's limp paws and jabbing his finger over the side of the boat. They would have to wait for some time before any fish became brave (or forgetful) enough to approach the bait. It took them a good two hours longer than it should have to gather their pre-determined catch, a fact that wasn't lost on either otter as they finally turned back towards home.

The entire way back, Rudan didn't dare lift his gaze from his footpaws, a great weight settled on his heart like an anchor.