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.