View Full Version : Pirates of The Am’aleh Seas
The manor estate was built on the side of a hill high above and outside Radasanth. Emien Harthworth chose it for its tactical advantages more than its view, but now he was glad for both. From the balcony outside his office, he was granted a sweeping vista-view of his beloved city. An early summer breeze urged him back inside, lifting the office curtains hauntingly behind him and carrying the distant scent of the sea. Below, the setting sun cast orange-red shafts down on the city from an angle, pushing the shadows long and deep between the homes and buildings of the Empire’s people.
Emien sipped from a glass of whiskey, and the chilled soapstone cubes within clattered together and nipped at his lips. It was a delicious contrast to the burn in his throat, and he relished it.
A man named Marcus Book stood beside him on the balcony. Harthworth had been watching this man for years before the civil war broke out – he liked to keep tabs on every promising warrior that entered Radasanth hoping to test his mettle in the Citadel. The man beside him was not the one he remembered, however. This man seemed taller, for one. His skin was darkened by the sun, the color of smoky copper, and he was among the most heavily-muscled human beings the viceroy had ever seen. Where once he had been clean-shaven he now sported a thick, full, luxurious black goatee and his eyes were surrounded by large black stains from the kohl of Fallien. The right side of his chest and both arms were ornately tattooed, and he was dressed in loose, barbaric horse-hide leggings.
The viceroy might have doubted that the man beside him and Marcus Book were one and the same if not for certain other features the two shared in common. His head was freshly and completely shaven, only the slightest darkening of the scalp suggesting regrowth, and his dark eyes – rendered all the darker by the kohl – glinted always with some small, supernatural spark of golden light. And the man had Book’s scars, and that settled it for Harthworth, who was himself an accomplished soldier. He knew that no two scars were the same.
“Forgive me for balking,” Harthworth was saying. “I’m sure you realize how…different…you look. I guess this explains why my scouts haven’t been able to find you.”
Marcus grunted, and dispelled the last of Emien’s doubts. He may have looked like a half-wild barbarian out of Fallien, but his accent was thickly and unmistakably Salvic. Anyone who knew Marcus Book knew well his voice, his melodic vowels, and his hard, deft consonants. “No need to apologize. I only just stepped off the boat when you men caught up to me. I was in Fallien. For a year, if I’m told the truth.”
“Then you left just as things began,” Emien grunted, and paused to sip at his beverage. “A civil war has come to Corone, and it’s getting stale.”
Marcus nodded, “I’ve heard.”
“I hope your holiday was a good one.”
The newly-promoted templar almost laughed. Almost. “I was dropped, cut, kicked, burned, spat on, drowned, poisoned, hunted, betrayed, and nearly executed. Twice. It was the worst year of my life.”
Emien gave Marcus a hard grin, and nodded his respect. “It was a good one, then.”
The templar shrugged. “I hope to never go back, but I wouldn’t change anything if I had it to do over, excepting a few throats I wish I had cut sooner than I did.”
Emien made a pensive sound and turned to reenter his office. Marcus followed. “I thought you and I would be alike. Gods know, my year hasn’t been much easier than yours, but I wouldn’t take any of it back. Not even that ugly business in Gisela.”
The viceroy’s desk was a tremendous thing, an armored beast of war in the family of fine furniture, but he kept it meticulously ordered. He sat behind it now, topping off his whiskey before leaning back in his chair. Marcus took a seat opposite.
Emien Harthworth knew what his people saw when they looked at him. He was not a large man – he never had been – but he held himself rigidly and commanded any space he occupied. He was old now; he knew that too, matured more by his experiences than by time so that his age was advanced but indeterminate. Age came with wisdom, though, and knowledge, and Harthworth was a keen judge of a man’s mettle. He knew Marcus Book, saw things in his eyes that no spy report in the world could tell him.
“Why did you call for me, Viceroy?” Marcus asked bluntly, looking out-of-place and uncomfortable in the fine plush seat in front of a masterfully hand-carved, two-hundred-year-old desk.
“Easy enough to answer,” Harthworth said, “I need you, and you need work. I saw the hand of Trisgen in it when I heard you turned mercenary. I need more sellswords I can trust, not the flood of glorified criminals that have begun crawling out of the woodwork. And half of ‘em are Ranger spies, I know it.”
“Some would say there’s no such thing as a mercenary you can trust,” Marcus said.
“Tell me, Mister Book. In all your travels, from Salvar to Fallien and yes, even to my beloved Radasanth, what is the common man like?”
The templar paused a moment to think. “Simple. Uninformed, quick to condemn, vulgar, selfish, and sometimes bloodthirsty.”
“And a world where every common man has a say in society’s every decision?”
“I’m no politician and I’m no seer,” Marcus protested quietly.
“Make an estimation. What do you imagine?”
“Chaos, I suppose. Or eventual stagnation.”
“Exactly,” Emien said. “Exactly that. The Rangers are fools and they would see my country burn so that the commoners can elect backwoods, inbred yokels to a council of morons. And that council will drive Corone into the sea, without a doubt they’ll do it. If it were your nation, would you allow it? If it were Salvar? If it were your people in Fallien?”
“No,” Marcus admitted.
“No, and that is why I can trust you. You may not love me or Corone, but you love the fight, you love strength, you need the money, and you would rather fight for me than some misguided madman running around in the forest without a clue about the wider world. Do you at least admit that?”
“I admit that much,” Book said, “but I won’t take the job until I know the details.”
Harthworth retrieved a stack of files from a larger stack on his desk. He did not need to search or verify anything; he knew where to find that which he sought. He separated the folders out, and the templar could see that they numbered three.
“We viceroys each have our spies. I have my scouts, Sivien has his flies-on-the-wall, and that slug Sergio has his many house rats. Between you and me, I mistrust the other viceroys almost as much as the Rangers. Trust that I have good reason for that. I have assembled a large crew, mostly recruited from back-alley watering holes and prison cells. My scouts have compiled detailed reports on four people I feel I can trust, people whose desires drive them, people I can either depend on or control, people with little to no chance of showing loyalty to the Rangers or the other viceroys. These five, specialists all in their own right, will lead my crew as privateers and scour the seas for Ranger suppliers and sympathizers, and deny their aid to my enemies.”
“And me?” said Marcus.
“You are one of these four. The first, if you will. My jack-of-all-trades. I would have you lead this crew, with the other three as your close advisors. Before I say more, I must know if you would do this for me.”
Marcus Book thought on it a moment, eyeing Harthworth critically. It made a certain amount of sense: the templar had done his fair share of work aboard ships, including a failed venture with the notable Alyrio Moreira. He would feel little shame in committing acts of piracy and had little interest in the letter of the law, but he would be loath to betray his employer for anything beyond his personal whims. The Empire was wealthy and free with its rewards, and Marcus had need of material wealth.
And hell, it would be fun.
“I’ll do it,” Book said, and leaned forward.
The viceroy did not seem surprised, or even pleased. Marcus realized the shrewd old general knew he would accept. Without a word, he flipped open the folders one after the other to display their contents.
As he had said, each was a detailed file on a person. Harthworth pointed to the one on Marcus’ far left first. In it there was a detailed drawing of a woman with a mane of intense red hair, held in check by a white bandana. She was pretty in a wild way: this was no serving girl, no man’s obedient wife. There was an untamed look in her painstakingly recreated green eyes, but also sternness.
“Esmerelda O’Hara,” Emien said, tapping the drawing with his index finger. “They call her Scarlet, I assume you can see why. I chose her for a number of reasons, least of which is her considerable experience with seafaring vessels and piracy. She will compensate for your gaps in skill, taking on responsibility for navigation and mundane operation aboard the ship. And she will compliment your personality as leader. The crew will fear and resent you, but they will love Scarlet for her skill and beauty. Without her the crew will buck against your severe authority, and without you the crew will privately resent her sex. Together, you will inspire love, fear, and loyalty in equal measure, so long as your goals remain outwardly unidirectional.”
The second file did not have an attached image. Still, Harthworth tapped it with his finger. “This is a file on one Ardaen Razir, a young woman of unique skill and singular focus, who my spies know little about. She comes highly recommended by figures I trust, however, and I feel she will be trustworthy enough to stand in your inner circle. I chose her for her subtlety, a field I believe you will agree you are not particularly strong in. Furthermore, her unique skill-set further enhances your ability to perform unexpected feats…and, to be perfectly frank, she’s been paid to kill you if you defect. I expect her to see things that you simply won’t be able to, to prowl the shadows, and to know the secret or hidden mind of the crew. In short, she’s going to be your insurance against surprises. And mine.
“I hope you’ll forgive the lack of picture, but my spies saw little point in drawing a mask and they were never given the opportunity to see beneath it.”
Marcus shrugged, silently impressed with Emien’s honesty. He would have to remember to keep on this Razir woman’s good side.
The last file, like the first, did have an accompanied drawing. This one was a man, a foreigner the likes of which Marcus had never seen, and as such he questioned the image’s veracity. According to the artist, this man had skin the color of dark coffee, contrasting stunningly with sky blue eyes. His hair was kept in a bundle of dreadlocks held high from the back of his head, and he sported a full, bushy black beard.
“Fulgar,” the viceroy said. “No matter how many times he tells me his full name, I always forget it. He says he’s from an island far to the southwest, a nation I’ve never heard of, and he’s certainly no native of northern Althanas. Even men of Fallien don’t get that dark, as you can attest. In any case, I have never met a man with sharper eyes, and I take it for a fact that I never will. His skill with the bow is incredible to behold. I’m sure you can see why I would wish to put him on your crew. I want him in your inner circle because he’s made a career out of being an everyman, but his mercenary instincts are strong. He will mingle with the crew, control their moods, keep them loyal and focused, maintain morale, and report problems to you without ever truly being one of them. You, in turn will need to control his drinking, which I fear is not the smallest of his vices.”
Emien closed each folder and stacked them once again, then pushed the stack toward Marcus. “These are yours to peruse at your leisure,” he said. “My majordomo will supply you with documents on the rank and file of the crew. Shall we talk terms?”
“Standard war rate, plus twenty percent of whatever I see fit to plunder. From traitorous ships, of course,” Marcus said without missing a beat. “And I will need certain…supplies.”
“Name them.”
Book smiled.
***
The word went out to the newly-formed crew of privateers, and they began to assemble. The common crewmen gathered at a small dockside inn first, as is their wont, and acquainted themselves with one another over swill, bets, boasts, and games of chance. In lowered voices they spoke of the officers meant to lead them – two were said to be women, the other two barbarous foreigners, and it was further said that they didn’t even have a ship yet.
On one evening a week later, one by one, the officers of Emien Harthworth’s sanctioned pirate crew arrived - each unknown to the crew and the rest, and each as unapprised to the full nature of their mission.
They awaited the arrival of Marcus Book.
Can’t say I’m not intrigued, Ardaen thought to herself, turning the scroll over in her hand, eying the broken wax seal which marked that she had at least opened the letter as she did so. The brevity of the message was exactly to her liking, and the payment for what she was being asked to do was more than just a little generous. Nevertheless, her task, or rather tasks left a bitter taste in her mouth, one which she attributed to having enough experience with these sort of dealings to know that her new assignment was more perilous than the note would have her believe.
She stood, looking toward the door. No reason to dawdle, she mused, a tiny smile turning the corners of her lips upward. Just prior to taking her first step toward the wooden portal, Ardaen turned to the sole source of illumination within the chamber: a small candle at the center of the desk next to where she had been sitting. She watched as its tiny flame danced and flickered, amusing herself briefly with its fiery performance before raising the edge of the document to the hungry fire. The parchment ignited almost instantly. She dropped the scroll to the table’s surface, watching it burn until nothing was left but ash and the disfigured seal of wax.
This was her mark of acceptance, which let her employers know that the mercenary, Mask, was on the job.
~*~
Ardaen’s back pressed against the woodwork of the chamber’s furthest wall from the entrance. Slowly, she opened her eyes, their bronze glow shining outward from beneath the meshwork of her white, tin mask. Being the first to arrive in any situation always made her feel uneasy, and more than a little on guard about what might happen next. Nevertheless, she maintained her calm composure, her arms loosely folded below her chest, while her head hung forward ever so slightly.
By appearance alone, Mask looked dangerous, even if the viewer did not know about her chosen profession. Gauntlets, crafted of carefully tempered steel, adorned either arm, while a number of daggers hung along either side of her belt. Her clothing, woven of particularly heavy cloth, was mundane, if not outright boring. However, despite its simplicity, the lay of the fabric sufficiently accentuated her muscled physique. The hood she wore cast her masked face in shadow, giving it a certain ominous quality.
She drew in a slow, pensive breath, releasing it an instant later. Ardaen watched the door expectantly while she continued to wait for whatever was to come next.
Loneliness was a new concept to Duffy Bracken. He was used to being surrounded by at least a handful of his friends wherever he went, even if sometimes they took the form of slithers of steel or well-worn books that spoke of aeons past and riddles deep. To find himself without company, in the summer, and in the city he loved with all his heart was something he simply could not deal with.
A true bard however was never alone.
“I just wish I knew what that meant,” he mumbled, kicking back with a soft thud onto the dusty carpet of the Prima Vista’s stage. He folded his arms neatly under his head to cushion his rest and folded his left leg over his right, to apply pressure so that he did not fall asleep accidentally.
Ruby was in some far flung corner or Raiaera by now, dancing the fandango and singing her heart out with her new companion. Emma had seemed nice enough, and was certainly more amiable and polite than her estranged uncle. He had half wanted to go with them, but the long voyage and the salty seas only lured him if there was adventure to be had on the open waves. Ever since they had left for Istien University, and Arden and Lillith along with them to their quandary in Akashima, he had felt a strong allure to the notion of the ocean.
“Yo, ho, ho,” he said idly, a smile on his face and a long wheeze pouring from his lungs.
Of course, even though the sun was shining and the markets were booming in the zenith of the harvest season, Scara Brae was whispering of such an adventure. He had caught wind of it in the bosom of his favourite barmaid, the wily Natasha, who had offloaded her burdens in exchange for the information he longed to hear. His sympathy and proffering of coppers into her unmentionable crevices had revealed the location of a ship, a ship that most importantly needed a crew.
There was a problem in Duffy’s plan.
“How the phreaking hell do you go about bein’ a pirate?” He asked aloud, pushing himself upright into a standing position, adorning his soliloquy with a scratch of the head and an adjustment of his rumpled shirt. He stared at the long rail of costumes that lined the wall to the right of the stairwell, and picked out a few of the brighter vestments with hindsight.
It had been a long time since he had even set foot on a ship, never mind actively partaken in the running of one. That had been three centuries ago, when the nautical fancies of his many past lives had been too much to ignore. He took a deep breath and mentally replaced the smell of dust, turpentine and gin with the tantalising aroma of barnacles, sea salt and sweaty men. It was all the motivation he needed to take a leap of faith from the stage and be in arm’s reach of the costume rail with three well-timed and ruckus bounds.
“What looks good with a cutlass…” he said as he pulled two hangers out.
In his left hand he held a bandoleer, baggy trousers and a red bandana. It was a colour switched variant of his former attire, before he had fallen off a cliff and lost his appetite for saggy cloth. The sound of his arms flapping in the wind was a stark reminder of something he longed to forget. He shook his head and dropped it to the floor.
“No good, no good at all.”
With a choosy grin, he turned to the costume in his right. Whilst it was a step in the right direction, it was far too small and he was certain there were still blood stains on it from where Blank had misjudged his thrust and nicked Lillith’s hip.
“Awkward,” he chuckled, but let it drop to the floorboards as well.
Very quickly, the clothes piled up, until there were tunics, hauberks and various traditional garments from every corner of Althanas arranged in hectic piles around his feet. None, it seemed, would do the job. It was then that the bard looked at himself in the long gallery mirror on the far side of the stage room and smiled.
He was a method actor, he didn’t need a costume.
“All I need is the belief,” he set his top straight, tightened his belt, and nodded to himself with a firm and cocksure kick of his heels together, as if he were standing to attention before his mentor.
What he also needed, he decided, was a prop. He skipped over to the assorted open crates next to the stage and started to rummage through them eagerly. He pulled out Akashiman masks, skittles, and various clay pieces of fruit and several hundred yards of bunting, which he wrestled with until he nearly defeated his attempts to subdue it, and then he saw what he was looking for. Long ago, he had wrestled with the terror of Scara Brae’s port, the Red Ship.
From its captain, who he had dealt with plucky enthusiasm and a riposte of his daggers, he had claimed the legendary Red Cutlass as his prize. At first, he had been eager to use it, and he had even written a nautically themed play to suit the ideas that sprang to mind off the back of his adventure. Life however had gotten in the way, as had the pursuit of an ends to a war and the need to save the island from a graver threat than could be ended with a swashbuckling roar and a cannonade.
“Of I’ve waited for this,” he said with a boyish bout of giggles.
Its hilt was cold to the touch, but satisfying to hold all the same. He emerged from the cavernous and now half empty crate triumphant, and swung it left and right in a zed shape as if he had been born to play the role (even though Duffy believed he had been born to play any role). He dropped its edge onto the rim of the crate and with a satisfying crack; it split into the grain of the wood and embedded itself with hungry ease.
"Still as sharp as the day it failed to kill me," he chuckled, and tugged it free.
He whistled a sea ditty he had learnt from the dock workers three years ago, when he had spent many a long afternoon walking amongst the common folk, hearing their stories and picking up folklore to weave into his scripts, and waltzed down the steps into the dark interior of the Tantalum troupe’s grand but ageing home. The captain of the ship had muttered something about a Viceroy’s command and promised much gold for the support of sturdy, well trained and most importantly of all, morally dubious adventurers.
Duffy ticked himself against the list, and wavered at the morally dubious requirement. He had thought about it for three days, until he finally decided that a pirate; any pirate did not have morals. He had the ocean’s code, the roar of the waves and the to and fro of the keel of his vessel, and that was all he needed. He would soon be a pirate of the Am’aleh seas, and frankly, as long as he got to swing his cutlass and cut through some curs, did the reason matter?
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” he reassured himself as he made his way into the streets with a pack on his back and no stern glare from his wanton sisters and theatrical brothers.
Lady Scarlet
06-14-11, 11:12 PM
“I’m still not sure about this, Scarlet.”
Nelson frowned as he walked the streets of Radasanth beside Scarlet. In one large hand he held a curling piece of parchment. Brown eyes glanced over the parchment as they walked as though hoping to find some new piece of information. He was a sailor through and through, but his many years of sailing (whether honest or not) had taught him to be wary of government involvement.
“Nelson, we’re going to have a ship under our feet again. For now, that’s enough for me. We can deal with other things as they come up. You know I’m not fond of working for the government, but we’ve been stuck on this blasted island for several months now. I’m so sick of the sight of land that I could go a year without seeing it again and be extremely happy.”
Her bright red hair glinted in the sunlight as they walked. Excitement at finally being able to go to sea again brightened her green eyes until they almost twinkled. Though she’d been trying her hardest, she’d been unable to hire a crew. Not having a ship seemed to be the biggest hurdle, but she didn’t have the funds to buy one. Further, no one seemed to want to attempt stealing something the size of a decent ship. When the official looking letter arrived offering a seafaring job, it was all she could do not to jump like a child in a toy shop in her excitement.
Nelson opened the door to the tavern they were to meet in and Scarlet went in ahead of him. The stench of unwashed bodies and alcohol didn’t bother her in the least as she carefully picked her way through and found a seat. She wasn’t exactly sure who all else would be joining them on this endeavor, but at the moment she didn’t care.
As they entered and crossed the room, several pairs of eyes watched them. All but one set turned back to minding their own business. One dark set stayed fixed on Scarlet and Nelson, going wide in recognition. The young man the eyes belonged to got up quickly, taking his mug of ale with him. He was a wiry fellow with a mop of dark hair and darkly tanned skin. He nearly shook in anticipation as he approached the table at which Scarlet and Nelson now idly chatted. He spoke softly, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself and stood quietly, hoping against hope that his eyes had not deceived him.
“Lady Scarlet? Is it really you?”
Scarlet looked up at the sound of her name, then her own eyes went wide.
“Kono! Where have you been!? Have a seat! I thought everyone was gone.”
Kono gladly took a seat and a long pull of his ale. “I been searching for you, Mistress. I nearly gived up. There’s this ship gonna be heading out soon, and I got a job on it. I still be the sharpest eye ever.”
Scarlet listened as Kono unfolded the story of what had happened to him. He had been her lead watchman. No one could see as far or as clearly as Kono and he was absolutely devoted to her. These things made him absolutely irreplaceable in Scarlet’s mind. After surviving the wreck of her previous ship, it was the apparent loss of Kono that had upset her most of all. She was very glad to see that he was still alive.
Perhaps the fates are finally looking kindly on me and this ship he spoke of is the same one for which I've been hired.
“You passed it,” Fulgar said, twisting at the torso and pointing at the tavern with the same hand that held his bottle of wine.
Marcus grunted something over his shoulder and kept walking.
Fulgar shrugged, took a swig, and followed.
The last week had been a whirlwind of activity for the young templar. He was barely off the boat from Fallien when Emien Harthworth summoned him to a secret meeting at his hillside estate, and the days since then were filled with many more meetings with a variety of individuals noble or uncouth, and sometimes both at once. It seemed impossible, but all this chaotic preparation was coming together.
Marcus met Fulgar four days ago. He introduced himself to the dark-skinned archer with an adage, the wisdom of which occurred to Book that very moment: “There’s always a bigger man.” Without a reference, the drawing of Fulgar hadn’t done him justice. He was a tremendous man. He towered over Marcus at more than half a foot over six feet, and he was of broad chest to boot. It was impossible to say who between them the stronger man was. Marcus was a bundle of prodigious, statuesque muscle that pushed the borders of human normalcy. Fulgar’s own physique was effortless and inherent, packed heavily onto him like clay with far less definition, but there was no doubting the power in those arms.
Fulgar could not say he was unimpressed either. Marcus’ agreement with Harthworth was contingent on certain gifts, which the viceroy was happy to give. While he had not changed in appearance since meeting the politician – still bronze and barbaric – he was now dressed for the part he was meant to play. Now the templar wore the sumptuous, long, black-and-burgundy overcoat of a captain in the Imperial Navy, complete with honorary marks of rank pinned to the breast. In piratical fashion, Marcus ripped the sleeves off brutally so that his arms were bare and free, and he did not see fit to button it up or wear a shirt beneath it. Likewise, he wore buccaneer’s boots with their tops folded over and a broad-faced, sash-like belt. Jewel-encrusted, golden-handled long-knives were tucked in at the hips.
He looked like a hulking monster that ate a nobleman and slipped into what was left of his clothes.
Marcus stopped alongside a small warehouse not far at all from the tavern they were meant to enter. He leaned against the building as casually as a man of his appearance could, and peered around the corner at the sprawling network of piers before them. Fulgar stopped beside him, and followed his gaze.
The sun was setting in the west, shining through mist that hung low over distant Radasanth, and the Niema River wound its way in that direction. Beyond, Fulgar knew the sea waited. But Marcus’ eyes were not set so far away. He was looking at a moored schooner.
“Is that our boat?” Fulgar said.
“Not yet,” Marcus said.
***
The sun was set and the Witch’s Teat was in full swing, filled to capacity with mercenaries, pardoned criminals, disgraced men of the navy, freed galley slaves, and a handful of unoccupied, land-bound pirates. Rum, diluted and spiced, flowed freely for that motley mob, paid for by some mad Salvarman named Marcus Book and his mysterious – and rich - benefactor.
When Book and Fulgar entered, they did so without fanfare and the bar did not quiet. When the pair was noticed, there was little doubt as to who the one in the coat was, but what did he need a crew of this size for, and why gather in a watering hole rather than a ship? The end answer was always the same: as long as the grog flows, who cares?
Marcus wound through the crowd, taking in the faces of men he’d been reading about for a week now. A few nodded at him in passing, a handful greeted him as “Captain,” but most paid him no mind. Finally, his eyes settled on a shock of red hair. The room was not devoid of the female element: Book counted some thirteen women making their rounds and serving drinks. However, there were very few women being served, and the self-styled Lady Scarlet was one of them.
Marcus waited beside her table until he was noticed – it didn’t take long – and then nodded his greetings. “Miss Scarlet,” he said. “An honor. Please follow me, and bring your men. We’ll need someone to watch the door.”
Two down, one to – ah!
Book caught the gleaming eye of a feminine figure in the shadows, caught her gaze, and indicated she should follow him with a casual toss of his head.
With his advisors all in attendance and gathered together, Marcus crossed the barroom once again and entered a room on the far side.
***
Moments later, the meeting was convened in a shadowy backroom of a tavern on the largest wharf on the Niema, southeast of Radasanth. They gathered around a wooden table illuminated by a single lamp, and Marcus waited until the door was closed before he began to speak.
“My name is Marcus Book,” he said. “The large foreign fellow is Fulgar. The fiery-haired woman to my left is called Lady Scarlet, a pirate. And this is a mercenary or assassin, if there’s any distinction, who I understand is named by the mask she wears.”
Marcus reached into his jacket and produced a bundle of papers bearing the mark of the Empire, which he laid on the table in front of himself so all could see. “These are letters of marque and reprisal, given to me by Viceroy Emien Harthworth. You may read them yourselves, if you feel the need, but the long and short of it is that I have been authorized to privateer against the country I serve. I can attack and seize any ship I see fit, and anything on that ship.
“We’ll leave it to the viceroys to legalize it. I don't need to dress it up. We’re getting paid to pirate the Am’aleh Seas, and no ship of the Imperial Navy will stop us. The catch is that we’re to root out merchant ships supplying the Rangers in the process.”
“Sorry,” Fulgar said, clearing his throat, “but not ten minutes ago you told me you don’t have a ship. How do you intend to do any of that without a ship?”
Marcus grinned hardly. “At nine tomorrow morning, the crew of the Windlark is to finish loading the ship with basic supplies. Around ten they are slated to set out for Raiaera, where it is suspected they will take on weapons and supplies for the Rangers. Doesn’t matter. At nine thirty, the four of us and every man in the bar out there are going to board Windlark and give her crew three options: wash her deck with their blood, run, or join us. Then we will have a ship.
“Each of you is here because you’re good at what you do, and what you do is useful to me. Scarlet is going to go out there and get those men in line, establish a rapport with them, and convince them she and I are worth listening to. Fulgar is going to drink and laugh with them, and convince them that this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
He turned to look at Ardaen, the glinting gold stars of his eyes meeting the burning bronze of hers. “And if any of my would-be crew causes trouble, or thinks it’s a good idea to pull my crew out from under me, he’s going to have an accident in the alley behind the bar.”
Marcus looked over the faces of his advisors. “We need to be ready to fight and sail at nine tomorrow morning. Questions?”
Mask lingered just beyond the lantern’s glow, quietly listening as Marcus filled in all of the gaps which the letter she had been given a few days back failed to. She studied everything about him: the way he moved as he spoke, the tenor of his voice, how his richly colored eyes drifted from one individual to another as he talked.
When the time for inquiries came around, Ardaen’s brow arched behind the tin veil that was her mask, and her bronze gaze turned toward the others within the chamber.
She was not paid to ask questions. She was paid to do her job. And that was all.
The Windlark, as it turned out the recruiting ship was called was not living up to Duffy’s expectations of the life aquatic. Though getting passage onto the ship and getting welcomed into its crew had been relatively easy (in a ‘have drinks brought for him and wake up with a hangover on the deck’ sort of way), the life was a lot harder than the swash buckling treasure hoarding lifestyle he had perhaps naively expected.
Scrubbing the decks was not what he had been tricked into signing up for.
He had been on his knees and not in front of a good and eager woman for once, for nearly two hours already. By the time the metaphorical clock he was working to hit nine, the sun was already baking his skin and dragging sweat from his limbs with salty twangs of devilish enjoyment. What made the ordeal more gruelling, was the knowledge that he had only cleaned four feet by four, and there was still most of the port side mid-deck to go before he was allowed what pirates might have called a respite, but he would no doubt call a brief breath before being pushed onto the rigging and told to climb for his life.
“I’ll bloody show ‘em,” he mumbled, his lips already cracked from exposure to the sea breeze that drifted in from the ocean.
The patter of heavy boots and wooden legs streamed back and forth along the deck as the more fortunate members of the new crew tended to load the vast amounts of supplied the voyage called for into the bowels of the ship. Duffy did not pay too much attention to his surroundings, as every time he stopped for even the remotest of rests, the crack of a whip onto the nearest barrel or railing served as a sharp reminder that he had to earn his promised gold.
Or die trying, he thought begrudgingly.
There were crates of hearty salted meats, barrels of rum, clean water and many great cheeses, each openly rolled or dragged or loaded by crane under the muscle of privateer labour. He was almost certain he caught a glimpse of a wagon of weapons pull up to the harbour’s edge before it quickly vanished into the ship’s armoury, which gave him a faint glimmer of hope that all the myths and legends weren’t just myths and legends after all.
He scrubbed on, slowly breaking into a sea shanty whistle as he lost himself in the arm aching retentive motion of keeping the Windlark worthy of its name – clean and flight bound to distant shores and hopefully, some adventure. Beneath the limited shade of his scarf, which he had draped over his forehead and neck to stop him burning too quickly, the bard Duffy Bracken studied for the opening lines and acts of the Red Captain’s return to the seas.
Through the Cutlass, he would live on.
Even if the danger of death would strike at the crew before they even left for the alluring lands of Raiaera, he would get one last soliloquy, one last cackle and duel to the death, a repetition of his earlier exploits and his debut as a pirate. A real pirate, oh how he still longed to see one. How he prayed, between each scrub and each lash, for a chance to prove himself before a real bloodthirsty pirate...
Lady Scarlet
06-22-11, 12:13 AM
Scarlet shook her head. She had no questions. She rose smoothly to her feet. When she re-entered the main tavern a bright smile adorned her face. She winked to Nelson as she strode boldly forward. She jumped up onto the bar, sliding a little way down it on her rump as she lifted her voice above the clamor of the tavern.
“Well, this is a right boring place, ‘ey gents? Barkeep, a round for everyone, on me o’course.”
She smiled winningly around the room, noting quickly who paid attention and who stayed glued to their drinks. By this time tomorrow, she would be on a ship again and before their “mission” was through, she intended to be the one in control of it. Before she could do that though, she would need to earn the loyalty of more than just Nelson and Kono. Scarlet spent the rest of that night drinking and dancing with various soon-to-be crew members, while Nelson spied out key men that would be fit for future officers. These Nelson spoke to personally, gauging their character before deciding which ones would be selected should the opportunity present itself.
~*~*~
Despite the late night, Scarlet woke with the dawn. Excitement coursed through her veins as she thought about the prospect of being at sea again. At that precise moment, she’d have sworn the feeling was better than a great night of sex. However, she had to keep a tight rein on herself. Nelson, Kono, and she had arrived an hour early to watch the goings on. She still did not know which ship would be theirs, so she watched all of them and waited for it to be time.
Time to get to work… Ardaen excused herself shortly after Lady Scarlet’s departure, slinking into the shadows of the chamber before disappearing into the common room a few moments later. Unlike the other female officer, Mask kept to herself, monitoring the scene from afar as opposed to getting into the thick of it. She did well to hide her intrigue behind the façade of her white mask as she watched the patterns unfold throughout the night.
When the time came, Ardaen vanished from sight altogether.
~*~
Ardaen gazed through the window overlooking the cobbled street below, arching her brow pensively as she watched Lady Scarlet and her cohorts depart shortly after the first rays of daylight stretched outward from the horizon.
“Interesting,” she muttered, the brassy ring to her voice sharp enough to cause the man sleeping in the bed behind her to stir, catching her attention in the process.
“Master Book,” Mask greeted, inclining her head as a mockingly pleasant smile spread between the tin fangs of her mask. “Good morning.”
She allowed Marcus a few moments to fully register what was happening before speaking again.
“I just wanted to inform you before we leave that several of the crewmen won’t be joining us,” she said with unnerving calm, shifting her bronze gaze back toward the window. “I hope this won't be too much of a problem.”
Ardaen fell silent then, waiting for Marcus Book’s reply with a stillness that was almost corpse-like in nature.
Marcus was not enjoying pleasant dreams. Later he would grasp at the fleeting memories of them: a woman, a box, a corpse inside it. He was anxious, obsessed with disposing of the body and not getting caught for…what? Did he murder someone?
What a strange dream for a murderer.
He woke up with a woman in his room, himself in a state of undress – thank gods for the heavy sheets – and she behind an unnerving mask. His day was off to a bizarre start, and he tried not to let that bode on the task that lay before him. He cleared his throat to give himself time to come to his senses.
“I hope you let at least half the men see sunrise,” he said hoarsely. She stared at him blankly, unmoving, and his face drooped a bit. “You did leave…never mind. I don’t want to know. I trust your judgment. We can add to our numbers from the Windlark’s crew if we need.”
For a moment, the templar wondered if this was how he made people feel. He peered at those unfeeling bronze eyes, noted her still, dangerous intensity, and contemplated the nearness of death. Yes, he decided, they were akin but different. Chief among those differences was that Marcus was afraid of her, but she did not seem concerned about him.
“I suppose this answers one question,” he sighed. “If you decide I need to die, a locked door isn’t going to do me much good.”
Yawning wide, the warrior retrieved his leather pants from the floor, then paused and narrowed his eyes at the she-mercenary. Ardaen stared back with perhaps the slightest tilt of the head, but that was perhaps wishful thinking. At this point he couldn’t be sure she hadn’t spoken and then immediately hardened to become a human statue. The thought chilled his spine.
“If that’s all,” Marcus said cautiously, suddenly well-aware that he only had a thin set of sheets to protect him, “meet me on the pier. We may as well take the ship a bit earlier than I planned.”
From now on he was sleeping with one of the daggers beneath his mattress.
And the other beneath his pillow.
“You’re a very interesting man, Marcus Book,” Ardaen remarked pensively, moving toward the door, pausing as her gauntleted hand gripped the handle. “I hope that aspect of you doesn’t cause us problems down the road.”
Mask left the room then, giving Marcus no time to reply to her.
On the other side of the wooden portal, Ardaen waited for a few moments, listening intently to what Marcus was doing within the room. Eventually, she left, departing for the pier as per her instructions, where she assumed Lady Scarlet and the two men she had arrived with the night before were likely at as well.
Marcus exited his room some few minutes later, finishing the last belt strap on his horsehide trousers. The people of Fallien were masterful leatherworkers, but they had not yet seen fit to adopt the zipper or a simple set of buttons. Instead they favored a stylish, effective, and painfully complex series of buckles, belts, straps, and ties. He had hated it at first, but now he felt exposed in anything softer than boiled leather.
Unfortunately, Fulgar happened to be passing outside the room and was now standing wide-eyed in the hallway, clutching a truly tremendous bow to his broad chest.
“What?”
“Oh, no, nothing,” Fulgar said. “I just saw her…nothing. I didn’t see anything. I mean, there wasn’t really anything to see, was there? No. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
“She was just giving me a report.”
“Yeah, that’s, I’m sure that’s what it…I mean, w-who are you talking about? I just got here.”
“I mean it, it was…look, it was just a report,” Marcus said. “She was in there for a minute or two at most, it was very uncomfortable.”
“That would explain why she didn’t look very happy,” Fulgar murmured in a great tumble of words, and then he pressed his lips together and widened his eyes like a child caught with a pilfered cookie.
Marcus glared.
“I mean, a professional like her, I’m sure she would have preferred to go into more detail, is all. Professional mercenary. I meant professional mercenary.”
Marcus turned and began to walk away scowling, and his footfalls were heavy. Fulgar followed.
“Did she leave the mask on during or…?”
“Fulgar.”
“I mean, it’s just that briefings can be relaxed affairs and…”
“Fulgar,” Marcus growled.
***
“…sounds like metal,” Fulgar was saying, “and that’s kinky.”
“I swear to every god,” Marcus sighed wearily, “I will tear out your throat.”
It was thus they arrived at the agreed upon spot, where the pirate Esmerelda and her loyal crewmen stood waiting alongside the rigid shadow called Mask. The general crew was beginning to gather in the alley beyond, most bleary-eyed and cantankerous. Marcus noticed a number of absences, and wondered which were attributed to alcohol and which to Ardaen’s knife.
“I still respect you,” Fulgar blurted in Mask’s general direction, completely incapable of making eye contact.
Marcus ignored him. “We have enough to begin,” he said while approaching the corner of the warehouse. It was the same place he and Fulgar had visited the evening before.
The templar peered around the corner, and was relieved to see the crew of the Windlark still carrying small crates up along the gangplank. Part of him worried that the clipper would set sail before his crew could act, either due to bad luck or a tipoff.
“Good,” he muttered, turning back to his comrades. “This isn’t going to be complicated. I’m going to lead the bulk of our numbers onto the ship and give the good captain a chance to surrender. He won’t. Our crew is going to flood the decks and we’ll open a few throats, then I’ll offer again, and we’ll repeat that until he accepts.
“I don’t want to be interrupted, so in the meantime we’re going to need to deal with the wharf-guard. Mask, I want you to slip past Windlark to the left. Beyond it there are six piers, and every other pier has a post at the end with a bell hanging from it. You can’t mistake it; they look like small church bells. I want you to disable all three, either cut the whole bell down or remove the striker.
“Fulgar will be doing the same on the right side. Questions?”
“What if one of the wharf-guards sees us?” Fulgar said.
Marcus thought on it a moment. He was tempted to order them to try and leave the guards alive, maybe push them off the piers into the water, but it occurred to him that they could still cry alarum even from below the decks. He shook his head and said, “We can’t risk it. If a guard spots you, disable or kill him. No one must call for help before we can set sail.
“If there’s nothing else, go. Get back to Windlark as soon as you finish, we may end up needing you.”
Fulgar nodded once, took up his bow, and jogged around the corner to the right. When Book looked to Ardaen he found that she was already gone. He shook his head again, then turned to Scarlet and grinned.
“Well,” he said. “Shall we get you a ship?”
***
Captain Leonard Fox patted George Teller on the back. Teller was his first mate and best friend, a loyal hand for ten years. The Windlark was nearly stocked and ready for the sea with her trademark speed and efficiency. He was blessed with an excellent crew, devoted to their good captain – so much so that they, to a man, overlooked certain strange crates and barrels bearing Raiaeran marks. They were just as content to pointedly watch their drinks when cloaked figures came to claim that mysterious cargo when the Imperial dockworkers were off shift.
“How’s the new guy?” Fox said with a grin.
“The fellow in the scarf with the cutlass?” Teller said. “Scrubbin’ the deck last I saw him.”
“Not what he expected of life on the sea, I’m sure,” Fox chuckled, “but Am’aleh help me I love putting a taste of the real world in green land-lovers. What’s all that on the deck?”
Teller turned from the captain and his face scrunched up in displeasure. There was a foreigner on deck, a big, dark, oafish fellow with kohl-stained eyes and an inky goatee. He wore the colors of the Imperial Navy, and all the proper marks a captain in that institution would enjoy, but the sleeves of his jacket were mutilated and he wore nothing beneath it but tattoos, leather, and deep muscle.
“Permission to come aboard,” the swarthy newcomer said darkly though he was already on the deck. There was a woman with fiery-red hair behind him, considering the Windlark appraisingly, and a small crowd of armed ne’er-do-wells formed a line on the gangplank.
The crew was tense, hands on hilts, and they began setting down their burdens. Everyone was glancing at Teller, waiting for orders.
“Whatever your business,” Teller growled, “we’ll discuss it ashore. Kindly step off our ship, and take your friends with you.”
“I intend to set sail soon, so I think we’ll discuss it here,” the motley captain said. His appearance spoke of the far south, of blazing sun and desert sand, but his accent painted him a Salvarman from the far north. “By order of Viceroy Emien Harthworth, this ship is now the property of the Empire of Corone. Any man…”
“What the hell are you-“ Fox stepped forward, pushing past his first mate. “What the hell are you going on about? This is my ship. This is a private vessel, I’m captain here.”
“Let me talk,” Marcus growled. “I’m captain of this ship now. You and every man aboard are welcome to swear loyalty to me and the Empire, and join our crew.”
“Your crew?! And what do you expect to do with my ship?”
“My ship has been ordered to waylay the enemies of the nation wherever we find them, and to seize the supplies they intend to give to the rebels, to do with as we please.”
“Now I see it,” Captain Fox shouted. “Pirates!”
“Privateers,” Marcus corrected.
“To arms, boys, shove these dogs…”
There was a bustle below decks, and screams of panic came muffled from the hold. After a moment, the captain and the crew above realized what was happening: a number of invaders had hidden themselves in the cargo being carried aboard, and were now emerging from their hiding places to begin taking the ship.
“I like your hat,” Marcus said.
“Kill them all!” Fox screamed, and drew his sword.
The commotion behind him immediately pricked that innate roguish sense Duffy liked to think he had, and he froze, like a dog turned to stone, sponge and brush gripped tightly in his calloused hands. He was not entirely sure, but he almost thought he heard the all too familiar sound of steel being unsheathed from battered scabbards. The only thing that popped into his head, besides salt, was pirates. He turned his head slowly, glancing over his shoulder without drawing too much attention to himself. Given his eccentric appearance, he doubted his façade would last for long.
There were newcomers on deck, clear as day, and though the sun shone down and the wind chirped up the air with a hint of promise and the occasional icy soothing movement, the sudden tension in the air shattered the already weak illusion of maritime bliss. He picked out the swords amongst the unshaven number of the would be occupiers, but paid particular attention to several unsavoury, but rather more savoury than most of the people on deck looking people. He stood, like a monkey rising, and dropped his cleaning tools into his foamy pale with a satisfying splash. Little gobbets of soap water ran over the edges onto his handiwork.
His fellow crewmates drew their own blades, and ran scuttling and baying to the mermaids towards the loading ramp. Duffy did what he did best, and blinked, utterly torn between a good fight, which is what he loved most, and the loyalty coin toss that came with being bound to coin, not a captain. He shrugged, drew his daggers, and spun them eagerly. “Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of,” he prodded a dagger at the privateers, then the pirates, then the privateers. It was a counting game that went with the rhythm of his heart, which went on with flicks of his blade until something snagged his movement, and the tip of Tooth rested on the newcomers, “rum.” His words took on a life of their own, and he heard The Aria sing along with him.
Unfortunately for Duffy, he did not over hear the declaration of allegiance and intent from the gentlemen who declared the charge. Had he have known, he would not be presently running head first into the swarming maelstrom of clashing blades, spitting, and general unpleasantness. He had died at the hands of the Empire and their petulant war nearly a century ago, given the choice; he would not like to have to suffer that fate again. Fate had a way like that, irony and all.
“Oi!” He roared at the closest of the privateers, ducking into his sword guard and driving his daggers upwards into his ribcage so quick there was barely time for an insult to be thrown. “Get off the Windlark, real pirates or not!” He kicked his knee up into the young bucks chest, probably press ganged into the Empire’s ‘service’ in much the same way he was – with force, alcohol and the promise of gold, and pushed him off his blades with a spray of blood rising up to splash the cold from his labour worn face.
“I just dammed well-scrubbed those till I could see my face in ‘em!” He bellowed, skipping over the corpse with a little flourish of madness on his face which was perhaps more excitement and enjoyment than derangement. He dove straight into the heart of the conflict between the privateers and the crew of the Windlark, striding up to Fox’s side to defend him against the important looking man who had decided that today, would be a good day to die. “Cap’n, I got your back!” He chided confidently, bouncing from toe to toe, daggers twirling, black pupils set on Marcus with the sort of glint in them that suggested ‘bring it on’ was being formed on his cracked, salty lips.
Lady Scarlet
06-28-11, 03:07 AM
Up to the point of boarding the ship and throughout the talk between Book and the other captain, Scarlet had said nothing. Nelson and Kono stayed near her, awaiting orders as they too watched. She had been pleased to find that their ship was to be the Windlark. While it was not the best ship she could ask for, it was a ship and a fast one at that. It would suffice until she found something better. However, as per most law-abiding citizens, the captain was not going to give up his ship easily, even though Marcus had told him it was in the name of the Empire. Sighing she drew her sword and spoke to her cohorts quietly.
“I hate it when they want to fight. You know your jobs, let’s see if we can do this with as little bloodshed as possible, ok?”
Nelson nodded and strode toward a small pack of three men. To their credit, they didn’t bolt away from the big man striding toward them with an intent look on his face. In his right hand, he held a scimitar at the ready. He was going to enjoy this.
For his part, Kono stayed near Scarlet. Having lost track of his “mistress” for so many months, he was not going to get very far away from her again. He held a knife in each hand, one ready to throw, the other to hold onto. He moved with Scarlet as she made her way into the thick of things. He moved quickly, darting this way and that to avoid the swords, clubs, maces and whatever else could be wielded as his knives flashed in and out of those who got within range.
Scarlet cut a wide path as she made her way toward the captain. She disliked having to take things by force. If she could do it, she preferred to always take a ship with little to no bloodshed. While dead crewmen didn’t have to paid, it also meant more work for everyone else. The sooner the captain could be convinced to call his men off and surrender, the better.
No man could growl like Marcus Book.
It spoke to the character of the seaman that charged him unflinchingly, never thinking of fear or self-preservation even in the face of that most inhuman sound. In the end, it said that he was stupid. Marcus drew the first of his long daggers and cut the man’s gut open with the same motion. In the next, he turned the blade around underhand and wrapped his arm around the back of the sailor’s neck as he leaned forward in an attempt to hold his guts inside. With the third, he lifted his arm again, with another muttering growl, and brutally opened the sailor’s throat.
Two seconds, no more.
Before the man fell, Book claimed the hapless sailor’s cutlass and buried it in the heart of his nearest compatriot. The third attacker was better suited to fist fights, and lifted his chipped sword high overhead. More gut-blood stained the freshly-scrubbed deck. The fourth and fifth went down just as easy.
The life of a sailor can be a hard thing. The seas are open and dangerous – if an errant storm isn’t throwing you into hidden rocks and bending you over waves a hundred times your height, pirates and privateers are chasing you to the end of the earth for goods that aren’t even yours. Most sailors saw fit to carry a weapon, but the truth of the matter is that it was smarter to avoid the storms and outrun the pirates, and the Windlark was a fast ship.
This crew was seeing its first fight, and things were not going well.
George Teller saw it. He looked to his captain, and the sailor that had leapt to the captain’s defense. The newcomer was more formidable than they’d realized, Teller saw that now, but he also saw Marcus Book carving a bloody swath through men he’d known for a third of his life. And he saw that Captain Fox did not see it.
Leonard went on shouting orders, pointing at Marcus Book as if yelling louder and pointing harder would kill the man. George Teller saw it all, saw it all crawling toward that inevitable conclusion. And he did not like what he saw.
So he drew his saber, grabbed Fox’s shoulder from behind, and plunged his blade through his old friend’s heart. The Captain gagged on a sudden mouthful of blood, and Teller leaned in. “You did this to us,” he whispered, “with your fucking elves and your gods-damned contraband. You did this, not me.”
Then he turned and pushed his dead friend off his sword, and raised the bloody blade.
“Stop! Hold, gods-damn-it! Stop, all of you!”
The call went all over the ship, but it took a moment for the bloodshed to stop. Book called for peace, and even slashed one of his own men across the cheek for failing to obey the order. A long, tense, quiet moment drew itself out, and all eyes went to Teller.
“Lower those blades, kid” the former first mate said to the new swabbie. “All of you lower your blades. The captain’s dead, see? And fuck me if I’m going to die for a boat full of some fat merchant’s garbage. Or over some fucking war that I’ve got nothing to do with. Your offer still stand?”
Marcus grinned the way a spider might. “The offer stands,” he said. “No bloodshed. Look. All my boys move to the stem, all the Windlark boys to the stern. Nice and slow, keep those blades down or I’ll cut your throats twice.”
Gradually, cautiously, the two crews separated to opposite sides of the ship. The men from below decks began to come up, the privateers first and then the proper crew. When the two sides were drawn, Marcus tucked his bloody daggers back in his sash.
“There, see? Now, in a few minutes here the pretty redhead to my right is going to take that wheel and this godforsaken boat is setting out. By nightfall we’re going to be off the Niema and this is ship is going pirating. Any man that wants to stay is welcome. The rest, well, there’s the ramp and here’s your chance. Nobody is going to stop you, but if you’re on this boat when we kick off, your mine.”
“Any of my boys stay, they get an equal cut of the plunder,” Teller said.
“Agreed. Everybody on my crew is equal; I don’t care where you came from. Equal plunder for every man,” Marcus said. “And woman, of course. Apologies.”
“And no revenge for this business.”
“No revenge,” Book agreed. “We’ll all be brothers, as far as I’m concerned. I’m mean but I’m fair.”
Teller wiped his saber off on Fox’s pants while he thought about it, and then he sheathed his sword. “You heard him, boys. This is my boat and I’m stayin’ no matter who’s captain. Anybody that doesn’t want to, you’re free to find another crew.”
All of four men tossed their swords to Book’s feet, and hurried down the gangplank and away from the ship. Another long, uncomfortable moment passed, and then Marcus nodded. Teller approached, and the first mate shook the pirate’s hand and said, “Orders, Captain?”
Marcus smiled at that. “First, enough of this standing around. Shake your new fellows’ hands, and then get this ship shoved off. Mr. Teller, if you would kindly get the crew organized, you’ll be reporting directly to Miss Scarlet here. Scarlet, the wheel is yours. Once things are squared away, take us out to sea.”
***
An hour later, the Windlark was cruising over the wide Niema, away from Radasanth and toward the waiting sea. Marcus stood in the captain’s quarters, with the door wide open. He was going through Fox’s belongings, tossing what he didn’t want out the door for the crew to claim or throw overboard.
At some point he paused, feeling a chill on his spine, and closed the door. Between the wall and the door stood Mask.
“There you are,” he said. “I was afraid we’d left you ashore.”
“No you weren’t,” she said. She didn’t sound offended.
Marcus smiled. “I’m starting to get a sense when you’re sneaking up on me.”
Ardaen didn’t say anything.
“Teller will never stay loyal to me,” Book said. “He hated his old captain. I think he’d hated him for awhile, the way he talks. When I showed up, something broke in him. Good for me, but now I can’t trust him.”
“When?” Mask said.
“Tonight. Do it with a saber, leave the body for somebody to find. Make it look like revenge for the captain.”
Mask gave no acknowledgement. Marcus opened the door again, and stepped out on deck. The wind carried the smell of salt, and the deck was teeming with sailors struggling to scrub bloodstains from the wood.
The self-styled Lady was at the wheel, and Book gave her his best smile. It wasn’t a very good one, but he hoped the thought counted – he wasn’t much of a smiler.
“How does it feel,” he asked, “to have a ship under your feet again?”
Teller stepped beyond the threshold of his personal chambers, closing the door behind him with an uneasy glance down the poorly illuminated corridor. As quietly as the sailor could, he began to creep his way toward the lower decks of the Windlark.
“Been a rather busy day,” Ardaen remarked softly, stepping out from around the corner Teller was just about to take, her body half cloaked in shadow. “A bit late to be up and about, don’t you agree?”
“Who are you?!” Teller snapped, clenching his jaw as he realized how loudly he had spoken. The woman before him had not been among the many new faces that had raided the ship earlier that day, nor had he seen her throughout the length of the afternoon, or evening for that matter.
A thin, almost pitying smile stretched between the tin fangs of her ivory mask.
“A blade,” she replied calmly, her words accompanied by the sickening tear of flesh and the ephemeral flicker of a crude iron saber across his neck.
Teller gasped, the sound wet and muddled by the constant thrumming of the Windlark cutting across the water.
Ardaen disappeared, the saber she had used discarded, thrown aside to be found a few feet away from Teller’s body, which collapsed lifeless to the floor a few short moments later with a resounding thud.
My first job for the night is completed, Mask thought to herself, slipping by a number of crewmen, pausing only long enough to catch a snippet of what was being said before continuing on her way. Now to see to my next task…
Lady Scarlet
07-18-11, 02:45 AM
As the short, bloody fight came to a stop, Nelson rejoined Scarlet and Kono. The three of them looked on as Book and the first mate came to an agreement. She made note of the tall man that had stood near the captain, but had been unable to protect him from the betrayal of the first mate. He was a handsome one and from the way he held his weapons she was sure he knew how to use them, but she doubted he’d ever really worked on a ship before in his life.
Dear gods, I hope he takes the opportunity to leave if Marcus offers it…
Thinking of Marcus, she took the brief opportunity to get a good look at him in full daylight. He had the same Fallien features as Kono. Those, coupled with his impressive musculature gave her cause to think him a very handsome man. A number of ideas passed through her head of what she might like to do with him.
“Put your eyes back in your head, Scarlet,” a voice whispered in her ear.
“What? I’m just looking, Nelson. There’s nothing wrong with looking,” she whispered back.
“I see that look in your eyes. You have a job to do and it’s not screwing the man in charge. “
“Oh I don’t know about that. It might make him more amenable to the idea of giving me whatever ship I want whether it’s this one or a better one.”
Nelson only grunted at that. However, Scarlet knew he was right. Now was not the time to be fantasizing about how such obviously strong arms would feel around her, so she quickly put said fantasies to the back of her mind. There was work to do. The few that had opted to leave were gone. She noted with some distaste that the dark-haired knife handler had not gone with them.
That’s all right. I’m sure I can find something for him to do to keep him out of my hair.
Smiling sweetly to Marcus she took the wheel. She slid her hands over the smooth wood and gazed forward. The Windlark was well built. Her smile widened as the pushed off and ship responded easily to the smallest touch of the wheel. Life had just gotten a thousand times better than it was yesterday.
***
Later, with the sun shining brightly and a good wind propelling them nicely along the river, she was still feeling better than ever. Now, as things seemed to be settled in nicely she saw Marcus coming and returned his smile with a sweet one of her own.
“How does it feel?” she repeated. “Do you really wanna know?”
Without warning, she grabbed his shirt with one hand as she stepped toward him, tilted her head slightly to one side and kissed him full and deep on the lips. When she let go, she smiled as he spluttered, clearly surprised at her action.
“And that is only a taste of what how it feels. I’ll be happy to show you exactly how it feels a little later,” she said with a wink. “When we can have a little more…privacy.”
A clash of blades saw to Duffy’s nerves like a rag tag band of criminals armed with cudgels saw to a noble’s fortunes. Before had time to respond to the change in fortune and the ebb and flow of the metaphorical tide lapping on the deck of the ship, he was spent, done, dusted. He lowered his daggers and sighed, reluctant to make a last and valiant stand against such unfavourable odds. As he shuffled over to his rightful place, he begrudgingly adjusted the loyalties in his head to settle on the in evitable new pledge of allegiance to the newest promissory of gold.
The speed, grace and ruthlessness of this strange and new captain almost excited the bard. He guessed his nerves were more to do with having his wishes granted, and less to do with any notable threat to his life. Unlike the other crew, who were muddied, dishevelled, scantily clad and odorous in perfume Duffy was not parlay to the mortal coil – he didn’t need to worry about spending a life enslaved to a new mast, or indeed, any number of lives. Whenever he grew bored with his childish, immature flight of fancy, he would disappear.
“Steady lads,” he whispered to the terrified looking Cabin Boy of the Windlark. He vaguely remembered the lad being addressed ‘Puck’, and padded his shoulder with an endearing sort of care. He bit his lip as he tried to reconcile his spinning head with the gentle rolling motion of the ship. He eyed the two groups with a vindictive sort of glare, and ignored the command from their new and esteemed captain to not seek revenge. Duffy was not the sort of man to take it lying down, but he did not want revenge for being press ganged. He wanted revenge for his dreams being sold short. All his childhood memories of pirates were slowly being pulled apart, salty lie by salty lie.
“There ain’t no use in laying your short lives down on this mad man’s cutlass,” he nodded towards the new captain before he went about his business and disappeared into the furlong of the bustling ship. Soon they would depart for strange tides. Duffy took it upon himself to be the mast that the Windlark’s crew tied themselves to for the duration of the coming storm. Though he was dressed with finery exceeding any pirate’s wage, he sounded like a sea lover, and that crept into the minds of his ship mates like ambrosia into the gullet of a wanton and rich adulterer – eager to consume another wench on the flames of adventure.
He got no chance to further his rapport with the snivelling youths and the veteran and scared sailors. Their hooked hands and barnacled jaws clashed teeth with wooden implants. A woman, who might’ve considered pretty if she were given half the chance took the stern and started whipping the new fused crew into a fervent frenzy. Duffy took no time in rallying to the cause, and pulled on the mast rope with a chain gang to turn the docked ship into a sea worthy vessel. The torrent of shouting drowned out the niggling doubts in the Bard’s head about his current predicament. He started to wish he’d never wished for a real pirate adventurer, just like his cleaning of the decks, this hard labour was not quite the legend he had hoped.
“Come on, row and hoist harder you scurvy ridden land lubbers!” One of the new crew’s sterner looking bullies roared, whip cracking and mouth frothing with rage. Duffy cast him a stern look and whistled his own tune, plying his voice and his charisma, his flapping black hair in the churning sea breeze to the bolstering of morale.
“Come gather round the shanty mast,
Come stand by captain’s hand,
Fire the cannons, hoist the mane,
Make your sailing stand!”
It did not take long for the crew to join him in song. They rode out into uncertain waters, unknowingly to deal a blow to the very people that protected them from the harsh realities and tyranny of the Empire.
Marcus shoved the cabin door closed, paused, and stared off into space for a moment unblinking. The last few moments were remembered as if from a dream, but the taste on his lips said otherwise. How had he overlooked the possible threat of seduction?
And what else could it be but seduction – pure, malicious seduction? Book did not consider himself an attractive man, though he’d had his fair share of loves and lovers. In truth he didn’t know what to think about himself from an outside perspective – he was intimidating and that served, what else mattered?
He crossed the room and eyed himself in the captain’s mirror, where a crack ran ugly along the lower left hand corner. The man reflected there, he supposed, was not hideous, but he was certainly not sociable, kind, or affectionate either. It would take a bold woman to steal a kiss from that mouth – or a mad one.
Bewildered and aimless, he thought a moment before he caught himself licking his lips, and then he shook all thoughts from his head entirely and turned to work. He found a map and unfolded it over the table, weighing down the corners with a paperweight and a lamp and one of his daggers. Next he produced a second, smaller map from the interior pocket of his jacket, which was marked with known Ranger sea routes and potential hunting grounds.
He studied the maps, and he held all thought aside.
He saw no better way to wait.
“Lady Scarlet,” Ardaen greeted, the brassy ring of her voice cutting cleanly across the deck as she approached the fiery-haired woman from behind. “Might I have a moment of your time, and preferably in private?”
There was a subtle depth to her words, one that spoke volumes to a woman as keen as the pirate in front of Mask was beginning to make herself out to be. Things where getting underway, plots had begun to thicken, and Lady Scarlet could no doubt sense that intermingled within the shadows of every scheme thus far was the bronze-eyed mercenary, who stood a hair’s width of five feet away, patiently waiting for a reply.
Lady Scarlet
10-12-11, 06:15 PM
"Of course, Mask. Nelson, take the wheel, please."
Nelson looked at Mask suspiciously. The older man did not trust people he did not know or whose faces he could not see. Mask fit both of those and Nelson did not like that at all. However, he took the wheel anyway without a word. He could speak to Scarlet about being careful of who to talk to in private later. As mush as he distrusted Mask, he doubted she would do anything to Scarlet so soon. He watched Scarlet as she moved away from the wheel and shielded her eyes with one hand as she looked up into the rigging.
"KONO!!"
"Aye, Cap'n?" came the man's voice from above.
"Mask and I need to have a private conversation. See to it that it stays that way."
Later, as the sun was starting to set, Scarlet left Nelson to take a shift at the wheel and went in search of Marcus. She knocked on his cabin door then entered. She closed the door behind her softly and walked over to the map strewn table, letting her hips swing seductively as she did.
“So, Marcus, have you picked out a nice hunting ground for us yet?” she asked as she tossed her hat to the table and leaned over the map.
Kono grinned and saluted, "Aye, aye, Cap'n. There's a spot over on the port bow that's private."
"Thank you, Kono." Scarlet turned to Mask and beckoned. "Shall we?"
The two women went to the spot that Kono had indicated. Above them, Kono kept an eye on the area and his fellow crewmates. He was close enough to stop anyone from getting closer, but not so close that he could hear the conversation. The captain had said private. If she'd wanted him or anyone else to hear it, she'd have invited him over. Their conversation was not very long and ended with Scarlet's laughter ringing out over the deck.
"Remember this, Mask," she said as she came out of their secluded area, "I may be a pirate, but I'm smart enough to know not to put my job in danger. Right now, I have a job that will end in me having my own ship. Perhaps if you lived on the sea you would understand more what that means to me. Have a good day, Mask. I have work to do."
She worked her way back up to the wheel and stood beside Nelson.
"Well?"
"'Well' what, Nelson? It was just a conversation. There's nothing to worry about. We just need to do our jobs and then we'll have a ship of our own again."
And I'll be damned if I let that woman mess that up.
Later, as the sun was starting to set, Scarlet left Nelson to take a shift at the wheel and went in search of Marcus. She knocked on his cabin door then entered. She closed the door behind her softly and walked over to the map strewn table, letting her hips swing seductively as she did.
“So, Marcus, have you picked out a nice hunting ground for us yet?” she asked as she leaned over the map.
By the time Scarlet let herself into the captain’s quarters, Marcus had procured for himself a bottle of something nameless but most assuredly alcoholic. He was mid-sip when she came in, and his eyes found her hips of their own accord as she crossed the room. He lowered the bottle slowly from his lips and swallowed audibly, and then forced his gaze back to her face to avoid getting caught.
You seem to be on the hunt already, he thought to himself. He tried, and failed, to think of that as being a bad thing.
“A few,” he said at last. “Ranger sympathizers seem to stick close to the shore south of the Niema as they approach Corone, so that they can slip into coves and drop off supplies without being noticed. Then they continue on to Radasanth or whatever port they please. Come daybreak we can either turn north and make ourselves look like an empty vessel heading toward Raiaera, or turn south like a friendly ship looking for a…”
Marcus trailed off as Scarlet innocently rounded the table with her eyes on the map as if to get a better look. Once she was on the same side as the templar, though, she sat herself down on his knee while simultaneously and delicately taking the bottle out of his hand to take a swig from it, and she draped her free arm around his shoulders.
He eyed her cautiously, now so close he could smell her, but she continued studying the map as if oblivious to him and the way he pressed himself rigidly back against the chair. When she finally deigned to look at him, he cleared his throat to speak – but even then, there was something dry in his voice.
“You shouldn’t mess with men bigger than you,” he offered lamely.
Lady Scarlet
02-08-12, 03:32 AM
Scarlet laughed and shifted to be a little more comfortable in Marcus’ lap. She took a long swig of the alcoholic drink. She wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but she liked it.
“Oh, but I like my men to be bigger than me. Besides, I'm well able to take care of myself."
Marcus relaxed beneath the pirate, however slightly, and politely took the bottle out of her hand again. "You've proven that," he admitted with the ghost of a grin, "but I didn't know I was your man." He took his own swig to water his throat, watching her from the corner of his eye all the while, and then he swallowed and said, "What are you up to, Scarlet?"
"Up to? Why do I have to be up to anything to want your company?"
She ran a finger delicately down the length of his arm, admiring the strength she could feel beneath the skin, to his wrist then took the bottle back for another sip. "Besides, wouldn't you like to be mine? At least for a little while?" She winked with a devilish grin. "I hate strings as much as the next person, but a little fun here and there does the body good."
Marcus suppressed a shiver at the lingering sensation of her touch, and hid the struggle by reaching to slip the bottle out of her grasp again. He swirled the liquid for a moment before taking another long drink, maybe to steel himself, and then he met her eyes again. "Ah, but strings don't concern me. What concerns me is knives, when I least expect them."
"Understandable, but here is where you need to understand the desperation of a pirate without a ship." She caressed his face softly with her free hand, turning him to face her as she looked directly in his eyes, "You have promised me a ship in return for my help in this silly war. Why would I jeopardize that by causing harm to my employer? If it makes you feel better," she added impishly, "you can search me for weapons..."
Marcus' gaze lingered for a long moment before he broke it with a dry chuckle and he hesitated in thought before taking one long, last drink. Maybe it was the alcohol or the heat - and it was getting hot in the close confines of the captain's quarters - but Scarlet thought she might have made the hardened killer blush. He lowered his arms to his sides and let the empty bottle drop and roll across the floorboards, and his eyes returned to hers before dropping to her lips where they stayed, and his voice dropped an octave when he said, "You don't hear 'no' very often, do you?"
"No, not really," she grinned and leaned in toward him, "Remember what I said earlier today about a kiss being only the start of how it felt to be at sea again? Perhaps you'd like to know what it really feel like?"
"Yes," Marcus said with shallow breath. "I think I would."
She leaned in closer and softly kissed him as she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and slid the other alongside his cheek. She shifted to be sitting sideways in his lap as she deftly traced his lips with her tongue.
He melted into her with a relieved sigh as their lips met, and then he began to search her for weapons. Thoroughly.
She moaned lightly as his hands searched. He would find only the daggers in her boots and the sword at her hip, but that was more than fine. She thrilled to his touch as their movements became more and more intimate and pleasurable. This was turning out to be an even finer first night back out to sea than she could have hoped for.
Duffy’s night on the other hand was going considerably worse than expected.
“I hate fish…” he grumbled, prodding the mushy contents of his wooden alms bowl with a bent, almost useless fork. Having to sing, quite literally for his supper had been ungratifying and embarrassing enough. It was entirely his fault for daring to wager his stew, dumplings and beer on a game of cards. He could here the rest of the crew still laughing at his expense.
Being rewarded with everyone else’s slops was too much.
It had taken a fair few leagues, one too many over port side vomiting sessions and several hours of hard wood scrubbing to wipe the smirk off the bard’s face. The sea shanties and seagull calls had been endearing at first, everything he had come to expect from a life at sea from all the tales and scenes he had lived his fantasy through over the years.
Reality, however, was tragically different.
“I really, really hate fish…”
He scooped a second mouthful in, knowing that he would need all the strength he could scrabble together to conduct his little gambit. It tasted of two things; the first was a fine, grainy salt, the sort Ruby might have used on potato chips fried in garlic oil. It was a subtle resemblance to salt, though, one produced by nature and ground into the fabric of the sea itself. The second was sea salt, a crunchy, salty explosion on the tongue, both tastes caked in ice cold and bloody flesh.
The only thing that kept him sane was the sight of several other pirates, all equally as salty and bloodied as his supper sat huddled together in clichés in the bowls of the ship. With the night sky making labours impossible save guard duty and rigging, they had been allowed a few sparse hours to retire before dawn came and the needs of the ship called them up into the breeze. Though they had taken to his songs in the daylight, the night returned the bard to obscurity, and he remained silent, save his occasional grumbling, observing the others to try and pick out weak spots in the otherwise unbreakable loyalty to the new captain.
Marcus Book was Duffy’s crooked heel in a long race to victory. He had not expected him to appear, least not with such bravado and stoicism. He had witnessed the man’s performance, strength and guile once before, long ago. He had not pictured the paladin to be the pirate sort.
He piled in another spoonful with puckered lips.
They were far from the Cell now. Their next encounter would hold in the balance more than the title and glory of a thrilled crowd.
Out on the Am’aleh seas, they were going to fight for the freedom and fortunes of the Rangers of Corone.
Duffy would eat seven more barrels of fish to see that through to the end, Marcus Book or no Marcus Book.
Marcus woke in a strange bed with his head swimming, and laid still a moment to get his bearings. A warm body shifted against his, a smooth cheek rubbed against his bare shoulder, and the whirlwind of the last few days’ events came back to him. He guessed it was the very early morning, based on the anemic blue glow filling the room.
There was a distantly familiar and smile-inducing ache in his lower abdomen, and the room was full of the smell of sweat and sex. Scarlet. Through the haze of alcohol and deep sleep, he might have thought her a wicked dream, but his arms wrapped themselves around a blessedly real body.
The oil in the lamp was spent and the room was dark, but Book’s eyes gleamed and he saw everything the shadows tried to hide. That usually disturbed women that spent the night with him, but not Scarlet. There were white leggings draped over the back of the chair, and a feathered hat on the table. He vaguely recalled ripping something delicate, but that hadn’t bothered her either.
There was a small voice, deep in the back of his mind, full of warning, demanding apprehension and regret. It was hard to listen. When his hands started roaming, exploring, she woke with a quiet gasp, and that was only the first of many pleasant noises.
***
The sun was just breaking the horizon above Corone to the east when Marcus Book emerged on deck, and the sky promised an overcast and gloomy day. Book didn’t care. He was barefoot and naked from the waist up, letting the morning’s cool breeze dry the sweat from his shoulders.
Windlark was quiet, the deck sparsely crewed and the sea calm. The crow was ascending his nest with a spyglass strapped to his waist, and the man they called Nelson was giving the ship a thorough examination, starting with the anchor line. Marcus started in on his second apple of the morning, giving the ship’s functions a once over before turning his gaze thoughtfully out on the horizon.
Fulgar emerged from below decks shortly after, bleary eyed and dry-voiced, but his mind was clear and set – much to Marcus’ chagrin. “I took you for a smart man,” Fulgar said humorlessly.
Book sneered and waved him off dismissively, then took another bite out of his apple. It was sweet and the air was sweet and he liked the chill after the heat of his cabin. “The crew…” Fulgar began.
“The crew is mine,” Marcus said. “It’s your job to keep it that way. You know, speaking of the crew, something’s been bothering me. There was a man yesterday on the original crew. I feel like I know him from somewhere, but I can’t…”
“Ho!”
Fulgar and Marcus craned their necks to regard the lookout, who was pointing out north and toward the coast of Corone. “Ship!” he cried. “Anchored just off the coast, too far for unloading.”
“What colors?” Marcus shouted back.
“Corone. And Raiaera on the lesser!”
Marcus smiled hardly, tossed his apple overboard, and slapped Fulgar on the shoulder. “Wake the boys and get these fucking sails up before the sun is really out. We just found our first mark, and they're still in bed.”
Lady Scarlet
03-24-12, 09:21 PM
Scarlet waited a few moments after Marcus left the cabin before she rose from bed. She stretched and smiled to herself as she sat up. Nelson would not have approved of her antics over the last several hours, but he would get over it. She had greatly enjoyed herself and was confident that Marcus had as well. She pulled her clothes on quickly, donning her hat last as she stepped out onto the deck just in time to hear the flags called.
“Most excellent,” she murmured to herself as she quickened her pace. Already Fulgar was calling orders and she added her own.
“Run up Corone colors! I want to get in good and close before they realize who we really are! Kono!”
“Aye, Cap’n?” the man’s voice came to her from above as she made her way to the helm.
“What can you tell me about that lovely merchant?”
The Fallien native smiled, “That be it, Cap’n. A merchant. She be too far away to be unloading, but is sitting too low to be empty. Can’t see her weapons from this far away.”
“Let me know as soon as you can see how well she’s armed. And have my colors ready.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n!” the small called out as he disappeared back up into the rigging.
Scarlet took the wheel and turned the Skylark onto a direct course for the merchant. She aimed to get her ship just within cannon range. As they drew near, she ordered Nelson to tell the boys her rules for an attack.
Nelson took a deep breath and his voice boomed across the ship as he made the announcement.
“Listen up, lads! There be absolutely NO killing unless the Lady says otherwise. No one takes anything for himself. ALL loot will be divided up as seen fit by those that are in charge. In case ye forgot, that be Lady Scarlet and Mr. Book. Failure to adhere to these two simple rules will be result in the loss of your share o’ the loot and incarceration in the brig until we dock or the powers that be allow you to return to you duty. Now, ye scallywags, smile all nice like, we’re about to start ‘negotiations.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nelson,” Scarlet said as they drew alongside the other ship. “Mr. Book, would you care to begin the negotiations?” she said with a smile for Marcus.
Duffy Bracken knew a thing or two about negotiations. There was a right way to do it, and then there was a wrong way. He, in keeping with his new found position as the lowest of the low, decided to keep his mouth firmly shut. He did not want to jeopardise the strangely enigmatic combination of learned warrior and boisterous pirate queen – they, despite his earlier reservations during the transition from beleaguered crew to steadfast union, were the perfect sort of tutors to educate the bard in the ways of the sea. He rested his hands on his hips, cocked his head to the breeze, and gazed out over the railing at the luckless ship they were swiftly gaining on.
“Not so sure about you, though,” he added with a mutter, turning back to the one named Mr Nelson. Whilst there was nothing particularly wrong with the dapper gentlemen that practically served as Lady Scarlet’s sword arm, voice, and all round manservant, anyone who put a dampener on Duffy’s vocational experience was going to be a thorn in his proverbial side. “If someone tries for me, and does not get the point of my riposte,” his smile faded, “accidents happen.”
One of the other crewmen overheard him, and tried considerably less to stifle his laughter. With a jostle and a reach, Duffy bumped fists with him, and smiled back at the toothy grin which only made him more confident things were going to go well in their supposed ‘negotiations’. Of course, just because they were going to go ‘right’, it did not mean there would not be a few twists and turns in the path to that success.
“You a new landlubber?” the pirate, seemingly well versed in the parlance of a sea going, continued to grin, as if he did not quite know what else to do.
Duffy shrugged, “I am new to this ship,” he lied. To justify his answer, he unsheathed his blade, and with a floral flourish, he twirled it through several accurate rotations before he tucked it back into his belt without looking to see where he was sticking it. The steel hilt flashed in the salty air, and the light of the prospective new future gave it vibrancy.
“What sort of ship ya from, then, mate?” the salty and tuna stained breath hit Duffy in the face, and he had to balk to step back out of the disaster area. “Pirate, slaver, or?” the wet, matted hair of the bard’s new ‘companion’ slapped against his neck as he cocked his head and rasped.
Duffy, thinking as quickly as he could on his already aching feet replied with gusto, “a ship that makes a show of itself to the world,” which, given the playhouse’s reputation, was as close to the truth as he could manage without shooting himself in the foot. “Now, let’s watch this show, what’s your name?” his accent began to fade, and the anachronisms of the pirates slowly wore him down into the street runner he had been in his youth.
“Jackson,” the pirate replied, resting his hand on the hilt of his cutlass, and turning his crooked gaze back to the approaching ship.
“Duffy,” the bard replied curtly, “of the Prima Vista.”
Jackson curled his lips into a fig like and soaked snarl, “I’m of whatever ship is blood stained and cutthroat enough to take a name from another.”
With that glittering title stuck firmly in Duffy’s now fearful throat, he remained watchful, and waiting, for the word of Marcus Book to set about a blaze on the deck of the Pirates of the Am’aleh sea’s new vessel.
Someone brought him his coat and his boots, and Book donned them right there on deck without taking his eyes off the Windlark’s prey. His thoughts, initially, were toward negotiations, and he did not think they would be difficult. The Lark was full of bloodthirsty sea dogs fresh from a long stint on land, and they looked it. There weren’t many merchant ships at sea in those days that could take in such a sight and consider the odds good, even during wartime.
As the merchant ship loomed larger and larger and the time for action came ever-nearer, Marcus found his thoughts drifting again toward Scarlet. Like any good fighter, he was thinking two or three moves ahead, and he began to foresee a troubling eventuality: The Windlark was over-crewed, and Scarlet wanted nothing more than her freedom. If they took this ship, she’d want to captain it. There was a morning in his future, not so far off now, in which he’d awake to find his lover and second ship gone before the sun came up.
Marcus let his eyes wander briefly over the crew, a mismatched and heavily-armed gang thumbing their blades and sharing a brief moment of camaraderie before the storm. Nelson’s words rang in his ears, voicing Scarlet’s preference to avoid bloodshed. If Marcus defied her wish and ordered the crew to slaughter everyone and burn the boat, he could buy himself time. She would be angry with him, maybe, but she wouldn’t have a choice but to stay. He could placate her if he had time, and there would at least be a chance for more sweaty nights and hair that looked like fire and smelled like saltwater. Book set his jaw, deciding his course then and there, and thought ahead to burying his face in her–
“Look alive! Port side!” Fulgar roared, breaking the reverie. “A second ship!”
A murmur went through the crew, and Marcus followed Fulgar’s gaze out to the port side. There was an islet there, in the middle distance, with a spine of tall trees, and from behind them emerged a manmade sea monster. At that time the Am’aleh Seas were a quieter place, largely free from Alerar-built cannons, but there were exceptions. In more prosperous years, before the civil war broke out, Corone’s assembly had seen fit to build hulking galleons – dreadnoughts armed with cannons to patrol the coastline. The second ship was one such galleon.
And it was flying Ranger colors.
“A trap,” Marcus muttered to himself. “It was a gods-damned trap.”
The merchant ship was close enough now that Marcus could hear her crew laughing and jeering as the galleon swung about, bringing its broadside to bear.
“Aidan’s Revenge,” Fulgar said bitterly. Only he and the lookout had eyes sharp enough to see the name painted on her side at that distance.
“Hard to starboard, Scarlet,” Marcus said, pointing in the appropriate direction. He struggled for a moment with the nautical terms, fighting an internal battle between the warrior, leader, and captain in him. The warrior won, and he abandoned any attempt at the correct parlance. “Steer away from the coast; take us out to sea at an angle away from them. Give them the smallest possible target and we might survive this. Maybe.”
Nelson was screaming for full sails, and the crew was scrambling, putting their blades back in their sheaths. Fear had fully replaced the thirst for blood in every one of them, and more than one man screamed when the first cannon fired. The first shot was short as the galleon was still too far off for any sort of accuracy. The second shot promised that the danger was still real, as the cannon ball soared not more than six feet overhead between the sail and the deck and bounced harmlessly off the water’s surface on the far side of the ship.
“Get your heads down!” Marcus shouted as he took stock of the situation. The Windlark was fast and Scarlet steered her well, but a steady rain of lead balls would follow them relentlessly out to sea, and the threat of a lucky shot was very real.
With a long stretch of sea between himself and his foes, Marcus Book was helpless, so he stood on deck seething, glancing between Aidan’s Revenge and Scarlet at the wheel, and he waited to see if he was going to live or die.
He decided he was making a bad habit of putting his life in the hands of a pirate, painfully alluring or not.
Lady Scarlet
05-21-12, 08:44 PM
Scarlet’s eyes widened as the galleon came into full view then let loose a string of curses as she spun the wheel hard. She heard Marcus’ orders for fleeing, but did not need them. There was no way the Windlark would stand a snowflake’s chance in hell against that monstrosity. She took no time to bellow orders to Nelson, or anyone else for that matter. He wasn’t her first mate just because he was like an uncle to her. The man was a good sailor and been sailing longer than she’d been alive. He knew exactly what she would do in a situation like this and she smiled as the older man’s orders started taking effect.
The sails billowed out and the Windlark began to show just how worthy she was of that name.
CRASH!!
Scarlet resisted the urge to look to see what damage had been done. Instead she kept her eyes focused on the horizon and how close the Aiden’s Revenge was to closing in on them. Her voice rang out across the deck as she called to her first mate, “Mr. Nelson, damage!?”
“Just railing, Cap’n!”
A relieved look passed briefly over her face as the news reached her ears. Railings were not nearly as important as the hull, masts, or sails. She glanced back and saw that ever so slightly they were beginning to pull ahead of the galleon.
Lady Luck don’t fail me now…
Gradually, the distance between the Windlark and the Aiden’s Revenge became so great that even the long-range cannons were falling short. However, Scarlet refused to let anyone relax until the Revenge was no longer visible.
Kono came down to hang on a rope beside her, “Cap’n? Cap’n, that galleon is gone. She couldn’t keep up.”
Scarlet nodded, grateful that they’d escaped. “Mr. Nelson!”
“Aye, Cap’n?”
“We can slow down a bit now. The galleon has given up the chase. We’re clear.”
A raucous cheer went up from the crew as each heard her announcement. Scarlet beckoned to Nelson, “Take the wheel please, Mr. Nelson. Mr. Book and I must figure out where we’re heading next.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” he answered with a relieved smile and began bellowing out orders. Kono quickly went back up into the rigging, doing his share of work, while Scarlet went into Marcus’s cabin.
One thing bothered her greatly: They had been flying friendly colors, so what had given them away?
Scarlet found Marcus in his quarters, along with five or six other men of the crew in a bustle. Book was giving orders to each in turn, and by the time he finished with the last of them the first returned again, so that after ten minutes the number hadn’t changed.
“Did you find her?” he was saying now.
“No sir,” the crewman said. He was young, red-faced, wide-eyed, and sweaty. “We searched every inch, every crate, every corner, just as you said. Mask isn’t on this boat. A few saw her last night, and that was the last time as far as anybody can tell.”
Marcus was silent a moment, and spared the lady pirate a glance before giving his orders. “Tell the crew to pair off,” he said. “Every man is to have a partner, and will not leave his partner’s side until I give the order otherwise. Advise the men that if their partner leaves sight for more than a second, I want to hear about it.”
“And Mask, sir?”
“If anybody puts eyes on her, detain her where she is and call for me. And tell Fulgar he’s paired with Kono, I want him in the nest.”
The crewman gave a nod, motioned for the man he decided was his partner, and then removed himself from the room. Marcus doled out other less important tasks to the remaining men, and then sent them to find partners and get on task. The tone suggested he had a plan nobody would like.
“Everybody on this boat owes you a life,” he told Scarlet when they were finally alone. “And they’re going to owe you another before the day is out, I think.”
Her eyes asked the question, and so Marcus shrugged and went on: “I have Fulgar and Kono in the nest looking for that galleon, with orders to keep in touch with you and Nelson at the wheel. I want you to turn us around and catch up to it. I want to follow it home.”
She opened her mouth, but Book shook his head before she could protest. “We have a traitor on board, or we had one. They must have spent the night setting up a trap to make an example of us. Either it was Mask and she has some method of getting on and off the ship undetected, or it was somebody else and they dealt with her. Either way, the Rangers will be one step ahead of us if we wait. Aiden’s Revenge is a big ship, a dangerous ship, and she’d get noticed unless she has a lair – somewhere to hide. We’re going to follow her home.”
"And then," he said, "then we're going to steal her."
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