The first four chapters of a story that is set on an island in the middle of the atlantic ocean. The island is unknown to the rest of the world because the sea that surrounds it is prohibited for aquatic transport/transit. The reason that people are not allowed to sail in this patch of water is because typhoons, tidal waves and storms seem to live here. This patch of water is known as The Yund to the people of Poig.
Arrow5.
Still the wait….
END OF CHAPTER 1
Chapter 2 To Haggle is to Live
The fixer-town of Voov did a triceps stretch in Hugh of Hhhu’s mind. Many people think it was called the fixer-town because this was where you came if you needed tools for a job that needed doing. They were wrong. This was the venue. The hub. The core. If you wanted someone or something done then Voov was your kind of town. If you wanted someone killed then Voov was the town where you would find the armament, pinpoint the time and perform the deed. If you wanted a rival company or freight completely sabotaged then Voov was where you would achieve the best conniving results.
The town itself worked nothing like any other town or city or hamlet or pile of poo on the island of Poig.
It was liquid.
Voov was built on hundreds of inter-twining streams that rippled and jammed their way through the river-like streets like cracks in a vintage pavement. The people that dwelt in Voov had long ago lost their morality and citizenship and had fully transformed into a band of people who lived for the “swizz”. The people who lived there had no homes to go back to after a long day at the office. Probably because they didn’t have offices and they didn’t have homes. The only buildings in Voov were the ones deemed suitable for the types of jobs that needed doing. For example an old building, that used to be the local Poigan Poultry House, was used in a job where a Kruan noble wanted to “swizz” one of his colleagues in the hierarchy by using the Stoo flower to send him to sleep before hypnotizing him into thinking he was a Wern Chicken. The unfortunate noble believed he was a chicken so much that he attempted to woo a particularly fine specimen called “Petunia”. The other diplomats, scoff, had arrived to find the noble performing a sexual act with this chicken and clucking wildly like it was feeding time. It was an excellent belly-up.
Hugh knew of this place. The town where people were humiliated for fun. He had never been the recipient of a “swizz”, nor had he ever put someone else in that position but he had once known a merchant that had brought 200 litres worth of apparently down-the-line “Scratch me laddo and call me Charlie” finest dropellberry wine only to discover that he had actually forked out his life-savings for a mouldy bunch of grapes and a half-eaten onion bagel.
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