Stories of Brix Sparkspill

Brix Sparkspill the Alchemist THE ACCOUNT OF BRIX SPARKSPILL
(AS TOLD BY HIM, AND NEVER PROPERLY VERIFIED) My name is Brix Sparkspill. That is my shop name now.
It was not always my shop name.
It was my running name, and my "don't look in that drawer" name, and my "oh no not again" name. I am an Alchemist. This surprises people.
It does not surprise me.
I liked bottles before I liked explosions, and I liked smells before I liked fire.
The fire came later. I was born Below.
Everyone was born Below, back then.
The tunnels were busy and warm and full of things that someone else had stopped caring about.
We did very well with that. Then something happened. I don't know what.
No one knows what.
What I know is that the tunnels stopped feeling friendly.
Not dangerous. Just… unfinished.
Like someone had picked them up and set them down wrong. So we went up. The surface was very loud.
The surface was very bright.
The surface had food just sitting there, getting cold. We loved it immediately. People did not love us.
This was confusing. They would leave shiny disks on tables and then become upset when we took them.
Why leave them there if they were important?
If they were important, they should be held.
If they were held, we would not take them.
This seemed reasonable. Many places disagreed. Some places shouted.
Some places threw us out.
Some places threw things harder than us.
We learned which places to avoid. I learned something else. I learned that humans throw away ingredients. Good ones.
Perfectly good ones.
Half-used.
Mis-labeled.
Forgotten.
Ignored. This offended me. So I began collecting them.
Very carefully.
Very respectfully.
Often at night. I learned to mix.
Then to heat.
Then to wait.
Waiting is very important.
I am still not very good at it, but I try. I made salves that closed cuts.
I made tonics that helped tired legs keep going.
I made things that smelled bad but worked anyway. People paid for these.
At first reluctantly.
Then repeatedly.
Then with requests. Eventually someone said, "You should open a shop." This was an exciting idea.
This was also a terrible idea. My cousins came immediately. They respected everything. They respected the drawers.
They respected the shelves.
They respected the locked cabinet the most. I raised my prices. This helped.
Not enough. I worked more.
I sold more.
I learned which mixtures were worth protecting and which ones were worth remaking.
I learned that profit is what remains after your family has finished respecting you. Now I have a shop. It has a sign.
The sign is spelled wrong.
I have fixed it three times.
It keeps changing back. People come to me for potions.
Sometimes they lose a coin.
Sometimes they gain a story.
Sometimes both. My relatives still visit.
They still respect my wares.
I let them. Because they are careful.
Because they do not mean harm.
Because if I tell them not to, they will try harder. I am a successful Alchemist. This does not mean I am wealthy.
It means my shop still exists. I consider this a great achievement. ——————————
THE SHADE WHO WOULD NOT LEAVE
(AS TOLD BY BRIX SPARKSPILL, WITH UNHELPFUL COMMENTARY) I first noticed her on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are bad days for noticing things because Tuesdays already have opinions about how your work should be going, and they rarely approve. She was hovering near the shelves. Not floating politely, like near the ceiling or anything helpful like that.
No.
Shelf height.
Eye level.
Exactly where I had to look if I wanted to see whether the corks were seated correctly. She was small.
Human-shaped.
Gray in the way ash is gray, not in the way stone is gray.
And she was frowning at my tinctures. This bothered me. "Please do not judge the mixtures," I said. "They are still learning." She looked at me. She did not blink.
She did not move.
She simply said, "That one's going to curdle." It did not curdle. I told her so. She said, "Not yet." This was my first mistake.
I argued. I said, "It has stabilized." She said, "It has paused." Then she crossed her arms.
Still floating.
This felt unnecessary. I went back to my work. Behind me, she sighed. This was not a Kobold sigh.
Kobold sighs have hope in them.
This sigh had experience. "You're heating it too fast," she said. "I am heating it precisely," I said. "You're nervous," she replied. I was.
But that was not the point. I turned around.
"I don't recall inviting you," I said. She looked around my shop.
At the shelves.
At the stains.
At the sign with the spelling problem. "You didn't," she said.
"I just ended up here." This happens sometimes.
With relatives.
With customers.
With barrels. I nodded.
"Are you going to buy something?" She laughed.
It was not a loud laugh.
It was the kind of laugh you make when you've already seen the end of a story and are surprised someone else hasn't. "No," she said.
"I'm going to watch." This was worse. For the next hour, she commented on everything. Not advice.
Commentary. "That lid isn't tight."
"You measured that twice and still got it wrong."
"You're about to regret that." Sometimes she was correct.
Sometimes she was not.
She did not acknowledge either outcome. When a mixture exploded—small explosion, respectful explosion—she said, "There it is." When a salve came out perfect, she said, "Well, that shouldn't have worked." I asked her name. She did not answer. I asked again, more politely. She tilted her head.
"I don't have one you'd like." This seemed unfair. "Everyone has a name," I said. She said, "That's optimistic." I decided to give her one. "You look like a Nettie," I said.
"Sharp. Unnecessary. Hard to remove." She did not react.
This made it official. "Fine," I said. "Nettie it is." She said, "If you must." She stayed. Days passed.
She stayed. Customers came.
She stayed. My cousins came.
She stayed and had opinions. "Oh good," she said once, as three of them began respecting the counter.
"This again." I asked her why she was here. She said, "You keep doing the wrong thing for the right reasons." This did not help. I asked when she would leave. She said, "When you stop being interesting." This worried me. The real trouble started when I listened to her. Not because she was right.
She often wasn't. But because when she was wrong, I learned something. "Don't sell that," she said one morning.
"It's not ready." "It's fine," I said. "Then sell it to the tall one," she replied.
"He won't notice." This felt unethical.
I sold it anyway. The tall one came back three days later and asked for more. It worked better later. I did not understand why. Another time she said, "Raise your prices." "No," I said.
"My cousins—" "—will take things regardless," she finished.
"At least make it expensive to disappoint yourself." This was upsettingly accurate. So I raised them. People complained.
Then they paid. Then they stopped complaining. Once, during a very bad afternoon where everything smelled wrong and nothing settled, she said, "Walk away." I stared at her.
"You don't abandon a batch." "You abandon mistakes," she said.
"Batches will forgive you." I walked away. When I came back, the mixture had resolved. I did not tell her this.
She already knew. Eventually, people began asking about her. "Who's that?" they would say. "She's Nettie," I would reply.
"She helps." "She does not help," Nettie would say.
"I comment." This was true. She never touched anything.
Never moved anything.
Never helped in the ways help is measured. But she was always there when something was about to go wrong.
Or right.
Or sideways. Sometimes she said nothing at all.
Those days worried me the most. One evening, after closing, I asked her why she stayed. She hovered closer than usual.
Not close-close.
Just enough. "You listen," she said.
"Most people don't." "I argue," I corrected. "Yes," she said.
"And then you try anyway." I liked that answer. I asked if she would ever leave. She said, "Probably." I asked when. She said, "When you don't need me to say what you're already thinking." I considered this. "I think you should stay," I said. She smiled.
Just a little.
It looked surprised. "That," she said, "is a terrible idea." It has worked out so far.
————————————
THE DAY THE GROUND GOT TIRED
(AS TOLD BY BRIX SPARKSPILL, WITH UNAUTHORIZED FIELD TESTING) Adventuring is what happens when your shelves are empty and your standards are flexible. This is how I learned that the hard way. I needed saltmoss.
Not fancy saltmoss.
The kind that grows where the ground sweats and gives up.
The kind you don't harvest so much as apologize to. Nettie said, "You're not ready for that." This was encouraging. "I have boots," I said.
"And rope." "You have optimism," she replied.
"Which is not the same thing." I packed anyway. Two vials of tonic.
One flask of water.
One loaf of bread.
One emergency stamina draft I was not done testing. I labeled that one very clearly: NOT READY.
DO NOT SHAKE.
DO NOT DROP.
SERIOUSLY. Nettie read the label upside down. "Ah," she said.
"Hubris." We headed out before dawn. The marshlands were quiet in the way that makes you feel like you're late to something important.
Fog clung to the ground.
Everything smelled like damp patience. Nettie hovered along beside me, hands behind her back. "You walk like you're apologizing to the dirt," she said. "I respect it," I replied. "It does not care." We found the saltmoss near a collapsed stone outcropping.
Old ruin.
Bad footing.
Excellent ingredients. I knelt.
I cut carefully.
I felt very proud. This was my second mistake. The ground shifted. Not dramatically.
Not enough to justify panic.
Just enough to remind me that the marsh does not like to be assumed stable. I slipped. I did not fall.
I stumbled.
Which is worse. My bag swung.
The vials clinked. Nettie sighed. "That one," she said, "is going to break." "It is padded," I said. "It is insulted," she corrected. I adjusted my footing.
The ground adjusted back. We were suddenly standing somewhere that was not the marsh. The air felt thicker.
Heavier.
Like everything was tired. The stone beneath us cracked—not broke, just gave up trying. "This," Nettie said pleasantly, "is a sink hollow." I stared at her.
"You knew that?" "Yes." "You could have mentioned that." "You didn't ask." The ground began to pull. Not fast.
Just constant. I tried to move.
The marsh tried harder. My bag slipped from my shoulder. I reached for it. Nettie winced. "Don't—" Too late. The bag hit the ground. The emergency stamina vial detonated. I would like to be clear:
it did not explode. It released. A shockwave rolled out in a low, humming pulse.
The fog lifted.
The ground vibrated. Then everything… paused. The sinking stopped.
The stone firmed.
The marsh groaned like it had been asked to keep going after a very long day. Nettie stared. I stared. The ground held. "What," I said slowly, "did that do?" Nettie hovered lower, examining the cracked stone. "It appears," she said, "you encouraged the terrain." "I did not mean to." "I know." The hollow stabilized.
Not permanently.
But long enough. Long enough for me to move.
Long enough to grab my bag.
Long enough to back away with dignity, which I define as not screaming. As we reached solid ground, the marsh finally sighed and resumed collapsing behind us. Nettie crossed her arms. "Well," she said, "that was new." I sat down.
My legs shook.
My hands shook.
Everything shook except Nettie, who does not have legs. "That was my unfinished potion," I said. "Yes," she replied.
"And now it's finished." I looked at the broken vial shards still humming faintly in the mud. "It was supposed to restore stamina," I said. "It did," Nettie said.
"To the ground." I blinked. She continued, "You didn't give energy. You redistributed fatigue." This took a moment. "You mean," I said, "I made something that tells things they can rest?" She smiled.
Sharp.
Pleased. "No," she said.
"You made something that tells things they've rested enough." We were quiet after that. Back at the shop, I reconstructed the mixture.
Carefully.
Respectfully.
With better labels. Nettie hovered close. "That will get people killed," she said. "Yes," I agreed. "And it will save them," she added. "Yes." "You're going to sell it." "No." She waited. "…Eventually," I said. She nodded.
Satisfied. We named it later. Not something impressive.
Not something heroic. We called it Second Wind (Shared). I put it on the back shelf.
The one with the stains.
The one my cousins respect last. Nettie watched me do it. "That," she said, "was a terrible resource run." "I got the saltmoss," I replied. She paused. "…You did." I smiled. She did not. But she stayed.
———————————— THE DAY BRIX FORMED A COMPANY
(AS TOLD BY BRIX SPARKSPILL, WITH ADMINISTRATIVE REGRET) Success attracts relatives. Failure attracts sympathy.
Success attracts opinions. This is how I knew something had to be done. My shop was doing well. Not legendary. Not famous. But stable in the way that makes people assume you have extra. Extra space. Extra time. Extra things that are clearly not being watched closely enough. My cousins noticed. They noticed the shelves.
They noticed the back room.
They noticed the locked cabinet, which they respected by checking every morning to see if it was still locked. Nettie watched all of this without comment for three days. On the fourth day, she said, "You're going to lose something important." "I already have," I said. "My patience." "That was never properly secured," she replied. I tried signs. PLEASE ASK BEFORE TOUCHING
PLEASE ASK BEFORE OPENING
PLEASE DO NOT ASK AND THEN TOUCH ANYWAY The signs were respected. Briefly. Emotionally. Not functionally. So I had an idea. This was my second mistake that week. "Kobolds," I announced one morning, standing on a crate because otherwise no one listens, "we are forming an adventuring company." They stared. One of them dropped a vial.
It was empty.
This was progress. "We are," I continued, "going to explore. Together. Professionally." Nettie inhaled sharply.
She does not need to breathe.
This was a choice. "You're outsourcing your problem," she said. "I am redirecting it," I replied. The cousins murmured.
This is what they do when excited.
It sounds like agreement, but it isn't. "We will bring back things," I said.
"Useful things."
"Shineys that want to be discovered."
"Things that do not belong on my shelves." This got their attention. "What about the shelves?" asked Krek, who had once respected a shelf so hard it collapsed. "The shelves," I said carefully, "will remain here." There was disappointment.
Then curiosity.
Then acceptance, which is what happens when you say something confidently enough and immediately move on. I named the company on the spot. "Sparkspill Solutions," I said. Nettie coughed.
"It sounds like a lawsuit." "It sounds official," I countered. We needed roles. This was my third mistake. Everyone wanted to be in charge. Everyone claimed to have experience.
Most of it was unverifiable.
Some of it was alarming. I assigned tasks anyway. Krek would carry things.
Pippa would keep notes.
Rill was told explicitly not to open containers until instructed.
This instruction was acknowledged and then ignored later. We went out the next morning. Not far.
I am not foolish.
Just ambitious. A collapsed waystation.
Half buried.
Smelled like history and rodents. Perfect. The company spread out immediately. "Stay together," I said. They did not. Nettie hovered beside me, arms crossed. "This is going better than expected," she said. "Nothing has caught fire yet," I agreed. They returned in waves. First came Pippa, proudly holding a cracked compass.
"It points," she said. "Where?" I asked. "Differently," she replied. Then came Rill, carrying a crate marked FRAGILE in four languages.
It was leaking.
Gently. "Put that down," I said. "I am," he replied.
"Here." It hissed. We backed away.
It stopped. "Excellent," Nettie said. "Mystery." Krek returned last. He was dragging something. "I found this," he said. It was a door.
Just a door.
No building attached. "Why?" I asked. "It looked lonely." I rubbed my face. This was when the trouble started. Not monsters.
Not traps.
Attention. A group of surface adventurers arrived.
Real ones.
Armor.
Weapons.
Expressions that suggested they were used to competence. They looked at the door.
They looked at the crate.
They looked at my cousins. They looked at me. "Is this… yours?" one asked. "Yes," I said, which was technically true. "What are you doing?" another asked. "Organizing," I replied. They exchanged glances. Nettie leaned in.
"They're deciding whether to help or intervene." "Which would you prefer?" I whispered. "Neither," she said. "But you don't get that option." Before anything could escalate, the ground shifted. Not badly.
Just enough. The crate hissed again.
The compass spun.
The door fell over. Everyone froze. The adventurers reacted immediately.
Weapons out.
Formation tight.
Professional. My cousins reacted emotionally.
Which is to say, loudly. I raised my hands.
"Everyone relax!" This did not work. What worked was Krek. He stepped forward, planted his feet, and held the door upright. "Door's fine," he said. The ground settled.
The hissing stopped.
The compass pointed nowhere in particular, which apparently was its preference. The adventurers slowly lowered their weapons. One of them laughed.
Just once. "What is this?" she asked. "This," I said, realizing something important, "is an adventuring company." Nettie smiled.
Sharp.
Pleased. The adventurers stayed.
They helped us clear the rest of the waystation.
They traded stories.
They bought a salve.
They left a coin on the ground. My cousin took it. They did not mind. We returned home that evening with:
• no injuries
• one intact door
• three moderately useful artifacts
• and fewer cousins in my shop Sparkspill Solutions met twice more after that. Then once.
Then less. Some cousins preferred the road.
Some preferred the shop.
Some preferred respecting things where I could see them. Nettie watched me lock up that night. "Did it work?" she asked. "I still have shelves," I said. She nodded. "That's success," she said. I put up a new sign the next morning. SPARKSPILL SOLUTIONS
EXPLORATION • RECOVERY • DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS ASKED It lasted a week. Which, all things considered, was excellent.
—————————— THE DAY WE GUARDED THE MOST SECURE BOX
(AS TOLD BY BRIX SPARKSPILL, WITH CONTRACTUAL CONFUSION) The Dwarf was very proud of the box. This was the first thing I noticed. It sat in the middle of the Adventurers' Guild hall on a stone pedestal, wrapped in three chains, each with a different lock, all of which looked expensive, heavy, and personally offended by the idea of failure. The Dwarf stood beside it with his arms crossed and a smile that suggested he had already won an argument no one else knew they were having. "I need this guarded," he said. "For how long?" I asked. "One day," he replied. "That's reasonable," I said. "I will be gone exactly one day," he added. "That is also reasonable," I said. Nettie hovered behind me. "It's never the box," she said. The Dwarf ignored her, which was impressive because she was hovering at eye level and radiating judgment. "I do not want to hire guards," he continued.
"Guards get bored."
"Bored guards get curious."
"Curious guards open things." "This box," he said, patting it, "will not be opened." I nodded.
"We are very good at not opening things." This was technically true. He leaned in. "Kobolds," he said carefully, "are excellent at staying busy." My cousins perked up. "How busy?" asked Krek. "Very," the Dwarf replied. He produced a contract. It was simple.
Too simple. Guard the box.
Do not open the box.
Remain inside the Guild hall.
One day.
Payment upon return. I signed. This was my first mistake. The Dwarf smiled, satisfied. "One more thing," he said.
"I have secured my personal effects." He gestured vaguely at the hall. "My mead is hidden."
"Kobolds cannot read." Nettie covered her mouth.
Not to laugh.
To survive the moment. The Dwarf left. Immediately, everyone stared at the box. Not with desire.
With respect. It was a very good box. "I think," said Pippa, "we should stand around it." "Yes," I agreed.
"That is guarding." They stood around it. For ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then curiosity arrived. Not about the box.
About everything else. Rill wandered.
Krek inspected the walls.
Someone found a loose tile and respected it briefly. I cleared my throat. "Remember," I said, "we are guarding the box." "We are," said Krek.
"From the left." "We should guard it from all sides," said Pippa. This led to rotation. Rotation led to pacing.
Pacing led to exploration. The box remained untouched.
Proud.
Secure. Then someone found the bookshelf. It was a large shelf.
Heavy.
Filled with ledgers, manuals, and books titled things like:
• Guild Charters, Volume IV
• Proper Filing Procedures
• Accounting Errors and You The cousins ignored these. Behind them, however, was a false back panel.
Very clever.
Very Dwarven. Inside were bottles. Dark glass.
Wax sealed.
Cold. Nettie closed her eyes. "Kobolds can't read," Krek said thoughtfully.
"But we can smell." They did not take the mead. They redistributed it. Carefully.
Respectfully.
One bottle became two half bottles.
Two half bottles became shared responsibility. Morale improved dramatically. The box continued to be guarded. With enthusiasm. At one point, a group of adventurers approached. "What's in the box?" one asked. "Box," said Krek, standing directly in front of it. "Yes," the adventurer said slowly, "but what's in it?" "Still box," Krek replied. They left. Hours passed. Nothing attacked.
Nothing moved.
Nothing threatened the box. It was the safest it had ever been. The Dwarf returned exactly one day later. He stopped in the doorway. He took in the scene. Six kobolds.
One alchemist.
One Shade.
A perfectly guarded box. Empty bottles.
Not many.
Just enough to be noticed by someone who knows bottles. He walked to the bookshelf. Pressed the false panel. Silence. He turned slowly. Nettie met his eyes. "Locks," she said, "are not security." I stepped forward quickly. "The box," I said, "is untouched." He checked. Chains intact.
Locks sealed.
Pedestal unscathed. He nodded. Then he laughed. A deep, satisfied sound. "Well done," he said. "You guarded exactly what I asked you to guard." He paid us in full. As he left, he paused. "For the record," he said,
"I hid the important mead in the ceiling." Nettie smiled. "I like him," she said. So did I. The box remained a mystery. Which is, I believe, the point. THE TWO-DAY VOYAGE OF THE BLOATED ROC (AS EXPERIENCED BY BRIX SPARKSPILL, PASSENGER OF EXCEPTIONAL PRIVILEGE) We did not board like the others. The others waited. They stood in lines.
They held papers.
They worried about weight limits and proper stamping and whether their boots were clean enough to be judged by someone who does not walk much. We did not do this. We used the ramp. My ramp. It is not called that officially, but it is clearly mine. It is positioned at the rear of the Bloated Roc, where the great cargo doors open wide enough to admit animals, crates, and kobolds of refined purpose. The crew prefers this. It keeps us from being in the way. We prefer this. It keeps them from slowing us down. This is what is called a mutual understanding. ⸻ The Bloated Roc is very large. Not large in the way of buildings, which are large because they insist on staying still. Large in the way of something that should not be moving, but does anyway, and loudly enough that you forgive it. It breathes steam. It hums.
It rattles.
It sighs like a tired animal that has agreed to one more trip. Nettie said, "This is going to fail." "It is functioning," I replied. "For now," she said. ⸻ The lower decks are excellent. They are warm.
They are busy.
They are full of important things that require attention. Animals first. Always animals first. They do not like the sound. They do not like the lift. They do not like the way the ground leaves without asking them. This is understandable. We calm them. Not with force.
Not with shouting.
Not with ropes pulled too tight. We speak to them. We move slowly.
We share space. We let them smell us, which is generous of them, because we are not subtle. A large draft beast leaned into me as the engines engaged. "You are not falling," I told it. "You are traveling." It did not understand the words. It understood the certainty. That is enough. ⸻ There are viewports. Not for passengers. For function. For checking lines.
For observing the sky in case it does something unreasonable. We use them. We climb where we should not.
We look where we are not meant to look. The world becomes smaller. Fields flatten.
Roads become threads.
People become suggestions. I waved once. Nettie said, "They can't see you." "That does not make it less polite," I replied. ⸻ The first meal is very good. It is not served to us. It arrives. Quietly.
Reliably.
With the respect of routine. Upper decks eat first. They eat well. They eat confidently. They do not finish everything. This is where quality begins. The trays come down. Not as scraps.
Never scraps. Selections. Pieces that were chosen and then unchosen.
Cuts that were tested and then abandoned.
Breads that were too soft for preference. We receive them. We do not rush. We do not fight. We distribute. Krek takes meats.
Pippa sorts breads.
Rill inspects sauces with a seriousness that suggests consequences. "This one," he said, holding up a small dish, "is confused." We tried it anyway. It was excellent. ⸻ There are paths. Hidden.
Practical.
Necessary. The kind of paths that exist because something must be maintained, and maintenance is more important than permission. We know these paths. Not because we were told. Because they are obvious. Doors that are not watched.
Panels that open if you ask them correctly.
Spaces between walls that were never meant to be empty, but are. This is how we ensure cargo integrity. This is how we ensure nothing is misplaced. Sometimes, things are placed better. A bag left too close to the edge is moved.
A latch not fully secured is secured.
A coin that might roll is prevented from having that experience. We do not take. We improve location. Nettie called it theft once. I explained. She did not agree. She rarely does. ⸻ The first night is loud. Not from people. From the Roc itself. Steam builds.
Valves release.
Metal contracts in ways that suggest opinions. I slept. Nettie did not. She hovered near the engine access and frowned at everything. "This is held together by expectation," she said. "It is held together by bolts," I replied. "Barely," she said. ⸻ The failure happened on the second day. Of course it did. Important things rarely fail early.
They wait until everyone believes in them. There was a sound. Not a loud sound. A wrong sound. The kind of sound that does not belong in a system that has decided what it should be. The engines stuttered. The Roc dipped. Animals shifted.
Passengers above shouted.
Crew ran. Kobolds listened. We felt it. The rhythm was off. Like a mixture that had lost its patience. Nettie was already moving. "You hear that?" she said. "Yes." "It's not pressure." "No." "It's timing." "Yes." We were there before the crew opened the panel. This is not because we are faster. It is because we are already where things might go wrong. The engine chamber was hot. Busy.
Angry. Steam vents hissed unevenly.
One of the regulators jittered.
A valve cycled too quickly, then too slowly, like it could not decide how tired it was allowed to be. "It's compensating," I said. "For what?" a crewman demanded. "For something that stopped working correctly," I replied. This was helpful. Not enough. Nettie pointed. "That one." A small governor wheel—misaligned.
Not broken.
Not failed. Off. "It's correcting too late," she said.
"It's chasing pressure instead of setting it." I nodded. "Hold this," I told Krek. He held it. Very well. I adjusted the linkage. Carefully.
Respectfully. The system resisted. Then it listened. The rhythm returned. Not perfect. But acceptable. The Roc steadied. Above us, the shouting stopped. Below us, the animals relaxed. The engine sighed. Not tired.
Grateful. The crew stared. "You fixed it?" one asked. "No," I said.
"It remembered what it was supposed to do." Nettie looked at me. "That's new," she said. ⸻ We arrived on time. This is important. Not early.
Not late. On time. Passengers disembarked properly.
In order.
With relief and opinions. We used the ramp. My ramp. As we left, one of the crew handed me a small pouch. Payment. Unnecessary.
Appreciated. "Come back anytime," he said. "We will," I replied. Of course we will. The Bloated Roc is an excellent vessel. It is well maintained. It is properly respected. And it understands, now, that it has rested enough.