The Little Lights.

A tale of territory, kidnapping, conspiracy and a race to find the light.

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1. Plural?

 

My mother always hated my green eyes. I always hated my curves. My dad always hated the way my blonde hair would roll down my back like an untamed beast. He said it reminded him of the witch he had married. But now the things we all hated are making me myself. As soon as I walk into a room everyone knows who I am. I am Oriel James. And I am dangerous.

It was a lonely, tedious days work in the port. I managed to salvage a few coins and pieces of shrapnel from the bed, but nothing worth selling on. As I surfaced for what felt like the hundredth time, the air that filled my lungs was bitter with the stench of rotting fish and salty water. It was home alright. My home.

I clambered over to the ladder and felt the familiar; spongy, moist and almost slimy piece of seaweed that had welded itself to the ironwork long ago. As I pulled myself up over the ruts, I stubbed toe on the wall and felt the bone break yet again. “Urgh not another one...” I heard a female voice mutter behind me. I stood up and wrung out my hair. “Do you have a problem ma’am?” I asked the plump aristocratic woman who was hiding her podgy face behind a fan whilst footmen carried her luggage off of her vessel. “Yes I do. You little urchins are ruining the landscape around this magnificent port.” She spat back at me, reeling in disgust as a pulled a clump of algae from my hair and dropped it at her stubby ankles. “Urchins? Plural?” I snarled as she took a step backwards and her purple heels creaked under her enormous weight. She swallowed what I could only assume to be further insults but instead seemed to ruffle her feathers like a flustered bird and walked off in silence. But I didn’t care. The only thing that was running through my mind was the way she had pluralised urchins. And on who the hell had been on my territory.

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