[IC] Spiritum Aeternum; or The Ramshackle Monster Hunters

[Kissshot]

Bento Belo stared upward into the shifting sky as the ship set sail. Initially he'd heard it before he felt it; the grinding of wood, the sputtering of waves, the shouting of hurried sailors. The physical part came soon after; the weightlessness of a boat at sea, the bobbing of the floor deck. The sudden need to adapt a new method of balance. It was an ecstasy similar to what was, Ben was sure, documented at least twice in "Meditations on First Philosophy". Of course, just like anything else described in the book, it was a shortly lived feeling, and it left immediately, leaving Ben hungry, bored, and regretful. Not nearly a day into his voyage and already he longed for his lowly inn with his lowly customers in his lowly town. Ben was a haggler. A broker. He'd tagged along partly out of rashness, but mostly because of his interest in the Captain. Well, his Captain, now.

Ben spent his remaining time stalking along the shadows of the ship, writing in a pocket journal any information he found interesting about the crew. He was found and accosted by the ship's crew more than a few times, and often shoved a sponge or bucket or errand that he didn't mind laboring for. Ben did not mind being put to work, for he was scum as much as his fake limp and cane tried to disagree, and he knew the value of a useful man. Work would, however, have to wait until he had his leverage and secrets stored up.

Soon the ship transformed into something of a feast, with conversation and discussions flowing out like water. Ben stuffed a few spice rolls in his mouth, took a sip of some honeyed tea whose ethnicity he couldn't recognize, and grabbed a giant misshaped Pêra Rocha before he was out taking advantage. He wasn't sure where to go anymore, he had to be frank. He deeply wanted to begin his digging on the Captain as soon as possible, but Ben had to stay prudent until he learned more about the man. Best not to risk his life while his home was still in sight on the horizon. Secondly, Ben wanted to check in on his father. His men (though now they were his equals, serving Emilio as he was) were scattered about, mingling with the other sailors as if they had a past life as a mermaid that Ben Jr. had not before known about. This, of course, meant that his father was on his own, and most likely was getting into trouble somewhere, but Ben didn't want to face that man yet. He just hoped he didn't run out of liquor for a while.

Instead, Ben turned his attention to the older woman with the twins. She seemed...out of it, perhaps not used to life at sea. Or just unsociable and had too many responsibilities. Nevertheless, Ben strode forward and made his best effort to accidentally bump into her.

"Ah- my apologies," He blushed red, waving his cane about frantically in the air, "I didn't see you there!"

[The New Yorker]

*A collab between TNY, Peik, cider, and Yorg*

Emilio recognized the clothing, the strange form, even through his slight drunkeness. This man, who stuffed his face with a strange combination of foods, placed between bread, interested Emilio greatly. He appeared to be intelligent, individualistic, wise. Emilio could gleam this from his eyes, his hands, his clothing. Then a spark ignited in his mind, and he remembered the dark, empty galley. This man could do work there, and he was perhaps as good as any. Besides, it didn't mean he would be confined there, giving him responsibilities and power would make him easier to befriend, easier to ask favors of, if he had anything to truly offer. Emilio moved himself around the table, directly behind the man. Emilio retrieved a flask from his breast pocket, one he had found in his room, and took a swig. It was a dull whisky, but it did the trick. He held it between his fingers and held it directly above the man's sight, then lowered it slowly in front of him. "Something to wash that down with." He said.

Emilio sat next to the man, looking at the game still going, then glancing at the man. He looked a little older up close, but he still had that grown baby look to him. "Emilio," he said, extending his hand for a shake. "You are?"

''Ombre.'' Hata'i had finally recognized what the men were playing. The cards were rugged, a ramshackle set - some of the cards were of Mughal make. He had learned of this game while trading in the Netherlands. Not that he knew how to play it - he had simply recognized the general outlines of the game. He didn't know much about card games. The men were playing quite intensely, however - one had removed his shirt to prove that he wasn't hiding cards up his sleeves (he had seen this in the Zaporozhie as well), and the other was biting the pipe in his mouth so hard it looked like it could crack. Hata'i took another bite from his meal. Pear and fish sounded quite horrible. Maybe years of asceticism had simply killed his sense of taste. Or maybe his sense of taste was just plain bad. He didn't know. He didn't put much thought into it. He was too busy looking at the Mughal cards. He liked their color.

He heard a croak. Then the colors of the Mughal cards were blocked by a flask, which was then put on the table. The man he had seen earlier today, the man who had lied to the crowd, was sitting next to him. He could sense a faint smell of alcohol on the fellow. A tanned, handsome fellow, probably in his twenties. "Something to wash that down with." He looked back at the flask. The distinct smell of whiskey was emanating from it. Looking back at the man, he saw that his hand was extended. ''Emilio,'' the man said in a voice that tried to be friendly. ''You are?'' After going through a bunch of made-up profiles in his mind in an instant, he decided to go with one that was true and false at the same time. ''Mahmud,'' he said as he shook the fellow's hand. ''I'm coming from the Dutch Republic.'' He then put down the meal in his hand, and politely slid the flask towards the man. ''Thank you for the offer, but I don't drink.''

Emilio watched as the flask was slid his way, he felt a little embarrased, but soon realized he wasn't really sober enough for that to effect him. He shrugged and pocketed the flask again. A flock of gulls flew overhead, taking the winds toward the cliffs.Emilio looked over to the side to see the little arab boy from earlier, Rasad? He couldn't remember the name. The boy's mother, Esra-- her name he could remember-- was sat a little ways away, seperate from the crowd. Someone still found her and her children, a portly man. Emilio chuckled as he thought of the difficulty that man would have.

Emilio came back to the man he sat with. "You come from the Dutch Republic, but you are not of there. From where do you hail?" Emilio asked, producing the half eaten pear from his side coat pocket.

''You come from the Dutch Republic, but you are not from there. From where do you hail?'' Hata'i decided to keep going with the 'true lies', believing that they'd be the safest in his situation. ''I lived in the Dutch Republic for some time, did some trade, but mostly translation and writing. I'm originally from the Ottoman Empire.'' He took another bite. As he chewed on his meal, the sweet-sour taste of pear dominant inside his mouth, seeing the man produce a pear from inside his jacket made him feel somewhat weird. Gulping the bite inside his mouth, he leaned his arms on the table. ''I've been traveling for the last two years, however.''

Emilio took a few large bites, chomped them down to bits, then swallowed. "I could wager on a guess as to where in the Ottoman Empire you are from, but that would be a moot point, wouldn't it?" He could hardly taste the juices of the pear, his mouth was a little numb and most everything tasted dull. "Now, aside from making fish and fruit sandwiches, would you be of any use in a kitchen? Our galley is empty and needs to be organized as well as properlly stocked. It's a simple job, really." Emilio wasn't looking at the man, only the Sintra mountains, the waves crashing against the sheer cliffs closer still.

The young captain took a large bite out of the pear in his hands as Mahmud watched him. He spoke of how he could guess where he used to be while in the Ottoman Empire. Hata'i sighed as the words filled him with nostalgia. He hadn't seen Constantinople for a dozen years. His old acquintances were dead. Sultan Ibrahim was dead. Katip Çelebi was dead. His sheikh was dead. He put down his sandwich. The man offered him to be the ship's cook. He had done cooking before, at the tariqa hanqah. It was simple - as long as the food was hot, the taste wouldn't be all that apparent. ''Cooking. I can do cooking.'' He started polishing the 12 cornered star-like onyx medallion hanging from his neck while thinking. ''I would need a list of the ship supplies, however. And an assistant.''

Emilio chewed more pear as Mahmud thought, cleaned his jewlery, and finally spoke. He found no issue with the demands, they were rather reasonable. "I'll have my yoeman work on the list as soon as possible." Emilio lifted his neck to try and find Gaspar in the crowd, but, indeed he couldn't be. "As for your assistant," Emilio's eyes wandered to Esra, then her son. He was perfect. "What about a young Arab boy? He speaks Portuguese, I think."

''A young Arab boy? Are you talking about that child in the courtyard? What was his name again?'' Hata'i scratched his beard with one hand, and grabbed his sandwich with the other. ''Shahid?'' He took a bite and chewed it slowly. ''Isn't he too young? I don't think he could carry a cauldron or hack with a cleaver. Looks too frail.'' He took another bite. He coughed for a second after swallowing it. ''I'm just voicing my concern. I don't think I could look at his mother's face if something were to happen to the boy.''

"That may be true." Emilio admitted, taking a second look at the family across the deck. "Well, I'll leave that to you then." Emilio stood, unlatched his key chain and removed the old one to the galley. "Come to my quarters for the inventory later, I need to find that blasted boy." And Emilio turned away from the table toward the thick crowd of feasters. He moved onward to seek out Gaspar among them.

--

Taking another bite out of his piece of bread, Ciríaco turned from the railing of the ship, and looked towards the other people on it. The sky was darkening, but there was yet plenty of natural light. It took him a few seconds, but eventually Ciríaco made out the captain from among the crew. The man was walking across the deck, at an angle towards Ciríaco. Ciríaco swallowed and moved forward, cutting the captain off. He knew this Scar Captain by reputation only, and it was quite the reputation. He was an accomplished and infamous pirate, known for slaying monsters most people weren't sure were even real. Ciríaco had thought the stories fictional, made-up to boost the reputation of Emilio Cicatrice. Of course, that was before Ciríaco had faced the horror haunting Sintra the night before.

"Captain Cicatrise. A pleasure to meet such a reputable man." the old spy said in fluent Spanish as he shook the captains hand. "Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Ciríaco Moreno, a humble merchant from the previously lovely town we just departed, Sintra. When the... beast, struck, I felt obligated to join this crusade of sorts, but I must ask; what will happen next?" Ciríaco finished his sentence with a friendly face and a faint smile playing on his lips, patiently waiting for the Scar Captain's response.

Emilio was accosted by a portly man, a man probably well known, both in Sintra and beyond. This was a man Emilio would have robbed at some point in his past. Not today, however; today he was an adventurer, and a rogue agent of the papacy. What ghastly propositon this would have made to a slightly younger Captain Cicatrise? Though the same could be said for his unfortuitous mutiny.

Emilio sauntered up the man, his body slightly askew to make up for the current wave. He took the man's hand with a bit of resignation, sweat stuck to his palms. The man spoke Spanish, but he was clearly Portuguese, it was evident in how he carried himself, how he dressed, and of course the fact that he mentioned it. Then he mentioned a beast. Emilio had hoped that he was coercive enough to diswayed such questions, at least so early. He recoiled, "Well, Ciriaco, in order to answer that one would have to accept that there was a beast there to begin with." He spoke in his native tongue, the castillano of old and it made him rattle. He could practically smell the pansies in his mothers garden. The sweet smell of his false fathers study after midnight, when he smoked with his comrades. What a fool that man was, Emilio thought, and he regretted not killing him before he left, at so ripe an age, as well. "I'm afraid I can't be convinced," He continued, "Not that it's any of my business, really, to care in the first place." Emilio glanced at the horizon, something he did often partly for consolation and partly to stave off vertigo and dizziness. He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a swig, offered it again, no hint of the pain from his earlier rejection. He wasn't sure why he was offering it to this man; perhaps it was just habit. "Do you believe it is your business, Don Moreno?" The man seemed embarrased, and the night was winding down, so Emilio took the sip himself, nodded to the man, and walked off.

--

It was a blessing that, despite his healthy geographical knowledge, Gaspar could not truly comprehend the distances that would soon lay between him and the little peninsula that had been his world since birth. Had he any inkling, the prospect may have overwhelmed him.

It could also be considered a kind of providence, then, that he was unable to find any nautical maps to occupy his imagination during the young hours of the evening, which he spent holed up in the captain’s quarters. Their departure from Sintra had so excited his nerves that he’d been forced into a hasty retreat below decks long before Portugal disappeared into the darkening horizon. There he’d looked for maps but settled on the next chapter of a novel he’d been reading avidly before the fires.

For an hour or so he tried to read alone; not long, for the story now rubbed him the wrong way and he could not distract himself with it. Giving up, he emerged around eight o’clock on the main deck to discover that a party was underway. An assortment of folk milled about the deck, ejoying the fresh sea air and plentiful food. There were a scant few faces that Gaspar recognized, and none that he could put a name to. He spotted the large American who he'd run into on the docks, and the offbeat man whose bed he'd unintentionally stolen. There were several children darting about, oddly enough, and Gaspar wondered at their presence.

As he began to lament the fact that the only name he knew was that of the ship's captain, he spotted Emilio talking to a familiar face; Ciríaco Moreno, a local tradesman and wealthy owner of much of Sintra! Gaspar thought for a moment of greeting them, but decided against it. Moreno was not likely to recognize even his name, much less his face, and they looked busy besides; perhaps at a quieter time he would approach the don. He was genuinely curious about the merchant's reason for accompanying them.

Gaspar ran a gently trembling hand through his curls as he eyed the deck and the crowd. It had been a while since he'd eaten, a detriment that was likely contributing to his feeling of general frailty. Food would be welcome, even if his stomach was sending him mixed signals. As he headed for the bountiful feast they'd been provided with, Gaspar spotted the wine: as sure a lifeline as any nervous soul could wish for.

So it was that, about an hour later, Emilio found Gaspar perched on the stairs leading up to the poop deck, happy as a clam. The boy had his red journal open on his lap and a quill in his right hand, though his eyes were pointed upward, observing the night sky. A wooden plate rested on the step beside him, upon which a mostly empty wine bottle sat ensconced by the remains of a hefty meal. A few leaves of paper were tucked under Gaspar's legs to keep them from blowing away in the night breeze.

"What are you writing boy?" Emilio yelled through the misty darkness. He climbed the steps and sat near the boy, moving the plate to the step below him, and peering at the journal's contents. His eyes were slightly glassy, his vision only slightly blurred. He stood and unlatched a lantern from a masting pole and sat back down, lantern held overhead.

"Noting the positions of the stars, Captain!" Gaspar grinned widely, only a little of his anxiousness showing through his eyes. His face appeared flushed in the lantern light, and the hint of a lisp had edged into his voice. "We sail under the Dolphin, there-" he pointed with his pen "-the Swan, and the Fish-Goat, there. Over there, I believe, is Microscopium. We are sailing under the Microscope, you could say." He chuckled to himself. The page open on his lap held several crude sketches and a number of labels hastily written. "Virgo, the Virgin Maid, will be our companion for several days longer. If the church did not frown -and justly so!- on mysticism, I would warn you to watch for others prying into your affairs." The boy gave Emilio an exaggerated finger wag and knowing glance, then laughed again.

Emillio nodded along with an approving demeanor as he looked back from the inky firmament to the illuminated pages below him. The boy seemed to be unusually perked, almost blissful. He might have had a few drinks in him, as almost anyone else in the ship, but Emillio could not tell what was happening in the boy's head, aside from the remnants of his own memories aboard a pirate ship at about his age. He remembered the pungency of alchohol, and curses, and the glinting of blade edges. This was all tinted beforehand, however, with an inexplicably easy shift from aristocracy to naval life in the short span of adolesence. Emillio could project his own story on the young man's current understanding of his situation, but it was pointless, the two seemed to be as different as it could get. Aside from all that the boy showed himself to be smart, if not slightly naive. Then the boy mentioned prying eyes. Emillio recalled the tense exchange between himself and Ceasar before the masts were full of wind, and he felt a chill reach down the small of his back and echo into his arms. Instead of succumbing to this feeling, as was easily done, he shook it off, brought his slightly drunken mind to the issue at hand.

"I'd like you to get to work, Gaspar." Emillio said this with a easy tiredness. "We have a new chef and he needs a list of our materials. There is a large inventory book in my quarters atop the podium, you need only copy down our food stores onto a parchment and deliver it to me-- subtracting the things clearly removed from our stores this afternoon." Emillio's eyes scanned the darkness of the deck, noticing the sudden sparsety of people, and then turned back to Gaspar. He stood and hitched the lantern back on the post, "Come on, I'll show you where it is. Then we can finish off that wine bottle we started." Emillio added with a slight grin and a faint wink, since his eyelids were currently rather heavy to begin with.

"Uh, yes, of course! Sir. Captain." Gaspar balked for a moment, having perhaps not yet given thought to the actual work he would be doing aboard. He recomposed himself quickly, though, and after gathering his things stood up to follow Emilio. The pen slipped from his fingers, and he had another quiet chuckle as he stooped to pick it up.

Emillio quickly picked the pen from the floor and put it back in the boy's hand, patting him on the shoulder as he walked away, "You might be interested in building up a higher tolorence as well." He commented. Emillio made his was to his quarters with little difficulty since there wasn't a crowd, and his drunkeness seemed to help with the uncertain ground. The wooden doors were swung open and Emillio pointed to his right and the podium which leaned against the wall there. He moved forward to the wine bottle and uncorked it. He poured half of the contents into a large snifter and then delivered the bottle to the boy, "yeomen have the pleasure of the bottle" Emillio said facetiously. After that he retreated to his desk, and removed a pile of books and scrolls to reveal a small map of the Mediterranean, his snifter held gracefully at his side.

Gaspar approached the wooden podium, eyeing the sizable inventory book that rest upon its top. It was a new volume, unweathered, its corners sharp, its pages still a lovely off-white pallor. He could almost fancy he smelled the glue drying. The boy took a swig from his bottle then set it down, and leaned against the podium while he opened the book; still none too sure of his sea legs.

Like the captain had said, the pages contained a detailed log of the ship's inventory. Gaspar frowned at the list while he tried to reel in his faculties from their hiding place amid the drunken haze. He peered over his shoulder at Emilio, who was at his desk looking over a map. The map immediately piqued Gaspar's interest, but he dispelled that urge and returned to the task at hand.

For a while Gaspar worked away, jotting down the items as he saw them listed, abbreviating or compartmentalizing where necessary. He struggled at times to maintain his focus, and would at those points relieve himself with a swig of wine. As the time wore on he repeatedly found himself bending closer and closer to the paper, and would correct his posture with a crack of the shoulders and a chuckle.

Eventually he neared the end of the list. As he recorded the last few items the boy spoke up. "Will we go to the Mediterranean, sir?"

Emillio used his compass sparingly, arranging pathways as he saw them. When the boy spoke, which was only after a little while of silence in the creeking quarters, he asked about Emilio's map. This boy was attentive, observative, curious. He tapped a pencil against the canvas surface as he prepared for an answer.

"Not unless we have to. I'd prefer to approach from the west, better walk that way, but we may have no choice. If there's a blockade, or the Spanish are having another showdown with the Berbers, we'll need to diverge, come from the north. Either way's fine," Emilio said as he brought a fist to his mouth, staring at the topography as the map showed it, "as long as we get there." He concluded with a lump in his throat. He couldn't bear imagining what the powers that be had in mind for him if he failed. Though, realistically, going after this beast was probably his death warrent, in and of itself. Either he would fail and die, or succeed and die, and there was no getting around it. There was a certain solice in that, something Emilio couldn't escape as a part of his darker nature. "As long as we get there," he repeated, finishing the glass of wine he had.

"The Rock of Gibraltar must be a sight!" Gaspar said, oblivious to the fall in Emilio's countenance. "They say that Tariq ibn Ziyad burned his ships once he had landed on it, during his invasion. Why would he do that?"

Turning from his finished work, Gaspar made his way over to the captain's desk. "I met a Berber girl once. She told me that powers in Morocco will change soon. Do you think there will be, ah... danger, between them and Spain? While we are there? It's not... well, I want to see a Saadi palace before it's..." he punched his palm and grimaced. The boy eyed his bottle and then turned it up, downing the last of the wine.

Emilio chuckled at the boy and his inquires. "I never really understood the Muslims" he noted before turning back to the rest of the room. Emilio watched Gaspar gulp the last of the wine, the dark bottle clasped in his hand. Just then, as the bottle was brought away from Gaspar's lips, an aura awakened somewhere in it's glassy form. The light was a bright yellow light, as if a piece of the sun were trapped in the bottle. It shook and rumbled a little before the light finally shot out from the top, bouncing from Gaspar's face toward the back of the cabin, richocheting off a wall, and then behind the long table at the center of the cabin. Emilio followed the light for half of it's journey, dodged it as it sprang toward him, and managed to draw his scimitar. Gaspar cried out in alarm, nearly falling as he scrambled behind the captain's desk.

On the floor, behind the table, lay a women dressed in leather garments, specks of yellow light falling from her into nothingness. She quickly lifted herself to her feet and brought her hands together, a slight aura forming in her palms. Emilio reacted with haste as he grabbed her by the wrist and twisted her into a subdued position, raising his scimitar to her neck. "Don't move," he said in Portuguese, anger raising in his voice, "or I'll open you like a fish."

The woman, who had angular European features and dark black hair, chuckled a little before Emilio put more pressure on her arm, causing her to moan. "Don't get too comfortable making threats, Cicatrise" She responded in kind. "The tables may be reversed sometime soon."

Emilio had to smile at the woman's confidence, he brought the curved scimitar blade even closer to her neck. "I doubt it," he quiped. Emilio glanced over to his yeoman, "Gaspar," he called out signaling to the firearm on the table, "grab the blunderbuss. Help me out here." Emilio could understand if the boy was a little dazed, a tad confused, so he would let him collect his bearings. "Do you work for Luna?" Emilio asked calmly.

"Why ask questions you already know answers to?" She asked rhetorically, trying to keep her skin from nicking the sharp metal blade at her throat.

The captain nodded at the woman. "Cover her, Gaspar. With the gun."

Gaspar stared glassy-eyed at the woman, uncomprehending. He looked from her to the bottle in his hand, then back at her, then at Emilio, his mouth agape. It was only after the captain asked him a second time that he seemed to hear, and haltingly crossed the room to the blunderbuss. Soon he stood next to Emilio, the weapon held limpy at his side, a look of drunken confusion on his face as he tried to form a question.

Emilio brought his scimitar down as Gaspar awkwardly held the woman in his sights, the blunderbuss pointed at her chest. He crossed around the table, his brown eyes narrowing as he watched her calm face. She wore light eyeshadow which finely accentuated her nearly red brown eyes. The woman eyed Gaspar, smiling dully when she noted his youth, his soft skin and bright eyes. His pink nose stood out to her most of all, it was a sign, and like all signs it pointed in one direction or another. She winked and raised her hands above her tumbling hair. The boy continued to stare in bewilderment, his brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the situation through his drunken haze.

"Why did Luna send you?" Emilio asked through his gritted teeth.

"To be stuck up by a handsome young lad like this, mission complete." The woman said with a heavy mocking tone.

"Alright!--" Emilio began before being interrupted by a coarse scream from behind the closed doors. He glanced out the stained glass and tried to see beyond it to the dark deck. "What was that?"

"How should I know?" The woman responded blithely. Gaspar stared around at the cabin walls.

"Damn you! What is going on?!" Emilio yelled, filled with a dark fury as he crossed over the table and grabbed at the woman's hair. He pulled her half way over the table and brought her face close to his, her full lips almost meeting his chapped ones. "You tell me right now or I start cutting limbs off." The young yeoman sannk back in dismay, stumbling for a moment, his aim faltering.

The woman swallowed the lump which had formed in her throat, stared deeply into Emilio's eyes. He had no way of knowing if his threats meant anything to her. She had just been poured out from a botttle, what other tricks did she have hidden under her sleeves? For now, the threats seemed to at least keep her restrained, so Emilio thought he would keep going down that route.

"It's a harbinger." The woman responded, falling into compliance.

Emilio let go of her, and began walking to the doors to the deck, looking back only momentarily to check on Gaspar. "Hold it tightly, watch her. And keep a distance, at least ten feet."

The woman chuckled and whipped her head over to the captain, her eyes narrowing, "he won't be able to hit at ten feet." She said playfully.

Emilio considered this for a moment, stopping at the door to wrap a bang around his fist, in case he needed to punch. "He'll hit," Emilio finally said, with all the confidence he could muster, and he nodded at Gaspar, hoping that, indeed, he would, and even moreso that the harlot never gave him a reason to try. As Emilio partially opened the door he noticed a very dim red hue, coming from a part of the deck he could not see past the door. The woman stared deeply into Gaspar's eyes.

"You are the one who released me, correct?" She asked, sultriness oozing from her eyes.

Emilio opened the door even more, just enough to see a figure, potentially human, clad in armor as black as the darkest night sky, and emanating a red, blobby aura with inky black centers. He wielded a lance, and at the end of that lance was one of the crewmen. The lance was tipped only slightly over the side of the boat and the half dead man slid from it and into the brine. Emilio could see across from him, half hidden in the stairwell down, was Lenord Comstock. His carbine was settled into his shoulder, and he fiddled with the sights a little, glanced over at Emilio. Emilio nodded and Leonard took his shot, and the pellet left a small chink in the armor, ricocheting off and hitting a beam. The armored figure moved forward with an unexpected speed, his boots almost bending the floorboards as he moved. Emilio ran right after him as Leonard took another shot with his pistol. The figure staggered a little, but continued his momentum. "Go get Epu!" Emilio yelled out from behind the massive form. Leonard ran down the steps and the armored figure turned to the voice behind him. Emilio immediately rolled forward and behind the hulking thing, taking a slice at it's knees. There were no weaknessess on this thing, as far as Emilio could tell, and his scimitar was certainly not good enough to work on any of this things parts. But, as Emilio already knew, he could not let this thing destroy the ship. He ran what the woman had said through his mind, a harbinger? And the obvious following question, of what?

The lance swung around it's master's body like a rope, found its way to its mark and drilled toward him. Emilio jumped back to another section of the ship, and the armored figured only moved an inch, bringing his lance back again for a second strike, a slash. Emilio dropped to the floor, then rolled out of the way as the lance drilled across the floor. Emilio rose to his feet, jumped back another few feet, just out of range. "What do you want?!" He yelled across the misty night air, his naive tongue all he could speak in that instant.

The armored figure relaxed from his fighting stature, resting the lance on his shoulder. "Peccavit tibi munus , miles . Domos quadro lapide ad caput gladio et ponite Hispaniae. Pacem habete , et non vult agere cum domino vestro." Responded the glowing form.

Emilio, wide eyed, felt he could hardly breathe, probably something to do with his recent maneuvers. But he also felt a tidal wave-like sense of impending disaster, of unavoidable loss and doom. At that moment Leonard popped his head up from the navigation deck, and Epu appeard from one of the far off stairwells. "I'm--I'm afraid," Emilio responded, stuttering, his heart beating faster than he could know, "I can't do that."

[Raid]

A little too late for niceties.
A collaboration between Kisshot & Raid

Deena giggles as her mother tips her forward. Esra's elbows lock. She almost drops her daughter when the man bumps into her. That is not to say he barrled over Esra and her children without any thought. She seen many men stumble about as they became accustomed to the way the deck bobbed and dipped with the movement of the waves. It was a miscalculated stumble. He waves his cane.

Strange. Her head cocks. He uses the cane like it's a prop rather than a tool. He limps around in a fashion like man who is not used to limping. Was he hurt in the fires last night? she thinks, but the disagrees with herself just as quickly. It was as if he didn't want to limp. Strange, she thinks again, bouncing Deena on her knee as the man spurts out something decidely not Arabic.

Shahid keeps staring at the man. She pinches his cheek, scolding him. It is the scar and mangled nose that kept the boys attention. And she thought they raised him better than that.

"Ow!" he wines, cupping his cheek, but doesn't protest. Despite the red blotch surfacing on his skin though, he looks back up at the man and asks: "Are you alone?"
Esra's been awake for far too long to keep up with her son. Not even this food that sweetens with things other than honey and fruit that are too tangy, can shock her fully awake. Thus, she has no idea what trouble this boy might get himself into.

A cool breeze wafted against Ben's skin, sinking into the gritty pores of his scar tissue. He had to force himself not to wince, which became even harder under the scrutinizing gaze of Esra. To his surprise, it was not her who had spoken up, but a young boy with an even sharper stare than he, though his was more of an innocent curiosity at Ben's mangled nose. Ben was not offended by the intense staring; however, he did not flinch as Esra pinched her son's cheek, leaving a slight red stain on his skin. He knew that was the proper disciplinary method and he couldn't argue with it, but it brought back the same haunting memories that now prevented him from continuing his own family line, as rich and fulfilling as its denizens' lives were.

"No," Ben answered honestly, "I'm with meu pai. My father. And some friends that I'm sure you'd love to never meet."

Ben isn't sure what the proper courtesy is, so he extends his hand outward to the boy in an attempt to shake.

Shahid grins, taking the man's hand and pumping it twice in an exaggerated fashion. His younger brothers push themsleves forward and insist on taking the man's hand themselves to mimic their older brother. Shahid allows them to do this for their attention will wander quickly enough; besides, they don't speak Portuguese (though it's arguable that Shahid himself doesn't, either).

"How'd you get the scar?" Shahid asks. Men always like to brag about where they've gotten their scars.

"Boy," his mother warns in Arabic; he looks back at her as she cradles Deena close. His baby sister nuzzels into her mother's arm as the indigo of the sky blends into the deep blue of the sea. "Excuse me," Esra says in Portuguese to the man.

A rush of shame, anger, and humiliation comes up from somewhere in Shahid's heart. He wants to correct her. Tell her that Captain Sharkas was too easy on her during language lessons and thus she makes a fool of herself before this young man. But she's his mother.

Scrambling to cover up the mistake, Shahid enunciates, "But you are alone now. You must eat with us."

People on deck look out to the sea and up into the sky. With the daylight gone, they remember what brought them all to this ship aside for a thirst for adventure. Esra kisses the top of Deena's head. Her eyes half lidded and mouth open. She has already begun to drool as sleep wraps around the baby.

Ben laughs at the onslaught of the handshake-hungry children, and gives them each a friendly, overly firm clasp. They didn't stay focused on Bento for long, however, losing interest almost immediately afterwards, leaving Shahid alone with his mother and quarry on the groaning ship. Unsurprisingly, the boy's first question is about the scar. Ben does not mind the interest -- it is an...engaging story to tell, if anything-- regardless, Ben does not think it suitable for children. At least not in front of their stern mothers in the daylight, where they could easily rip Ben into thick tears of meat (and scar tissue).

Ben smiles at Esra. "Sem problemas. It's no problem at all -- though it is perhaps a story for after your son plays host."

The party is still lively as Ben speaks with Esra and her family, but nothing fantastic happens. His eyes fall atop the Dread Captain as he scans the deck, irises almost dirtied from a hard living. Ben takes in the Captain's gait and his walk and how his hands move when he speaks. He observes his facial patterns and his ticks, coding it all into his memory. It takes a lot of willpower to pry himself from his target at all, but Ben knows he cannot be rude here; he has to return to his current job. Even sailors and widows will crave information at one point in their lives, as will Captains and cooks. Information is power. Knowledge is power. Such popular philosophy, yet most Portuguese don't realize how old its ancestry really is. Of course, most Portuguese Ben knows don't care about it to begin with.

Regardless, there's nothing like a long voyage at sea to create spiraling tensions between people-- people who will then seek information. Ben knows this.

No one knows how Bento Belo smiles so much, but, like always, his lips spread wide until his teeth are, again, glaring at Esra. "Shall we be off?"

Esra's not sure about what he said before, but through the lull in conversation and in her own mind, she's catches the last part. Off? she thinks. To where? She looks down at Deena because she finds this man's teeth too startling (too perfect). The girls drool bleeds through the fabric of her Jellaba.

"First, I am Shahid. Man of this family. Then, my mother, Esra Gad El Rab." He rests a hand on her shoulder from where she sits atop of the chicken cage and next to the goats. A throne as good as any. "Then my brothers, Samy and Ahmad." (The twins tease the goat by sticking their fingers between the bars of the cage and pulling back before it can bite them.) "And Deena, my baby sister."

Shahid gestures at the man. "And you, sir?" Esra stares. The way her boy's belly protrudes. How he holds his hand, palm up, when asking for this stranger's name. Tilting his chin down, but casting his eyes up. He looks just like Othman, she thinks. Horror overshadows the hunger for something dark and sweet or want for any female friend to speak with about the losses occuring last night.

"You are quite the man indeed, Shahid. Your family is lucky to have you." Ben answers as best he can, almost fumbling over his tongue as he tries to remember the proper tone to use with one so young. He hasn't spoken to a child since that night years ago, when his father's heart had collapsed and Ben had been barely young enough to escape the debris. The memories stung. Not as deep as the roaring flames that had escaped the 'dragon's' tonsils only hours ago, but deep enough to bother Bento Jr. He searched the ship, looking for a way out of repressed memories and tortured pasts, forcing his eyes to take in Esra's bald spot, Shahid's patriarchal pose, even the faint splash of breaking waves.

"I am Bento Belo Junior, man of what is left of my family. My father, Bento Belo Senior, is here with me as well." Ben was amazed at the strength of the boy's character and personality, which somehow left him answering as properly and honestly as possible. "I would avoid his company, my new friends, and maybe ignore meeting his eyes as well."
Ben's eyes were downcast for a moment, dirty irises rolling around like pinwheels in his head. Quickly, he shook his head loose and looked up at his "new friends", grinning. He reached out to grab their arms and lead them to some food, but pulled back in fear of seeming overly friendly and suspicious. He was getting rusty.
"Perhaps we could go below to the kitchen, for a more quiet setting? I leave the decision to you, Shahid, man of the family."

Shahid doesn't understand. Why should he avoid Bento's father? He has met the old man already, anyways. What harm is there in that? Out of a child's mischeivous desire, he makes no comment. It will be his secret. He has many secrets, indeed.

He pats Bento's arm, like Captain Sharkas would pat Othman's in reassurance of some scheme or plan. (Captain Sharkas had done this very same action after Othman agreed to come on the journey to Portugal.) "Good idea. Maybe my mother will make us my favorite dish, fatteh?"

"I will not," Esra says in Arabic, pulling at the collar of Ahmad's robe so that he doesn't scamper too far off. "There is food here to eat. This is the food you will eat."
Shahid stares. His mother never let's them eat foreign food. Something is wrong. Horribly so. Why? She has him and he will make sure everything will be fine. Doesn't she understand that?

It is the increase in shouts and laughter, though, makes her uncomfortable. "What does this man say, Shahid?" she sighs.

"He says we should go to the kitchen," her son translates.

She frowns. It is too private of quarters. She already missed her prayers for the day, working with patients only to realize how thirsty she is and that her prayer rug is still rolle dup in the corner of the guest suite she had with her family in Sintra's local Lord's house. the card games becomes more dramatic and the Captain sways. The seas is not rough enough for a captain to sway.

She doesn't want her children here. She doesn't want to be here. "Shahid, ask him to escort us to our cabin. It is time for--"

Samy begins to whine. His mother levels her greens eyes down at her son. He grumbles an apology.

"Shahid, ask the man."

How can he admit he doesn't have the vocabulary to do as his mother asks? Does he lie? Yes. She can't understand him anyways.

"My family and I must go to bed, my new friend," he says, taking Ahmad's hand. His younger brother grunts, but rubs at his eyes instead. The rocking of the ship lulls the conversation on deck. But maybe that was the crush of the darkenss around them?

"Our friend cannot take us down, mother, the Captain asks him to complete some tasks first," Shahid says in Arabic. "But I remember which way to go." And he walks towards the steps leading down to the quieter sections of the ship's belly.

Esra stares after her son, following him out of shock. Captain Sharkas would have been proud of the boy's manipulation. After all, he's the one who taught her son anything. The boy never listened to his father. On this ship, who will be the next one to poison her son's mind? She tucks her children into the bunk and wastes half a tarrow candle just to watch them fall asleep. Rubbing circles into her stomach she wonders who will take advantage of them next? She agreed to this journey because it was an oppertunity for her to return home, but now she feels as if she fell into a trap.

How am I expected to sleep? she thinks, unwrapped her scarf and folding it into a pillow. She touches her cheek. Her fingers are wet and her tongue tastes salt and her nose keeps dripping. She cries with a fist in her mouth as to not wake the children.

[Yorg]

A collab between TNY and Yorg

Gaspar eyed the mysterious woman with unabashed fright, the barrel of the blunderbuss lining up his watery stare. The boy's poor head could not begin to fathom how she had appeared or from whence she came. He struggled over and over to comprehend what he'd just witnessed, and every time the quivering heat of panic slowly washed from his chest into his limbs. He would certainly have been shaking like an Autumn leaf, had wine not dulled his nerves.

The woman, who peeked behind Emilio as he left, now turned back to Gaspar. She had not decided what she would do, not yet. This boy, who had ended up in this desperate, confusing situation, had no idea how his life hanged in the balance at this very moment. Would she kill him, did she have to? Was he a liability? Would he come after her with the gun? Could she cast a spell before he fired? All the questions would lead to one answer, eventually. Her hands came down to her sides. "I am not supposed to be here, Gaspar." She whispered. A shot rang out and she glanced to the closed door. "I don't want to hurt anyone." she continued, another shot. "You seem like a nice boy. You need to let me go." She finally said, decisively. No magic involved here, straight forward persuasion would have to do.

"Don't speak any more!" Gaspar stammered out in Portuguese, on the heels of the strange woman's words. He gestured at her with the blunderbuss. "I don't believe you! You're not- you're not going..." the boy's tongue faltered. As the ship tipped and rolled he quietly struggled to maintain balance, the already tired muscles in his legs working overtime against the clouded balance receptors in his ears. He flinched as the sound of another gunshot slapped against the walls, and stole a frenzied look at the door.

The woman smiled, held onto the nearby table to steady herself as the ship rocked. The boy was afraid, tired, confused. These were conditions under which accidents happened, one of those potentially being a misfire. The woman swayed with the boat, countering the motions of the blunderbuss' frayed barrel. "If you don't let me go your Captain will die, and then so will you."

"No! Don't say anything!" Gaspar interrupted her. For a moment his finger searched frantically for the trigger it had lost. The gun felt heavy in his hands; the wooden stock was becoming slick with sweat.

There were loud thuds and scrapings as something big fought across the deck above, but everything was eerily quiet besides. Only a few hoarse yells; not the pandemonium he'd experienced in Sintra. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The woman before him was not to be trusted, or to be spoken with, surely. But as he seemed to keel ever farther to and fro with each passing tilt of the floorboards, his grasp on reason slowly ebbed. Images of her bizarre appearance raced through his mind.

The woman's eyes lit up with the brilliance of her magic, the effects of her transportation had worn off, and she could cast higher level spells again. Something she felt she would need to do sooner rather than later. Her bright orbs were colored with flecktern vermilion as the dark marbles held inside dissipated. "I have the power to save everyone on this boat, Gaspar. You must let me go." She moved only slightly along the edge of the table, her black painted fingernails softly playing on the sodden furniture.

"You're not supposed to be here." Gaspar repeated her earlier words. The dark windows and swaying lantern kept tugging at his vision, distracting him. The ship crested a swell and his stomach turned. The floor felt hot against his feet. Was he still aiming at her? He felt the desk press against the back of his legs and leaned against it, steadying himself. A belch, out of place and unnerving. He almost laughed, but... had she moved closer?

"Unnatural." The word spilled out like a condemnation as he waved the gun warningly at her. "Something came out of my wine. Like ball lightning. You weren't hiding anywhere." He grimaced suddenly as a wave of nausea hit him. His grip on the rifle hardened though, his eyes wide. The blood pumping through his head was almost deafening. The room was getting darker. "A miracle, but only God can do... you're not holy. De-"

The deepest howl of hell itself suddenly burst upon their ears, an unworldly horn bellow rolling across the deck and thundering through the captain's chambers. Gaspar's eyes froze on the door in shock.

The sounding of the mystical horn was all the woman needed. She could feel the tension, the rising murderous venom which boys like Gaspar were so wont to secrete. The woman knew that this was the final answer to her people from the people of earth. All of them were too scared, too imaginative, too anxious to be trusted, to be loved, to know. And with the interruption of the destructive cacophony just beyond the now slightly fractured doors-- of which effects, thankfully, the woman's ears were immune-- she could gleam an escape, and hopefully, finally, the deal. She would need to put that behind her for now.

As the boy's gleaming hair settled into place from it's previous disheveling, and a sweat bead fell from his nose to his wrist, the woman fell into a groove; it was a comfortable place in the universe, one which only she knew existed. She inhaled the swirling swathes of color, known to her as magica reserves, which were around her even know, and quickly lifted both of her hands above and before her. A translucent powdery substance cascaded from her hands and around the blunderbuss, wretching it from the boy's hands. Time, for the woman, seemed to return to normal and the gun simply flew off to the far off corner, colliding with a mirror, smashing it, and then firing off. The pellets hit a nearby cupboard, sending splinters toward the front of the room. She knew what she had to do now. The boy would need to be disposed of, the gun would draw attention, if Cicatrise could get away from the Harbinger in time. But, she did not want to kill him, he'd grown on her for some reason.

Her foot swiftly found it's way into his groin. Granting her enough time to grab him by the collar, spin him around her magically stabilized form, and hurtle him into the nearby wall. Potentially hurting him, knocking him unconscious, killing him in the worst case. It mattered little to her, because she was ready to venture forth, go beyond the relatively safe confines of the cabin, something Gaspar couldn't do in his wildest of dreams. To be fair, it was something most people wouldn't do in their wildest of dreams. She sprinted off to the other wall, unlatched one of the windows, and slithered out of it and onto the deck.

As the booming horn-blow subsided Gaspar tried to lift his crumpled form from the floor. Pain flooded up from his groin and he vomited, tears running down his cheeks. The world was spinning and he couldn't seem to keep his arms and legs underneath him. His left side ached, and his ribs gave a sharp report every time he moved. He could feel an intense heat on his left shoulder; blood trickled down his arm. The smell of sweat, vomit, and wine was nauseating. With great effort the boy rose to his feet and stumbled a few yards to where the cabin's only lantern was rolling across the floor. Swinging it about wildly, he quickly confirmed that the woman had escaped.

What on God's good earth was she? A demon, a ghost? A messenger from God? A sorceress? Gaspar's face flushed as his eyes dumbly searched the room around him, for what he knew not. Monstrous noises rang through the wooden beams and planks of the ship. He heard shouting. Something terrible was happening on deck, and he'd allowed a dangerous mystic to escape. How could he even hope to be be of aid against something so beyond reason?

A thought weaved its way through the haze around his mind, and Gaspar lurched over to the dresser next to the captain's bed. The drawers had been splintered by buckshot; clothes and bits of wood dangled from its now open face; but it remained mostly intact. He yanked the top right drawer onto the floor and sure enough, there amid the wreckage, lay Emilio's crystal dagger.

The thought of what he was about to do overwhelmed Gaspar for a moment, and he heaved up the contents of his stomach once more. But for the foolhardy grace of strong alchohol he'd have run crying then. With a deep breath and a wince of pain, the boy took a firm hold of the dagger and then bolted across the room, managing somehow to retain his footing. He took only a moment throw the door open, then stumbled out on to the main deck.

[The New Yorker]

A collab between Peik and TNY

''I seek refuge in the Lord of Man, the Sovereign of Man, the God of Man, from the Whisperer who withdraws, he who whispers in the hearts of Man, and from Jinn and Man. I seek refuge in the Lord of daybreak, from the Evil which is his creation, from the darkness when it settles, from the evil of magic, and from the envy of the envier.''

The ship kept leaning to one side, and then the other. The fluttering of the sails and the creaking of the wood echoed through the deck and poked at Abdulhayy Mahmud's attempts to sleep. The chatter and random footsteps of sailors still awake, and the waves splashing at the head of the ship only made it worse. Hata'i did not mind much, however. He was an experienced man. He had slept in much worse conditions. He had slept in a tunnel full of gunpowder, during the Ottoman-Safavid War. Provided, he was dug out of it after being unable to outspeed a match cord, but that hadn't stopped him from doing it a second, and then a third time. For this (his courage, not his preference of sleeping in dangerous spots), the Sultan Murad IV had awarded him with a mail-lined coat, which had miraculously saved him from three musket balls a week later. It was the one he was wearing right now. How many years had passed since then? Almost three decades. ''One fine coat.'' He thought about the lives gone ever since his leave. He yawned. Just as sleep was finally overtaking him, shouting interrupted it once again. ''Oh, bloody hell.''

A gunshot rang through the deck, which jolted Hata'i out of his position. Another gunshot. Loud sounds. ''Something is going on.'' He grabbed his carbine and cocked it. ''Something bad is going on.'' He checked his belongings. His horn was hanging down his neck, his saber stuck into the side of his sash, next to his axe. He freed his hands by fitting the stock underneath his right armpit and pulled his saber out of its scabbard, then gripped the carbine once more with his right hand. He was ready. He cautiously walked through the empty head, and found a man trying to reload his musket at the bottom of the stairwell leading to the top deck. Not wanting to interrupt his reloading, he slowly walked up the stairs, only to find a figure of armor, a bit shorter than him, fighting the captain. It was not human, given the unholy red air emanating from the joints, and the feeling in his gut. ''Djinni.''

Sword would not harm Djinni. Bullet wouldn't pierce Djinni. Lashing from the Unknown, to which they were imprisoned by the Prophet Suleiman, they could see you, but you could not. Mostly for the better. Hata'i had seen a few with his own eyes. The look would make all except the most-strong willed of men cry. Hata'i needed the help of the People of the Unknown, the Awliya, the Saints. He holstered his carbine and brought the horn hanging from his neck to his mouth. This horn was blessed by his Sheikh, and the Sheikh before him all the way to their Pir, Hadji Bayram, with the 99 Names of God. Its sound was affected by whatever dhikr that was chanted before blowing it. ''For the love of the sword in Ali's hand. For the love of our Pir, whose prayers keep the skies intact. For the love of Hadji Bayram Wali. For the love of Hadji Bektash Wali. For the love of Ahmad al-Badawi. For the love of Ahmad ar-Rufai. For the love of the Sultan of Saints, Abdulqadir Gilani. For the love of God, for the light of God. For the love of Muhammad, for the love of Ali, for the love of Isa, for the love of Musa, for the love of Ibrahim. Bism-i Shah. Qahhar. Hu.''

With the dhikr of Qahhar, the Destroyer and Subduer, Hata'i blew all his breath into the horn, and from it, an all-shaking, incredibly deep sound boomed out, as if doomsday had started inside the horn. With the boom, the ship was overtaken by a sudden but powerful tremor - pieces of the woodwork cracked, parts of the rigging snapped, and objects made of glass shattered. The figure of armor, who had been facing Hata'i since his appearance seemed unaffected at first, but about a second of Hata'i's horn started to show its power - the black metal started to cave in and crack, and the foul, thick aura emanating from it started to disperse. This caused the being to raise its left arm to shield itself, but as if underneath immense pressure, the arm caved in completely and pieces keeping the armor apart started getting shot out of their spots. The animated suit got knocked off its feet and fell apart mid air, sending pieces towards the captain's quarters just mere moments before Hata'i went out of breath.

Emilio slid down a duo of steps to hide from the oncoming onslaught of sound. He covered his ears as Mahmud unleashed a devistating attack. Emilio hadn't seen it, but when he rose from the stairwell he understood the nature of it quite well. He also began to understand the nature of the thing which had attacked them. It's oblong aura started reassembling the armor it inhabited. Some of the armor pieces, including a glove and a few of the armband pieces, lay near the stairwell. Emilio clambored over the wet floor and grabbed the glove, fell to his back and tossed it over the banister behind him, into the sea. He clasped the other piece in his hand and struggled to lift it from the ground. The aura had already detected the same piece, and was wrapping it's ethereal tendril around it. Emilio yanked it as strong as he could, releasing it from the tendril's grasp, and tossed the piece over the same bannister.

Hata'i sighed and wiped his brow with the back of his right hand, and leaned himself on the framework of the door. Feeling something vibrate, he instinctively readied himself. Feeling thickness in the air again, he watched in surprise as the dispersed red cloud appeared once more from between the cracks in the floorboards and the pieces of armor started sliding back towards it. Watching the being reassemble itself, Hata'i came back to his senses as the now damaged suit of armor damned Hata'i's name in Latin and seemingly threw his lance at Hata'i's direction. Realizing that the lance was not flying towards him but rather extending directly at his chest, Hata'i attempted to dodge it by sliding to the right, but ended up tumbling down the stairs towards the man with the carbine.

By the time Emilio was standing the Harbinger was mostly recreated, his right arm only partially complete.

Leonard chuckled as he helped Hata'i regain his balance, steadying his half-reloaded carbine between his legs. "Bloody hell," Leonard began in English continuing the process of reloading, "What the devil is going on here?" he asked himself, mostly. He turned over to the man next to him, the one who'd just delivered a tremendous, and apparently potent, noise toward their monsterous enemy. He found the words he was looking for in Portuguese, it wasn't his best language, that was for sure. "How's the Captain? How far away is the enemy?"

Epu climbed up some wall molding and reached the navigation deck. He ran along the thin bannister, slid to a stop, and threw a hand axe toward the Harbinger. It blocked it, not expecting the second one coming toward his leg. The second axe found it's mark and nearly cleaved the metal, getting wedged in an incomplete knee component.

The Harbinger's aura hummed and pulsed as he positioned himself for a jump.

"Epu, move!" Emilio called out from the side, observing being the only thing he could do.

The Harbinger launched from the deck with an inhuman dexterity. The floorboards were wretched from their holdings and water droplets at his feet lifted from the ground. The Harbinger was positioned in mid-air, his lance prepared to extend, only a few feet over a soaking wet Epu, when Emilio felt a sudden and inescapable fear; a fantastic and all abiding darkness rising in him. Perhaps this was a bad idea, after all.

''Bre Yezid dölü ifrit, Sultan Abdülkadir'in gazabından kork-''

He hit his head on something. Probably one of the steps on the stairs. There was a crack - he did not know whether it came from his skull or the wooden stairs. He let out a small voice in pain, which slowly turned into another elaborate swear, but before it could deliver its punchline, he ended up hitting the ground. The man with the carbine, apparently an Englishman, seeing that he was speaking in what seemed to be English, helped Hata'i to his feet. The man was understandably confused. He asked about the captain's whereabouts, and where the 'enemy' was. ''I don't know,'' Hata'i replied, amazed that somehow he hadn't ended up impaled on his own sword. He heard something spring and crack. He looked back up at the staircase. He could hear the captain shout.

''I think we better help.''

[The New Yorker]

a collab between Peik and TNY

The spell-slinging woman rounded the corner opposite Emilio as the Harbinger rose from the dilapidated wooden floor. She lifted her hands in front of her, the same yellow substance forming around them yet again. Time slowed for her just as it had before, trails of water following the giant metal form as he slowly reached his hapless target. Just as this happened the door to the captain’s cabin, placed directly under the Harbinger, squeaked open. Leonard, just finishing his reloading, nodded to Hata’i.

The yellow substance jutted out from the woman and formed itself around the Harbinger, trapping it in a skin-tight, semi-translucent, chartreuse envelope. This magically expensive play drew a sharp moan from the enchantress, bringing the world back from it’s molasses encased state.

Emilio watched with awe as the magic seemed to extend from the darkness, suspending the giant mass of the Harbinger just out of Epu’s reach. Who, with the electrical-like fizz of magic, jumped from his place on the bannister to the floor below him, barely missing Gaspar as he came through the door, and rolled forward.

Emilio came forth from the stairwell, “Move, boy!” he yelled at Gaspar as he walked along the slightly destroyed deck. He turned his attention to the woman, who he’d noticed now that she stepped forward, and pointed his scimitar at her. “Can you hold him?” Emilio asked.

“Only for a little while” The woman responded, attempting to increase her focus on the spell.

Leonard suddenly poked his head from the stairwell, aiming toward where the Harbinger was the last time he’d checked. With only a little confusion he fixed his aim toward the hovering, outlined form above. Emilio quickly corrected him, “Her,” he said, “watch her”. Emilio looked over to Gaspar, flush cheeks smeared with vomit, bright eyes only slightly glassy. “What happened, boy? I told you to watch her.” He looked down at the boy’s hands, the glass dagger held therein. “And give me that! You’re going to kill yourself with that thing.” he said, gently pulling the blue-green weapon from the dazzed boy's hands. Emilio couldn't help but feel a little bad for him, the sorceress had clearly put him through the ringer. Epu walked up from where he'd landed, admiring the brilliant light which emenated from the woman's magic, and stood behind his Captain.

"Monsters seem to follow you in your dreams, Emilio." Epu opined as he lifted one of his throwing axes from the floor and holstered it. He was hinting at the last time they'd had an encounter with the supernatural.

Emilio glanced up at the glowing bulb of magic, the terror therein, and a tired smile came to his chapped lips, "That may be true, but this one came from somewhere else."

Still somewhat dazed from his fall, Hata'i moved back onto the deck, after plenty of prayer and effort. Now that he could see the deck once more, he realized the amount of damage he'd done to the ship was much more than the damage he had managed to deal to the armored mass. Through foul magic, the Djinni was able to reassemble itself even though damaged - and Hata'i guessed that, even though they could get rid of the armor, the presence wouldn't be much damaged. Looking at the captain's location, he could see a woman he had not seen before next to him and a bunch of crew members including the fellow who had stolen his sleeping spot - she was busy channeling some sort of magic towards the mass of armor, suspending it midair. ''Hawas.'' Somehow, she had power in the Elite Sciences - matters even Hata'i did not want to think of. He had consulted and bargained with Djinn to cure Sultan Ibrahim's diseases, but sheer empowerment was something that would lead you straight to the depths of Hell. He could also see some sort of glowing weapon in the hands of the captain. ''God have Mercy,'' he thought to himself as he shouted at the captain.

''What's going on? What do we do?''

Emilio tucked the dagger into his belt and tied it with a sash, concealing it as best he could. He pulled Gaspar far from under the Harbinger and squinted his eyes against the piercing moonlight to better see who was speaking to him. Mahmud's cushioned form was outlined by the oddly brilliant night's light.

"I'm trying to figure that out myself." he responded across the still atmosphere. His brown eyes followed the outline of the Harbinger with a fervent examination. His physical form was nearly indistructable by ordinary means, and his mystical energy was unlike anything he'd ever seen-- that is until he saw the sorceress cast her spell. The level of aptitude she displayed with such a wild element as magic was unlike anything he'd seen. The phantoms in the catacombs below Sintra castle had unleashed a malestrom of magic on him, but that memory was like a childhood dream now; he wasn't sure whether it was his memory or someone else's. Emilio quickly glanced up at the floating armored suit, "Who sent you, Harbinger?" he asked in Portuguse.

The Harbinger responded with a curt metalic sound as he turned his head to look at the captain. He swivled the dark metal helmet and a metalic gurggle escaped from his steel hull. "The one... you seek to kill, Pirate." he finally responded in kind.

"The Dragon..." Emilio said without hesitation. He wouldn't lie to these people anymore, he could not. "And so... what, you were sent to kill us?" Emilio asked, getting closer to the chartruse orb.

The Harbinger spun himself in the orb, facing Emilio directly. The sorceress winced in pain and struggled to keep the orb intact. If she failed to keep the spell, she would die too, she knew that. And, well, that simply wouldn't do. She felt the frustration growing in the Harbinger, his magical reserves bubbling to the surface with rage, he was preparing for something. The sorceress readied another one of her spells in her mind and bolstered her reserves with a prayer.

The Harbinger spread his arms out to his side, moving himself and the orb ever closer to Emilio, and the sorceress let out a short scream in response.

"I was sent to deliver a message..." The Harbinger began.

The sorceress' scream turned into a whimper as she brought the magic back. Then she felt a wave of power, a pulse of mystical energy. The Harbinger brought his lance into striking position with one hand while the other clentched into a fist. A crimson powder fell from his fist and coated the inside of the orb. "Move away!" The sorceress yelled as she began her next spell, waving her arms and hands in front of her to form a hex.

"...whatever that might mean." finished the Harbinger before he plunged his lance through the now crimson orb. The lance fell through the magical barrier and deftly sunk into Emilio's chest. Blood spurted from the back and was cast against the deck. He coughed up bouts of bile and blood as the Dread Captain screamed into the night with all he could. A newly formed yellow orb encompassed the Harbinger and then suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing but mystical powder behind. The sorceress fell to the floor along with Emilio as the destructed deck was dark again. Emilio fell into Epu's waiting arms, suffered what appeared to be a seizure. "We need the doctor!" he called out in Spanish, and then in an anguished Portuguese.

Comstock had followed Mahmud and was running to the Captain as soon as he was impaled. He reached Emilio and helped stabalize his head, brushed some of the blood from his mouth as he held his friend's head steady. "He's been stabbed by a bloody lance, Epu." Leonard said to his friend in English. "I-- I don't think he's going to make it." he said with a cracked voice and tears begging to drop from his eyes. He used one of his sashes to clean the wound, found that the borders of the stab were getting smaller, closing in fact. "The--the--the wound." he pointed out in dismay, "it's healing."

Epu glanced up at the newly ascribed yoeman, Gaspar. "Go boy! Fetch the doctor." he said in Portuguse before returning to his dying friend.

"And hurry" Comstock added over his shoulder.

The sorceress sat leaned against the cabin wall only a few feet from Mahmud. She breathed heavily and seemed to be having trouble moving her body. "Sir, sir! Please, I need your help!" She called out with her wanning voice, her dark orbs finding Hata'i's against the black backdrop.

The captain's response was one of uncertainty, which did not satisfy Hata'i. ''This is bad,'' Abdulhayy Mahmud thought. ''This is truly bad.'' The Djinni was still here, and to make matters worse, it was contained by magic. For Hata'i, this was the equivalent of circling a fire with fire to stop it from spreading. ''It's going to break out, eventually.'' The captain asking questions to the Djinni was a bad decision from Hata'i's perspective. ''This is not going to go well.'' He could see the signs - the Djinni did not act as if it was in trouble, and the witch who was trying to contain it (fool!) was getting weaker and weaker. ''Gafil cadı.'' And her weakness started to show as the Djinni took control of the magic it was contained in. And in a mere matter of seconds, the captain got stabbed, and the Djinni disappeared, having done its work.

''I knew this would happen.'' The captain's friends were attempting to tend to his seemingly mortal wound, crying for help. One of them sent the young lad to fetch someone. Hata'i wasn't listening at that moment - everything around him felt blurry, perhaps thanks to the frantic environment. He was out of focus. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. ''Allahumma ya adil,'' he recited to himself under his breath. He opened his eyes and saw the witch facing him, asking for help. Inside him there was a desire to give her a hard slap in the face - but it had to wait, since she seemed to be dazed. ''What is wrong?'' He asked, while still keeping some distance.

The man responded cooly, reflecting her disgrace in his eyes. She could understand, Humans were supersticious, they created denotations for things where none can exist; at least, not in their natural world. The woman almost laughed at the thought that she had, realizing how despicable her request could be to some people. This man seemed at least willing, a kind soul no doubt.

"I cannot move my arms, I need you to retrieve something from one of my pockets. Would you do this for me? It is... vital." she finished with a tired sigh as her gaze settled to the splintered wood before her.

As much as Abdulhayy Mahmud felt suspicious of the magic woman (death by witchcraft thanks to going off guard was not high up in his preferred ways to die list), he couldn't help but comply with her request. He kept his large, burly hands as graceful as possible as to not disturb the witch with unnecessarily close physical contact while rummaging through her pockets. It was at a moment of pause when he realized that he didn't know what he was looking for. Somewhat embarrassed, he raised his head back at the woman's face. ''What was I looking for, again?''

The woman let out a stiffled chortle and crained her neck behind her after the man realized he was mostly just getting a free touch and asked for his goal.

"In the rightmost back compartment of my belt, a potion. Could--- could you feed some to me? I promise I won't bite." She settled back with a satisfied chuckle, waiting to be replenished. Her magic reserves were inextricably tied to her life force, as was the case for all of her people, and replenishing said reserves would allow her to regain most of her physical capabilities. This would not mean she would be fit for fighting or spellcasting any time soon. The man was warry of how dangerous she was, now that she was at her weakest, and she saw in him the folly of all of mankind; abject distrust of the unknown. She almost laughed but felt too tired, too weak, too dragged about, beat up, and cast out. "I just need some help." she said with a strained voice.

''Rightmost back compartment. Right.'' Hata'i did his upmost to be as deft and quick as possible, as he did not enjoy touching the witch - she wasn't someone he knew, not to mention that he could feel traces of the Unknown on his fingertips. Eventually, Abdulhayy Mahmud got his hands on the potion the witch had been speaking of. Looking inside the tiny crystal vial, he saw some sort of fluid. ''Lethe? Better if I don't know.'' He popped the vial open. ''Here's to your health,'' he blurted out before putting the potion against the witch's mouth and letting her take a sip.

She drank a small sip, allowing the self-made concoction to refuel her. She would be fine in a few minutes. She nodded, satisfied, and smacked her lips from the sour aftertaste. "Thank you" she said with a strained voice. "I'm Allana, pleasure to meet you."

[Raid]

The Trouble with Ignorance

Samy wakes with pressure in his belly. He wants to sleep so he tries to readjust. A jolt runs down his stomach to his penis. He has to pee. He scrambles over his brothers’ legs and clambers down from their bed as piss dribbles down his legs. He can’t find the pot. Not in this darkness. He drags his hands against the walls feeling the rough and smooth ridges of the door. He reaches around for the metal latch, his legs shaking with the effort to control himself from making a mess. He makes it three steps out into the hallways before he lifts up his robe to pee. Some of the hot liquid splashes on his bare toes. He wriggles them, uncomfortable.

A bang and a flash and Samy stops, dress hiked up so his bum is showing in the withering light. The noises continue. He doesn’t look back at the door he left ajar. He creeps forward down into darkness, right hand against the wall the whole time. His feet are still wet from the pee, but they are cold now. Everything is cold. He struggles up the steps, leaning forward to grab the slabs of wood because reaching for the railing is too difficult and everything is steep at five years old.

Someone blacks his view, though. He crouches to look between the older boy’s legs. Samy licks his lips, trying to bring back the sweetness of one of the new fruits he tried. The smooth deck juts up in odd places and the purple bruise of the night sky presses down on the yellow glow encompassing the imposing monster. More piss dribbles down Samy’s legs. He pushes his thumb into his mouth. And he screams. The Captain-but-not-Captain-Sharkas has something sticking out of him. Samy knows it hurts because that is how his father died and that is what his father kept saying as he died. “It hurts. It hurts. Make it stop.”
His mother could make it stop. She knows how to make the pain stop. So he rushes away, screaming. Because it hurt to have something like that in your chest and you screamed when you hurt.

)o(
Esra moves. Her legs stumbles and she hits her knees on the bed frame. Deena cries and Shahid whines about what is going on. Ahmed laughs. She’s out the door and then scrambles back inside grabbing the fabric she used for her head covering to make a cradle for Deena against her chest. She couldn’t leave the baby there with her brothers. Her daughter falls asleep again as Esra toes forward into the dark hallway. She still hears Samy’s screaming. It sounds so far away, but then he stands before her, swollen eyes from crying. He looks up at her sniffs and runs off in the other direction.

“Samy! Stop. Boy.” She tries to catch him before he gets too far ahead. It doesn’t work. She follows him instead, beguiling him with promises to get him to stop moving. She needs to make sure that he is okay. It is hard to go up the steps with Deena strapped to her chest. It is like Esra is pregnant again and with the waves, she has a harder time correcting for her lack of balance and the constant movement of the ship and sea.

Her boy races across the deck. She looks ahead and sees the weapon before she sees the man at the other end of it. Samy points and wails. Esra’s robe catches on the debris of the deck and Deena woke up again and presses her fists into her mother’s sides. It is the man, the captain who spoke to her and made promises of safe passage. If he dies, will she lose all of that? That security and hope?

Esra is not willing to find out. She wedges her way into his gathering comrades. The spear pierced through. She unwraps Deena from her breast, shoves her daughter at the nearest man and uses the fabric that was once her head covering to staunch the blood leaking from the exit wound. She tears away the Captains shirt and presses her fingers along the entry wound and listening for the wheezing of a collapsed lung. She pauses. The red and swollen skin around the spear pulses and she feels the creeping movement as skin closes in around the shaft. '
“We must remove it,” she says in Berber. Grasping the shaft, she grunts, bracing her muscles. It must be fast. It must be quick. She doesn’t guess as to why the wound is healing. If he lost too much blood or if what she was doing sullied her soul by touching a man in such a way. Her hands a slippery and her hair keeps blowing in her face because she was not able to tie it back in her haste to get to Samy. Deena cries as much as her brother now. He grips the back of his mother’s jellaba as she crouches on her knees over the man who is suppose to bring her back to Morocco. To Rabat and its corrupted streets and pirates and crumbling buildings. She wants to go home and this man will not die and ruin her chances of such a thing happening.

She grunts and rips the lance away. It drops from her grip and she tears at the Captain’s shirt pushing the fabric into the hollow of the wound. “Fire,” she says in Spanish (or maybe it’s Portuguese). “Fire,” she tries again, shaking the man with the strange, shaved head.

[The New Yorker]

a collab between Yorg, TNY, & Raid

"We need the doctor!"

Gaspar sat with his back against the door of the captain's cabin, arms frozen across his chest. Emilio lay in front of him, impaled. The boy didn't feel paralyzed; he didn't feel anything, not his limbs or the deck beneath him, not the pain in his ribs or the cold bite of the wind. Nothing. As several people rushed to the captain's aid Gaspar almost felt as though he was watching his own body. Had he not just been sharing wine with this man?

"Go boy!" The big American was speaking to him, looking up at him expectantly. Up at him? How long had he been on his feet? The ship rolled and he teetered forwards, legs shaking. Where was the dagger?

"Fetch the doctor!" The man said. Gaspar turned stupidly and stumbled across the deck away from them, until he reached the railing and stopped abruptly. “Hurry!” somebody cried after him, and he sobbed involuntarily. The noisome darkness of the ocean filled his vision for a moment, then it was back to the reeling boards of the ship’s deck. Somehow he found the steps leading below, and began to descend. A wailing child passed him on his way down, followed by its bustling mother with a babe tied loosely to her chest. Gaspar shrunk to the side as they passed.

Who is the doctor?

“Help!” Gaspar blurted out as he reached the bottom of the steps and started into the dark. A lantern was lit ahead, and he made for it. He could hear voices and footsteps. People shouting. A sailor rushed past him. “I need the doctor!” Gaspar pleaded, but the man was already gone. Speaking sent a sharp pain through his ribs. "I don't know who the doctor is!" he yelled in frustration, his voice hoarse. A blanket moved in the lantern light; an old man, waking up and scowling at the noise. "A doctor!" Gaspar said again, and the sailor eyed him with surprise, then pointed down to the end of the corridor where faint light shone through an open door. "Esra, boy. Get Esra."

"Esra?" Gaspar began calling before he had even made it into the room. His words were choked by building tears. "Esra?" He barged through the door and looked around wildly. On a bed to his right, in the pale light of a single candle, were several children's faces staring back at him, wide-eyed.

Ahmad cries. He punches and shoves Shahid, who growls at him to stop, but he said it in Portuguese so his younger brother doesn't understand why he can't chace after his mother and twin brother. Shahid doesn't get that either. He wants to be the one on deck with the crew and the Captain. They might now be pirates, but they were more exciting than anything than his five year old brother had to offer him. Except the halls are too dark, that's how Shahid explained it to himself, they don't let me see where I am going and I don't want to trip and make a full of myself.

When the young man rushes in though, Shahid whimpers and presses back into bed, dragging his brother with him. Despite the apparent darkness of the hallway, Shahid sees the creases of panic and the twisted clothing of their unwelcomed guest who keeps shouting. Ahmad cries out mommy when their mother's name is said. Shahid can't hear, though, because all he sees is the wet, dark stain on the boy's shoulder. Shahid knows how blood likes to bubble up from a cut or ooze out from a broken scab. He likes to watch those things happen in fantastic admiration for the liquid that gives him life.

Except, this boy doesn't have a cut or a scab, his wound is fresh, as if the monster that attacked their homes last night tore down on him. Shahid doesn't want this stranger anywhere near his brother or, more importantly, him. His stomach quivers with his fear.

"Go, go!" he whines out, unsure of which language he's speaking until Ahmad starts begging the older brother to speak Berber. "Leave us alone! We did nothing bad! We're good."

"I need Esra!" Gaspar pleaded again. He moved forward to grasp the young boy by the shoulders, but quickly withdrew as the child flinched in fear. "I'm sorry. Please, the captain needs a doctor! Do you know where Esra is? He could die!"

Sahid gasps and whimpers. He's not being the big brother that he should. He'll deny it later, but for now, he cowers and shrinks. His younger brother points up and says, "Out, Out. Momma's Out" in Berber. He stands on the bed and tips forward grabbing ahold of the Stranger's sweat soaked shirt. Ahmad sniffles, but jumps down from the bed only to stumble and fall, but rises the way children do when they have something singular on their minds. He doesn't like the idea that his brother is out there without him.

His sister wails as she's left on the bed. Shahid presses his hands to his ears and pushes against the wall. Ahmad grabs the man and shouts over his sister, "Out, come, Out, come."

Gaspar could now feel an ache creeping into his bones as he followed the boy out into the hall. They went quickly back the way he'd come moments before. His bare feet slapped against the floor; heel-ball heel-ball; and every time the pain from his tender heels grew worse. They felt bruised. He passed more sailors who were waking up and speaking in hushed tones.

Soon they were climbing the stairs back up to the deck. The boy seemed to be following the noise of a wailing child that was growing steadily louder. The pair emerged on deck, into the air again, and Gaspar shivered. The planks around them were dented and scorched, here and there broken entirely. The huge armored figure was nowhere to be seen, but he had the distinct feeling that it must be hiding nearby, for he saw no body. The smallness of the ship amidst the surrounding dark was suddenly pressing on his mind, like the half-heard growl of an unseen jaguar. The boy made a b-line for his crying sibling while Gaspar hurried after him, tired eyes searching wildly about.

There was a crowd growing around the fallen captain, and in its middle crouched a matronly woman with a babe strapped to her back. Esra, the doctor, it had to be. In any case, nobody seemed to be calling for help now, and in fact Gaspar could barely even see what was happening for all of the bodies pressed tightly inward. No-one payed him any heed, and it was just as well, for he felt at the same time relieved and horribly useless. With a heaviness he sat himself down on a nearby coil of ropes and hung his head.

Ahmad lets go of the stranger's hand once he sees his brother. "Samy, Samy!" he shouts, racing into the cluster of men to pull his brother back. "Mother will be angry. We must go before she sees us--" Ayat stands before them and pushes them back. She isn't wearing her scarf and Ahmad's eyes stay on the bare spot of her scar. She never talks about her scar. Shahid likes to makes up stories about how she got it. Most of times it's because she was injuried in some great battle.

"Get back you fools, back!" Ahmad stumbles, toes catching on the uneven deck. Samy is the one who pulls him back first. Back towards the stranger who sits far away from the mass of shouting straining men. They slip easily through. Ahmad turns back to look at his mother, but all he can see of her is Deena's mass of curls as she rests on the back of her mother, unaware of blood.

Samy cries so much and Ahmad hugs him because that's what his mother would do. He looks between the gaps of legs to see the Captain on the floor. He looks like Captain Sharkas did last night. Pale and purple and too stiff. His mother shouts in Berber, moving the Captain's body around, ripping skirt to staunch the flow of blood. Then, something is pulled out of his chest and Ahmad wonders how it got there in the first place.

The group doesn't disapate.

Indeed, how could they? They have known death so intimately these last few days it is as if they are getting ready to greet and old friend. Esra uses her elbows to push men into position once the pain sets into the bones of the Captain. She keeps her hand presses against his heart; it slips on sweat and blood as he thrashes.

Emillio needed to be heavily restrained as the mess of his abdomen began recollecting itself. The giant, sold lance was removed, only the tip of which had penetrated his chest, yet the tip indeed did stick out his back for those desperate moments when he laid in a heaving mass on the floor, only moments before. Leonard and another sailor held the other end of the lance and put it down gently on the floor, admiring the strange aura of the thing, the magnificent handiwork of it. Epu had managed to fetch a torch and was holding it under a dagger when he noticed children scattering along the deck.

"Boy," he cried out to Gaspar, not really knowing his name, "get these children out of here. This is no place for them!" he said in Portuguse.

When Epu returned to the scene he watched as his Captain was held by four men and a woman, writhing in an unhuman anguish. And then he noticed that the pain was no longer from the wound, but from a manipulation of the wound, and a fouly mysterious one at that. Muscle collided with sinew, and blood retreated back inside of him; his ripped veins and punctured lungs recoiled like pulled twine, and his skin crawled over itself, reforming magically. The Captain screamed in horrible despair as everyone looked on at the strange event, and those who held him could feel his riviting body, the power and energy climbing through his veins. Soon there was no scar other than the one that'd already been there, and all the blood that was left on his chest dribbled onto the floor and soaked into the deck. He stopped screaming and settled into a heaving unconsciousness, where his body would routinely twitch. Epu decided fire was no longer needed, placed the torch back on the sconce, and dropped the dagger to stab into the floor. Epu looked at Leonard, who looked astoundingly from the scene to him, then to everyone else.

"God save us all." He murmured in English. He collected himself and ordered the sailors around. "Pick him up!" He finally ordered in Portuguese, "to the bed in his cabin."

Esra does not know what is being said around her, even if it was shouted in Berber, she still would not have heard it. To watch the rapid stiching of skin entraptures her. She brushes her fingers along the smooth stomach, hand quivering. Since when do her hands quiver? She murmers out phrases of awe and fear. The push of Deenas feet into Esra's sides disrupt her rapture. She does not move from the Captains side as men carry him inside. Is she following because she is concerned on a medical level or enchanted by the surely evil magic that mended the disembolwed man? Either way, she checks his pulse to give herself an excuse later on.

Allana watched on as the Captain struggled. She wasn't sure what to make of it, her employers said nothing of this, knew nothing of this man's strength. She stood with a new-found confidence, her strength rebuilding within her. "Well, that's something you don't see everyday" she commented offhandedly to Mahmud.

[Jazzy]

Joanna Vipera

---

Ameno - Era

---

Six men.

She remembered it very clearly, having been there.

She had been trekking through Morocco when it happened, specifically walking along the beach. She was searching for shells and sharks teeth at the time. A harmless activity, that required minimal effort. Something to pass the time. Her allies, or dare she call them, friends, were busy doing labor for their families. Subsistence agriculture mainly, as to make the best of the unfavorable climate for farming. She learned very fast in her visit that one couldn't rely on the sea all the time. Chance was a beautiful, and terrible thing. There were times where a fisherman would bring home a bounty, and those when they wouldn't get a bite. It was a tough life. She, in a way, pitied them. These humans she had met through her travels were a diverse crowd. Many different faces, many personalities, many different backgrounds. She had been lucky herself, and had found the charitable who aided her on her travels. But like the fisherman, her luck was a double edged sword. She held the appearance at the time of a young moroccan woman then, and to the men, she was an easy target.

Six men, that was how many it took to catch and subdue her. She remembered them yelling at each other in an angry fashion, frustrated and confused and annoyed that a young girl like herself had eluded them for so long. Once again though, her luck was in short supply, and the men caught up to her. She was excellent at defending herself, but there were too many to face at once. She was outnumbered and out muscled. She couldn't let them take her staff away, or it would doom her. She had been told that by the elders so many times, it was branded into her mind that should she let her full appearance come to light in a dire situation, it could very well mark your end. She anticipated being caught at this point, and kept a firm hold of her weapon, displaying a strength that no one of the men could out muscle. Her determination to survive driving her fingers to pry against their pulls more than they could muster. In the end they let her keep her staff, using it as a pole to tie her against and carried her away on it. They nearly threw her in with the other slaves, but, when they finally joined together, and ripper her staff from her grasp... They set her apart. They were African mercenaries that had been hired by the royalty to abduct slaves for the triangular trade. They had no idea what she was, or how she was possible. She remembered throwing many men overboard and attempting to escape before she had been stabbed through the tail, which held her in place. She had been dragged, thrashing and screaming and thrown into this metal cage where she struggled against the bars for several days before giving up on them and beginning to develop a different escape route.

Her wound had since healed, her ability to bounce back at this age was in it's prime. For elders, they might have much more trouble, but like humans she was in her glory days physically. She would continue to grow and gain for another hundred years or so before she began to decline. The Naga she had grown up with had all displayed this pattern. Her green eyes cast an ominous glow in the darkness of the brig, where she resided in her cage, waiting patiently for opportunity to arise, if one would even come. Her tongue flicked through the air, tasking the wood and the salt and the sweat and fecal matter of the slaves only a room away or so. In a way she envied them. They had each other in this. She felt exposed and naked and afraid and alone being forced into this form. Her staff was god knows where and the only clothing they allowed her to keep were her breast bindings when they realized they couldn't beat or rape her into submission. She took a deep breath, and crossed her arms under her breast and listened to the silence and felt the gentle rocking of the boat. She knew she'd be sick when she returned to shore by now. Her eyes shot open wide, and she retracted back into herself, all the way to the furthest corner of a the cage she was imprisoned in when she heard a squeaking noise, and as the light entered her room she knew she had a visitor. One of those fat, snaggletoothed, scurvy ridden and smelly sailors had come down for something. Whether it was to deliver food or to simply stare at her. She often had both.

"Here's your food, snake." the man said in his language, which she had come to understand, walking next to the cage and throwing a raw, probably few day old and unprepared fish into her cage. "Eat up. It's good for you." he said, turning around and taking a few steps away, before turning around again and looking at her. She retracted into herself even more now, trying to get away from this man's awful gaze. The man seemed to enjoy her fear. "Ya know, if you weren't half snake you'd be a nice lay." he said, crossing his arms across his chest. " 'Tempted to give you the staff back and see what happens." he mumbled, turning around and going back up to the top deck. She relaxed a little as he left, her long forked tongue flicking out again and wincing at the stench of half rotten fish. This was lower than her. She had seen many horrors in her time, but nothing like this.

This was hell.

With her clawed fingers she sliced open the fish's belly, and allowed it's entrails to leak out onto the floor. She crept backwards, and grew still. Hoping to attract mice or rats using the fish's corpse and catch some fresher, more appetizing food. Something her species's forefathers and reptilian relatives ate on a regular basis. She was a fisherman now.

She hoped she would have luck on her side in her quarry.

[Yorg]

A darkness had overtaken Gaspar, and for a long time he remained very still where he had sat down, unnoticed and oblivious. He quietly passed through fits of endless panic until dreams took him, and great walls of seawater hemmed in the ship on all sides just out of the lantern light. They covered the stars. The captain and the witch bore dragons on dark helmets that hid their eyes. The deck slid to and fro beneath him, and he lay on his side with his face inches from the damp wood. Figures lit like foxfire passed from the stern to the bow and melted into the gloom. Some peered at him strangely. Warm lights and voices came from overhead; the party was in full swing. Mother smiled at his sisters. Gaspar’s prone body floated through the crowd and he talked freely, and whenever the crew expressed concern he just laughed and replied “Don’t worry! It’s how I am.” Food bobbed back and forth; the taste of wine and bile was in his mouth. The man in black armor shouldered his way through the throng and placed a heavy hand on Gaspar’s head. With one motion he lifted the boy and threw him straight up into the air, away from the ship. Gaspar’s back hit water, and he floated for a moment looking down at the ship. Then he fell back, and the armored man threw him up again. Again he fell, and again he flew. He wanted to stay in the water. The fifth time he hit the water and then sunk, and he saw a coastline in the distance. It was Portugal appearing over the horizon. As he sank further into the sky he could see all of Spain, then Europe from England to Italy. Rome looked like the head of a dog bulging off the landscape. The shores of Asia and Africa gleamed in the distance. Then he broke through the surface of the water and turned to see the beach near Sintra. The sun was in his eyes. Gaspar woke slowly, drifting in and out of dreams. When he finally reached full awareness he found himself laying in the darkness with his face on the cold deck, his hips and legs resting uncomfortably on a coil of rope. His clothing was soaked and his spine was twisted cruelly. Even so, it was a long time before he rose, as every minute shifting of his limbs summoned horrible complaints from every corner of his body. A tinge of pale red was leaking into the eastern sky when Gaspar finally lifted himself from the deck and stumbled, bent almost double, back to the captain's cabin. He threw himself down on his small mattress, heedless of the sorceress nearby, and passed into another fitful sleep.