Kelp's Watch wasn't a town; it was an exhalation of the sea, clinging to wind-scoured cliffs like stubborn lichen. Three days trudging the hard-packed earth of the Trader's Way after escaping the fetid embrace of the Deep Fens brought them to its edge. The air changed – the cloying decay of the fens replaced by a sharp, exhilarating tang of salt, ozone, and drying fish. Gulls wheeled and screamed overhead, their cries a constant, raucous counterpoint to the rhythmic boom of surf against the cliffs below.
The town itself was a haphazard jumble of structures built from driftwood, grey stone, and the bleached bones of enormous sea creatures. Roofs were thickly thatched with saltgrass, weighted down with nets against the relentless wind. Narrow, muddy streets wound between buildings, bustling with people whose faces were etched by wind and sun – fishermen mending nets with fingers like knotted rope, traders hawking glistening catches and strange sea wares, hard-eyed caravan guards nursing mugs of something pungent outside low-roofed taverns.
Ash and Preston, still coated in a fine layer of Fens-mist and travel grime, blended in perfectly with the weary arrivals. Their packs, lighter after trading smoked fish for hard bread and salt at Henge's, still held their precious remaining pelts – the fine fox, a few rabbits, and the water vole – destined for the Kelp's Watch market.
"Smells like… opportunity," Preston murmured, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene with the keen assessment of a former noble used to gauging resources and threats. Perry was fully present again, the slump in his shoulders authentic weariness, but his gaze missed nothing. "And brine. Mostly brine."
"Opportunity for trouble, too," Ash countered, his hand resting near the hilt of his new skinning knife. The sheer volume of people, the unfamiliar sounds, the potential for Proudmorth eyes or loose tongues, set his nerves jangling. Yet, the vast expanse of the Western Ocean stretching to the horizon beyond the cliffs offered a strange kind of reassurance. It was an end, and potentially a new beginning. "Find the market. Sell. Resupply. Move on."
The Kelp's Watch market was a vibrant, noisy assault on the senses, held on a broad, windswept plateau overlooking the churning harbour. Stalls displayed glistening pyramids of oysters, baskets of strange, spiky sea urchins, coils of rope thicker than a man's arm, and bolts of coarse, salt-washed linen. There were weapons too – harpoons with wicked barbs, heavy gutting knives, and sturdy cudgels made from whalebone. The air vibrated with shouted prices, the clatter of goods, and the ever-present cries of the gulls.
Ash took charge of the bartering. His silence, his ash-silver hair marking him as an outsider but not necessarily a mark, and his no-nonsense assessment of their pelts commanded a certain wary respect. He spoke little, pointing, grunting, holding firm on prices. Preston watched, learning, occasionally chiming in with Perry's slightly whiny voice to haggle over a pot of rendered shark oil ("Good for waterproofing boots, Ash!") or a bundle of remarkably tough, dried seaweed strips Henge had mentioned were useful for kindling or packing.
They traded the fox pelt for a surprising amount of coin – small, stamped discs of copper and silver bearing the stylised wave symbol of Kelp's Watch. The rabbits and vole fetched a decent pouch of coarse salt, a roll of waxed canvas bigger than their last, and a small, stoppered clay jar of pungent fish paste Preston insisted would be useful. Ash secured a sturdy waterskin to replace one that had sprung a leak in the Fens.
The transaction completed, the weight of immediate necessity lifted slightly. They stood for a moment, buffeted by the wind, watching the ocean. The vastness was humbling, a reminder of how small their own struggles were in the grand, indifferent scheme.
"Celebration?" Preston suggested, nudging Ash with an elbow. Perry's gesture, but Preston's glint in her eye. "We survived the Fens. We sold the fox. We haven't been stabbed or drowned in days. That warrants… something. Something local."
Ash grunted. Celebration felt alien, dangerous even. But the weariness in his bones, the gnawing emptiness left by his drained magic, craved… something. Warmth. A moment not defined by fear or flight. He scanned the market edge, his gaze landing on a low, smoky building tucked against the cliff face. A sign, carved from a piece of driftwood, depicted a pipe wreathed in stylised fog: The Salty Drag.
"Not ale," Ash stated. Ale meant lowered guards, loose tongues. "But… maybe." He nodded towards the establishment.
The interior of The Salty Drag was dim, warm, and thick with fragrant smoke that curled in lazy blue-grey tendrils. Rough-hewn tables and benches were occupied by a mix of locals and travellers, all engaged in low conversation or simply sitting in companionable silence, puffing on long-stemmed clay pipes. The air hummed with a low murmur and the gentle gurgle of water pipes. An ancient woman with skin like tanned leather and eyes like chips of obsidian presided over a counter displaying jars of various dried leaves and mosses.
Ash approached cautiously. "What… smokes?" he asked, the question feeling clumsy.
The old woman appraised him, then Perry beside him, with eyes that missed nothing. "Ah. Fens-dust still on yeh. Need somethin' to clear the lungs and the head, eh?" Her voice was a dry rasp, like pebbles grinding. She pointed to various jars. "Sea Lavender – smooth, clears the sinuses. Fog Moss – deep, earthy, good for thought. Or Kelp's Own," she tapped a jar filled with dark, almost black, twisted leaves. "Strong. Smoky like the cliffs. Warms the bones. Not for the faint."
Ash glanced at Preston. She shrugged, Perry's nonchalance barely masking her intense curiosity. "Kelp's Own," Ash decided. Something potent, something of this place.
The woman nodded approvingly. She measured out a portion into two small, coarse clay pipes, tamping it down with a gnarled thumb. "Two coppers. Use the hearth embers." She gestured towards a large, central fireplace where glowing coals provided warmth and ignition.
They found an empty bench near the back, partially shielded by a hanging fishing net. Ash carefully lit both pipes from a glowing ember fetched with tongs. The Kelp's Own, when lit, released a dense, blue-grey smoke that smelled profoundly of the sea – brine, iodine, wet stone, and something deeper, almost like smoldering driftwood. It was pungent, complex, and utterly unfamiliar.
Ash took a cautious pull. The smoke hit his throat – warm, surprisingly smooth, then expanding with a deep, smoky intensity that filled his chest. It wasn't harsh, but profoundly present. A wave of warmth spread outwards from his core, easing the perpetual tension in his shoulders, dulling the jagged edges of his exhaustion. His senses didn't blur; they seemed to sharpen momentarily, focusing on the crackle of the fire, the murmur of voices, the taste of salt on his lips. The gnawing emptiness inside felt… cushioned.
Preston watched him, then mimicked his action. She inhaled, held it for a second… and promptly dissolved into a fit of coughing that shook her slight frame, tears streaming from her eyes. Perry's disguise slipped entirely for a moment as she gasped and wheezed. Ash instinctively reached out, thumping her lightly on the back, a gesture so unfamiliar it surprised them both.
"Stars… cough… and storms!" Preston gasped, wiping her eyes, her voice her own, husky and strained. "That's… that's like inhaling a campfire doused in seawater!"
A low chuckle came from a nearby table. A grizzled fisherman with a pipe of his own grinned, missing several teeth. "First pull of Kelp's Own bites, lad! Like a grumpy crab. Try smaller. Sip it. Let it sit."
Preston, face flushed but eyes bright with the challenge, nodded. She took a much smaller sip, holding the smoke gently in her mouth before exhaling slowly. This time, the coughing was minimal. She blinked, surprised. "Huh. It's… deep. Like breathing in the cliffs themselves." She took another small sip, her expression turning thoughtful, almost meditative. The frantic energy that usually buzzed around her seemed to settle.
They sat in silence then, broken only by the crackling fire and the murmur of the tavern. The Kelp's Own smoke wreathed around them, a shared, sensory experience. Ash found himself observing Preston – truly observing her beyond the roles of fugitive, noble, or burden. He saw the fading scratches on her hands, the way she held the pipe with a newfound, almost reverent care, the keen intelligence in her eyes as she absorbed the atmosphere. He saw the lingering shadow of Lord Cray's threat in the set of her jaw when a boisterous laugh rang out too loudly, but also the resilience beneath it.
Preston, for her part, watched Ash unwind fractionally. The rigid line of his spine softened against the bench. The constant vigilance in his ash-silver eyes dimmed, replaced by a weary contemplation as he gazed into the smoky depths of the tavern. She saw the profound fatigue etched around his eyes, the toll the magic and the running had taken, but also a core of unyielding strength that hadn't fractured. He wasn't Gaius Plythe, the betrayed noble heir. He wasn't just Ash, the survivor. He was something more elemental, shaped by fire and flight.
"Where next?" Preston asked softly, her voice cutting through the comfortable haze, Perry momentarily forgotten. She traced the rim of her clay pipe. "The Salt Road? Or…" She gestured vaguely towards the vast ocean visible through the open door.
Ash took another slow pull of the Kelp's Own, letting the smoky warmth anchor him. "The Salt Road," he said, his voice a low rumble that blended with the tavern's hum. "West. Further from Proudmorth's shadow." He met her gaze. The shared pipe, the shared silence, had forged a new layer of understanding. "Caravans leave from here. Safer than travelling alone. We have coin now."
Preston nodded, a flicker of excitement mingling with apprehension in her eyes. Caravans meant people, scrutiny, but also protection and speed. "Safer sounds good. Though," she added, a hint of her old defiance returning, "after the Deep Fens, how much worse could bandits be?"
A ghost of a smile touched Ash's lips, visible only in the slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Bandits don't have quicksand." He tapped the dottle from his pipe against the hearthstone. "We find the caravan master tomorrow. Tonight…" He looked at the warm glow of the coals, the swirling smoke, the unlikely companion sharing this moment of hard-won respite. "Tonight, we rest. And breathe."
They finished their pipes in companionable silence, the unique, briny smoke of Kelp's Own weaving a fragile sense of peace around them. The ocean boomed outside, a constant reminder of the world's vastness and indifference, but inside The Salty Drag, warmed by the hearth and the shared, potent tobacco, two fugitives found a momentary anchor. The road west beckoned, fraught with unknown dangers, but for now, the only intimacy needed was the shared understanding in their eyes across the smoky table, the unspoken acknowledgment of battles survived and the wary trust forged in salt, smoke, and survival. Romance was a distant shore; tonight, the harbour of simple, earned rest was enough.