[IC] Spiritum Aeternum; or The Ramshackle Monster Hunters

[The New Yorker]

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 bottoms 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. 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 pacifist. 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.

[Juice]

Zmiy.

Sergei the Cossack traversed tracts of scorched earth with no particular direction, adorned in black attire that made him look like a charred corpse risen from the dead. The sun radiated in the east, white as hot steel. A cloud moved lethargically in a stream of air, shrouding the sun’s brilliance for a short moment. In that moment, Sergei looked to the heavens, fearing for his life.

Fool you are, Sergei thought inwardly, bringing the brim of his hat back down across his brow. The people of Sintra moved in herds as they departed from the protection of the Palace, following the direction of various criers and officials. Sergei pinched his jacket collar across his mouth as the crowd kicked up clouds of dirt and ash in its wake. Despair physically bent these people, and for some it brought them to their knees, cursing God and the heavens above. Others gathered in the skeletal remains of their homes, hopeless and sobbing.

“Mister Romanenko!” A small, bony man called, gesturing at Sergei from the depths of the crowd. “Mister Romanenko!”

The man approached Sergei. “Andy,” Sergei said, recalling his name from a previous engagement, a hint of relief in his words at the sight of a familiar face. “How did you find me?” Sergei’s Portugese was coated with a thick eastern accent.

“Sintra is a small town, Mister Romanenko,” Andy said.

Now even smaller, Sergei thought.

“The captain wishes to have a word with you,” the small man continued.

“Julio lives?” Sergei asked.

Andy nodded. “Please, come with me.”

Andy led Sergei from the center of Sintra to the outskirts, where Captain Julio Barros had set up a small camp. Four tall tents surrounded a dead and smoking campfire. Julio emerged from one of the tents, hair matted and greasy, vomit stains coating his leather jerkin. Signs of drunkenness were immediately apparent in the captain as he struggled to journey the ten feet between himself and Sergei.

“The captain’s ship was destroyed during last night’s attack,” Andy said as Julio continued his approach. “He is taking it rather hard.”

Once close enough, Julio grabbed Sergei by the shoulders, stared into his eyes. “The beast robbed me, Sergei,” Julio said, a warm alcohol scent wafting from his mouth and into Sergei’s face. “I have nothing.”

Sergei swept Julio’s hands from his shoulders. “Why are you camped out here?”

Julio ignored the question, spun around and began stumbling back toward the camp. The ship captain promptly fell to his knees and clambered into one of the tents in search of alcohol.

“Where is my money, captain?” Sergei called after Julio, a seed of anger buried in his gut. “I invested in your ship and crew, which is no longer,” Sergei gestured toward the empty camp. “I expect my money to be returned in full.”

Andy answered in place of the captain, meekly: “I regret to inform you that the captain thought best to stow your investment aboard the ship, now lost to the beast’s flames.”

Sergei took a deep, measured breath. “What of the money I loaned him last night? For hiring the crew?”

“Ah, fuck the crew!” Julio answered this time, from inside the tent. He emerged with an unlit cigar dangling from his lips, a bottle of booze held between loose fingers. “I only called you here to tell you the voyage was off.”

“You spent my money on alcohol, didn’t you, captain?” There was venom in Sergei’s voice. Andy noted it, took a step back.

Julio approached Sergei again, came within an inch of him. “And whores,” Julio said between swigs, gifted the astounding bravery of the common drunkard. “Fucked one just for you.”

Sergei launched a fist into Julio’s gut and was almost immediately rewarded by a hot stream of vomit as the captain bent forward, collapsing against his arm in a splash of curdled milk and alcohol. The Cossack reeled in disgust, watched as Julio’s knees gave out and he fell to the ground, a groaning mess. Sergei stomped the man’s face with heeled boot, breaking his nose and splitting his lips open. Blood and vomit pooled in his mouth. Sergei nudged the captain onto his back with his foot. Andy was frozen with horror, mouth agape. Sergei wiped the vomit from his jacket sleeve and departed without another word.

Sergei saw no purpose in returning to the inn that had been his temporary home in Sintra. In all likelihood, his belongings were lost to the flames, much like the greater part of the town. Instead, Sergei wandered the town aimlessly, trying to assess his situation. As he neared the town square, a crier’s voice rose to address the commoners: “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!”

“No word on the attack, only a business offer?” Sergei asked of the crier.

The crier hesitated at Sergei’s unfamiliar accent. “Please, direct yourself to the Palace grounds and all will be addressed,” said the crier, who promptly turned from Sergei and repeated the Count’s message.

Sergei did as he was told, annoyed at the lack of information, but anxious at the thought of being chosen for the quest.

Luck shines on you this day, Sergei thought, as he made a brisk pace through a city street littered with debris.

Sergei was among the first to enter the Palace courtyard, where two men were present to address the crowd. He pressed his way to the front, measuring the two with narrowed eyes. Sergei noted the presence of a scimitar, wondered if its owner was any good with it.

[Peik]

It had been only a few days since Abdulhayy Mahmud Hata'i had arrived at the quiet Portuguese town of Sintra. Unable to keep his old strength thanks to his age, and rather unwilling to stay around large communities, Hata'i needed a place to rest after escaping from Spanish militia forces. Despite the fact that he had tricked the Spaniards at Salamanca, by putting a decoy made of pillows and straw on his horse and sending him in an opposite direction, he did not want to risk anything. Plus, he had all the time in the world, and Portugal, despite the heat, seemed like quite a nice place to Hata'i. While he did not enjoy Catholic culture, the simplicity of the villages he'd passed through gave him a warm feeling. He had enough warmness in his life, however, thanks to the Mediterranean climate, and did not enjoy sweating. His feather ornamented hat, which he had to wear over his cap, was causing even more heat on his scalp, and removing them both at the same time was somewhat hard, thanks to the wide brim. Thankfully, by ordering the innkeeper to prepare his room in the cold, deep basement carved into rock, he was able to get some relief from the heat. His carbine was leaned against the wall next to his bunk bed, possibly made for the servants of the old owners of this inn, whoever they might have been. The place was illuminated by an oil lantern hanging from one of the walls, which was more than enough for the small basement. There were a few boxes filled with fruit stacked on each other on the opposite of the room, along with a few empty baskets, and a metal bucket filled with stale water. Next to the bunk was a table, with a stool placed underneath it. On this table was Hata'i's bag, a large canteen, and a few books. Lately, he had been feeling rather distant towards reading - he hoped that here, he'd be able to get used to it once more.

After settling down and changing his clothing for what he deemed local attire, and wearing his leather buffcoat on top of it all, he looked down and checked his clothing. He preferred his normal attire, but considering how in these lands you could get killed for being simply from a different sect, merely looking like a Muslim would mean a shortcut to the stake. You needed to look and play the part of a Catholic. It wasn't hard for Hata'i. He was used to it, having been changing identities for almost a decade and a half. He thought that he could be a good actor. But he did not like theaters, having visited them once or twice during his life in the Netherlands. He wasn't used to the music here, either - while the violin reminded him of the solemn cries of the ney, he found that the music here lacked the energy one could feel emanating from the rhythmic repetition of the dhikr. Still, it would be unfair for Hata'i to say that Eastern music was superior to Western music - it was just that while Hata'i was a man of the West when it came to the mindset, he was still a man of the East at heart. 'Everything has its own place,' Hata'i thought.

He removed his hat, scratched his balding head a bit and then decided that it was enough time in the basement. He believed himself to be a man of the underground, yet he was unable to stop himself from acting, moving. 'Such is God's degree,' he said to himself. Humming to himself a hymn in the Sofyan melodic tone, he slowly made his way up the stairs and took a deep breath. The sour smell of wine was mixed with the soft and sweet smell of chicken. He found himself a vacant table and sat down, observing the people around him. The only one that attracted his attention was a one-eyed German. As he hit the wooden table with his fingers, trying to make some crude melody, a young, attractive woman came around, asking whether he had something to order or not. ''I'd like some beans, my dear,'' Hata'i said, ''And some bread.'' The woman disappeared just as fast as she appeared, leaving Hata'i by himself once more. 'Quiet folk,' he murmured to himself.

-

One bowl of well cooked beans and a few slices of bread later, Hata'i quietly retreated to his room, removed his hat, got rid of his uncomfortable Western clothes, stripped to his underpants and then decided to sleep. Then, realizing that there was no blanket or a proper pillow on the bunk, he put on his padded robe and cap and lay down the bed. After realizing he had forgotten to extinguish the oil lantern, he got up, somewhat frustrated, snuffed out the fire and, after accidentally hitting his foot on the stool under the table, went back to his bed. Slowly breathing in and out to slow his heartbeat, he recited the Ayat Al-Kursi and the Al-Nas in order to ward off any evil in the area and keep himself safe, and went to sleep, feeling secure.

-

He could smell roasted flesh. The smell was familiar to him even still, despite the last time him sensing such a thing was two decades ago. It was not a good memory. The Cossacks he had convinced to come with him to fight 'a beast, a creature of the devil' were young men, nearly all of them in their twenties, some so young that they lacked the trademark mustache of the Cossack people. Yet in a flash, their lives were taken away with a blast of lightning, turned to ash in an instant. The few men that had decided to keep shooting from afar had survived for a few seconds with their skin torn apart like fabric and their eyes leaking out like molten butter, and Hata'i could remember watching them expire, unable to do anything but moan. He could feel it again - he heard screams, he smelled fire, and he felt that unnerving presence once more, giving him a close and intense but unwanted feeling. He woke up from a pool of cold sweat and sighed, thanking God for ending this nightmare. And it was only then when he realized that it was not a nightmare. He could hear screams, trembling, and occasionally inhuman roars. The smell of roasted flesh was very real, much to his chagrin. Coming to his senses, he jumped from his spot, hastily put on his leather boots and ran for the door. Opening the door, he suddenly found the inn blazing down around him. The woman that had served him beans was rolling on the ground, her clothing and her hair on fire, screaming for help. As he attempted to give her a helping hand, he saw something looking through where the window was supposed to be. Then, a sudden blast of flame soared through the window and filled the inn, and Hata'i threw himself back into the basement, rolling down the stairs as the basement entrance burnt down. Hata'i could feel pieces of the shattered door on him. In the basement, he hastily put on his clothing, grabbed his equipment and started pouring water on his face from the canteen on the table. It was refreshing, and given the circumstances, that was a good thing. As he grabbed the bucket of water, planning to pour the water in it on himself and run through the flames, he felt trembling. Looking down, Hata'i saw some dust in the water. Looking up, he saw the 'roof' of the basement cracking. The small crack grew larger and larger. Moments later, the roof came crashing down on Hata'i.

-

When he came to his senses, he found himself looking up at a dark skinned man in a morion. Hata'i opened his mouth and gasped for air, and almost immediately started coughing. ''We have a live one here!'' The man shouted out, and soon after, they were pulling debris off Hata'i's body. In about 15 minutes, he was free, miraculously free of any major injury. ''Thank Christ,'' Hata'i said to the men that saved him, ''And thank you, as well.'' He was lucky to be conscious about where he was. With the guidance of the guards, he was taken to a group of monks and doctors somewhere in the Palace and fed some stew. While he normally avoided red meat in these lands, out of the possibility that it could be pork, he was not in a position to refuse, and he did not want to attract any unwanted attention. He was not in a condition to fight, or escape. ''Our Lord has spared you from His wrath,'' one of the monks said, ''You must be an auspicious individual, to come out alive and unhurt from inside that house of sin.'' Hata'i raised his head towards the monk. The man was probably younger than he was. ''I am merely a servant of the Way of Christ,'' he replied. ''Ah, humility! Such a rare virtue these days. That explains it.'' The monk seemed quite sincere in his demeanor. After a small chat with the monk, Hata'i, feeling significantly better, left the place with the monks' approval. The stairways led upwards to the Palace courtyard, where he found himself amongst a group of men. Observing his surroundings, he deduced that there was going to be a speech of some sort. ''God only knows the Truth,'' Hata'i thought to himself. ''God is the Truth.''

[Hellis]

He strolled trough the wreckage and debris of his new hometown. The look on his face would have stopped a pitbull in it's tracks and the look in his eyes might aswell be pair of daggers. He was a warrior, a soldier, a mercenary. He was no stranger to death, he had seen it again. It dogged him, hounded him like a unmercyfull beast. Even now, post retirement, he found himself in its presence. It was like a second nature to him, stepping over the charred remains of some poor sods body. He was as some would say; ”That one man you wanted by your shoulder, never infront of you.”

His heavy leather boots brought him forward in confident, unapologetic strides that made the giant of a man even more menecing. People stepped aside as he moved, people wanted none of what he most likely brought; Death. His mercenary force was still active, out in Europe. His crest, the wolf, was a symbol that meant he had a talent for killing, that he possed combat experience and unforgiving fury in the face of the enemy. With his muscet slung across his shoulder and Bardiche hanging on his back with the swedish army coat billowing in the wind, he was exuding every bit of his mercenary self. He had tried to get away from violence, but even before this he had gotten in trouble. He fondly remembered decking two local officers. Only his ties with the local nobles kept him somewhat safe.

His day had started well enough. He had eaten, he had trained, he had chatted with some locals. Then the town had been turned into a inferno and he found himself running for his weapons. Fleeing was not in the nature of this man. People said it was a dragon, he knew not of any dragons. He knew siege weapons however, and not even the greek fire some of the spanish Ongrels threw could do this kind of damage. He was strolling directly towards the palace for reasons unknown to himself. A nagging feeling told him to go there, and so he did.

On his way he got joined up by a man he knew as Louise Hernandez. Louis was a merchant who had once saved his life off the french coast. The two were friends ever since.

”Senor Ekengren. Someone has asked for you to be at the palace!”

”I figured” Johan said and nodded. He didn't let the fact that this was news to him show. Atleast he knew why he was walking there now. He sped up his pace so that the round, more then wellfed merchant found himself running to keep up. They made their journey there in silence. As he arrived he noted he was not the only one summoned. His eyes however, fell on the Pirate

[Kissshot]

It didn’t take much to wake Bento Belo up. Charred wood and burning children was enough to do the trick.

The screams hit him first, and he stumbled out of bed ungracefully, sweating thick dewy beads even though he was in the nude. The fire had reached his inn by now, but it was the slow, casual fire that spread as runoff from the other buildings. It didn’t spew out at him directly from “God’s mouth” like the rest of the town, and this gave him a chance that the others weren’t fortunate enough to get. A chance to survive.

Ben quickly gathered a bundle of clothes and a walking stick, and ran downstairs. Here, the fires were hungrier and more vicious, attacking the building’s beams and foundation like a child that lost its favorite toy. Tables in the bar room were flipped over and strewn around in random patterns, and now more than ever Bento Belo understood the power of liquor. Even when it didn’t intoxicate you, the smell was a power of its own, crawling up your nose and pushing away all other scents. Scents like burned hair and unquenchable flames.

Ben could see his friends and workmen scurrying back and forth across the building, dumping water and trying to somehow save their home. Then it hit him. As strong and powerful as alcohol could be, it still never would be a remedy to your problems.

“Dammit, meninos, we can’t save her! Get my father and meet me outside! Use your brains; fire and hard liquor are muito ruim together!”

The men quickly snapped to lucidity at Ben’s appearance, and did as he told. He followed them outside, trying his best to ignore the loss of something precious to him. What he saw was worse than he expected, however; men with thick arms and bulging chests were running about Sintra in panic, throwing away debris as they looked for survivors. Other men, equally large, choked out the fires that ravaged the city with large buckets. Soon, even the fires in Ben's own home were put to rest, and the city was left in an eerie quiet. In the distance Ben could see a long bearded man pulled out from under some loose roofing, and helped to some food and drink. He had a strange sort of holiness about him.

It didn’t take long for the crier to show up to even this outer part of Sintra, calling out to the sick and hurt and crying.

“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!”

Ben sighed. Such a grizzly start to his day. To his left, his father sat on a large broken shingle, drinking from a flask he somehow saved on his way out. Their inn was a molten wreck behind him.

“Take him somewhere he won’t get himself killed, my dear meninos, then help look for survivors. Hopefully our contacts are still up and kicking. I’ll make my way to the palace courtyard in the meantime, see what’s going on.”

One of the men answered him hesitantly, “Sure. But, uh..”

“What is it?”

“You’re still naked.”

“Ah...”

That ended that. Bento Belo dressed himself and made his way to the palace courtyard, walking stick in hand. He didn’t need it, but well, why not?

The walk to the palace was slow, and a bit saddening when one looked at the destruction that was unleashed along the way. It was a short walk, however, and he arrived at the courtyard without incident. The atmosphere here was just as bad as the rest of the city; men stood with shoulders drooped like tear drops, and women sat with backs hunched like hanging fruit. There was something different, nevertheless. Another kind of emotion besides hopelessness. Apprehension.

Bento Belo looked up.

Bento Belo saw a pirate.

[Raid]

A proper introduction.

Shahid stands next to the men in the courtyard. He sticks his chin out just so and stares at each new member, appraising their weapons and clothing and gait. He is nothing like them. For starters, he is missing a sleeve. Torn at the shoulder, the fabric is lost in a pile of bloody, wet cloth once used to soothe the pain of burn victims. The clothes he’s wearing aren’t even his. Also, he is unarmed. Not even a grand stick. And with most of Sintra reduced to sticks, he had his pick of them. Due to circumstances beyond his control his must crane his neck to see any of the wrinkles or graying hairs of the men, reminding him of the great height distances between him and—well—everyone else. Oh, and there’s the detail that he’s seven years old and fearing the wrath of his mother once she realizes he slipped away. The temporary hospital set up in the back of the castle is no place for a boy like him anyways.

Shahid tries not to stare too long at one man, but every where he looks he sees Captain Sharkas lurking below the face of each person gathered. Whether it is the twitch of a sword hand or a side glance that doesn’t show any whites of the eyes, Shahid imagines the captain of the Al-Qari’a, a ship who’s namesake comes from a description from God through his messenger Mohamed (peace and blessings be upon him). Captain Sharkas is dead though. Another person who mother could not save. Like his father, Othman. She couldn’t save him either.

Shahid spends his time in the courtyard gawking, mouth slack and tongue tracing the tops of his teeth, tasting ash from last night. He thinks about the reds and purples and golds. Colors. Black. Is that still a color?

He likes the way the newest man stands with loose joints and in clothes with none of the flair as others. Shahid forgets about why he is here in this courtyard and instead tries to mimic the confidence each of these men portray in how they stand (maybe it’s through having one should cocked a tick higher or by standing with feet directly beneath their hips).

)o(
They are not men.

Esra dribbles water between cracked lips by twisting a damp rag over the faces of her patients. Some are women and she can’t explain to the monks and nuns that she can’t take care of the men. It would be easy to use her religion as an excuse. (”I am Muslim, thus I cannot handle a man’s body who is not my husband or son or father.” If she could speak Portuguese fluently, this is what she would say to them.) But that’s an excuse. Six years of medical training and she does not have the experience nor the confidence in caring for male patients. Yet she straps Deena, her youngest, to her back, orders Shahid to watch his twin brothers where she stashed them in a horses stall with warm manure shoved in the corner, and moves from bed to bed offering what assistance she can while stopping to adjust her scarf.

The monks only stop her to point to another patient or to give her smelling salts to help awaken a mother who still holds the remaining half of her baby’s body against her tit.
Deena pushes her feet against Esra’s back. How long has it been since she’s eaten? Last night. In a private dining room that was offered to Captain Sharkas and his accompaniments during his stay at Sintra until his business was completed with whomever man had the money to fund the castle. She grunts as she rises from her crouch next to an older woman who twitches with the brush of the wind against her burned skin. Her sagging breasts were burned off. Esra doesn’t expect her to survive until the night.
Trailing back into the horse stalls that are now occupied by humans (some alive, some dead), she searches out her children. A monk is already there, handing them chunks of bread and fish. When he sees her, he give her extra helpings, smiling at her stomach. She cannot hide six months of pregnancy by sewing more and more fabric into her djellaba. When she takes the food she does not smile. She does not sit until the man leaves. Samy and Ahmad, the twins with good curling hair, peer at their sister who sits in her basket, content as her mother feeds her chewed bits of bread. It’s a peaceful procedure for Esra. Quiet. A few moments pass. It is quiet.

“Where is your brother, Shahid?” Esra asks the twins in Arabic. Samy smiles, flecks of fish on his tongue.

Even as she makes her way through the castle, her five year olds trailing after their mother who grapples to hold both her daughter and her scarf in place, those gathered in the courtyard are being briefed, including her eldest son. She will not be able to stop what has already been done. Like the death of her husband. Like the death of her lover.

[cider]

The wine was far too sweet for his taste, to the point of it being nearly nauseating, causing Ciríaco to slightly curl his lips. He carefully put the cup back on the table, next to his plate, and swallowed.
"So, what do you think?" a voice asked. Ciríaco turned his eyes towards the handsome, middle-aged man seated in front of him, Paulo Paredes. Known to some as slimy and dishonest, and everyone as friendly and successful, Paredes was a trader of silk and spices who had been brought up by Portuguese settlers in foreign lands. More recently, Paredes had been establishing his very own vineyard outside of Sintra, as a result of his growing interest in wine. He also happened to be one of Ciríaco's few, genuine, friends.
"Delightful, Paulo. Truly." Ciríaco said. The man across the table grinned.
"If only it was. True, I mean." he answered, pouring his own cup out on the floor. "One of these days, I will get this shit right." he continued, while Ciríaco laughed. The two had met up earlier that day as Ciríaco arrived in Sintra. He was there for one of his occasional business stays, and as Ciríaco had sold his foster parents house when they had passed, he didn't have a home in Sintra. He owned property, including a tavern and a couple of warehouses, but much preferred to stay at Paulo's residence during his visits, as had been the custom for quite a few years now.

The house was relatively spacious and in proportion to the other houses of this part of town - the wealthiest. Nevertheless, Paulo were selling it and moving to Lisbon, which explained why he had emptied his cup on the floorboards.
"Why and how long will you be grazing us with your presence this time around?" Paulo asked, alluding to his wife Elisa, who had just entered the room to carry out their plates.
"Just a few days, I'm afraid. Heard that some business owners here have been making a fuss. I was in Lisbon anyway, so I thought I might as well come here and set them straight myself." he smiled. The truth was that one of the leaders of the operation in Sintra, Elias, had been eating more of the cake than he was supposed to, and generally causing disturbances in the organization. Ciríaco thought it best to take care of the situation himself, and making an example for the others. "But that stuff is best left for tomorrow. Tonight I intend to enjoy myself, so might I suggest we leave your wine for now and move onto the more... expensive."
"Yeah, yeah, fuck you too, Cirí." Paulo answered, and turned to his wife. "Do as the boy asks, my dear"

As Elisa filled Ciríaco's cup, he thought he heard loud noise outside. He tried to look outside but could see nothing in the darkness from where he sat. Screams, he thought. He was about to ask the Paredes' if they heard it, when the loudest and most frightening noise Ciríaco had ever heard filled his ears, while his vision had a similar experience. In what must have been less than a few seconds, the roof had crumbled on top of them, instantly hurtling towards them as fire forced its way through it, everything permeated by a rumbling noise that sounded like the roar of the bear he had once hunted in the Cantabrian Mountains, yet far louder and powerful. Instinctively, Ciríaco tried to dive out of the way for the falling roof, but there was no way to go. He felt one of the beams landing ontop of him as he fell flat on his stomach, almost knocking him unconscious. He gasped for air, his mind subconsciously aware that it would only be seconds before the air was filled with smoke. After taking a deep breath, he managed to lift himself off the ground, and drag himself out from under the beam, all the while hearing the chaos ensuing around him. As he pulled himself free, he quickly sat up and turned around, only to see Paulo have his skin melt off his face by what could only be described as a current of fire, stemming from somewhere above. Shocked and disgusted, Ciríaco screamed and backed up against the wall, only to have it give, causing him to fall backwards and roll into the streets. He looked around, and what had merely moments ago been darkness was now filled with light from raging fires, people running everywhere. Ciríaco suddenly remembered Paulo's wine cellar. There was a door, almost like a hatch, on the outside, on the back of the house, that led down to it. The back of the house that Ciríaco had just been falling out from. He looked in front of him and, indeed, there it was, neatly tucked in under a small stone alcove. Plunging towards it, Ciríaco tried to rip it open only to realize it was locked. Moments later, something collapsed above him and a huge chunk of stone fell on top of the door, smashing it in. As Ciríaco thanked higher powers, he made his way inside and barred the door the best he could. He grabbed a couple of bottles of wine and huddled in a corner as he drank himself to sleep while waiting for the nightmare to end.

The morning that followed, Ciríaco woke up to a world of hurt. His hangover was nothing compared to his aching back, and his left leg felt completely pummeled. Slowly, he stood himself up and looked around. Then he remembered the events that had transpired the day before. He stood as still as he could, listening. There was sound outside, but no mayhem. He heard the faint sound of fire, but nothing like the night before. He carefully made his way to the cellar door and removed the debris he had blocked the path with, climbing to the outside.
"Fuck me." he murmured, as he looked on the catastrophic destruction. He had made his way onto the streets when he realized he still held a wine bottle in his hand. He chugged what was left of it, and dropped it on the ground. He grabbed people on the street, asking them what had happened. No one knew, but rumor said it was a monster, like a dragon. Ciríaco wanted to laugh, but couldn't.

As he made his way across town, not sure where he was going, Ciríaco stumbled across a familiar face on the ground. He was burned and disfigured, but without a doubt Elias. The young man was still alive, and tried to say something to Ciríaco, but no sound would escape his lips. Ciríaco quickly looked around and then proceeded to stomp the mans throat in.
"I'm doing you a favor, kid." he said, and walked on. At least something good came out of this, he thought to himself in a hopeless effort to cheer himself up. Instead, he remembered Paolo's melting face and had to stop in order to vomit. After finishing, he heard a town crier some distance off, shouting. Ciríaco listened, and then he listened again. After hearing the message a third time, he felt as if a light had been flicked on. This was it. He nodded to himself, no doubt appearing completely out of his mind had anyone seen him, and grinned. This was meant to be. He was meant to be. Looking to the skies, Ciríaco put his palms together, shook them and laughed, before making his way to the palace courtyard.

[The New Yorker]

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 New Yorker]

*A collaboration with Raid, Peik, and TNY*

A man commands a cluster of people to work. Shahid watches in wonder at the familiar sway of sea-men as they shoulder rucksacks of treasures consisting of maybe an extra shirt or a blanket or rusted dagger. Seeing some of Captain Sharkas’ crew among the men, he steps forward to follow them. Raphael, the only crew member who speaks French, beard has been shaved and his hair cut because it caught fire last night and burned away. Shadhid frowns. Maybe it's time he goes back to find his brothers? What if they get burned like Papa?

This new Captain talks too fast and slurs his Portuguese so much that Shahid can’t understand him, but Sharkas has given lashings for lesser offenses than walking away in the middle of his speech. Instead Shahid pokes the man next to him and uses to local language to ask, “My brothers, have you seen them? They must come with us to Rabat.”

''Where there is abundance, there is also corruption.'' Abdulhayy Mahmud took this proverb to heart. He could see proof for it everywhere. Here in the courtyard, there were a lot of people. It would be hard to say that they were nice people. It was not about their professions, but their demeanor. Most, if not all of them carried a glint of hate or disgust in their eyes. Not against people, but everything in general. It was hard not to feel sad for these people. Now, whatever solace they had in their lives was also gone. He could remember a guardsman in the ramshackle infirmary, who had lost an arm and a leg. Having lost his body, he had also lost his source of income. Such a sight was not uncommon to Hata'i, but it still felt sad. Yet such was God's degree. ''Mu'izz, Muzill.'' As he recited these names to himself, a young man appeared, next to a person whose mere presence disgusted Hata'i. The young man first addressed a bunch of sailors, and then, the crowd. It was a job. Those hired were to go on a journey to the Barbary Coast. No details. Laughable. It was obvious that this was a matter concerning the Dragon. He knew well that it was not the Sazakhan - there was no storm yesterday. And he was still alive. But it was something like it nonetheless. Before he could say anything (not that he would say anything), a man voiced his concerns about the voyage, asking whether it was about the Dragon or not. The man was promptly stomped into the ground. Words were weapons. Just now, they were used as a maul. And then started the young man. His words were somewhat humorous. His words were also full of bullshit.

As expected, once more, it was punishment for the townsfolk's sins, and not something else. He did not like Catholics. It had grown too large, lost its touch, sincerity. It was no more than a tool now. He did not want to be here anymore. It appeared that he had another ship to catch before sailing for the New World. Then he got poked in the stomach. Instantly, he turned his head to the source - it was a young boy. Didn't look like a native. “My brothers, have you seen them? They must come with us to Rabat.” Finally, Hata'i faced something he did not want to get away from. ''What will you do in Rabat, boy?'' Hata'i asked. The kid looked scared. ''Let's find your brothers first.''

Shahid wrinkles his nose. What type of question was that? Wasn't it obvious as to why he needed to go to Rabat? It is home. Prehaps his pants are drawn too tight about his waste or his hat on his head? (Shahid cranes his neck up to make sure this man is in fact wearing a hat but he fails to see over the man's belly.) Pressing his lips together, he forces out more Portuguese, "Have you seen them. I will get them on my own. They are mine--" he pauses a moment and looks down at his feet. He's still wearing cloth slippers from last night. He hopes his good leather shoes are with his brother's too. "I must get my brothers on my own." He decides and tells the man the same. He doesn't add that he is saving face in case his mother does catch him wandering around without the twins.

''Something wrong with the kid,'' Abdulhayy Mahmud thought. Maybe it was just him being a kid. Nonetheless, Hata'i felt somewhat obliged to help. ''Have it your way then, boy. I can help if you need any, however.'' He tapped on his own shoulder. ''I've got a good vantage point over here.''

Sighing, Shahid tries to bring forth all the adjectives he would use to describe what his brothers look like for the man. "They are small," he begins. "Two of them, but the same." He doesn't know the word for twin. Captain Sharkas never taught it to him. He wished he did. He wished he did many things before he went and got himself killed. But Shahid is still grateful for his sacrifice. After all, the Captain saved his mother. What other words can he use to describe his brothers? Isn't small sufficient? He curses in Berber. (Something he also learned from the Captain, but it was his club-footed father that taught him not to say it infront of his mother.) "Babies, two babies. The same," he repeats. "And, and, and..." He shrugged his shoulders and huffs. "Stupid. They know just Arabic." Needing to proove to this stranger that he is not related to complete imbeciles who spend a majority of their time sucking on their thumbs and getting hurt, Shahid adds, "But I will show them others. You see."

It's fun to watch this kid. Maybe it's because he's the only person in the area that doesn't come off as dislikeable. Maybe it's because Hata'i hasn't interacted with a kid for a while. Maybe it's because Hata'i is bored and somewhat frustrated after his near-death experience. Or maybe the kid's just fun to watch. ''Two of them, but the same.'' That meant that there were three possibilities - either that the kid was giving him cryptic and divine information, or his brothers were simply twins, or both. Abdulhayy Mahmud hadn't noticed any twins - he had been taken by guards to the Palace after he was saved from the basement. He was still a bit dizzy. The kid spat out something in his native tongue. He had heard it being used as a swear before. In any case, he wanted to clear it up - the kid's brothers were twins, they were small. And apparently, they were stupid. It was probably unfair to call kids stupid, but he wasn't going to call out a kid on doing something kids would do. ''I haven't seen them.'' Abdulhayy Mahmud said to clear it up. ''But, as I said, I can help.'' He reached out a hand to the child. ''What do you say?''

Shahid squints at the stranger, appraising his sooty clothing and pudgy face. He leans back on his heels and clicks his tongue to mimic Captain Sharkas' demeanor as he would do if calculating the benefits of a deal. His father would say that no man should put the trust in another unless he knew his name first. Captain Sharkas says you can only ever trust strangers. Shahid forgets to remember what his mother would say about strangers.

But like all mothers, she has a knack for showing up when a child might least want her to be there.

"Shahid." It is said in the tone that makes his pupils go wide and his mouth go slack. Any swagger disappears and the fat of his face curls into lines of horror. "Shahid." She repeats. She does not shout. Esra Gad El Rab does not do something so unseemly. But what need does she have to do that when he know, just knows, how upset she is? Each brother holds their mother's hands and his sister's button nose raises in the air as she peeks over Esra's shoulder to see what's going on.

Shahid opens his mouth but his mother looks down at him over her hooked nose, and he knows no amount of excuses or promises will get him out of this one. Instead he points at the Captain through the crowd and says to his mother in Arabic, "This man is going to Morocco. We must too, go with him." His eyes drift over her djellaba. It was a present from Captain Sharkas' first wife. Blue like the flowers that grow at the base of the mountains in Rabat and with orange embroidery one of his grandmothers added over the years. He didn't like the dark stains all over her front from tending patients. He wonders which stains belonged to his club-footed father and which one belonged the Captain Sharkas as they bled and died. Deena fists the qob or the hood at the back of the djellaba like a blanket. Only his mother's scarf, black like her hidden hair, looks undisturbed.

Emillio felt a certain warm relief wash over him as the crowd's curiosity turned from wanting answers to wanting to get this over with. People shuffled along to the ship yard, only a sparce few stopping to speak with Luna or eachother. Then, a highpitched proclimation emerged from somewhere deep in the centrifugal neucleus of the wanning crowd. It's curvy, ethereal form could only be Arabic, so Emilio smiled. It'd been a long time since he heard the language so casually, so emancipated. Emilio and his father had used the language, durring their short time together, in order to speak seceratively to each other. Most of the crew at that time were either well established Portuguese militants or freshly recruited Jamaican pirates; almost none of them spoke Arabic fluently.

So, very briefly, there was a flashback to dry summers along the mediterranean and those cool springs in Puerto Rico. Emilio sauntered through the crowd toward the boy, moving a man out of the way as he did.

"Didn't your father ever teach you not to point?" Emilio asked the boy with a smile, his Arabic was surprisingly fluent. He beckoned the boys mother while setting his other hand on the boy's head. "Are you of Morocco? We need someone with familiarity of the layout and customs. It pays well and we'll welcome your children." The pirate smiled, finally able to be honest.

Shahid grins. Arabic. His second favorite language. "Rabat is my home," he says, switching automatically from the stunted Portuguese to his flowing, native tongue. "I can show you the best places to watch the ships come into port and where you might pay a little more for better stew. Captain Sharkas says I know--"

"Shahid." His mother grabs his shoulder, pulling him back from this Captain. "You leave your brother's alone, but you have no problem making friends with strangers," she mutters. Deena pulls at her mother's scarf.

She glances at these men, but then fusses about with her children so not to seem rude for not meeting their eyes. Samy's eyes never leave his mother's, but his hand is shoved in his mouth. A poor habit he had all through childhood that Esra tried to break him of. Spit makes his knuckles shine. Ahmad glowers at the men. A crusted cut arches over his forehead. His injury could have been much worse. Esra remembers the wound that killed her husband. Much worse. And she knows it can get much worse from here. A single Muslim women in a predominantly Catholic country, not to mention one that has too many Spainards for her likes.

"My family gets our own cabin," she says, looking at this man who claims himself to be a Captain. "I will work as a nurse on the ship." Her eyes shift over the remaining people in the courtyard. Wives with back pain or mother's with the after-birth blues. Those are the people she knows how to care for. She pulls at the straps of Deena's basket. She will learn how to care for men, too. "While you're in Morocco I will help, but I will go no further after that. These are my terms," she insists.

Shahid bounces on his toes.

Emilio nodded along with the Moroccan mother. He bowed to her with a playful smirk. As he returned to his normal stance he spoke in his native tounge, "Saude".

Easily, and casually, he slipped back into Arabic, "Follow, please" he said, slyly eying the mother then her adventerous boy. Shahid, as he was called, said a name earlier, "Captain Sharkas". Emilio recognized it but could not apply a face to it. Perhaps he was a character in one of his father's intricately woven stories, but there was no time to recall those memories now.

Emillio waved everyone left in the courtyard to follow him to the harbor. The cream-colored, stone floor ran under an archway which yielded to a brimming garden bluff, and a dirt path, which led down to the side of the hill and eventually to the wooden harbor below.

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 concidered 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!" Which a childlike energy but the swagger only harvested after years of experience Emilio headed to the upper platform, stopping along the way to order a sailor to gather everyone below deck. Once up 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 he hated the nagging hope he had that maybe everyone wouldn't survive the journey; so, petty lies might not bother that many people. His head swam with this fear, even as he was ready to speak.

"Hold your bother's hand," Esra commands. Shadhid obeys, grinning at Samy all the same. "We're about to go on a more grand adventure than when we did with Captain Sharkas," he confides in his younger brother. He skips along, not listening to what's being said and content to kick a rock along the road.

As the taste of salt becomes heavier on her tongue, Esra walks slower, until her family trails behind the majority of people making their way to port. What about our belonging? She thinks as they pass the smoking remains of the market. The skeletons of stands and faces crowd to watch the procession. What am I doing? She rubs at her stomach where the baby pushes through.

She uses Shahid's shoulder as balance as she shuffles up to the deck of the ship. After four years of sailing on the same ship and under the same man, she holds the railings tight. It's not because her legs don't know how to adjust with the dipping of the ship, but because the wood is stained too dark and curves in the wrong places. Shahid doesn't notice these difference. He zones in on this new Captain with his jolting mannerisms. Captain Sharkas is always so smooth and deliberate with his movements. Shahid pauses. Was. Captain Sharkas was.

"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 also 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 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.

He was tied up and 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 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. He turned to Esra, and still not knowing her name, spoke to her in a quiet Arabic, "Please, ma'am, go below deck and find a place for yourself and your family. This man will assist you" he said referring to Epuinamun. "Epu," Emilio said to the large brown man, easily switching to Spanish, "escort this woman below deck. Then come back up, I have some ideas for you."

Emilio winked to Shahid, knowing this boy would be bring some joy to the journey, and scratched his little head, then walked off to speak with one of the sailors. It was a little past noon, if they worked fast enough they could leave at sunset.

[Yorg]

Gaspar sat, shell-shocked, amid the charred remains of his mentor's house. All around his hunched frame lay the burned and scattered remains of one man's lifetime of work; books, scrolls, drawings and maps, paintings and wooden carvings, shelves full of manuscripts and tables littered with paper fragments of unfinished novella, poetry, and data. An exquisitely detailed mantelpiece on the far side of the room, carved from fine Lebanese cedar, now lay upon the floor in ashen ruin. The great wolf's head above it fared little better, bearing now a hideous black scar across its proud countenance. Ash and dust rained slowly but steadily from above, where sunlight now poured through a yawning hole in the roof and rested on the blackened floorboards around the young man. He did not feel its warmth.

In his mind Gaspar was still reliving the events of the previous night, the running, the heat, and the fear. Whatever it was that had befallen his fair town, be it beast or god, it had struck fast and without warning. From sleep he had been awoken to the roof collapsing beneath what could only be described as a pillar of flame, likened to that sent by God to protect his Hebrews from the hordes of Egypt. But this was no blessing. Somehow Gaspar had survived the onslaught long enough to reach the palace; Adalberto Silva had not been so lucky.

Gaspar stirred as footsteps approached in the hall, wiping away the tears that had gathered and begun running down his cheeks. Two guards in disheveled and muddied leather jerkins entered the room, one coughing the ash from his lungs. They had just removed Adalberto's body.

"Are you kin?" the tall one asked with a grimace, wiping his brow with a bloodied glove.

Gaspar took a moment before answering, his voice quiet. "No. Just a student."

"Then I'll have to ask you to be off, lad." Gaspar nodded in response and took his leave of the dismal house, still reeling at the memories that were breaking against his mind like waves.

~

Corpses lay strewn across the wet cobblestones like fragments of discarded meat alongside piles of parched rubble and the choking remains of great fires. Both men and women could be heard weeping in every corner and alley. Making his way slowly through the streets without a clear direction in mind, Gaspar could not help but feel as though nothing less than God's wrath had been visited on the town. It was surely as close a vision of hell as he could imagine, barring the scenes of battle so eloquently and vividly described by the likes of Herberstein and Krantz. But was not war itself but an arm of God's retribution against the wicked? The infernos of the night prior had reminded Gaspar of his readings on war machines; of the great trebuchets that hurled flaming stones into cities.

The sound of his bare feet slapping against the cobblestones was a reminder of just how quickly everything had been lost. In his haste to escape the burning house, his sandals had been left behind, along with many other things. His blue tunic with the elegant yellow trim was burnt in several places and soaked with sweat, his cotton pants torn and muddied. He toted a small chest in a cart behind him, containing what remained of his possessions. It felt very light.

Firmin Leclair had fallen along with many others, burned alive or trampled to death in front of the palace gates when the throng of fleeing townsfolk had grown too thick. Gaspar had seen it with his own eyes. The images brought fresh tears, and he struggled to quell the shaking in his limbs.

“Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal!" The crier's words drew Gaspar's attention, though his listless expression betrayed little interest. At the mention of an opportunity to travel the world, however, and a reward offered for doing so, his eyes widened. Perhaps for no other reason than pure curiosity, he began making his way to the palace.

~

Gaspar left the courtyard briefing with his mind made up. He had met the idea of an adventure with trepidation, especially following on the heels of such a tragedy, but there could be no doubt in his mind now. The expedition would offer noble work and a chance at wealth, something even his rattled brain could appreciate. His hopes for travelling to Rome were dashed with the death of Leclair, and his town lay in ashes around him. He was not wise or hardened, but he could certainly be of some use. The family was doing well, they would not need him-

-but ah, the family! Gaspar ceased his walking in a moment of panic. He would have no time to see them in Almoçageme before the ship set sail. The thought nearly drove him to abandon any notion of leaving. It was then that God answered his plight, in the form of a familiar black hair-bun and round face bobbing up the street towards him.

"Mama!" Gaspar cried out as Eduarda ran to him and they embraced deeply.

"Gaspar, my son! You live!" The portly woman kissed him on the cheek, then began wiping the grime from his face. "We came as soon as we could. Oh, Gaspar! The sounds that we heard were so loud, and the glow in the sky! We feared that the Spanish were attacking from the coast, and I would not let the younger ones come." The words continued to spill from her mouth as Gaspar hugged Monica, the oldest of his three sisters. "We were stopped by men on the road, they did not want us to come near, because it was not safe! We almost were unable to!" His mother cried openly then, and he pressed her to his chest as tears spilled from his own eyes. They all three embraced in the middle of the road for several minutes, until finally Eduarda wiped her face dry and smiled. "But you are alive, God is good!"

"Yes, God is good." Gaspar was not smiling. "But many were not spared. Mama, Adalberto is dead." She cast her eyes down then, still holding dearly to Gaspar's shoulders. Monica gasped and crossed her chest. "I escaped where he did not."

"The Lord's will was done." his mother said, firmly but with a quiver in her lip. "I only thank him now that you were not harmed. That I should not have to bury another of my children."

With a nod, Gaspar looked back at the palace. "There is something else, mama. I saw..." he faltered. "Leclair is also gone. He is dead."

"Oh, my boy!" Eduarda searched the face of her son, feeling the pain that she saw in his eyes. "But what of Rome? Oh Gaspar."

"I may yet sail." Gaspar still was not smiling, but a spark had returned to his eye and a hope to his voice. "Mama, they are organizing a voyage to Morroco to help relieve our brothers there. They have also been struck by this terrible thing. It will be a good cause, mama, and they offer a reward! I could be paid richly!"

"No! Of course, no!" Eduarda fumed. The pair stepped aside as a foreign-looking woman with her four children ambled past. "You can't be thinking of this, it's mad! I forbid it!" She grabbed hold of her son's shirt almost desperately, pulling him closer to her.

"Mama, what if this really was God's punishment?" Gaspar spoke quietly but with a certain urgency. "They are saying that the Lord found us godless and so sent fire. What if this is true? Was it God who spared me, when Adalberto was burned alive? He was a good man, mama. Pure! I say that I cannot have survived the fire for my own sake. I am one of the judged!" His eyes were wide now, and Eduarda grimaced. "If what they say is true then this mission to help others may be my atonement."

His mother was silent for a while. The townsfolk moved on the street around them, carrying the dead and wounded on stretchers. The air held a sort of living torpidity as moisture began to return to where the fires had parched it dry. Water, earth, ash, and blood mixed on the ground under their feet. Smoke wafted by in waves, carried by the salty see wind. At length she spoke.

"I know you want to travel, Gaspar. You write beautifully. But my son, you don't know a thing about the world! Tell me when you have sailed, or gone farther than Lisbon in the east or Fontanelas in the north?" Her tone had softened, though she spoke sadly. "You are a good boy, God smiles on you. I know that." She placed a hand on his neck reassuringly, then took a deep breath and quickly surveyed the scene around her, as if to ground herself. "I know He will go with you, but you will have to be more than you are now. Do you understand that?"

Gaspar looked into his mother's eyes intently before he answered. "Yes."

She smiled once again as the tears returned. "Well, if I knew you were leaving so soon, I would have brought you your brother's sword!"

~

The sun had crept low enough in the sky by the time he arrived that Gaspar had to squint as he looked up at the proud galleon. He had never been in anything larger than a rowboat before, and never had he been out in the open sea. The sounds of creaking wood and gentle waves lapping against the hull, though familiar to him, now caused an undue amount of stress. The great masts tilted every so slightly to and fro with the undulations of the water, the vast stretches of canvas that hung from them billowing now and then in the evening breeze. The great many ropes that weaved across the deck and tied the craft to the dock groaned in quiet protest as the beast, eager to be off, threatened to pull away of its own accord. This image left a distinct impression on him, an impression not unlike fear.

With a deep breath Gaspar turned and headed for the gangplank. There was an upsetting hustle and bustle on the docks, as he should have expected of a ship being loaded for voyage. He kept his head down as he tried to make his way through the crowd without getting in anyone's way, all the while carting his small chest of belongings behind him. At one point he squeezed past a large, stony-faced man with a stark black mohawk, who looked like one of the illustrations in Adalberto's books on the New World. He blanched as the man looked at him, and hurried onward to the deck of the ship.

Gaspar soon found himself simply standing in the middle of the deck as crew mates moved about him, feeling the unfamiliar and unwelcome tilting of the floor beneath his feet. Feeling a slight tremble in his extremities, he tried his utmost to steel himself against the doubts that would soon flood his mind. He had only to stay aboard a few hours longer and then there would be no going back. The matter would be settled for him.

Looking around for the captain, Gaspar eventually spied the man who had given them their speech in the courtyard. A tough-looking man with a sharp countenance. It looked as though he was busy getting the ship in order, and so Gaspar decided against introducing himself, instead heading below decks to stake out a bed.

[Kissshot]

Ben's world folded like a crumpled a tent, leaving him dazed in a crowd of confused civilians. He knew there was something he had recognized in this man, in this pirate-- and now it all came flooding back to him in tender waves. This was the man who had, with his crew and companions, slayed a sea monster in the Adriatic. The famed "Dread Captain Scar". A cold legend living, breathing, and commanding sailors right before his eyes. And, of course, he was practically the only one who knew!

Something caught the speculative bartender's eye deep in the crowd, and he became hopeful.
Perhaps not.

Ben shrugged through the crowd, making his way to an overweight, overplump merchant-criminal. "Ciríaco! At last, a familiar face!"

He had mixed feelings toward Ciríaco, but mostly he had respect for the man. They weren't close enough for him to feel anything particularly negative or deroagative, but...well, Ben thought he had quite the secretive aura to him, and he didn't like that. He was like a fat falcon trying to guard its young, only this fat falcon held great sway in Ben's worklife.

"My dear Ciríaco, you can't tell me you haven't made the connection by now. This menino --though perhaps he is much less a boy than I am an angry dragon-- would ask us to set sale for Morocco, and with hardly any explanation! I'm not sure what to make of this."

Ciríaco slowly looked up at the man calling his name, as if in a daze. Hell, he very much was in a daze. In front of him he had witnessed an infamous man, the so called "Dread Captain", talking about the voyage along with the slithering fuck that was Caesar Luna. The presence of this notorious pirate was no coincidence, Ciríaco was sure. He had been nodding to himself constantly as the Dread Captain and Luna finished their speeches, and still subtly did so as his name was called.

Ciríaco turned to face the man, identifying him as Bento Belo. The man would probably have been a common street thug had it not been for his connections with the League, Ciríaco thought. Even so, Belo was a sharp young man, with a professional attitude sorely lacking among the criminal elements of Sintra. Naturally, they had worked with eachother before, though as far as Ciríaco was concerned, Belo worked for him, just like everyone else in Sintra. Ciríaco didn't normally like the fact that Belo referred to him by his first name, but in the state Ciríaco was currently in, he really didn't care.

"So the famed Dread Captain says, does he not?" he offered for an answer, lightly bowing his head to greet the man. "It is nice to see you survived this rather nasty ordeal, Ben." It had been the first time someone spoke to Ciríaco after the dragon attacked, and it was like waking up. Abruptly, Ciríaco had been brought out of his uncharacteristically unfocused and in all fairness crazed behavior. He was suddenly aware of how he must look - battered to a pulp. Pretending as if everything was as it should, Ciríaco nontheless grabbed Ben by his shoulder and took a few steps forward along with the man.

"Well I don't know about you, kid, but I for one intend to find explanations for quite a few things" he said, before removing his hand from Ben and promptly walking aboard the ship.

Ben nodded his agreement, letting Ciríaco grab him by the shoulder and lead him forward toward the giant ship. Ciríaco quickly let go and continued to walk aboard, but Ben found himself staring at the vessel with a strange yearning he didn't recognize. The ship had a grace to it that transcended class and birth, almost like it served a noble cause they couldn't recognize; a pure nugget of gold in a town of bare rock.

Ben felt surprisingly calm walking aboard a boat --this boat-- for the first time in years, and he closed his eyes in ecstacy, breathing in the salty air and sputtering foam and grunting sailors. These weren't normally thoughts that crossed Ben's mind, but these weren't normal circumstances. What had happened in Sintra, an act of God or not, affected the entirety of the town. I think I read of such a thing in one of my books. "Evil doth not discriminate."

The shattering of a glass bottle snapped Ben to attention. He looked in the direction of the noise, and found himself sighing as deep as the green-blue ocean below him.

"This is a joke, I hope!" Ben started as he saw the root of the sound, "I already know what you're thinking, and it's foolish. Our pirate captain has enough hands, now-- he doesn't need you lot to tag along. Especially with a drunk who will require more maintenance than the ship!"

The source of the noise ignored him as they carried Bento Belo Sr. atop the A cadela queimada and below decks.

"Our captain's not going to like this!" Ben called out to their fleeting forms.

In truth, he said that partially because he did not want his father with them (nor his own friends), but he meant what he said. He feared what would happen when the Dread Captain found his father smuggled in the lower decks like an imported cask of liquor. He feared what his father would do when questioned by an intimidating pirate.

I think I know too well what he would do.

With another sigh, this one instead heavier than his aquaintance Ciríaco, Bento Belo carred himself aboard the ship. Deciding he'd be better use for the crew after they set sail, he found a spot in the corner, going over things in his head until he was interrupted by the drawing of a sword.

[Peik]

As Abdulhayy Mahmud waited for the kid to accept his offer, things took a different turn and he realized that the kid's mother had arrived after seeing his expression turn into one that said ''Oh shit'' after hearing his name getting called out. He also learned that the kid's name was Shahid. He turned and looked at the mother. She wasn't all that different from most of the Muslim women he had seen throughout his life - not particularly beautiful, not particularly ugly, and dressed in loose clothing that hid her features, surrounded by her children. One particular thing that stood out was the blood on her clothing. 'Poor woman,' Abdulhayy Mahmud thought. 'She gives off a solemn feeling.' Tied to children. He did not say anything to the woman or the child. Now that the boy did not need him, there was no need for bothering them. He watched as the man who was preaching to the crowd suddenly appeared next to the boy. 'Liar.' The man was young, dashing. He wanted to see a part that he could relate to. He couldn't find any. Then again, he was being nice to the kid. There was nothing wrong about that. Plus, he did not know whether there were any reasons for him to lie. Perhaps he had been ordered to. He watched as the captain and the mother talked. What were they saying? He couldn't hear it. He realized that he wasn't listening.

They went away. Hata'i decided to sit down. Looking around, he couldn't find anything to sit on. Then he realized that there was a ship that he needed to be on. Leaving the castle courtyard, he immersed himself in the charred remains of the town. He smiled. He could see the sea. He could see a young man, a survivor, hugging her mother. Sailors were rigging up their ships, crews fighting over salvaged goods. Beggars were taking advantage of the calamity and earning alms that they would barely earn in a year. On his way down to the ship, he passed by a beggar. As he walked past, the beggar smiled and started counting the coins that had fallen off Abdulhayy Mahmud's sleeve into his hands. He walked down to the ship. It was a galleon. A rather light-armed one. He could count twenty closed portholes on its port side. Occasionally, he could see the tar-covered lower parts. The rigging seemed stable. All ships started this way. The one he had boarded on his journey from Crete to Venice was a carrack. Attacked near Corfu, the ship was peppered with cannon and arquebus fire, increasing its weight. Abdulhayy Mahmud remembered the Reis ripping out pieces of his beard as he watched his goods getting thrown off the ship to decrease weight. One of the masts had been cut off, with the sail on it being used to cover the damage and keep the ship from getting water inside. The crew was unhappy. One day they had actually dared to shoot at the Reis' quarters. He had responded by filling a culverin with shot and nails and firing it at the crew's quarters. Hata'i wouldn't expect any less from a man called Deli Reis.

By the time he made it to the ship, the captain was in the middle of a speech. Hata'i did not want to listen. He eyed the sailors. They weren't the best company. They had nearly killed Deli Reis for reasons he couldn't remember. What he did remember was that they weren't important things. At least, not important for him. Remembering how the crew quarters of such ships were often filled to the brim with the stench of sweat and belch, he decided to take his belongings to the cargo hold. He wouldn't be disturbed much there.

[Yorg]

* A collaboration between myself and Peik*

Despite a general knowledge of ship layouts, Gaspar found himself at a loss once he descended below the main deck. This new environment was dark, smelly, and incredibly cramped; and although the inner space could not have been more than three-hundred square yards, it felt like a labyrinth. Burly men of foul tongue and even fouler odor scampered to and fro on unmarked highways, carrying and pushing and pulling and bantering. The controlled chaos of departure, easily navigated and utilized by the crew, was a complete enigma to the young boy.

Anxious to make himself as congruent as possible, Gaspar made haste to find a bed of some sort that was out of the way. He felt the familiar sensation of panic beginning; a numbness of the fingers, lightness of the head, and tunneling of the vision. His jaw was tight and his eyes wide as he plunged ahead through the tangle, dodging obstacles and crew. Eventually, Gaspar found himself a hammock in an out-of-the-way nook near where he guessed to be the bow of the ship.

"You're fine." he muttered to himself as he sat down, clasping his hands together and staring at the floor. He had not anticipated how nerve-wracking this experience would be. Not two minutes aboard the ship and already he was shaking. It was not so much the prospect of the voyage that had upset him so, but the knowledge that he could still go back; that the safe life he had known was mere steps behind him.

Amelia did always act up more when mother was nearby. Gaspar thought, with a slight smile. He knew that he would feel better once the ship had departed and there was no way back. It was the same as when his mother had left him in Sintra with Adalberto the first time; he had felt a knot in his stomach only until she was out of site. Once she was gone, his mind had turned to the excitement of his new opportunities.

Turning to the chest by his side, Gaspar hurriedly undid the latch and lifted the old wooden lid. After a few seconds of rummaging he pulled out a small journal, its red cover still vibrant and unworn. He leafed through the blank pages with a smile, feeling the crispness of the paper against his fingertips. His shaking calmed a bit as he imagined this diminutive tome filled with accounts of grand adventure. It would be the perfect book to document his journey.

~

''Ugh, dear God. It hurts.'' Perhaps due to the fact that his adrenaline had recently worn off, Hata'i was struggling with the fresh pain of his bladder. He had left his bag and equipment where he had decided to spend the journey, and now, was busy traversing through sailors preparing to get to the head of the ship, where he could relieve himself safely. ''Shit.'' He found himself on the ground after tripping on the foot of an extremely large sailor, who seemed to be quite angry since now he had dropped the barrel of gunpowder he was carrying. Not that anything had happened to the barrel. The barrel had fallen directly on the man's toes. Attempting to calm down the man, Hata'i tried to reason with the man's friends, who were now watching the man, hiding behind their cannons, waiting for a show. The ground creaked as the large sailor threw himself towards Hata'i, and then almost burst as the man fell on the ground after missing his target. ''Can we please get this over with later?'' Hata'i asked to the man, barely able to contain himself. He was answered with the sound of a dagger whizzing through the air.

Deeming death-by-sailor to be an end too degenerate for him, Hata'i threw himself quickly down the stairs to avoid the man. He quickly started moving through the labyrinth of crates in an attempt to lose the burly Spainard who was right behind him. He could hear the stairs croak and the man's feet thump. Moving with deftness that would be unexpected from a man of his stature, he quickly moved to the head of the ship, and after a few seconds' time of bothering with his pants, started to relieve himself of the liquids pent up inside his bladder. The painful feeling of pissing, alongside the immense relief, gave him a pleasurable feel that made him shiver.

The euphoric shivering didn't last long, however, as Hata'i heard a roar that made him jump out of the way. The Spainard had lunged at him again. And once more, he had failed to hit his target. Now, the man was lying face-down in a puddle of piss, and immensely angry. Hata'i looked around his surroundings to defend himself but could not find anything as the Spainard, face tinted yellow, started running at him again. Instead, he simply kicked the man in the gut. The man fell on his knees, and Hata'i started slowly walking backwards. Undeterred, the Spainard attempted one last attack, and ended up getting blasted in the face with piss. Hata'i quickly left the area as the man fell crying into the ground, his eyes hurt from the acidic qualities of Hata'i's urine.

''God forgive me,'' Hata'i kept saying to himself as he walked back to his hammock after avoiding the Spainard's friends, who were thankfully too distracted with the man, and tucking his important parts back in his pants. However, where he had thought would be his resting place was now a young, nervous, wiry man. ''Hello?'' Hata'i asked, ''What are you doing here?''

The young man looked up from his book abruptly. "I...I am coming on this voyage." he stammered after a few seconds. His manner seemed almost defensive. "My name is Gaspar, I'm from Sintra."

Hata'i realized that he was caught in a somewhat odd situation. The young man seemed to be somewhat afraid of him, and understandably so - nobody would like to be near a large man holding his privates in a ship. His answer was, to say the least, unsatisfactory. ''I'm not saying that.'' Hata'i said. ''That's the hammock I was planning to use.'' Hata'i pointed at the hammock Gaspar was sitting on. ''You couldn't find a vacant spot?'' He asked, hoping this conversation wouldn't turn into a piss-tinted fight like the last one.

"Oh, I..." Gaspar looked at the hammock in question as if it held the answer to Hata'i's question. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't know. I can find somewhere else." He hastily stood up to leave. "Sorry."

Hata'i sighed and shook his head. ''Nah, don't bother.'' He said to the young man as he walked towards one of the barrels and reached behind it, pulling his bag out of where it had been stashed. Afterwards, he reached one more time and pulled out his carbine, checked the lock (lacking triggerguards, Turkish muskets were much more likely to discharge when not needed), and then moved out of the place, looking for another spot to sleep in.

"Um, thank you!" Gaspar called after him as he left. The young man shook his head and sat down again, a look of regret passing over his face as he turned his attention back to the journal in his hands.

[The New Yorker]

*A collaboration with Yorg and TNY*

Emilio deligated the organization of the crew and everything above deck to his compotent friend Leonard Comstock as he decided to visit the galley and hold, and all the other rooms below deck. The bronze skinned Pirate lowered himself on a ladder, landing on the sodden wooden floor with a satisfying creek, his leather boots squeeking with the pressure. Some men moved to and fro, but moved whenever they noticed who he was. Emilio peeked into the galley, saw that it was empty, aside from the piles of boxes and barrels filled with food and spices, and made his way further down the hall. He made a mental note to get someone to man the galley as soon as possible.

Emilio haphazardly lowered himself down a steep flight of steps to the aft side of the hold. He passed a small group of men moving barrels into the hold, thanking them as he left them behind. The Dread Captain rounded another corner, planning to head back up to the gun room, but stopped when he noticed a young lad laying on a hammock, leatherbound journal in hand. Emilio was immediately drawn by the young man, and his book. "Oh, well isn't that interesting." Emilio raised his hand to his mouth and leaned against the wooden wall. His dark eyes scanned from the larger man, walking down the narrow passage way toward the aft, to the boy in the hammock. Emilio had the feeling that he'd encountered the man before, perhaps in the palace courtyard, but he could not tell by his fuzzy silhouette. "Boy," he started, "are you literate?" He asked this almost rhetorically, he expected the answer to be yes. But, perhaps, the boy just held the book for consolation. Perhaps he couldn't read or write at all, and he'd only raised the Captain's hopes in order to dash them; no matter how accidentally.

Gaspar quickly stood as he recognized the captain. "Uh, yes. Yes, yes I am!" He proffered the journal in his hands, then remembered that it was empty. "Um... I have some books here, if you want to see."

Emilio waved his hand with a playful smirk, his other rough, freshly cleaned, hand still lingering around his slightly chapped, albeit full, lips. "No need," he said, "there would be almost no point in you lying to me. I don't think you know how serendipitous this meeting is, boy! I'm looking for a yeoman. I need a young spry person, such as yourself, in order to compotently keep up with the action while still documenting major events, along with any necessary bureaucracy on the ship. If you're clever it'll be easy, so I hope you're clever." Emilio mindlessly lifted the journal from the boy's hand and flipped through it, it was empty, which was probably why he wanted to fetch other books. That was no need to worry, Emilio immediately recognized the books symbolism; the Dread Captain was a teen not too long ago. "So, you'll need to come stay with me in my cabin, upstairs. We can deal with matters of privacy later." Emilio added the second statement as an afterthought. Then, with no signal, Emilio tossed the book into the air, directly above the boy's lap. "What is your name?"

"G-Gaspar!" the boy replied with a look of suprise as he barely managed to catch the book. "Gaspar Albernaz, captain."

Emilio nodded with the information he was given, noting the Portuguese name. He began down the narrow hall, "follow me, Gaspar" he said. The boy scrambled to put away his journal and redo the clasps on his chest before taking off after the captain, belongigns in tow.

Emilio lifted himself to the next level via a small flight of wooden stairs. At the top he turned back toward Gaspar, if only to make sure he was keeping up, then continued. "How many languages do you speak?" he spoke over his shoulder, "That'll be important" he added to himself. He was calculating even now, as he led them toward the chained up and barred gun room. Emilio removed a ring of keys from his pocket, opened the locks and walked in. It was mostly clean and organized, probably not opened since the ship was completed.

"Two, captain. Well, two fluently. Spanish, and of course Portugese." His eyes widened as they entered the armory. "I speak a little English and French, enough to survive by."

Emilio ran his fingers along the various tables and bracings in the room until he came upon a rectangular table housing a few carbines and a blunderbuss'. Emilio lifted the firearm into his grasp, eyed the metal piece with a bloodsoaked meloncholy, and wrapped the leather strap attached to it over his shoulder. "To the room, then" Emilio said, leading the couple out of the dark, muddy chamber and back out into the rowdy corridor.

Emilio tapped Epunamun on the shoulder as he walked across the deck to the door leading to the captains quarters, "I'll be back in a moment," he said in Spanish. Emilio opened the chamber door with a juvenile expectancy, his hopes were not dashed, but they were also not met. There was a finely adorned desk partnered with a mahogany table set in front of it. A grand bed was settled horizontally to the right beside an armoire. There were various other nice furnishings among other decorations. Emilio crossed over to a dresser and removed the glass dagger from his side. Now that he was looking at it up close and in the light it looked a little different. It was a clear, ice blue, not a sharp green like before, probably an effect of the magic lighting there. Emilio slid the dagger under a few linens in the dresser and turned to Gaspar. "Set up wherever you'd like. I'll make sure we at least find you a bedroll, or hammock by tonight."

Gaspar nodded and walked to the far side of the room, sliding his chest into the corner. Emilio glanced over to the dining table and noticed a bottle of wine, as well as a note attached to it. Emilio crossed to it and lifted it, he read the note, written carefully in Portuguese: "Always remember whose wine you're drinking." The pirate chuckled, used his scimitar to pop the cork without unholstering it, and took a swig. Emilio turned back to his new yeoman, "Would you like some?"

Gaspar gawked at the scimitar for a moment before replying. "Oh, yes! Thank you, captain." He took a rather hasty gulp, but slowed as the taste set in. Then Gaspar finally smiled, albiet nervously, as he passed the bottle back to Emilio. "It's good."

The pirate took the bottle, chuckling to himself. How old is this boy? Emilio thought, no older than 15.... Emilio glanced down at the bottle, looked back up at Gaspar, then his eyes flicked back to the label on the bottle. Emilio's eyes widened for a second as he considered the date; "It ought to be," he placed the bottle on the table and walked toward his desk, "it's almost a hundred years old". Emilio opened a few drawers, and finally withdrew a covered inkwell, along with a rudimentary pen. "Tools of the trade," Emilio opined, and then he headed toward the door hoping the crew had made a significant effort to get the Bitch out of port.

[cider]

Ciríaco closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the salty air. He heard people walking about the ship around him, the city folk shuffling about and shouting in the dock and barrels being rolled aboard. Sea gulls shrieked in the sky, and he felt as if he could feel the fish swim below. As long as he kept his eyes closed, it was as if everything was exactly the way it had always been. But the moment he opened them again and witnessed the remains of Sintra once more, he knew that it was of course not so.

Letting the air out again, Ciríaco overlooked Sintra from deck, hands firmly placed on the rail. He had not been sure what he felt about this town. It had seen him fed and nursed, yet abused and tormented. It was his home, yet never felt liked it. He had left when possible and he didn't look back. Nevertheless, he had returned to Sintra and established himself there throughout the years anyway. Never staying, yet always returning. And yet, Ciríaco now knew that Sintra had set him on the path that was now leading him to Morocco. Sintra was his, and he was Sintra's. Looking upon the destruction, he felt not anger, but purpose. There was a meaning to all of this, and he was in the centre of it. He wasn't sure what it all meant, but Ciríaco knew he was meant to destroy that hellish beast, for whatever reason.

Suddenly, Ciríaco became aware of his thoughts and let go of the rail. That.. beast. Its attack on Sintra had turned something on inside him, and the pseudo-intellectual philosophical ramblings in his head were part of it. He had continuously had similar thoughts ever since he woke up in Paulo's basement in the morning, and didn't know what to make of them. He had always been a pragmatical man, and none of these thoughts coincided with his values. And yet, they felt too real to disregard.

Shaking his head, Ciríaco turned from Sintra and went below deck. He had already chosen a bunk, and sat down on it as he found it. It felt strange sitting in this end of the ship. He was used to the other side, where the captains slept. Nevertheless, he took out a pocket mirror - which had miraculously survived the earlier ordeal - from, well, his pockets, and began working on the mess that was his face.

[Kissshot]

Shahid stares at the man. What was he doing here? he thinks. Grubby and grimey like the street corner begger in Rabat who wears dirty clothes piled on his head, but nothing else on his body. Well, at least this man's privates are covered. Shahid never liked seeing the beggar's sagging butt. But this man made him feel just as uncomfortable. With the ship still docked, inside was quiet and dark enough. His mother sent him to find cloth and needle from the Boatswain and he had become distacted by the spectacle of this man.
Piecing together his Portuguese, Shahid asks, "Why do you not go above deck?" With the snap of the sails and the shoving of sweating bodies, where else would it be better?

Bento Belo Sr. looks up from his drink, the soft smudges of dirt underneath his eyes becoming more visible as he faces the light. He looks up at a young boy, his back sheltering the rest of the incandescence of the room. A young boy who seemed to be directing words and phrases at the haggard, senile man that was Bento Belo's father, Bento Belo. Another thick gulping out of his piss-warm bottle, and Ben Sr. replies:

"Why go above deck, boy? To test my drunkard's balance against the sea when we set sail? No, that's not wise for a man like me. I will stay here and keep out of sight before they boot me into the ocean because I shit more than every other man and don't put in enough work to make up for it. How old are you, boy? You should be above deck, yourself, should you not? I had a son of my own, at one point. Your parents will be mad with you."

Ben Sr. closed his eyes. They were his defining feature at one point in his life; a wild green, the green of crisp spring beginnings. You could look into his eyes and see golden valleys, once: fig trees and willows and sloping hills. Now they were ugly, more blue than green, more jungle-water than valley. Now they were shut. Shut against the emotions this child, and possibly the alcohol, were brewing inside of him. Ben Sr. did not like the idea of a whole voyage with children.

If Shahid's to be honest, and his mother taught him to be so, he doesn't understand half of what the man says. But watching how the man tips back his drink and how he doesn't look Shahid in the eye, the boy understands. (This man is the hollow of a man. A living phantom waiting to die.) So he nods and confides in the man, "My mother sent me below. She will be upset if I am gone for too long."

He tugs at the shirt he was given at the castle to be presented to the rich men there in a more favorable fashion. The fabric is heavier then he likes. He wants to take it off and walk with only his bottoms on. However, he also knows not to try his mother's patience. Not now. Not if he wants to talk with this man for longer.

"I am seven." He stops fidgeting and looks to the corner of the crate that the man is sitting on. "Seventeen?" He tastes the word, but decides it's much too high and so settles with "Eight." Instead. "I am eight."

"Eight? A nice age." Ben Sr. considers offering the child a drink, but then he remembers that he is, in fact, a child. What else could he offer, then? Something inside of him, beneath the drunken exterior, wanted to continue speaking with the boy. "What's your name, lad? Do you like stories?"

Shahid laughs. It seems the right response to being told that eight was a good age. "I am Shahid. Son of Othman and Esra Gad El Rab. Eldest of three brothers and sisters." Scratching under his tubby chins, he confesses, "Well, four. Mother has a baby now. In her stomach."

The room was damper than their own cabin that the dark man who was friends with Captain Emilio brought them to. Shahid hopes to sleep outside of the confides of his mother's sharp gaze, though. When on the Al-Qari’a, he find himself the empty cot of a crew member who had night shift or, on rare nights where Captain Sharkas smelled like the tang of clementines, he would stay up with his idol charting the stars in five different languages.

Thinking about Captain Sharkas in that moment with the sea water pressing against the groaning boards made Shahid want to stay here. "And yes, stories are good." He wants to tell the man that he knows a few good stories himself, but he holds back.

Ben Sr. was out of liquor at this point. Normally this would be the time when he went to find more (even if it meant mosying around in other people's quarters), but he kept himself from doing anything of the sort...yet. His morals died with the rest of him --they truly did, that day-- but for some reason Ben Sr. thought that leaving after hinting at more conversation with the child was a whole 'nother level of rock-bottom. Perhaps he'd hit it later, when he was alone and had scavenged some more fluid hells to digest, but at the moment he was painfully sober.

"I'll tell you a good one then, boy." He made room for Shahid to sit next to him; close enough to smell the foul stank of alcohol and self-deprecation, but far enough that he could explain such seating arrangements to the boy's mother.

[Yorg]

Gaspar stuck to the captain's cabin as the afternoon wore on and the hour of their departure neared. Gazing out the window to the west, he watched the descending sun and pondered the voyage ahead. A crew-mate had brought in a bed for him shortly after Emilio left, and though he had attempted to catch a nap he found himself too restless to sleep. It was a pity too, for he was exhausted.

Presently Gaspar left his post by the window. The captain’s lavish quarters housed what appeared to be the only rug on the ship; a rich expanse of mottled wolf fur; and he took a moment to revel in the feeling of it against his feet as he crossed the room towards his bed. He still had no shoes. Thankfully the floors of the boat were worn smooth, so he’d not have to concern himself with splinters. Even so, much of the lower decks were rather grungy, especially in the crew quarters; and it would only get worse the longer they were at sea. It would be imperative for him to find some manner of footwear soon.

The thin mattress that had been afforded him sat wedged into one corner, his chest beside it. Gaspar picked up the small oaken container with a grunt, moved it to the table opposite Emilio’s desk, and took a seat. The lid made a familiar creaking noise as it was opened, and in a matter of no time Gaspar had littered the table with the chest’s contents.

His own personal writings, having been kept in his back room, were most of what had survived the fire. He had tried to salvage some of Adalberto’s things that morning, but a few scorched books were all that remained. Gaspar felt a pang of sadness as he set those carefully aside. Of his own affects many were journals or loose papers written on various subjects; notes, ideas, or letters from friends and family. Books there were also, on many and varying subjects. Some regarded history, some science, others art or culture. A few volumes contained information on writing itself, such as the practices of book-binding and calligraphy. There were fictions and mythologies as well, and a scant few manuscripts that he knew to contain passages on the occult or arcane. One work in particular caught Gaspar’s eye as he scanned the collection; A Bestiary of Northern Europe and the Scandinavian Countries. He recalled "lindworms", possibly the northman's dragon, being mentioned numerous times in that book. He knew of the rumors that were circulating about the nature of Sintra’s disaster, and he was not quick to buy into such notions. He had seen no winged beast; but then again, he had not spent much time looking up at the sky that night.

In any case, those passages could prove useful should the topic arise. He placed the bestiary and his other books back in the chest, and examined what material he had for writing. For loose paper he had perhaps twenty sheets, some damaged, and for unused journals he had but three. A good number of quills and wells were at hand, but only one half-empty jar of ink. These meager rations would last the crossing, but no longer. He would have to restock in Morocco.

The sound of heavy boot traffic thundered above his head amid a chorus of shouts, and Gaspar guessed that their time of departure was at hand. After quickly gathering his things back into his chest and returning it to the floor next to his bed, he hurried up to the main deck to catch a last look of Sintra before they set sail.

[The New Yorker]

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 look newly sanded wood, and feel of 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 unprofessionally 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 crowed, whose attention he’d gained since smashing the bottle. “The Bitch is setting sail!” He yelled above the crowd. Some gave some 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.

[Raid]

Not in the house.

“I never should have sent your brother out,” Ayat confides to Deena. The eighteen month old has her fist in her mouth again. She reaches forward and touches the fat wrist. The skin soft and smooth and warm. Ayat only remembers her skin being that smooth for her wedding night and it took a hour to scrub a bucket of goat’s milk to create the same effect. Her fingers are blotchy from the different herbs and roots she used to smash and mash and boil. The rings on her fingers are scratched and could do with a polish. Captain Sharkas promised once they were settled in Sintra they would find a goldsmith and silversmith to fix them up. Sighing, Esra lays beside Deena on the narrow bunk.

Blankets were provided, but she doubts she will use them with it being so stifling inside. Boards buckle against each other where they don’t fit right. The floor is dry and the walls don’t show signs of much water stains. Esra hates getting wet. Othman enjoyed tell the men on the ships this. Who will tell these men about her aversion to clinging clothes and sticky skin from drying salt water? Othman’s father, her uncle, often complained about the lack of gender separation observed while they were at sea. When discussed with their imam in Rabat, he suggested that Esra simply stayed in the city and never took to the sea. They left for another voyage a week later. Despite their less than perfect adherence according to her uncle and imam, Othman declared that accordingly to the verse of the Qur’an they have obeyed Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala, and his Prophet, sallallahu ‘alaihi wa sallam. And it was true. Never in the years on a ship did she appear indecent in public. Not even during the dinner’s her family often had with Captain Sharkas and his first mate, a Jew from somewhere so far North East she not sure if she believed the stories he would tell. Sometimes she would go from place to place without an escort, but even in Rabat, that was normal. All the men knew to keep their distances and behave. Most of the Al-Qari’a’s crew were Muslim, too, so they understood what was proper.

She traces a circle in the palm of Deena’s hand and watches as she drifts asleep, her head pillowed on the arm of Samy who has been sleeping since Shahid left. “I should have never sent your brother out,” she repeats, thinking of the short, but terrifying foreigner who by orders of this Captain Emilio brought her below decks. The scars and skin is not what made her keep her eyes glued to the back of his ankles as she followed him below. It was his hair.

Below the bunk, Ahmad wedges himself between the floor and the bed, playing with whatever he finds in the shadows.

)o(
Someone whispers a story. Quiet and subtle like the creaking of the ship as waves rock into it and wind blow over. Esra cannot hear the story because the voices in her ears are those of a dead man and he drowns out all else. The baby presses down on her bladder. All the voices stop as she rises from the bunk to squat over the provided bucket. She leans against the wall, woozy.

“Mother,” her eldest son addresses her when she drops her skirts back down.

“Shahid,” she acknowledges him. He has no cloth or needle. She is not surprised. He kneels on the floor next to the edge of the bed. All three of his siblings are tucked beneath the shadows. Even little Deena and her soft skin. Her brothers must have moved her.

“Food is being served, but I am not allowed to food for everyone,” he says. She stares down into his round, chubby face with its thick long eyebrows drooping into his eye sockets. Stout, but not strong. That’s what type of man her son will be when he grows up. But smart, she thinks as she gathers up her head scarf and begins the process of tucking her black hair back so it’s hidden under the gray linen.

[b]“The Captain wouldn’t make an exception for you?” she presses. She knows her son is lying. A pin goes to deep and pricks her scalp. She readjusts and tries again, this time successfully weaving the metal between folds of fabric to keep her scarf in place.

Shahid says, “It has to do with rationing, mother.”

Even though it wasn’t the truth, it was a good explanation. She fusses with the excess of her scarf so it falls down her robe without pulling too much. Deena reaches up for her mother, neck craned so far back Esra can see the movement of her throat beneath the fat. Samy and Ahmad stand by the door, looking up at the latch. This door does not lock. “Then we must go claim our rations, must we?” Her hand remains pressed on the door for a moment too long because Ahmad calls out for her. She pretends as if her lapse never occurred. When she opens the door, she expects to see the slumping shoulders of her husband as he leans on his stick for support, waiting for his family. She expects Deena to reach out to pull on his skimpy beard, making it more difficult to carry her up the steps to the deck. But she remains tucked against her mother’s milk-engorged breasts.

Coming on to deck disorients her. This was not the Al-Qari’a and its lamps with colored glass so that everything glowed in greens, blues, and oranges. No Jewish first mate and his funny hats and dangling strings. No greetings. No bald head of Captain Sharkas with its scars. The languages too convoluted for her to understand. She steps forward. Samy and Ahmad already pushing themselves between the men for the cheese and fruit. Shahid speaks to the confused sailors, lips red from wine. He is apologizing she thinks, a twist of shame and anger pushing her hunger back down into the recesses of her mind. The people on the ship smell just as much like the sea as they do smoke. No-one has had the opportunity to wash off the stink of last night.

Do they even realize what’s happening? she thinks, keeping to the fringes of the crowd and away from those playing cards. Do you? Her twins run across the deck, rolls of fresh bread, not hardtack or dried fish, crushed in their hands. Ayat sits on the wooden cages of the chickens that will be accompanying them. A goat sticks its head between the bars of its cage, straws of hay sticking out as it mashes its food down to something digestible. Shahid hovers between the men. Sometimes talking, sometimes just listening. Esra wonders what he hears. Some of the Spanish spattered amongst the crowd is more familiar than the Portuguese. However, in her state (she keeps turning her head, looking for familiar faces), she doubts she could understand any properly if brought into a discussion. Deena stares at the goat, copying the movement of its jaw with her own. Esra stares to the East where the dark line of shore dips below the horizon. She’s forgetting something. What is it?

[Peik]

This wasn't Abdulhayy's first experience on a ship. He knew all too well just how boring it was. After leaving his old spot to the young boy, he was able to find another spare bed that wasn't in the crew quarters. It was near the prow of the ship, on one of the upper decks. He could see the bowsprit from the spot, through a hole that was probably used to shoot cannons from. The cannon wasn't there, though, possibly omitted some time in the past. Maybe the captain had gotten it removed and placed it next to his quarters aiming at the crew quarters, like Deli Reis. He didn't seem that type, though, from what Hata'i had seen. He looked quite young for a captain. He had met captains before, and most of them were grizzled old men. This one was probably less than half his age. He looked for something like a table, and ended up finding a stool. He placed his bag on it and rested his carbine against it. He looked at the carbine. It was a slim miquelet, possibly of Circassian make, lacking decoration except a silver Star of David etched into the side of the buttstock. He had killed the Demon of Milan with this very carbine. Hata'i had no idea what the demon actually was. It was something slightly taller than him, covered in dotted white fur. Thankfully for Hata'i, it wasn't immune to musket balls.

He sat on the mattress and opened his bag. While it carried a vast amount of items, all Hata'i could see right now was a bunch of books. Most of them were his translation attempts of the writings of his close friend Spinoza. He pulled out one of the books. He silently recited the basmala, and opened a random page, for reasons he couldn't discern. ''Since we have proved above that God is, it is time to show what he is. Namely, we say that he is a being of whom all or unending attributes are predicated, of which attributes every one of them is perfect in its kind.'' Spinoza was indeed an interesting case. Hata'i considered him to be born 'with the essence of Islam'. He had contemplated on the concepts of 'La Ilahe Illa Hu' and 'La Mawjude Illa Hu' without having any previous experience with Sufism. Indeed, he was a dear friend. He still felt guilty about being the cause of his expulsion from Amsterdam. Not that Spinoza cared much. Hata'i believed him to be immensely similar to one man (possibly a wali or a nabi) he had read of, Siddhartha Gautama. ''I should write him a letter sometime.'' Hata'i thought. As Pir Sultan Abdal had said, ''A bond with a friend is sweeter than honey.''

As he heard the fluttering of the sails and cheering, he noticed that the ship had set sail. After a stray gush of water nearly splashed onto him and his books through the hole, he decided that he should read later and stuck them inside his bag, and pulled the stool somewhere else where it wouldn't be subject to gushes. He had to get that hole closed. He took a closer look and saw that the gunport hatch was opened to the front. It explained how he was unable to see it. He reached out from the hole, and thanks to his long arms, managed to grab onto the hatch in one try. He started pulling, and managed to shut it. His belongings were safe now. He looked at the carbine. It was free of any water as well. That was good, as even though it was a flintlock and could fire in rain, it was still risky to keep it where it could be subject to water. Then he heard a loud 'thud' and got up from his spot to check. There was a drunken lad lying on the ground. ''Are you alright, lad?'' He asked. ''Tis but a flesh wound! Ha. I joke. What are you doing here, old man? The captain is giving a feast!'' The lad replied. Now that he noticed, he was somewhat hungry. While he could take it, he saw no reason to stay hungry just for the sake of it. As the drunk fellow walked out of his sight, he decided to get himself some food and walked up the stairs to the deck.

It was somewhat chaotic. The people were getting merry and having fun, enjoying the wine and extra food the captain had allowed them. Hata'i knew all too well that all this would be substituted by worm infested meat and moldy bread, often hardened to the point that it could act as a mace, later in the journey. He had seen it used as some sort of buckler against sword cuts. But it was important to keep morale high, and food couldn't wait forever either. He fetched a rather large loaf of bread from a box, stuck his fingers in it and ripped it open. Now he had to find something to fill it. He did not want to try red meat again. He looked at a barrel which had a group of sailors huddled around it, plunging their hands inside it and eating whatever came to hand. Getting closer, he saw that it was filled with pickled fish. Thanking God, he fetched a dagger from one of the sailors and plunged it into the barrel. He pulled out the dagger, and with it, a bunch of pickled fish meat skewered on it. He put the dagger in the bread, closed the open loaf with his hands, and pulled the dagger out, freeing the cured meat. Giving the dagger back to the guy, he started munching on the ramshackle sandwich he had made. The bread was soft, and the fish was fine, though a bit too salty, even for pickled fish. He didn't give it much thought, however. He slowly moved the butt of the ship, where he heard that fruit was being distributed. He took a seat next to a bunch of men playing cards, observing the game. He noticed that there were a few slices of pear on a wooden plate next to him. 'Hm.' He grabbed the pear slices and threw them into his sandwich and took another bite. The sweet and sour taste of the pear had alleviated the saltiness of the fish. ''That's pretty good,'' Hata'i thought to himself as he kept eating and watching the gamblers.