[center][color=7ea7d8][b][h1][i][b]S[/b] o l i a[/i][/h1][/b][/color][/center]
[right][hr][color=gray][b]Windward Island[/b]
Port Harbor[/color][hr][/right]

A small fleet had amassed in the crystal waters around Windward Island. To a place of more commercial repute, this would not have been so exciting, and in fact a more refined port might have found itself vexingly inconvenienced. 

None who had come did so in gilded galleons and warships, rather, the ports bulged with a ramshackle collection of schooners and the odd caravel of a small-fortuned merchant. Many who disembarked onto the docks, were just reflections of their crafts. Their hulls were gnarled and beaten by Mother Ocean’s ire, and some who had clearly rotted past the point of restoration were easy to pick out. They hobbled on patched boots, or wooden legs, and wouldn’t last. Others though, were made of more resilient stuff. Their bodies had weathered hurricane winds, clashed against the scaly hides of dangerous beasts, and survived. Their demeanors were grizzled and jaded, but intrinsic to their personal brine was hope for the people of Windward. Hope that some among the newcomers could help them.

This was what had drawn Solia here. The message Windward had sent out was not a cry for help in the way she most often encountered them, but it was one nonetheless. Something troubled the people who lived there, something they didn’t understand, with the potential to bring them harm. If there was something she could do to stop it, or help them in anyway, she had to try. She always had to try.

As she stepped onto the dock, the boards whined and bent beneath her. She would have to be careful here. Windward was not some buoy-port cobbled of driftwood and hope, but even still, if she wasn’t delicate, or at least mindful of her actions, she might step right through the wood, and be plunged into the waters beneath the isle. 

As the most eager adventurers stormed from the docks, her slower pace spared her from the brunt of the islanders’ attention. She had donned more layers than perhaps was necessary for the climate, but stone did not sweat. Only weeks ago, the sight of her broken face and grainy chips had nearly driven a crew to toss her overboard. Now she favored discretion, to an extent. 

She was not ashamed of her being, as of late it did perplex her, but she would never deny what she was to anyone. Father had built them to be proud of their elegant forms; she was a masterwork, a creation unlike any Maelstrom had ever produced, unlike anything [i]Aruth[/i] had ever produced. Some of the Spire’s own residents were chary of calling upon their aid, or even approaching them. Such was the way of new and strange things. 

There were children among the crowds of onlookers, that brought a smile to her. Maelstrom had few children for its prodigious size, but they’d been among her favorite. Minds, untethered with reason or tragedy, conjured the most fantastical tales, and these stories often passed about the ranks of her siblings, shared in their off-time. As she watched Windward’s children gather and gawk, she wondered, briefly, where the children of Maelstrom were. Briefly, because she knew the answer already. 

Not keen on frightening them, she keep her head low, and her face shaded beneath the hood of her cloak. Her clothes were damp and salted from the weeks of travel, but the bandages wrapped ‘round her head and arm were still fresh, and firm. Undamaged she could pass for pale at a glance, but such was not the case. As it was, the clear skies did her no favors, and she sought out a place less bare. 

An open tavern caught her eye, “The Sunken Shephard,” and she hesitated. Shelter it was, but sure as the tides would rise, sailors would flood a bar. Perhaps it was best to avoid company until companionship was unavoidable, until they were out at Gullspire and protests could not stop her from being there. This was the logical decision. Solia chose to ignore it. 

Beneath the pavilion, she found a small table, small enough that she was confident the others would fill before anyone thought to join her, if they did. This decision, she decided, was close enough to reason. Runner-up. It granted her the discretion she desired, but also allowed her to keep an eye on the dock’s proceedings. Skiffs making ground at the shores, more divers and adventurers embracing the awed welcomes of the islanders. It was a pleasant sight, and she settled into it. Solia had been used to stillness, spent many hours on Maelstrom as a statuesque sentinel. The tavern was comfortable, at least, and for the most part empty.

Among the patrons, she spied a few who [i]might[/i] be divers, and one about whom she had no doubts. Short, pink-haired, very proper, but this was not what stuck out most about her, not to Solia. What struck her most about the woman was her uniform. Clean, sharp, and above all undeniably, unmistakably Imperial. 

If she had breath, it would have caught. What she had instead was a spark, an impulse, to do something. Exactly what, she didn’t know, and that itself was curious. She thought, gravely, that she wanted to [i]hurt[/i] this girl. It was not a difficult thought to repress, the impulse just as easily smothered. She sat, quietly, and watched her for a time until she was certain that if their eyes met, there would be trouble. 

To think of terrible things now, just before the call to action, would not do. So she returned her attention to the ships and crews, then further on, the sea and the distance Gullspire rock, and tried to busy her mind with more pleasant things.