A little bit of something I wrote years ago, for a collaborative fantasy fiction site, long gone now. In this, Arkenor (and the other writers of the site) have been transported to a strangely deserted town on an unknown world, and no obvious way to leave. Ark decides to make the best of it, and has picked himself out a home.:
The morning had brought with it a fine mist, which hung over the harbour of Dragon Cove only to be burned away by the rising sun. By then Arkenor was already awake, and up on his roof. This close to the sea, the thatch or wood roofs which dominated the rest of the town were replaced by slate, and he was hard at work replacing the broken ones with whole ones he had salvaged from the other buildings.
Any commoner of those hard times was expected to have a grasp of those skills which would enable him to build and maintain his own home, and keep a family warm and fed. So it should come as no great surprise to the reader that Ark, with his humble beginnings, was doing a fair job of getting his new roofing in place.
From his vantage point he could see the whole harbour in it’s sullied splendour. A fine deepwater, protected from the worst of the ocean swell by a pair of sturdy breakwaters. Closing his eyes, he could hear the cries of the sailors and merchants who once worked here, and smell the comforting stink of the fishmarket that must have stretched the full length of the wharf. A great many people had been born, lived, and died there, and their passage still echoed through the narrow alleyways, for those who cared to listen.
Returning to the present he looked down upon the dereliction with a profound sense of loss. The deepwater and its channels were choked with the wreckage of ships, and a half-centurys accumulation of sand and silt. The only scents were those of rot, mold, and salt-spray. What had befallen this place? What could cause a thriving port, full of the bustle of lives being lived, to become naught but a shell? A hollow shell indeed, for the heart of any town is its people, with trade its lifeblood.
He had questions, but the moment was not right to ask them. Now was a time to conserve energies, and build resources; of waiting, though not one of idleness. Arkenor reconciled himself to the task at hand, with a song to drive away the haunting shadows of the past. Until it was time to step into them…
He sang to drive away the shadows of the past, and yet he felt as if the echoes themselves chose the tune, and sang along.
In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
She wheeled her wheelbarrow,
Through the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and muscles alive alive O
Alive, alive o, alive, alive o,
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive o”She was a fishmonger, and sure ’twas no wonder
For so were her father and mother before
They drove their wheel barrow
Through the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and muscles alive alive O
Alive, alive o, alive, alive o,
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive o”She died of the fever, and no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and muscles alive alive O
Alive, alive o, alive, alive o,
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive o”.