A ways off the cragged coast of Mira's hamlet, where the water deepened into brine-slick trenches and the morning mists still hung low like a gauze over the tide, two fishermen rocked gently in a small iron-clad boat. The rhythm of the sea lulled the older one into a near-trance as he lazily pitched another baited cage overboard, the dull metallic splash swallowed by the heaving swell.
They had done this so many times it felt like their hands moved independent of thought, a routine carved into muscle and sinew. The older man scratched at his sun-leathered neck and broke the silence with a grunt.
"You think we'll net some good octopus today?" he asked, tossing another cage over with a practiced jerk of the wrist. "Everyone's been saying we shouldn't be out here, what with the Holy Order sniffing around and all. Bad luck, they say."
