Iris Harper

Avanna stood at the quay, facing the turbulent waters of the Eastern Ocean. Her hair was plastered down to her face and neck, painting a not too flattering picture in damp strands and salt. Her drenched robes clung to her, revealing, rather than covering, a body that was a few meals short of healthy, and with little muscle to speak of. She had lost one of her shoes to the waves, and her foot looked blue to the cold air, and was bleeding a bit, cut by some sharper stone. At this moment, she looked more like a simple farm girl than she had done for years.

She didn’t care.

She stared at the sea, with eyes flat and unseeing. Her fists were clenching and unclenching unconsciously, as if she was trying to shape the air in dough-balls, shape them in the form of her memories.

Where did it all begin? There, at the shore, with the surf beating against the stones and drenching her in sorrows, she saw the story again, before her flat eyes. As it had happened. Or close to it, at least.

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