Hello there, and welcome to the all-new super-fantastic revamped version of Something in The Water! Apologies for the lateness… but here we go.

A quick note before we continue: In the future, I can't promise that there won't be any more multiple-month breaks between chapters. Me and deadlines don't have that good of a relationship, you see. So, if you're ever wondering where the next chapter is, hop across to kemmasandi dot deviantart dot com (direct link on my author profile here). That's Roofies' unofficial home, with illustrations and extra fun stuff as well as its' own versions of the chapters. It's also the easiest place you can contact me.

"You can think and you can fight, but the world's always movin', and if you wanna stay ahead you gotta dance."

– Sardines, The Amazing Maurice And His Educated Rodents

Something In The Water

Prologue: Far From The Sun

A frozen wind blew steadily across the island. The sky was white, and, with a heavy blanket of fresh snow covering the rocky ground, so was the earth. Sea fog, advancing slowly off the ocean, blurred the horizon, making it impossible to tell where the ground left off and the clouds began.

The island had no name; had never had any inhabitants to bother with giving it one. It was a mere scrap of too-cold land in the vastness of the ocean, far off the trade routes of the rare merchants who ventured this close to the Calm Belt.

Still, the island was not a wasteland. Here and there, tufts of spring grass poked through the crust of snow, in the lee of rocks and the few hardy shrubs which grew in what little fertile soil they could find. And animals lived here: all but the newest drifts were marked with the prints of hares, snowfoxes, and lemmings. It was too small for the deer and oxen which populated the island's larger neighbours, but for the smaller beasts, it was a private haven.

Most of the time, at least.

Raucous barking split the air even before Daegal's dinghy ground ashore. The dogs weighing down the stern of the little boat scrambled around and over each other, eyes wide and tongues lolling out in their eagerness to begin the day's work.

Safe in the bow, Daegal watched their antics out the corner of his eye. He'd landed the dinghy on this tiny, isolated beach countless times before, so often he could have done it in his sleep. Yet each and every time, the dogs went as mad with anticipation as they had on their very first visit.

He was a trapper, eking out a living by going from island to island, collecting the skins and meat and anything else that was even slightly usable from the local wildlife. The dogs were his trackers, bodyguards, company - and at times like these, his on-call entertainment. Chuckling softly, he guided the dinghy onwards through the icy wavelets, while the dogs behind him continued their eager dance.

Soon the waves began to push the dinghy closer to shore. The tip of Daegal's oar struck the gravel bottom of the beach, and almost immediately the hull ground to a halt after it. The dogs felt the gentle impact through the frame of the boat, halting in mid-step and staring expectantly at Daegal. Grinning, the trapper reached out to untie the knot that kept the pack's leashes fixed to the stern.

"There ya go, you pack o' mongrels. Go find me a nice fat ptarmigan for breakfast."

The first to be freed – the boss of the pack, a one-eyed white mongrel – immediately leapt overboard, landing in the surf with a mighty splash. The dinghy rocked; Daegal's gloved fingers fumbled with the knot, and the rest of the pack flowed after One-Eye like one unified animal. They splashed through the shallows and up onto the beach, where they raced up and down the shoreline, baying madly.

Daegal let them play, scrambling out of the dinghy with human awkwardness. Shuddering at the chill of the water, he dragged the dinghy ashore, and further up the beach, well past the high-tide mark. Hurriedly drying his hands on the thick blankets he kept in the watertight compartment under the bow seat, he checked to make sure the insides of his boots were still dry as well. Daegal had a reputation for being over-careful, but in these islands, the cold could maim and kill.

That done, he stuffed the blankets back in their compartment, and stood, gazing out along the beach. The dogs gambolled noisily at the far end, at the foot of a set of granite bluffs that rose up to a point twenty metres or so above the ocean. Grey sky, grey stone, grey sea, white snow. The lonely cries of seabirds floated out of the encroaching fog.

Trudging closer to the looming bluffs, Daegal reached inside the collar of his jacket and withdrew the dog whistle that hung on a cord around his neck. He put it to his lips, and blew one short, sharp blast. The dogs ears' pricked up, and they gazed attentively at the trapper, waiting to be given their signal.

"Away with yas!" he called out, gesturing with both arms to the narrow goat track that led around the end of the bluffs. The sound bounced off the cliffs, echoing out across the gentle ocean. As one, the dogs wheeled about and raced up the beach, heading for the track.

Daegal followed, hunching his shoulders deeper into his fur-lined jacket as an icy gust of wind howled across the beach. The track, kept clear by the few woolly goats that wandered the island, was his main hunting ground. Other animals than the goats used it; all smaller, and most of them prized by the fur traders Daegal supplied. He had twenty-five traps at certain points around the island, all baited and waiting for prey.

The dogs quickly found the first trap, a flax snare set across what Daegal had suspected was a hare's run. There was a hare in it, a thin-looking adolescent with a snowy white pelt. The dogs clustered around, teeth bared in canine grins as Daegal loosened the snare, depositing the hare inside his game bag. He stood, searching for a new place to put the snare, and spent a few minutes fixing it between a pair of tussocks, over a well-established run not far from its original place.

Then he blew on the whistle again, and the dogs ranged off, eagerly heading after the next trap.

The next two snares were empty. One still remained as Daegal had set it, while the other had been dragged well out of place and broken, tufts of greasy goat wool clinging to the remnants of a noose.

"Guess some dumb goat stepped in it," Daegal commented wryly, as the dogs whuffed goodnaturedly around him. They didn't like wasting their time on empty traps – nothing interesting to smell. Daegal shook his head, winding the remnants of the snare up into a ball and stuffing them into one of the many pockets on his jacket. He'd see if it could be repaired once he got home.

The fourth and fifth traps had been sprung, once on a fat young hare, and once on a giant snow gecko, which had dropped its tail in the trap and gone free. The sixth held the remains of another hare, the snow around it trampled by the pawprints of a family of foxes. Daegal cursed the air blue at that, roughly shaking the dead hare from the trap. He'd have to take this one home as well, and leave it out in the garden for a while until it lost the bloody smell. Even the geckoes, the dumbest creatures on the planet, stayed away from a trap that smelled so much like death.

Later on in the afternoon, the dogs led Daegal into the lowlands of the island. It was a treacherous swamp at the best of times, and the fresh snow hindered their progress as they had to find their usual path under almost six inches of the stuff.

He'd only set a couple of traps here, as the animals he was after tended to stay out of the lowlands. But as he and the dogs emerged from the worst of the swamp, they began to see evidence of something else, something unusual moving through the landscape.

Here and there, something big – bigger than the goats – had lumbered through the snow, carving out a zig-zag path between points where it had paused, leaving big holes in the snow. There had been one, maybe two snowfalls since then, Daegal guessed as he studied the tracks. The dogs ranged on ahead, sniffing the trail and yipping excitedly.

What on earth had made the tracks? At times, Daegal realised, they looked almost human – walking along on two legs, one dragging painfully behind, causing the other to take short, staggered steps. At others, it looked as though whatever – whoever – it had been, had dropped to his hands and knees and crawled.

The dogs clustered momentarily around a spot several yards ahead, raising their heads and sniffing the frozen air. Then they moved off with slow purpose, noses and tails low to the ground. Daegal frowned as he clumped through the snow after them.

They led him through the lowlands for a mile or more. Towards the end, spots of frozen blood began to show through the fresh snow, revealed by the dogs' pawprints. Daegal began to feel nervous foreboding lining the pit of his stomach.

The dogs followed the trail past a rocky outcrop, skirting the edge of a frozen lake. In the middle of the field beyond, a dark figure sprawled, unmoving, surrounded by red-stained snow.

The dogs sprinted the rest of the way, barking at the top of their lungs. A family of foxes who had been gathered around the figure scattered, streaking away across the snow. The dogs split up, baying madly as they chased the foxes away. The mysterious bloodstained figure was left to Daegal to investigate.

It was a man, and he was dead. There was no doubt about that; Daegal had never seen a man whose belly looked like that survive to tell the tale. Covering his mouth with one hand, the trapper gingerly swept some of the snow away, revealing a ripped and torn winter jacket, of the same sort that Daegal himself wore. The man had been blonde, with high cheekbones and a scraggly moustache. His sightless eyes were bright blue, and heavily slanted. This was a Bear Islander, a fellow countryman, maybe even kin to Daegal.

Daegal gently closed the man's eyes, feeling vaguely nauseous. The body bore signs of confinement – dark bruises, new scars around the neck and wrists. The winter jacket was the only thing the man wore, and where it didn't cover his bruised and broken legs, there were so many cuts and slashes it was difficult to see where he had any skin left.

The dogs returned in a rush, barking excitedly. Daegal turned to them, glad to have something else to concentrate on. One-Eye grinned and panted at him, drooling happily as the rest of the pack crowded around.

He'd have to report this to the sheriff back on Goose Island. Dead men with the marks of torture did not turn up for no reason at all.

Pushing himself to his feet, Daegal heaved a worried sigh. "Better get back to work," he told the dogs, taking hold of his whistle once again. "Got a couple of traps left."

The dogs whuffed understandingly. Daegal trudged away from the corpse, and blew his whistle. One-Eye loped off, followed quickly by the rest of the pack.

Dead men would have to wait. For now, Daegal and his dogs had a living to make.

Word Count: 1833

P.S: Constructive criticism is welcomed here!