I hate wet socks.

They are basically a guarantee that I will not get warm until they dry.  In front of a fireplace with a tall root beer and gravy soaked steak, wet socks can be a minor inconvenience. But on this godforsaken cargo ship, it’s the extra icing on nightmare cake. I contemplate trying to wring my socks out for the 3rd time, hoping that multiple leaks on the sleeping deck wont splash over me another time. But of course, I know that will happen. 

Even if that wasn’t futile, my hands are raw with sting from the 7 hours of potato peeling I was assigned to today. Tomorrow will be cannon cleaning, I can’t fucking wait. Maybe one of the ale drenched sailors that share my current uniform will accidentally shoot one of the cannons while I’m inside it. I’ll be blasted off to a new existence where I won’t have to deal  with mouldy bread, rotten mattresses, tasteless ale, toothless co-workers, and ornery captains. Hell, I might even see my dad.

As I try to imagine my feet as a seperate part of my body, I roll over towards the cracked square of glass that these mouth-breathers call a window and try to look beyond the foggy night, hoping for the most minor change of scenery to take my mind off reality. 

A few twinkles stab through the thick clouds and I feel nothing. The stars aren’t familiar to me, or anyone else from my smog filled town. The powerful industrial machines of new technology pumped out a screen that covered the sky and the mechanical rumble that carried on all night lulled me to sleep. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t great to look at under any decent amount of light, and the locals weren’t going to great lengths to defy industrial stereotypes. But I had money, a comfortable bed, and probably the best job in the damn world. 

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

I was a Postman.

My family have always trained animals, but my mother was the only one smart enough to work a trade from it. Flipping pigeons to deliver urgent messages is surprisingly valuable in a town where the right knowledge is the difference between a juicy tip and a knife in the back. Once mum had me and my cousins all running our own flocks, we went from dirt poor to ‘comfortable’.  I had a natural affinity for taming birds, to the point where the locals were calling me a ‘wing-talker’. There is really no magic or science to it, just treat creatures how you want to be treated. Feed them a balanced diet, see them as colleagues and not pets, and don’t touch their beaks. 

I left for the Industrial Town of Old Alvion at age 20 and over the next 5 years I’ve became the most respected, capable and well paid postman in the common quarters. I was flipping 20 birds a day, and even tamed a deadly DireHawk to be ‘enforcer of the sky’. I never got into trouble with the city guard and I always helped folks out when I could.

So how the fuck did I end up on this tub? Why am I only making 50 royals a month? Why am I wearing this ridiculous shirt with the blue flared collar? 

Why did they make me a sailor?