vincent vanas /4 cb

The sun, hot on his head. He moves into stance three of six with Johannes on his left, Inga on his right. Sweat trickles down the small of his back but he keeps his fingers extended towards the North as he's meant to.

His father handed him his packing list for his trial last night. "You must bring warm clothes. When the fog rolls in, the island will be cold," his father told him. Vincent had taken it silently, his eyes searching his father's for a hint of emotion.

It was like looking up at a starless sky.

There are charts on Vincent's walls, maps of the coastline as far as they're allowed to go and then a little bit past that. He's got pins looped with red yarn, places marked where Inta could have been lost.

Shade, cool on his cheeks, he lays in the dirt. Edda beside him, her voice telling him a story and the story forming in the clouds, it's always like he can see it. When they built him, they gave him too much of an imagination. His parents wanted resolution, a career, standing tall and firm but they got in Vincent, a dreamer, who would let the winds take him rather than harness them.

"Ah do you hear that?" he whisper-asks Edda as the breeze runs through the tall grass around them.

"She wants us to go with her."