Those familiar with deep yinglet lore will know what this means.
I am writing a magic salt mussel farmer.
I'ma be honest here, this isn't my best work.
It's a first draft. Maybe half a first draft. There should be more, I have more ideas, some story I could tell. But I've had the world shit on my dinner plate for several consecutive days and I'm headed into a week that promises corporate skullduggery and other sorts of bureaucratic ratfucking.
So I'm going to post what I've got for now, if just to get it shared so it doesn't fall into the draft folder of no return.
After the cut.
“Find out where these are coming from.”
That was the order from somewhere up the chain of command, so the party was assembled and sent to trace the presumptive trail of trades and transactions back to whichever village where these monstrous shellfish originated. A bivalve with a shell larger than three sizable research textbooks laid end to end. A mussel so heavy that the average person is taxed to carry just two, that the average yinglet can barely hope to even lift. Yet the little creatures stop and stare at even an empty shell, imagining the feast that must have laid within.
Yet of course, not a single one of them in the city has any idea where they come from. Most of them have never seen one, but they do not hesitate to ask if you’ve got one they can have. A trip to the enclave was in order, if nothing else to inquire with the matriarch and the elders. The trip itself is fairly uneventful, and at least also somewhat fruitful.
“I’ve seen zhem” is the matriarch’s first answer. “Zhey’re rare in zhis area, zhey were fished clean out of ze local waters generations ago and never recovered. But once in a great while, one or two will cross ze market well prezerved.”
Then where do they come from? She doesn’t know, hasn’t looked into it. Most yinglets cannot afford them, much less are able to pry one open with the meat intact. There is one, though, who saves his coin and once in a long while scores one of the great shellfish from a passing trader. The big Patriarch, Poak. He’s forthcoming enough, and excitedly confirms that he gets them when he can. He’s probably the only scav in the enclave big enough to carry one of the damn things, and very likely the only able to crack one open and eat it without making himself sick for the quantity of the contents.
There’s just one problem. He doesn’t know exactly where they come from either. He doesn’t know the name of the trader, where they’re from, or what route they travel. Only that they’re seen maybe once every full cycle of seasons, sometimes longer. The only thing he knows for sure is that they come from the far side of the sea, where the verdant mountains end in sheer cliffs that drop into crystal turquoise waters. Or at least, that is how the trader tells it. They are called giant salt mussels, and they’re rumored to have magical properties when fresh. He jokes that his fondness for them is why he’s so much bigger than the rest of the enclave.
So it becomes a journey, not across the sea but around it. Every trader spoken to, some who even demand payment for just information, either does not know of the giant mussel trader or indicates that they travel around the coast. The armed party is forced to take on the appearance of a band of traders as they travel well outside their territory. A few weeks into the journey they reach a distant town and finally get confirmation that the trader they seek had visited not a season ago, sold out the last of their wares, and went back the way they came. Nobody expects to see them again until the next year, so it’s up to the party to chase them down.
They are looking for a human, dressed as any regular trader might, traveling by wagon drawn by a pair of oxen. The messages to and from command take longer and longer, but the order is always the same. Continue on, attempt to procure live specimens and some way to re-introduce them closer to home. Sure enough, it takes another season to catch up and the party begins doing some trading just to keep themselves supplied. Stopping in places, doing odd jobs, moving on. When they find what they seek, a ship will be chartered to carry them directly across the water to home.
The season changes as they draw closer to what should be the right area, and sure enough the terrain turns mountainous. Hills roll up from the plains and the soil becomes more fertile, less arid. Grasses rise into shrubs, shrubs give way to gnarled trees that stand against the wind and erosion. Soon they are traveling not on dusty trails but ancient roads carved into the terrain. Roads older than kingdoms. Finally, a trading post. A number of stalls, a healthy blend of humans and yinglets, and then finally a wagon parked for maintenance and a pair of oxen grazing comfortably nearby. They’ve found their trader, but the trader isn’t the source. Not only that, but the trader refuses to give up the actual source. They have a fairly exclusive deal, and it works well for them and for their supplier. However the trading post is not far from the sea, so the party divides to explore.
They questioned the decision to bring a few yinglets on the journey, but the little gremlins do have a knack for tracking down shellfish. What they find, following their instincts and their noses, is the top of a short cliff overlooking a stone cottage constructed on a flat a few dozen meters above sea level. A trail from the cottage into the woods, and another that zig-zags down to a rocky shore and a tiny dock just big enough to meet a dinghy. But there are buckets, traps, baskets, and fishing equipment stacked up and waiting. An entire area of the bay seems closed off by sweeping line of buoys that arc out into the water and protect the shore.
Then for a moment, humans and yinglets both stop in their tracks at a sight they have never seen. One of the little scavs whispers under his breath, “so big… sopretty lady-”. It definitely looks to be another yinglet, but likely of size and scale much like big patriarch, Poak, who helped send them on this journey to begin with. Except fluffier, softer, and starkly feminine. A yinglet with weight and presence, a thick tail and deep underfluff, thick, strong legs and arms. No spindly appendages to be found here, strong hands and heavy claws, and dressed in what could be considered wading shorts as the simple fabric ends not halfway down the first bone of her legs. Her coat is a mottled gray and black, blotchy and spotted, the kind of pattern that vanishes between rocks covered in dark algae much like the local sea creatures. Her shape is soft and well fed, her tailpoof is agouti silver and black, same as her hair. A simple top with short sleeves stops just below her bust and struggles to contain it, open on top for comfort rather than show. A blue handkerchief tied between her ears to let them free but keep her hair tied back, and pale blue eyes to match.
They watch from distance as she dives into the water, vanishing beneath the waves for a while, soaking herself and her clothing, simple as it is. She surfaces a short while later, clearing the water from her nose and catching a breath, then rolling onto her back and kicking back to shore with just her feet. Her hands are busy clutching something close to her chest, near the size of her torso. She rights herself at the shore and climbs out still carrying her prize. It looks like a slab of dark stone from a distance, until it briefly opens and closes, squirting a jet of water in a fruitless escape effort. She sets it into a basket on the dock, and submerges again. Not much longer gone and she comes up with another, some distance away.
Though the two yinglets are too busy gawping at this astonishing female and her catch to be of much use, the humans gradually realize that what they are looking at is not just a good fishing spot. This plus-sized yinglet might be farming these enormous mussels, this is aquaculture, that must be why the shoreline is protected. They watch and wait as the second mussel is deposited into the basket, then as she hefts her catch and carries it back. One is left intact, placed into a shallow pan full of seawater, and slid into a hot outdoor clay brick oven. The other is split not with her shelltooth, though it looks like she could do the job that way, but with a bright metal spade. The meat is cut free of the shell and rolled in what must likely be salt and spices before being hung for preservation. The shells are cleaned and set atop the oven to dry, their pearlesent insides gleaming in the sunshine. That must be the other side of the business, and probably also where her jewelry came from.
They’ve succeeded at the first part of their mission, finding the source. Now the question is how to get some live samples home, but more importantly how to talk her out of a fresh catch. Maybe even to learn how to breed the things and farm them at all. This mission is about to get even longer. Or much shorter. Who’s even to say?
It is hard to tell, just watching this singular creature from a distance. Marveling at the way the complexity of the farm is slowly revealed the longer you look. This one doesn’t move like most yinglets though, she isn’t terribly jumpy or scattered. Her movement is a bit more restrained and deliberate, calm. The way she carefully folds some fabric into a strip, then selects a medium-sized rock clam from a basket. With its distinctly rounded, nearly impervious shell clamped tightly shut. She places it into the strip of fabric, that she then folds over and weaves it between her fingers. Inspecting closely before she begins twirling it. Why, it almost resembles a---
The presumed mussel farmer spins the thing up quickly and rotates on her left foot, whipping around and releasing the spinning clam with frightening speed.
A sling. She’s made a sling!
Too quick for the humans to react, the ridges in the round clam’s shell make it whistle in flight until the moment of impact. It slams into one of the men’s forehead, fortunately a direct hit to the metal brow-guard of his light armor. The rock-hard shell explodes in a shower of fragments and meat, and the man flops over backward, concussed. The yinglets scramble and find themselves quickly corralled, while the second human turns and finds himself at swordpoint. The trader, and some of the trading post guards.
“Trespassing, and spying. Not a good look for explorers of house Ivenmoth.”
“I can explain. I swear.”
“Ya! He can explain. We just came along because we were told zere would be clams.”
“And giant mussels!”
“Yeh! Zhose too!”
“Oh would the both of you shut up…”
“I would think your trademaster better than to send idiots.”
“I told you, I can explain.”
“Oh, you will.”
“AND STAY OFF MY FECKIN PROPERTY!” A voice rings out from below, her voice. “Fecking gross peeping wierdos. Creepy jerks are worse zhan ze enclave…”
The concussed man groans and stirs.
“Alright, pick your buddy up. You’re coming back with us.”
“What if I-”
“Make it worse if you like. That’s on you.”
Longer. This mission got a lot longer.
