Another chapter originally published years ago, now returning to you, my dear readers, with some expanded content.

Chapter 8: Lari's Local Legend

As per Katrine's advice, Gascon set about locating the man by the name of Jameson even as his mind made unwelcome predictions as to how long it would be before he inevitably got on the man's bad side. It had taken him just around half a day to make enemies of the fishing boat captain. Perhaps if he was lucky, he'd be able to beat his record and last a full 24 hours before making a fool of himself this time.

It hadn't been particularly difficult to locate Jameson's place of business, as everyone in Lari seemed to be familiar with him. In fact, the manner in which they spoke of him seemed to indicate he was some form of folk legend, leading Gascon to wonder if the figure Katrine had pointed him to even existed in the first place or was merely some fictitious character the entirety of the town's residents believed in. Upon questioning the people he met in the street on Jameson's whereabouts, he was more often than not provided instead with grand stories of his exploits, the majority of which revolved around how this man had, supposedly, prevented their village from slipping into the sea roughly two decades ago during an event that had since gained the rather pretentious title of "the Great Calamity".

He couldn't say he was impressed. Probably because he didn't believe a word of it.

What Gascon found once he had followed the directions provided to Lari's very own local hero was an unassuming building nestled amidst countless others on one of the town's upper terraces. The blue and white paint adorning its front had long since faded in the sun and had started to blend together into a dull bluish grey, and if one squinted hard enough, you could just make out the indistinct resemblance the building bore to that of a bird, the wings jutting out on either side worn away almost to nothing by countless storms. This detail would have likely gone entirely unnoticed by him if it wasn't for the words painted on a sign hanging above the door, "Jameson's Swift Solutions". In fact, though most of the sign had faded to near illegibility, the man's name was the freshest thing about the place, as if it was the only thing that truly mattered.

The door triggered a bell when he passed through it, and as he wandered into the small, musty room beyond, a quick scan of his surroundings told him that the room was currently unoccupied, save for whatever resided in the large glass bowl resting atop the old wooden desk to his right. Along the wall closest to him were tacked an untold number of articles and clippings from Lari's local newspaper, Gull's Insight, which covered the space like some sort of makeshift wallpaper. It would not have required any stretch of the imagination for him to guess what topic united them all.

He was just in the middle of studying the bowl's contents out of idle curiosity when a wiry young man several years his elder emerged from a back room, his brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail and a fresh scar over his right eye. He knew something had to be off about those stories.

"Have ya seen the-oh, afternoon," upon seeing the newcomer, the other boy stopped in mid-stride and propped his arms on either side of the doorframe. "What can I help ya with?"

Gascon straightened to attention, his perusal of the fish bowl yet to have come up with any answers as to the identity of its resident, though he did catch a flicker of movement from within the tallest patch of seaweed. "I was told I could find work here. Uh…" His attention wandered to one newspaper heading in particular which read "Jameson and Crew Slay Dreaded Sea Wyrm". From there, his eyes were drawn upward to a large bone nearly his height rimmed with sharp protrusions he had previously suspected was a section of vertebrae, but was, in actuality, just a piece of a lower jawbone. Where in blazes had she sent him? "I mean…" he retreated backwards several paces, "I doubt I'm even qualified, so…so I should probably…"

The older boy snatched a jar from a nearby shelf and came forward. "Ah, so we've got a new kid who wants to join the team, eh? No qualifications here. All ya need to work for old man Jameson is an able body. At least," he stopped behind the desk and dropped what appeared to be a dried fish head into the glass bowl, "that's what he always says."

"Oh, so…so you're not…"

Screwing the lid back onto the jar, the older teen laughed. "Nah. I'm just another member of his crew. What…ya thought…" he pointed to his chest and chuckled again. "Ya must not be from around here if ya don't know old Jameson. Who told ya to come here anyway?" He set the jar down beside the bowl, the remaining fish heads settling inside.

Gascon shrugged, unable to hide a grimace at the jar's gruesome contents. "Just a girl I met the other day."

At these words, the other boy's gaze sharpened, his smile loosening an equal degree. "A girl, huh? This lass wouldn't happen to be Katrine, would she?"

Gascon stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the fish head still bobbing on the water's surface. It seemed much too large for whatever it was intended to feed. "Could be. Why do you ask?"

"She's just my sister, is all. She's liable to put me outta work if she starts sendin' over too many new faces." He gave a soft chuckle, but the earlier humor seemed to be absent. There was a splash, but by the time Gascon looked over, he was unable to catch any more than a dark shape retreating back into the safety of the seaweed. The fish head was gone.

"Like I said, if you don't need me, that's-"

"If my sis sent ya here," the older boy came around the desk, "I might as well give you that job she promised ya. 'Tis the least a brother can do. Name's Reese." He thrust out a hand, but Gascon was already out of reach, having decided to head for the door before the other boy had even been given a chance to introduce himself.

"You know what, why don't I return once your boss comes back? I'd hate to get you in trouble if-" He was just about to turn around when he backed into someone, the sound of the bell signifying their arrival going unnoticed until now. When he spun to face the newcomer, he was met with a gnarled, old man with a wide-brimmed hat and tapered beard. Now, if this was Jameson, his appearance alone might have been enough to solidify himself as the mythological figure the town had made him out to be. Of course, whether or not their stories about him held any merit had yet to be determined.

Reese jabbed a nonchalant thumb his way as he went about returning the jar of fish heads to its original shelf, the situation apparently having already lost interest to him. "This kid wants a job. Kat sent him." He paused, turning his head ever so slightly to acknowledge them from out of the corner of his eye. "He's new in town."

"Ah, I see, I see." The old man stooped to get a better look at the boy before him, the "kid" in question growing stiff under the man's penetrating gaze. "Name?"

"Gascon."

"Any physical ailments, boy?"

With nowhere else to turn to escape his inspection, he settled for aiming a frown at Reese. "No."

"Your mama and papa all right with their lad engagin' in…potentially risky business?"

"Huh?"

"Good." Gascon flinched when the man patted him on the head before turning to shuffle off in the direction of his desk. "You look to be a fine lad. A fine lad indeed."

"You just met me," the former prince said before he could stop himself. Did Katrine have some kind of grudge against him?

With a soft groan, Jameson eased himself into the chair behind his desk, the wood creaking with the weight. Once he was settled, he arched a white, tufted eyebrow at the boy standing across from him. "'Tis a strange one, as well," he told Reese from behind one hand, though he made no efforts to lower his voice. With that, he laced the fingers of both hands upon the desk in front of him and directed a nod Gascon's way. "If ya got legs that can walk and arms that can carry, then I can make use o' ya. Sit and let me tell ya what we do here."

Gascon frowned at the floor the man had indicated in growing confusion until Reese brought over a chair he had retrieved from the back room. Once he had done as he was told, the old man went on to recount a handful of tales that defied belief and which closely matched the stories the villagers had told him just an hour prior, with the exception that Jameson's version contained an even greater number of embellishments than theirs did. In short, he was Lari's guardian, and nothing beyond "the most dire of peril" could threaten it. Not while he still breathed anyway. And based on everyone's opinion of him, it seemed more than likely he was considered immortal anyway.

The task: fix what was broken, protect what was not. Village guardian indeed. That was easy for him to say when he had an entire crew of young men at his disposal to do the physical labor he once excelled at in his youth (his words, not Gascon's). Why some forgotten village in the middle of nowhere even needed a guardian, Gascon knew not, but Jameson said it was the frequent storms and constant damp that kept the place in a constant state of disrepair. If no one tended to the village, it could very well be wiped from existence with the next hurricane. Or so he said.

Hero, legend, or none of the above, one thing was certain, Jameson was not a man who was prone to mincing his words. As soon as he had completed his introductions, the former prince was assigned to the "drudgery" no one else wanted to do. The work was hard, and he couldn't afford to pay much. But it was important, and one should just be grateful they were given the opportunity to do it.

Gascon, however, couldn't say the sentiment had rubbed off on him. In fact, he was feeling the exact opposite of gratitude at the moment.

Any bitterness Gascon had felt over what Katrine had gotten him into increased tenfold when he learned that those benefiting from his impending labor were not only confined to the human residents.

His first task as Jameson's newest lackey involved the seagulls the town seemed to hold in such high regard. They were the guardian angels of sailors, it was said, watching over them and guiding them home when the fog was thick. The town and its people would surely wither and perish without them.

That's why Gascon had to relocate their eggs, a perfectly valid use of his time if there ever was one.

It was the very next morning that the work began. He had been told to meet Katrine's brother by the cliff on the north side of town. When Gascon caught sight of him, he noticed the older boy was wearing thick leather gloves that rose to his elbows. That was the first indication that things were not going to go well for him.

"This is important stuff, so that's why I gotta make sure ya do it right." Reese stood with his back to the cliff, his hands on his waist and feet set apart to better steady himself against the wind. "Ya see that cliff behind me?"

Gascon's face remained impassive, his eyes refusing to wander back to the indicated cliff face. His first viewing of it had been enough. "How could I miss it?" The base of the cliff they stood before had been undercut by the constant crashing of waves, a fact he had noticed upon his initial survey of the sharp rocks below.

"The integrity of this cliff side's been growin' weaker an' weaker this past year, but Jameson fears last month's earthquake may have struck the final blow, so t' speak. Before long, the entire cliff face could slide right into the ocean, and the gulls with it."

"Can't seagulls fly?" the younger boy asked, his resolve faltering when his eyes flickered back to the spot where his impending death would soon occur.

Reese shook his head with a roll of his eyes. "Can seagulls…that's a fine attitude to have. No, seagull eggs and chicks can't fly. That's why we have to move 'em to safer ground."

Gascon crossed his arms and tried to stop himself from shivering in the wind. "Oh, I see. Because the seagulls' children are the future or something like that. Do I have that right?"

The older boy turned away with a snort. "Let's see how funny ya think this is when you're hangin' fifty feet over jagged rocks and poundin' waves."

Sure, funny. That was exactly how Gascon felt about this whole situation. It was a right laugh.

Reese marched for the cliff and, upon reaching the edge, turned back to him with a smirk. "Should I show ya how it's done, or are ya already feelin' confident enough to set out on your own?"

"Be my guest. I want to make sure this is even humanly possible before I risk my skin for a bunch of birds."

"All right. Follow along behind me. I assure ya, ya won't be so cocky in a few minutes."

Without even so much as an ounce of hesitation, the older teen took hold of the rock wall looming before him and flipped one foot onto a ledge Gascon didn't even know was there. The other foot followed suit a second later, and he began sidling along the cliff side with naught but a barely perceptible trail of footholds between him and the sea below.

Gascon thought his blood might have frozen.

Reese stopped and glanced over. "So, are ya comin' or not? I ain't gonna go easy on ya. Not with that cheek you were just sportin'." When Gascon failed to budge, he motioned for him to follow once more with a flip of his head. "Come on."

The younger boy took a few steps closer and leaned forward just enough to bring the sharp rocks below into view once again. Would such a fall be inherently deadly or would he merely suffer a horrible case of mangling? He rather hoped for the former.

"Come on! Quit wastin' time!"

Gascon sucked in a deep breath. Everyone had to die someday, he supposed. Why put it off? His father certainly couldn't accuse him of procrastination anymore, now could he? The former prince, whose previous life had never before looked so enticing, hugged the cliff wall and slid one foot out onto a protrusion of rock. He waited a moment, and when it supported his weight, he allowed the rest of his body to join it.

He followed along after his guide at a far slower pace, his own heart hammering with such ferocity, he feared it might burst forth from his chest and knock him from his already unsteady perch. Even the wind itself seemed to be working against him as it rushed in his ears and tugged at his clothes, causing him to rock precariously as he inched onward like a particularly lethargic snail.

"Just a little farther. You're doin' fine. Just let the old instincts guide ya."

I have no instincts, Gascon thought. Princes are completely devoid of any such thing. Instincts. Survival skills. Common sense.

"The nests are just a few more feet," Reese went on. "This is when ya gotta be real careful, 'cause the-"

Gascon failed to prevent a cry when something struck him in the head, and, for a second, the belief that he had already bashed his head upon the rocks below jolted through his mind before he realized he was still in the exact same spot as before. He winced at another sharp pain on the other side of his head, all the while becoming distinctly aware of a whooshing from behind that was not the wind.

"Get! Go on!" came a voice from his right. "We're just tryin' to help ya, ya dumb birds!"

When he dared peek over at how his comrade was faring, Reese was swatting one leather-clad arm at his own pair of attackers. The screeching birds neatly avoided his attempts to shoo them away with effortless maneuvers, all the while pecking and kicking their clawed, webbed feet in defense of the nest hanging just above his head.

"This is insane!" Gascon said, covering his face once more as his personal assailant pecked him again. He had to have been a complete nutter to agree to this.

"Ya should see what it's like when half aren't off catchin' fish! Let's get the eggs and go!" With little regard for the gulls flapping about him, Reese reached up and plucked one egg from the nest and held it out.

Gascon leaned away as far as he dared and shook his head. "I don't want it! They'll kill me!"

"Ya wanna spend all day out here? Take it and head back! I'll get the rest!"

Gascon reached for the small object, hissing in pain when a gull pecked him in the hand. "You lot really don't seem worth protecting!" Not wishing to wait for another blow, he snatched the egg and held it to his chest as a warm trickle of blood ran over his hand. If this abuse went on for much longer, his good looks would be the next thing to go, and the heavens knew he didn't have much left after that.

They were chased back to land by a cacophony of angry shrieks and whistles as a mob of enraged seagulls swarmed around them. Once they had returned to the relative safety of solid ground, the two boys rushed all three of the rescued eggs to the artificial nests that had already been prepared in anticipation of their grueling task upon the roof of a nearby barn, the owner of which had been more than happy to donate to their "noble cause". Even once the eggs had been relinquished, the pair were pursued a good twenty feet more before the gulls gave up and left to check on their relocated brood.

Nevertheless, they didn't stop running until they had reached the edge of town and the sound of the gulls had been lost far behind them. Safe at last, Gascon doubled over, hands to his knees as he fought to catch his breath, his body feeling as if it had been battered by a dozen tiny fists. Sharp and pointy fists, no less. Now why had he chosen to leave Hamelin? The place really wasn't so bad, come to think of it. At least there were no birds there. Maybe that's what the roof was for.

"Nice job." Reese wiped a few stray puffs of seagull down from his clothing, though he seemed none the worse for wear otherwise. "So, are ya ready to tackle the next one?"

Gascon lay awake that night, his body aching from a dozen tiny bruises and his ears ringing from the cries of the creatures that had given them to him. One might have assumed that an exhausted body would be the perfect thing to lull one off to sleep, but such a person would be sorely mistaken. As much as he wanted rest, his mind wouldn't allow it, for it had yet to slow down even long after his feet had. In his head, he was still running away from furious seagulls out for blood.

It would have been immensely helpful if the gulls themselves had been informed of his intentions.

Today's task had been an utterly ridiculous one, and as he stared at the dark space above him where he knew the ceiling ought to be, he mused that it was no real job at all, but rather, one that had been made up solely for the purposes of giving the old man a chance to test just how far one was willing to go under his command. The answer was this: he had already been pushed beyond his limits, and if anyone thought he would return tomorrow to do it all over again, they had another thing coming.

He turned over onto his side, only to flip to the other a second later. While Hamelin was well-known for being the most advanced city in the world, he had greatly underestimated just how far the rest of civilized existence had managed to lag behind. To be honest, there wasn't a whole lot the people of Hamelin had to lift a finger for. If any resident of that vast city had chosen to steal bird eggs, had they been bored enough, or insane enough, to do so, they would have found a mechanical way to get the job done that certainly didn't involve getting pecked to death dozens of feet above one's certain demise. Their second demise, to be more exact, once you remembered the seagulls.

With not a second of forewarning, Gascon shot up in bed when an idea struck him. He may have no longer been one of Hamelin's countless residents, but that didn't mean he couldn't still think like one.

It was roughly mid-morning when Gascon approached the cliff face in a purposeful march, a place he would have been mad to return to twelve hours prior. Many of the gulls were already flapping about, currently unaware of the human advancing towards them, wheeling and diving into the cold waters below for their morning catch. He made a furtive sweep of his surroundings to ensure he was not being watched and retrieved his gun from his belt. As much as he would have liked to use it for its usual purpose, that would have to wait for another day.

He had stayed up late last night, adjusting the newest addition he had made to his pistol. In the few weeks he had thus far resided in Lari, he had developed a rather decent relationship with the innkeeper, a plump and motherly sort of woman. If you considered the type of woman who seemed more than happy to whack unruly children with a spatula motherly. She had taken pity on him shortly into their acquaintanceship on account of her assumption that he was a sad, little orphan. He reckoned his stories about taking care of himself since the age of seven had a little something to do with it.

While he hadn't initially been too fond of her subsequent habit of feeling sorry for him, he had grown to accept these feelings towards him. As of late, he had been feeling pretty sorry for himself, too.

Since then, she had no qualms against giving him any spare scraps she might have accumulated during her daily duties as innkeeper of the Cat's Cradle. The most valuable to him were frayed bits of rope too short to be of much use to anyone else and bent utensils, both of which served to be surprisingly useful in his ongoing endeavors at improving his pistol. His most recent upgrade was a sort of grappling hook function for retrieving distant objects.

He had been working on this personal project of his for years now, and the short span of time since leaving the palace was no exception. Being so far from home and the life to which he had become so accustomed, he felt that keeping his mind busy with mechanical things was the only way to maintain some sort of connection with the city of his birth.

It made him feel just a bit closer to Marcassin. The grappling hook had originally been his little brother's idea, after all.

For now, he would have to settle with the fact that the newest addition to his pistol would remain crude and primitive until he managed to procure parts of higher quality. The last step he really needed to trouble himself with at the moment was wracking his mind for the perfect way to pad the grappling hook in order to better facilitate proper egg handling. He had ended up settling with wrapping two of his spare socks on either prong when nothing better occurred to him. Now it was time to see just how well his efforts would pay off.

He crouched down by some bushes that grew by the cliff side and aimed, one eye squinting of its own accord. Setting his sights on an egg in clear view roughly twenty feet away, he fired the grappling hook. Time slowed, his breath held in anticipation of two opposing outcomes. There was a crackle less than a second later indicating which outcome had come to pass that simultaneously startled him and the gull sitting in the neighboring nest. The bird hopped to its feet just as he ducked behind the shrubbery to watch its actions through the leaves. Its small head swiveled this way and that, and its wings folded and unfolded several times, as if in anticipation of chasing the one responsible for its comrade's misfortune. Unable to locate anything out of the ordinary, however, the seagull eventually settled back into its nest, but not before it cast about itself one final, suspicious sweep.

Gascon peered over the top of the bushes and aimed again, this time with both hands wrapped around the trigger and his elbows locked in an effort to force his arms to remain steady. His hand had wavered last time. That was the only reason it hadn't worked. He fired again, his eyes widening as he watched the padded hook latch onto its next target. This time, nothing met his ears but the soft rustle of dried plant fibers, though it was enough to attract the attention of the same gull as before. The rope coiled back with equal speed, the egg with it, and in that moment, his eyes, and the gull's, met from across the expanse dividing them. Spotting the egg thief, well-meaning or no, the gull took flight in eager pursuit.

Gascon snatched the egg free of the hook and began to run, a smirk crossing his lips as the screeching of his pursuer grew in volume behind him. Some might call his efforts laziness. He called them efficiency.

This chapter has largely remained unaltered, save for the decision to make Jameson's business a Swift Solutions of sorts and expanding the section revolving around Gascon's gun. This is really the last thing tying him to Hamelin, so it should probably have a good deal of significance for him.

Oh, and keeping with the seagull theme, Reese's name comes from the word Rissa, the genus of the kittiwake, a type of seagull. Anyway, please review, dear readers; it is much appreciated!