There was perhaps nothing more depressing than the sight of a dark room filled with humans, weeping in a frightened state of dismay and confusion. And, perhaps, there was nothing more inspiring than the tempted aggression born of that scarring, and dark depression. Those few, roughly two hundred, who made it from the black, roaring fear from above, and into safety, were surrounded by these sources of human experience. Some were in the warm cobblestone circular room attached to the Capuchos hermitage, which humbly housed the monks in the Sintra region. Cork lined the floors of the narrow passageways which led into their snug tower, giving the hermitage it’s nickname the “Convent of Cork”.

Others huddled over the open mote-gate and into the stony hugeness of the Sintra Palace. Three towers, proudly praising the various flags of the Lisbon region, met the Sintra Mountains halfway, their tops adorned with red-clay shingles. As roars came from overhead, fire spewing from the dark clouds, seemingly from god himself, the poor citizens of Sintra sought refuge in the beacons of safety among the suffocating ash, soot, and brimstone. As the night passed the people who survived were barricaded into a dark room and watched by guards. The terrifying night was simply waited out in the damp, humid rooms, as the people tried to create reasons for their plight. The monks said prayers that provided consolation for believers, and annoyance for unbelievers, not that the latter had any way of expressing their frustrations aside for on pain of death.

There was no word from the clergymen, nor from the quiet and closed rooms of the nobility, set in one of those imposing towers high above. Soon the roaring, and screaming, and searing-hot burning death was over, and there was nothing left but the fear of another attack or the apocalyptic retribution they’d all been told to expect since birth. No second attack came, and, of course, there was no divine judgment to hear of when the barred doors were opened and the peasants were thrown out to the sun-washed courtyards.

Anyone not in the Palace courtyard was told to head there to receive the word of their Count, Philipe Caoulo. None of the guards would answer questions; none of the available priests or monks could provide anything other than an obscure and beautiful piece of scripture. Those in the hermitage were tossed out with a reverence, and thoughtlessness, befitting the papacy, and told to head through the charred remains of their home to the palace atop the hill, overlooking, at once, the Atlantic and the beautiful Lisbon countryside.

The village was in absolute disarray, to say the least. Most buildings were either burnt out or burning. Most of those which stood untouched by fire were swiped by a wayward tail or claw and broken to pieces. Of course, there was no real evidence that there ever was a beast in the town. No noticeable claw-marks, no footprints. Anyone who could provide any reliable testiment of the beast was probably burnt to a crisp. Only the wavering flames around the crushed ruins and charred corpses could speak for what had happened here, and they were as silent as one would expect them to be. Some guards and a few strong men were working through the wreckage to find survivors, but most everyone was differed to the Palace courtyard.

---

Philipe Caoulo walked with a purposeful stride, his black heels clicking against the ancient stone floor. He was dressed in a rather beautiful crimson jacket atop a white blouse. He was adorned with all sorts of metals and ribbons and sashes, most of whose origins he could cite as easily as his own name. A full black moustache ran parallel with his pale lips until they swooped upward and into his sideburns. He wore a hastily fastened coif which framed his face like some sort of porcelain doll. Trailing behind the Count was a handsome, and darkly dressed, Viceroy by the name of Antonio de Melo e Castro, and behind him trailed two guardsmen in splintermail armor.

“This better be good,” The Viceroy said quietly, his gravelly voice striking true in Philipe’s heart. It cooled him, and brought forth a hatred and annoyance like no other. But the Count ignored his superior, and continued walking down the dungeon hallway toward the singly lit cell amongst the bunch. He approached it confidently, but that dispersed as he got closer. He glanced from the corner of his eye so he could barely see the Viceroy in his periphery, a bead of sweat fell from his brow to his finely crafted sideburns.

In the dimly lit cell, sat atop a wooden chair with his hands bound behind his back, was a dark complected man with shoulder length hair. He only wore leather breeches, and his head hung over his bare, beaten chest like so many other prisoners before him. His hair was drenched, and dripped periodically, as if he were splashed with a bucket of water, which he could say that he ungratefully was. The cell was opened and the brown-skinned man looked up slowly, his deep chocolate eyes coming into view. His face housed the beginnings of a reckless beard, stubbled and slightly malformed. He worked up the energy for a half-smile and then his head fell again.

“Alcalde,” he whispered, since that’s all he could do, “a pleasure to finally meet you.” He spoke in a romantic Portuguese, all of his vowels as open as could be. He continued, “Your men worked me over already, in preparation for your visit.”

“Shh!” The Count hissed as he smacked the bound man across the head. “You will only respond to my questions, and only after I ask them.” His voice was strong and loud, but it held in it the shakiness of a coward. Philipe composed himself briefly, then spoke evenly. “Are you Emilio Cicatrise?” he asked.

“Yes,” came the unusually steady response from the bound man.

“Are you known as the Dread Captain Scar?” Philipe asked. The Viceroy peered from behind the bars expectantly, his dark eyes flickering with the wavering torchlight.

“Yes,” Emilio said, his face still shrouded in shadows as he looked into his lap.

Philipe glanced back at the Viceroy confidently, who merely responded with a small wave of his hand. “And is it true,” Philipe began again, “that you, and your ship of brigandens, hunted and killed a sea monster in the Adriatic?”

Emilio lifted his head, his mouth contorted into an oh as he seemed to recall a distant memory. His eyes were fixed directly to Philipe’s, and they searched for something in the Count’s features. When the search revealed nothing, not a single thing, Emilio smiled. Then he started laughing, a hearty, full laughter. It was a laughter that ought to have been bigger than Emilio, but he owned it. He laughed, and he shook his head, and his eyes bugged, and Philipe could see the back of Emilio’s throat as he cackled.

“Stop it!!” Philipe demanded, more loudly than Emilio would have given him credit for. And his voice shook the walls of the dungeon, and stopped the Dread Captain Scar from his hysterical tirade. The Viceroy let a small smile creep across his face, and disappear in much of the same fashion. “And answer me!” He yelled again, breaking the silence, this time a little lower.

Emilio glanced over to the Viceroy with a hidden interest, noted his presence. Philipe moved in front of Emilio’s line-of-sight, engaging him aggressively. “Yes. The answer is yes.” Emilio relented finally.

---

As Philipe and Antonio made their way back toward the front part of the Palace, the silent hatred causing extreme tension between them, Emilio was dragged out of his cell and taken to be washed. He was cleaned up, and dressed, and fed.

Philipe stood in front of the door which led to the balcony from where he would deliver his speech. The Viceroy sat a good distance away at a desk, inkwell, pen, and paper laid out before him, in preparation for a letter.

“Don’t be too cordial.” Was the only advice the Viceroy gave before starting his letter.

Philipe straightened his bow-tie as the trumpets, which signaled the word of the Count, blared into the open coastal air. As Philipe opened the balcony door, and stepped upon it, the sun seeped into the room behind him, and doves, which were placed around the balcony floor beforehand, flew off over the heads of the awaiting crowd in the courtyard below. Distant and silent murmurs followed the Count’s appearance, as everyone wondered what it was he would say. Their soot and blood covered faces peered up toward the balcony where Philipe, dressed only slightly more formally than before, was flanked on one side by a serious looking Spanish Archbishop, Vitaliano Visconti, and by his various consultants on the other. Heavily armored guards stood on either side of the door, shields and swords drawn in resolute loyalty. Philipe looked at the ground for a moment, composing himself and remembering the speech he’d been preparing since the night before. He exhaled and then spoke:

“Citizens of the Sintra Valley community, and those unfortunate enough to be visiting us during these distressing times, it is with a heavy heart that I reflect upon the huge amount of losses we have suffered over the night. I share this pain and confusion with you, as I’m sure all of Portugal will once it is made aware of our plight.

“I have heard conjecture hereto of many compelling, albeit mythical, accounts of last night. There has been word of a Dragon. I want to, immediately, settle everyone’s mind to rest, and cease the harmful discourse of human frailty and sensationalism. I want to stop that and direct your attention to the truest enemy of Portugal, of which there is no equal anywhere on earth. Having discussed the matter with Archbishop Visconti, and referring back to the scriptures, the only word of God, I have determined that this was a warning. A warning of the judgment to come in the face of our godlessness. Our Father has deemed us heretics, and cast us into hell on earth. The fury of our creator has been meted out justly, and our loved ones have paid the price. How much longer will we allow our quest for independence stifle our religious duties? Surely God is with us in our endeavors against Spain, as the Archbishop has so warmly ensured me, but he calls out for peace, and the quietness that brings the heavenly worship our lord deserves.

“I ask you to bow your heads now, and join in a silent prayer to Our Father, so that he may, once again, smile upon us.” And Philipe lowered his head, along with almost everyone else, and pretended to pray. He was, actually, not a very devout man, but the perks that came from openly defending the church was too much to turn down. Once there was enough silence, and people seemed to be ready to get out into the courtyard, Philipe extended his hands out to the crowd, took a deep breath, and then bowed slightly. The trumpets blared and Philipe, along with the Archbishop, disappeared into the Palace.

---

Emilio, after filling up on grapes, and oranges, and pork roast, and rice, was dragged back down into the dungeon. He thought he would be tied back up, a cruel joke played by the evil Count. But, in fact, he was taken even further down, through a door he was sure would lead to a broom closet. A narrow, decrepit stairwell led all the way down, perhaps to where the ocean met the sand, and suddenly Emilio was in a natural cave. Blue lights, perhaps on sconces, were farther ahead, over a natural stone dais which hung over an empty cavern. Emilio was not allowed to stand and was dragged all the way from the hole in the wall to the center of the dais. The blue lights were, indeed, not in sconces at all, but floating in midair.

The Dread Captain Scar was tossed into the center, the guards backing away quickly. As he landed on his hands and knees he felt a warmth all around him, and the lights had become a sick green color. He could not move anything aside from his head, and as he looked around Emilio could make out distinct figures appearing around him, in a circle, one by one, surrounding the dais. The figures were quiet, but they mumbled things amongst themselves. It was a sort of ethereal sound which seemed to come from air and hung there like effervescent smoke.

“You..” one figure, the one immediately in front of Emilio, said. Emilio was quiet, deathly quiet. Beads of sweat dropped to the stone floor in front of him. The voices grated now, like nails against stone, and there was no escaping them; the voices came from the ghostly apparition, but it struck into Emilio’s mind as well, “… The slayer of guardians and angels. You, the blood pirate, Emilio Cicatrise!” There was an indelible silence which, itself, brought pinpricks to the back of Emilio's neck. “You..” He spoke again, “have been chosen. Plucked from the stream of destiny and dropped into the pool of mysticism—“

“—dropped indeed,” said another voice.

“Quiet,” said the first. “You are to make haste to Morocco, where we know the beast’s lair to be, and with the wind of our church under your wings, to pluck his still beating heart from his scaled chest.”

Emilio's mind raced. He was to kill a dragon? By what means? “But I am merely a man!” Cried Emilio, truly humbled and frightened.

“No man is merely a man” said the first.

“No, not merely…” said another. An object came from behind the misty figure in the darkness and flew to Emilio’s position. It fell to the floor in front of him with a clattering. Emilio could make out a dagger, fashioned by, seemingly, glass and twine.

“Use this to strike at the beasts heart. Strike true and he will have no chance, not even against a mere man.” The first said, a little humor, however dry, to be found in his voice at last. “Do you accept?” he asked suddenly.

Emilio could feel his muscles untangle and his mind uncloud, and he could move again. He lifted himself so he was on his knees alone. He could see the figures better but their visages were murky and undefinable. Emilio lifted the glass dagger in his hand, peered into its crystal form. He knew that he truly had no choice. All of this was insane to him, but it also held a logical place since it answered so many questions. The sea monster was, indeed, a sea monster, he recalled. And this was, indeed, a dragon attack. What other wonders were there to find, he thought. And as if that were all he had to think of, he nodded and answered, “Yes”.

“And so you have chosen,” The first began again, softly. “And so you have been marked!” He yelled. The green lights came to converge on the misty figure, like lightning, and crackled there for a moment, blue and green sparks flying from it's supernova center, then struck out to Emilio. His heart was hit with the lightning, and he convulsed as he was lifted into the air high above the dais. He screamed and writhed and peered straight up. A small hole of light at the top of the cavern was all Emilio could, or wanted to see. He felt no pain, but nothing else either. He was completely ejected from his body and all he could do was peer up at that light. “Spiritum Aeternum!” the first screamed aloud, his old voice shaking with passion. Soon the others joined in as well, chanting the very same words; “Spiritum Aeternum.”

---

A town crier had been commissioned to scream this among the wreckage of the town: “Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal. Be you young or old, male or female, the Count, with the authority of the papacy and Lisbon behind him, urge that you meet in the palace courtyard for the opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to travel around the world. All who decide to undergo the task are promised a handsome reward, should you be chosen to do so!”

And, so it was that, among the dozens who decided to visit the Palace grounds, our destined voyagers would at last meet the catalyst of their fate. Emilio, now tired and depressed, but visibly fit, stepped from the cool interior of the Palace and into the warmth of the courtyard, followed by Count Caoulo’s dutiful assistant, Caesar Luna. Emilio’s skin was a coffee color in the radiant sun, his black hair gleamed with it’s reflection. On his hip was a scimitar, his weapon of choice, along with the glass dagger, sheathed in a simple leather holster. He wore a comfortable looking, knee-length brown jacket atop his finely adorned blouse. His leather shoes met his olive green breeches warmly. He looked like a cardinal manifestation of the earth, such were his colors. His hair was slicked back into a tiny bun far down his head and his beard was lightly shaved, but still visible.

"This is all we have," said Luna in a quiet voice, his nose raised rather too high.

The dark orbs of Emilio's eyes scanned the courtyard for a workable crew. He’d need men, surely, strong ones at that. But he needed more, people with knowledge of the areas, of religion and myth as well, since he was no scholar. He eyed the group scrupulously, judging each of their characters based solely upon what he saw.

The courtyard held several different kinds of people in its stony composition. The verdant artistry of rose bushes and pansies, which were meticulously aligned and primed, drew in the admiration of some of the people who had made it there. Surprisingly, the palace courtyard was almost entirely untouched by fire, which lent credence to the position of the Count, since the palace was deemed a holy place. Some of the towers high above bore dents and scratches which were mostly indistinguishable to the people down below. They’d be fixed soon enough, but the Dragon had tried at the palace. He was unsuccessful due to wards and magics commissioned from the papacy. No one knew that, not Emilio, not Ceasar Luna. The unfamiliar couple stood side-by-side at the base of the castle, surrounded by a couple dozen men, some women, and even a child or two. Some guardsmen, and more than a few of the team that worked in the palace, moved crates and barrels from a door which led into the cellar from under an archway, to Emilio’s left, and down the hill behind the palace which led to the harbor.

Emilio noticed a group of men in the corner of the courtyard, commiserating like a bunch of fools, sailors no doubt. Emilio stepped up, through the crowd, and whistled at the seamen, demanding their attention. It was a piercing whistle which drew attention from not only the sailors, but everyone else in the courtyard too, not to mention the birds who’d made their roost on the castle balcony. “You bunch! Go with these men moving boxes, help them get the supplies from the dock onto the ship, then join the crew.” It was easy talking to them, they were sailors through and through, and they knew a captain when they saw one. They chuckled still, but got to work nonetheless.

Emilio turned toward the crowd, eyed who remained; soldiers, mercenaries, merchants, and “explorers”. And then there were the children, he’d leave them for last. “We need people for an expedition into the Berber coast. If you’ve never been on a boat, or have a weak stomach, I recommend you stay behind. It’s a risky mission but nevertheless lucrative. We’re working on Portugal’s bankroll.” Emilio had a slight smirk on his face for the last statement. He could be charming if he was in the mood, and since his stomach was full he felt like he might be in the mood. “I’ll be happy to answer questions now, but I recommend that everyone follow these men and get to the ship if you’re satisfied. We should set sail by nightfall.” People started to move toward the harbor, including one of the children, Emilio interrupted the child and set him back into the crowd, “Not you, not quite yet.”

One of the men in the crowd, a smart looking gentleman with a large beard, spoke up, his black cane raising high into the air. “What is the expedition about? Does it concern the Dragon?”

Caesar Luna stepped up from the shadows to cover the question. “This is a relief effort. Sintra has owed bonds, and friends in the barbaric capital. As for your fairytale assumption: The count made an appointment this morning. The mythic claims have been debunked. You’ll notice no beast marks in town, no one has been found bitten or half eaten. There are not dragons, nor have there ever been. Next you’ll say we should start exuviating for Excalibur.”

Emilio eyed Luna as he spoke. He was surrounded by an aura conceived of vicious lies. Emilio wanted to scream out, end it all, but he could not. The Count would have him on the crooked man that very night if he compromised his word so easily, so consciously. These things, Emilio knew, were better off not known for as long as possible. The Scar wished now that he could have but a few more moments of ignorance, a few more seconds without the hideous fucking mark. He took a small breath and then nodded and smiled, stepped forth with a confidence befitting a Pirate Captain. He extended his hand in compassion to Luna and placed his palm on the lordling’s shoulder.

“That is true. As the count has said, a dragon was not the cause of this, not but ourselves. I’ve been all over the world, to the new world as well. I’ve not seen a dragon, nor a mermaid either despite how much I’d love to.” He chuckled a little. Luna smiled warmly, which was rather unsettling. He was such a narrow chinned, block of ice. “You haven’t seen a dragon have you?” Emilio smiled, and the old man, who had grown embarrassed, shook his head. “No, it was no dragon,” Emilio felt like he might throw up, but he mustered all his strength, all of his sheer willingness to live, “as the Count said, the Archbishop of Efeso himself has proclaimed this a divine judgment, directly from the scripture. We are heathens, it is our burden to bear. I’ve made my penance,” Emilio suddenly opened his blouse slightly, showing his scarred mark, “have you?” He spoke in brash lies, coarse with a maleficent opposition to human inquiry and reason. It was a bluff he could not loose and he felt like a damn basted for using it. He was challenging him to a show of faith he could not contend in public, not without heavy dissent. The old man shrunk so small that Emilio could hardly see him, then there was quiet.

A woman, accompanied by a man who Emilio assumed was her husband, raised her hand and spoke; softly but loud enough to be heard from her position far in the back of the crowd. “Where exactly will the expedition be going?”

Emilio answered confidently, “Morocco. We aren’t sure which port yet, but that’s an easy enough matter.”

Luna looked at the crowd impatiently, “anything else?”

---

The boat that was being hastily loaded with all sorts of equipment, and which Luna signaled as their own, was a slim galleon. Sure, it was as sleek as could be, and probably sliced through the water like a hot knife to butter, a credit to Portuguese ship-making, but it also looked sturdy. It's sides were reinforced with metal linings and barrings and the wood seemed fresh. The canvas, even now, bellowed at the eager wind. It was just small enough to fit in port, but big enough to make many pirate vessels think twice about messing with it. It's two rows of cannons were another assurance. Emilio smirked and left Luna with whatever official policy he was citing. Emilio snapped along the docks, leaving everything behind him exactly where it was, and practically jumped onto the loading ramp. "Thank heaven," he said to himself in spanish, "I've finally got a damn ship again."

For a moment the Dread Captain considered that only hours ago he was destined for death, or more torture at the least. The best damn thing that ever happened was that Dragon attacking. Emilio didn't know what the Dragon wanted, and it was clear that he was looking for something now that Emilio knew the truth, but it wasn't quite his business anyway. Even if Emilio wasn't scared shitless of the magics the papacy had revealed to him through brute force, there was no doubting his need to explore, his desire to slay another one of these unnatural beasts. The first time was sudden, so indeliberate. This time he'd be prepared, this time he'd be face-to-face with a fearsome beast like no other. And, either it's life or his would be ended that day, but, without a doubt, Emilio would at last have honor.

And isn't that what all men truly want? Emilio let out a puff of air and chuckled at his hidden desperation, his secret desire.

Emilio took in a deep breath and turned from the bay ahead of him to the docks behind him. The last of the resrouces and equipment was just being delivered so he lifted his hands into the air, whistled that piercing whistle yet again, and spoke clearly into the dusty sea air. "Everyone joining on the expedition come aboard! Hear what your Captain has to say!" With a childlike energy, but swagger only harvested after years of experience, Emilio made his way to the upper platform, stopping only oncde to order a sailor to gather everyone below deck. Once there Emilio grasped at the banister and watched as the people came aboard.

What a rush it was to finally lead again?! But, how frightening a proposition it was to do so whilst lying to everyone. He didn't know how long that would last, but his head swam with this fear, even as he was ready to speak.

"Welcome aboard, one and all. Some of you may know me, by one name or antother, but for those who don't, let it be known: I run a tight ship, tighter than your dear mother's twat, that's for sure." There was a stupid, resounding laughter from the sailors. Feed them a roll a day and Emilio would have them heeltoeing in no time. All sailors were the same.

"I like to have a good time, but we are on a mission on behalf of poor Sintra. Some of you may know me for running Pirate ships, let it be known that this is not one. And, though it looks like a military vessel, it is not one of those either. My word is law, but I accept criticism and advice. What I will not accept is betrayal. I have a certain bias against conniving snakes at this point in my life, so be forwarned." Luna, at this point, had made his way up to the platform with Emilio. It was ironic, to say the least, how he was in place as Emilio discussed snakes. And perhaps it wasn't entirely coincidence.

"We have woman and children aboard, so you scalawags ought to be on your best behavior," he said, clearly favoring the sailors and some of the other men for this comment. "Drink as you will, but be certain that when I ask you to sober up I mean for it it happen immediately." Luna whispered something into Emilio's ear, the Captain nodded and returned to the crowd. "We're going to Mogador, also known as Essaouira. We don't expect much Berber interference, but we should always be careful. So, I am..."

A voice came from one of the men below, a battle-scarred decendant of the Incan Empire, Emilio knew him well. Epunamun was his name, and he wore his straight black hair in a Mohawk. His voice was rusted and hard, "Emilio Cicatrise," he said. Emilio met his former friends gaze, saw that he was accompanied by another familiar face, a full bearded Englishman by the name of Leonard Comstock. Emilio was struck with the painful memories of his exile from his own boat.

Emilio remembered himself being tied up, pushed onto the banister of the ship, made to balance. As he looked behind him he saw his crew staring in a certain sad disbelief. Almost no interest in stopping the madness. These two faces that he saw now were among them, just as submissive.

Emilio jumped from the platform suddenly, landing and rolling froward into the crowd. He drew his scimitar in one single motion and grabbed at Epunamun's collar. Both the Incan and the Englishman reacted calmly by holding off Emilio's potential sword strike.

"We left!" Epunamun yelled in Spanish, the preferred language between the friends.

"Emilio stop! We were utterly against the whole business, man!" Leonard chimed in. "Sure we were allowed to row the boat onto shore but we were exiled all the same. We wanted to find you, to join you again."

"We are loyal to you! Damn it, don't you know that?!" Epunamun yelled, releasing himself from Emilio's weakening grasp. The Dread Captain sheathed his sword as he ran the testimony and facts through his mind as well. Why else would they be here? Besides, he trusted these men. Something vile and dark erupted in him as he jumped over that banister. He was happy it was quelled by friendly hearts.

Emilio was silent for a second, but then nodded. "Of course," he said. Emilio shook his old friend's hands and then addressed the group. "Alright, nothing to see here" He said in Portuguese, "I don't know what the official name of this vessel is..."

Luna, who was leaned over the platform banister incredulously, piped up, "Padre Etemo". He was swiftly ignored.

"We can call it A cadela queimada" Emilio said with a smile. Some of the people in the crowd laughed. "Alright, let's get this boat in working order" Emilio said with a confident slickness. It was a little past noon, if they worked fast enough they could leave at sunset.

---

As the sun laid its head to rest, the ever-present moon had just begun pressing itself against the firmament. That canvased dome offered a kaleidoscope of colors as the flames of the sun seemed to stretch across the sky. The first of many tiny, twinkling orbs had appeared, and soon, the world would be awash in the thick darkness of night.

Emilio made Epu, the Incan hunter turned explorer, his weaponsmaster. He was to keep a careful eye on the gun room and the ring of keys he inherited. Epu was a master tracker and an expert in everything subterfuge; no one would get to the expensive, rare, weaponry they had aboard while Epu still drew breath, Emilio knew that. Comstock was a fierce swordsman with reputable experience. He was also a brilliant navyman and marine, Emilio knew that. In fact, the Dread pirate was, undoubtedly, happy to have such trusted men with him for this adventure. This was the sort of journey from which sprung life-changing events, and which carefully veiled unpredictable dilemmas. Having devoted friends, with seemingly inhuman skills, was an advantage not worth giving up in such situations. That perhaps was Emilio’s greatest strength, his uncanny ability to sniff out talented people, and use them to their greatest potential. No matter how selfish this skill was, it was invaluable in not only protecting himself, but everyone else on-board, as well. This was the very definition of a great leader.

The Burned Bitch was ready to set sail. All resources were as secure as could be, most positions were assigned, and everyone seemed comfortable with the newly sanded wood, and the gentle rocking of the sturdy vessel. Luna was standing aboard but close enough to the docking ramp to leave any moment. When he eyed Emilio he waved him over. The Dread captain gently pushed his way through the bustling crowd, which had grown since word of the departure had spread, and to the snobbish nobleman.

“Yes, Lordling Luna, what can I do for you before you prance off my ship?”

“I won’t indulge your disrespect, Cicatrise,” Luna responded coldly, and in a hushed tone; a pitch which seemed to mingle with the washing waves underfoot. “I trust you understand your mission. I trust you understand your culpability.”

“Trust me, Ceasar,” Emilio began, in a quiet voice which was too casual for Luna’s liking. “I am fully culpable, and utterly indulged by my crew. Your supervision is no longer required.”

“Yes,” Luna eyed the growing crowed with a complacent smugness, “even so, you’ll notice, sooner or later, that I have an agent implanted here. Don’t bother discarding her, she is a present from the papacy.” Those last words, which Luna spoke with such distain and venom that it was nearly palpable, struck Emilio dumb. He could not believe that scoundrels like Luna, even as dimly as he has thus displayed, were also involved in this mystical plot. How was this kept from the common folk? How far did it go?

Emilio gulped the lump which had formed in his throat and nodded, his exterior remaining composed. “Very well then, I’ll see to it that my mission is carried out. But rest assured, Luna, I will find your agent…”

Luna interrupted, “Of that I’m sure…”

Emilio, feeling disgraced, grabbed at Luna’s hip, drove his thumb into his skinny bone and pushed him against the railing. Luna gasped in pain, stared at Emilio wild eyed.

“And if she tries to sabotage me in any way, I will kill her. Whether she be mystical or otherwise. And if I learn it has anything to do with you, I will see to your disemboweling personally.” Emilio let loose of the frail nobleman’s frame, stepped back. A table was next to him, a crate had just been set upon it. It was filled with bottles of wine. Not the usual ceremonial drink for such an occasion but Emilio felt the rush of his own bravado, Luna would fear him. He grabbed one by the neck and walked closer to Luna and the railing. “You should tell the Alcalde that he may have me by the balls for now, but things change after an adventure like this. I may come back a changed man.” Emilio smashed the bottle about a foot from Luna’s face, against the rail behind him. His face was undamaged but glass got all over his clothes and it frightened him half to death. Emilio chuckled as he faced the crowd, whose attention he’d gained since smashing the bottle. “The Bitch is setting sail!” He yelled above the crowd. Some in the crowd gave hoot’s and hollers. Leonard Comstock had made himself the boatswain, with Emilio’s blessing, so he began giving orders. Raise the anchor, cast the sails, all hands on deck and all that. Once the anchor was aweigh and the wind lifted the boat into the ocean, Emilio truly felt the freedom he’d been hoping for. He looked back to see Luna’s thin frame set along the crowd behind him waving at the departing vessel. Emilio disregarded any thoughts he began having about the man, what was he really capable of?

The ship tore along the blue green water and cast along the stony pillars of the cliff to the east. Sintra palace shrunk in the distance as the strong winds carried them out of the small alcove, away from praia das maçãs, and finally into the Atlantic. The sky was turning a dark purple now so Emilio ordered a cabin boy to light some torches and lamps. Emilio had made sure that for the departure there would be fruit and bread along with some wine in order to raise moral; to allow people to eat, and drink, and be merry, for a while at least. Soon they’d have to start rationing more, but Emilio was lucky enough to convince the powers that be to give him extra supplies; particularly on account of him and his crew most likely risking their lives. Emilio went to fetch a tangerine along with a roll. He ripped the tangerine apart with a dagger he kept in his boot and began eating it. He watched some men play a card game, one with which he was not totally familiar, as the boat finally began the journey toward Morocco.

When the night had begun to rain fire from the sky, followed by the horrible, horrible screams of the dying, and of the beast. Artemisia spent the evening dancing in the townsquare, her movements were bright and fluid as she moved about under the full moon and the firelight of the torches, tapping her tambourine against her hip all the while. Few coins had reached her hat when the screaming of the terror began. Immediately, the tower bells of Sintra palace had begun to toll, calling for all townspeople to evacuate to the palace for safety. Artemisia sped through the streets, her heart pounding in her chest as she feared that the very gates that promised protection would soon shut on her. Hundreds of others rushed with her towards the castle, she could have sworn that she had felt the very wind off the Dragon’s wings as it flew overhead. People cried out in terror as they made it inside the palace as the doors were bolted shut. Quickly, Artemisia went to the nearest corner and knelt down in fear, her hands clasped in prayer, though not to any Christian/Catholic or Muslim figure, but rather to Gaia, the very Earth Mother, the one that breathed life into this world. To others, she would simply pass as any Catholic believer in devout prayer during a time of strife.

For hours the villagers of Sintra, or those that were lucky enough to make it, got to enjoy the screams of the dying as gouts of fire were spewed from the sky. And it wasn’t the threat had passed that they were released. As Artemisia explored the remains of the city, or much rather, from what she could, she noted that her tavern had burnt to the ground.
As she stood mournfully outside, Artemisia fell to her knees in the street, the smell of burning flesh and charred wood hanging in the air. She truly had nothing left, and just as she was about to let the tears come forward, the town crier began to call out, for all able minded men and women, who wish to travel on a voyage and be paid handsomely, to report to the Palace Courtyard.
Dressed in nothing more than a red silk skirt with a belt made of discoloured silk scraps and bells and beads, with simple black leather boots, a loose white blouse, with a black waist cincher and hand embroidered with roses, Artemisia decided that she could be of some use for once and made her way with other volunteers and thrill-seekers to the courtyard.

Upon arrival, a decent sized crowd had already gathered in the courtyard. Artemisia slipped between others and moved to the front so that she could see who exactly was in charge of this expedition. Suddenly, a brown-skinned man with black hair pulled back into a bun gave a loud and shrill whistle that pierced the air, commanding everyone’s attention.
He yelled at a group of seamen that had congregated at the rear of the group, “You bunch! Go with these men moving boxes, help them get the supplies from the dock onto the ship, then join the crew.”
Immediately, the men dispersed and began to assist the men moving boxes down to the docks. Then the swarthy man turned his attention back to the crowd and addressed them, “We need people for an expedition into the Berber coast. If you’ve never been on a boat, or have a weak stomach, I recommend you stay behind. It’s a risky mission but nevertheless lucrative. We’re working on Portugal’s bankroll.” When he finished, he certainly had captured Artemisia’s interest.

“I’ll be happy to answer questions now, but I recommend that everyone follow these men and get to the ship if you’re satisfied. We should set sail by nightfall.” Artemisia only stayed after to hear that the expedition pertained to a relief effort on Sintra’s part to and that it didn’t pertain to the “dragon attack” and that they were specifically going to Morocco. That was good enough for her, and she departed for the docks.

Surprisingly, the docks hadn’t suffered much during the attack. Other citizens were calling it the apocalypse, or the hand of god had come down to smite the wicked. She smiled at their foolishness for their innocent understanding on life, for they lived in fear of what they did not understand, but she did not judge them, no. That was not her area, for others had judged her as well. But that was never the matter. She was here to serve a purpose. Immediately as she arrived on deck a large burly man wearing a stained rough-cloth apron pointed at her and said, “Tu. Ven aqui.” He spoke to her in basic Spanish, she understood it, but wasn’t sure what he would have her do.

As soon enough, Artemisia was set to helping the cook prepare the night’s evening meal. The kitchen quarters were cramped. There were two large tables, one for cutting meats and vegetables, the other used for rolling flour to make bread and pies. Her hands worked quickly as she cut the meat up and in threw it all into the pot. It wasn’t until she had prepared several simple pastry pies before she was dismissed from the galley. She darted out of the room, bells tinkling as she walked up to the main deck. Here, she could see the true size of the ship, the masts of The Burning Bitch loomed of her as the sails were slowly unfurled. She turned once more to gaze upon Sintra, the city still blackened from fire.

In truth, Artemisia had nothing to lose, but all the more to gain. It wasn’t until they set out that that the food had been brought up from the galley to be served on the open. Tables, crates and chairs were assembled to accommodate those gathered. Yet, she hadn’t the appetite for food just yet. Instead she decided that a little song and dance would be of good entertainment. One of the only things that survived the fire of hers, was the tambourine that she had used that night to entertain passersby.
Here, Artemisia wandered out to the center of the deck and began to bang the tambourine against her hip, voraciously swinging her hips in a circle.
“I’ve got a chanty to share and sing with ye, join in if you know the words!” She called out in mixed Spanish and Portuguese, hearing her talk however indicated that she was not a native either.

“Oh well there’s a señorita I know,
Her name is Maria, don’t make me tell you so!
And she does gander and swagger with all the men
At the tavern! O Maria, me!
O Maria, me!

She is but the fairest lady,
With all of her splendid kisses!
She’ll have you ensnared in her tresses!
O Maria, me!
All the sailors do love her,
But never should you touch her!

O Maria, me!
A fine maiden with buxom bosoms,
And fine apple mounds to go with them!
It’s what lies, betwixt her thighs,
That is of the devil’s making!”

As she sang, some of the sailors that were familiar with the chanty joined in, crying out, “O Maria, me!” which actually sounded like, “Oh marry me!”, that was the point of the chanty at least. As sailors oftened visited brothels to relieve themselves of their manly business, most concocted syphllis, or known to Artemisia as the seeping disease. Heaven forbid if the sailor impregnated one of these infected women, the proper thing would be to marry the lass, but most flee back to the sea or move to another ship in a different port.
Artemisia’s voice was velvety, enchanting and smooth like dark red wine. At the end, she simply went in search of food after a round of applause from the sailors.

There was silence between the three Santoses as they stood before the ruins of their former home and shop. Macario’s fair features were pallid and grim, the beads of sweat along his forehead and cheeks running into dark trickles of ash down his face. His heavy brows were furrowed as he folded his arms, reverent in the face of all they had passed on their way to the ruins of their home. For indeed, there had been blackened skeletons strewn out across roads and under burnt wreckage, their deep, soulless eyes searing terror into those who lingered too long.

Sabela’s hand had not left her daughter’s arm once, her calloused fingers a tight shackle. Like her husband, she was the picture of shock, though she hid it better. She kept her daughter close and tugged at the girl when she lingered too long over the remains of a fallen neighbor, her other hand clasping the length of her blackened skirt. Meanwhile, Catarina stared at everything with wide eyes, watching as even then, little wisps of embers wafted up into the cheerful blue sky. The stench of smoke in the air was thick enough to choke on even with the sea breeze carrying the human-charcoal miasma towards the Sintra Mountains.

Still no words were said, no prayers offered as Macario took the first brave steps towards their former house. The outer walls of clay bricks still stood, but the paint had long blackened and the windows were shattered. The door had burnt into a charred crisp and lay on the floor as the man entered, leaning himself against the doorway to support himself. It was like the house had been cooked from the inside out—even the tiled floor was scarred with burn marks. The clay tiles of the roof had fallen in, tables, chairs, beds, and wardrobes either ash or bare remnants of blackened wood.

What did remain in the face of such ruin were a few metallic items; pots and pans, door handles, and even a few pieces of ceramic dishware had been strewn about the floor. As the family scavenged on, Sabela even found the remains of her jewelry box and a few silver pieces inside, tarnished, but intact. There was only one part of the house each member seemed to avoid, and that was the cellar door connecting to the kitchen. Eventually, they gathered there solemnly, each sharing a nervous glance before Macario ever-so-gently creaked the burnt cellar door open.

They all gave a breath of relief as sunlight streamed into the underground room. The fire had consumed most everything, but this last room had mostly been left intact. A barrel of wine, a wooden box holding the shop’s money cashe, and various goods unable to fit on the shop shelves had been safely stored away. Strings of cured meat, dried vegetables and herbs, and cubes of wrapped cheese of Sabela’s making hung there beautifully. Surely in all of Sintra, there was not a lovelier scent nor more welcome sight than those simple foods spared from the flames.

Macario’s lip trembled as he finally broke down, his filthy sleeve rubbing against his face as he let out a strangled sob. Sabela finally left her daughter’s side to run her hand down his back, gently resting her forehead against his shoulder. They had something left, and that made a world of difference. They’d have a few food rations to live on before Macario could re-invest his money and use his connections to provide goods to the ruined town. Surely as ever, Sabela and her daughter would be left alone amid the chaos and suffering as he left to do so, but they wouldn’t starve as they’d all feared.

Well, at least as her parents had feared. Catarina’s mind was dancing with the former pirate’s invitation, nonsensical as it was. From the procession she’d broken away from earlier, it seemed all sorts of people were qualified for the “relief effort.” Why not take a trip across the sea, if only to revel in new sights while the papacy tried to fix the broken town up? She’d come back with plenty of money to help rebuild their little shop.

“Don’t even think about it.” Sabela’s rich brown eyes glared Catarina down, already having guessed her thoughts.

Catarina waved a dismissive hand in return. “Why not? There’s nothing to do here, and they’ll even pay me.”

“Don’t be foolish, Catarina.” Macario’s broken voice managed to be firm as he joined in the now-spat. “The papacy never opens its coffers for nothing in return. And to choose people so carelessly! Do they think we are on a crusade?”

“Alright, then,” Catarina allowed, folding her arms with a smirk, “What else could they possibly want with a pirate, some sailors, and our townspeople?”

His reply was a gruff huff. “I don’t know, but I don’t trust it. They already will have their hands full taking care of people here—I would not be surprised if that boat never returns.”

“Macario!” Sabela glared at the man, now righteous fury. “It is no time to criticize the church! You heard what they said of our judgment!”

Catarina laughed bitterly at that, winning over a glare as well. “If that was our judgment, I would say we passed with flying colors. Or perhaps São Pedro meant to save us all, but one of the dragons he was fighting off in the heavens escaped?”

“Ridiculous girl.” And yet, a small smile touched Sabela’s lips. “I would worry for you far too much if you left. You cause enough trouble for a single town, much less an entire sea!”

“A mal desesperado, remédio heróico.” Catarina grinned. “Really, Mama, I will drive you mad if I stay!”

“I do not doubt that.” Sabela sighed, her face softening. “Macario, talk some sense into the girl.”

--

Catarina triumphantly carried her knapsack onto the boat, giving her parents an obnoxiously wide wave as they stood, disapproving, at the dock. She had meant what she said—the town was far too sorrowful a place for her to tarry, and a distraction that provided money was welcome. Even so, Macario had tossed a generous number of reals into her palm and insisted that she charter the first boat back home should things not turn out as promised when she arrived in Morocco.

Ah, Morocco. Catarina turned her face towards the horizon as the sun dipped into the sea. As she did so, she felt tension ripple through her back—her parents were still there, watching her, worrying for her. She glanced back just as the sound of breaking glass echoed off the deck. Her head promptly turned as she witnessed the dark “captain” come a mere foot from breaking the celebrated Ceasar’s already 'fearsome' face. As the crowd cheered, her lips curled down in distaste, and she casually made way for the peeved victim as he disembarked.

Not caring to give herself to the pirate’s enthusiasm or the crowd’s blind pleasures, she went below deck without a fuss. She knew nothing of sailing ships and thus figured she ought to keep out of the way as much as possible. As it turned out, she was put to work laying out cots for the numerous crew and its passengers; she smirked slightly at the squabbling as men’s and women’s chambers were separated. “This is a Christian ship!” this and “There’s not enough space!” that rang through shallow walls—it was a little like home, and that was comforting.

She felt it when the ship actually started moving and felt her body lurch at the sound of water below her. For the first time since deciding to take after the pirate, she realized just how separated she was from land. It caused a jolt of fear to run up her spine, and before she knew it, her skirts were in her hands as she fled up to the deck.

Fresh, cool air hit her face. She turned her head about and saw that the deck was alight with all manner of fires and casual banter. Somewhere past the card players and spectators leaned against the railings there was a smooth, feminine voice singing some bawdy music—perhaps it meant to bed a sailor before the night was through? A minute or two after applause and catcalls rang through the air, Catarina finally saw the source of the singing: a young woman of tanned complexion and dark hair was pressing through the crowd upon the deck, likely on her way to the food laden galley.

In her usual manner, Catarina slid back to make way for the woman, her boots making not a sound upon the deck. Her head turned as she smiled cruelly at the troubadour. “Such lovely singing. Perhaps the entire ship will forget its sorrows as quickly as you have.”

The countryside of central Portugal very much reminded Omero of his own homeland of southern Italy, with it very mountainous terrain and it sparse vegetation growing whether it could survive. However while most men may feel comfort from seeing sights that remind them of home, Omero was greatly frustrated by it as Portugal also had the same heated Mediterranean climate of his homeland. The heat made the long journey through the Portuguese countryside feel even longer, as well as extremely uncomfortable. Omero silently cursed the idiot who thought it would be a good idea to have a near full black design for the Red Cross agent’s uniform. His frustration was further fuelled by the fact he had made near no progress with his investigation. Omero had been in Portugal for nearly two weeks passing through a number of hamlets and villages as well as meeting various merchants and travellers on the road. Every man and woman he asked gave the same response: No one had seen or heard anything of a cult within Portugal. Omero started to question whether he was even looking in the correct region of Portugal. Afterall, the reports given to him had been sketchy to say the least. Soon Omero rode south into the Lisbon region where he decided to continue his investigation in the town of Sintra believing a larger settlement would reveal more answers. It was there when he found out why his investigation had yielded no answers.

After arriving in Sintra, Omero rented a room in the town’s tavern, the ‘La Agua de Vida’ for a few days, believing that would be more than enough time for him to gather the information he needed. However a day after arriving in Sintra a Quaesitor Messenger bird arrived. The Quaesitor Messenger bird is a special type of message carrier. For a reason unknown to Omero it is always able to locate its target wherever they may go. Whatever the reason, Omero highly doubted that it’s purely down to ‘good training’ like his mentor Lorenzo tells him. After untying the message from the bird’s foot and reading it, Omero soon found out why he could find no leads. The message was from the head of the inquisition, Archippo De Santis. He stated that Omero was no longer needed to further his investigation of the cult in Portugal as informants sent word back to Rome shortly after Omero’s departure, that the cult had started to draw unwanted attention from the Portuguese Military and therefore headed south into Morocco to escape. As the Morocco is not Christendom the Red Cross should not become involved with the situation and leave the cultists to rein Havoc on the unbelievers.

This news caused great anger in Omero, not only had he wasted nearly a month investigating a wild goose chase, but the very idea that these cultists would continue their barbaric ways and cause countless numbers of innocent people to suffer made him sick to his stomach. Omero was also greatly infuriated by Archippo’s actions. He could have sent the Messenger bird as soon as he got word from his informants. Omero would have got the message by the time he landed in Aragon and would already be back in Rome. Instead Archippo must have decided to wait for weeks before sending the message, most likely in retaliation to Omero constantly talking out against his orders.

Omero decided to stay in Sintra for a few days so he could rest before heading back to Rome. A choice he would later greatly regret. In the first time in what felt like years, Omero was finally able to sit back and relax. He was miles away from all the political Nonsense back in Rome and in the peaceful town of Sintra, he actually felt safe.

On the third night Omero was out in the town square alongside a few other townspeople, watching the La Agua de Vida’s barmaid dancing in the plaza, tapping her tambourine against her hip all the while. However the performance and tranquillity of the town was abruptly shattered by the terrified screams of the town’s people. Fire erupted from the sky and the bells of Sintra palace had begun to toll, calling for all townspeople to evacuate to safety. Omero was disorientated and confused, still trying to figure out what was going on. Fire poured from the blacked sky as Omero watched La Agua de Vida incinerate into ash. Omero finally came to his senses and ran through the street of Sintra knowing that if he remained in the town for much longer he would be nothing more than a burnt corpse. Omero decided to follow a number of the panicking townspeople, if there was a safe location in this town they would know where it was. He followed them into a hermitage where the terrified townspeople cowered in the cobblestone circular room attached to the hermitage, Omero was able to get inside just in time as the monks of the hermitage closed the doors right after he got in, behind him he could hear the unmistakable roar of a dragon, accompanied with the agonising screams of the townspeople still trapped outside.

Omero had been taught at great length about dragons as well as countless other monsters he and the rest of the Red Cross might have had to deal with in future, as well as numerous ways to dispatch all of them. However learning about something and actually seeing it’s destruction in person are two very different matters. Even with all his training and experience with slaying monsters, without proper preparation, weaponry or the rest of the Red Cross to back him up, he was just as helpless against this beast as anyone else in the room. The room was filled with people weeping in a frightened state of dismay and confusion. The Monks said their prayers providing great comfort for the believers. Omero reflected on how these same prayers which until a year ago would have brought great comfort to him as well, now only caused him bitterness. In the end there was nothing to be done except wait out the dragon and hope the hermitage withstood the dragon’s wrath.
Sintra was now nothing more than a burnt out husk of its former self, the smell of charred wood and burnt flesh filled the air. Only around two hundred of the original town’s people survived; those who took refuge in the hermitage alongside Omero and those who took refuge in Sintra Palace. Omero walked through the streets of the once peaceful town searching for any supplies to help him on the journey back to Rome, most of his original travelling supplies had been left in the tavern and his horse was nothing but a lump of burnt flesh, now the only supplies he had were the ones that he had on him at the time. One thing that did survive the slaughter however was the Quaesitor Messenger bird. At the very least Omero could write back to the inquisition to explain what had happened. The count had made up some story about this destruction being the wrath of god and him punishing the people of Sintra for their sins. A clever tactic, that Omero had seen Catholic Church officials do numerous times before; in the times of disaster, make the people believe it is their fault and they will flock to their priests and bishops for guidance, allowing the church to prevent them from going into a mass panic as well as keeping the populous in line.

The town crier began to call out:
“Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal. Be you young or old, male or female, the Count, with the authority of the papacy and Lisbon behind him, urge that you meet in the palace courtyard for the opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to travel around the world. All who decide to undergo the task are promised a handsome reward, should you be chosen to do so!”
This seemed rather strange to Omero. Why would the count organise an expedition so shortly after such a large disaster. Surely he would have far bigger problems to deal with. Omero had a suspicion that this ‘expedition’ had something to do with the dragon attack, whatever it may be. He decided to go to the palace courtyard to investigate in further detail.

There were a great number of people in the courtyard of varied professions, including soldiers, mercenaries, merchants and explorers. A bunch of oafish sailors were commiserating in the corner of the courtyard. A voice came through the crowd, targeted towards the sailors.
“You bunch! Go with these men moving boxes; help them get the supplies from the dock onto the ship, then join the crew.” The voice commanded authority and came from a man whom was clearly the captain. The sailors followed his commands without question and proceeded to move the boxes as asked. The Captain was a brown-skinned man with black hair pulled back into a bun, from his side hung a scimitar, though that wasn’t the weapon that caught Omero’s attention. Along with his scimitar hung a glass dagger of what seemed to be made of glass and twine. Through his various studies under the Red Cross Omero had learnt many things about magical artefacts and their appearances, and this dagger did not look like a normal man made dagger. The captain turned to face the rest of the crowd and continued to speak.

“We need people for an expedition into the Berber coast. If you’ve never been on a boat, or have a weak stomach, I recommend you stay behind. It’s a risky mission but nevertheless lucrative. We’re working on Portugal’s bankroll. I’ll be happy to answer questions now, but I recommend that everyone follow these men and get to the ship if you’re satisfied. We should set sail by nightfall. ” He spoke with both great level of suave and soon enough everyone in the plaza was heading towards the dock. Omero overheard a conversation between both the captain and the counts assistant. They claimed the expedition was a relief mission for Sintra. Although it’s reasoning they gave was reasonable enough, shortly afterwards they openly lied to the gentleman who asked whether the expedition was at all related to dragon attack, stating that dragons do not and never have existed. If they lied so openly about the dragon attack then there was a large chance they were also lying about the aim of the voyage.

At this point Omero had two choices. The first one being that he could go back to Rome and report the events to Archippo and Lorenzo and listen to their judgement. However by that time any leads he may have had on the dragon would have gone cold. The only way they would be able to find out where is was, was by waiting for it to attack again resulting in the deaths of more innocent lives. Even then, by the time the Red Cross agents had prepared and travelled the dragon would already be long gone. The second choice would be going with the gut feeling that these men were hiding the true intention of this expedition. Allowing him to pursue his investigation of the dragon and learn about where it may be and the best way to defeat it. He could also investigate the dagger the captain had hung by his side to find out whether his suspicions of it being magical were true, and if so how it came into the captain’s possession. He could keep the Inquisition updated through using the Quaesitor Messenger bird, while they could give him orders and advice. Omero believed the second choice to be the wisest approach to the situation. With his decision made he headed down to the docks with the rest of the crew.

Omero would have to be careful. If a member of the crew were to see him suspiciously sending messages to an unknown receiver they may think of him as a traitor and throw him overboard. Also if the captain were to suspect or discover his true profession, aims or loyalties, it could end him up with the same result. He would have to keep a low profile. For the majority of the crew he could simply pass as a low ranking member of the church. Most people wouldn’t even care about his presence here on the ship and many of the more pious members of the crew may even look to him for guidance, all too eager to put their trust in anyone associated with the church. However after observing the crew he could already tell that not everyone would be so easily fooled. The captain (who Omero found out name was Emilio during a heated engagement between him and two of his now most trusted crew members) seemed as sharp witted with his mind as he did with his tongue and if Omero did anything too suspicious, Emilio could quickly find out that Omero wasn’t who he claimed to be. The Incan weaponsmaster, Epunamun, and the English swordsman, Leonard, were also far more observant than the others, as well as being completely loyal to Emilio. If they suspected Omero of disloyalty Emilio would soon find out.

As true to the captain’s word, the ship set sail at nightfall, soon the ship was in the Atlantic and Sintra palace was no longer to be seen. Fruit, bread and wine were provided to the crew and the barmaid from the La Agua de Vida, who had survived the dragon flames, was dancing and singing on the top deck. Omero realised that this was a perfect opportunity to send the first message back to the Inquisition, explaining what had happened in Sintra and what he was currently doing. He tied the pre-prepared message (he had written while everyone else had been busy loading the ship) to the leg of the bird. There was only one person on the same deck as him at the moment, a young woman who had been given the task of laying out cots for the crew. Omero waited until she had run up to the top deck to join the rest of the crew, before sending the bird through one of the ships portholes. The bird casually flew just above the water before flying high up into the night’s sky. The crew were too busy eating, drinking and singing along with the barmaid to notice such a thing. After Omero had finished, he decided to join the rest of the crew on the top deck, hoping that this time he would be able to watch the barmaid’s performance, without being interrupted by dragon.

"Well, shit..." Wes muttered as he stood on the crooked wooden pier, noticing the evident slant that had occurred during the destruction of the town. He wasn't there to mourn a dock, though. Wes came to see the remains of the Vieja Perra. Like a lot of the other boats that inhabited the harbor of Sintra, it was destroyed. The sails were burned, the mast smashed to pieces, the deck torn up by the gouging claws of some great and wicked beast.

It wasn't a pretty sight, not in the slightest. While others mourned the deaths of family, friends, and the people of the town, Wes only really felt sadness for the boat. It had been a good ship and kept him dry on the seven seas. Or maybe he was mourning the Captain of said ship, one signor Francesco degli Bortoletto. The two of them hadn't gotten along very well, but at least they respected each other. It was the crew Wes disliked. Bunch of lazy-ass puta madre who left all of the work to him and drank up all the good beer.

On their journey to Sintra, they had picked up a shipment of Germanic bier and Francesco had been kind enough to give a small cask to the crew. Of course, when Wes had settled down later that night, the blokes had drunk all of it while Wes had been working hard. If there was one thing he cared about, it was booze. Let's just say things got a little rough and several people ended up receiving broken arms and busted skulls, in an unrelated accident that totally wasn't Wes simply beating the shit out of them. So, the captain being the captain he was, had to kick Wes off the boat.

Either way, that morning, Wes had found the charred up corpse of signor Francesco. Tried to run to the docks to save his ship, but had been caught in the hell fire that swept over the town. The only reason Wes knew it was him was by the simple bronze cross that marked his faith. Said corpse lay several meters behind Wes as he stared out to the sea, simply watching the gulls swoop in the updrafts of the salty wind.

At least he had something to look forwards to. Wes had been in the middle of the town while the meeting had taken place, listening intently to their message. They had lied about the dragon of course. It wasn't no divine fate, or message from God. It had been a winged reptile swooping down to consume their livestock and take their gold. The one glimpse Wes had stolen was surprisingly similar to the strange beasts he had seen once while in a bazaar in the city of Barcelona. Those Dragon de Komodo were only lizards, but they still were large, easily three meters in length and weighing around ten stone.

This wasn't no lizard they were dealing with.

Wes found himself later on the deck of The Burned Bitch, staring out onto the horizon and listening to the beautiful voice singing, "O Maria, me." He knew the song well, no sailor worth his spit wouldn't know it. A classic like O Maria wasn't to be trifled with. Either way, Wes had quickly found a good position on the boat with the laborers who carried the supplies needed for their 'mission' aboard. It was simple work, and he enjoyed simple work, it required no thought and his bulk was more than up the task that was at hand.

Though, once work had been done and they had set sail, Wes found himself without a job. Too many riggers, too many deckers, too many people in general. It was damn crowded aboard the ship, and they had not enough work. At least the food and ale was good. He had to admit that Portuguese cuisine was damn fine in its own respect. Their wine wasn't half bad either, but it still didn't beat German Bier.

It was then he heard a voice congratulating the singing of their local Bard. His eyes caught two women, one looking quite the blue eyed beauty. No offense, but he grew tired of the darker skinned women of Spain and Portugal. The other one he supposed was the songstress. Continuing off of the European one's compliment, he added. "Aye, you were good, lass. Couldn't help but notice you botched the pronunciation of entrampado. Oh, and exuberante as well," he said in Portugese, rubbing his chin slightly.

"Might want to work on your grammar, lass. None of the boys'll go for a girl who only goes half the distance in her wooing."

Marco had been in the garden of his cousin's home when the horror had come. He heard the sounds and saw the flames before he had any idea of what had descended upon the village. In his naivety he had assumed that the Spanish were attacking by sea and he had ran inside to arm himself. He quickly buckled on his sword belt with his rapier, pulled a leather jerkin over his head and grabbed a brace of fine flintlock pistols before running out into the night. His cousin had called for him to stay behind but he had carried in heedless to his cries. Marco's only thought had been to help defend the village from the enemy, as was his duty.

The enemy he faced was not one he was prepared to deal with. Having followed the direction of the flames he saw that the smoke had filled the sky and blackened the stars, not light shone from above but the light from the inferno was enough to outline a great beast that soared over the village, spewing fire and death down onto its inhabitants. Marco had been stunned by the sight, his mind had shot back to the priests who had educated him in the ways of God when he was a child and his initial thought was that surely this was the Devil come to earth. However, Marco had ever been a practical man and he resolved that this was a physical creature that must have some kind of natural explanation.

Thinking that a beast of this size could surely only be harmed by some kind of cannon he had attempted to race to the docks where there would be cannon on some of the ships. The beast's rampage had halted his progress however when it brought a building down almost right on top of Marco. Looking around at the inferno and the destruction he knew that there was nothing that he could do on his own to prevent the doom of this town. Although it pained him to do so, he knew that the only way to get through this night would be to take refuge. The way back to this cousin's residence was now blocked so he moved, along with a number of other people, to the palace which could offer a secure sanctuary against the carnage that surrounded them.

Once he reached the palace he had volunteered himself to help the palace guards in anything they required. This mostly consisted of herding frightened townspeople into a group and keeping them contained. It wasn't glamorous work but he did it willingly enough, anything to prevent him being idle. It was a long and miserable night and Marco thanked God when the beast left the skies and the sun finally climbed above the horizon. Everyone seemed to move as though in a daze, Marco was among them. He could not fathom fully what it was that had caused this, he had not seen the beast clearly but he knew it was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

When the sun had risen fully he headed out of the palace and began helping to pick through the rubble and the burnt out buildings for any survivors of the disaster. They found mostly burnt or crushed corpses. It seemed that nobody outside of the palace and the hermitage had made it through the night, at least none that Marco had found. Finally, after clearing a large portion of rubble, Marco had been able to reach his cousin's residence, or at least what remained of it. It had been crushed completely, he knew that his cousin Frederico was dead, nobody would survive such destruction. Although they hadn't been that close, Marco had still cared for his cousin and had appreciated the hospitality that he had been given since he had been injured.

Marco continued sifting through the wreckage of the village, he helped lay out the bodies they found, including his cousin, so they could be buried properly. Some of the bodies were so charred it was impossible to tell whether they had been a man or a woman let alone who they had been. In some cases entire families had died in their homes, it was a truly harrowing experience even for someone accustomed to death and mayhem. Marco stopped to take a drink of water when the town criers went to work, announcing that the count would be paying a reward for a certain task. Marco thought for sure it must be related to the beast, if it was to be hunted he knew that he could prove some aid. So it was that he found himself once more at the palace.

The whistle had caught his attention and he turned to see a man, Marco could tell by his appearance and manner that he was a seaman. The way he ordered around the other sailors confirmed his assessment. He listened as the man explained the expedition. The bureaucrat beside the said that the expedition had nothing to do with the "dragon", as they were referring to it and Marco supposed that the creature he had seen in the night sky could well be considered a dragon. The man's lies would only convince a fool, a relief mission going out suddenly after the destruction of the town by some creature? Unlikely, although he believed that there was a god he did not believe that they had been punished by him, there was a physical creature responsible and Marco would help destroy it.

He made his way to the dock and boarded the ship, he still has his rapier and leather jerkin worn openly but he had concealed his pistols in with a blanket and some other items that he had either purchased on the way to the dock or had salvaged from the wreckage of his cousin's home. His fine trousers and shirt were dirty and worn from his work clearing away the debris and only his red coat was in good condition and revealed his high birth. Taking his belongings below deck he tucked them away in a corner near a cot that would be his own for the voyage. He returned to the deck and leant what help he could in bringing items aboard. Although he was a soldier rather than a sailor he had spent enough time at sea to know the basics of ship work, he also knew that everyone on a ship worked, sailor or not so he made himself useful.

When the captain called the people together he joined them and listened in, he had no idea who the man was but he gathered from the speech that he was a pirate or he used to be one at least. It struck him as odd that a pirate would be leading an expedition for a Portuguese count but the man seemed to know his business so Marco had no objections to his leadership. In the brief exchange that followed between the captain and what appeared to be his two former shipmates he learned the man's name and also saw that he had a fiery streak through him, not a man to cross, not that Marco had considered it.

By the time the ship had cast off, Marco had gotten talking to some of the sailors who were part of the crew and they had warmed up to him. He was accustomed to dealing with soldiers and these sailors were not too different from the men he had led in battle. He was sitting with them as the food was brought out and he began wolfing it down gratefully, he had had a full day of intensive labour and had built up an appetite. The mood on board was high and Marco joined in with the singing, he hadn't heard the song before but picking it up was easy. He felt that this may well be an enjoyable journey, what may lay in wait for them in Morocco however, that may not be so enjoyable.

Alastair Kenelm – Sintra

A warm glow radiated from the lantern that was perched upon the large oak desk, giving the small room a comfortable feeling. The window shutters were left open too, allowing in a little starlight and a pleasant cool breeze. Alastair stood for a moment and peered over the edge of the windowsill to see the small gathering in the town’s centre. Some may have complained it was too late for singing, but Alastair found the gentle tune pleasant. Lowering himself back onto the rickety chair, he turned his attention back to the parchment laid ahead. He had paid an extortionate price for a map of the local area, but he needed one for his scrying. “There has to be something here.” he sighed as he rubbed the palm of his hand against his tired eyes. Eight days he had been in Sintra and yet he saw no signs of Conn or anything else that suggested that a dark force was at play – but then why was he brought here? The only mild lead he had was the arrival of an inquisitor who, in his garments, stood out like a saw thumb. He was easy enough to watch as he was staying in the same inn only a few doors down, but it seemed like ‘Omero’ was simply vacationing in the small town (or otherwise avoiding his duties).

Alastair shook his head to clear away his trail of thought and again turned his focus back to the map. Grabbing a needle from his bag, Alastair proceeded to prick his finger and let a few drops of blood fall on the map while whispering a simple chant “Ostendite mihi quid videritis, Indica mihi ubi erit”. The drops quickly began to resonate and starting running off to a single location, off to the most southern point of the map, indicating to him that the destination was out of the maps boundaries. Frustrated his thumped his fast down hard on the table and resisted the urge to roar out profanities. But then, something happened which had never happened before: the blood started moving again. It began moving north with an eastern curve and it seemed to not know where it wanted to go. He stood up from the chair and leant over the table, watching the blood as closely as he could. It seemed to move in fairly circular motions, and slowly but surely seemed to be winding its way through the hills towards Sintra. “What on Earth?” he muttered. Then, just as the blood reached Sintra it boiled and spluttered, and suddenly the air outside was filled with screams and a sound he had never heard before – a dragons roar.

Shooting up towards the window he managed to see the first wave of the dragon’s fire, sweeping down over a selection of houses and engulfing them in blindingly bright flames. Between the flames and the dark of night it was hard to actually see the beast, and Alastair’s pulse was pounding like a drum as he tried to figure out where it was. He thought of using his Raven’s Eye, but instead opted to doing what everyone else seemed to doing and simply ran. He did not waste time running through the inn, and instead dropped himself out of the window onto the cobblestone road below. He felt a sharp pain in his ankle as legs took his weight, but after a few steps could tell that he hadn’t injured himself.

Rather than run out of the town, he opted to follow a crowd into the nearby castle where, like cattle, they were herded into a dark room and left throughout the night. It was one of the worst days of his life, not because he was scared but because he felt useless. Those were the worst days for him, the days when he wasn’t enough, the days where he would fail to protect others. The smell of urine and faeces became more potent as the hours went on, and the floor became a grotesque pool of filth. He worried that those with injuries or burns would get infected, and he wished that he could offer his healing. He couldn’t though. If he did he would be either beaten to death there and then in the cramped dark room, or hanged when the chaos was over. No doubt given the circumstances a heretic and ‘witch’ like himself could easily be blamed for the attack.

---

The next day when the doors creaked open and the crowd was released back into the ruins, many began to sob uncontrollably at the state of their homes and the charred remains of their friends and family. As Alastair left the doors he felt himself blinded by the light and was forced to use his hand to cover his eyes. Therefore the first thing he noticed was that the smell outside was even worse than the smell inside. A sickly mix of ash and burning flesh filled his nose and he felt his stomach twist in response. When his eyes finally adjusted he looked back into the hall and could see that there were many who were not coming out, be because they were scared or because they had passed away in the night. “Be at peace” he said softly, causing a couple of nearby men to nod gently in agreement.

“Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal. Be you young or old, male or female, the Count, with the authority of the papacy and Lisbon behind him, urge that you meet in the palace courtyard for the opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to travel around the world. All who decide to undergo the task are promised a handsome reward, should you be chosen to do so!” called out a nearby crier. Alastair winced at the lack of compassion and empathy that the ‘count’ and his messenger showed. These people had just lost everything, and now he was gathering them up for what Alastair assumed was a hunt.

---

Alastair was not a citizen of Sintra, nor even of Portugual, but like everyone else he had slowly marched his way towards the centre and heard what the town’s leaders had to say. He was dumbfounded by their awful attempt to deny that a dragon had attacked, but he understood that they probably had little choice. After all, something like that would obviously cause a lot of panic (not that there wasn’t already a lot of that). What the town’s people believed did not matter to him though, all he was focussed on was the dragon. Such a threat needed to be dealt with, and he doubted there would be many people around experienced with the occult or monsters. Moreover, he knew that a dragon could be of some use to practitioners of the dark arts. He knew that some claimed that they could bind mythical beasts like dragons, or use its body parts for incredibly powerful spells or potions. He knew himself a sacrificial ritual that, if performed on something as powerful as a dragon, would no doubt give him incredibly powers. And if he knew this, then so would Conn.

By the end of that day he found himself aboard the ‘Burned Bitch’, with a crew that he wasn’t sure of. The captain, a certain ‘Dread Captain Scar’, was supposedly a monster hunter according to the rumours that had already begin swirling around. If nothing else, the captain seemed competent enough at giving speeches. Alastair also noticed that the inquisitor had also joined the crew, although Alastair couldn’t see him being a problem; he hadn’t noticed him before after all. Other than that there were a few tough looking guys, some not so tough looking guys, and even some women and children. Many of the men seemed to be ogling the young ladies, but Alastair was not one of them. He could not help but think of his daughter Cass when he looked at them, and actually felt somewhat protective towards them. After all, Cass would be in her early-mid-twenties herself by now.

After wandering to the uppermost part of the deck on the ship, Artemisia gave a quick surveillance of the deck and smiled to herself as she watched the merriment carry on. Before she could make her way into the galley, a feminine voice called out from behind her, causing Artemisia to whirl about on the heel of her foot.
"Such lovely singing. Perhaps the entire ship will forget its sorrows as quickly as you have."

The feminine voice belonged to a young woman, of European descent with blue eyes. She had the definitive round chin, an angular jaw, as well as thin lips. Her skin was tanned from the sun, though not dark like Artemisia by any means. In return to the compliment, Artemisia, with a smile on her face answered her in a very serious tone, "Thank you. I would hope so as well, though I can say I have not been troubled by this. My losses were none, except for the tavern I worked in. Burned to the ground."

Artemisia was a strange character by all means, she was shorter than most women, very scrawny and gangly as well. Though she was also a curious person to look at as well, in Spain, and under Spanish rule in Portugal, women like Artemisia were often called gitanas, similar to gypsy, but the proper term is Roma. Yet she is, but isn't. Instead of being born into a gitana clan, she was a literate farm hand who learned the mystics of the world, and chose to wander wherever the wind takes her. She personally found it offensive if someone called her any of the sort.

Then, a rather tall man approached the two of them and made a roguish comment about her butchering the song and then again smiled broadly. "Is that so?" She asked, and then proceeded to bow deeply to him, as a more sarcastic gesture than one of respect, "Well forgive me then, señore, excusi my mispronunciation, as I am but from Italia, Florentia to be specific. So it is not my native tongue. I would sing a song for you in my tongue, but I fear you wouldn't understand." She placed a bangled hand upon her hip, clutching her tambourine as she did so.

Omero had been observing the crew for a little while, hopefully he would be able to learn where would be the best place to start his investigation into this voyage. He took notice that the barmaid seemed to be gaining a lot of attention from the rest of the crew. If people were going to be this willing to converse with her, then perhaps it would be a good idea to get on good terms with her. After all if she considered him someone she could trust, then perhaps in future, she would be willing to part with information that others had given to her. It would be a good start at least. She was currently talking to a very tall man who appeared to be of Scandinavian decent. Omero decided to move closer so that he could hear what they were talking about.

"Well forgive me then, señore, excusi my mispronunciation, as I am but from Italia, Florentia to be specific. So it is not my native tongue. I would sing a song for you in my tongue, but I fear you wouldn't understand."

She too was from Italy? Omero decided that this would be a better time than any to join into the conversation.

"If that is the case, then I am glad there is someone else from my homeland on this voyage". Omero spoke in Italian to further his point.

Upon hearing a male voice address her in Italian, Artemisia spun about on the heel of her foot; eyes alight with excitement and curiosity. “Buona sera, mio signore!” Good evening my lord! She noticed his black attire and scrutinized him on his appearance, though she took well note of his missing eye, and strangely even more, non-Italian appearance, despite his fluent tongue. She cocked an eye brow and answered in her native tongue to him hence forth, “What manner of business are you? Do you not find it at all unbearable in that entire outfit, signore? Ah but I forget myself.” Here she stepped forward and curtsied of a most delicate and polite manner.

“I am Artemisia. Who are you?” And another thing to note, Artemisia tried to stick to a first name basis at all costs, unless of course it managed to slip out without caution.

"I am Omero da Roma, a pleasure to make your acquaintance" Omero spoke formally as he always did when greeting new people, that and it was the only way he knew how to speak to people.

"As for an answer to your question; yes this outfit has done a very good job at making my travels across Portugal unpleasant to say the least. However I should not not expect better, after all the church has never been known for for making the most practical attire".

Artemisia kept her gaze cemented upon Omero, so he was some type of clergy man? She wasn’t familiar with what division Omero was apart of in the church. Perhaps a bishop? She couldn't help but steal secretive glances at his scarred eyed.
“Then I pray that the sun is your friend on this journey. Lest you be caught in the heat, one wouldn't want you to suffer the heat sickness.” She spoke more in Italian and then gave a quiet laugh.

“You say you are from Italy, Omero? Where do you hail from? Perhaps I know a song from your region?” Anyone could see that Artemisia had quite an appetite for knowledge with her constant barrage of questions.

Omero smiled to himself. He found it humorous that despite the fact he was investigating, she was asking all the questions.

"Rome is where I hail from, or rather the Vatican city. Though in truth I never saw the difference between two" Omero paused "After all having a country inside a city always seemed a somewhat odd concept to me. And what of you, where do you originally hail from"?

Grimacing inwardly at the word, Vatican, Artemisia could feel chills climb up her spine until it made her dizzy.
“The Vatican you say? Why on Earth would you ever leave God’s holiest city?”
Here she smiled slyly, “Mio signore forgive me again for my rude tongue. I shall answer your question. I come from Florentia. You would know it well as either a city of beauty or a city of sin.”
Her thick, arched brows raised up into an inquisitive expression as if she wanted to say more, but she held back the urge to ask what was really on her mind. To anyone around her, Artemisia would seem either brash, forward or rather ditzy in her mannerisms, she did it for a reason however. When people knew or felt that you were below them, they would take advantage of the situation and at fault express their most secretive of thoughts and actions.

With his one good eye Omero subtlety observed Artemisia for anything that may reveal her motives or true opinions; facial expressions, body language, voice tone. Through years of training and experience Omero was able to read people through these methods like an open book. However with Artemisia it was like reading a blank page; there was no information to be gained. It was clear that Artemisia had experience with hiding her emotions, meaning that she had something to hide.

"I have been to Florence numerous times, fortunately for me I have always known it as the city of beauty. As for why I am here instead of being back at the Vatican, the answer is simply; let just say I am here because I believe my skills are of better use out here then they are in the holy city". Omero's facial expression changed to a sly questioning look. "And what of you? What is your reasoning for coming on this voyage"?

As she listened to him speak, Artemisia couldn't help but to wonder if he knew anything about the destruction to the city. She doubted that he did, but she decided that if she had the chance to question him about it, she would make damned sure that she would ask him when she got the chance. After he answered her question about not being the Vatican, Omero inquired about her reason for coming aboard the ship. A pit dropped into her stomach, as she desperately sought for an answer that would suffice, yet one that had a grain of truth.

“I hope that you are here to help then, and not to meddle. As for me, the tavern I worked in burned to the ground in last evenings firestorm.” Artemisia withheld the fact that she believed it was actually a dragon instead. “I had no other place to go, and I figured I could be of some help be it through entertainment, cooking or help with sailing. I suppose you could say that I go wherever the wind takes me.” Again she smiled, though much softer, as if she were reminiscing within the confines of her mind.

"In which case I believe your service here will be greatly appreciated and you have my sympathises for what happened to the La Agua de Vida" Omero decided that the conversation had gone on long enough. He was still trying to keep a low profile and being in plain sight while talking may draw attention to him. He planned to continue this conversation at another time.

"Well I have greatly enjoyed talking with you, but I have wasted enough of your time and I am sure you would like to have some of the fine food and wine before the sailors finish it all" Omero laughed as he glanced over to the sailors whom half of which had passed out from drinking so much. Before leaving the conversation, Omero tried one last trick.

"Before I go, what did you say your family name was again"?

Her gaze locked his as he gave his sympathies for her loss of place of employment with utmost politeness and courtesy. When he mentioned that she would be of some help at least aboard the ship, she gave a chuckle with a joyous laugh. “I shall pray it to be true.”

The words had left her mouth before Artemisia could stop herself, “de Valleños, mi signore. And good evening to you, as well.” She gave a curt bow, and turned to wander off in the direction of the food. Artemisia hadn't taken more than five steps before the realization as to what she had done came over her. The blood left her fingers as a chill came over her, she hadn't given out her family name in quite a while.

As Omero left the conversation he couldn't help but feel as if he had heard that name before. “de Valleños". It sounded familiar, though Omero could not remember where he had heard it from...

{Collab by @MacabreFox and @TheDuncanMorgan}

Your losses were none, eh? Catarina was on the brink of informing the merry Italian of precicely what she had lost, but alas, her tongue was stilled by the approach of another curious onlooker. His starkly black attire made him all the more pale, the faint sheen of the cross at his back a whisper of his pious nature. Catarina raised a brow as both performer and newcomer immediately engaged in what she supposed was their native tongue--what was that all about? Perhaps they were already familiar with one another?

Ay, foreigners. If one could understand them at a glance, war would be much less common in the strange world of men. Catarina politely stepped away from the conversation, but not before casting a curious glance at yes, yet another foreigner that'd approached the singer. Honestly, given the man's boulder-like presence, she'd been surprised that the first words out of his mouth had been of proper language and not some nordic caveman speech. If the man cared to turn his head just enough to catch her walk away, she would speak to him with her eyes, which glinted mischeviously. "If we should be attacked, I'll know exactly who to hide behind."

Ultimately, Catarina found herself headed towards the prow of the ship--despite the slight chill rolling off the dark waves, she wouldn't return to that prison of water and wood that was the lower deck until it was absolutely nessesary. Though she was still trapped upon the water, on the deck she still had the sky. Black as it was, the sheet of evening was full of stars, each a mystical gem. Far as she grew from her homeland, that would at least remain the same.

"'Ey! That's mine!"

One of the crewman glared at her as she passed by, a juicy red apple in her hand. It'd been sitting so unguarded on the makeshift table next to him that it would have been an outright shame not to take it. And she was sure to inform him of that.

Just as the man was about to stand up and come at her, some fellow next to him took a hold of his shoulder. "There's plenty to go around--making a fuss over an apple and with a woman, no less, is just going to get you in trouble."

Catarina smiled broadly at the interruption before holding the fruit to her lips and breathing in its sweet, earthy scent. "Mercy me, such kindness! Had I been pressed, I might have offered up a kiss to soothe you."

As the two men blinked, Catarina laughed. She gave the lovely fruit a gentle kiss before tossing it back to its former owner.

"That one's trouble." She heard one of the fellows chuckle as she turned her back and again made her way towards the jutting point of the deck. Honestly, the little feud did make her feel a bit better, her heart faster and her skin warmer from the flush of blood. She needed all the distractions she could get.

There was a somber, yet lively, spirit which coursed through the crowd of sailors, explorers, adventurers, and hooligans. Most of the sailors weren’t dancing because of the work they’d just been put through, but they were drinking, as anyone could expect them to do. Emilio eyed the group carefully, seeing who was taking advantage of his gifts, who looked uncomfortable, and who was watching, like himself.

The words Cesar Luna spoke earlier in the deep purple light cast in dusk echoed now in Emilio’s mind. A saboteur was among them, and it was Emilio’s job to fish them out. There was no telling what an agent of Luna might do. A man like that, with ambition and ruthlessness like that, was a bad actor in any situation. However, he is also a coward, and a bit of a fool. Anything that was done in his name would be duplicitous, and rambunctious, but ultimately scatter-shot. Emilio was certain he would be able to undermine any level of interference the minor noble hoped to achieve. In his ever vast ruminations Emilio almost missed the beginnings of a concert.

A dark complected girl began singing and dancing and clattering a song Emilio knew well. He hummed along with the growing chorus and ate his pear in a contented humor. The singing stopped briefly, but was filled in later by a fiddle and a flute. Two sailors had been begrudgingly convinced in bringing out their instruments. Now that they played a delightful ditty, which clung to the night air like cloth to a babe, they seemed rather happy with themselves. The girl who started the whole engagement merely walked off, however, settled into a crowd of onlookers. A small circle had formed around the fire, where the playing was happening, and several men and women began dancing. The shadows played through the cracks of the human bulwark, and were cast across the dark, damp wood of the deck.

Emilio watched the shadows flit across the floor as the sailor sat closest to him lost the hand, slammed his fist against the table. A bottle of rum nearly fell off the edge, but Emilio managed to catch it by the neck as it approached the floor. He set the pear on the table and stabbed it with the knife. Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, Emilio chugged a mouthful of the liquid. “Calm down, sailor,” he mumbled as he placed the bottle back where it stood. The man groaned in agreement and chugged from the bottle himself as another hand was dealt. Emilio retrieved his pear and began cutting another piece.

He returned to watching the shadows play over the bow of the deck as he chewed on his fruit. His vision shook and his mind twitched when he noticed a swift shadow glide across to the port side of the ship. It quickly launched itself over the banister and into the ocean. It was difficult to remain focused on it in the dark, with his mind unable to truly distinguish what the fleeting figure was. After it went over the side Emilio looked at the rest of the crew realizing no one had seen it, and rightly so since the thing moved so fast. Emilio jogged across the deck and approached the port bow, leaning over the edge. All he could see were the white lined waves of blue crashing under the strength of the ship. He cut another piece of pear as his disappointment set in, and he began to doubt himself. He looked over the vast sum of water, toward the outlined mountains cast before the beaming moon; it’s reflected tail skimming across the tumultuous surface of the sea. Emilio felt like that light now; being caught between one world and the next, phasing in and out breathlessly. The melancholy could have brought him to tears if there were time. Emilio turned back to the ship and sighed into the cluttered air. The sounds of the crowd came in and out like waves do, crashing against his ear one minute, receding the next. The Dread Captain got a chuckle out of that; “an ocean within an ocean”. Across the silent darkness, however, toward the helm of the ship, Emilio could make out something else; something calm, something contented.

It was a girl, her short hair trailing with the wind behind her. Emilio spat a seed over the edge of the boat, considered the girl as she stood looking over the vastness. He felt a kinship with her then, their solemnness cultivating a union of the minds. He couldn’t see her face, but he could picture it, in manufactured and imagined isolation. He imagined a soft smile set under bright eyes. He could read the thoughts on the back of her head. She was looking for something.

Emilio approached in a swaying saunter, the height of the slope making him lean a little forward. He was busy peeling another piece of the pear, so he could not see if she anticipated him. He leaned on the banister next to her, staring out at the nearly invisible ripples of the waves beyond. He prepared for his statement by slanting his body toward her, still leaning on the thick wooden beam. The moon sparkled in her eyes and Emilio was almost caught off guard. He was able to snap his gaping mouth into a sly smile before she really looked at him.

“Are we boring you?” He asked with a dry humor.

All at once, the young woman's face crinkled into mirth. She gave him a slow tease of a once-over as if seeing him for the first time, stark blue eyes fixating not on his face, but his chest. On a woman, such a stare would be forward to the point of lewdness, but her gaze was distant, as if remembering something. Finally, she spoke, her lips turning up into a full smile.

"Our pious captain honors me with his concern." Her head tilted slightly as she regarded him aslant. "Or was it himself he was looking to entertain?"

Emilio could not remove his gaze from her own. Even as she partook in uninterrupted viewing of his body, the captain could not return the favor. There was an entrancing quality of her eyes dancing with the dim, crackling firelight; awash in the rage of the ocean beside her.

It was a confluence of aesthetic ravings which led to Emilio experiencing a notable shudder. He sighed as she asked her question. She was like a cobra, feinting before the lethal strike. He was suddenly bit by harsh fangs of embarrassment and quivered for a moment in weakness. That all went away, though, as it always does. He prevented any of the usual trappings of an amateur; he didn’t fidget, didn’t stir. His hands faithfully made their way around the rest of the fruit as he carved apart two pieces.

“I don’t think…” he dared look at her again. She looked darker then, as the lamp above them had gone out. Emilio glanced at the metal thing on the post, then back at the girl. “Would you hold this?” Emilio extended his hand out toward the girl, breaching the short gap between the two offering the pieces of fruit coupled with the knife which cleaved them. The heavy knife fell between her hands, and stuck into the sodden deck. He checked where it fell, and the girls hands, before getting about to his business.

Emilio cleaned his sticky hands on his blouse, and then brought the lamp down from it’s holdings. It’s hatch was curiously open. As he produced a matchbook, Emilio glanced back over to the horizon, it’s parade of lights bumping along with the movement of the boat.

Striiiicccckkhhhhhhhheee

The matchlight fluttered between Emilio’s hands as he brought it down to the candle. “What was I saying?” Emilio asked as the flame caught, and the lamp grew brighter.

"Something about me being lovely in the moonlight, I am sure." The woman's smile had not yet faded as she held out the dripping fruit for him. When he all-too-quickly noticed the knife missing, she shrugged and glanced to the floor where the blade lay.

"So sorry about that. Your burden was so slippery it quite ran away from my hands."

Emilio blinked at the light with an incredulous smile. He tried his best to ignore the depth of her words; the implications, and connotations, and denotations; all of it washed away in his relief as he closed the clasp on the lamp. He hung it back up.

Floating past the innuendo, he headed straight for the sentence he’d striven to say. “Right: I don’t think entertaining one or both of us is mutually exclusive.”

Embarrassment crept up beside Emilio, but he swatted her away. He hoped the girl wouldn’t look past the surface letters of the words. The pirate brought his calloused hands to those of the girl’s, making a bridge for the fruit to cross. Emilio bent to lift the knife, silently offered one of the pieces as he rose.

As if it would be that easy.

The audacious young lady lofted an innocent brow at the gesture, promptly pulling her comparatively small, delicate fingers away from him. She didn't seem quite as eager to dirty her clothes with the juice of the fruit as he'd been, her hands tactfully disappearing behind her dress. The line of her lips simultaneously quirked into a smirk as she leaned forward just the slightest bit, her lips parting.

And then she just remained there, all patience and expectation under the warmth of the lamplight.

Emilio physically recoiled in the slightest of fashions, taking a breath in with it. His head slanted back acutely, his eyes ran along the rim of her soft lips. Thoughts flooded through his mind and it all climaxed into a soft chuckle. He brought the pear slice to her mouth, stuck it between her teeth.

Emilio leaned back against the banister, crisply bit a chunk from the fruit he still held. He chewed with a silent satisfaction. “What’s your name?”

"Mm." The woman savored the fruit in her mouth, her eyes closing. If she heard his question, she ignored it, taking her sweet time chewing the simple piece and humming between swallows. "I know this fruit."

Her eyes were somehow brighter as her gaze turned back to him. "Fruits are like people, you know. There may be different kinds of each that are easy to tell apart, but every orchard has a local flavor you only recognize once you have partaken of it.

"Take this pear of yours. You think it is just another fruit Sintra has provided? No, I know the farmer. This is Herbeto's stock. It has... this very earthy taste, warm, full for a pear. If you're lucky, his orchard might still be there. He lives a few miles from town, has a lovely steading and that same bad habit of wiping everything on his hands off on his clothes. Don't know how his wife gets the stains out."

The smile on her face then was a private one. She finished the rest of her pear with a slow sort of reverence before she finally seemed to remember his question. Perhaps too much like him, she leaned against the railing and regarded him with a relaxed slump of her chin.

"I am Catarina, by the way. One of the rare and fearsome Santoses that scour the sea and fend off pirates in our attempts to do good and fair business."

Emilio finished the pear as she spoke about it, trying to find the flavors she mentioned. They didn’t quite ring out clearly to him. He couldn’t tell if it was his unrefined palate, or the subtlety of the flavors. Either way, he tucked his feathered Damascus steel dagger back into the cuff of his boot.

Emilio couldn’t help but chuckle at what he assumed was a joke. “Catarina,” he said as he inhaled the fresh sea air, “you won’t be doing any of those things on this trip.” His mouth curled into a tenuous smirk. In a flash of inspiration he spoke again, “Back to the pears, though. Pears and people,” he remarked. “The difference between pears and people is that people can lie. I’ve never known a pear to pretend to be a bean. But a person can pretend to be all sorts of things, can’t they?” Emilio almost betrayed his intention by the inflection of his voice. There was a perturbed inquisitiveness to it, which he immediately picked up on. It’d crossed his mind here and there as he spoke to Catarina, concerning where her allegiances lay. He wondered briefly if she knew Luna, and how he could figure out if she did.

Emilio decided to cover it up with his wit. “Unless, of course, you think that pear’s just an impostor. In which case I may feel better about having eaten it.”

She laughed easily enough, shaking her head. Something about her, though, had changed. Her casual posture was just a bit stiffer, her voice just a touch sharper. "You just don't know your fruits well enough yet. They can tell surprising lies about themselves--just more subtley."

She licked her lips, gaze returning to the sea. "But this is not a voyage frought with danger, correct? So why worry about intrigue, unless something is on the captain's mind? Where 'righteousness' abounds, condemnation is sure to follow."

Emilio followed her gaze out to the purple seascape. He did a double take when she said her last words. “And do you think I’m condemned? Or bound to be?” He asked with a faux humor.

"Have you forgotten your words already?" Catarina straightened up from the railing, chin proudly jutted upwards. Her pale fingers brushed the lacey yoke of her dress, as if about to expose her bare chest to the world. "I've made my penance! Have you?"

Then she was all mirth, dropping her hands to her hips. "I thought we were following a holy man, marked by God, no less, to Morocco. If I was mistaken, then perhaps we are all of us condemned."

He was caught. Emilio avoided eye contact during her impression to save himself the humiliation. Instead he looked back at the dampening party. In truth, he had forgotten. Those words meant nothing to him, and they cost only his breath. He would have said anything to flee the port and be exactly where he was now.

“You needn’t concern yourself with that, Catty.” He said with an ill conceived patronization. “The mission we head towards is not a religious one. The hardest thing you’ll have to deal with is keeping up with the sailors, missing your parents, being lonely. For some others it won’t be so easy. Some of us may not make it out alive.” With that Emilio’s mood shifted, to something deep and personal, something he couldn’t say.

He retrieved the reins of his confidence and used it to put a stop to the conversation. This girl was too insightful for a slightly tipsy engagement, he’d need to retreat. “At the end of this you’ll be sent home with a sack full of real. And then you can build yourself a new life. Doesn’t that make you happy?” He pushed himself off of the banister, stood up straight, and took another glance at the girl. She wore simple clothing, but it held some sophistication in the figure as well as it’s colors. He wondered who she was. “It should.” he said finally, and walked off toward the rest of the ship.

“Goodnight,” he called behind him in a defeated haze. It was ironic, since the reason he’d approached her in the first was to rid himself of that feeling. Things like that simply couldn’t be helped.

"You play a poor game of pretend." Catarina's voice bit from behind--of course she wouldn't be quieted so easily. "But if it rests your mind easier tonight, I am not here because I believed you. Silver cannot buy Sintra back, and those with nothing cling to the slightest hope, even when it is a false one. I will be watching you, Captain, so speak not of death by loneliness. Perhaps I will even visit your dreams."

---

Emilio made his way to the captain’s quarters, set directly below the bow. He was stopped as Epu sauntered up.

“Everything’s clear. Locks on all important areas.” The American said in Spanish.

“Good” Emilio responded, discontented. “Make sure the women and children have places to stay. Tell Leonard to do a patrol after everyone’s asleep.”

“He’s already on it.” Epu said quickly.

“Alright then. I’ll be off to bed, wake me if anything happens.” The Dread Captain Scar opened the wooden door to his quarters, managed to get inside by the grace of the door frame. Before Epu slipped away Emilio pulled on his shirt sleeve, remembering something important. “When you were downstairs, did you see anyone unfamiliar? Perhaps skulking?”

Epu thought for a moment, shook his head. “They’d be here if I did.” he responded jadedly.

Emilio nodded in agreement, “Goodnight, Epu.”

“Goodnight, boss.”

Stefano's model, a lush and fair-skinned beauty of much bigger bosoms than brains, screamed as her flesh dissolved. Her long pristine hair evaporated into the warming air, the roots catching on fire and then escaping the unfortunate woman. Stefano did not see the woman turn and bellow at him, with one side of her face exposing a gaping hole to her skull and tears and blood streaming out of her eyes. A tumultuous eruption of stone and brick collapsed the balcony, sending what was left of her careening down to the street below.
Stefano swerved as the first sounds of screaming and the first sight of flame reached him, stumbling backwards away from his unfinished portrait that no longer resembled the fire ravaged model. Another man was in the room with the eccentric noble - his recently hired bodyguard, a rough local by the name of Pedro. He was huge and menacing, with a shaved head and a mean mouth, but he understood the attraction of money and had been nothing but submissive to the rich Morosini. Now, he stood dumbfounded, trapped in his position by the door. Stefano quickly yelled at him to do something, running back to the decorated wall in the attic of the house he has purchased. However, neither man had time to mount any defence as the front wall and balcony crumbled suddenly under the weight of an unknown assailant, something supremely powerful and large. The shockwave from the move sent Stefano and Pedro falling uncontrollably backward, but luckily Stefano already had his back to the wall and he clutched onto the drapes hanging there with a new-found strength born out of terror. Pedro, on the other hand, cursed as he launched into a rough corner in the perpendicular hallway and was presumably knocked unconscious instantly. That was when Stefano opened his eyes against every instinct he had and looked ahead.

Only a small section of the beast was visible to Stefano, yet what the slighty overweight man saw was... truly spectacular, a description he could not find the words for - if they even existed. His face was a mere arm's length away from the underbelly of the creature, though the spines and scales that protruded around it swerved with magnificence, closing the gap from Stefano to the underbelly by more than half its distance. Each scale breathed and moved with independence, and Stefano thought he could glimpse pure fire between their vertices, as if the belly of the beast were a raging oven. The material that comprised the underbelly was unlike anything Stefano had seen before, it was sleek and rugged, smooth and ragged, all at the same time. In the brief few moments that the creature stood before Stefano, the rest of it completely obscured by the ceiling remaining and the beast itself, the man was filled with a surge of wonderment. In that moment he asserted that nothing he would ever see would match the beauty and tremendousness of the contradictory underbelly and incomprehensible, alive skin of the creature. In that moment he knew, he would go to the ends of the Earth to glimpse this creature again. Then a great force snatched the sight away from Stefano and the ceiling caved in on itself, the only thing protecting him from dying being the rubble that already lay on top of him and the considerable amount of fat on his belly. Nevertheless, a fragment of stone glanced his head and he knew no more.


Pedro's eyelids separated with difficulty a short time later, and were met by a devastating sight to say the least. The entire front wall and much of the exterior right wall had vanished into the streets below, and through the gaping chasm of the once luxurious penthouse all Pedro saw was embers and smoke residing in the remains of Sintra. Dazed natives stumbled through the cobbled streets, among the corpses of friends and family, and the merchants they bought fruit from, and the nobles who decreed their laws. The foremost emotions of the town were now sorrow and confusion as to just what transpired not long before, and would anyone ever recover? Pedro angled his head around, shaking off resting rubble from his aching shoulders and using his strength to burst free from his position in the damaged hallway. A frantic muttering came from the attic's main room around the corner, and Pedro raised his fists for the endless possibilities that could await for him there. He rounded the corner swiftly to see a half-crazed Stefano Morosini, his embroidered cloak in tatters beside him, his normally pristine hair gone wiry and disturbed. The middle-aged man sat in the far corner of the room, rubble on three sides of him, frenetically dabbing away at half of a canvas left over from the attack. Pedro raised his brow in curiosity. Stefano had seemed a controlled and perfectly sane man, but Pedro did not sense the same aura coming off of him than before.

"Senhor Morosini...?" The large thug-for-hire cautiously approached the rambling noble, now getting a visual on the art Stefano was deliriously creating. He had sketched with skill three large patches of skin, detailed with scales and reinforcement like three chain links in a suit of armour. In the narrow passages between the patches was a stream of orange, red and a mustard yellow mixed from what Stefano had salvaged from his artist set-up. Despite the hurriedness the flames were eye-catching and they seemed to burst out from behind the skin.

"Not a finished work, yet, Pedro. Not finished. As. Of. Yet!" Stefano pounced to his feet with a unprecedented energy behind his movements. He snatched the canvas from the corner and held it like a babe, the sketch nestled into his chest between the open linings of his waistcoat. "Come, friend, we can hardly stay here with this new redecoration - it's hideous. Though I do admit I can appreciate the expansive window. Come, now!" With that he swept past Pedro and proceeded to the furnished stairs.
Pedro was taken aback by his offhandedness. It was likely that many had died in the just recent event and the pompous man seemed to be enjoying it. People could be dead who Pedro had known his whole life, his friends... his mother.

"Meu Deus..." Pedro murmured with a childlike tone to his voice, not befitting of his current appearance - a large thug with scares on his face and dried blood smeared across his temple. Pedro trudged off after Stefano, though he dreaded the discoveries he might find in the devastation.


A considerable crowd was assembled in the palace courtyard, the gate to which was missing it's hinges, them being presumably burnt off. The attention of the people was directed at cooly-dressed tanned man who reminded Stefano of a Spaniard he once knew. The man was recognisably armed with an air of leadership to him.

"...Archbishop of Efeso himself has proclaimed this a divine judgement, directly from the scripture. We are heathens, it is our burden to bear. I've made my..." He continued to speak, preaching to the crowd about a subject contextually unknown to Stefano - but he could grasp it's meaning. The nobleman had scanned the people standing around the tanned man, including the speaker himself, and with the flames still reflected in the jittery Morosini's eye he suspected that they knew of the creature.
Pedro had caught up with Stefano and he threw a hand down on his shoulder, perhaps with more force than was necessary. Stefano seemed unaffected by it, however, though he spun to meet Pedro's worried gaze.

"I shall find what I am looking for here, Pedro, I am sure of it. Why else would they all be here? Why else..."

"Senhor, I am sorry. I have to go for now, look for my friends. My mother."

"Hm? Ah, of course. Such a terrible disaster. Yet..." He trailed off but Pedro noticed a glint in his eye that had not been there an hour earlier. There were more important things on his mind, however, and he chose instead to bid farewell and begin jogging away down the street.

"...exactly will the expedition be going?" A woman asked the spokesman. Stefano skipped quickly into the gap between the gates and approached a refined man he recognised from his short time in Sintra - a gentleman with a large beard and black cane.

"Greetings, man," Stefano spoke in a hushed whisper, with an ear still inclined to hear the armed speaker's reply to the woman, "An expedition, then? To what end?"

"Relief effort, they are asserting." The bearded man inclined his head toward Stefano, and meeting his eyes he added, "But I have my doubts. Especially with all the rumours of a Dragon."

A Dragon. Stefano perked up. He had known of Dragons and other fantastical beasts from the stories and etchings from Greek mythology and his Hellenic order, though could that other-wordly, awe-inspiring chest of the creature really belong to an existing Dragon? It was certainly a theory.
Stefano nodded to the bearded man and altered his eyeline to meet the speaker at the front.

"Morocco." The spokesman stated.


Stefano, though irritated about the lack of space in any of the living quarters, had secured himself a moderately sized corner on the galleon, albeit with some influence from his expansive currency. A large wooden partition obscured the corner from the other residents of the room, and as for the narrow gaps that were open Stefano had slipped a few coins to a native and asked him to stay close to the gaps and stop anyone if they attempted to enter. Wood tiles covered the entire room, stretching across the floor and around the ceiling to meet it's tail. The wood was not splintered or decrepit that he could see, and it did not produce any foul smell. A portion of the corner had been taken up by several sheets of linen and an expensive goat-skin blanket of high quality. Stefano eyed his prized half-canvas that he had carried with him for a short while now, and seeing a necessity to be performed - Stefano moved it from from it's position and placed it within plain sight of his bed. Stefano sighed and stared at it for a few minutes, wonderment still in his mind from the memory the painting gave to him.
This is the only way I will have any chance of seeing it again. This Dragon or whatever it is. No matter the cost, I need to do this.

A distance away, Pedro knelt on a blood-stained carpet. Much of the wood comprising the hut had fallen away into the pile of rubble and material outside. Tears ran down the thug-for-hire's face, and had been doing so for more time than Pedro would have wanted. The charred corpse of his mother lay bent and broken before him, her mouth angled in a horrific scream that pierced the very integrity of Pedro's soul. He felt only pain, hopelessness, and a rising anger.
Stefano felt only desire.

The time that had passed before Artemisia located the food was short, as her hunger drove her to the overwhelming scent of savory meals waiting to be consumed by her hungry stomach. She found the deck where the food had been laid out. She circled the long, rough hewn table twice before settling on a leg of chicken, an apple, a bread roll, a hunk of cheese, and mugful of mead. She sat down near some of the sailors, and while a few winked and smiled at her, she ignored them as she didn't have the time to acknowledge them in their foolery. Instead, Artemisia scarfed her meal down in a ravenous manner, as if she hadn't eaten for days. Rather, it was the stress of the previous nights events that triggered her deep appetite.

As she sat and ate her food, Artemisia reflected back to the terrorizing night prior. She couldn't comprehend as to what beast or man device could be capable of such destruction. The gears in her mind turned and cranked as she tried to find a suitable answer. But the only explanation that would suffice, was a dragon. And even though it was a mythical being, real or not, the bellowing roar that had filled the air, still echoed freshly in her mind. The sound alone as she had knelt within the castle fortress along with the other townsfolk, bothered her. She wondered if there was a way to manufacture that sound from the hands of man. To her knowledge, no war machine nor army had such capabilities, lest they composed something like a fireball flinging trebuchet and managed to make it fly. And that, she found highly unlikely.

Upon finishing her meal, the only things left on her plate were an apple core and the chicken bone leg, of which she had picked clean. Artemisia simply chucked the left overs, over the side of the boat. She turned about and scanned the deck of The Burning Bitch, the evening had begun to wind down, most of the people on board had gone below into the cabins for sleep. But the moon had just risen at it's highest and the stars seemed ever brighter as the ship glided smoothly through the black water below.

From where she stood, Artemisia eyed the rigging that led up to the crows nest. Even though the climb to the top was high and with the risk of possibly falling off, she felt that she could reach the top, or at least climb high enough to get a better view of the stars. Darting forth as she was overtaken by curious zeal, Artemisia circled the center mast. The mast alone towered high above her, but a ladder nailed to the mast reached only to the closest platform, with ropes being the only way to scramble to the top.

Her small hands clasped the hewn boards between her hands and inched her way up to the first platform. Here, she sat down and looked out over the water. From here, Sintra had finally disappeared, all lights of civilization long gone. There was no turning back. And honestly, that was fine with Artemisia. She really, truly, had nothing left to lose. Except herself. She had no idea if Apollo was alive, hell, she had seen him only eleven years ago when Don Gonzalves had sent him off to the military academy in Spain to be trained as a soldier, and to be raised “a proper man”. The cool wind off the waters whipped her hair about her face as she stared hard up at the moon. She sighed, drawing her knees to her chest and rested her head upon the tops of her knees as she did so.

“Oh Goddess, if you can hear me now. Know that I am your child, my heavenly mother. I am alone, without love, without guidance on this new journey. I ask that you keep over me, and watch me whilst I slumber. Protect me from harm, and show me the path on which I must follow.” As she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. After all, who she prayed to, was considered blasphemy. And if she were caught, death or the inquisition would follow suit. She felt so small under the luminous black sky that was the world.

Alastair Kenelm – The Burned Bitch

Alastair spent the early half of the evening laid in one of the gun deck’s many hammocks, trying to catch up on missed sleep. He found it somewhat soothing as he was gently rocked by the ocean waves, with the light smell of sea salt lingering on the breeze to remind him of a place he once called home. Were it not for the loud thundering of footsteps overhead and the chorus of drunken slurs he would have dozed off long before. “It’s only the first night, it won’t be like this every night.” he quietly assured himself. He went to close his eyes once again but they caught sight of a sudden movement. A shadow fell past the window to his right and caused him to sit upright. ‘Man overboard?’ he wondered. He sat still for several minutes whilst staring at the windows, waiting for any further sights. He even tried using his Raven’s Eye, but could not see anything immediately suspicious. He knew it was probably nothing, but experience told him that it would be better to stay up just in case. So then, with an audible sigh, he prepared himself to get up. Though he was agile for his age he felt uneasy climbing in and out of the hammock, and was thus forced to reach for the nearby beam to ready himself. With the rough wooden surface proving some support he carefully and slowly tried to exit the hammock but, much to the amusement of a couple of young girls, failed spectacularly.

THOOOOMP!

Alastair fell like a dead weight, landing on his side with absolutely no grace. He winced as he felt a pain in his right shoulder, but a couple of limbering movements let him know that he had not done anything serious to it. “Fuck I’m getting old.” He muttered to the onlookers as much as he did himself. Though they smiled in response, the two girls went back to simply chatting rather than trying to help the old man up. Not that he needed help. As he clambered to his feet he begun to pick at the splinters that were now embedded in his hand, snarling slightly as he touched each wooden fragment in turn. He had a balm in his bag that was perfect for this situation, but stopped short of pulling it out. Medicines were worth a fair bit, and if someone saw that he had some then they might try to steal them. That in itself did not concern him much, but that would lead them to find other strange items like crushed bones and small scrolls depicting runes. If anyone was to discover that he held such things he would no doubt find himself in a world of trouble, especially with an inquisitor on board.

Accepting that he couldn’t use his balm, he opted for the next best thing: booze. Heading upstairs was probably the easiest way to find out whether someone had gone overboard anyway. He passed a motley collection of crewmates on his way to the top deck, most now too drunk to keep their sea-legs. He even passed a few couples being somewhat lewd in the darker recesses of the ship, and wondered to himself what the captain would do if he caught such acts. Was the captain really content with half his crew drinking and fucking themselves to oblivion? Regardless, this was likely to be an interesting voyage. Alastair continued along a narrow hallway but, to his dismay, another shadow dashed across the corner of his vision. He instinctively stepped to the side and placed his back against the wall, looking around frantically with wide blue eyes. He thought the shadow had come from his left and headed towards the rear of the ship. But there was nothing. In the corner, where he thought it had headed, sailors continued their acts unphased and uninterrupted, as if it had only been him that spotted it. He took a deep breath and slowly released his grasp on the hilt of his khopesh. He had not properly slept in two days, and he realised it was probably just the exhaustion causing him to see things.

Reaching the top deck he found that the behaviour was moderately better, and that the atmosphere was more pleasant and lively, probably due to the immediate presence of authority. He tried to nod to the captain as he passed, but Emilio was clearly too busy exchanging words with an attractive young girl. He eventually found himself a seat at table surrounded by burly men, and he had travelled on enough boats and stayed at enough ports to recognise these men as sailors. “Having a good night lads?” he asked, snatching one of the vacant bottles of wine from the table, “Who am I kidding? Of course you fucking are!” The tipsy sailors cheered at the sentiment and a couple chinked bottles with the newcomer. It was such an easy thing to make friends with a bunch of drunks.

Leonard Comstock was mulling over a flask of rum as he noticed his Captain come back from the bow of the ship, looking rather dejected. As the stocky, yet lithe looking Dread Captain retired to his room Epunamun returned from his second headcount of the night. Leo switched from the flask to his flint-lock pistol and a dirty rag. He oiled the thing up in a slightly drunken concentration, salt and pepper speckled moustache tickling his nostrils as his focused chin sent the middle of his lips up into a frown. A small rumbling started near Leonard but he didn’t look up, then the whole table cheered and took swigs. Leonard had promised himself at an early age that he’d never be out drank at a table. He dropped the empty firearm and returned to the flask.

Before the lips of the flask could meet his own Leonard was distracted by a new profile. There were a handful of men at the table, all of them sailors; except for one man, a new face to the group. Leonard could tell by the man’s dress, his hair, his hands, that he was not a sailor. Leonard prided himself on his ability to tell everything about a man with a single look; at least, everything there is to tell. But with this man, Leonard couldn’t tell. A farmer? A fighter? A medicine man? Various possible lives laid strewn before Leonard, and as he tried to pinpoint the truth things became more and more blurry. This lost feeling came with vertigo, and an indelible mark, and it passed all within a moment.

Just as the men lowered their glasses Leonard was woken from his meditation, he took a sip of his own and grimaced at the man seated near him. This day wouldn’t be complete until he at least knew the man’s name. With that he could make something out.

Alastair noticed the man's grimace and for a moment he wondered if he was the cause. “Hello!” he said with small nod and the raising of his bottle, hoping to strike up a conversation. If this man had a problem with him, he would rather know sooner than later.

Leonard sat on the introduction for a moment, weighing his options of approach. He could be hostile, but since it was generally outside of his realm of comfort to bother a man who ain’t done nothing, he rethought that option. He could try for a play of familiarity, ease the name out that way. But something caught Leonard as he considered his options. A glint in the old man’s eye said something about his past, something undoubtedly true about him. There was a pain behind the coldness of his blues, a longing in the hewn of his beard; one which reminded Leonard of someone he once knew. There was only one option after that.

Smiling with expectant eyes Leonard slowly took the bottle from the man’s hand. Filled his grasp with the flask instead. “They call that a Dominican palo,” Leo said in his native English. Rust was worn on it from disuse, and he seemed more comfortable saying the Spanish part of the sentence. “Where are you from Old man?” he finished the sentence with a playful chuckle and a sip from the nearly stale wine.

Alastair smiled back, genuinely happy to hear someone talking in his native tongue. It was rare for him to come across someone that spoke English, and he knew he was probably a bit rusty himself. Before responding he took a big gulp of the flask, leaving a small gap between the actual flask and his lips; after all, he knew full well what kind of naughty diseases sailors picked up. “Wales, but I’ve not called it home in a long time.” he then replied with a strained voice, slightly taken back by the strength of the ‘Dominican palo’. He quickly cleared his throat before returning the question, “And yourself? It’s nice to hear someone speaking the King’s English again.”

He heard it then, as he had nearly expected, the Welsh accent. The one he hadn’t heard in decades. “I had a cousin of mine move out to marry a girl in Cardigan. He was accidentally killed by a horse.” Leonard said, taking another swig to distance himself from that life once more. “I was born in Henley, near Oxford; but I’ve never called it home, not really. These words though, this language, is more mine than it is the King’s, eh?”

Night went from dark to black as the two Brits spoke in the waning torch light. Most people had retired below deck, and Epu was going around shutting off lamps. Yet the quiet chattering of dry lips still seeped through the airiness of the crashing waves. A strained giggle came from the lone table as the boat rocked further out to sea and was followed by the completion of a story.

“... And so she starts to ride off on my horse, turns to me mid-canter, crushed under her dead nag, and shouts into the air, ‘you’ve got to be faster next time, Leo.’” Leonard said with an abundance of character, breaking down into a hearty laughter. Tears come to the rim of his eyes and fall into his mane, trailing dirt behind them. “Ah, she was a good, lass.” he chokingly reminisced. “Anyway, that’s how I figured out about it. My mum left a letter at an inn I used to peruse in Milan saying little Prissy was dead of the plague. Just like that, and everything becomes so clear. Or, at least you think it is, then moments like this can destroy your preconceptions of the world. I used to think things made sense, everyone got what they deserved. But if that were true I wouldn’t be on this boat right now, and neither would you.” The Oxford cadance was returning to him now even as he wanted to stop speaking. But he knew that being friendly and honest was the only way to get the same from this man.

Alastair’s mood turned somewhat sombre as Leonard’s story drew to a close. He had drunk too much alcohol for the philosophical words to take any meaning, but he understood the part about loss. “Aye,” he slurred “Losing loved ones is hard; most people on this ship have just found that out the hard way. You can distract yourself from the pain… but it never really goes away.” He mulled over his thoughts for a moment, and tried to think of other words to say, but with each passing second he slowly began to forget what Leonard had even said. He resorted to finishing with a delayed burp instead, one that was acidic enough to burn his own throat and make his nose twitch at the stench.

Leonard clasped his new friends shoulder and bellowed a healthy “ho, ho, hoooo!” He finished the rest of his palo and set it on the table. “Now you’re the sort of man I needed to know on a trip like this.” Epu made his way over silently, bent into Leonards ear during the break in conversation to remind him of the patrol; not that he particularly needed a reminder. “Yes, yes,” he said to Epu. “Come, walk with me. I’ll take you to your bed.” Leonard said as he stood the man up by the shoulders along with him. “By the way, ol’ chum, what shall I call you? My father said you should never end a night of drinking with a man without knowing his name.”

Alastair raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise as he realised the two had yet to share names. “Alastair, Alastair Kenelm,” he announced as clearly as he could “And yourself?”

“Leonard Comstock,” Leo responded with a cheeky smile, “and it is a…”

Leonard wasn’t sure whether he should stop talking or not. Just as he and Alastair reached the stairway down into the ship there was a sudden crashing far off toward the stern, but even farther off. It broke through the hilly surface of the water with ease, rising high into the air and arching toward the center of the boat. It would have been impossible to see against the backdrop the sky were it not for the crimson light emitting from it. The light shined from the reflected surfaces of the human-sized shape as it flew overhead. Leonard sobered up rather quickly and yelled for Alistair to go down the stairs. Just as he did the thing made ship-fall. It crushed the floorboards as it unnaturally slowed it’s fall to the center of the deck. One of the splintered boards spun toward Leonard and hit him across the back as he rushed down the stairway, forcing him to lose his footing and slide down a couple of steps.

It’s black-steel booted feet regained balance on the destroyed wood, the whole of it’s unusually tall metal body dripping with sea water. It dried it’s lance by spinning it then slicing outward. Leonard peaked from the stairwell, breath as hard as could be, and saw the strange thing only yards away, mere feet from the Captain's quarters. The lights inside the quarters were on, which concerned Leonard, but not as much as the disembodied ebony-plated suit which stood so clearly before him. Black smoke emanated from it’s hinges with sparks of red intermingled there. Leonard’s eyes grew wide and scanned the wooden step in front of him for answers. When it yielded none Leonard turned to Alistair at the bottom of the stairs.

Catching his breath, he looked on the verge of lost; “we’ll need guns”, was all he could say.

Shadows lurk in the dark and creaky corners, of that one could always be sure. Emilio was sure of that as he set his matted head to rest on the skinny down pillow. He hadn’t felt this sort of comfort in months. The cushioned mattress sung out to his muscles and eased them into submission. Each stitching in the undoubtedly high thread count of his sheets wrapped him up in serenity. He felt comforted, like he was shielded in his mother’s arms once again. Emilio thought he could smell her perfume as the last of his waking consciousness drifted off into the ever expanding dreamscape.

In fact, it wasn’t his mother’s perfume.

Emilio was able to grab the butt of his pistol as the edge of the crescent shaped knife shaved his neck. It drew blood, and the point curved over his throat poked at the dimple of his adam’s apple.

“If you scream, Signor Cicatrise, I’ll be forced to make you a new mouth.” Said a silky voice in a hard Spanish.

Emilio’s eyes opened steadily, found the dark voice which spoke to him. It was a woman, clad in black leather, with draping dark hair tied mostly in a bun. Her lips were a crimson red and dark makeup shadowed her eyelids. If she were beautiful it was hard to tell through the smoky darkness of the room. Emilio already had his pistol readied against her abdomen.

“I won’t need to scream.” He responded easily.

---

Epu was at the bow with the navigator, a smart young man named Pablo, when he heard the metallic thrusting of energy from down the ship. He headed to the bannister overlooking the main deck, half expecting to see Leonard and his new friend splayed on the floor covered in screws, and bolts, and whatever else they had piled in one of the barrels. Instead Epu witnessed something he’d never seen before. Among the broken crates, and barrels, and the battered floorboards was a nearly familiar shape. An ebony suit of armor, coupled with a huge riding lance, crunched it’s way out of the crater it’d made for itself. A hellish thunderstorm played on it’s armor as crackles of red sparked among the dense black fog which surrounded it. Pablo came up beside Epu at the bannister, was overwhelmed by fear and could only utter a deep gasp.

“Go warn the Captain.” Epu said in a flawed Portuguese as he unlatched the throwing axes he had hanging from his body. Pablo scampered down the steps but stopped at the corner as the armored figure approached his position. Epu took a deep breath and scaled the bannister.

“Over here, trespasser,” he said in Spanish, “You’ll be playing with me.”

As soon as his words breached the night air the figure turned to him, lifted the abnormally long lance toward Epu’s position. It crashed through the bannister as Epu avoided the blow, jumping into a roll which set him behind the massive figure. The axe that he threw as he landed lodged itself in one of the ebony plated figure’s knee joints. Instinctively Epu dodged toward the stern of the vessel, trying to draw the aggressor his way. By doing so he avoided a heavy strike which pulled up some more boards. Epu tried lodging another axe in the figure’s shoulder but only managed to make the axe ricochet off of the finely angled armor. The figure struggled to move with the axe in it’s knee, but pressed it’s attack anyway. Epu crossed the deck and doubled back toward the bow, jumping over a table, and grabbing a carbine housed there as he did. He turned as quickly as he could, aimed the sights, pulled back the hammer. The smoky figure smashed through crates on it’s rampage toward the American, it’s faceless visage intent on his position. Epu pulled the trigger:



It wasn’t loaded. Epu prepared for an overhead strike, one which he was sure he couldn’t block, as he saw a truly familiar figure come up the steps from below.



Went the blunderbuss as it sent shrapnel into the armor. Leonard dropped the big gun and pulled his pistol out, fired once at the back of the thing’s head. It turned with a violent reaction and came rampaging after Leonard, who’d already taken his cue to start running.

---

“I’m not here to fight you, Dread Captain.” The woman said as she heard the commotion begin outside. Emilio thought better of looking to see what he could, as raising his head even a little would begin an enduring tracheotomy.

“Then why is my first mate getting ready for a fight?” Emilio asked.

“The same reason why I’m here and not stowed away in your galley. I was paid to do something to the Padre Etemo—lead you into an ambush—but you have a visitor. One which will sink your ship if I don’t help you.” The woman responded.

“And why do you have a knife to my throat?” Emilio asked with an indefinable humor. His heart began to beat quickly as he ran through all the options.

“I need to make sure you won’t just kill me. And I need to make sure you’d hear me out.”

“And is that all I needed to hear?”

“Not quite, but suffice it to say for now that you’re currently harboring a rogue Harbinger. One which won’t hesitate to kill everyone on this vessel and more to get to you.” Their eyes met then, as she told him the truth. He could sense her sincerity, her fear. It radiated from her well-manicured fingers, through the knife, and into Emilio’s jaw.

“You’re Luna’s agent, aren’t you?” Emilio asked as he felt the tension on the knife ease up.

“Please, I serve no man.” She said with a huff as she retraced the dagger and tucked it in one of the many holsters clasped to her body. “Especially not a rat-man, like him.” She’d made her way over to the door and peaked through the windows.

Emilio made a quizzical face as he rose from the bed. This woman was not normal, of that he could be sure. “I promised Luna I’d kill anyone he sent who got in my way.” He said as he stood, weighing the pistol in his hand then holstering it in the sash tied across his waist.

“If it makes you feel any better, think of me as another one of your passengers.”

Emilio chuckled in response, “It doesn’t. Passengers of mine don’t usually set the ship up for an ambush. Speaking of which…”

“Not now! If I must prove my usefulness to you, I will; but until then, you’ll just have to trust me.” She rebutted with a pertinent impatience.

“I don’t trust easily.” Emilio said grabbing his scimitar from the long dinner table near his bed. There was a hard knocking on the door, a rushed adolescent voice pouring Portuguese words over the other side of the wooden entry way. More rushed knocking.

“I know. But I’m the only way you’ll make it to Morocco safely now, like it or not. And if we spend any more time arguing everyone on this boat will die, except the Harbinger.” Emilio stayed quiet for some moments, interspersed and interrupted by scattershot knocks at the door and muffled groanings from beyond the wall. A shot went off, then another; Emilio recoiling with each.

“Fine. Let the boy in.” the Dread Pirate relented, pointing toward the kid behind the door. Pablo spilled in like a flood, the door slamming behind him.

“A monster! Sir, it’s a monster.” Was all the boy could breathe as he leant against the dinner table on the precipice of hyperventilating. Emilio patted the boy on the shoulder as he walked toward the entrance, eyes focusing on the piercingly dark eyes of the mysterious woman who held on steadily to the door. Time seemed to slow for him then as he picked up the blunderbuss he’d brought up from the gunnery. Holding his scimitar under his shoulder Emilio readied the firearm and pointed it toward the closed door, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He nodded toward the woman, which seemed to bring time back to normal.

“I’ll need you to distract him.” The woman said in a cracking whisper, her fear getting the better of her ability to speak confidently.

“We’ll do one better than that.” Emilio responded with a sly smile. The door opened and fresh rain sprinkled through the space as a new wind swept across the deck. Emilio stepped out onto what looked like a warzone. Epu had upturned a table and was taking pot shots toward the stern with several other men next to him. From above Emilio could hear grunts and brisk movements. Crashing wood broke through the relative silence and brought with it a hail of zinging gunfire. The moon’s light surprised the Dread Captain as it nearly blinded him.

“Ha! I got you now” Leonard said in a tired English from above. Emilio glanced up in time to see his Boatswain making the same jump Epu and Emilio himself had made this very same day (over the bannister and onto the main deck), but this time followed by a trail of fire and kinetic force. A huge explosion rocked the room behind Emilio and he stumbled forward with the woman behind him. The roof of the room collapsed and brought the Harbinger down with it, all atop poor Pablo unfortunately. Emilio felt the boy’s death like a palpitation; it rattled him as he dove atop Leo.

“What say we get a drink first, boss.” Leonard coughed as he tried to rise. He was caught by a drilling pain in his knee and ankle, so he toppled behind a post with a laughing groan. “Ah, I’m getting too old for this shite.”

Among the fiery wreckage of blood, and flesh, and wood, and metal still hummed a dark soul. It's effervescent nature pulling the burnt and distorted metal hunks back toward itself; in doing so it reformed the armor and clattered from the wreckage searching for it's lance, which remained lodged somewhere in the navigation room above. Emilio stood with the help of the mysterious woman, who held his scimitar in her other hand. He carefully aimed a shot and blasted the facade of his quarters, breaking out the tiny stain glass windows and parts of the wall. The figure seemed mostly unfazed. Emilio handed the firearm to Leonard behind him and took the scimitar from the woman.

"If there's something you're meant to be doing, I'd start doing it now." he said as he worked the kinks from his shoulders and back. The Harbinger came forth slowly-- missing one hand, legs slightly uneven--, it clasped at the charred frame as it passed through the doorway. The woman went up the stairway to the right, toward the poop deck.

A metallic grinding sound came from the Harbinger's core. Seeming to find a rhythm it began forming proper human sounds. "--Peeerrissh. You all shall perish!" It finally said in a dark, echoing tone.

Stefano awoke to sweat and must and the steady careening of the galleon as it swept over water. He was confused to a great extent because he had proceeded through the events of the past twenty four hours with an all-encompassing yearn to start chasing the dragon - or whatever it was. Stefano, in the sea-smelling corner of the gun deck in which he lay, only now looked back over the day with a sane outlook. A man looking at his life from the outside must have seen an eccentric artist and nobleman, calmly travelling around the world fuelled by his wealth and spokesmanship. Then a firestorm ravages a coastal town in Portugal and the nobleman abandons everything with great impulsiveness and secures a place on a pirate-led ship destined for Africa.
Then again, one had not seen what Stefano had seen - and some stories of Ancient Greece stated that mythical and magical intrusions into often dull and melancholy lives could easily cause drastic actions to be taken.
Stefano did now regret some of his wild actions, and there was still a possibility that the trip to Morocco might simply be just a relief trip, but if there was any chance to see the majestic beast again, Stefano had to take it. He had found after the speech in the courtyard a large sack full of the Portuguese real that he had hidden underneath other baggage in the partially destroyed penthouse. Stefano had not seen the owner of the building that he had persuaded to rent the upper floor of his house to him, and one of the only explanations would be that the owner had met his demise in the onslaught - along with many other residents of Sintra.

The painting lay in plain sight of Stefano as he tried to sleep. He did not know how long he had lay in the corner of the deck, but three extractions out of his sack of money had been made by his makeshift guards, and the sun had indubitably dipped below the horizon. However, Stefano found the painting too intriguing to be simply turned away from and it was blocking his passage to slumber. He did not feel very tired, in truth, and some time he had spent asleep already during the day, yet he did not know what else to do.
Perhaps befriend some of my fellow passengers? He thought, turning over on his furnished cot. Stefano was rarely without a conversational partner on land, so why should it be different on water? And now that he had retreated from his state of mythical encapsulation he had several stories to tell of boat journeys around the coast of Candia and all around Europe.
Stefano propelled himself up, though he did fall back down on the sheets the first couple of times due to the lengthy time spent there and his not-so-ideal weight, and walked over to the sack of money just as one of the 'guards' sought to approach and presumably make another extraction.

"Senhor, you are up!" The Sintra native exclaimed in surprise. "Como está?"

"Bom, friend. Obrigado." Stefano could see plainly the 'guard' only wanted to take more money than he was promised for the job, and he cursed himself for foolishly leaving a sack full of money out for anyone to use. A dent had already been created in the top of the pile and Stefano did not know how he could prevent a strong-arm coming in and taking everything. He needed a trustworthy watchman like he had in most cities, a strong man of his own to look after his wealth and personal safety. Stefano might have considered the hired guard in front of him if he had not been stealing. He chose to get rid of him for the moment and begin to seek out a more appropriate source of aid.

"Desculpe, friend, but I have no further need of your services. You are dismissed, but I may require your help in the future." Stefano smiled as politely as he could, prompting a hard stare followed by a series of grumbles by the Portuguese man who trudged off into the inner area of the room.
Stefano looked at the sack and the half-destroyed canvas and hurriedly piled them on top of each other in his hands. There was nothing else of much value he thought a man so inclined might steal, so he patted down his slightly burnt waistcoat and breeches and left the obscured corner.



Stefano hopped up the access stairs to the main deck, his sack re-tied and the painting turned into his chest as to not arouse any of the staff's suspicions if they glimpsed the dragon mural inscribed upon it. He reached the main deck as a couple of sailors barraged past him - outright fear on their faces. Stefano began to ask them what the problem is but they were gone before he could even begin. Stefano continued up the stairwell towards the bow end of the galleon, a new-found curiosity egging him on.
He creased the floor of the main deck and turned towards a tumultuous outbreak of shouting, shooting and the loud deflections of armour. Stefano was shocked that this event had not woken him before, but perhaps the action had not been long occurring. He saw the disembodied armour as it collapsed into one of the lower quarters below.
"Me tous Theoús!" Stefano yelled in Greek. By the Gods, indeed, as it seemed between the dragon and the impossibly resilient suit of armour - Gods in one form or another had finally graced the world.

The entire bottom floor had already been completely engulfed in flames. Smoke bellowed out from the house causing several of the inquisition soldiers to violently cough. The family had retreated upstairs to escape the flames and Omero could hear their cries for help coming from above. Omero watched as the fire continued to devour the house. Though he showed no signs of it, he was in turmoil. Was this truly justice? Omero didn’t even know what this man had been accused of and yet he had been ordered to execute him before even giving him a trial. Even if the man was unquestionably guilty, why did his family have to share the same grisly fate, were they too guilty? What if Archippo De Santis was wrong? Omero thought, what if these people were not guilty, what if they… No. If the church deemed this man as an evil doer then he would trust in their judgement. The cries for help soon changed to screams of agony as the flames rose into the second floor. Normally Omero would take pleasure when justice was being done upon evil doers, so why was it that all he felt was shame and guilt…

Omero woke to sound of shattering wood and gunfire. It was clear the ship was under attack, most likely from pirates or brigands. Omero instinctively grabbed his sword and crossbow and ran up to the top deck. As Omero made his way up he could only wonder what was going on, on the deck above; it sounded as if the ship was being completely torn apart, though Omero could hear no cannon fire or explosives. What force could possibly be causing so much damage? Once Omero had made his way to the top deck, he soon discovered who the attacker was. It appeared to be a disembodied ebony-plated suit of armour, wielding an abnormally long lance with black smoke and red sparks emanated from its hinges. Needless to say, it was not human.

Omero had a great deal of knowledge and experience on monsters and demons; their appearances, their intelligence, their deadliness and most importantly their weaknesses. But this…Omero had never seen nor heard of anything like this before. Both Epunamun and Leonard were fighting this giant monstrosity head on. Leonard had distracted the attention of the ebony cladded knight as he fired a pistol into the back of its head before running towards the quarter deck, with the ebony knight rampaging after him. Omero readied his crossbow. Giving the circumstances Omero decided that keeping a low profile wasn’t at the top of his priorities at the moment.

Omero knew that his crossbow didn’t have a hope in breaching the knight’s armour, besides there wasn’t even anything beneath the armour to harm. Though Omero had observed that the knight was having difficulty moving; one of Epunamun’s axes had lodged itself into one of the knight’s knee joints. If he could do the same with one of his crossbow bolts into another joint then he could at least slow it down. Omero aimed his crossbow, before lowering it again. Leonard had drawn the ebony knight to the quarter deck and even for Omero it would be an impossible shot at this angle. He needed a better vantage spot, and the mast provided the solution.

Omero started to climb the rigging, the battle continued to rage on bellow. Once Omero had reached the Fighting Top he heard an explosion from the deck bellow; it appeared that his efforts were for naught. Leonard had caused an explosion that had engulfed the ebony plated figure, causing it to collapse through the navigation deck and into the captain’s cabin bellow. The captain had appeared to have gotten out just in time. Omero relaxed and smiled to himself, it appeared he didn’t have to reveal his true identity afterall. As Omero decided to start heading back down the rigging he heard a dark echoing voice coming from where the captain’s cabin used to be.

"Peeerrissh. You all shall perish!"

Omero’s head spun round, the ebony knight had somehow survived the blast and was currently slowly walking forward towards the captain and Leonard.

Omero once again aimed his crossbow. This time he was ready.

High above the ocean’s water, Artemisia reclined lazily in the crow’s nest. The night had only seemed to grow darker, making the night sky and the horizon blend together in a seamless black void. She had one hand curled gently around a rope that passed below. It was as thick as her arm was wide. From here, she could watch the people on deck. Most had gone to bed, except for a few. A young Englishman, and an older gentleman with a beard were holding an intense conversation, most likely swapping tales. Her gaze shifted over to a tall native man on the navigational deck standing next to whom she assumed was the navigator.

Suddenly, a peculiar shape shot forth from the ocean. Her position high in the sky allowed her to see, even at a distance, all that occurred. She could barely tell what the being was, though she could make out unique red sparks that emanated and surrounded the being. Before she could call out to those below, the being slammed into the deck of the ship, sending boards and other shrapnel into the air. The impact from the being seemed to rock the ship, or at least Artemisia felt the implosion.
She forced herself to look over the side of the nest, and watched as the native man began to engage the being in combat. She could see that the being, held a heavy lance, and wore ebony armor that glistened and crackled with sparks the colour of blood, and then surrounded in heavy smoke. The native man fought the being with axes, and the two ensued a game of cat-and-mouse, though the being could only move so quickly. The native lodged one of his axes into the joint of the knee and that seemed to cause the being at least some discomfort. He almost met his demise had the Englishman not shot the being when his carbine jammed. Artemisia then spotted Omero, the Italian man with one eye that worked for the church; climbing the rigging up to the fighting top. She watched as he loaded his crossbow with a bolt and took aim.

“Peeerrissh… You all shall perish!” A strange, metallic voice filled the air, sending shivers up her arms and legs, and then crawling up her spine.
If there was anything Artemisia could do, it was by helping out in some way, instead of being a coward and useless. So she prompted that the best way to help, would be to draw the attention of the being away from the people on deck that were engaged in combat. Slipping over the basket of the crow’s nest, Artemisia shimmied down the ropes to the lift below her.

“Oye! Cabron! Tu madre es una girafa con cojones pequeñas!! Y tu padre es un bastardo de una ramera!” Her insults were not meant to offend, but rather to simply draw the beings attention away from the others. If anything she was afraid that with as much carnage and wreckage already wrought, the ship would be at risk of sinking.
Sliding below to the fighting top of the main mast, Artemisia continued her barrage of insults, “Mírate! Qué un chinga! Oye. Oye pinche cabron!” If there was anything the Spanish were good at, it was cursing. Here, she ended up in the fighting top alongside Omero. She gave him a wink as she held onto the ropes to steady herself.

“Fancy seeing you here, especially with that.” She nodded her head at his crossbow, but said nothing further. She rummaged with one hand in her pocket, and pulled out some rocks. Why would Artemisia have rocks in her pocket? Well why would she not?! They were for throwing. Mostly for chucking a rock at a drunkard for too many catcalls or over-friendly hands. Now, she could use them to impede the being. Leaning her body against the mast, Artemisia began to lob her puny pebbles at the harbinger below.

Omero lined up his crossbow with the gap in-between the shoulder blade, if he got it jammed in there then it should stop the knight from being able to swing his lance properly, should the knight find it again.

“Mírate! Qué un chinga! Oye. Oye pinche cabron!”

Omero was put off by a barrage of Spanish insults. Though Omero's Spanish was only decent, he could make out enough of the words to know that what was being said was unpleasant to say the least. Omero looked away from his crossbow to see Artemisia in the fighting top alongside Omero. She had shimmied down the ropes from the crows nest and had now started to throw pebbles at the armoured knight bellow. Omero had been slightly surprised at her sudden appearance, where had she come from? How long had she been in the crows nest above?

“Fancy seeing you here, especially with that.” She said nodding her head at his crossbow.

Omero smiled "Well no offence, but I get the feeling that this will be a bit more effective than that" Omero said humorously as he gestured towards the small pebbles she was throwing at the knight bellow.

As Artemisia continued to throw stones at the knight, which simply bounced off the knights armour. Omero once again lined up his crossbow. There was no point in hiding his true skills from her, she would soon know anyway.

"Lets just say I'm not a member of the church in the traditional sense" Omero said as he fire his crossbow where it directly lodged itself in-between the ebony knights shoulder plates. At the very least that would succeeded in slowing it's movements.

Emilio half forced a devilish smile across his darkening features. Rough clouds had started rolling nearer and nearer with every passing second that The Dread Pirate was out on the deck; it's own scattered wreckage a close semblance to the tumultuously churning clouds off the port aft. The rain droplets were getting larger and the deck more slippery. As the small waves turned larger, Emilio felt a growing sensation of dread. It ebbed and flowed as if he stood on the the very beach-head of fear; which was rocked back and forth by an even larger dread-- that of the vengeful papacy--, and that of Emilio's ever-steady confidence. The latter always wavered, revealing the frightened and dejected child underneath, but returned all the same. Like the flickering candlelight which never ceases. Oh, what Emilio would give now to see his mother again, to be lulled to sleep against her warm bosom. But that was all just a fantasy now.

Before this scarred, determined man stood a scarred and determined soul, the core of which hummed like the whirring of bees. As the smoke cleared Emilio could make out even more red sparks colliding in the empty spaces where armor should be, trying to make connections that wouldn't fit. Emilio chuckled as he thought of that. He and this Harbinger had more in common than either would care to admit.

"Yes," Emilio responded to the things ominous words, nodding his soaking head. "We shall perish. But we insist that you go first." Emilio finished loudly, shaking in the cold rain. His voice reached Leonard, and Epunamun and his men. They all chattered in shivering loyalty. "Get that gun loaded. Tell Epu to load a ball into the stern cannon" he whispered behind him.

"Aye, aye!" Leonard responded as he carefully stood and made his way across the deck. As he did he noticed two figures among the fighting top. He raised only an eyebrow, realizing something rather important. They'd need the rest of the crew if they wanted to outrun the storm.

Echoed slurs came from somewhere above and behind, Emilio couldn't look, the Harbinger had already started upon him. Without it's lance and left arm, it seemed unburdened. The ax which had once impeded it's movement was blow away by the blast. It ran forward at an uncanny speed, it's right arm outstretched to deliver a surely damaging blow. The sharp edges in the knuckles of the hand glistened in the rain as it hurtled toward Emilio. The Dread Captain stood as steady as he could for as long as he could, biding his time. He needed to make sure the thing was in the perfect position before he moved. Thankfully that time came sooner and easier due to a crossbow bolt clinking into the Harbinger's shoulder. It was a near perfect shot, one which Emilio had no time to admire. He rolled forward under the Harbinger's missing hand and behind him. He sliced at the things shin as he passed, feeling nothing but resistance. His sword would be useless. He ran as he stood back up, toward the back wall. The Harbinger noticed the two figures among the masts, flicked his hand at the barrel next to him, forcing the hefty wooden cylinder at the fighting top. It crashed into the main top yard and sent all sorts of debris and metal castings and hooks down into the fighting top. Emilio noticed the attack, eyes flicking wildly to catch every motion. He gasped as he noticed the source of the conflict.

"Damn it!" He said to himself as he walked forward. He sliced at the Harbinger's back, bringing it's attention around. As he moved back he screamed up to the figures among the fighting top, "Get down from there, damn you! We need those masts intact!"

Epu yelled in response with the Captain, "Cease fire!"

The Harbinger tried for a punch but couldn't lift his arm high enough due to the obstruction. Another attempt bent then snapped the bolt stuck in the shoulder joint and nearly got at Emilio. He ducked and rolled again, this time shorter, and elbowed behind the knee, making the Harbinger loose some balance. It regained balance rather easily and grasped downward with the hand it didn't have. Emilio was able to somersault away from the action, nearly loosing the grip on his scimitar as he did. He fell onto the railing and regained his breath as the Harbinger found it's bearings again; it's empty, sparkling visage turning mechanically toward Emilio.

From up above, Artemisia watched as she ran out of pebbles, the knightly being turned and took note of their presence. The bolt Omero released struck the being between the shoulder blades, a perfect strike. She gave a cheer of excitement only to cry out instead, “Look out!”
Artemisia ducked from the flying barrel that the knight had sent their way with a flick of his wrist. Astonished and mortified as the barrel imploded above the fighting top, raining planks, bolts and screws, and the rest of it's content onto the deck below, Artemisia could only marvel at the capabilities of this being.

It had begun to rain heavily, and with that, the waves began to rise ever higher. The footing on the deck, from where she could see, was already wet from the rolling waves. The Captain called up to them, “Get down from there, damn you! We need those masts!”

Kneeling from view in the basket of the fighting top, Artemisia looked up at Omero, fear flickering in her eyes, “What do we do?” She tried to keep the panic from creeping in, but the cold rain only made her tremble harder. “We’ll have to get down and face that thing! We’re sitting ducks in a pond staying here.”

Omero couldn't agree more. While the fighting top provided a good position from above to fire down on the monster, it also meant there was no way to defend against it's attacks. Omero had found that out the hard way. Part of the splintered wood from the barrel that had been thrown, had embedded itself into the left side of Omero's chest, fortunately Omero could tell it hadn't hit any of his organs, though he was loosing blood fast. Omero turned to Artemisia, Omero could see a look of fear in her eyes. The look was all to familiar; it reminded Omero of the first time he had faced a monster. Though he had learnt from latter experience not to let fear take control, as soon as you do, you become rash, reckless and unable to think clearly.

"Agreed, we need to get down to the deck as soon as we can. We will be of more use fighting down there than we will being dead up here" Omero spoke clearly and with a voice of authority, trying his best to hide the great pain in his side. "Though, I am going to need some help getting down" Omero said as he gestured towards the piece of wood that had deeply embedded into his side, the blood being made more clear by the water from the rain.

If there was one thing that Artemisia feared the most, it was dying. And dying alone. She had seen too much death for her lifetime. There were very few people in her life that she had liked or even cared for after sailing to Portugal those many years ago. She waited in earnest for a reply from Omero, and she received a nerve-wrecking response. The Italian man was injured, and it was not a petty wound at that. A wooden piece of broken barrel had lodged into his side. From the grimace on his face, Artemisia knew that he was wounded severely, so she could only do one thing when he asked for her help getting down.
“Signore, I ask that you trust me with this. I have never done this on a ship. But I have done this in the back-alley streets.” She rose up from the fighting top basket, reached high up her skirt, and pulled a dagger out from underneath. In a blink of an eye, Artemisia had quickly cut away a rope above her reach. The length of the rope was long enough to wrap around her and Omero.

Slipping back into the basket of the fighting top, Artemisia extended the rope, and wrapped it firmly about his torso, carefully avoiding his wound. In fact, she tied the rope above his wound to create a natural tourniquet. Her lips were pursed out of pure concentration and fear. Many times before, Artemisia had found herself in a hard place and a rock. The only person she ever relied on was herself. There was no one to look out for her, except for her. And they would die, either by continued attack or by hypothermia and bleeding out.

Rocking back onto her haunches, Artemisia looked at her crafty work and nodded with confidence. The knots she had tied would hold, of that she was certain. Now the only thing left to do…

“Signore, we must jump, the rope will carry us far enough, and if we time it right, we can land where we need to. Behind the captain or beyond, no? What do you say?” She stood cautiously and offered her hand out to him.
"Agreed, we need to get down to the deck as soon as we can. We will be of more use fighting down there than we will being dead up here" Omero spoke clearly and with a voice of authority, trying his best to hide the great pain in his side. "Though, I am going to need some help getting down" Omero said as he gestured towards the wound.

Omero took her hand and allowed her to help him up, there was a jolt of pain in his side as he stood, though Omero did his best to ignore it. The plan to get down itself was a solid one, though if something went wrong it could be fatal. Omero smiled to himself; what was life without a few risks?

"Very well then, I'm ready when you are".

Pulling Omero close to her, she hooked her arm tightly around his torso, careful to avoid his injury. She had tied the rest of the rope around herself. Her eyes glanced out to the ocean, and watched the waves; trying to find a tempo with every rolling wave that slammed into The Burned Bitch. 1…2…3…4…5 Every five seconds, a wave lifted the ship and spilled water over the poop deck. At the bottom of the five, the ship dipped back down, riding with the waves. Artemisia looked to Omero, still counting in her head the seconds between each wave, “On my word.” Her voice trembled from the cold wet rain that had soaked her fine rag-tag silken clothes. Artemisia placed her foot on the rim of the basket and lead forward, still with one arm around Omero. “When we jump, cling to me.”

The Burned Bitch lifted high into the air as a wave came along, the fighting top moved with the ship, leaning far over into the ocean before beginning to right itself. 1…2…3…
“Now!” She shouted loudly, mainly out of fear, but to give her the courage to jump. She hefted Omero forward, the tipping of the ship would provide enough momentum to carry them away from the harbinger. She pressed the soles of her boots into the basket frame of the fighting top and sprang forward. They fell several feet before the rope grew taunt and swung out with the rocking of the ship. Her heart jumped to her throat as they swung out past the ship and over the water.

With careful precision as the ship began to tip the other way, she cut the rope they were on when they reached the lowest point of the pendulum which had carried them only mere fee from the deck. The fall to the deck was not far, though she wrapped her arms tightly about Omero to help minimize the impact of the fall.

Omero and Artemisia hit the deck of the ship, though it was not a gentle landing. Artemisia had wrapped her arms tightly about Omero to help minimize the impact of the fall, and Omero in turn had done the same. Omero had felt very little pain from the fall, though this was more likely because he was losing consciousness, he had lost too much blood and would soon pass out. Omero reached for one of his steel crossbow bolts and cut the rope Artemisia had skilfully tied with it. As Omero stood his vision blurred, it was only a matter of time before he would become unconscious, but Omero couldn't give in yet, he had to try and help stop this monster.

"I can't...give in...yet" Omero gasped as he once again lined up his crossbow, this time though his vision was blurry and hands were shaking. Even with Omero's master marksmanship skills a shot like this would be near impossible, but Omero had to try, he couldn't just leave everyone to the mercy of this monster. Omero fired and watched as the bolt bounced harmlessly off the armour. Omero started to fall backwards, he fell unconscious before he had even hit the floor.

Her head slammed into the wooden deck, causing Artemisia to see stars. She released Omero from her embrace, only to watch him stumble and then collapse. Knowing that he lost a significant amount of blood in a short period of time, concern filled her mind as she hoped he wouldn't bleed out on the deck. By some miracle they had landed some feet away from the native man, Englishman assembled around a cannon. Dragging Omero halfway into her lap, she placed her hands firmly atop his wound to slow the bleeding, his head cradled in the crook of her arm. From countless stabbing incidents to brutal bar fights, Artemisia was familiar with blood, enough not to make her queasy. Though, her hands were coloured red with Omero’s blood. She wanted so desperately to remove the shrapnel from his side, but she was afraid of causing more harm than good.

Instead, she simply sat behind the men with the cannon, a forlorn and distraught look on her face. Death had been an ever constant companion throughout her life. It had taken her mother and father, her brothers and sisters, and a few other people that had left an impact on her life. But they all had gone. Artemisia found herself between a hard place and a rock once more. The ship lifted again before falling back towards the ocean, sending a wave across the deck, soaking her to the bone.

Epunamun struggled to load and close the cannon in the blistering rain. As he finished he felt a strong breeze pass him overhead and heard a muffled *thump from behind. Epu might have thought that it was another attacker if he hadn't done a double take. In fact, two slightly familiar figures laid on the deck near him.

"Go check them." Epu commanded as he sat back against the makeshift barricade. He lifted himself slightly, peering just over the edge at the trudging fight his captain was engaged in. Epu heard shuffling near him and turned to see a girl, the one who'd started the festivities earlier.

"Get below deck," Epu said as he turned from her. "You have no place here."

Leonard came back above deck a moment later; disheveled, and slightly burnt. He quizzically looked at the girl, then the man laying on the forecastle deck behind them.

One of the sailors screamed through the whisteling wind, "he's hurt. Is the doctor okay?"

Leonard nodded as he took up position next to Epu. "Aye, he'll be here any moment. Get him below deck and into a hammock." Leonard ordered. The sailors begrudgingly lifted the man, trying their best to not upset his wound, and took him down the steps. Leonard glared across the ship and watched as Emilio dodged an oncoming claw strike, fleeing toward the quarter deck. Leonard breathed deliberately as he held onto the blunderbuss in his hands. "I'm going to relieve the boss-man." Leonard said in a fear speckled confidence. "I'll see you in the daylight, friend." Leonard said sweetly to Epu. The American nodded and rubbed Leonard's shoulder briefly. In just a few wet and quiet moments Leonard was gone, carefully sprinting down the deck toward the stern and his fate.

Rather dazed from the fall, Artemisia reluctantly let the sailors take Omero from her arms and carry him downstairs below. It was only till the native man ordered to her to get down stairs, and then she forced herself to get to her feet. In truth, she was useless now, as she had no weapon nor any other means to fight. Willingly, she ventured downstairs after the sailors to where the doctor would be in attendance.

{Collab by @The New Yorker, @TheDuncanMorgan, @MacabreFox }

"Waking up never seems to be any fun." Luke announced, as he stretched his pricking limbs from their cramped position inside a barrel. Having not heard about the voyage until it was too late to actually secure a spot, Luke decided the best way to join the crew would be to stowaway while they loaded the ship full of vital supplies needed for 'The Burning Bitch's' journey to wherever it was headed. He felt a tinge of guilt when he thought of the men who had to carry him onto the vessel, but with further reflection on the matter decided the men probably thought the barrel he was in was quite possibly the lightest one they had lifted all day. "There must be more, elegant, means of sneaking aboard ships than cramming myself into a barrel. Food for thought: no need concerning myself with past mistakes whilst the present seems to encourage many an opportunity for improvement." Luke spoke to himself like this often, it helped that he spoke in his native togune when he did so, others just brushed him off as a poor Frenchman who never learned their language and Luke seemed to be inclined to allow them this false truth as long as it could benefit him.

Upon Luke's awakening from his slumber all he could hear was shouting, and the rumbling of what he assumed to be The Burning Bitch's passengers and crew members alike celebrating just being alive on the seas; seamen seemed to always be willing to celebrate the smallest of things, and it always went hand in hand with an assortment of ales, rums, mead, and other drinks worth a crews time. In the midst of the ship's dance with the ocean Luke hopped up out of the barrel finally standing firm, which was planted on a not so steady footing. This is the same as any sea or land vessel would have during a journey. Luke however was already accustomed to maintaining his bearings in such situations, traveling to and from tutors who would teach him many a skill. Whether it was reading, writing, speaking a language, throwing knives, or swordplay, Luke seemed to always be studying something; as a Nobel should be, or at least how his family thought a Nobel should be. Just as he began to head up to the deck, where he assumed the festive noises were coming from, he felt the rumble of what could only mean trouble for the ship. Immediately Luke began to contemplate whether joining this crew was such a good idea. That's when he saw them, the sturdy looking men who were carrying what -by the looks of it- was the lifeless body of an inquisitor; though the missing eye suggested that he might be more than the mere clergy that always surrounded him growing up, and that of Sintra as well. Luke started to follow the group to see if there might be some sort of service he could offer, or at least to find out what was going on that this man would be so mortally wounded. The doctor, who seemed to be ready for such a man to arrive, helped to level out the uneasy nerves of Luke- who's veins always seem to become raging rapids whenever someone was injured around him- simply by working on the man's injury. Turning to one of the men who had carried the unconscious man the doctor was intent finding out about the situation. That's when Luke noticed a women who seemed to be quite unsettled herself.

With just the slightest glance of the fear or helplessness in her eyes Luke's eyes widened, almost to mirror that of the lady, and all he could see was the Baker's wife vacant and terrified eyes as they pulled her husband from underneath that wreckage which had once been their livelihood back in Sintra. The almost dead and souless vision of the baker's wife, Andrea, was enough to make Luke forget himself and head to the deck without any thought of what might be in store for him when he made it up. Slipping as he ascended the stairs due to the downpour that was coming through the shattered cabin door which lead into the belly of the ship. Luke couldn't help but stand in awe and disbelief as his eye finally met with the source of excitement he was hearing before, and to Luke's dismay he was very much wrong about what had been causing it.

With eyes too frantic to lock on to and one thing, Luke had noticed the heavily armored shell that was missing an arm walking freely as if it had a soul, and will of it's own. "What of this!?" Luke shouted without thought. Falling, intimidated, to the creaking wood finishing beneath him, Luke was stunned as he took in the partially destroyed deck before him. His hand trailed to the small hilt of the hidden throwing knives he kept tucked in his belt, and felt the tremble of his hand as the rain fell over him. This was just like the day his family was caught on the escape ship they had boarded long ago. There was what looked to be a gaping hole in the ship, which was nearly indistinguishable from the mortar fire that hallowed out his family's last hope of survival. He was flooded with memories of his family dying all around him, memories of his mother slaughtered before his eyes, and he was shaken to his very core.

Luke heard his brother George's last commandment to him, as he sat shaken on a ship that he feared might not make it, and in turn neither would he; "Escape this place Luke, live to fight another day. Don't you dare die without clearing our family's name. The Du Sand family cannot be remembered as a bunch of betraying Nobelmen who aren't worth the ground they walk."Luke could hear the words as if George were speaking to him right that instant. "Today is not my day, the lord will see to that!" Luke shouted as he let loose a Dagger towards the towering walking armor. And as it pinged off the shell Luke stood up ready to fight; if not to help, then to survive.

“We’re all going to die!”

How redundant. Catarina opened her eyes, but of course there was nothing to see in the darkness of the makeshift quarters. She’d fallen into such an exhausted slumber it’d taken one of the women screaming at the top of her lungs to wake the fae up, and honestly, she was more annoyed than frightened. Outside the whining and heavy breathing around her there were gunshots and… was that cannon fire? It had to be a full-out pirate attack or something of the like.

“Do you want them to hear you and come for you next?” Catarina growled, not bothering to get up with how the ship was pitching against stomach churning waves. “Hide yourselves, all of you! And be quiet!”

The screaming stopped. It was followed by a string of hurried prayers as the women and children fumbled about, but they took whatever cover could be had between hammocks, blankets, and intrusive cargo. It wouldn’t actually do much if the crew failed to keep the ship, but at least one of the children might be overlooked. While they did so, Catarina crawled her way through the dark, making her way towards the slit of light under the door.

“C-Catarina! What are you—”

“Quiet!” Catarina leaned against the door and listened for a moment. Footsteps were clamoring nonstop on the upper deck, and beyond that, shouting and gunfire continued almost ceaselessly. There was no point in throwing herself into such chaos, but she couldn’t quite remain still, either. When she turned around, the faint light from the door illuminated a few fearful faces staring back at her, and just like that, she knew exactly why she had to move. “Barricade the door with whatever you can, Sophia. I’m going to see what’s going o—”

“You’ll be killed out there!”

Catarina rolled her eyes at Sophia’s hoarse response. “I’m not stupid—I’m not going out to be a hero. We can’t all hide in here, you know. You’re going to run out of hiding places blocking the door up and all that.”

There was, of course, a chorus of rebuttals, but it wasn’t as if they could do anything about it. Catarina stepped out and shut the door behind her, promptly ordering the poor creatures left inside to make sure nothing could get back in. Apparently no one had seen fit to stand guard over the women and children, so she had the privacy needed to gather the faerie ether of her own body about herself and disappeared to the mortal eye. Again, she wasn’t certain of anything she could do, but at the very least, she could slow down whatever attacker tried to come down first.

Her hand traced against the ship’s hull as she stumbled about in the lantern light, her body leaving nary a shadow. It wasn’t easy to move with so much tossing about of the ship, but faerie feet have always had a way of gliding across the most unkind of surfaces and Catarina’s were no exception. She eventually made it up to yet another lower deck, and fortunately, things were hardly bad there. Most of the men had emptied out of the corridors to get out on the deck and what few were left seemed to be tending to the wounded. Horrified mumblings of a “Satanic suit of armor” and “tearing the ship to pieces” were the most prominent of the news she heard.

Well that’s just disappointing after a dragon. It can’t be so bad if they have time to take care of the injured. Catarina smirked at the unconscious body of the church man as she passed, finding his horrible wound almost ironic. Hadn’t men like him just thrown away the innocence of hundreds of Sintrans by accusing their deaths of having been caused by sin? To further add irony on top of the cake, it seemed the troubadour lady had followed him in, drenched like a sewer rat. Exactly what had happened there?

If the injured man wasn’t being crowded by the doctor and others assisting, she would have considered using a trick or two in helping him out. Why help a miserly church man? She didn’t really have anything better to do. At least, such was the case until something flickered within her peripheral vision. A flash of black hair, a wiry teen frame—was that a boy going up to get himself killed?

She was in motion before her brain processed moving, her body a breeze between men and broken boards and everything else littering her path. Somewhere between going up onto the deck and moving behind the boy, her body flashed back into existence. There was a brief moment where time seemed to slow, where the freezing rain hitting her skin, the flashes of gunfire, and the shadow of a great, smoking set of armor were swallowed up in her senses all at once. She heard the boy shout, saw the briefest flick of metal leave his hand, and then her own fingers wrapped around the back of his collar, jerking him back.

“Idiot! This is not your fight!” Her Portuguese didn’t tremble in the slightest as she gazed at the scene ahead of him. Let the liar captain take responsibility for the situation, not the children and townspeople he’d brought for a shield!