When Lorcan was exiled from his clan, the first thing he did was seek shelter. That instruction had been drilled into him since he was a child; freshwater would only get you so far when the elements came to bite.
He hauled the boat out of the ocean and dragged it along the sand, feet sinking all the way. The waves would cover his tracks, and besides, he and Georg were the only ones who ventured this way. It was too far from even the furthest boat catch installation shed for any of the other Vikings to bother making the trek.
Their cave was hidden by shrubbery, a squat stone thing they had kept from the elements with the broken-off hull of a boat. Boats were their lives here, in more ways than one. Boats to find food, boats to travel to other clans, boats to fight wars, and boats to chop up and use for firewood when they outran their marine usage. The steel ones had their uses, too. They could be shorn off and used as weapons.
George had followed Lorcan to the cave after their exile. Their initial hatred had settled into an uneasy truce, and now? Lorcan might even call him a friend.
“They’re still in the meeting rooms,” Georg said, by way of greeting. “Have been for hours now. Longest so far.”
Lorcan set the snapper racks (installed in Melbourne) down on the floor of the cave. “Perhaps they’re finally coming to their senses.”
Georg sniffed. “Two weeks too late.” He didn’t look up from his broth. With the left side of his face distorted by the flickering shadows of the fire, he looked a bit like the demon masks Lorcan’s clan donned during harvest celebrations.
Lorcan bit back a wry smile. He was being reminded of home more and more these days – a clear sign that he was starting to miss it. The cliffs along the coastline were certainly beautiful, but they seemed mere piles of dirt when compared to the godly mountains he had been raised beneath.