Crustacean business

A tiny crab minding its crustacean business on a sandy beach was suddenly crushed to death. If the critter had ears, perhaps it would have been warned beforehand by the odd sound of canvas fluttering wildly in the wind and rapidly closing in. But then again, most crabs never heard about sails.

A makeshift catamaran boat was successfully beached. Its lone occupant’s sandaled feet hit the sand, though somewhat shakily. The bare-chested man went down on his knees, and seemed to be happy to stay in that position for a while. Once his legs were convinced that the ground underneath was, in fact, ground, he stood up and looked back at the vessel that brought him to this new land.

It was not pretty. Its two hollowed-out tree trunks stripped of bark supported a wooden frame upon which a fishing net was strewn and bolted down to make a floor of sorts. The hand-crafted sail was converted from a sheet of white linen meant for use in clothing and was attached to a tilted mast by a system of ropes and strings, which were the only professional-looking elements of the boat. The rudder’s handle had a loop for a string to attach and fasten it in place. The hulls doubled as storage space for food, fresh water, his equipment, and the important parcel that was the whole point of the journey; and while they bore marks of crude treatment from a hatchet, the shipwright at least chiseled them into aquadynamic shape. Overall the ‘yacht’ was shoddy, unprotected from elements, offered no comfort, but it carried the sailor for eight days. And for that, he was grateful, and praised the shipbuilder’s improvisation. He hauled the boat deeper into the shore lest the high tide takes it, and fastened it well to a tree beyond the beach.

An impressive accomplishment, really, for someone who had been primarily a builder of stairs before being transported to a fantasy game world. Perhaps by the time the sailor returns to his port, the carpenter will have figured out how to bend planks to fit a boat hull using only hand tools. He knew this was possible. The ancient people did it thousands of years ago in Europe, Asia, Africa, everywhere. In fact, this world’s technology was well beyond that, but the particular community the sailor found himself in was so far inland that nobody had the skill for shipbuilding.

He removed the modest linen shorts that were adequate clothing for his sailing needs and put on the vestments of what was once his level 99 Monk character, including his pride and proof of accomplishments: the massive and ornate Grandmaster’s Technique Mastery Black Sash. It was important. There was no way to look up someone’s level or identity, but the waistband worked like a medal pinned on his chest. He earned this one with his guild of close friends, the Expert Cretins, just a week or so before ending up here.

He had not seen or heard from them since he awoke in this world. He wondered how they were doing out there, in the real world. But for the time being, he had an important mission to carry out in this world.

Having retrieved what was left of his food in the boat, he reached for the last piece of equipment. A staff of wood taller than himself, undecorated and plain; a potent weapon for a Monk. More importantly though, it was a really good stick.

Turning his back on the boat again, he faced the western direction into the landmass, and the distant column of white smoke that betrayed a campfire feeding on damp wood.