#stranded:starter

An off-key singing with disjointed melody and oddly specific lyrics is a telltale sign that Cash is nearby. It’s easy to tell what he is working on because he hums about it-- this morning, it’s ‘fixing fences with the buffaloes and goats, ‘cause someone knocked over the post and I can’t find it so I have to make a new one‘. He carving out slots in the middle of the timber to fit in the rails. Once he is done with it, he sets it up on the ground and fixes the rails. He looks at one of the goats approaching him. “Hey, bud. Did you get some sleep? You hungry?” He fishes out a piece of dried papaya from his pocket and feeds it to the goat. That was supposed to be his morning snack, but he is about to go get breakfast anyway. “Did you see who knocked over the fence? Did someone get drunk again? Was it Drunk Dennis? I promise I won’t tell anyone else.” He pats the goat in the head.

When he turns around, he jumps because someone has sneaked up on him. “Gaaah,” he almost bumps into the newly repaired fence but he manages to catch himself. Crisis averted. “You scared me.” He dusts off wood chips and dirt. He wonders how long they have been standing there, and if they caught him talking to the goat... “Can I, uh, help you with something? I was just... finishing up here.”

It’s been a while since Luke crawled out of his cave... both figuratively and literally. After a decade on this island, he honed his routine to a point of an art. He wakes up, checks the trap, goes fishing, and then spends the rest of the daylight trekking the jungle. At night, he logs that day’s progress, whether it is about chartering the island, random gossips he heard or observation on the other survivors. It rarely calls for human interaction, just the way he likes it.

But sometimes he scores a big game on his trap or catches one too many fishes, and it’s the market day for Luke. He reluctantly wanders down to more populated areas, flops down at random places and starts a small bonfire. The smell of smoke and sizzling meats lure people out and that’s when he strikes. “Wanna trade?” He says, gesturing at the pile of freshly cut boar meat he caught this morning. “I take paper, clothes, but whatever supply works.” 

The gentle art of gastronomy is a friendly one. It hurdles the language barrier, makes friends among civilized people, and warms the heart, everyone likes good food, and ever since Finley started working on the farm, not only the quality of the food improoved, but there were a lot less food waste. Every morning he would check some of the foods and help the other collect some fruits, there has been casualties related to food poisoning, and even with limited resources, sometimes, Finn was able to help prepare something good for the others. “No fish this week guys, december is the one time where most fish are trying to lay their eggs, we can’t risk running out cause we killed them all, keep the focus on some land animals this time, alright?” The people helping were listening to his words and following exactly as he would say. “We gonna need some oranges and be careful with those peels, we’re gonna use every single one of them, no food waste on my watch.” As he spoke, he signed with his hand for someone to throw him one of the oranges, and as the man did with a terrible aim, the fruit flew by Finn’s hands, as someone behind him grabbed it. “Nice catch.” He spoke as he turned to face them. “You free to give some help today? We might need.”

She jumped a little, startled as someone tapped her on her shoulder, her train of thought interrupted. Conor turned around and looked at them. “Did you say something? I wasn’t...I didn’t hear you,” she said, which was unusual for someone who was air attuned.