The Birth of a Phoenix - Chapter One

The Birth of a Phoenix

By Kytaari Seafare Bounder

Chapter One

I rested in my lodging at Brier Rose Reach, residing in a hostel situated by the piers. I gazed out from my second story room and observed the break of the waves, foaming as the water hit the golden sandy shore. My residence consisted of a simple two room lodging, the rented room accomodated my luggage quite fittingly, and the amount of space provided by the luxurous room, made my mind feel at ease.

Fishing at the docks provided me with many hours of calm. Although the harbor usually kept busy, with boatswains and sailors bustling about their work, I was left alone with my line and hook in the sea while I sat on the edge of the pier, my long gray tail fluffed out and my legs hanging just above the wavy coast. I would feel the monsoon of the coast blowing against my hair and face and tufts of fur.

This morning I set out to do my usual morning rituals, and that included fishing on a rowboat as the binary suns came up. The reputation of the coast of Sol preceded the navies of many lands, and the quality of the our products which were provided to use by the picks of the shores supplied me with a wide variety of commodities to claim and subsequently exchange for silver and gold.

I brought with me my fishing rod and net, and I wore a small light blue tanktop which exhibited my naval region, and wore some pea green slacks, baggy. I wore brown sandals for this expedition and a straw hat two strings hanging below the brim.

With my attire all set and my utensils tucked in my trusty brown knapsack, which I usually used a lot when traveling, I stepped outside, my willow fishing rod in tow.

A warm and yet soaking humidity marked this morning's weather. I strolled out onto a vacant lane, the moisture of the weather trickling my fur and skin, loosening itself in the sheen of my hair, which draped to the nape of me neck. I felt a peculiar upbeat vibe this morning, and as I swung a tin bucket in one hand and carried the willow rod in the other, I anticipated the coming catch to come in amply after a few hours of persistence.

The beat of the waves foamed against the docks at the shore, and the jutting piers of the dockside gave no sign of perturbance as the sifting waves brushed the sturdy beams of the catwalks. I watched while the foamy cascades of water swayed and frothed, bubbly. Figuring I had found a location as good as any, I settled my tin bucket down and cast out the line of my willow rod.

My tail swayed out lavishly and my feline ears perked. Something had taken the bait of the string produced by the willow fishing rod. I reeled the sucker in.

I caught a trout, flopped it into the tin bucket. The day dragged, though I felt as ease.

After incessant fishing, two-and-a-half hours flew by, and it was noon when I returned to my lodging with my catch. I intended to cook my carps over a campfire as I set out to the northwest by the main road leading to Nicklebridge from Brier Rose Reach. And north of Nicklebridge was the large city of Witchaven, where I would meet my boon companions.

The road I intended to take bent along woodland alcove and hedgerows of shrub, the undulating terrace which swept unevenly past the west gate of Brier Rose Reach, the barricade of which pointedly posted its tough wooden frame against the breadth of the outlanding forests; tucked the town in a nestled valley region where the winding road elevated itself in a curving manner, bending along green mounds which jutted up the sunny terrain.

I withdrew my longstaff after tucking my tin bucket of fish away in the larder for tonights campfire, spinning it freely after I had left my room by descending the stairwell of my room by the second story padeo, walking outside in the open of the neighborly block. A small white fence stretched straightly along the lane the Silver Phoenix Tavern resided in, accompanying oaks which extended their large branches above fresh shrubberies.

The stroll reinvigorated my body, the fresh cool air of the late autumn weather trickling my hair and skin. My tail lavishly extended is strands of wavy fur and my feline ears prickled lightly at the starkness of the cooling temperature, and I felt a sense of stolid aim this noon.

I turned at a corner of the block, a location on the avenue where two streets junctioned and thus provided a subsequent causeway to the north; the likes of the rolling avenue thronged with many pine trees. The tablelands of the town jutted craggily with rows of pines and isolated elms, the exhibited gray rocks of the mesa protruded just above the canopy of pines which columned the brim of the tableland.