stroke: 01 : avielle wakes

8/14/2019 Stroke: 01 : Avielle wakes

1/21

Stroke

By

KareemShaik,

Afellownotpompousenoughtohavehisnamebiggerthan

theactualtitle.

Shaik / STROKE / 1


2/21

Kareemullah Shaik

10922 Poblado Road, Apt.2411

San Diego, CA

(858) 521-8443

[email protected]

STROKE

By Kareem Shaik

about x words

Shaik / STROKE / 2
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


3/21

For

My Mom,

Oda Eiichir And

The Internet, along with Al Gore,

For inventing it.

Shaik / STROKE / 3


4/21

Chapter one

Avielle wakes

Setting: at ICP, on Thanatim Isle, upon Mistil, round

Patrick, Universe 53, at approximately(I question that.)

11:34:26 a.m., on the day of 9/12/1336.

Characters:

Avielle Bewt of the 23rd, a slightly(very slightly) pink girl

with a fiery sort of mud colored hair, standing at a

respectable height of 5'9", and although she probably would

not want you to know, with a weight 129 pounds. 17 years old.

Mister Black, a chubby(very chubby) man. I kid not here.

Shaik / STROKE / 4


5/21


6/21

Sir!, she said, as if he hadnt quite addressed her well

enough, The docks, where are they?

The peddler was quite illiterate, so he simply pointed to the

south and to the ocean, where in fact most docks are located,

smiled, and said Dock.

Thanks, and the girl was gone.

The peddler chuckled quietly to himself, and thought that the

girl was quite illiterate to the subtle nuances of nature.

Simply by looking at the various frozen pools of water, one

could see it was too cold for any sort of fish, and that the

docks had obviously flown south for the winter.

And so the peddler went on peddling.

A few moments later, after the jumping of various fences,

stone walls, and old sleeping hobos, Avielle hit the outer

wall of people of what was the Iniquitous Cymbalic (or, in

some awkward circles, Kumbalic) Port.

The ICP stood true to its officially-christened name, standing

as the largest harbor on the seas to pirates, thieves and the

like. The docks were shabbily built, broken granite covered

with glinting sand the roads, and heavy log posts draped with

old palm fronds the buildings. The horizon lent itself to the

sea, an endless mirror of the sky and the domain of the

pirates.

Shaik / STROKE / 6


7/21

She broke through the endless stream, elbows slicing through

the crowd behind her. And thusly before her stood the Central

Tent, in all its magnificent glory. Gold and blue stripes

shone as the sun and the sky, the bottom half overtaken by wet

moss, giving the effect of a creeping, lively canopy. Now,

the Central Tent was often called so because it was in the

vague center of the Port, and also because it was (usually) a

tent. Not too many people know what else exactly the Central

Tent could be, and Avielle certainly did not.

So, entirely ignoring the certain centric tentfullness of the

place, Avielle heeded the time and hurried in. The inside was

wonderfully lit, the shiny gold reflecting a certain wheel-of-

fortune-esque shape upon the floor, which looked rather non-

menacing, considering the startling effect the rest of the

tent-room had.

Tables, hurriedly constructed from various large pieces of

flotsam arranged themselves around the center, forming a

haphazard spiral to the entrance. Businesspeople, captains of

various vessels, and a few more businesspeople lined the

tables in search of crew, money, and grog, while others looked

for captains, prostitutes, and anyone who was up for a good

time. A few others looked for people renowned for being all

three.

Shaik / STROKE / 7


8/21

Now if they could all find each other and leave off, Avielles

work would be done, and she could go on her merry way. But

they couldnt, and so neither could she. Avielle rushed

through the throng of people, looking for the man. Oh, god,

that man. That horrible pig-bodied man! Ugh. But then her

heart skipped. There, a few dozen feet from her sat the

spherical lardbucket of a man, his head adorned with lenses of

quite a wealthy demeanor, turned down at a stack of rather

boring looking papers which I do not care to explain about,

for it would be mind-numbingly boring. Avielle frolicked over

to what was left of this man, ecstatic that she had finally

been at the right place at the right time. If she hurried,

shed still be able to make it. Oh, Joy.

Aylo!

This man, who had absolutely no conceivable neck, regardless

turned it upwards at this simple interjection.

Yes?

I, sir, dlike to rent a boat.

Rent, as if. Get yer scummy littol face out of mine before I

gotta threw yea out.

Shaik / STROKE / 8


9/21

She had entirely expected this. She slipped her hand down the

bosom of her dress, clutching the rough leather bag with utter

confidence. It fell upon the wood with a certain divine

clang, gold upon lovely gold, at which point the mans eyes

swelled with the quaint idea of making his fat little wallet a

little bit fatter. The sack was black leather, tied with an

exquisitely olive ribbon which Avielle had picked up from a

rather affluent looking girl at a party in old Scaints. Oh,

man. Those were the days.

By now, pig man, who before was doing something almost

certainly uninteresting but on a deep level comforting, Im

sure, was a bit confused. Here stood a girl who was almost a

total idiot, staring off into space and grinning oddly as if

shed done something that most in society would consider

unacceptable, but she considered a proud event.

Piggy was immediately reminded of an old friend of his, a

tightrope walker who tripped, fell, and died while walking on

a sidewalk. After mourning his loss, he quickly distanced

himself from the man, because that whole incident stuck of

unacceptable-ness. When Avielle turned back, Hogster had a

glazed look over his eyes, staring off into the distance,

ultimately pondering how he had made friends with a tightrope

walker.

Shaik / STROKE / 9


10/21

Avielle fist rose and flickered for a moment, before charging

into Swinoes face, displacing a healthy amount of fat from

one side of his face to the other, as his round glasses flew

off his face and he flew off his chair. An eye purple and

swollen, his oily hair-covered face pointed down, with blood

trickling down his eye, wiped his face with his jacket-sleeve

and jumped over the table, surprisingly light for his

unexaggeratable girth, fists promptly thrust into the air.

This singular moment of chaos sparked the Tent into a flurry

of table-jumping and scabbard-throwing, whereupon Avielle

burst into real life, her head and arms on the table, sweating

slightly, to the disgusted recoil of porknugget. She popped

herself back up, spine erecting fast, smooth and quick as

mercury. The general areas attention was planted on her, a

few tables coming to a suspenseful standstill among the great

spiral.

Hardly oblivious of the lard-thick tension around her,

Avielles heart raced. How often had she descended into this?

Was her life just that blatantly uninteresting?

The strange girl, who was now sweating profusely, placed her

hand upon the table, head hung, breath shallow, in an attempt

to calm down. It worked, for the most part. Grudgingly, the

big man turned back to his work, his triple chin folding back

Shaik / STROKE / 10


11/21

again, trapping his throat in perpetual suffocation. It were

these nutcases that gave any sort of spark to his life,

although he despised them. Sufficiently chilled out by then,

Avielle inclined her head upwards, just enough to notice what

the balloon was actually doing. Laid across his desk were

several papers, probably in some primeval form of organization

too complicated for most people on -and off- Mistle. But the

top one was the one that caught her attention, which was

albeit easy to acquire anyways.

Requist of foreign Portage

As Marcus Nistum, High and Nobel Iniquitor of the Royale

Sconnish State and Captain of the vessel Golden Sheath, I

request hasty portage at the ICP, so my men can rest and shut

eyes, for it is but a while til the Great Tug and Ug defers

our voyage until a later time. The battle raft Iron Blade

rests with your shipwright at the moment, where it shall

remain until you allow us to sail in. As an escort, money is

plenty among us, for we have few men to feed and little work

to do, and a healthy bit might be in for you, if you hear the

notes. I truly and humbly apologize for my tone of speaking,

but I am foreign.

Shaik / STROKE / 11


12/21

Marcus A. Nistum,

Stupid foreigners, the overweight gentleman thought. What with

their stupid ship names and bad grammar. He'd hated bad

grammar since he had learned good grammar. The edges of his

sight had to wriggle a bit and some light hippie refrain play

in the background for a few seconds before he got hold of

himself again. With a reluctant and timeworn hand, he lifted

and stamped out a large green APPROVED, tossed the paper into

the messenger boy's box, which was nothing more than a squat

wooden box, for the messenger boy, if you expected me to say

something pleasantly droll, and moved on.

Avielle, due to my incredibly long unbroken sentence, could

not but interrupt on the sequence of events at this convenient

pause. Realizing that being an official privateer of Scones

meant that he was probably also going back to Scaints, to

report on the fact that he now was able to report on affairs

at speeds that he was previously unable to utilize, now having

a battleship. Well, it was a good chance he'd do it. Avielle,

if you haven't realized by now, wasn't one to miss chances.

She snatched the box, and it flew up to her shoulder, almost

Shaik / STROKE / 12


13/21


14/21

her from the ocean, longing for its spanning blue depths.

Hurrr. She hurried. Among a healthy stack of papers plastered

with large red 'NUPE's followed by several of what seemed like

hand-drawn exclamation marks, she found the green APPROVED,

and chucked the rest of the papers over the fence, where they

blew down the hill, nicking several large, burly men, who

eventually would have discovered the Great Isle of Coinci, had

they not been infected with the first traces of the Inq Fever,

the disease which would eventually wipe Mistil of their

species, which apparently was not limited to just large burly

men, but also the rest of the human population, who, up to

this point, had been cheerfully excluding large burly men from

their definition of human, barring any chance for them to get

medical treatments or invitations to affluent parties in

Scaints. Avielle picked up speed. About a hundred yards ahead

of her, she saw the gate to the Main Docks, a surprisingly

well guarded place, considering the incompetent sort of work

the government did otherwise, which is in fact the only

singular fact that all 332 universes of the third dimension

have in common. In around 13 seconds (Or so I think, I doubt

anyone has kept a record of this for posterity), the gate

flourished in front of her, a black uninteresting thing,

rectangular in size, iron rusted and crumbled from the inside

Shaik / STROKE / 14


15/21

leaving hardened pillars of paint. Two men (large and burly,

if you were curious) solemnly guarded the gate, mouths open

and eyes flickering towards the slightest movement in their

immediate proximity with a particular quickness. Their minds

actively played out a colorful, if not bloody, series of

scenarios where every passing beggar, merchant, pirate, and

grain of sand could, and would attack the port and exactly how

they'd come to the rescue, being proclaimed kings of the land

and perhaps even the heavens. Avielle, after pitying them for

a few seconds, stepped cautiously forward. Their eyes firmly

affixed on her by then, the men grunted slightly, crossed

their sharp pointy sticks, and said "Identefacation, ma'am" ,

in a rather unoriginal fashion. Avielle stuck out her arm, all

the while mesmerized by how pointy their sticks were. Wow.

So...pointy. God, this man knows how to make a stick pointy.

Wow. The men stared blankly at the papers, and came to realize

that this girl actually had permission to get into their

domain. This made them cross.

Like two extremely large and muscular pieces of identical

clockwork, they simultaneously pursed their lips and crossed

their eyes. What was strange was that one eye from from either

of them looked her straight on, while the other looked over

Shaik / STROKE / 15


16/21

the crowded crowd. Avielle shivered. It was as if they'd been

practicing for the chance.

"You may passs", the one on the left said.

So Avielle passsed them, and she was amazed at how easy it was

to do so. She'd never attempted it before, and she considered

herself to be done with new things for the day.

Once out of their sticks' range, Avielle picked up her sprint

again. If the papers allowing them to anchor at the port had

been signed a few minutes ago...She did some calculations in

her mind, which mostly consisted of taking how many days had

passed, and adding two. The ship would have ported around 2

days ago! She felt mildly proud of herself. Certainly enough

time to sleep and collect Lime-biscuit(), the ascorbick slab

for scurvy-caused drab(), which she thought were just dry

lime juice puddles.

Then, she heard a voice.

"Hey, lady!"

Shaik / STROKE / 16


17/21

It came from the gate.

"Hey , Hey Lady!"

It being evident from the tone that it was the pair at the

gate, the girl spun on her heels.

"So, didya like that eye thing we...", said one.

"That eye..."

"Um, yes, that eye thi..."

"Ah, right. Yes. That...that eye... thing."

"Yes, that."

"It was pretty!", she lied back.

"Yes, well, thanks!", said the first.

"Right!", said the second.

Shaik / STROKE / 17


18/21

"We've been practicing!"

"Uh huh", replied Avielle, smiled, turned, somewhat muddled,

and shuffled off over the sand to the docks. She then promptly

grabbed a dinghy that probably belonged to someone else(A fact

which she knew but could not give a damn about, although she

tried very hard to), and sailed noisily(very noisily) off the

festering brown wooden mess that were the docks.

Her eyes(one black, one green, colors which seemed to switch

eyes every time she blinked) blinked with the hot mist of

seawater, frothing like clouds over the green sea. She blinked

a few more times and looked around. There they were, the

Golden Sheath, a large galleon, and the Iron Blade, drifting

slowly and without direction, about 20 yards from her. She

oared faster; she just had to make it.

About a minute later, she made it. Hair and clothes soaked and

flat, she jumped on the ship with right around no sense of

intelligence, but rather a sort of raw will to grab wooden

things. Her nails dug into the hard wood of the port side,

and her cheek seemed to be hugging a barnacle, but she'd made

Shaik / STROKE / 18


19/21

it. Crawling for minute cracks, she slowly made her way to the

edge of the deck, which seemed to be currently empty.

Strange. Mus' be checking the work or such.

She jumped onto the deck with the slight of a slipper made out

of squirrel fur, which is to say, very lightly. Careful to

avoid the stare of the candle from the brig, she crawled

around the edge of the ship, looking for the battleship

(previously mentioned).

It was chained to the stern, but had drifted to the starboard.

At the other side of the ship, she slid down the frayed yellow

rope, which seemed to be able to hold her weight, onto the 10

yard long gray gleam that was the Iron Blade. It was a strange

ship, like nothing she'd seen before. It was the shape of a

long teardrop, with the normally trailing edge(in a teardrop,

you see) the apparent bow. The entire vessel sat low in the

water, stick ing out 5 feet at the highest. The top was

painted a dull grey-blue, invisible from most directions. She

first turned the large tap shaped knob she presumed to open

the door(it was attached to the door) sharply to the right. It

stayed closed.

Shaik / STROKE / 19


20/21

Righty ti...Ah, right.

She turned it to the left, and it slipped open smoothly. The

sky moaned slightly, gray as cold metal but not nearly as

sharp. Avielle thrust her feet into the hole, and sat

pondering life for a few seconds. Why was she doing this? She

looked up at the moist sky, still halfheartedly spewing

raindrops. Her nose scrunched. At approximately 12 thousand

yards per hour, a raindrop collided with her left(currently

green) eyeball.

OW, she said, and slid inside.

Bloody rain

Marcus(Ill wait for you to look back) heard that.

What in the w?, he said.

Ill look, said one of his powder monkeys.

Yes, I know, said Marcus, his eyes back on the map.

The boy crawled out of the belly of the ship, and with feet

bare, wet and sickly, walked over to the edge of the ship,

watching closely for stowaways that might have(rather

stupidly) climbed on. He marveled for a second at the deathly

machine that floated silently to the side.

Nothing.

The men were climbing out by now. The captain climbed up the

stairs of the brig and then to the helmsman.

Shaik / STROKE / 20


21/21

20 degrees starboard, man.

The helmsman nodded and swung the wheel. The captain, fr some

reason solemn now, looked up. His long gray hair shuffled

slightly. At approximately 13 thousand yards per hour, a

raindrop collided with his eye.

OW

Shaik / STROKE / 21

stroke: 01 : avielle wakes

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