The Wandering Isle

[Warpath]

Those weeks were strange for Flint: for the first time since he was a child, he was an accepted part of a community. Despite his best efforts to remain unaffected by this realization, in his heart of hearts he knew he was beginning to enjoy himself. Any other person would call these people friends.

The experience was marred by a low buzz of anxiety, though. He had frequent nightmares about Ettermire, his subconscious playing through countless disquieting what-if scenarios, each one uniquely gruesome and emotionally devastating. Multiple times a week he’d wake in the morning dark and sneak down the narrow hall to peek in on Luned as she slept. Every time he felt like a fool, but he couldn't deny the need to ensure she hadn’t been taken from him in the night by one of the myriad horrors they’d faced. They had seen so many monsters that sometimes their survival seemed the dream.

And Ettermire hung over him for another reason. The longer the voyage went on, the more paranoid Flint became at the thought of Luned discovering the Swaysong in his possession. He spent an unhealthy amount of his private time devising increasingly creative hiding places for the little vial. He was driven by the ridiculously overdramatic scenarios he imagined: that she would find the vial and fly into a rage and denounce him in front of the entire crew, and they would ostracize him for his betrayal. He would be forced to throw himself overboard, and ultimately he’d drown alone and forgotten, an unknown speck in the unfeeling sea.

Every time he saw her sitting alone above deck, staring forlornly at the horizon, he imagined she was thinking about that lost opportunity – the opportunity he was secretly denying her. If she had the Swaysong, she could fix the darkness in her past and mend the cold hole in her heart. Once, he was so wracked by guilt that he considered giving it to her. He had it in the palm of his hand, but when she smiled at him as he approached he quickly pocketed it.

It was easy to forget the fear and the guilt most of the time, though. She spent much of her time with her nose in a book and once she finished she would recommend it to Flint and he would, without exception, proceed to read it. When they weren’t side-by-side reading, they were discussing the wondrous things they were learning, or sharing in their mutual glee for outlandish stories under the guise of criticism. He could see the way his intellect continued to surprise her, and that was endlessly pleasing to him.

There was an overcast day that saw them sitting with their backs to a mast in the late afternoon when the sky unleashed the most abrupt and overwhelming downpour either of them had ever experienced. Flint had been reading so protecting the book was easy, but Luned had been penning notes. They scrambled to save Luned’s papers, but by the time they retreated below decks they were both utterly soaked.

“Damn,” Luned said, separating the sopping pages so the ink wouldn’t run any worse than it already had. Flint started to devise some means of drying the pages, but his attention wandered as he watched her.

The rain made her hair into dark, straight, thick strands, and as she worked she tucked those strands in behind her ear and inadvertently exposed the scars on her neck. Flint’s eyes followed a droplet as it ran over her freckled cheek to her jaw, and then his gaze abandoned it and followed the pale scar instead, which lead him inexorably to the clinging material of her blouse.

“Here,” she said, startling him. She raised her eyes, finding his, and handed him a relatively dry piece of paper. “Hold that for me a second?”

He nodded without saying anything.

Later that night, he wandered down to the mess to pilfer a strip of salt jerky. The dwarf surprised him, apparently whipping up another baked wonder, but he risked all ire and claimed the jerky anyway. The cook didn’t seem to care, so he sat down and gnawed on his treat sullenly.

“So,” the red-head said. “You gonna make a move on her or…?”

Flint glowered, and opened his mouth to respond, but a harsh laugh interrupted him. Muir leaned out of a far shadow, setting his bottle down on the common table. “He’s ugly, not stupid, Blue,” the pirate said. “Lune likes her beaus soft and pretty. You have no idea how long she had that coffee-skinned man-tart chasing after her. What the hell was his name, the doctor boy.”

“Petru?” Flint said, raising an eyebrow. That had been the man who had nursed him back to health after Agnie helped them escape Ettermire.

“That’s the one!” Muir said. “I thought for sure the two of them would have fifty rugrats strangling their ankles by now, but I guess old Bleddyn keeps my sister busy. Anyway, don’t feel too bad for him, Blue. There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Indeed,” Flint said, tearing off a strip of jerky with his teeth as he stalked away.

“Goodnight!” Muir called after him.

Flint trudged up the stairs without saying anything.

[Luned]

Without much else to do, the crew drank nearly as much as they worked. This was an interesting phenomenon for teetotaling Flint to handle, as though he was accustomed enough to the company of drunks, such generally didn't occur every single night over the course of multiple weeks. He could only be grateful that the events never escalated to the drama of the one party that had him on the run from Radasanth months ago; just about anything was tame in comparison to that catastrophe.

On such occasions, Muir wasn't necessarily a bad influence on Luned so much as an interesting one. She partook in the shenanigans only a few times and always to his encouragement, the young man taking her under his arm and feeding her drinks until she was rosy-cheeked and talkative. She had stories to tell, some even Flint hadn't yet heard, and with a touch of liquid courage, she rose from mere scribe to illustrious bard. She particularly enthralled the crew with her account of Eluriand, told with flair perhaps influenced by blatant embellishment, but no one seemed to mind. Her descriptions of the haunting city and the ghastly undead were enough to disturb dreams, but still they asked her to retell it more than once as one week at sea turned into two, then three.

One night, when Luned was noticeably more inebriated than usual, she related the tale of an ill-fated barony in Salvar. Having allegedly heard it from a friend of a friend, she described a Lord Essen who struggled for power in the midst of the constant feudal warring that plagued the disjointed land. A neighboring landowner cheated the baron in a deal and, in his rage, Essen targeted a foreigner who'd been labeled a witch. He ended up biting off more than he could chew when he took captive the witch and two of her companions; their escape attempt took the life of the notoriously cruel warden and only escalated from there.

As Flint listened, he wracked his brain: Essen was a familiar name and likely somewhere on his list of men to throw out windows, from the sound of it. Through the first half of the tale this distracted him, but as Luned described the second casualty –– when the witch narrowly escaped sexual assault and the baron's own daughter sent a sword through his face, skewering him against the pillow in his own bed –– it clicked. Rumors had spread like wildfire after Essen's death at the hands of three vigilantes of unknown affiliation, and Fet himself had expressed interest in investigating the assassination for their own purposes.

The way Luned told the story in no manner glorified the gruesome events that occurred on that estate, but there was no denying it: she was one of the supposed vigilantes. Even if only the result of one massively tragic series of unfortunate events, she and Flint had been closer than he could have possibly imagined before meeting in Ettermire, of all places. She essentially did some of his work for him before they even knew each other.

The brute's expression darkened as he considered both the serendipity and less positive implications of this coincidence. This, undoubtedly, was the great mar on her past that she wished to erase with Swaysong. He held the answer to her pain, the one thing that could banish that darkness, and now the weight of the delicate glass vial in his pocket was even greater. He had a cause in Salvar, and the manner in which Luned framed the story implied that whether she was sympathetic or not, she was already involved. She seemed aware of the trouble the power struggles of the nobles were causing in his homeland, but would she understand his role in toppling them?

The end of the Essen family's story wasn't as conclusive as a cohesively planned tale's might have been; the scribe ran out of steam, eloquence waning as she wearily described the witch's last encounter with Essen's son in Tirel. In the same way he had betrayed his father and sister, she betrayed him, using cunning to sign the estate over to his estranged mother and the rightful heir. It was unknown whether this was the right decision for the barony as of yet, but the land and its people were out of the hands of the cruel Lord Essen and his treacherous son, and that seemed to be all that mattered. It was nearly a happy ending, albeit sort of ominous.

The audience met the story's quiet ending with pensive yawns. In spite of the action, the story lacked the typical hero, and without someone to cheer on, the crew drank deeper into their bottles and mugs as eyelids and postures drooped. It was late, the perfectly clear indigo sky above glittering with thousands of stars that peeked at them through the rigging and around the shadowy sails, but the crew was stubborn.

"Play us a song, Roberson," Blue coaxed the man, and he pulled out a pipe. The tune began slow and stately, an appropriate transition from Luned's story, but gradually picked up. Soon enough Roberson's fingers were twiddling a jig and Blue pulled Gasper up to dance, and feet tapped and chatter gently roared over the sound of the waves once again.

Luned smiled as the music started and pulled her shawl tighter, unbothered by her performance's mixed reception, and melted back into the mast she rested against. Spilling her great secret, though in the guise of a secondhand tale, had been unbelievably therapeutic, and she wondered silently if Resolve might listen as patiently as this audience. Was there hope in salvaging their friendship after all? The cider had her frightfully optimistic.

Her eyes fluttered shut and Muir nudged her, leaning in to take the half-empty mug from her hands. "Time for bed," he suggested as he finished Luned's drink for her, "Don't you think?"

"Yeah." It took some effort, but the girl pried herself from her seat, stretching her legs as she stood. As she walked to the stairs, she sent Flint a tired little smile over her shoulder before disappearing below deck.

The brute returned the gesture with a nod, then went back to mulling. He must have looked rather gloomy as Muir caught his eye several minutes later with a comically stern expression, mocking him from a distance in the dim light, and Flint sighed. He soon came to the conclusion that rest would make sense of his tangled thoughts and so, shortly thereafter, he followed the scribe's lead and trudged down the stairs after her.

[Luned]

Something tempted Flint to reveal what he was doing in Salvar before he abruptly left for Radasanth –– the work he'd done, his cause. Though Luned had opened her life to him, he hadn't done the same for her; she really had no idea who he was or what he did, and until now, he'd preferred to keep it that way. She never pried, but of course she wondered.

Without thinking, Flint walked past his own door and stopped at Luned's, which sat ajar. The pale glow of her lamp reached out into the cramped corridor, and as he stepped into the light, he caught her jotting something down at her little desk. She glanced over, set down her pen, and got up to greet him.

Flint's lips parted as if to speak and he watched Luned's expression subtly shift to something oddly expectant, wide blue eyes gazing up at him. She seemed much shorter than him for a change, with her bare feet against the cool floorboards and him in his heavy-soled boots. "You were the witch in Salvar," he said, and the tension between them fell away as ill-concealed disappointment washed over the girl's face.

"Was it that obvious?" she asked, laughing it off.

"No, actually. I only knew because of what you told me a while back." She nodded in memory of their long-past conversation and the Swaysong burned through the breast pocket of Flint's jacket, searing against his skin. It was difficult to bring it up, but he couldn't help himself. The world wasn't that small, and this was a rather big coincidence.

The forced laughter dissipated into a slight, but genuine, smile. "That's a relief. You know, it felt good to finally get it off my chest. The more time passes, the less I regret. I mean, they weren't good people, and…" she trailed off, and this time it was Flint who was expectant. "If it hadn't happened, we…"

The alcohol-influenced pink in her cheeks blossomed into a hot blush and, as endearing as it was, it reminded the man of one important thing: she was drunk.

"Good night, Luned," he said, backing away from the threshold.

Luned nearly reached out but stopped herself, resorting to a little frown instead. "Really? Don't go, just–– wait," she blurted clumsily as she turned, stepping back into her room to rummage through the pile of books on the floor next to her bed. "I finished that last one, I forgot to give it to you earlier."

Directly across from the door was her desk, also covered in books, as well as her journal and many loose pieces of paper. Some, Flint recognized even in the low light: sketches she'd done of the crew in their morning exercises, the wrinkled leftovers of the water-damaged notes, and the corner of his mouth quirked to see the letter containing their correspondence on display, just the edge peeking out from under some drawings. He would have recognized it anywhere. On top of that, however, was another enchanted page bearing a peculiar mix of languages: Trade and something Elven-looking. The smirk died and his eyes swept across the room to focus on the scribe's figure, knelt ladylike in her nightgown as she finally extracted the correct volume. Was she still writing with the elf from Eluriand?

Insecurities built on one another and Flint nearly lost focus. He accepted the book as she offered it without thought, glaring blankly at the cover for a moment before looking back to her. "What do you mean, not good people?"

The intensity in his gaze startled Luned and she carefully considered her answer. It was difficult to compose a cohesive sentence with her mind so foggy. "Not that I'm qualified to judge, but I think they abused their power, and they were too desperate for more of it."

Flint fell silent for a moment, thinking. After a few seconds pause, he spoke again. "I've always valued people on their strength," he said. "A good person is a strong one, and the only way to gauge strength is to see it controlled. When the weak inherit more than they can control, they mistake that lack of control for a lack of power. They chase ever more and inevitably destroy themselves. They bite off more than they can chew, as you say in Radasanth."

Luned's brow furrowed as she considered his words, and the conclusion wasn't a positive one: Ettermire was clear evidence of biting off more than she could chew. "Oh."

Forgetting himself for a moment, Flint reached out and used the back of his index finger to smooth Luned’s brow. The motion surprised both of them, reminding him of his place, and so he quickly withdrew his hand again. "You wear your trouble on your face," he said, hoping that excused his lapse in judgment. "And you judge yourself too harshly. Nobody's born strong, Lune, but plenty of people get a taste of strength and are satisfied. Not you, though. You have the will to surpass yourself, and that is worth far more than any inherited power. I admire that in you."

"You do?"

"Of course. Why else would I be here?"

Speechless and sleepy, Luned leaned forward and propped her forehead against Flint's chest. For the short moment he allowed it, she closed her eyes and simply felt him breathe. In those quiet seconds, Flint couldn't help but notice the shoulder of her nightgown slipped down, offering a minuscule glimpse of white skin just out of reach of sun and freckles. It felt like something he wasn't supposed to see.

"You're drunk," he finally interrupted, his voice low. "Go to bed."

She sighed and relented.

[Luned]

The first supply drop-off was about three weeks into the voyage, soon before they were to arrive at their alleged destination. Luned scheduled it via correspondence with Bleddyn through their enchanted journals, sending requests from the crew for everything from food to booze to various forms of entertainment. When the old man procured the items, he confirmed with his proxy, and then they collaborated to set an appointment with Agnie for the drop-off.

The fairy was shockingly punctual, likely due to clever prodding by the elder scribe, and her cheery little face presented itself in the cargo hold promptly at noon. Clad in an offensive array of mismatched patterns and flouncing skirts, the blonde linked a door to a storage space Bleddyn designated out of the library, and hence opened it up for loading into the ship. She spectated with much enthusiasm as members of the crew shuffled in and out with bags and crates, eventually following Muir up deck in a flurry of chatter. Apparently the fey had a thing for rude young men.

Flint assisted Blue in refilling the galley's pantry while Luned retrieved a stack of books, which she carried up to the grand cabin to fill the already cramped shelves. Thanks to Flint's strange exercises, a common interest blossomed amongst the crew in Akashima, so the girl thought forward while adding to the supply lists and threw in some reading material to answer the questions about the region that their collected minds couldn't. She found homes for the new tomes, as well as the couple things their aloof captain Aeril requested, before stopping by her own room.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Ags wasn't the only one to step aboard the ship with supplies though.

Strolling through the portal Agnie had opened, a leather-clad nightmare stomped into the lower cargo hold, a cask of whisky perched on one shoulder, a smaller barrel carried under his other arm. Aurelianus Drak'shal scanned left and right, taking in his surroundings as he dragged through more of the ship's supplies. He dumped the cask at his feet, laying the other barrel full of salted meat next to it. Dusting his trademark coat off with one hand, avoiding the blades coating his armour in the process, the tiefling stepped aside from the portal- letting more labourers emerge, passing off supplies to the ship's crew.

Leaning against one of the support beams, he took out a cigarette from an inside pocket, lighting it with a small burst of Hellfire in his palm. From under the leather of his coat, emerged a horrific little creature, shrouded by a pair of crow wings; scampering up Aurelius' armour with scalpel fingers and little taloned feet the little animated fetus crawled up to it's master's shoulder. Perching there, it turned it's sutured eyes to the hard-working crew, many of them making warding signs, refusing to make eye contact with Aurelius, or his little friend. The abominable little creature yawned, flashing needle fangs as it did, albino flesh almost translucent on it's frame. Aurelius reached up and petted the horrific little creature's head.

It wasn't often that the Anarchist and bastard helped anyone out like this. But, on this occasion, there were extenuating circumstances.

He had returned to Luned's library, a week after his initial visit, as per the chit's instructions. The plane-touched had been thoroughly looking forward to his return visit, and tormenting little Luned while he was at it. But, in this he was to be sorely disappointed. He got his books, right enough, but sneaky Luned was nowhere to be seen; the tiefling had inquired as to her whereabouts, but no-one said anything. Usually, he would have broken a few necks, nicked a few sods, but he decided to play it canny- he already knew someone else he could ask.

And so, Aurelius had spent the preceding fortnight dropping in to see Ags every few days, slowly getting her to open up (though not in the way he might have hoped). It didn't take long before the subtle manipulator had gleaned not only Luned's whereabouts, but that she was with another of his "acquaintances".

Thus, the warlock was here, on board the same ship as the pair of berks he'd managed to blackmail back during the ride in Ettermire- Luned, and her minder, Flint.

He had offered to give Agnie a helping hand when she had mentioned the supply run to the ship. Now, blowing a lungful of smoke at the hard-at-work crew, and flicking away the remains of his cigarette, he left the main cargo hold, taking the stairs up to the next level. He could smell Luned instantly; after spending so much time with her, he wouldn't forget her scent anytime soon- he could smell Flint too, and this deck of the ship was saturated with them. Along this corridor were a few small quarters, at the other end the plane-touched could see an open room, lined with hammocks- the main bunks for the crew. He couldn't picture Luned being surrounded by a mob of sea-men for the three weeks they'd been at sea.

So he headed for the pair of officer's quarters.

But even as he opened the door to Luned's room, he heard the soft footsteps approaching. He slipped inside the room, closing the door over as quietly and quickly as he could. Aurelius ducked behind the door, pressing his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest, waiting for the person to pass on by. His pet flapped from his shoulder, landing on the neatly made bed, sniffing around before spreading his wings and chittering excitedly at the door.

Aurelianus quirked an eyebrow, wondering what the beast could sense.

His question was answered a moment later when the door to the small cabin opened, and in walked Luned. She shut her door, not seeing the half-demon lurking behind her. His little pet had sensed the chit coming, but thanks to the heavy presence of her scent in her room, Aurelius had been blind to the fact it was her approaching. He smirked at his good fortune.

The petite scribe spotted the animated and modified foetus instantly, opening her mouth to scream at the disturbing creation of a less than stable mind. But Aurelius was there in a heartbeat, clamping his hand over her mouth. Her scream died in her throat.

"Don't fret, luv. That's just Junior. 'e's real friendly, you'll see," he said in her ear, grinning happily.

With a shove, the tiefling sent the scribe sprawling over her bed, while Junior scampered around her, sniffing loudly, chittering in the Infernal tongue. It leaned in close to her face, furling it's sable pinions on it's pale back, while the tiny tongue lapped at Luned's cheek.

"Aw, ain't that adorable? I think 'e likes you," he smirked, reversing the little wooden chair and taking a seat next to the bed, crossing his arms over the back.

[Luned]

Several things rushed through Luned's mind in the moment she was shoved down on her bed, from blaming Agnie for her treachery, blaming herself for her own stupidity, and disgust at the grotesque creature that tittered around her face. She sat up with a soft shriek of repulsion, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand. "That's… you took that?" She could only assume he'd lifted the original fetus from the medical oddities lab in Ettermire, where its home once upon a time was in a formaldehyde-filled jar next to a deformed puppy. "What did you do to it?" But no –– that was off-subject. She barely tore her eyes away from the freakish creature, her contempt-laced gaze seeking Aurelianus' smug face. "Why are you here? I got you the books."

"Aye, you did, cutter, and I'm grateful, don't get me wrong. But you're forgettin', you still owe me. And you're off on a ride, I can't keep an eye on my investment." He spread his hands, gesturing to their surroundings. "So, I figured I'd come check in on you, and your minder."

The reminder that Flint was nearby gave the scribe guts she didn't have when she was alone in the big, empty library. "Well, fine," she said, crossing her arms protectively over her chest as she ignored his familiar toddling around her sheets. "So you've checked in. It's not like I wasn't coming back."

Aurelianus chuckled dryly, liking the backbone he sensed in the scribe now. It was a pleasant change. He whistled softly and Junior flapped up to perch on his shoulder, hissing and chittering at the aggression in the air. "Actually, from the chant around your library, there's every chance you ain't comin' back from this ride." He smirked arrogantly. "Besides, I couldn't pass up a chance to see you back in Flint's oh-so-manly arms, now could I, luv?"

"Leave him alone," Luned frowned, defensive. "I'll be back, you have my word. You can leave now," she informed him sternly, raising her voice at the end as if hoping someone might walk by and overhear.

Aurelius knew exactly what she was doing and instantly had a blade in his hand, making sure she saw the serrated weapon. It worked, from the way she pressed back against the wall. "I'd keep your voice down, Lune. Don't want to panic me or Junior, 'ere, do you? 'e gets… nasty when 'e's upset." He stood up and stepped closer to the bed, letting his familiar scamper down his sleeve. It hissed at Luned from only inches away and it took all her effort not to look. Aurelius cocked his head, as if weighing her words, before that same self-assured smile spread over his fanged mouth. "Oh, I can't leave without sayin' 'ello to our mate, Flint. I think I'll bang around 'ere for a while, keep you both company."

"Don't you have more important things to do than harass us?" Luned scowled, her fear turning to anger. It was clear in her face: she didn't want him there, especially not now. Not when… damn. Inspired, perhaps poorly, to make a statement, Luned peeled herself off the wall and stood, making her posture as erect and glare as severe as she could muster. If she really was an "investment", that knife was just for show, and with Muir around, she could afford a nasty surprise in exchange for a moment of confidence. "You need to leave," she said, staring down the man as best she could from her shorter height. "Don't say anything to him. Just leave."

Aurelius knew where her confidence was flowing from. So, naturally, he decided to squash it. Lashing out far faster than she could ever hope to block, he hammered the pommel of the knife against the bridge of her nose, shattering it in a wash of blood. She collapsed to the floor, covering her face as a torrent of red ran down her chin and soaked her white blouse. "I'd watch who you rattle that bone-box at, Luned. It could get you hurt one day," he said, his face a complete blank. "You might be valuable to me, but don't think for a second that means I'd 'esitate to make you a deader." He dragged the girl to her feet, throwing her to sit back down on the bed. He lit up another cigarette, leaning against the wall as he tapped the knife against his bladed thigh. "Now, unless you want your boy-toy findin' out about our special time in the tannery, I suggest you play nice from now on."

The bloodied scribe glared hatefully, Flint's words coursing through her mind: the ability to take a hit was more important than the ability to cause damage. He made it sound so easy. It hurt like hell, the throbbing of her nose and sting of tears in her broken sinuses unbearable, but she had never been this angry in her entire life. The sickening emotion gave her courage, the same relentless flaw that had sent her suicidally into the horrors of the Ettermire sewers. She roughly wiped away some blood, smearing it across her face, and the pain suddenly disappeared.

She'd used her revert ability without even writing anything, and if Aurelius was paying attention, he'd have noticed the cut the hilt of his knife made across the bridge of her nose was gone.

Luned shocked even herself with this development, having depended on calligraphy to cast before, but she didn't let it show. She focused on the hate. "Fine. Tell him, tell the whole crew, and then we'll find out how well you swim."

Aurelius chuckled. He admitted to himself that he liked Luned when she was this sassy, but he wasn't going to let her think for a second she had the upper hand. "Aye, we might just at that," he agreed, nodding and resheathing his blade. He stepped closer to Luned, Junior hopping down onto the bed and snapping at her with its tiny needle-fangs. He held a hand up, summoning a ball of hellfire with a mere thought. "But I promise you, cutter, we'd see how well this tub goes when it's on fire right after."

The girl continued to glare, but she'd run out of steam. There wasn't an ounce of sass left in her after that threat, only anger and frustration. She remained silent, and the increasing distress was apparent in her face as the glare gave way to a teary frown.

He sat back down, shaking the Hellfire from his hand, and pet Junior gently on the head. "So, I'll take this to mean you ain't 'appy to see me?" Aurelius grinned. Luned didn't answer; she just leaned back against the wall, her weak posture a sign of defeat as she tried to ignore the sticky sensation of blood drying on her skin and clothes. What would she possibly have left say? The half-breed feigned a look of hurt before sparking up another cigarette. "Well, that's too bad," he shrugged. He took in a lungful of smoke, exhaling slowly as his serpentine eyes locked on the bloody chit. "So, what in the Nine 'ells are you doin' out 'ere, anyhow?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Luned looked at him in astonishment at this sudden willingness for polite conversation. "Research," she replied simply, and hoped the answer was boring enough that he'd lose interest.

As he looked back at Luned, his face said it all: How stupid do you think I am? He took another draw off his smoke, tapping the ash onto the floor. "Aye, now you can elaborate on that."

"You're not missing anything," she said, pressing back against the wall in a subconscious effort to keep as far away from him as possible. "Bleddyn thinks there's an uncharted island out here. We're looking for it."

"An' there, you're right –– I'm not missin' anythin'. I reckon I'll stick around, need somethin' to pass the time, and waitin' for my next ride to get underway is givin' me the yawn." He finished the cigarette in a few quick draws, stubbing it out on Luned's desk as he watched his familiar nip at her fingers. "Besides, if you're runnin' the risk of gettin' into trouble out 'ere, there's worse cutters to be stuck with than me."

The scribe's brow furrowed and suddenly she simply looked tired –– so very, very tired. She crossed her arms again over her crimson-stained chest, doing her best to ignore the nipping creature. "Listen, I appreciated what you did for us back in Ettermire, I really did, and I'll hold my end of the bargain when you need a favor," Luned said. "But please, please don't stay. It wouldn't go well for anyone, you nor us."

"Oh, I don't doubt it could go bad for you, luv. But as far as I'm concerned, you can take your feelin' to the Mazes –– I don't really give a pikin' toss. Besides, I'm not bothered so much about you. But your basher, Flint…" Aurelius picked up his familiar, petting the creature idly as he glanced around Luned's room, taking in the sheer volume of tomes littering the shelf and table. "Well, he has somethin' of mine an' I want it back," he said, not caring to go into anymore detail.

The tables turned and Luned found her own curiosity piqued. "…What is it?"

The tiefling saw no reason to hide the truth. "I gave 'im a way out of Ettermire, instead 'e found 'is own way out and still 'as one of my glyphs. They 'ave a certain amount of," he smiled, trying to think of the right words, "Sentimental value."

The answer was less shocking than anticipated and Luned simply blinked. "Oh." And then, rising over the relative quiet of the 'tween deck, the creak of hinges as someone entered the room next door interrupted them. It was Flint's room, and if Aurelius didn't know already, he could deduce it from the change in the girl's expression.

A slow smirk crept across the half-breed's face, his fangs showing between his pale lips. He felt Junior spread his wings, feathers touching his alabaster cheek, as Aurelius scanned the girl's face. "Why don't you give 'im a shout? We can 'ave us a reunion," he smiled.

Luned cringed, considered, and gave in. With a rap on the shallow wall between their rooms, the villain's voice likely overheard already even if muffled, she called out. "Flint? Is that you?" In spite of her efforts to keep the panic in her throat from affecting her voice, it wavered, and Aurelius' smirk broadened.

[Warpath]

Flint was stashing a pair of new books in his quarters when he heard a voice from Luned’s room – a male voice. It struck him immediately as being familiar, but try as he might he could not place it. It was certainly no member of the regular crew, which meant it was one of the temporary laborers employed by Bleddyn or Agnie. He could not imagine why the scribe would need to meet with one of them in private, but he hesitated, not wanting to pry.

Then Luned called his name, and he knew certainly that something was off. He hadn’t heard that tone from her since Ettermire, and as he charged into the room it all came together. That’s where he’d first heard that voice, unknown until now.

The door came off one of its hinges when Flint shouldered it open, and before anybody could make a peep, he had a handful of tunic, with which he was shoving the tiefling back against the wall that divided Luned’s quarters from his. The wall rattled and Aurelianus let out a sharp laugh. After that rush of violence, the moment dropped into still, intense silence. The brute was so still that it was impossible to tell he was breathing.

The myriad spikes and blades on the tiefling’s armor had drawn ugly gashes on Flint’s forearm, and his blood dripped black to the floorboards. He seemed oblivious to it though, and might have attempted more violence if not for the wicked blade the half-demon was tapping against Flint’s inner thigh. One nick there would see him bleed out in a few heartbeats, and so they were at an impasse. It was the tiefling’s move.

When they’d first met Flint had been delirious with fever. Since that day, he imagined that he’d exaggerated the tiefling’s presence in his weakened state – imagined the pure and visceral discomfort those snake eyes inspired in anybody sane. Now, at his healthiest, he found that he’d imagined nothing. If anything, he'd been oblivious to the full extent of his tangible malevolence.

Flint was a brutal thug and a ruthless revolutionary with a long history of criminal enterprise, but he had never met a single person who embodied chaos and wild anarchy as completely as Aurelianus. Worse than that, he wasn’t just a mad dog in need of being put down. This was a monster that had made a philosophy of being a monster. They had a lot in common, and that was bad.

So they stared at one another for a long moment, the anarchist and the rebel, until the gut-churning little abomination clambered up over Aurelianus’ shoulder whispering infernal curses, and sank its little teeth into the back of Flint’s hand. He didn’t flinch.

“That’s repulsive,” he said dully, moving his eyes from the tiefling down to the familiar and then back again without blinking.

“I’d wash that out,” Aurelianus said with a smirk.

[Warpath]

Aurelianus warned his familiar off first with a little hiss. Once the abomination took its needle-teeth out of the flesh of Flint’s hand, he slowly released the tiefling’s shirt and stepped back away from the knife. His eyes did not leave their unwanted visitor, even as he reached behind him and grabbed the chair. Once there was a piece of furniture safely between them, and within reach as a weapon, Flint risked a glance over at Luned. If the sight of her bloodied face and blouse alarmed him, he didn’t let it show.

“Can you breathe?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she said sullenly.

“You here to collect?” he asked Aurelianus.

“Maybe.”

“He said you have something of his,” Luned said, sitting tensely with her eyes locked on Aurelianus. She was poised to hop up and put herself behind Flint, but she now knew firsthand how fast the tiefling was. She wasn’t sure if Flint was faster, but it seemed unlikely.

Flint’s mind raced as the tense silence stretched. This was not unlike a game of chess played at breakneck pace with one’s life on the line, and in secret the brute relished it. Of all the deadly people he’d met – Resolve, Swanra’ann, the fairy Isylle, Fet – Aurelianus was the most difficult to read and predict. But it wasn’t impossible: if Flint played this too stubborn, the tiefling would threaten Luned. Flint thought he could pretend not to care, especially with Muir aboard, but there was the tiniest sliver of doubt. If they fought and he was disabled for even an instant, Aurelianus could do one of countless unspeakable things. The crew would eventually come to their aid, but only after Luned had suffered, and surely more people would end up hurt or dead before the tiefling was stopped.

He repressed the urge to sneer, and instead focused the frustration on Aurelianus. He had been enjoying the new experience of companionship amongst these people, but now his attachment to them was a liability – a weakness to be exploited. He had what the tiefling wanted, which gave him the leverage, but he also had more to lose.

“It’s not here,” Flint said at last.

"Then bugger off an' fetch it. I'll wait 'ere with our little Luned."

“No,” Flint said. “That would require leaving the ship and returning to Salvar. I don’t believe you can control yourself that long.”

Aurelius considered Flint's words, thoughts unreadable behind is inhuman eyes.

"Aye, you have a point," he smirked, lighting up another cigarette and blowing the smoke across the room. "Alright, you canny lad you, if it'll make you feel any better, we can go together and get what's mine."

Flint considered it for a moment. The essential thing was getting Aurelianus off the ship and away from Luned, and he was willing to sacrifice his presence to make that happen, but it wasn’t ideal. As long as Luned was aboard the ship and Agnie could supply it – a necessary evil at this point – the scribe was accessible. If Flint brought Aurelianus to the trinket, and the tiefling succeeded in killing him afterward, Luned would still be trapped here if she didn't abandon her mission, and she'd be relatively defenseless. Finally, he gave his head the slightest shake. “I can’t trust you not to kill me once you have it.”

"True," he nodded, taking a long draw on the smoking cigarette, his familiar wrinkling it's tiny nose up at the smoke, coughing in little high-pitched squeaks. "But there's not much stoppin' me pennin' you in the Dead-Book now. Or burnin' this tub to ash, for that matter. Be a good lad an' play nice, and I'll settle for offing you later."

“I’m canny, remember?” Flint said. “Your trinket is with my people in Salvar, and they’ll be on the move by now. It could take you years to find out who they are and where they’ve gone. If you kill me, you could lose it forever.”

"Oh, now you're just insultin' me, mate. I'd leave you 'til last." A dark smile slid over is face, smoke slithering out from between is pearly white fangs.

“The ship is your only leverage.”

Aurelianus looked annoyed for a fraction of a second. He was growing bored with this endless dance, and Flint knew well the growing urge to cut or break something. The brute felt it, himself. "Alright, sod this for a game of soldiers," he snapped, the abomination spreading it's wings and bearing miniscule fangs from it's perch on his shoulder. "If you lann me who your people are now, I'll try to leave one of 'em this side of lost. I'll find 'em on my own eventually anyway, and at least this way, you can stay here and be all warm and cosy," he glanced at the bloodied scribe, "balls deep in 'er everynight."

Flint narrowed his eyes, considering it. He felt no loyalty to Radek, and this was the best deal Aurelianus had presented thus far. Fet would take it personally if the tiefling managed to slaughter an entire strike team, and those men were some of Flint’s best. Without them, his cause would be set back significantly, if not irrevocably crippled.

“A fair proposition,” Flint mused. “And this will settle the debt between us?”

The tiefling chuckled softly, shaking his head at the stocky man. "Not by a long shot, basher. You'll know when I call in my marker, I promise you that," he said, his cigarette clamped between his lips. "Nah, this is just me reclaimin' what's mine."

“Really?” the brute said. “This feels like a favor, to me. A favor for a favor.”

Aurelianus growled. "Don't push it, mate. I want my glyph back, and if I don't get it soon, I'm sure I can find.. somethin' to make it even." At this, he ran his snake-eyes over Luned's form, licking his lips lasciviously. "But I'm tryin' to be an amiable body 'ere. So just pikin' get me my glyph."

“Eventually, perhaps,” Flint said. “Stalemate. If you hurt or kill the crew, I will have no reason to help you. If you kill me, you don’t get the glyph back. You don’t want to spend your boon on it.”

"Keep goin', Flint. Wouldn't be 'ard to torch all this, and rip the answers out of you."

Flint shrugged. “You’ve seen my back,” the brute said. “Pain and I have had a long time to work out an understanding, and I find myself growing fond of…these people. I imagine I’ll be disinclined to negotiate if you force your hand with them.”

"You don't *know* pain, human," the tiefling said, all humour hidden in his face. His eyes narrowed, slit-pupils locked in an unblinking glare at the cocky basher. "I'd be 'appy to.. illuminate you," he said, letting his utterly inhuman gaze roam over both of the occupants of the room.

Flint made a low, thoughtful sound. “Or we could discuss this another time. In Salvar. When the girl isn’t with me.”

"Oh, but I'd be 'eartbroken without our little luv- me an 'er have a real spark. Her tongue tastes like peaches," he said softly, grinning like the bastard he was, savouring the instant extra-tension in the room. "Oh, didn't she tell you, mate?"

Flint stared for a long moment, unblinking, and then slowly pushed the chair out from between them with the side of his boot. “This isn’t fun,” he finally said. “Our negotiations could be so much…purer.”

Aurelianus glanced down as the fingers of Flint’s right hand slowly and pointedly curled into a fist, and the tiefling grinned delightedly, showing off a mouthful of short cutlery. "Hmmm..." he considered the implications of Flint's words, stubbing out his now-finished cigarette on the desk, next to the other butt. "Aye, they could at that basher."

Flint stepped back, and Aurelianus stepped forward, toward the door. He paused just before reaching the frame, turned, and smooched in Luned’s direction. "I'm not done with you yet, luv. I 'ope you'll be thinkin' of me - I'll certainly be thinkin' of you."

Luned just glared, fierce behind her half-mask of blood. Flint kept himself between them, and his eyes never left the tiefling. Finally, blessedly, Aurelianus turned and walked out of the room, and Flint followed. They walked side-by-side down the hall, then back onto the deck of the ship. If the rest of the crew had any inkling of the tension between them, they kept it to themselves. It was hard to tell, though – they might have been trying to avoid looking at the familiar, which was skittering about on the half-demon’s shoulder excitedly, taking in all the myriad sounds and smells of the sea.

"You'll be seein' me again soon, mate."

“I know,” Flint said.

"Keep in touch. I worry so when I don't 'ear from my favourite cutters," he mocked, smiling to himself, and re-sheathing his Baatorian green-steel knife.

“You found me once, you’ll do it again.”

"Aye, unless you end up in the Dead-Book out 'ere."

Flint shrugged. “Of what? Boredom? There’s nothing out here. I’ll finish this job, and then we’ll discuss your trinket. Properly. I am many things, but I pay my debts.”

"So do I. Bear that in mind, mate."

[Warpath]

“Knock it off!” Muir shouted, struggling as Flint dragged him along by his coat.

“Stop squirming,” Flint growled, shoving the pirate into Luned’s quarters. Once the pirate saw the broken door, he settled down.

Luned was pacing around her quarters, taking steadying breaths and moving her furniture back into the proper places. She’d already torn the sheets off her bed and thrown them into a corner, sure she could smell the abomination on them.

“Holy shit,” Muir said. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m okay,” Luned said, but Flint grabbed her by the back of the neck and reached up, gently pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Ow,” she said. “Stop it, I’m okay.”

Her shoulders had been up to her ears before Flint had taken hold of her. Now she was resisting the urge to lean into him as he examined her nose, and her legs felt like wet noodles.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Muir said.

“I fixed it,” Luned said.

“How?” Flint said, releasing her neck and stepping back when he was satisfied that she was unhurt. He had been prepared to try and wipe some of the blood off of her cheeks when he realized what he was doing and how uncomfortable it must have been for her. One monster did this to her, certainly she didn't want another one anywhere near her.

“I don’t know,” she said dismissively. “Is he gone?”

Flint nodded.

“Is who gone? Who the fuck did this?” Muir said.

“Aurelianus,” Flint said. “One of our mutual acquaintances.”

“Your friends fucking suck,” Muir said.

“He is not a friend,” Luned said, suddenly incensed.

“I’m going to make sure he doesn’t slip back onto the ship,” Flint said. “Watch her.”

“Flint,” Luned said.

“I’ll be back. Watch her.”

“Of course I’ll fucking watch her, where were you…?”

But Flint was already stalking out of the room, every muscle tense.

[Luned]

The half-breed's mischief caused much more trouble than simply amongst his acquaintances. Aeril insisted on knowing the details, calling a private meeting with Flint, Luned, and Muir to sort things out.

Fortunately, it was a brief event.

"This has been a calm and pleasant voyage thus far," she began as the four sat around the plush couches of the grand cabin. Luned, unbloodied and composed, sat next to the captain, Muir and Flint across from them atop similarly luxurious upholstery. The room could nearly be described as opulent in its decor, showcasing the best of the best textiles and furnishings from all over the world, and was meant to be used for pleasant things like reading and drinking. The scribe couldn't help herself but sit and frown, uncomfortable in a room so painstakingly optimized for the opposite. Aeril continued speaking after a dramatic pause, a dainty crystal tumbler of ruby-hued port held untouched in her hand. "We should near our destination in a matter of days, but at this point, I'm genuinely concerned for the safety of our crew. Bleddyn gave me the impression that this Agnie was a professional, yet she allowed someone unauthorized aboard the ship. I've heard the rumors of a scoundrel with a –– a creature –– and blood? I heard of massive amounts of blood, yet you all appear quite well. Was it his?"

As Bleddyn's proxy, Luned felt obligated to smooth things over. "Aurelius has nothing to do with Bleddyn. He's an acquaintance of ours who likes to play very distasteful pranks. But I assure you, everyone is fine," she said. It wasn't the most convincing lie ever, but perhaps because it was largely true and only dishonest in its lack of important details, the elf took it well.

"I do not want to hear of him again," Aeril said sternly, giving them all a good glare. The crinkles at the corners of her eyes, which Luned had liked so much, displaced to the furrow of her brow, and it aged her. "Is that clear? You have contact with Agnie and Bleddyn. You make certain of it."

Much like a chastised child, Luned nodded obediently. "I will. I'd like nothing more, myself."

Still, Aeril eyed the men across from them, her sharp gaze falling on Muir in particular. "And I wish to hear of no other shenanigans. We have a brig and and I am not afraid to use it. I can promise it is much less comfortable than the rest of this harlot of a ship." With that she stood abruptly, stalked to the door, and disappeared into the hall.

Muir lazed back against some pillows, idly plucking at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. "That's the first time I've seen her knickers in a twist," he said, then glanced across to Luned. "Can't blame her, though. You know she only listened to your lame explanation because you're the boss; she'll obey, but she's lost faith."

"Muir, you are so eloquent tonight," Luned retorted bitterly as she rubbed one of her temples. "Please, share more from the endless fount of wisdom that is your opiate-raddled brain."

That barb should've stung, and if this was any other situation, Flint might have laughed. He hadn't expected a sibling squabble.

Her brother laughed, though. He could laugh at just about anything. "I love you, Lune, I really do, but you're a fucking mess. For once, I think if Mum and Dad could see us now, they'd think I was the upstanding citizen for once. How fucked up is that? I mean, look at you, it's like you've been wrestling bears or some ridiculous shit," he said, running his hand along his jaw and neck to mirror her scars.

To Flint's surprise, the scribe cracked a smile and coughed a halfhearted chuckle. "I wish."

"Now that I know the story," Muir said, revealing to Flint that Luned spilled at least some of Ettermire's secrets while he was on watch, "I think I understand. I mean, I think you're a fucking idiot for not telling Rez, but I get it. You think everyone has these expectations of you to be perfect and good and not like assholes like me, but you know, we'll still like you even if you admit to yourself that you're as fucked as the rest of us." He stood, seemingly quite pleased with his pep talk, and straightened his clothing. "Now, I've got a hot date with Blue and some strapping seamen. If you need me, you know where to find me."

Luned nodded. "Thanks," she said quietly, and her appreciation was lost to the slam of the door.