Night time in Sorez was a peculiar thing. When the sun sets, the grey waters would no longer be grey but dark and black as anything can be in this world. Moonlight barely pierced through the gloom of the Greyveil, the moon itself a circular, ghostly haze that hardly lights up the environs. The fishing vessels never dare venture out in the height of darkness for the grey waters turns to the darkest of black. To venture forth in the dark without any source of light was utter foolishness. One might think with these factors in mind, the people of Sorez would huddle in the warmth of the hearth and wait with baited breath for the coming of dawn.

That is not to be.

Nightlife in Sorez was a different world altogether. Thousands upon thousands of well-maintained lampposts lined the city streets, their bright flames awash the greyness away with vibrant orange that filled every nook and cranny. The city was like a second Star of Sor itself. Womenfolk cloth themselves in the most frivolous of dresses with layers of frills dyed in the hues of deep black and flaming tangerine, the sable of the cloth making the bright hues stand out even more. They dance and dance, twirling with their flowing frilled dresses till the witching hours , accompanied with a myriad of instruments hailing from distant lands.

All day the city folk worked and toiled, but when the shadow of the night sets in, the city was almost in a near-nightly festival every night. The air was alive with excitement and joy that even affected me. The treasures and wonders from abroad come to the docks of Sorez and share with the festivities as well as trade. The trading never stops, day in and day out it seemed. Temporary stalls would be set up and the city's central park was the center of many dance performances.

I was twelve years-old and my uncle had by then taken me to his law office to aid with mostly menial tasks: taking notes, delivering of documents from one adjoining office to the other, or even to get the occasional hot cup of khafà at the nearby khaféhan which he was a regular of. I had not been aware, at the time, of the considerable leeway my uncle had afforded me then. It was his unspoken way of making me get out of the house more often, to socialize with the gathered youths in the parks or one of the many nocta feria in the city. Even my reclusive nature, it seems, was too much for grumpy Uncle Arnao. My only way of any outdoor activity was my afternoon strolls at the nearby beach, with a book and sketchpad in hand. Once, I saw him watching me from the little knoll just outside the copse of trees. I came over to say my greetings and ask him what was our supper for the evening would be.

"What?" I asked him innocently. Arnao Serrano's face was usually stoic and undiscernible of expression to anyone meeting him the first time. But I had gotten adept at reading my uncle's miniscule facial incriminations over the years. The man was somewhat displeased.

"Nothing," he replied and turned back. I followed him. He didn't have to say that I had to go home with him and prepare supper. It was in the way he replied that Nothing, a slight shift in tone at the end. I had taken it as my cue. We walked back to the house in quiet solitude. Whatever displeased him didn't seem to be directed at me and that was good enough. Or so I thought.

"Do you not play with the other children?" he suddenly asked of me.

"Not really," I responded. " I liked to be on my own."

Uncle just grunted noncommittally and I thought nothing further of the exchange till a couple days afterwards when he took me to his law office. To make me understand his work and help me decide what I should do with my life when I became my own man. I was a tad nervous at what I was supposed to do at his law office? Do I need to testify? Help with the proceedings before a judge? Such was the inner workings of my twelve-year-old mind then. I was wholly relieved (and somewhat betrayed) when all I did was wait on the man as he chatted up with some colleagues of his in his favorite khaféhan. He then told me to spend my time around the nocta feria, the night fairs, till it was time to go home.

And I've been accompanying the man on most nights since then, along with the elevated responsibility of assisting him at his office.

On this one particular night I found myself strolling away from the large crowds and immense throngs of people. I let my feet wander below me. Usually, I drift to places with less people, people who just want to enjoy a bit of quiet and leisure. Always there are the number of people who enjoyed a leisure walk in peaceful silence. Mostly small families or young couples but also there are those lone few who, as far I could tell, were kindred spirits with me. Souls who were just in complete contentment with their own company, never seeking others. This is one of my favorite past times, wandering the city with no aim in mind. I took a special liking in just admiring the architecture of the various buildings the city had to offer. From the humble clay-tiled homes that could be centuries old or the sprawling manors and manses of the city's elite. Even the streets cobbled with stone added much to the festive city surrounded by the unceasing fog of the Greyveil. All built with the same materials but in differing sizes, shapes and age.

It had gotten to the point where I could find my bearings easily enough and worked my way home at almost any point of the city. I felt more adventurous than usual that evening for I must've walked for some time and I found myself in a spot I had never been before. Maybe a quarter of the city was built atop the stilted wharfs, harbor and piers, scaffolding that have stood for decades, if not centuries. Strong was their foundation, nestled atop the rising and thrashing waves below. Some Wharf's are more famous and see plenty foot traffic. I have been to those piers. I would lean on the railings and watch the rolling waves below. I would wonder if the people here could feel the call? Or maybe it's not as strong as they've lived their whole life right beside the Mare Graucus, hence they are more used to. Sometimes I would catch glimpses of lamplight in the distance, down on the shore below. Figures silhouetted as they ventured the low tides amidst the dark.

Madness, I thought. In the years since that stroll on the beach, I only heard whispers of them. They are an unspoken secret of Sorez from what I gathered. Oft spoken in hush tones. I asked other children and It was supposed to be the parents duties to instruct their children of the Old Call. If I get lucky, uncle would give me remarks but would speak no further of those brave fools that ventured the tides and bore the Old Call.

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I remembered asking uncle and his aged colleagues at the khaféhan once. They all looked at me with silent grimness. They had been laughing at a different subject a mere moment ago, I was bored out of my mind and asked absently. The looks they gave said what was better left unsaid. Treasures of the deep. And it wasn't just them, nearby patrons looked at me. Old fellows all. The waitress behind the counter looked at me as well. Her look were more sympathetic, brows furrowed almost sad, but still carried that gravity of warning. She brought a finger to her lips. A shushing sign.

He then gave me a bit of pocketmoney to and sent me off to play at the feria. I believe I still had that money on that night on my pocket, unspent.

Here though, the lamp posts where close to dilapidated in state, the orange glow weak and waning, unchanged and little cared for. The wooden boards where in desperate need of maintenance, there were sizeable gaps in the wood that could easily let slip a man's leg. It was more darker here than the rest of the city. Despite this, there are still quite a considerable number of people here. Or shadows of people at least, for such was the weakness of the light.

I grew wary and yet, despite myself, unafraid as my feet moved onward.

The people there were not the shady sort. Still, regular folks out on a stroll. Small families and lovestrucked young couples but they walked in the part of the pier were the light was stronger. It was those solitary, almost unmoving, shadows that sent goosebumps on my skin. They stood alarmingly still, away from the stronger light coming in from the brighter streets back towards the city center. I could only guess at the general outline of these people. They stood apart, in heavy coat that made it impossible to tell man or woman. They were spread all throughout the pier, these individuals. All of them facing the sea, almost like they're looking for something out of there.

I stood on the edge, where the lampposts' orange light bordered with that unknowable shadow of this darkened pier, in the midst of deducing what were those motionless individuals doing. It didn't take me long to arrive at a suspicion. I swallowed a lump at my throat. A chill ran down my spine as well and the night seemed colder. It didn't take me long to guess at what they were doing, for I think, I had been doing something similar.

Back at the beach near our home, I played it like a game, something to kill time. Other people would bounce a rubber ball or flip a coin as they passed the time away: how high to bounce it, at what angle and doing neat tricks and whatnot. For me, I would stare into the ocean and walk alongside the sands, letting the old cold slither of the Call snake up my spine. Like cold liquid-fire seizing up my veins and jolting me alive and awake. Other times it was like a cramping sensation, as if my entire vertebrae was sent into a convulsion all the while I am awake. In time, I grew to like the feeling.

But looking at these people in the dark of night, each alone and almost swathed by the encroaching mists, A deep dread clawed its way and grip my bowels. They were in the midst of the Old Call. I was certain of it. But to what end? Surely not just to pass the time. And the people, the regular people walking the light of the lampposts seem indifferent to those closest to the seas. Was this a normal occurrence?

"Eerie ain't it?"

"Gahh!"

I yelped back. Someone had sneaked up on me. Spoke words mere inches away from my ear. A stranger. A girl to be exact. She laughed deep, holding her stomach while nearby onlookers briefly glanced at my direction and then back to what they were doing prior.

"Ha! got you good 'tado! ha ha!" The girl teased.

I looked at her, unbelieving. Who sneaks up on complete strangers? The girl was taller than me and looked older by a year or two. A sash was bound lopsided on her head and her hair ran down almost to her waist. She dressed a bit tomboyishly and had a grin on her lips. A staff hung at her back that was almost as tall as her. The tip was caked with dried sand. Whatever the case, the strange girl brought me out of my thoughts. I glanced back at the motionless figures in the dark. They didn't so much as glanced back at the commotion caused by the girl. I thought of asking uncle and proceeded to make some distance between me, the strange girl and the dark pier.

"You're wondering what are they doing, huh tarantado?" the girl called out. I recognized the slang. It means "scaredy-cat". I didn't like it and didn't like her by the second. But my curiosity got the better hold of me. I stopped on my steps and faced her.

"Why, yes actually," I said politely out of habit. I inwardly cursed myself. I wanted to get back at her for scaring me and wanted to sound pompous. Something to get her riled up and annoyed. She didn't respond immediately. Instead sizing me up with her eyes, all the while the grin never leaving her lips. Somehow, the sight made me even more angry.

"Them kooks is listening in on the OId Call," she eventually said. I sighed. "So I have guessed. But why?"

She shrugged, "Depends on the person. Some likes the feeling, getting a jolt down their spine," she answered while twirling her hand as a gesture. She went on, "While the crazier ones adhere to the Old Faiths, thinks the Old Call is a gift and not a warning. And then there's the craziest ones- -"

"The Old Faiths?" I cut in, even more piqued than before. So far as I can tell, The Sorezii are not a religious people. I never once saw Uncle Arnao perform any prayer or supplication within the house. To my knowledge there wasn't even a church in the city to any deity that I knew of.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah," she nodded, scrunching her lips in thought. Then she went on, "So 'tado, Yours is a face I 'aven't seen 'round 'ere. You new here?" already the girl was changing the subject.

"Uhm...yes- -well, no. I've lived here for years," I answered hesitantly. My curiosity outweighed that of my dislike for the strange girl with the sash on her head. I mean, who scares strangers for their amusement? Reprobates, that's who.

"So, where you from? What street you live in? Need a guide in the city?" the questions came tumbling out of the girl's lips one after the other, all clamoring to be answered. I was at a loss of words, she looked to be the sort to get her hands dirty. And most likely a ruffian of some kind, maybe her accomplices were watching me, thinking me an easy mark. But I was hoping to get one more question answered.

"Wait. You said there's one more kind of person. The craziest ones. Who are they?" I pressed her, taking a step closer. She didn't budge.

"Well, if you really want to know...," she turned and was beside me, snaking an arm around my shoulders and guiding me away from the pier. "I can show you instead."

".....what?" I asked meekly. Her grip wasn't tight but I could feel the potential strength underneath.

I looked up at her, meeting her gaze. She was giving me a toothy grin. Right then and there I had an inkling, a dreaded answer, as to whom this strange girl referred to as "the craziest ones".