The Maristella Smallsword

∴ A Siren Call∴

A lone and late-to-bed gull makes its keening call, your sole companion as you gaze upon the brooding waters. You can’t explain what wonder this half-rotten wooden groyn holds for you – only that every night since the news of the wreck, you have found yourself here – waiting, willing.

The moon leaves a long path, stark and silver against the ebb. You imagine stepping from the worn planks onto the trail of light. As you trace the beam down toward your feet, your eye is caught by a glimmer between barnacled rocks. Entranced, you clamber toward it, little caring for your torn and sodden skirts. A silvern shell sparkles between stones, as if some siren’s gift.

Heart pounding, you fall to your knees and grasp the tiny, hand-hewn thing. To your shock you find yourself clutching not a shell, but the pommel of a sword. Bathed in moonlight you rise, and draw it, Arthurian, from the depths.

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