Sinking into the cold and quiet abyss, Marisol felt she was calmer than she would’ve thought.
It was a combination of a few things—the fact that this wasn’t her first time sinking in reality, and the fact that she’d felt the embrace of the sea in her nightmares many, many times before—that made it so she wasn’t really nervous. It could be the cold that was keeping her heart rate low, and it could be her fatigue that was stopping her body from trembling; neither one of those factors could compare to the simple fact that she really, really had fallen more times in the past ten years than most of her desert townsfolk had fallen their entire lives combined.
The fall didn’t scare her, and the sink didn’t frighten her.
This… is just the sea.
She closed her eyes and refused to take in the few shafts of moonlight piercing through the surface. There was nothing for her to see. Her right glaive was broken, the chitin shattered, cold water clinging to her raw, fleshy muscles and making them sting. If she opened her eyes now, she was sure to see a hundred, a thousand leviathans sharking around her in a cyclone—what would be the point of seeing her nightmare come to life without her being able to do anything about it?
She couldn’t swim with one broken leg.
She’d run out of air pretty soon, too, though a second felt like an eternity. Time could very well be passing normally above the surface, but down here? It was a completely different world.
…
Funnily enough, she felt she could hear mama’s voice in her head.
What was her mama saying?
She kept her eyelids sealed and held her breath.
----------------------------------------
“... I don’t need a different job, mama,” twenty-four-year-old Marisol sighed, slamming a cabinet close as she found her first comb. “I even worked construction in the afternoon and manned the bread ovens at night, so I’ll have you know I am, in fact, perfectly fine with sand-dancing–”
“You shouldn’t be,” her mama said, lips puckered, eyes sunken. “There’s no future in sand-dancing anymore, Marisol. It doesn’t have the same flair it once had. You see men flying on their butterfly wings and leaping across mountains with their cricket legs, and you think people will want to pay to see a desert girl dance pretty on the sands?”
“You’re one to talk,” she muttered, slamming a second cabinet close. “You were the steel-toed queen of the desert. People paid chests of gold just to catch a glimpse of you doing a camel spin in a sandstorm, with one hand tied behind your back… if it ain’t for your ailment, you’d still be–”
“And that’s exactly why you cannot make sand-dancing your life,” her mama said, clicking her tongue irritably as she pointed at her crooked legs, lips twisted. “You’re twenty-four. You have energy. You have pride. The Great Makers know you love what you do and you’re all the more beautiful for it, but the desert is a cruel god. It knows in your heart when you think you can outrun it, and then it’ll swallow the ground beneath you, just like it did when I made my final jump. You wanna live the rest of your life on a bed?"
Marisol groaned, slamming a third cabinet close. “Your legs healed in a month. You were just… it was just pure misfortune you caught an ailment on top of that injury.”
“That ‘misfortune’ befalls all Sand-Dancers sooner or later,” her mama muttered. “There’s a reason why nobody does this job past thirty.”
“...”
“It’s a child’s dream, Marisol.
“Why do you insist on sand-dancing so much?”
----------------------------------------
… Twenty-year-old Marisol looked down at her hands as she felt warm drops falling onto them. Disappointment flared up inside of her alongside fierce anger and shame. To fall in front of the crowd during her very first show of the day meant nobody would have any expectations of her being able to finish a routine for the rest of the day, and that meant she was out of a job. She wasn’t going to be earning a single silver today. She’d told her colleagues manning construction and the bread ovens that she wouldn’t be coming in today because she was going to dance, so what in the Great Maker’s good name was she going to now?
Stay hunched over on all fours at the edge of the town, tearing up, throwing a pity party for herself while passersby averted their eyes and tried to resist throwing her a bone?
“... Screw that,” she whispered, wiping her nose and slapping a handful of sand into her mouth, making herself choke and cough. The people around her gave her strange looks, but having a dry mouth gave her the will to claw to her feet, glaring up at the top of the dune.
She may not get a single silver for doing another show today—it was tradition, after all, that the moment a Sand-Dancer falls, the ‘misfortune’ of the fall would carry over to all those who were watching—but that wasn’t any reason to not practise for tomorrow.
Trudging back up to the top of the dune, she squinted up at the morning sun and lifted her leg, keeping it parallel to the ground. The whirlwind in her chest had refused to settle, so she used the turmoil, launching into an immediate double spin jump without any forward momentum… and she landed it on the tip of her toes, continuing on with the rest of her routine.
Glide. Spin. Pause, raise arms. Twirl and caper. Sharp turn. Sharp pivot. Then jump—soar.
Land. Steady. Quick steps, bend low, stretch arms. Twirl again. Faster now. Sharp turn. Sharp pivot. Jump again—graceful.
The frustration from the early morning failure didn’t leave her. It made her cheeks red with embarrassment and her knuckles white as she clenched her fists with effort. She’d already fallen twice this month. That was three days out of thirty-three days’ worth of silvers down the drain. If she kept this up, she’d miss practically an entire month’s worth of pay every year, and it’d continue to compound, year after year after year; she couldn’t afford to fall again if she wanted to earn enough to pay for her trip to the Whirlpool City within the decade.
Only the Great Makers knew how long her mama had left.
So she danced until sundown, twirled like her life meant it, and she didn’t once stop for a water break. She didn’t leave the edge of the dune for a single loaf of bread. Sweat had long since evaporated off her skin and her clothes were fused with her, her lungs grasping for thin, flaky air. Still, when it came time for her routine’s finishing technique—that backflip kick she’d failed just this morning—she managed to do it for the hundred and tenth time today, landing perfectly on the tip of her toes.
In the same, swift motion, she bowed to an invisible audience.
There wasn’t a single man on the streets at this time of day. It was midnight. Far past bedtime even for the worst of dreamers. Many eyes may have flitted to her during the day, but for well over the past few hours, she’d been dancing all alone.
“…”
But that wasn’t quite right.
From the shadow of an alley, a single silver coin flew out and landed at her feet. She lifted her head and immediately looked up, trying to see who it was—but whoever it was wasn't holding a firefly lamp, and she felt she’d just be a bother if she ran in and tried to figure out who it was.
She’d just be a bother, right?
“...”
She bowed and began her routine once more.
----------------------------------------
“... Marisol Vellamira! Come here!” her mama shouted, and sixteen-year-old Marisol scowled as she glanced back through the doorway.
“What?” she shouted back. “I've to dance now, mama! I promised that kid yesterday that I’d be there after I get out of school today! He said he’d give me two silvers if I–”
“Come here!” her mama snapped, and Marisol couldn’t help but shiver at that tone; she grumbled and dropped her donation basket and walked back into her house, fingers fidgeting as she glanced out the quickly dimming sun.
“What?” Marisol muttered. “It’s almost sundown. I have to be there. If I can get at least two silvers, I can make up for the ten days I skipped sand-dancing for that old motley crew from the western harbour–”
Her mama lifted the crumpled sheets of paper she’d tucked behind the bed, and her blood froze.
“Explain,” her mama said, voice cold as steel. “What’s up with these test scores?”
“... What about it?” she mumbled, her face falling as she looked away. “It ain’t important anyways. Who cares about some distant war fought between the Worm God and the Swarm Queen? Who here in this town has seen the Thousand-Tongue slaughter the final Magicicada? If I’ve got so much time to be memorising useless facts about the outside world, I could be–”
“With scores like these, why stick them in the back?” Her mama slapped the papers on the bed before pointing out the window, scowling mightily. “Go! Leave! Amadeus is recruiting new students for the… what’d they call it? The ‘Eternal Summer Trimester’? Take these papers and go already! They’ll take you in in a heartbeat”
Marisol clicked her tongue in irritation, snatching the papers and tearing them to shreds.
“No. I don’t need school. I need–”
Her mama tossed a pillow at her. “Like hell you don’t!” her mama snarled. “What’s wrong with you? A golden apple’s dangling in front of you, and you ain’t taking it? Amadeus has everything anyone from this shoddy old town wants! Free student housing! Full-ride scholarship! Hell, if you go there, you can curry favours with the Thousand-Tongue and his entourage–”
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“And what'll I be doing there, and for how long?” Marisol snapped back, tossing the pillow over her mama’s head. “It’s at least six years there, right? Who’s got the time for that? You know, I bet I’ll get roped into some stupid research project that’ll take an additional six years to finish, and what’ll I come home to then, huh? Nothing! The bed stolen and the nameplate painted over, that’s what!”
“So you’ll do… what, exactly? Sand-dance the rest of your life?” Her mama scoffed. “Grow up, Marisol! Come on! You ain’t ever gonna earn enough dancing for a bunch of old-timers in this town! Stop looking back and just! Go!”
“I’ll get other jobs! It ain’t like I’m putting all my eggs in the same basket! Ain’t papa had multiple jobs back when he was still healthy and kicking? I’ll just do what he did!”
“Oh, don’t bring your papa into this! He knew he was overworking himself, but–”
“–in fact, if I spend six years at the academy and end up getting nothing out of it, then it’ll be completely wasted time! I could’ve been working instead–”
“Like I care! Take your papers to the letter’s guild now! Get them to glue the shreds together and take the earliest caravan to Amadeus tomorrow! I ain’t seeing you tomorrow, you hear me?”
“Yeah, sure!” Marisol clenched her jaw and kicked the shreds around, storming out of the house. “You won’t be seeing me tomorrow! I’ll just bunk at Auntie Arana’s until I get enough to pay for the ship fees!”
Her mama screamed out at her. “Don’t you dare inconvenience Arana! Get back here, Marisol!”
For the first time in her life, she didn’t turn around. She stormed off into the sunset and cried all the way until the edge of the dune.
The boy who’d made her promise she’d be there wasn’t there himself.
----------------------------------------
… It was the middle of the day, and it was the darkest, nastiest, most violent sandstorm ten-year-old Marisol had ever seen.
The entire town was plunged into darkness. She could barely see sunlight filtering through the swirling winds and sand, but her mama was insistent—hand-in-hand, they trudged out to the edge of the town and climbed a dune, and when they reached the top, her mama told her to sit there and watch.
Sand blew through her scarf and dried up her mouth, but she remembered shouting, telling her mama they should go home. Men have died much worse for much less, and it was suicide trying to sand-dance in the middle of the storm.
Her mama ignored her, though. She’d never seen her mama so adamant and stubborn about something.
Squinting, little Marisol got down on her stomach and kept herself as low as possible, holding her veil over her head to keep sand from blowing into her eyes. Maybe her mama just wanted to show her something cool and then they’d go home, sharing a warm meal over a fire. Oh, she was so, so hungry—she felt she had a bottomless appetite for just about anything right now.
She was half-distracted with idle thoughts about skewers and sallets when the wind picked up speed; the dust devil was fast approaching their dune, as though the desert god knew they were there. Waiting for it. Taunting it. Marisol noticed almost immediately and widened her eyes. Her mama was standing on the edge of the dune, back turned towards the whirlwind; she screamed and shouted and tried to get up on her feet, but it was no use. She was too tiny, the winds were too strong. She’d be knocked down the dune if she tried to stand.
But her mama stood perfectly still, and when she raised her knee before spinning in place—she kicked the dust devil away with the tip of the toes, making it swerve away from the town.
Just like that.
And while the sandstorm still churned around them, the big bad was already gone. Her mama was unchallenged, undefeated, the steel-toed queen of the desert. A twirl, a caper, and a step—her mama turned with her arms crossed over her head, shooting Marisol a wink underneath her veil as she began her routine for real.
Land. Steady. Quick steps, bend low, stretch arms. Twirl. Faster now. Sharp turn. Sharp pivot. Jump again—graceful.
Glide. Spin. Pause, raise arms. Twirl and caper again. Sharp turn. Sharp pivot. Then jump—soar.
“...”
Little Marisol’s face lifted, bright with some unplaceable emotion.
Her mama was… like a fairy. Her cloak fluttered behind her like wings, and she was flying on the sand, but not with wings. Just her feet. Just her fingers. She spun so fast, like a whirlwind herself, and her hair was all swishy and swooshy. Her arms looked so soft and delicate but so firm and strong at the same time. Her silhouette looked so sharp and smooth, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how she made dancing on sand look like she was skating on water—was her mama really human, or was she a living miracle in disguise?
“...”
Whatever it was, though, Marisol wanted to learn this art of the sand.
She wanted to learn this dance of the sea.
Her mama always told her, after all: she was ‘Mar’, of the far western sea they came from, and ‘Sol’, of the far eastern sun they lived in.
It didn’t matter if she was only ten years old.
If she wanted to fill her bottomless appetite, she had to start learning now.
----------------------------------------
Sixteen-year-old Marisol didn’t look back at her house, even if the boy who’d made her promise she’d be here wasn’t here himself—she danced anyways for a crowd that didn’t care if she existed or not.
A Sand-Dancer would never look behind her.
----------------------------------------
Twenty-year-old Marisol performed one more routine for the boy she knew was watching her from the shadow of an alley.
After all, she was a lady of the Vellamira household who held herself to the utmost standard.
She was graceful.
She was infallible.
And Marisol Vellamira, born of the sands and the seas–
----------------------------------------
Dances with lightning snapping at her heels.
Something sharp and painful flared inside her. She ripped her eyelids apart and glared up at the distant shafts of moonlight. The pounding anxiety and fear from facing the Mutant hadn’t disappeared, no—they’d merely settled into the pits of her stomach and made her feel all tingly inside—but what sort of Sand-Dancer would she be if she couldn’t even make her mama happy to see her again?
She didn’t need anyone to see her dance.
She didn’t need anyone to know how strong and fast she’d gotten.
If she sank here, she wouldn’t be able to avenge Catrina and the Harbour Guards. She wouldn’t be able to get a vial of healing seawater back to her mama—and that, above all else, was the one thing she couldn’t accept.
She was a lady of the Vellamira household.
And if she said she was going to go home–
----------------------------------------
[Hexichor Art: Storm Glaives]
[Brief Description: Lightning is born on your glaives]
----------------------------------------
–she was going to go home.
At her will, her glaives suddenly crackled with blue and pink swirls of lightning. They were so bright and glaring they made even her wince, so she blinked and willed them to stop ‘glowing’ after a split second—that split second of pain, coming from electrocuting herself underwater, was more than enough for her to want to turn the lightning off.
But a split second of intense light was all ‘something’ needed to locate her in the abyss.
[… Leviathan-class Whitewhale detected.]
[Brace yourself, Marisol Vellamira.]
She was about to follow up with a question when something rubbery slammed into her from below, and then she started rising, rising, rising—the sudden decrease in water pressure made her ears pop and her skull feel like bursting, but she gritted her teeth and bore with it. The pain was nothing. Here, in the great blue, the resolve to live on the edge was everything.
So, when she burst onto the surface after what felt like ten eternities underwater, she sucked in the greediest breath of air she’d ever taken. Cold water washed from her hair and cloak and clung to her skin like sap, still, but then the giant Whitewhale she was lying on expelled a warm gale through its blowhole; the wind dried her in an instant, peeling her lips back and making her cheeks ripple in the process.
It was pointless, really. There was still a storm around her and black rain was pelting her from all around, but… the wind felt nice. She felt warm for the briefest of moments, like she was back in the desert. She supposed she only had the Whitewhale to thank for that brief sensation of home.
You’re… that whale whose Marauder town I wrecked?
As she fell onto its back once more—letting out a soft oomph as she did—she felt the Whitewhale cleaving through the stormy seas, heading straight towards a familiar silhouette in the near distance.
With her head still on its back, she managed to look up ever so slightly and frown.
And those are… giant trees?
Mountains?
But the Dead Island Straits are over there, and there ain’t any other islands… nearby…
…
But there was one island she knew that could swim, and when she was close enough to see the silhouettes of children waving at her from the black sand ‘beach’, the Whitewhale suddenly buckled and sent her flying ashore. It wasn’t a long flight. Ten metres, two seconds, and she landed arms-first onto the beach with a dozen children immediately rushing to surround her.
Ow.
[The Whitewhale was still lingering around after you freed it from the Marauders, and the children of the horseshoe crab… had been escorting you to see if you would be able to get to the Whirlpool City by yourself?]
[A Sand-Dancer’s misfortune is–]
Ow ow ow ow ow.
Lots of sticks poked her spine. Lots of hands grabbed her cloak, trying to pull her up to her feet. She felt she even heard a familiar voice calling her name, but, with every bit of strength left in her arms, she swatted all of them away and grumbled under her breath.
No.
I… I can get up by myself.
She meant it, and she had a plan. Inhaling deeply, she willed that crackling sensation to life again—lightning swirling around her glaives.
Underwater, she may very well have been electrocuted the first time she used her magic, but on land? Above water, mid-jump?
She could tolerate that little bit of pain.
It was nothing compared to falling over and over again.
This is my Hexichor Art.
Lightning at my heels.
Lightning.
Lightning!
Just one leg. Her broken right glaive. Her chitin plates were gone, and now her right ‘leg’ was more like strands of lean muscles woven together in the shape of a blade. She had no idea how long it’d take her to regenerate the chitin—maybe it wouldn’t even regenerate like normal human skin—but since it was only ‘broken’ in the sense she couldn’t move it without her exoskeleton chitin, she only had to make it move another way.
She bit her tongue and stifled a scream as she electrified her right leg, making her muscles pull themselves taut, straighten under the knee. The children gasped and jumped back all at once, but she wasn’t done yet. She punched the ground with her fists. She pushed her upper body up, spatting a mouthful of blood, and took to a kneel with her left glaive first.
Then, she took the plunge. She sprang up on her left glaive and landed on the tip of her electrified right glaive.
Her chitin-less right glaive didn’t crumble beneath her, and now both her glaives were swirling with streaks of bluish-pinkish lightning—brighter than any of the torches any of the children were holding in the rain.
…
And there were so, so many things she wanted to tell Kuku, who was standing right in front of her wearing that silly old crab helmet of his, but they could talk another time.
She whirled around and glared at the tiny lights flashing on the horizon—the Whirlpool City’s guards firing on the advancing Mutant, no doubt, and the battle was only three, at most four kilometres away. She’d not drifted that far away.
So it was, when the island rumbled and everyone stumbled for a good few seconds, that Marisol watched a giant spiky tail lifting out of the sea in front of her.
It was the tail of the horseshoe crab, and it was shaped like a hundred-metre long ramp, reaching towards the sky.
… Archive.
[One hundred and ten percent.]
A small, sparkling smile took her face.
I ain’t even asked my question yet.
[You are a very predictable girl with very predictable questions.]
[I may not know why your unique magic… why your Hexichor Art is 'Storm Glaives', but that is not important right now, is it?]
[Now go.]
[Overriding previous objective.]
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[Objective #11: Survive the Mutant skeleton shrimp]
[Objective #11: Slay the Mutant Skeleton Shrimp]
[Time Limit: 10 minutes]
[Reward: Vengeance for the fallen]
[Failure: Irrelevant]