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Music from a lively strummed stringed instrument reverberated into the moonlit air from behind her. The sound of another bottle opening. Ramblings and hollow promises of the clueless and lost. A pretty girl calling out her fabulous presence. And Izzy herself strutting around in nothing but hat, boots and skivvies. A smirk could not help but pull up at the corner of the redhead’s mouth. Any other night and this would sound like the recipe for a perfect beginning at the pub during shore leave.
But alas this was not a pub during shore leave. It was merely a shore. The redhead paused as she stared at her clothes sprawled out before her upon the log. These were the same clothes she wore when they of the Forgery had dragged her half-dead carcass from the seas.
“Izzy, the lost at sea…” she whispered as she stared at the near half empty wine bottle and contemplated taking another swill, “…is still lost…"
A sigh and a toast to an invisible companion, "...and is still not yet nearly drunk enough…”
Another swill, then the bleating of the potential meal sounded out again and reminded her to get into action and ready for the ensuing parley. The tall redhead started rummaging through her collection piled near her clothes. Several lengths of narrow pointy wooden poles would do. Oh! And aye, but there was a long strip of metal that could serve well. And look! Some rope and belaying pins. And perhaps if she—
The voice of a child popped Izzy’s busy little yard sale bubble. Slowly her head swivelled about and glared at the light source. Red-brown eyebrows popped up in surprise; it truly was some rogue island urchin. Apparently they had discovered perhaps he who had tied the bell round their potential meal’s neck. But instead of wonder or timidness, the boy’s face held an expression of worry, even outright alarm. And his leg was made of a mad clock maker’s machinations—how was he even strong enough to move around with all that metal strapped to his leg?!
“Oi there, Bruiser…!” she called out to the gent with the bruises all over his face, at least that’s what it looked like to Izzy under this light, “…looks like we found the little pickpocket who palmed your precious tome then."
A sweeping gesture she gave the urchin, "Now listen hearie, me dearie... Lad, 'twould be best-”
The urchin interrrupted her and had the audacity to scold Izzy and the others for being too loud. This did not sit well with Izzy, but not because the little guy chided them, no. The cold and chilling voice inside her head piped up and internal warning bells sounded out also. They had to be quiet because bad things happened to bad children; especially naughty redheaded ones. Know why there were no corpses strewn along the length of the shoreline? It just so happened that only live ones washed up here. Too close together. Too unawares. And too vulnerable. Just like lambs to the slaughter. And suddenly they heard the voice of the butcher.
And so there it stood, imitating their voices with snippets of their conversations. Monsters were real now. Very, very real.
At first shock and terror ate at her belly and in response she dropped the gathered items and drew both her daggers in defense. Then her natural thought process kicked in, in reaction to her child-like, fear induced initial reaction. There were more of them here to gang up on this single monstrosity! Even the child and its goat— oh, nevermind them, they had just fled. But regardless, they had been warned of being too noisy and so they would have to suppress this threat and then flee; who knew how many more monstrosities had heard them and would be arriving after this one? The child and his goat knew. That’s where they had to go. Steely-blue eyes flashed in recognition of how to accomplish said withdrawal into the cover of the woods. The field of view before her broke down into small parcels of actions and co-ordinations. The lass with the wine bottle and cravate, the bumbling soldier, and Izzy should be—
“Nay and forever more, nay… not the commander here, is this lass…” she whispered aloud the words of the other voice inside her head, the one made of Doubt and Despair. The daggers returned to their scabbards at her thigh, “…nor does she care a single lifted finger for the lot o’ them…”
She scooped up her clothes then proceeded to gather a gaffing pole, a belaying pin, a length of metal from the collection of washed ashore goods... and her wine bottle too, of course. Red, hair whipped away as Izzy stared over her shoulder in time to see the short-legged, brutish man leap onto the monstrosity and break every bone in the monster’s body. A light smile and shrug she gave. Rather anti-climactic but effective nonetheless was—
It rolled over and rose. Izzy’s eyes narrowed at the sound of bones cracking once more but this time she could see that disturbingly, the thing was reforming said bones inside itself. And now it looked pissed off. Just look at those teeth…
“Foolish… the act of a brute deserves equal reaction it seems,” spat Izzzy as she waltzed on over to the rocks and away from the sandy shore. A hand went to the top of her head and plucked off the tricorn hat. They should be the ones to come to her then, universe be damned. The hat flew from her hand back towards the sandy shore behind her. If things were to be done right, she would have to do it herself.
“I will find the child and get some answers,” she called over to them from the spot where they last saw the goat and its grubby faced owner, “this beast will only tell us the obvious; nary a clue does it have of the whereabouts of a vessel to get us the hell off this damned rock...!”