Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is important to remember, when trying to kill a man of sufficient strength, that one meets him with strength of their own, either through personal ability or, failing that - a large gap in numbers. So it should seem entirely unfair to a young man when his own meager strength is met with an entire court martial.

“Paracelsus, you stand accused of desertion, as well as surrendering a fortified position to enemy forces.” The judge spoke, with a particular lisp that slightly irritated Paracelsus. “How do you plead?”

This is a joke. The accused thought, more out of sadness than indignation - We’re revolutionaries, legally no more than insurrectionists. Court? This whole thing’s a fa-

“Shall I take the silence of the accused to mean a profession of guilt?”

“No, sir.” Paracelsus forced out, “I was… lost in thought. I plead not guilty.”

“Have you anything to say in your defense?”

This was the critical moment - the kairos of the court would depend upon this. For Paracelsus was right, the trial was indeed a farce. His guilt was predetermined, the weeping families so perfectly placed as to be maximally visible to the jury, the way he was placed physically below the tribunal to appear powerless, all of it served only to proclaim him the villain, and those above the heroes for slaying him. This trial would not be long, and it would certainly not be favorable to him to prolong it - he had to win the jury over quickly.

“I will not deny that I have done what I am accused of,” His pause allowed for a few murmurs, quickly silenced when discovered, to break out “But I ask you to consider this: Why was I, a nineteen year old man, promoted to captain ten days syne, in charge of a crucial outpost such as the one in Yurole?”

The prosecutor chimed in “I fail to see how this is relevant to your guilt or lack thereof.”

The judge seemed to agree, before Paracelsus at once brought forth painful feelings, reaching deep into his psyche to draw forth the necessary tears so as to appear vulnerable, but not weak, “It’s relevant because you call me a criminal. As I said, I will not deny that I did it. What I am denying, what I will deny, is that I did so to hurt my comrades.” The sympathy gained, his face turned sour, hoping to use his emotional leverage to appeal to the jury’s sense of justice, “I did it to save them. I surrendered because I recognized the situation was hopelessly out of my control.”

“And the desertion?”

The judge’s three words seemed to manifest in the air, striking as an arrow through Paracelsus’ frail defense. It was a sound, implicit question, If you have nothing to hide, then why run?

Still, the young man prepared himself, “I don’t know.” He threw his head downward, seemingly dejected, “I honestly can’t say. Perhaps it was fear of this court, perhaps it was shame… But more likely, it was most likely because I felt a great pain. An aching, so to speak, in my heart when I thought of facing my brothers and sisters. I acknowledge that what I did was unforgivable and cowardly, but see it not from my perspective. See it from Major Iula’s perspective.”

The newly named had at once grown flustered, stood up with an abrupt skrr from the chair upon which he sat, and thrust forward a finger towards Paracelsus, “What are you trying imply here - that I should’ve abandoned my own, more important duties to lord over who I assumed to be a fully competent individual?”

“Sit down at once, Major!” The judge barked. The order complied with, he motioned Paracelsus to continue.

With a slight nod of respect and gratitude, he too complied “Thank you, Your Honor. As I was saying, it simply seems to me that if even I myself doubted my ability, a fact I told you ahead of this incident, that you should have the sense to not schedule such business when we also received reports that an enemy attack was likely. I would like to ask what sort of business was that important?”

In return, the Major coughed into his hand before drinking from a glass of water, stalling for time, “That is irrelevant!”

“Actually, I think I should like to hear.” Came from the judge’s mouth.

This was the moment the accused was waiting for. The prosecutor was about to offer some obscure legal theory that would allow for a graceful dismissal of the judge’s inquiry. And when he did, the attention in the room was wholly undivided, focused solely on the prosecutor.

Paracelsus didn’t intend to win the legal battle. He knew that in spite of the sympathy he’d garnered, it would never be enough for at least one juror. A hung jury meant a retrial, where his stamina for the system would fall and his debts only accumulate. He knew that a protracted battle, on the enemy’s terms, would never benefit him. But if he never intended to be one with them in the future and would allow himself to completely detach from them, he could escape.

When the energy was at its peak, as Paracelsus figured, he subtly allowed the familiar feeling of his gift to run through him. An energy spread first to his restraints, allowing them to manifest as mundane chunks of iron laying at his feet, he stepped away, using the absence of eyes on his form to reach the far wall. He placed his hand upon it, and a light washed over it, a door forming where there wasn’t - and as quickly as he’d walked through it, the door was gone.

An outstretched hand. Usually, a simple gesture to offer help, but in this case the hand was used to block off a doorway.

A young girl leaned in that ship’s doorway to appear more natural, “I assure you, Sir, all of them are dead. Don’t allow the fear of a ghost to keep us docked here past our provision’s allowance.”

A gruff voice, unseen to the child hiding in the dark room, assigned to a vague shadow on the wall, responded “I suppose you’re right. We’ll sail at first light. Good night.”

After returning the platitude, the young girl struck on an oil lamp sitting on the shelf and closed the door behind her. Seeing her more clearly for the first time, the girl noticed the older one was still young, maybe only ten or even fewer years older than her. The second thing she noticed was the blood, dried and a light amber, coating her arm.

The other arm reached out and unceremoniously placed itself upon her shoulder, “I know it probably doesn’t mean much, kid. But I’m sorry.” Sorry for what? What was happening? One moment, Serpacinno was quietly sleeping, the next her father grabbed her and started running for the forest. After that, she remembered nothing, due mostly to her lapsing consciousness.

“Sorry? What… did you do?” The little girl asked.

“I killed your dad.” Serpacinno’s eyes widened like discs, the snakes on her head, normally docile, raised and hissed, threatening to strike at the offender. “But right now, I’m the only chance you have of surviving.” It wasn’t a particularly effective argument to the child of a man you just killed.

The older girl pinched her nose, “Look kid, calm down! If you want revenge, now is no time at all.” She rubbed her face, the fatigue of the day clearly showing. “For now, just live. Live so that you can come back and kill me one day.”

The smaller one decided to take this constellation prize, satisfied that one day it would come to pass. Her snakes too, settled into an uncomfortable peace, coiling protectively over her.

The night was cold and long, she was told to stay in the older girl’s quarters the whole time so as not to be discovered. It was hard to sleep, the bed was hard, the covers too large, the ship’s sway too disruptive to her rest. But the worst was by far the presence of her new enemy. Although she had seemingly done a kindness, taking the chair as her resting place it seemed a hollow concession to keep Serpacinno at bay more than an actual show of friendship or anything of the sort. Eventually, however, her mind relented to its need for sleep and she drifted off.

She awoke, or perhaps found herself in a dream sometime later. Maybe neither of these were exactly right, maybe she was simply remembering what was happening - yes, that was it. Her father was wrapping her in his arms, trying to not wake her.

He must have seen her stirring, “Oh, sorry for waking you, little viper.” He gave a weary smile.

“What’s happening? Where’s mom?” She looked around, unable to determine if this was real.

“Mom…” He looked away, seemingly awaiting for a convenient excuse to drop the subject. When none came, he sighed, “Mom will be right behind us. But right now, we need to leave.”

She seemed content to believe what was now obviously a lie. She put her head to his breast, although it gave little relief with its frantic beating. The next few minutes were spent hastily gathering what little they had - they were already rather poor - and carrying it to the forest where they would hide out until they could board a ship.

“Oi, what are you doing?” Serpacinno heard the voice, which she recognized belonged to the older girl, ask.

“Alteron instructed us - “ Whoever was with her was seized by the throat.

“Well Alteron isn’t here right now. Burning down the forest is unnecessarily cruel.”

“Yes ma’am.” The soldier saluted and left, presumably to fulfill some other duty.

Serpacinno’s dad crouched behind a bush, peering at the military woman. He eyed her analytically, weighing the pros and cons of running and fighting. He wasn’t even able to fathom the possibility that the woman ahead wasn’t his enemy - such a fact was already engraved on his mind, there was no room for counterarguments.

“Dad…” Serpacinno reached her hand out after her father gently placed her down, leaving a kiss on her head.

He ruffled her snakes, “I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

With a roar, it seemed his mind was made up as he activated his gift, his arm stretching to grab at the one he made his enemy. She caught it easily, eyeing it inquisitively before dragging its owner toward her. She saw the snakes on his head rearing to strike, but rather casually deflected them before shoulder tossing their master.

“Stand down.” The woman offered, “My name is Roserie. I have no interest in killing you or your daughter.”

“You lie!” The father replied.

“I’m not lying! I never wanted to come here or do these awful things.” She looked away, though none could discern why. “I have a personal ship, I can hide you.”

“I’m Juck.” The father said, which Roserie took as a sign of nonaggression. She helped him to his feet and shook his hand, “If you’re telling the tr-”

BANG

A shot rang out, and Serpacinno’s ears rang for what must’ve been several minutes. When she looked over, her father’s head was a mess of flesh and blood, gored beyond recognizability. The offending shot had come from a few dozen yards away, what appeared to be a marine had a gun aimed at him, and the blood would’ve sprayed on Roserie had she not put her arm up.

Serpacinno passed out then and there, wholly unable to muster and last well of energy, the trauma of the day forcing her mind unconscious.

She woke up the next morning as Roserie was entering with her breakfast - a small plate of bread and bacon, which she lazily picked at, though never ate, “You didn’t kill my dad.” She didn’t look up from her plate.

“Nope. I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you say that?”

“Would you have believed me?”

She paused at that, would she have? The blood was on her hands, though she wasn’t responsible. She decided to furlough her plans for revenge. As the rage subsided, the tears developed, sogging her food. She tried to appear dignified, quickly using her snakes to wipe her tears, but the soft sobs betrayed her.

Rosarie came over, sat beside her and wrapped her in a soft embrace, “We’ll make landfall in a week or so. From there, I’ll take you to my home, which will take about four or so days. I’m sure my folks wouldn’t mind putting you up.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Serpacinno choked out, “I know it might not be fair,” The tears were streaming down her face completely unabated now, “But I can’t stand looking at you. Once we get to your house, I’ll figure something out. But I can’t stay there.”

Rosarie rubbed her back, “I understand.”

This is their story.

Chapter Text

“So you’re a bum, then?” Serpacinno, now an adult, asked.

“Not the term I would use,” Paracelsus, two years older than last we saw him, replied, “But yes.”

“Alright then. How do you plan on getting a ship?”

“Now that’s a good question,” Serpacinno was getting up, and he felt inclined to follow, “I’m already a criminal-”

“I’ll stop you right there,” She stopped herself, as well, “I don’t associate with criminals.”

Luckily for Paracelsus, he was a conman by nature. He was used to swindling others, usually by making them believe they were swindling him. He noted the presence of a sword on her back.

“That sword you have, it’s not the one you want, am I right?” He put his hands up in surrender when that very sword was drawn and placed against his neck. “Not to insult it, it’s a very fine sword; even a novice like myself can tell.”

“Oh? And can you tell how much it thirsts for your blood?”

He lowered a finger and lightly pushed the sword away from him, “As I said: I’m a novice. You’ve heard of Kósmeidí, yes?”

That seemed to intrigue her, the slightest closing of the eyes indicated to the young man that he had struck a chord, “Go on.”

He more boldly pushed the sword away, hoping to establish his confidence, “Ach, I shouldn’t!” He turned his head away, blocking it with his hand, “But I suppose I have no choice. I happen to know how to acquire it, although I’ve no interest in using it myself.”

“And why is that?” She raised an eyebrow, and Paracelsus knew he might be gaining momentum.

“Again, I’m no swordsman. I can swing one around, but not very well. I figure I should leave that duty to someone such as you.”

“And why me in particular?”

To be honest, he didn’t know. There was something familiar about her, something he had seen before. He must’ve spent too much time pondering, though, as the young lady started to walk away with a Tch.

He rushed forward a few paces, walking backwards so as to face her at the end, “Because one look told me you were a capable fighter. And I think that our personalities will balance each other out.”

“Don’t lie. One look at you tells me you’re more than capable in a fight.” She stopped, but she didn’t turn away, which was a good sign. “Back to the main point, what’s your actual plan for getting a ship?”

Paracelsus produced a paper from his back pocket, “A manifest. The Unbroken Gale is docking at a port ten minutes by foot in around an hour. We’ll pretend to be longshoremen, I’ll subtly destroy the rode, and as the ship sails, we can mutiny.”

“If you destroy the rode, how are we gonna be able to anchor when we make port somewhere else?”

“I can repair it, don’t worry. The bigger issue, and one for which we’ll have to prepare, is the matter of docking rights. Since we won’t own the ship, we won’t be able to dock it. As such, I propose we register the boat under a new name when we reach Yuriol.”

“So the ship’s already on the inner shore of this ring?” Paracelsus nodded in response. “Well, I can navigate, but without a few riggers, how are we to sail? Dedicated longshoremen seem to imply the vessel is of some size.”

“We’ll only lower one sail, partially; we don’t need to sail fast if we take the indirect currents through the Stanry Channel.” He offered back, “If you think you can do it.”

She smirked at the challenge, “I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to goad me into this.” Paracelsus nervously swallowed, “But alright, I’ll help you out.”

“Sounds like a plan, Miss…” He offered his hand.

She took it, replying “Serpacinno.”

“Paracelsus.”

An hour passed in the blink of an eye, and the two adventurers were dressed in simple sailor’s clothing, Serpacinno’s snakes wrapped below a bandana. The two of them were able to pass themselves off well, especially with Paracelsus misting the lady at the shipping office.

“The captain just disembarked.” Serpacinno informed, lifting a barrel of fresh water on the ramp.

Her companion nodded in response, loading a barrel of gunpowder onto the ship. As he walked past the capstan, he pretended to fall, subject to the jeers of the crew, one of whom relieved him of the barrel. Seeing his opportunity, he got up with the capstan’s assistance, in the process feeling the structure out in his mind. He could visualize the chain leading to the anchor, and thinned it out enough where the weight of the anchor snapped it. Hopefully, no one would notice the capstan now had a core of oak, rather than pine.

A chorus of shouting and panic were heard as the ship started to drift, albeit slowly due to the raised sails. Then stepped out who would prove to be the biggest problem to Paracelsus, the first mate of the ship.

“What’s going on out here?!” She barked, her readers still on her head - she was clearly interrupted in the middle of a task of great importance. She looked over toward Paracelsus and asked, “You done it?”

“No ma’am.”

She sniffed at him before letting out a low chuckle, “You don’t know who I am, do you?” She felt tempted to wait for a response, but continued “I s’pose not, otherwise you’d know I can sniff out liars…” She leaned close into his face, her pretty visage betrayed by her putrid breath, “And I don’t much care for liars. Lads!”

As the group of seamen descended upon him, Paracelsus threw a small bomb at his feet which erupted into a plume of smoke. He ran out of it, towards the bow, and threw a miniature facsimile of chain shot at the captain who was now attempting to pursue.

“What’s the plan now?” Serpacinno asked, slashing a man who would’ve bore down upon her fellow traveler across the back.

In return, Paracelsus threw a small sheet behind her, which had curiously changed to an iron veil, guarding against the barrage of shot from the crew. The first volley ceased, and he turned to her, “I reckon, if you still think I’m capable, I’ll deal with the hound.”

She nodded, returning her attention to the various crewmen. Without the use of their guns, she was more than capable of exchanging blows with those who had the bravery to clash swords. Of course, that’s not to say she was invincible. Minor injuries - slashes from daggers, bruises from fists, the occasional lashing out of someone’s gift had all, to some extent, injured her gradually over the course of the battle; still, she persevered through her efforts.

Meanwhile, Paracelsus was finding it a bit more difficult; he knew any attempts at diplomacy would now be fruitless, but the first mate had clearly earned her position. Simply put, she was a capable fighter armed with a powerful club.

So, am I to assume her sniffing out my treachery was the work of a gift? He ducked, nearly dodging what would have been a fatal blow. But I can’t rule out the possibility that she has multiple. He attempted to thrust a rapier he had conjured, but found his blow parried. He briefly looked towards Serpacinno, but decided against interrupting her while she was dealing with her own issues.

“Enough running about, rat!” The first mate brought the club down, and with a mighty thwack it planted itself firmly in the deck.

As she attempted to free it, Paracelsus saw opportunity, running up the club and changing them into chains which wrapped around his adversary. He breathed a breath of relief, confident in his own victory.

“Behind you!” The swordswoman shouted, and Paracelsus obeyed.

His eyes widened as she flexed, her muscles growing grotesquely large and breaking through her restraints. She used the remnants of them to act as a whip, and Paracelsus realized he had given her an advantage far too large - range; she could strike him at the foremast from the captain’s quarters.Another issue was its speed, as he could not attempt to touch it and transfigure it without opening himself up to being physically maimed.

“Getting tired? I can go all day!” The chain was moving even faster now. Paracelsus became acutely aware that attempting to trap the chain within the floor would only destroy the ship further.

“Let’s swap.” Serpacinno said, the two turning around each other with surprising synchronicity.

Paracelsus took to his new role of crowd control with a fair amount of ease, when a sword came his way, he changed it to extend the hilt back into the gut of the man slicing him. He changed the deck to a more malleable substance and trapped his opponents when they got too close.

Back with Serpacinno, she was ducking and dodging her new foe, analyzing for any weakness to exploit. The simple answer came down to experience, she had much more experience with a sword than she reckoned her opponent had with a chain. As such, she waited for the moment when the momentum of the weapon had halted, and then she made her move.

“If you move,” Serpacinno now had her sword at the first mate’s throat, “You die.”

Paracelsus rubbed his hands free of imaginary chalk before pushing his hair back, “So then, you two are acquainted? Good.”

“What should we do with them?”

He pondered, chin in hand, “Keep her hostage for a moment. We’ll have the crew get us underway to Port Laroi.”

“Port Laroi? I thou-”

“Port. Laroi.” Paracelsus tried in vain to communicate the hidden message that he was lying to throw the crew off his trail.

Either she understood or she didn’t; either way, she made no protest.

“All done.” One of the sailors, a Mr. Cramer, if Paracelsus remembered correctly, said. “I’d say, all in all, we’re probably about seven or so miles from the port.”

The “captain” raised his hand to dismiss him, “Thank you.” He then cupped that hand and the other around his mouth and shouted, “Everyone aboard the skiffs!”

The crew, tied up save a few of the weaker-looking ones, complied and loaded onto the ships. The last one was filled with the former-first-mate. Once Paracelsus verified visually they were on their way, he returned to his travelmate.

“What the hell was that about?” Serpacinno asked.

“That was a spur-of-the-moment decision to throw them off our tracks, I apologize for not telling you ahead of time,” He saw that she wasn’t fully assuaged, “And I apologize for making it appear as though I’m your boss.”

“What are you then? Partner?” She squinted, seemingly prodding his brain.

“I suppose that’s a good term.” He put his hand out, yet again, “Partners.”

“Partners.”

“Now that’s settled, I think we ought discuss our next move.” He moved to the halyard, “Help me raise these sails?”

Serpacinno came over, grabbed onto the rope and together the two of them painstakingly raised the sails sufficiently to drop speed. They proceeded to repeat the process on the mainsail, leaving a bit more so as to not drop speed too much.

“If I may ask, where’d you learn to sail? I was never much for it, usually a passenger aboard ships.” Serpacinno sat down, seemingly more tired from sailing than fighting.

“I’ve never been a particularly good fighter. I can handle myself… but I couldn’t survive that way some boys can.” He looked sad to Serpacinno’s eyes, “If you can’t protect yourself, you need to be needed.”

“And you chose to learn how to sail?”

“Partially… but I also just… enjoy the sea.” He gave a (clearly fake) smirk, “Anyway… They probably won’t follow us in the irons, so unless there’s a storm…” He pushed off his knees and retired to the captain’s quarters, “I’ll be sleeping soundly until morning.”

“Goodnight.” Serpacinno replied, walking to the lower deck.

Chapter Text

Serpacinno rolled over in her hammock, annoyed with the answer she’d received last night. Deciding she’d have no more sleep, she rose to the deck, where she found her partner sitting down at some device.

“Coffee?” He asked, preparing a mug from a piece of cloth.

“What is that you’re making it in?”

“I call it a percolator.” He replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m something of an inventor, you see.”

“Do you invent things more useful than a replacement for a pot?” She asked, still taking the cup.

“Taste a sip and tell me it isn’t leagues better.” He offered.

“It is better.” She was evidently understating her enjoyment, as she sipped the coffee with vigor, “Can I ask what a sailor and inventor wants with Kósmeidí?”

“I’ve heard rumors about it.” He poured himself another cup, “They say it’s power is enough to ‘reshape the world in your image’, although I think it’s an exaggeration.”

“Then why?”

“I have grand ambitions. Grand ambitions, you see, that require a large number of people follow me.” He paused, thought perhaps he’d said too much then decided to continue regardless, “And what better to get people to follow you than inspire them with a great tale of heroism?”

“I don’t believe you.” She near slammed her coffee cup on the deck. The spray filled it with saltwater before she had the sense to place it in a less precarious position, “Not about the heroism or whatever, but about what you’d said last night.”

“What did I say?”

“You said you weren’t that good in a fight. I don’t believe that.” As if to emphasize the point, she pointed at the percolator, “You’ve got the mind for it, I won’t pry and ask what kind of gift you’ve got, but you’ve got the gift for it.” She pointed to the sails that were lowered somewhat since last night, “You got the strength for it.”

“Let’s work on the assumption you’re correct. How do I make myself relatable, and not intimidating to others?”

“You’re a good liar,” Serpacinno dropped her head to look at the floor before looking back up, “But you’re very bad at faking a smile. And, word to the wise, it’s better to be feared than liked.” She got up, seemingly determined to find some food below deck.

For once, he found himself speechless. Not because he was forced to agree, but rather that he wasn’t sure why he disagreed. Regardless, there was work to be done, including the repairing of the anchor. He’d underestimated the amount of weight he’d need to replace the remainder of the rode and the anchor itself. Then there was the mainmast to consider, it had been struck by Rita (the first mate, as he’d learned by the captain’s log) and while it most likely wouldn’t fall, he was worried about the possibility of a storm. The makeshift mercury pressure gauge he’d made told him it was consistently dropping.

Paracelsus walked down the stairs, making note of the large number of guns, before shouting down “Serpacinno, would you be so kind as to find a chest of…” He racked his mind for a heavy, ubiquitous material, “Sixteen pound shot?”

He then fully descended, and saw that she had indeed found such a barrel, which he carried to the top with great difficulty. He used all of the shot and the chest to finish the rode; now came the hard part. He surmised he’d need at least twenty-five hundred pounds, although thirty-one would be ideal. He walked back to his quarters and read the manifest. Before landing they had food for a week for fifty-two men. About eleven hundred pounds, minus one hundred for eleven day’s worth for him and Serpacinno. Per crate of sixteen pound shot, there was roughly two hundred and twenty pounds, times the four he reckon he could lose left him short at least seven hundred pounds. Raiding the armory, whatever lockers they had, and stripping it to the bare furniture would most likely yield an additional three hundred.

“You look troubled.” Serpacinno approached him, provisions of fish to be cooked and water to be drunk in hand.

“Excluding the food, shot, guns and furniture, I need to find three hundred pounds of weight.”

“The sails? We aren’t using most of them anyway, leaving ‘em bunched up.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all.” He decided on it, and after cooking and eating, the two of them set about to gather the necessary materials.

The materials gathered, Paracelsus used his gift to repair the anchor, and with a small amount of spare weight, he managed to fix the mast as well.

The whole process had taken a few hours, and the fatigue was getting to the captain, who’d sat down in his chair, writing in the log as though he owned it. We’re lower on stores than I thought; methinks the previous owner of this journal was less accurate than he should be. Regardless, we now have a little under eight days of food and ten of water. There’s also the matter that the anchor is at its very minimum of weight; hopefully, we are able to find sufficient material as to complete repair. Similarly, I should hope we make landfall within our allotted time. A storm is coming, mark my words, and if the aftwinds prove too strong, we may be stranded for some time.

While this was happening, Serpacinno sat down opposite her partner, reading from a chart and consulting a compass to determine their position and course. Although the mechanics of sailing were alien to her, the theory wasn’t.

“I bear good news, we’re sailing behind an island with large peaks. The wind should break for the next six or so miles.” It was good news, they’d get there faster, but it would also get them towards the storm quicker.

“What comes next will be our final test on this sea,” Paracelsus said, nose in the journal for any potentially useful information, “If we get ahead of it, it may waste a day, but we could avoid it. That runs the risk of wasting a day and still encountering it. That said, the other options are to sail through it and risk serious, irrevocable damage to the ship, or to anchor and hope we hold out.”

“None of those sounds particularly attractive. Is it not possible to change our tacking and choose a different port?”

“Going near Port Laroi is obviously out of the question. Going further north than Yuriol runs the risk of us staying at sea too long and being without the means to defend against bondsmen.”

“Fine then, let’s cut through the storm.” She looked determined, as though this was a matter of pride, “It might sound stupid, but I can’t stomach the thought of enduring the sea. I want to beat it.”

Paracelsus leaned back in the chair and exhaled forcefully, “Sure.”

“It’s goddamn beautiful, at least.” Paracelsus said, leaning against the railing.

Serpacinno, with her relatively weak sea legs, stumbled for dear life up the stairs to witness this event. It was two days since they’d resolved to take the storm on directly, and now was the moment. It was do or die, very literally so, as the slightest mistake meant death either by the immediate sinking of The Unbroken Gale, or by a loss to a critical faculty by which it operated.

“Are you scared?” Paracelsus turned to look at her.

“To be frank, I am.”

A silence had fallen over them, one a chatterbox such as Paracelsus abhorred for reasons that should be self-evident. He then decided to alter this situation, offering “To hell with it. If we’re to be partners, it ought not be a secret. I’m Paracelsus von Hoenheim. I’m a human, obviously, and I’m from Etzeltown in Orealia. I’m twenty one years old, and my sole gift is that of alchemy; that is to say, I can alter the physical and chemical makeup of anything I touch, provided I leave its weight unchanged.”

Luckily for him, before he had to ask, Serpacinno spoke of her own volition, “I’m Serpacinno, two and twenty. I’m from - I guess Osteria, but it wasn’t called anything when I lived there; I can breathe fire, and I can sorta… reach into some infinite space within a bag, a space I use to store my things. I’m also a…” She took a great pause, carefully deliberating whether she truly wished to divulge such information, “I’m the last snakewoman.”

He gave a soft smile at that, “Let’s tie up the sails completely. After that, I’m going to keep the wheel as straight as I can. I’ll need you on the compass. It’ll be less accurate because of the storm, but not significantly so.”

She’d expected him to make a big fuss of it, as most would when she told them of her race. She thought it was the tone she’d took that told him the subject was sensitive that clued him in. In any case, she surmised, this may yet prove a reliable companion. As such, she dutifully grabbed the ropes and brought up the sails before joining him at her post to help navigate.

“It seems we were lucky,” Paracelsus shouted, barely heard over the crashing waves, “We’re on the edge of the storm, if we had decided to evade it on the path I suggested, we’d see the worst of it instead. This way…” A particularly large wave crashed over the two, and Serpacinno wondered at that moment why he had on a wool coat at this time. “We’ll pass through the storm, hopefully in only a few hours.”

And so it had gone, until around an hour in, a bolt had struck the port side of the ship, and the captain delegated his role to Serpacinno while he went to make necessary repairs. He returned several times in a panic, bailing as much water as he could grab, taking several implements back from the deck to gain the necessary mass to enact the repairs. In the meantime, Serpacinno was not faring much better. She’d managed to secure the compass to the wheel with some rope, but the sheer force of the wheel turning with the whims of the sea was getting too much. Just when it seemed her fatigue and inexperience would cause her to fail at this most important assignment, her partner had unceremoniously nudged her aside and regrabbed the wheel.

“Thank you, friend. I apologize for leaving you that long. The hole was larger than I anticipated.”

“I guess I’m a natural.” She gave a slight smile, which brought one to Paracelsus’ face.

Somewhere around three hours passed, with Serpacinno only dipping below deck to occasionally bail out rainwater. She was prescient enough to stay above to witness them breach the other side.

It was glorious. She wasn’t sure if it was the pride of having made it through or the sheer beauty of it, but it didn’t matter. It enraptured her for quite some time. But eventually, the storm turned to rain, then to drizzle, until the sun had just set, and it was clear. At this time, she finally ended her vigil and smelled fish in the galley below.

“You enjoyed the view?” Paracelsus was holding onto a bar above his head to maintain stability, in the other hand was an autobiography by someone she’d never heard of. He occasionally looked at the pan on the stove before he’d apparently decided it was finished.

“All these years, for some reason I’ve never really spent time on top of the deck of a ship.” She gratefully took a plate of fish and some biscuits, “And yes, it was nice.”

“Cheers.” The two of them said over their water.

“Well, I think it’s time to retire.” By this time, the cleaning was done and Paracelsus had reached an acceptable stopping point in his reading, “Should only be two more days to Yuriol, if we’re on the proper course.”

Chapter Text

“So what’s our story?” Serpacinno asked, Yuriol just now coming into view over the horizon.

“I’ve refitted the name of the ship to The Living Current. We’re a pair of friends from sailing college who decided to become privateers. The reason our ship isn’t registered is because we were frightened by the piratical attack on The Unbroken Gale back in Cleré. I’ve erased the previous log, wrote my own entries, and I took the liberty of constructing a fake manifest.”

She nodded. It sounded reasonable enough, except, “I get the lack of supplies - but what of the sails?”

“A good point.” He put his hand to his chin, “We cut them during the storm, worried the mizzenmast would fall. Any final regrets? About choosing a criminal as a partner, I mean.”

“Not at the moment,” Her face soured somewhat, “Just questions. Specifically, I wanted to know what information you have on Kósmeidí.”

He then pulled out a small, leatherbound journal from an interior pocket of his coat, and opened it to a diagram of a sword, vivisected into six pieces, “At the center of each ring, I believe there lies a piece of this sword. I heard about it from my sister. She’s not exactly a scholar on such things, but she can be privy to things sometimes.”

“And what’s the plan after we dock?”

“The ship will take about a week or so to be manned across the channel to the next interior sea, during which time I’m going to see a friend from school. A real school friend. He owns a gambling house - a casino, I’m told it’s called.”

“All right then. What will we do at this ‘casino’?”

“I figure it shouldn’t be too eventful. We’ll buy supplies for our voyage and be on our way in a week.”

Luckily, upon registering their ship, the clerk was new to the job, and he was a young bleeding-heart; he ate up the story fed to him without any protest and wished the young duo good luck on their voyage.

After that, it was a simple matter of walking to the casino. It looked surprisingly empty. There was no line, and the only people the two saw inside were workers, tinkering away at machines that looked quite fancy.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” A jovial voice shouted out, before its owner wrapped his arms around Paracelsus and Serpacinno, “Is that ol’ Parac*?”

Paracelsus removed his arm and shook his hand, bringing the other arm to embrace his friend, who returned the favor, “Boulliard, you crazy bastard! How’ve you been?”

“To tell you the truth, not good. One by one, them machines you made for me a few months ago started breaking. Since then, the cash flow’s dried up.”

“And let me guess,” Paracelsus’ face was a painting of annoyance, “You aren’t able to follow the explicit instructions I wrote?” Boulliard nodding drove his spirits to depths Paracelsus didn’t know existed, “Alright. I’ll demonstrate to your workers. Serpacinno, can I ask you to shop?” He pleaded, producing a pencil and paper before writing up a list.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t protest, for she already had their coffers in her belt pouch, “Alright, then. I suppose this means we’ll be staying here, in fact?”

After Paracelsus gave a thumbs up, and Serpacinno departed on her mission with the assistance of one of the laborers, the proprietor spoke up, “Hired help? Friend?” He developed a treacherous grin and worked his eyebrow, “Something more?” He nudged his friend with his elbow.

Paracelsus waved his arm away, “Partners is the term we’ve arrived at.” A giggle threatened to burst from behind his friends’ lips, “Not of that sort. We happen to share a common goal.”

“And what sort of goal is that?” Paracelsus didn’t respond, he had already gotten to work on disassembling a slots-machine the poor fool had no chance of maintaining, “You always mentioned these lofty ambitions in grade school.”

“Those” he pointed upwards, as though such action would emphasize his words, “Were the words of a fool who wished to entertain his friends. My goal, at present, is much more tangible.”

“So tangible you can’t tell an old friend?”

“I’ve concocted a new method for growing tobacco, as a matter of fact.” Paracelsus stopped and sighed, for it was no small pain to reveal such precarious secrets, “Her father owns a tobacco farm in northern Jurl.” No such location existed, “We’re passing through here so I can sell the patents and wash my hands of this business with liquid gold.”

As his friend started busting his gut with laughter at the ridiculous thought of Paracelsus becoming a cigarette salesman, the man in question knew he’d had nothing to worry about. Therein lieth another such blessing this man had - not in getting people to believe him, but in distracting their minds with humor enough so that they’d all at once ceased caring about the truth, for the amusement was far more valuable.

“Can we get this shipment,” Serpacinno was at the market, eyeing what had to be roughly two tons of steel, needed for god knows what, “Delivered to The Living Current? It’ll be at port Mariner in about seven days.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The clerk replied, making a note of it in a journal.

After leaving the shop, she saw a beggar; a wrinkly old man, wrapped in a cloak, with a can by his knees, seemed on the brink of death already. After resolving to give him something, she walked over before she was abruptly halted by what appeared to be a lawman coming over and shouting something she couldn’t hear. When the beggar refused to leave, the officer drew their club above their head.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The officer asked over his shoulder, as Serpacinno had grabbed the club and held it in place.

The laborer grabbed her shoulder, “Ma’am, you should know that’s one of Gareland’s men.” As if she should quake with fear at the name.

“And who is that?” She asked, catching a punch the officer had thrown with his other hand.

“The owner of the casino; Mr. Boulliard’s just the manager. Worse yet, if her men are this active, that must mean she’s gonna be visiting soon.”

If the casino’s not drawing in profits, she’s like to be angry already. I know it’s not wise, but I can’t help when I see bastards like this. She spun the man she was holding around and kneed him in the stomach, bringing their scuffle to a quick conclusion. Best to finish shopping as soon as I can.

Paracelsus was irritated with the noise this “Gareland” woman was making, barking at his friend for falling behind his quota. If he had to guess, this place was the most successful property of hers, and if he had to guess further, he’d say she never praised the manager when things were going well. It was interesting though, to see a fairy for the first time in person. It was rare to see one outside of their homeland, though recent innovations in travel had certainly made it more common.

“As I said, that’s my friend Paracelsus from grade school,” Boulliard nervously swallowed, “Ma’am.”

“I was more so wondering exactly what he’s doing in my building?” Paracelsus thought that with the tool in his hand, adjusting the timing rod on a roulette wheel, it should have been obvious.

“Well he’s got a uniquely suited brain f-”

“Is he mute?” The horrible one (as Paracelsus had called her in his mind) turned to him.

“No ma’am, just focused on fixing this machine.”

“Funny.” She stood, or floated, between him and his machinations, “You know what happens when my boss loses out on the money he usually receives from this establishment?” Paracelsus detected a weakness in her voice when she said the words “my boss”, although he didn’t let it show.

“I’m sorry I don’t.” Paracelsus said as sincerely as he could, for he was keenly aware, “That being said, I think it would be best if I could get back to repairs, so that your boss does not inflict whatever implied injury upon us all.”

With her rage abated, Garland said “I’ll be back here every day to check your progress.” She then hovered away.

Boulliard plopped himself down next to his comrade after his boss was sufficiently out of earshot, “Sorry ‘bout that. You managed a right rotten time to pay ol’ me a visit.”

“I suppose I should have come earlier; I would like to apologize - for not being reachable.”

“Nah don’t worry. You done enough for me, Parac.”

Paracelsus felt a pang in his chest. For all his grand ambitions, he was so woefully unable to help one of his few living friends and was now being consoled by that friend he’d failed. He redoubled his efforts, set on resolving his error.

Let us close the curtain on those two for a moment, and refocus our attention back with the port they left not long ago. A monstrously large man with bear ears and nose sat, barely fitting in his quarters. He was currently engaged in a most important conversation, sitting across a table from the captain of The Unbroken Gale. He’d heard the whole tale, with some embellishments to explain why he wasn’t on his own ship.

“Junior Lieutenant Peeares, start preparations to go underway.” The bearman said.

“Of course, Lieutenant Graave.” The subordinate offered a salute, before turning and shouting through the door, “Make preparations to sail!”

“So this means you’re chasing them?” The captain, named Jowon, asked, rubbing his hands.

“We’ll look into it.” Graave was leading him out of the door, “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” In truth, Graava had simply meant to report back to his commander, paying this news no mind.

“If I may, sir?” Peeares piped up, closing the door so it was just those two, “Why would pirates order the crew to abandon ship instead of keeping them hostage?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They lied about their destination. I don’t know where they’re going, but it isn’t Port Laroi.”

“If they are pirates, wouldn’t they go to a port with money, perhaps Yuriol?”

Graave leaned back, reading a chart, “If they wanted to do that,” He beckoned his first-mate over, pointing at the current Paracelsus took, “They’d have to go through here, at the same time as that storm was projected to. They’re dead if they went that way - and they took The Unbroken Gale with them.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Peeares continued, head bowed to show respect, “I’ve a formal sailing education. It’s not impossible the two of them managed to survive; especially if one of them had the forethought to prepare for a storm.”

“So you’re suggesting I mobilize my entire squadron to chase after two pirates whom we aren’t even certain are alive?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“You’ll need to convince me that these fools are worth our time.”

“If you’ll accept my conjecture, roundabout a year and a half ago, a mole that we had planted in the revolutionaries told us that a captain Paracelsus had defected. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of another man by that name.”

Graave stroked his chin in thought, wrestling with the idea; if he failed, it meant humiliation and almost certainly a demotion if the criminals weren’t there - on the other hand, capturing a former revolutionary captain meant certain promotion, “We’ll take their same route, if we find signs of a shipwreck, we’ll investigate it before moving on.” His tone allowed for no debate on this matter.

“Certainly, sir.” Peeares bowed his head and was about to exit.

“One last thing, Peeares.” The man in question spun on his heels, an attentive look on his face, “Why do you care so much about this case?”

“My parents were killed by those rats, sir.” Graave nodded, “Revolutionaries, I mean. I would go to hell to see vengeance extracted upon them.”

“Very well then. As you were.”

Chapter Text

Gareland sat in Boulliard’s office, temporarily subsuming control of it from him for the duration of her stay. On ‘her’ desk sat a large number of letters; business partners, her boss, personal acquaintances all filled her mind with their concerns, despite never reciprocating. Then came two knocks in quick succession; she felt like ignoring it and pretending she wasn’t there, but the knocks continued.

“Come in.” She said, exasperated at being interrupted so late at night.

“Hello, Ms. Gareland,” The offender, the man she learned yesterday was named Paracelsus, sat down ‘cross from her, pouring out a glass of wine each, “I just wanted to stop by.”

“And who said we’d become drinking buddies?” She drank regardless.

“Boulliard suggested it, actually.” He sipped, it was sweet, “He said this was your favorite.”

She grimaced at that, “I guess he does have his selling points. Now, get to the point.” She rolled her empty hand to press him.

“I beg your pardon?” He tried to feign ignorance.

“I know you aren’t here to befriend me.” He looked ready to speak up, “Don’t try to fool me.”

“Alright then,” He poured her more wine, as a servant might, “I apologize for being so transparent. I actually come here with a business proposition.”

“And what sort of proposition is that?”

“One in which you, I, and Boulliard, all benefit.” He stated confidently, although she seemed thoroughly unimpressed.

“Thank you for the wine,” She snapped her fingers and two guards entered the room, “But please get out of my office.”

Paracelsus was drinking his own liquor, dejected. He sighed and put his hand in his face. He wasn’t sure why, but he was incredibly bothered by not helping Boulliard. This was a man he’d known for nearly twelve years. He groaned, both from his care of his friend and his own annoyance at his care of his friend. You see, Paracelsus was a man who very much so thought he was above the emotions most feel. He was so deep in his musing he didn’t notice someone knocking at his door.
‘
“What are you moping about?” Serpacinno took the bottle from his hand, also apparently having taken the liberty of letting herself in.

“Perhaps you can help me solve a conundrum.” He turned to look at her, “I know that if I can get through to Gareland, I can make our mission so much easier.”

“And she told you off?” He nodded, “Do you know why?”

“No. She didn’t even hear my request out.”

“I could think of a few ways to make her listen.” She said, as though it were exceedingly obvious.

It seemed Paracelsus caught on, “I think it would be best to do it without hurting her.”

“I meant,” He was apparently wrong, “That we prove ourselves to her.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

While Serpacinno didn’t have the answer yet, a cold wind told her it would arrive soon.

Graave was now bowing his head to his superior, who was sat at her own desk. He had been especially cautious to remain respectful, as the word he’d heard about her more than any other was ‘hardass’.

“So, you want me to release the use of fifty troops to capture two pirates whom your deputy believes to be revolutionaries. Is that correct?” Commander Wulluyo asked.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, ma’am,” He lifted his eyes, “But if Peeares says so, I trust his intuition.”

“I don’t. But, if you believe so strongly in him, I’ll allow you to commit your own troops to it. Don’t expect any aid. We’re stretched thin as is.” The bearman seemed ready to offer words of gratitude, “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“How’d it go, sir?” Peeares said, waiting outside the Commander’s office. Graave looked at him with a mixture of joy and discontent, “Good, then?”

“You were right. Asking for troops distracted her mind from the matter of permission.”

“So how are we going to find them?”

“They had to get supplies. We’ll start by interviewing the merchants. Have the men filled in on their descriptions.”

Peeares saluted in response, “Aye, sir.”

It was now around four PM on the third day of the pirates’ stay. Paracelsus was machinating by hand only, for his mind was still preoccupied with helping his friend. Relatedly, he hadn’t seen him all day and wondered where he was. Serpacinno meanwhile was taking a stroll and presently returned to the casino. She opened the door to the vestibule and upon seeing a group of marines, closed it and sought another entrance.

Unbeknownst to those two, Boulliard, along with Gareland, were sat in his office. Across from them sat Graave and Peeares, who had entered through a window. The proprietor of the casino fiddled with his hands awkwardly, as no one was saying anything. In fact, they had been instructed not to, as the two marines wanted to prevent them from somehow cluing anyone in on their plan to catch the criminals they believe were being harbored here.

“And you’re sure those two will return here?” Grave broke the silence, and Gareland turned to Boulliard for the answer.

“Yes sir, I saw him leave early in the morning for his daily run.” This was a lie, “He’s usually back before now.”

In truth, Boulliard was simply buying time. For what exactly, he didn’t know; he decided, however, that his friend, and his friend’s friend, would not suffer on his account. Gareland, however, was ignorant of this and fell for his lie as did the marines. It was then that the group heard a knock on the door, and Boulliard silently prayed it was not his who he thought it was.

“Come in,” Boulliard said, reluctantly, and Paracelsus stepped in.

“Am I interrupting something?” He asked in response. He saw the two marines sitting across from his friend and future-friend whispering to each other, he realized the cat was out of the bag. “Boulliard, did you set me up?” He wanted to give Boulliard a way out, knowing that he was too loyal to truly betray him.

“Paracelsus von Hohenheim, you’re under arrest.” Graava said, producing some rope, as though he expected the criminal to simply give himself up.

And give himself up he did, much to the shock of all four of the people in the room, save the Lieutenant himself. At his signal, his subordinate revealed a set of white wings and walked over to Paracelsus before grabbing him by the waist. At this, Paracelsus felt weightless - in the literal sense. As Graave stayed in the office, presumably to ask about his partner, Paracelsus was led outside and towards the docks.

On his way there, however, he was led around the back of the building, where he locked eyes with his aforementioned partner. He was about to make a motion to signal that he knew what he was doing, but he was too late; she had already drawn a new sword from her pouch, more fit for a knight from the highlands than a sailor. She swung the large sword downwards, and the carve in the ground told onlookers that Peeares would’ve been cleaved in two if not for him flying out of the way.

“I take it you’re his partner, then?” Peeares asked, hovering about a dozen yards above the ground.

“How’d you get caught so easily?” Serpacinno asked, ignoring the question.

“Well,” Paracelsus said, the ropes falling from his wrist, which combined with something he had concealed in his jacket before they formed a hook which he threw at the building to gain some leverage over his captor, “I was planning on going to their ship.”

He pulled and pulled, but Peeares wings allowed him more strength, so Paracelsus was dropped unceremoniously. He once more changed the hook's form, making it into a small sword that he stabbed into the side of the building to slow his descent.

“Well, what are you planning now?” Serpacinno asked, parrying a diving attack from Peeares.

Paracelsus saw a small group of marines escorting Boulliard in ropes and wondered why he was being arrested. He quickly regained himself and as he prepared a musket and aimed it towards their skybound attacker, Gareland appeared right in front of him, panic wrought on her face.

“Damnit, I almost shot you!” He said, lowering his musket.

“I’m sorry,” She brushed her clothes to appear professional, which was rather hard when you’re smaller than four feet, “But they attempted to arrest me and Boulliard.”

“I saw that,” Paracelsus kept his eyes focused on the battle between Serpacinno and the marine, “But why?”

“For ‘harboring criminals’.” She put finger quotes around the last part, as though she disagreed factually, which was rather hard, given the circumstances.

Paracelsus saw an opportunity, “If we help you out with this problem, will you hear me out? Aboard my ship, I mean.”

She groaned in thought, “Alright.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, Paracelsus pointed at Boulliard, “Then go deal with that situation, I’ll take the bearman down.” He turned to Serpacinno, “Sound good?” He shouted.

In response, she gave a thumbs up. At the same time, Grave himself stepped out of the casino and rounded the corner, having heard the commotion. With a pat on the back to send her on her way, Gareland blinked away and Paracelsus readied himself, musket in hand, to confront the marine.

“I apologize,” Graave’s eyes took on a garish blue glow, “It seems I underestimated you. Allow me to correct that.”

He charged in, and had Paracelsus blinked, he would’ve missed it. He just barely sidestepped his attempt to tackle him and was wholly caught off guard when one of his paws came to slash him. Because of his lack of preparedness, he was clipped by it and a grisly wound formed on his stomach.

“Alright then.” Paracelsus spat and took aim, his musket was different to most, not in design, but in shot. As it collided with his adversary, who had attempted to block it with his thick hide, it exploded and left a mark on him, “Oh, you’re a tough bastard.”

Graave sucked his teeth and rubbed his affected arm, “And you think yourself clever enough to beat me?” With that, he once again used his physical prowess to close the distance, and delivered a devastating blow to Paracelsus’ face.

The annoying thing about being so clever is that you realize just how fucked you are, was the general sentiment going through Paracelsus’ mind as he stood up shakily. The only hope he would have in winning this fight would be through slowly whittling down his opponent, and he could only do that by gaining some distance that wasn’t immediately negated.

Serpacinno was having difficulty herself. The annoying bastard was flying around too much, and her proclivity towards melee had ensured he was always out of her range, save for when he decided to strike. Another factor against her was that he had a pistol and enough shot to last him a while. He wouldn't fire at her while there were still panicking civilians around, but their numbers were ever dwindling.

“You scared?” She taunted between breaths, in hope to agitate him to give her a fair fight.

“I’ll admit I’m cautious of you,” The man, who Serpacinno now thought looked somewhat angelic, said, “But I don’t think afraid is exactly the correct term.”

She realized now that the only civilians still about were nowhere near her, and Peeare’s realized the same thing. He took aim and fired a shot she narrowly blocked with her claymore. It was then she formulated a plan and sought to put it into motion. She placed her claymore back within her own space and drew from a shield, along with a small length of rope which she secretly tied around her wrist.

When it became apparent that Peeare’s attempts at firing on her from range would be forever frustrated, he reverted to his old tactic and dived at her. In the instant he was near her, she wrapped the other end of rope around and tied the two of them together.

“Oh?” Peeares said, realizing he couldn’t fly away, “Nice move.” It turned out to backfire though, as he was stronger than he looked and pulled her towards him.

She blocked his blow with the shield, “Let’s finish this, then.”

Chapter Text

“God damn it, man!” Paracelsus said, barely deflecting another blow from Graave with a quickly conjured falchion, “You’re a true monster.”

He saw an opening and, using his gift, he flipped the sword into a small dagger, which he managed to drive into the gut of the bearman. Well, not quite the gut, moreso the dagger never actually penetrated him, but rather left a deep gash from a grazing blow to his side. The marine grunted and rubbed his side, before he examined his hand and saw the blood, amber with the heritage of an anima.

“Shit.” He said, having taken too long to look at his wound. The criminal had gotten away somewhere.

He briefly considered chasing after the pirate’s companion, but rationalized it away, thinking that Peeares would be able to handle it. Whatever, he still had his enemy to deal with. He took off, trying to isolate his scent out of all of the scents present. Had this bastard had the foresight to make some type of god-damned cologne to mask his trail?

If Paracelsus had struck a moment sooner, been just a hair quicker to recognize the look of confusion on Graave’s face, he probably would have successfully landed on his shoulders. Instead, due to his sluggishness in forging a set of stairs on the outside wall, he missed and had to improvise, landing on his own feet instead when his foe stepped backwards.

“Almost.” Graave said.

“Almost got you?” Paracelsus wanted to seem in control of the situation with a smirk, but his opponent looked just the same as ever.

“You almost escaped.” He pointed one paw at Paracelsus, and closed the opposite eye, “There’s no way you’ll ‘get’ me.”

And then it happened, Graave revealed the first of his two gifts, firing off one of his claws, which Paracelsus barely managed to stop with the use of his now iron coat. They kept coming, however, and Paracelsus was helpless to stop them all until he managed to reach the wall, and extend it laterally to protect himself. Ironically, he then did the same thing Graave did, and saw that he too, had blood covering his hand.

And much like Graave, it turned out the alchemist had spent too long on his inspection, as the bearman rounded his makeshift corner, shoulder and arm primed to engage in another melee. Paracelsus quickly opened the wall by forcing its mass out and spreading it, before he retreated. He tried to reconstruct it, but his adversary was far too fast, and the two of them took their brawl into the building, some type of church near the casino.

“Sirs,” The pastor looked at the scuffle with worry, as did the worshippers listening to his sermon, “This is a house of God.”

“Right, father.” Paracelsus held his hand up, and kissed a fetish he had created, hoping to appear the righteous one, “We were just leaving.”

The pastor humphed, and the two brawlers exited through the door. Paracelsus then took off in a sprint, ripping a poster of some wanted criminal off the wall and turning it to confetti, which got in his pursuer’s eyes. It only served a momentary distraction, however. What wasn’t momentary was the wound in Paracelsus’ abdomen, which was only getting aggravated by the chase.

He decided to make one final gambit, and threw a powder bomb at his feet, which erupted into a cloud of dust, “Now you have to make a decision, Mr. Marine,” When it cleared, Graave saw him holding another bomb, with a lit match, continuously transfiguring itself to reclaim its lighted length, in his hands, “You have the privilege of deciding whether the Union would rather, A: kill me, or B: save everyone in a five hundred foot radius.”

“No I don’t.” Graave laughed with all the bravado in the world, “You see, I’ve come to realize you’re a smarter man than you look. You must realize, as a revolutionary, that blowing yourself up in a crowded town, next to a church, would make us look that much better.”

Paracelsus didn’t let it show, but his association with the Revolutionaries, even if it was only imaginary, irritated him. He was half-tempted to actually allow the bomb to light, but Graave was half-right. He wasn’t ever going to blow up a church.

“You’ve got me.” Which is why the bomb was just a diversion from his real plan, which was the creation of a small cannon; because of its weight, it took a few seconds to fully form. Paracelsus tossed the bomb to the marine who quickly doused it, “Which is why I had a backup plan.”

The cannon went off at the moment he stepped from in front of it, and it launched its payload - a steel wire with magnet on the end of it, which did its job of capturing Graave.

“You bastard! Get back here!” Try as he might, the lieutenant was unable to escape.

“Sorry, guess you’ll just have to wait there, Teddy.” He said, taking a leisurely stroll towards where he last saw his partner.

—

Without the means of getting his hands on her, Peeares found himself unable to capture Serpacinno, who by now had mixed in her flame-breathing to the fight. She’d managed to deftly dodge her blows and return with either a jet of fire or a strike of her own, showing his inexperience.

He decided to use her flames to his advantage, and next time he saw her about to use them, he moved his hand in the way so the rope connecting them would burn off. He then used his newfound freedom to grasp Serpacinno by the shoulder and removed her weight, before tossing her into a nearby wall, causing the wind to leave her.

She landed face down, with one arm trapped below her torso, and Peeares calmly, but carefully, approached. When he was but five feet away, she explosively struck the ground and stood, a spear now in hand; she poked and thrusted at him, and try though he did, his wings proved too large a target to miss, and Serpacinno had him at the length of her weapon.

Still, he refused to go down, swatting away more hits than landed on him, until he found a gap in her attacks that he took advantage of. He lunged towards her, and without the close-range capabilities of a sword, Serpacinno was seized by her neck.

“I believe this means I’m the victor.” He said arrogantly, failing to consider the possibility that the snakewoman still had fight in her.

And fight she did, as his thumb was on her chin, and she seized the opportunity to bite down on it. As he gripped his thumb, now bleeding profusely, a fire ignited in his eyes. He was going to kill her, protocol be damned. He grabbed the spear she dropped and began to use it against her. She gripped it when he had missed and pulled him towards her; one of the snakes on her head lashed out and bit him on the jaw.

“Be careful,” The vision of Peeares’ eye on the side that had been bit was starting to fade, “They’re venomous.”

Truth be told, the impact against the wall was taking its toll on the swordswoman, who was currently in a bluff-off against Peeares to see who would surrender, who would run away first. It was not to be this time, however, as Peeares redoubled his efforts, even without the use of his wings. He charged at her again, his ferocity at its crescendo, but without the use of a weapon, he found himself unable to make any significant progress towards catching Serpacinno. Even with the last remaining well of energy within him, he barely managed to take one step towards her.

It was at the moment when Peeares fell, the venom having done its job, that Paracelsus showed up. He quickly fashioned some rope and bound the marine’s arms before asking, “Is he dead?”

“Not unless he’s got a shit heart.” She crossed her arms, “You dealt with the bear?”

“Yeah, but we probably only have an hour, maybe less until he gets free.” He looked around for Gareland, “We need to go as soon as possible.”

“Won’t there still be four more days until we get through the channel?” She asked, nervous because of his glancing around.

“If we wait in line, sure,” He rubbed his fingers together, “But you grease any wheel with enough cash.”

“And do we have enough?” She took inventory of their money earlier, all things said, they had around five hundred international dollars.

“We do. Probably.” He placed his hand outstretched, tilted it sideways and swung it up and down a little.

“Very inspiring.” The sarcasm in her voice was almost tangible.

“I’m joking, friend,” He clapped her on the shoulder, even as he winced from the sudden exertion, “We have more than enough.” He let go and stepped forward, putting his hand over his eyes, “We do need to leave soon, though. Where is Gareland?”

As if summoned, she turned the corner, a panicked Boulliard in tow. His hands were bound, and he was out of breath. Paracelsus walked over to him and removed the rope.

“I didn’t,” Boulliard puts his hand on knees to catch his breath, “I didn’t set you up, Parac.”

The man in question rolled his eyes, “Of course you didn’t Boulliard. I was just hoping I might throw them off your trail.”

Boulliard laughed at that, “Oh. Well that didn’t quite work.”

His boss glared at him, “Because you insisted you didn’t set him up.”

“Anyway, Boulliard,” the alchemist interrupted, “We have to be going now. If it’s any consolation, I doubt the marines will be after you.”

“And why not?” Serpacinno mused, an eyebrow raised indicating her disbelief.

“Think about it; they’re soldiers,” He tapped his temple, and when nobody gave any sign of recognition, continued “Not lawmen. They were only after us.”

“That makes me feel better,” Serpacinno said, “But still, how are we going to get across the channel quickly?”

“Well, there’s an old sailor’s tale about putting a gold locket on a length of fishing wire,” He waved his hands, doing just that, “And casting it into the water. Supposedly, if it’s taken, it means a mermaid will help carry you to your destination.”

Gareland and Serpacinno looked at him incredulously. He looked back for a few seconds as the two of them stared in disbelief. This was the man they were supposed to be sailing with? A man who believed in mermaids? But then, there was no real other choice, for the gorgon at least.

Paracelsus walked over and clasped his friend’s hand, “Boulliard, I want to apologize for abridging our departure like this.” he sighed, “But we have to get going before the marines catch up to us. I’ve told you workers how to fix the machines, so I wish you success in this business.”

Boulliard pulled him into a hug, “I understand, Parac.” He clapped him on the back, “It was good to see you after so long. Come pay me another visit once you’ve achieved your grand ambitions, huh?”

“I’ll make sure to,” He kept the man in his embrace, “Should only take a few years, nothing major.”

The two of them laughed before breaking off; it was a bad start to his adventure, all things considered. He hoped to not draw the ire of the Union until he had at least gathered One Piece of Kósmeidí, but events rarely turn out how we want them to. And so, with no further obligations, he set underway to return to The Living Current, as the ship was now named.

When the three of them boarded, the ketch was only halfway through the channel. As a remedy to this, Paracelsus cast his line out into the water, waiting as the ship traveled lazily through the almost still-calm water. And he continued waiting for nearly five minutes, with two women watching over his shoulder the whole time as his nervous perspiration threatened to raise the sea levels.

And then it happened - he felt the locket get pulled off the hook. He knew it was pulled off, and not bitten as he had experience with fishing. He excitedly pulled the line back up and saw the object was missing.

“See? I told you.” He said, gesturing to the empty hook, “Never doubt my sailing abilities.” He finished triumphantly, with a bow.

“It remains to BE SEEN -” Serpacinno started, before she was cut off by the rumbling of the water. It quickly adopted a glowing, lighter blue tone as the ship rocketed away (relative to the speed of sailing vessels of the time) and deftly darted between other ships on the same route, “Well, I suppose you were right.”

“Of course I was,” He said with the feigned confidence Serpacinno was learning to discern, his sea legs allowing him to stand without the use of the railing, “As I said - I’m an experienced sailorman. It’ll probably take around twenty more hours until we’re back in the open sea. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Actually,” Gareland piped up, arms folded over her chest, “I’d like to ask about your business proposition, now.”

Chapter Text

“Well, as I said - we all benefit from this -” Paracelsus leaned back, taking his own advice and getting comfortable, “That is, except your boss.”

Gareland scoffed at that, “Then why should I agree? Have you considered that I might like my boss?”

“I’ve considered that possibility,” He said, looking away from her, trying to assert control of the conversation, “But I discarded that notion.” He looked back at her, tilting his head to appear confident, “I heard the way you mentioned that phrase, ‘my boss’, in Boulliard’s office.”

“Alright, then,” Gareland spat out, “Let’s hear it: What do I think of my boss? What might motivate me to stand against him?”

He recognized her tone; she was trying to suss him out, figuring he had some ulterior motive, which was true, to be fair. He deliberated for a minute in his head for a second, “To be honest? I have no fucking clue. All I can offer is money, revenge, or power. Pick your poison.”

“That takes some balls to stand up to me,” She replied, “And to claim you can offer all three of those? This must be some deal you’re offering.” She leaned back, “Tell me about it.”

“Well first, I’d like to thank you for hearing me out,” He bowed his head, now attempting to appear as small as possible, to let her slip in comfort, “The deal, simply put, is a simple transaction. I get a special treasure your boss has, you get control of his businesses, and Boulliard gets control of the casino.” He smirked, “Pretty good, eh?”

She laughed out, which wasn’t a good sign, all things considered, “And how do you plan on enacting this plan?”

He puffed at her disbelief. He knew it would take some convincing, but she wasn’t even open to the idea at all, it seemed. “Well, you get us an audience with your boss, for one. I can’t imagine he’ll be all too enthused with the idea of transferring leadership. Second, as I’m sure you have access to his books, we’ll collect evidence of his misdoings.”

“I’ll stop you right there,” She waggled her finger, “If he really does have these ‘misdoings’, what makes you think I am responsible for his accounting?”

There was something about that tone that spoke to him. He wasn’t quite sure, but he knew in that moment, with her defensive voice, that she had to be quite close to her boss, personally. For now, he’d decided to prod more at this fact rather than tip his own hand more.

“Why shouldn’t you?” He pressed, “He sent you to Yuriol for a reason.”

“I was sent there because I’m good at my job,” She bit, but was clearly receptive to his machinations, “Nothing more.”

“Of course,” He put his hands up in defeat, “That being said, you aren’t. All things considered, I saved your skin back there.”

“Oh? You really -”

“That’s not a dig at you,” He cut her off, “For the record. I apologize for making it seem so, I tend to trip over myself, sometimes.” He lied, to make himself appear more vulnerable, “You were honestly given an impossible task. Without the creator of the machines showing up when he did, there was nothing you could’ve done. You did do well, considering the circumstances.”

He knew he’d gotten her in that moment. She looked contemplative, and more importantly, she looked happy to be recognized; he was starting to form a clear picture in his mind. She wanted her boss’ praise, she was protective of him, but not overly so that she was totally unwilling to betray him, and with her age…

“You’re his daughter, I take it?” He was wagering everything on this. If he was wrong, he’d look like an idiot and lose any rapport he had been building.

“Adopted, but yes.” She looked solemn, but almost relieved to rid herself of the burden of secrecy, “My own parents were loads of shit.”

“I can’t relate, unfortunately.” He was telling the truth. Not that his parents were saints, or anything, but they both died before he was five years old. The closest thing he’d had to one was his older sister, and even then, parent was assuredly the wrong word. “But I can empathize.” He then pulled a small flask out of his jacket, “Drink?”

She swiped it from him with gusto, gulping it down in the blink of an eye. Paracelsus was hoping to have some for himself, but alas. Fairies weren’t known for being able to hold their drink, and he was soon about to figure out what type of drunk this woman was.

Her face was instantly flush, “You got a while to listen?”

So she was the type of drunk to spill her guts, then? Paracelsus had more than enough time to listen.

—

Gareland, known at birth as Gareyom Ustson, was the son of a noble family in Kolssonafell. This family, headed by Ust Merrison, was known for their lucrative gemstone mining business.

“Gareyom, get up, you lazy bum!” He heard the voice of his father, deep and gravelly, shout out.

He was around eight at this point, and already expected to act as an heir to a great family should. His whole life was decided for him, and even the wealth and privilege he was entitled to brought him little comfort compared to the freedom he envied in his little brother.

“Alright, alright,” He groaned, willing his body to sit up and rub the sleep from his weary eyes, “I’m coming.”

He floated downstairs, his wings not growing at the same rate as his body meant it was hard for him to do so; he could teleport, thanks to his gift, but his father had explicitly forbade him from doing so in the house. He greeted his mother and brother with a simple wave, and the two of them reciprocated happily.

“Greet your family properly.” His father, legs on the table - which was surely ruder than whatever offense his son had committed - said in that same gruff voice.

“Hello father,” He bowed his head, “Mother,” Again, “Tobrien.” A third time.

“Hello, Brother!” Tobrien shouted, to which his mother giggled and his father groaned, “Good morning!”

Tobrien was the bright spot of paint on the otherwise dismal canvas of her family. Where as his father was controlling, and his mother complacent, his brother was pure - he loved with all of his heart. He did things with no expectation of reward, and he had a certain magnetism that was unavoidable. Gareland always thought he was a more fitting heir.

“Hello, you,” Gareyom ruffled his little brother’s hair, “Excited to start school?”

Tobrien was five now, and he was soon to be enrolled in a local private academy. Gareyom wasn’t worried, he was smart and made friends easily. What he was worried about was his father’s expectations. If they were even half of what he expected from himself, Tobrien was in for a world of trouble when he grew up.

“Speaking of,” His father, behind his newspaper, started, “I heard you received less than stellar marks on your most recent examination, Gareyom.”

“Less than stellar” was the perfect vague terminology for his father. In truth, the marks were only “less than” because “stellar” meant perfect. Stellar meant flawless, no mistakes.

“Stellar” was unattainable. At least this time, Gareyom could comfort himself, knowing his father wouldn’t dare strike him in front of his mother. Even if she never believed him, his father would never provide that proof to her face. Still, his glare was enough to send shivers down his spine.

“Well?” He had taken too long to respond, “Anything to say?”

“No, father,” He bowed his head, unwilling to meet his father’s gaze, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He was let off with a grunt this time, but he knew he would be hearing about it later.

—

Gareyom rubbed the fresh bruise on his face, applying some alcohol and feeling the all-too familiar sting as the pungent liquid hit his skin. He winced everytime, and everytime cursed his weakness. Not only physical, that was to be expected from an eight year old, but his mental weakness as well; he would never be able to stand up to his father, no matter how big or strong he got.

He remembered what his friend at the academy said, “Why don’t you just run away?”.If only it were that simple. If he left, the heirship would transfer to Tobrien, and he couldn’t risk his little brother becoming the target of his father’s abuse. There was also the issue of logistics, how would he slip away, how would he evade detection for long enough to board a ship, what would he do once he was far enough away?

“Gareyom?” His mother knocked, “Are you alright in there?”

“I’m fine, mother,” He lied, “I just took a spill at school, I’m dressing the wound.”

He hated hearing her remark about what a responsible young man he was. Why should he be responsible? Wasn’t it her job to protect him? Wasn’t it his father’s? He couldn’t stop the tears from flowing at this point. He was robbed of a childhood, robbed of a solid psyche, and robbed of the ability to free himself. That was, unless he took his brother with him. Of course, how hadn’t he thought of it before?!

Now the only question was how? It would be easy enough to convince his brother: he could just say they were getting on a ship, and that their parents would be following them, but how would they get on a ship? He had no money and no connections. No connections, that is, except for his friends at the academy.

—

“Say, Baltasar,” He said between mouthfuls of the gruel they called food, “Your dad sails boats, right?”

Baltasar, a giant, and Gareyom’s best friend and confidante, replied, “Yeah, why?”

“Is he sailing to any other shell anytime soon?” He asked, as casually as he could, so as to not raise suspicion.

“I think…” Baltasar tapped his chin in thought, “I think he’s sailing to Ashland soon.”

“Is it possible,” Gareyom was breathing heavily and twiddling his fingers nervously, excited and terrified at the prospect that he may be able to put everything behind him, “That he could take my brother and I?”

Baltasar shrugged, “I suppose. Is your family going to take a vacation?”

“No! I mean,” Gareyom cleared his throat, “No, I’m leaving. My brother and I are leaving.”

Baltasar, in his eight year old wisdom, asked, “But why? Don’t you like it here?”

Gareyom turned to him, and leaned in close, “I need you to keep this a secret, can you do that?” Baltasar nodded solemnly, as any kid would, “My father beats me.” Tears were welling in his eyes, which were already red and swollen from a strike he’d received that morning, “I hate it so much.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Baltasar rubbed his back, ever so gently, “I’ll ask my dad. But you have to promise to come back when you’re older and see me.”

“I promise!” Gareyom said, and the deal was sealed.

—

It was now two weeks later, Baltasar had lied to his father, saying that Gareyom’s family was initially going to take a different ship, but had to split their party due to the other ship being overcrowded.

“Tobrien,” Gareyom shook his little brother’s shoulder, “Tobrien, wake up!”

Tobrien rubbed his eyes, blearily asking, “What time is it, Gareyom?”

“It’s eleven,” Which was far past their curfew, and past when his parents were asleep, “I know we shouldn’t be awake, but I have a surprise.”

“What is it?” He asked a little too loudly, which made his older brother pump his hands in a ‘quiet down’ gesture.

“We’re going on a trip!” Gareyom said excitedly, “But, mother and father are getting some extra sleep, so we’ll have to go ahead of them, and keep quiet.”

Tobrien, all too trusting of his older brother, grabbed his offered hand and awoke, hastily packing a few days of clothes in a rucksack he’d had since he was a baby, Gareyom led him, as stealthily as possible, outside, loaded them onto a carriage, and they set off for the coast.

Baltasar’s father stood there, waiting impatiently, “There you two are! You were almost late.”

“Sorry, Mr. Yurason.” Gareyom bowed his head in respect to his savior.

“You can call me Tukkus, young man.” He said, ruffling the fairy’s hair with his comparatively massive hand, “Let me help you load that luggage on.”

This was it: the beginning of his new life, and the end of his old one.

Chapter Text

All things said, the trip was going well. Gareyom had maintained his story that they were going to meet up with their parents in Ashland, and Tobrien was none the wiser to his deception. Presently, the two of them were playing patty-cake in their quarters, during a particularly rough storm.

“It’s alright, Tobrien,” He said, continuing the game, “It’s just a storm. Nothing to worry about.”

“But what if something happens? What if the boat sinks and we have to fight sharks?” He asked, the seriousness in his voice was so endearing Gareyom could only smile.

“I’ll fight them off,” He proclaimed in a gallant tone, like a marine rescuing a small child in a picture book, “Don’t worry, Gareyom will protect you!”

That earned a chuckle from the younger brother, which soon turned into a veritable fit of laughter. It was soon interrupted, however, when he heard thunder leap to the ship with a loud CRASH. Gareyom hugged his head comfortingly, resolved to protect his younger brother from any ills that came their way.

“It’s getting late, anyway,” He tucked a bit of Tobrien’s long hair (as is the custom for fairies), behind his ear and kissed him on the forehead, “Time for bed.”

“But Gareyom -” He protested.

“No ifs, ands, or buts, Tobrien.” He reserved the use of his name for only serious occasions, and bedtime was certainly one of them.

“Alright…” He reluctantly agreed, blowing out their lamp and crawling under the covers. Sleep wouldn’t find him so easily, though, as the repeated claps of thunder against the hull might as well have been the drums of war, so fearful it was.

Gareyom found sleep easily, the weather being as scary as a kitten relative to the beatings he would no doubt be receiving if he was still home. He could barely even believe he was on this ship, this ark which was delivering them from perdition to salvation as easily as one draws breath.

They were both awoken, however, by the ship’s bell ringing as rapidly as the waves beat against its hull. Gareyom went to investigate, after placating his brother, and found the deck on fire; someone had left a barrel of powder to be delivered up top, and the lightning had the uncanny aim to ignite it. In an instant, his hopes for a new life were dashed and replaced by a dread that threatened to swallow him whole, as the fire spread rapidly, the rain not abating it in the slightest.

“Gareyom!” Tukkus called out, “Get your brother, and get to a skiff!” He complied, forcing himself to enact the very promise he had made earlier.

He grabbed his little brother, only offering explanation as his breath allowed, and jumped into the first rowboat they could find. The helmsman, Mr. Croe joined them soon, as did five others, all among the lucky eight to save themselves. Crow beat against the ocean as fast as he could, as he had the only set of oars, in the direction of land.

“Tobrien,” Gareyom started, “I need to tell you something.” He looked conflicted, trying to force the words out like a vile poison, “Mother and father won’t be joining us,” It was at that moment he saw a way out, a convenient lie to ease his brother’s transition into orphandom, “They must’ve gotten caught in the same storm!”

“But wouldn’t they get on a boat like us?” He asked, spitting saltwater that had found its way into his mouth.

“Children always board first,” He conveniently omitted ‘women’ from that, “They won’t make it; I’m so sorry.” The two brothers sobbed in each other’s arms, Gareyom for having committed a horrible sin, and Tobrien because he believed his parents were dead.

It was six horrible hours before they had passed the storm and the sun had risen over the horizon. Nobody on board the rowboat had gotten any sleep, including Crow, who was on the brink of fainting from exhaustion. In response, one of the men on board the vessel took over the duties.

—

Two days later, the boat touched down on the outermost ring of Corlagnao. Immediately upon landing, Gareyom and Tobrien as well as everyone on board were accosted by insurance agents who were desperate to know what had happened to the ship. Even with a story they found suspicious, they were helpless to accuse anyone without definitive proof, and so, the family found themselves alone in a foreign land.

Gareyom had anticipated this from the beginning, however, and had a plan in mind. First, they went to a boy’s home, which was thankfully easy to get into as they had the excuse of a shipwreck killing their parents. Secondly, well there wasn’t really a second part; this was their life, for now. Once he figured out a way to make money, he’d provide a real home for them. For now, though, they were provided with a small bundle each, clothes, linens, and toiletries.

“It’ll be alright, Tobrien.” Gareyom wrapped his arms around his brother’s head again, “At least we’re together.”

“Please don’t leave me…” His younger brother cried. With any luck, he would never wonder why they didn’t return to their home.

—

It was in the first week, specifically their sixth day at the home that the first incident happened. At lunch, Tobrien, like usual, took his seat right next to his brother.

“Oi,” A larger, human child, probably around nine years old came up and looked at the two with disgust, “What are you two insects doing here?”

Insects. It was a common word used by bigots to describe fairies, on account of their wings. Of course not all humans, giants, or otherwise were like that, but enough of them were for the two brothers to instantly pick up on what he meant. Gareyom, unlike his brother, had the good sense not to fight back. He knew of their physical differences, knew he’d stand no chance in a brawl.

“We’re not insects, we’re fairies!” Tobrien, however, had not learned that lesson, shouting out in their defense, “And we’re here because our parents died!”

The bully seized him by the collar, pulling his face inches away from his, “Oh? Are you sure they didn’t abandon you?”

While Gareyom wouldn’t have normally minded what was ultimately slander of his parents, he would under no circumstances allow someone to torment his little brother. He was about to punch the child, before realizing it would be as futile as trying to hunt a boar with a slingshot. So, he did the only thing that he thought would work and bit down on his neck.

“Agh!” The kid shouted, trying to pull him off of his neck, but failing to gain purchase on the diminutive frame of his assailant, “Get off of me, you insect!”

He eventually managed to grab Gareyom and pull him off - which only made things worse for him, as now a large chunk of flesh was missing and a waterfall of blood cascaded down his neck. An orderly rushed over, and tended to his wounds while another came over and restrained the fairy.

—

“Gareyom,” The headmaster, in a voice stern and immutable, boomed, “Why did you bite Jacob?”

“He insulted my little brother,” He replied, as confidently as he could, “And he grabbed him by the collar while you all did nothing!”

“So in response, you tore out his throat?” It seemed like a logical question, but Gareyom knew it was just an excuse to protect the human.

“I’m sorry sir,” He forced his head into a bow, all too familiar with surviving the whims of authority figures, “I’m just very protective of Tobrien, since our parents died.”

“I understand, young man,” The headmaster sighed, in a sympathetic tone, “Just don’t let it happen again.”

Gareyom, of course, told him what he wanted to hear, fully aware that should the need arise he would gladly step in to protect his little brother. Still, it seemed the need wouldn’t arise any time soon, as his display of barbarism in the mess hall had earned him something of a reputation.

“Did you hear that Gareyom bit Jacob?” “Maybe he was trying to suck his blood, like a mosquito.” “Do you think he’s diseased like one?” He withstood any rumors, or murmurs, or whispers around him, only by reminding himself of the precarious position they occupied and the frailty of their board. Besides, if they were afraid of him, all the better.

“Gareyom!” Tobrien shouted when they were reunited in the dorms, “Are you alright? I heard you met with the headmaster.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Gareyom stroked his younger brother’s hair, “Nothing bad happened, I just have to leave Jakob alone.”

“I’m sorry,” His brother replied, “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll always protect you.” Gareyom said, trying to bring some small comfort to his brother, whose life had been unceremoniously flipped on its head.

—

Gareyom, now age thirteen, was reading a paper, looking for any local jobs. Luckily, there had been no more threats or violence towards his family. He surmised that fear was the biggest reason for this, but it didn’t truthfully matter. His eyes continued perusing the classifieds, until he saw an ad for a delivery boy. The pay was horrible, but might as well have been a king’s ransom next to his pitifully nonexistent coffer.

He went to the address listed on the ad, and found a sleazy, dank warehouse was his destination. He could feel the dreadful aura pouring out and was about to turn around, before a man in a fine, velvet suit stepped out.

“Hello, young man,” His voice was calm and measured, like an actor reciting a script, “Are you here for a job?” Gareyom fought against every instinct in his body that told him this man was a threat, and nodded wordlessly, unable to muster his voice. “Alright, then.” The man in the suit abruptly handed him a small parcel, as well as a few dollars, which Gareyom recognized as his pay, “Can you take this over to the pier for me?”

He gulped, and took the package, afraid to speak back. For some reason he couldn’t explain, this man was unsettling to be around; it wasn’t anything in particular, but there was an overwhelming intensity that choked the air around him like a miasma. He held onto it for an uncomfortable amount of time, before he heard the man clear his throat and took off.

Luckily, he was made for this, as he could teleport with his gift; he delivered the package with the utmost speed, not wanting to find out what would happen if he failed.

“You’re back quickly,” The man in the suit exclaimed, “To be honest, I didn’t expect you to return at all. You looked so nervous!”

“Sorry,” His mind struggled to come up with a reason, “I’ve just never had a job before.”

“Oh that’s alright,” His tone shifted, almost paternal in a way, and he handed Gareyom a few more coins, “Consider this a reward for a job well done. Come back here, same time tomorrow, and I’ll have more work for you.”

—

The first thing Gareyom did with his money was buy a sword. All strong people, and he was going to be strong, carried a sword. He decided on a nice, affordable cutlass that he could grow into; it was far too large for him at the moment, but would surely help to bolster his intimidating image.

“Tobrien!” Gareyom greeted his little brother, who was reading a book. He’d become quite the scholar recently, much to the confusion of his older brother, who could barely be considered literate.

“Gareyom,” He hugged his brother, temporarily setting aside whatever fantasy novel had piqued his interest this week, “Where were you? And where did you get that sword?”

“Oh this?” He said, jubilantly flaunting his weapon and turning up his nose like a nobleman who was proud to see he had something none of his peers had, “I bought it; I was working.”

“Oh really? That’s nice.” Tobrien smiled softly, returning to his book.

“I told you I would get us a house!” He pointed to his chest.

A sword is a far cry from a house, but the older fairy supposed it was a start.

Chapter Text

It was at this time that Gareland had become more or less incomprehensible, the alcohol having taken its course. She was slurring her words, barely even conscious, so Paracelsus decided to get her a blanket and let her rest.

“You believe her?” Serpacinno asked, leaning against the railing, “Or… him?”

“I think that if she is lying,” He mused, “I could learn a thing or two about acting.”

“And do you think that she’ll agree to help us?” She continued, looking over into the water.

“Us? I didn’t know we were so close,” The captain teased, earning a groan from his partner, “But probably so. I don’t think she’d spill her guts out if she didn’t want to see this through.”

“Good, then you can deal with this.” Serpacinno pointed her finger to the water, which had grown calm and stopped glowing.

“Hey! What gives?” He shouted to the water. In response, a mermaid popped her head out, and now that Paracelsus got a good look at it - it was damn creepy. Beady, black eyes that looked more like marbles and a scaly, beaked mouth gave it the appearance of a deep-sea predator.

“That locket you gave us,” She said in a rattling, high-pitched tone, “It was a fake. It had no memories.”

“Of course it didn’t,” He made an indignant face, “It’s an object.”

The mermaid rolled her eyes in disbelief, “There were no memories of that object.”

“I see,” He said, thumb digging in one of his coat pockets, which Serpacinno took note of, “So any object with enough memories will suffice?” The mermaid nodded, and his face grew nervous.

“Well, do you have something for us?” She asked, rubbing her hands with impatience.

He deliberated for a second, rubbing his fingers on the object in his pocket. He sighed heavily, unable to decide if he should part with it. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, frustrated at the idea of having to give away something irreplaceable; but, he acquiesced with a sigh, and pulled out the object. It was a small band, gilded, with the gold wearing away and revealing the brass underneath. It was adorned with various nicks and marks and was worn with time.

“Here you go.” He wrapped a length of wire around it and lowered it until the mermaid snapped it up greedily as a dog does with a piece of meat.

The effects were immediate and drastic, as the ship sped up and continued its course. Paracelsus leaned on the railing and looked out, wistfully. Serpacinno watched him, oddly enraptured with the sight of his sad, regretful pondering.

“You have a wife?” She asked, leaning backwards on the railing to lock eyes.

“I had a… partner,” He said, craning his neck down, “He and I,” He rolled his hands, “It was a promissory ring. He’s dead now.”

“Aren’t we partners?” She asked in a joking manner, patting his shoulder, “But really, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure he was a good man.”

He grabbed her hand in appreciation, before springing to his feet, unwilling to allow his melancholy to taint their journey, “Thank you, Serpacinno. For now, let’s focus on the journey ahead.”

He picked up Gareland, carefully carrying her below deck to rest in a hammock, near his partner’s. After that, he slowly removed her cutlass and placed it ‘cross her torso. Then he returned to the galley, just because she passed out from drink doesn’t mean he wasn’t hungry, and he pretended that he just now realized they had left before the supplies he ordered were on board.

“Yup,” Serpacinno sat down beside him while his head was in his hand, “You just got it?” She leaned back, hands behind her head and feet on a table, “Why don’t you, alchemize us some food?”

He sighed, “Were it only that simple. It’s easy to take complex things like food and make them simpler, but the opposite is harder than you’d think.”

“So what’s the plan then? Fish and hope we find enough to eat until we land again?” Her stomach rumbled.

“We should be in the first interior sea, soon.” He picked at his nails, “We’re certain to run into another ship. We can bargain for food.” He curled an eyebrow in thought, “Or… if I recall correctly, this should be the Sea of Jellyfish.”

“Another old sailor’s tale?” She chuckled.

“No, no, an undeniable fact.” He wagged a finger, “I take it you haven’t been here much; the abundance of algae in the relatively shallow waters means jellyfish are in great supply.”

She balked at that, “You’re telling me we’re gonna eat jellyfish?”

“Well, that’s one option.” He seemed hurt, as though he was excited at the prospect of feeding on them, “We can also use them as bait. Turtles, crabs, hell if we’re lucky we might catch gulls or a whale shark. We’ll still need to buy some produce, but other than that, we’ll be self-sufficient.”

“You seem to have a plan for everything,” She remarked, “I have to wonder if this too was part of it.”

He made a face of shock at that, hand on his chest, “You really think I planned us being without resources just so I could - what? Introduce you to the glorious life of jellyfishing?”

“I think you like showing off,” She was partially right in that regard, “And I think you found the perfect way to do it. Not that I care much, just make sure we do have enough to eat, yeah?”

He was embarrassed at being seen through so easily, thinking of himself as being as clever as a cat, or perhaps a fox. He raised his hands in defeat, and with his mood soured, he returned to the deck to watch the mermaids at work.

—

“Sir,” Graave bowed his head in shame, “I swear to you, I will catch them, on my name.”

Before him stood Commander Harlan, a tall, broad man and marine of thirty years. His stern face was only matched by his performative adherence to protocol, and he was not happy with his lieutenant commander’s decision to allow the bearman to pursue the criminals - although, he was more than anything relieved that he might yet benefit.

“I could have you court-martialed, Lieutenant.” He growled, arms crossed over his chest, “Were it not for the testimony of the priest,” He was referencing the priest who witnessed the battle between the two, “I would have done so.”

“I understand, sir,” He sank lower, kneeling before his superior’s superior, “But you must also understand the threat these people could pose. If they keep sailing inward, there’s only one logical conclusion as to their goal.”

“Need I remind you Ashland has not yet joined the Union?” Harlan reminded, “If we go traipsing about in there, I should doubt their referendum will not go in our favor.”

“Sir, I implore you give me your ear!” Graave was unable to contain his frustration, “I will catch them before they can see Ashland on the horizon.”

“No.” He said, “You won’t; with an entire squadron backing you, you failed to capture two criminals, and in fact, witnesses report that a third one joined them.”

Peeares chimed in, head touching the floor, “It was my fault, sir. I told our men to arrest a civilian on a suspicion that didn’t pan out. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

“Raise your head, son.” Harlan commanded, which was complied, “I don’t think the blame should rest with you. But I’ll offer you a deal: capture those criminals, dead or alive, and tell everyone it was under my tutelage. Fail, and keep your lips sealed about this whole ordeal.”

“Of course sir,” Graave spoke for the two of them, “We accept.”

—

“Counterfeit?” Paracelsus asked indignantly, “What makes you think these are counterfeit?”

“I’ve an eye for these things, boy,” The captain of the Wild Gazelle said, her tone gruff and deep like most sailors, “It’s missing Tencha’s signature brush strokes.”

Fakes tears welled in his eyes, and they glowed in the moonlight, “Oh, woe is me!” He threw his head back and covered his eyes with his arm, “I spent all of my money on these, and they’re fake?”

The captain sighed, put her hands on her hips, and took the painting, “Tell you what - you seem like a good kid, so I’ll let you have three crates of veggies, alright? Just be more careful, most people aren’t as generous as me.”

“Thank you ma’am,” His words and rapturous joining of his hands were all pre-planned, knowing how to inspire sympathy was one of his talents, “I’ll never forget this as long as I shall live!”

She rolled her eyes in some mixture of embarrassment and endearment, “Alright, off with you.”

With one final bow, he took a crate in each hand, and let Serpacinno take the third back to their ship. He undid the parlay hooks and they were off again, at the very coast of the first interior sea. With the Gazelle turned away, he snickered at how easy it was to take another mark.

“Don’t you feel, in the slightest bit, bad?” She asked, even though she silently went along with his plan.

He pinched his thumb and index together, “Perhaps, just slightly. But she’ll not be wanting, she’s right near the coast. And she wouldn’t have given us anything if she thought she couldn’t spare it.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She said, biting into an orange.

“Ha-ha,” He faked with the snide sarcasm of a child who was just asked if they want to go to school, “And besides, you were certainly in no rush to stop me.”

She clicked her lips, and pointed at him for a few seconds, “Yeah, that’s fair.” She took another bite, “I was only messing, anyways.”

With silence lingering over them, and his stomach still unsatisfied, he leaned over the deck and impatiently watched the trawl he’d fashioned onto the back of his ship. The jellies proved smarter than he would know, although the murky darkness of the water meant he couldn’t see. What this resulted in, when he withdrew the net some half-hour later, was less than ten jellyfish being caught.

Still, it was enough for tonight’s dinner. He stripped what flesh he could, and stewed it in a simple sauce made from tomatoes, and finished the dish with a small garnish. As he was doing this, Serpacinno walked into the galley, having smelled the cooking, and had to admit there was a certain attractiveness about him, one hand holding onto the bar above his head for stability.

“You’ve been alone for some time?” She asked, picking at the food with a disgusted visage.

“Because I can cook?” He ate, grateful for the food.

“Well,” She took a hesitant bite, it was better than she thought, “You can cook. You can catch fish. You can sail. And you got a silver tongue.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following.” He bluffed.

“Plus, as someone who was also alone, I can tell.” She argued. “You have this sad look, like you’re still alone.”

He scratched his chin nervously, “Why would I feel alone? I’m eating dinner with a beautiful woman, aboard my own ship. And we’ve even got a new friend below.”

“I thought I made it clear that don’t work on me.” She took to the soup more eagerly now, seeing as the taste was inoffensive and it was smooth enough to drink.

He found himself oddly vulnerable at that. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was much cleverer than he’d initially thought. She might not have quite matched his scheming, but the fact that she was able to so easily see through him did give him pause. He was so used to being able to think circles around people without them suspecting a thing that when such ability was stripped away, he began to nervously tap his foot.

“Touché.” Was his only reply, and the chuckle he’d been given in response only made him more nervous. The only solace he found was that she’d seemed to like him in some way, or at least tolerated him.

He resolved in his head, then, to carefully watch her, and make sure that she didn’t turn her sword on him again.

Chapter Text

“Here,” A young marine passed a small tray of food and water through a gap in the bars, “Your rations.”

The prisoner, whose face was covered by long, shaggy brown hair, took it wordlessly. He didn’t even look up as he parted his hair to allow room to eat his food. It tasted horrible, but he supposed that was simply how it was in the brig. Regardless, it was a relatively hearty meal, all things considered, and he knew he’d need his strength for the days to come.

“Oh, and a letter.” The sailor said, slipping a small, nondescript envelope to him.

To my friend, Jeyro - You’re on board the Iron Maiden, correct? By the time you read this letter, I will be underway to that ship. Once I get there, I’ll only be able to maintain the gate for three minutes. Make sure you slip out of your restraints and exit by that point, or I’ll be unable to save you.

Hearnah.

That damn old fool, Jeyro thought, chewing his food angrily now, Always meddling in my business. He would never admit it, even to himself, but he was grateful. He came here to steal a certain something from the ship’s captain, an R. H., but she was far too vigilant and well-guarded to attempt it. He’d been caught impersonating a recently enlisted man, and was summarily thrown in the brig.

A cannon shot rocked the ship, although its thicker iron hull meant it was little more than turbulence against the floating fortress. Assuming that was who he thought it was, he supposed he had less than an hour until he was expected to depart. He took a piece of bread and bit down on it as he produced a small blade, thanks to his gift, and started sawing at his ankle.

“Hey!” A voice, meek and small from the adjacent cell, sounded out, “Are you escaping?” Jeyro didn’t answer, instead focusing on not screaming out due to the white-hot pain he was experiencing. “If you don’t answer me, I’ll call a guard!”

He groaned, stopping his self-mutilation, “Yes, dammit! I’m escaping, now keep your voice down.”

He was about to continue, when “Then take me with you!” interrupted his machinations.

“And how will I do that?” He asked, hoping his logic would silence her. In response, she quickly stepped through their wall. “Why didn’t you do that at any time to escape?” He continued sawing.

“And do what? Fall into the drink?” She asked, her cat ears twitching in irritation.

At last his foot came off, and were it not for the cannon fire, his scream would’ve at least been heard by the guards. He handed the blade to his new compatriot, who grimaced at the thought of cutting someone’s foot off. Still, she persevered and took a different approach, whacking repeatedly until the other foot was removed.

“Agh!” Jeyro shouted, as he used another gift to regrow the lost appendages. It clearly extracted a heavy toll, as his forehead was as drenched as the side of the ship, and twice as pale - which looked odd on his naturally coffee-like complexion.

“So, what’s the - ” A small viewport appeared on the wall of his cell, showing the deck of the other ship which was currently engaged in battle with the Iron Maiden, “ - Plan.”

The duo stepped through, and a man dressed in a well tailored suit gave them a reverential bow, “Welcome, Jeyro, and miss…?”

“Parkna.” She responded with an awkward curtsey.

“Miss Parkna.” He started with a flourish, “What were you arrested for?”

She was hesitant for a moment, “I tried to steal the captain’s log…” She rubbed her arm in shame, “I wanted to see where they’d taken my brother.”

“Well did you?” Hearnah, as she deduced, asked.

“I did,” She said in a tone that either meant she was lying or hiding some other piece of information, “But the only issue is he’s in Yuyonia.”

“That is an issue,” The older gentleman commented, “But, we were going around that area after we went through Ashland.”

The various members of the rigging crew set about unfurling their sails to their max length, doing so with great efficiency. After it was done, a few men used their gifts to put wind behind them.

“You really left it up to fate this time, Hearnah.” Jeyro opened up for the first time in a few minutes, “The damage is already done, let’s pray we can escape.”

“Well I couldn’t leave my son to go to prison, could I?” He pinched Jeyro’s cheek, much to his son’s chagrin.

“Whatever.” Jeyro rolled his eyes, silently praying that they might yet make it out alive.

Over at the railing, Hearnah tied a small pocket-watch to a line of fishing wire, as he’d heard in an old sailor’s tale. Within a minute, a mermaid snatched up the trinket and brought them underway.

—

“So, run me through the plan again?” Garland said, trying in vain to cut through what must’ve been the toughest meat she’d ever been served.

Paracelsus himself was having difficulty, whacking away at the “rock-skin shark steak” he’d prepared, “You’re going to get us a meeting with him, Serpacinno here will keep his personal guard occupied, I will keep your boss occupied, and you’ll get the documents he keeps in his office.”

“And then what? He just gives up?” Gareland questioned, starting to lose faith.

“No, we just need to buy enough time for me to grab a certain box he has in his possession.” He replied, at last making a cut into the steak, “And then, once we have everything we need, we use it as leverage in negotiations.”

“What will we negotiate, again?” She raised an eyebrow, having found less success than her captain.

“You’ll control his businesses and reap the majority of the profit, he’ll get one share for every nine you have, and Boulliard keeps the casino.” He pointed with his fork, in an uncharacteristically ill-mannered move.

A silence hung over them, the plan understood to those three. However, the fairy still picked at her food uneasily, but no voicing whatever concerns she’d had. She clearly hoped that someone would probe, but no such convenient relief was found.

“I don’t know the first thing about running businesses.” She piped up, grinding her canines into the steak in hopes of finally getting a bite.

“Then hire someone,” He said, as though it were that simple, although her deadpan stare betrayed that it might not have been that simple, “Or…” He trailed off, hoping the gorgon might give him an answer, “Cut Boulliard in. He already manages one business.”

“You don’t know anything about running businesses, either?” She asked, which was absolutely true, “You can’t just assume he can run multiple.”

Before there were any more deliberations, the three of them heard the tell-tale sign of another ship approaching - the groaning of a hull under great pressure. With no voice to make their presence known, it must’ve meant they meant to approach silently, only betrayed by the lapping of the waves against their hull.

Paracelsus rushed above deck, and saw them hoist colors to their mast, colors of the Union. But they couldn’t be Union, they would’ve announced themselves; that, and they weren’t even wearing uniforms, just simple outfits composed of the rags one might have if they sailed aboard a private vessel for a prolonged period of time.

“Pirates!” He shouted, the vessel now less than two miles away. He chastised himself for his carelessness in not assigning a lookout.

Looking at the ship, he tried to analyze the situation. He saw the captain on the quarterdeck, a mean-looking old sailor who was as broad as he was likely to kill them. His first mate stood at his flank, showing him a chart, or perhaps a map, not that it really mattered. The crew on deck numbered at least thirty, with as many as forty additional men below deck.

He pulled out a speaking trumpet, “We don’t need any assistance, good sirs!” He tried to give them pause, at the least.

“Are you sure?” The captain replied, his voice as rough as gravel, “You don’t look so well-manned, lad.”

It was both a ruse and a silent threat. Let us on, or we’ll kill your measly crew, he left unsaid. He chewed his lip, deep in thought, trying to find some way out.

“You’re right,” He shouted back, “We were just robbed, twelve of our men died trying to fight back.” At that moment, he turned to Serpacinno and put his trumpet down, “Please, go below deck and spread some fake blood around, make it look like there was a battle.”

“Your deck looks remarkably clean for a massacre.” The captain replied.

“They tried to fight off the invaders below deck, but we severely underestimated their forces.” He closed his eyes, praying that this was a bad dream.

“Prepare to be boarded!” He heard, not like there was much choice. There was no way for his small, two sailed vessel to outrun his adversary’s. He had no more valuables to give to a mermaid, and even if he did, the pirates might see him doing so and decide to sink his vessel and recover what loot they could.

“Alright.” He replied, raising his sails to slow down. Within ten minutes, there was less than two hundred yards between the ships. Then he noticed it, the weakness that might allow him to slip away: the stays on the mast were frayed, and barely held up under the weight of the mast.

It would be risky, but if he could manage to fire a musket, and take down the rope, their mast would fall, and seeing as they were not yet in range of a broadside, their preoccupation with saving the ship might allow them to give them the slip. But what if he missed? Sure, he might be able to fire off a shot or two more, but he would immediately be attacked by whatever marksman they could muster.

“Gareland,” He tried to communicate subtly, “Do you think you can hit the rope holding up their mast from this range?”

“I might be able to, but why don’t we let them board? We don’t have anything.” She asked.

It was a fair point, but he didn’t want to run the risk of them taking what little food they had, and cutting his trawl just for the hell of it, “Nevermind that, can you hit it?”

She pondered, arriving at the same conclusion Paracelsus did about the consequences of failure, before throwing caution to the wind and nodding. She was quickly handed a musket, and zeroed in her eyes at the rope. One hundred fifty yards, she brought it to her shoulder; one hundred thirty, she pulled the hammer back, and just five yards later she pulled the trigger.

Silence, or near silence, reigned. She missed, and they saw the pirates smirk as they pulled out their weapons and hoisted their true colors - black. “You have one more chance.” Paracelsus said, putting his hand on the musket and loading it. She took a quick breath, bracing the rifle against her bones, and fired again.

This time, the dominant noise was the thwip of a rope being pulled against wood. The other stays, without the critical support of the main one, soon followed, snapping as their ship took an abrupt swing to starboard. The two on the deck of the Gale quickly unfurled the sails. They were now susceptible to a barrage of cannon fire, which would have quickly holed them if not for the quick thinking of the captain, who converted their starboard side to iron to minimize the damage.

The last thing the alchemist saw as the enemy ship faded from sight was the toothy grin of the captain, who was either impressed at his resourcefulness, or confident they would meet again. Regardless, they had won this battle, and by a change in tacking, he ensured the two ships would not meet for some time, at least.

Chapter Text

“Alright, it’s done…” Serpacinno came up the stairs, rubbing her hands together to cleanse the dried fake-blood off of them, “What happened?”

“Turns out Gareland here is a crack shot.” He pointed his thumb behind him, “Hit the mainstay of that ship from a hundred yards.”

Gareland, in response, struck a pose with her hands on her hips and her nose turned up like she was king of the world. She basked in the moment, unaware that the woman she thought she’d impressed stood there with a less-than amused look on her face.

“Anyway,” Paracelsus interrupted her daydreaming, “I’ll be reading in my quarters. Come get me if we need anything.”

And so he did just that; he sat himself in his chair and put his feet up, reading a book about the culture of Granitown, which was where they would be making port. This was the type of thing he liked to do, researching his next steps, which in this case meant learning to blend in with the locals.

He tried on a few different styles, referencing pictures he saw in the book. They were for the most part short-sleeved, and he found them rather tacky, but then again, he was no fashionista. Then he pondered the question of business Gareland had put forth earlier. If she wasn’t able to run them, and Boulliard was similarly unfit, who did that leave?

He couldn’t do it, he was entirely unfit for it, and he had business outside of Ashland to attend to. Similarly, Serpacinno probably lacked the acumen required, and had other responsibilities. Local talent maybe? That had promise, but he wouldn’t be able to stick around to interview them. He realized that only left three options, and so he went to ask Gareland her opinion.

“Gareland?” He called out, keeping his eyes glued to his books as he stepped onto the deck.

“Hmm?” She replied, herself cleaning the deck with nothing else to do.

“Two things:” He held up two fingers, “First, can you keep watch from the crow’s nest?” She nodded, “Second, the way I see it, there are only a few options for our business problem. Either you can hire someone local, sell it, or you can let your boss keep it.”

If anything, she looked oddly disappointed. Either she didn’t like his suggestions, which was probably the answer, or she wanted to join his crew? That was an interesting thought, having a lookout without her level of aim could certainly be useful. Plus he had to admit she was cute in a little-sister type way, and she’d already grown on him a bit.

His thoughts were interrupted by an ache in his hand, a reminder of the worst drawback of his gift. Whenever he was off with the weight, even by an ounce or two, it was taken from his body; usually his bones, sometimes his muscles, but regardless it would sting like a bitch for at least a week, probably two.

“I’ll… have to think on it.” She teleported up to the crow’s nest.

With that matter… not settled, he decided to continue his research, and was fortunately not interrupted until mealtime.

—

And so, the next two and a half weeks passed by without any more issue. There was a brief pirate scare, but it turned out to be an actual Union ship, thankfully ignorant of Graave’s and Peeare’s mission. As a nice surprise, just Granitown was coming into sight, Paracelsus heard a pecking at the window of his quarters.

“What the devil?” He asked, stepping onto the railing to see a small black bird, although with a reptilian look to it. “Micro-raptors”, as they were called, were commonly used to send mail, due to their speed and strong tracking ability. This one was no different, as it carried with it a small, plain parchment.

Little brother, you’re living in Ashland, right? I’ll be there around September, on work. Let’s have lunch, yeah?

The letter was unsigned, but it didn’t need a signature; he only had one older sibling, to whom he had lied that he had an apartment in Ashland. He managed to dodge the question of the address, and he surmised his sister must’ve used his smelling-patch.

Whatever, an issue for another time. September was still five months away, which was coincidentally, or perhaps by a stroke of fate, the same amount of time it would take him to get there, roughly. Only the first channel was manned, which meant he would only have to stop for a day at most to gather supplies between individual rings.

“When we make landing,” Serpacinno interrupted his musings, “I’d like to go somewhere. We’re landing in Granitown, yeah?”

“Yes,” He started with a twinge of confusion in his voice, “And I’d be happy to accompany you, but I do have to load our ship this time. The second interior sea is much more treacherous.”

“It’s fine,” She rubbed her wiry arm as though it were not fine, “It’s just… You want to help me too, right?”

He sighed, “It’s only fair, I admit.” He saw her grimace, “But not out of obligation, out of friendship. I suppose Gareland can handle the shopping. Where are we going?”

“A graveyard. We need to,” She gulped apprehensively, “Rob one of ‘em.”

Il capitano crossed his arms in thought, “Not that I’m opposed, but why?”

“To retrieve something.” She dodged the question, her tone indicating she didn’t want to speak further.

“Alright then.” He nodded, not wanting to damage his relationship with her by prying. Although - there was a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that the reason she was keeping such a critical piece of information from him was so that she could betray him.

The ringing of the bell meant that their lookout had spotted land. He summoned a spyglass to confirm that she was right. The port was like any other, quaint and unremarkable, as this was a less common landing place due to its relatively long distance to the nearest channel.

Within the hour, they dropped anchor and tied the mooring line to keep the Gale from drifting. Soon after, the requisite docking fee, an outrageous five-hundred international dollars for one night, was paid and Paracelsus had designated their tasks. The most interesting part, the captain noted, was the vast difference in culture between Granitown (which he learned was actually a translation from its name of Shhr-Guranat) and Yuriol, despite their proximity. Even the traditional clothes, a kaftan which he now donned, was foreign to him.

“Excuse me sir,” Paracelsus greeted one of the workers at the dock, “Can you point me to the Qhrman-Peadshah graveyard?”

He indeed pointed, north as it turned out, and the two set about on their journey. They solicited a camel rider, who took them to the graveyard, which was quite unlike the port. Whereas the port was rather plain, and could easily be swapped to another city, and the people would be none the wiser, the graveyard had a distinct cultural look to it. He knew based off the name it was of some significance, but the mausoleums, large and strangely undecorated, juxtaposed against the port.

In short, Paracelsus was bothered by this. He didn’t know why exactly, but the oxymoronical nature of this town struck him as odd. It was as though the port had to be rebuilt, and was done so without the consultation of architects who were knowledgeable in the style. He brushed off the thought as best he could, when he heard the driver asking him something.

“So,” His voice was accented, but not heavily so, which was odd with the cultural whiplash, “What brings foreigners here?”

“Well,” Paracelsus quickly regained himself, bringing tears to his eyes, “My wife’s sister was a servant of Shah Tarim.” Which was the name of the last king of Iralo, the country Granitown was situated in. He was “the last king” in both the sense of him being previous, and also the final one - as shortly after his death, the country became a democracy, and joined the Union. “We wanted to pay our respects to her.”

He handed the rider a few dollars and asked him to wait for their return, but did not himself wait for an answer. He knew it was considered a great honor to be buried near a monarch, and almost cringed at the fact that said king died twenty years ago. A servant of his would have to be at least thirty - he should’ve just said they were tourists.

Ah well, off to… “What tomb are we looking for?”

“Shah Bahmen.” She replied, wiping away dust that had grown heavy and thick under accumulation.

“Shah Bahmen…” He threw his head back in recognition, “His sword? Is that why we’re here?”

She clicked her tongue, perhaps in respect, “In a way. Didn’t think you’d have heard of him.”

“I bought some books on this place. He and his sword were mentioned at some point.” He squinted, trying to read the plaque, but finding the alphabet foreign. They lost their port, but kept their tombs, it seemed.

Serpacinno decided to trust her gut; and in lieu of being able to read whose tomb was whose, she walked over to the one that felt the most “swordsman-y”. She then produced a small hammer from her pouch and broke the side window, deducing the door would be too cumbersome.

“My god!” Paracelsus whisper-shouted, ducking even though the glass was a dozen yards away, “You realize I could’ve opened it discreetly, yes?”

“As I was swinging.” She replaced the hammer into her pouch, getting into position for Paracelsus to step on her hands and be lifted up.

“You’re kidding.” He said, hands on his hips, “Look at your wiry little arms; during the storm you could scant hold the wheel.”

“So I’ll pull you up?” Her tone was incredulous, clearly having realized something he hadn’t.

He touched the wall, then there was a hatch there instead - and he even took the time to repair the window. The door was gone as soon as the two of them were inside, and Serpacinno breathed fire onto a torch to provide them light as they slowly crept down the stairs.

Paracelsus would never describe himself as “superstitious”. Nor would he say he believed in spirits, or ghosts, or any such things. Despite his rationality, he couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the darkness. Little creaks and groans from the ancient supports sent shivers across his body. Serpacinno, used to such dank crevasses, rolled her eyes in admonishment, knowing that the real monsters slept comfortably under candle-light.

“I think this is it.” She said, a small crack in the tomb providing a ray of light that cascaded onto the grave itself. More dubious was the fact that the light seemed to be focusing on a small, ornate hand-bell sat atop the grave. It was a combination of light blue and deep purple, with intricate patterns running along it. Curiously, it wasn’t metal at all, but rather a ceramic bell with a wooden striker.

“This is what we came here for?” Paracelsus asked, mostly in disbelief that they’d stumbled upon the correct grave at random. Again, he wasn’t superstitious, but if ever there were a time fate seemed to intervene…

“I put faith in your mermaid idea.” That wasn’t exactly true, he noted, but he was splitting hairs, “Put faith in this one.”

He threw his hands up and grew a look of friendly exasperation on his face, which was met with the barest of smiles. Still, the barest of smiles on her face was quite the accomplishment. What was not an accomplishment, however, was the fact that the oil on the torch had been completely spent and the rags underneath reduced to inflammable cinders.

“I think I should tell you of my recent discovery,” Paracelsus leaned in close, scared that in the dark there might lie some scoundrel listening in, “I’m terribly afraid of being trapped in a tomb like this, in the dark.”

The irony was not lost on either of them.

Chapter Text

“And this was called what?” Gareland asked, inspecting what appeared to be a vase, albeit with four hoses attached to it.

“Hookah, ma’am.” The salesman said proudly, “For smoking. With friends.”

She stroked her chin in thought. She never smoked before, much less with friends! Was it the “necessary purchases” she’d been instructed to get? Probably not, but then again, she already got enough food, powder, wood and shot for two months. What would be the harm in getting this? After all, Paracelsus had clearly expressed his desire for them to be friends, and she heard sharing a drink was the perfect way to do it. Smoking was therefore number two, as far as she was concerned.

Wait, hadn’t she already drank with them? No, she rationalized, That was just commiserating. You had to get inebriated, happily, for it to act as a solid foundation to a relation… ship. The ship! She knew where to hide it and wait for the perfect opportunity. She giggled to herself, pleased with her mischief as she bought the hookah.

She struggled to articulate it, hell even just admitting it was hard - but recently, she found herself growing attached to the people she assumed were just pirates. They had a certain legitimate atmosphere, the kind that was hard to find in the world of business. Paracelsus and Serpacinno were just real with each other. She knew they’d only been around each other for a week before they met her, but it felt almost wrong to invade upon them. But in that wrongness lie her desire - they had an undeniable connection, and connection was something she lacked.

Which made the decision so frustrating! She knew that she would be leaving a comfortable life behind if she decided to travel with them; but the alternative was a life where she would always be looking over her shoulder, where she couldn’t rest without a man standing guard.

A life where she would never have the chance to see her brother again.

Maybe that was the rationalization; maybe she didn’t care for these criminals at all and was just using them as a means to get to her brother. She knew it was a lie, but it comforted her regardless.

—

“Can’t you make a torch?” Serpacinno asked in a rare moment of thinking ahead.

“No,” Paracelsus rubbed his arm in embarrassment, even though no one could see it, “A torch requires oil. I can’t make liquids like that.”

“Seems like your gift is a real headache.” She exhaled, giving them at least some light to defend themselves against the darkness.

“It can be.” He admitted. In ways you’ll never know, he thought to himself.

She grabbed him by the wrist, or at least he hoped it was she, and led him back the way she figured they came. Her sense of direction proved as infallible here as it was at sea, and they were at the mouth of the mausoleum. All things considered, this mission had gone shockingly well - no marine chasing them, no pirates assaulting them. Hell, the guarda that Paracelsus expected to be waiting for them wasn’t!

“So, please enlighten me - what exactly is the purpose of the trinket you got?” His paranoia still required him to scan the graveyard for any lingering threats.

She rang it… Nothing. The sound was dull, which should be obvious given it was a ceramic bell. However, after a few seconds, when the last lingering echoes of noise dissipated, a shape began to form some ten feet from them. It started off wavy, giving the vague impression of a bipedal creature. Slowly but surely, it became less and less abstract, and Paracelsus saw a man standing in front of them; he was tall and slender, and wore beautiful armor, chainmail, save the helmet, but adorned with purple and blue robes.

“Shah Bahmen.” She offered her hand to the apparition, but it made no movement - either handshakes weren’t a thing in his culture, or his soul, or whatever this was, had no consciousness.

Just as he made this realization, he heard the sound of an arrow flying, and he grabbed Serpacinno by the neck to make both of them duck. The arrow went clean through the Shah, and struck the mausoleum behind them, right where the gorgon’s head just was.

“Shah Bahmen!” She repeated, more powerfully, “You will fight for us!”

The ghost obeyed, drawing his long, curved sword and gliding towards the assailant. The only issue was the attacker’s invisibility, which allowed him to swiftly and continuously reposition to attack them from a seemingly endless number of angles. The ghost wasn’t faring well - he was invulnerable, sure, but was nonetheless powerless to catch up to the sniper before he was gone.

“He’s jumping from tomb to tomb.” Paracelsus observed the lack of any imprint on the grass. He conjured a dragon behind his back.

“That’s great,” Serpacinno blocked another shot with her shield, just barely, “But how does that help us?”

The alchemist watched, patiently. He knew roughly the path the crossbower was taking, and waited until he was on a nearer grave to enact his plan. The unseen fighter fired a shot that he deemed close enough, and after waiting a second for him to reach the edge, Paracelsus took a gamble on when and where he would jump. He knew he’d only get this one chance to shoot, and did so, aiming for the air between the two tombs.

“Dammit!” The assassin cried in a rough tone, his leg now hemorrhaging as he tumbled to the ground.

“You chase him,” He handed his partner a pair of rudimentary handcuffs, “I need to check and see if any co-conspirators are at our boat.”

She nodded and set off, watching her captain find and subsequently mount the same camel they’d arrived on. Even though he was still mostly invisible, the trail of blood the assassin was leaving made for enough evidence to give chase.

She kept on his heels, closing in on him, until she saw the blood go around a corner. Serpacinno let her ghost take point, and when an arrow whizzed through him, she grinned wickedly. She probably had at least five seconds before he could fire again, so she made the most of the time by sidling around the corner, shield raised in front of her just to be sure. When no clink came, she replaced the shield for a sword and charged towards the enemy.

This particular sword was her trusted falchion, on the larger, heavier side and with a single, straight edge which she surmised would be better against the nimbleness of swords like the one the Shah used. She traded blows a few times, and was impressed with her adversary’s ability to fight against her and her apparition at once.

“What’re you attacking me for?” She asked, trying to thrust past his defense. Normally she wouldn’t have cared for the particulars of a fight - all that mattered was survival. Recently though, she started to learn the importance of looking ahead.

“Why should I answer you?” He grunted as he (assumedly) deflected a blow from Bahmen, his accent thicker than the others she’d met.

She found an opening based off the sparks from their clash, and she took full advantage of it to drive her blade into his - well she didn’t have an exact destination in mind, but it found purchase in his shoulder, “Because I could cut off your arm.”

“Don’t play coy.” He responded. This response was followed swiftly by a darkening in Serpacinno’s vision. She started breathing faster and shallower, and her lungs started aching. She fell to her knee, gripping onto the sword for leverage, but she was rapidly losing the strength to do even that.

She used the last of said strength to twist the sword, and her opponent fell to the ground. As if on cue, she was able to breathe again and she hacked at the sudden influx of oxygen. She then wondered why this fight wasn’t more one-sided, what with it being a two against one.

“Shit.” The answer became evident when she saw her opponent’s invisibility failing; he was holding a silver dagger, which meant he knew what was going on. Bahmen was clearly hesitant, or perhaps it wasn’t even a conscious decision, and was instead a matter of simple chemical repellant.

With her falchion now indisposed, she changed strategies, once again taking out her shield and rushing towards him. His face, obscured by a similar chainmail veil as the Shah’s, morphed into one of confusion as she powered through her asphyxiation. She bore a wicked grin on her face as she parried a blow from his actual sword and was forced to respond with his dagger.

“Gotcha.” She decided to spend precious air on taunting him as she caught the dagger with her hand, biting her tongue almost hard enough to sever it, all in service of bearing the pain of feeling the blade pierce clean through her palm. She gripped the handle, and used his momentary confusion to wrest it from him. Dagger still “in-hand”, she punched him across the face.

This was all the opening the Shah needed to grab her sword, toss it toward her, and bring his own blade to the assassin’s neck. “Kill me.” He said, defiance showing in what she could see of his eyes, “I’ll never do what you want.”

Serpacinno kicked him onto his stomach and bound his hands behind his back after removing the dagger, “Who said I wanted you to do anything?”

“You’re not with the Medines?” He spat, struggling against the bindings.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” She replied, pulling out gauze to wrap around her hand, which she realized was going to become useless if she kept catching blades like that.

“Bullshit! Why are you after that bell?” He started thrashing harder, unable to accept the reality of his defeat. She examined it once again, ringing it to dissipate the Shah she was just relying on. Her face was contemplative, unsure if she should talk to someone who, for all she knew, was buying time for backup to arrive. “I admit defeat.” He grumbled, ceasing his movements.

“I needed a teacher.” Confiscating his weapons, she started walking in the direction of the entrance of the graveyard, “Couldn’t have asked for a better one.”

He chuckled, “On that, we agree.” He forced his face up, unwilling to eat dirt at her feet, “Untie me, let’s talk.”

She stopped, only to laugh uproariously at the suggestion, “So you can choke and kill me?”

“I apologize!” He pleaded, now fully willing to eat dirt, “You’re not who I thought you were!”

Serpacinno found this dilemma most puzzling. She had to admit, she was never a great judge of character. The worst case scenario was that she trusted him and he managed to kill her, and most probably at least one of Gareland and Paracelsus. Why she was worrying about them at the moment, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure about, however, was that the bell was aching, as though trying to signal that she should trust him.

“What’s your name?” She lightly pushed him over onto his back, and helped him sit up.

“Tariq bin Menir.” Tariq replied, standing up, “Why aren’t you uncuffing me?”

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, Mr. bin-Menir,” Her pronunciation was horrible, probably on purpose because of the whole stabbing her business, “I’m gonna take you back to my ship, where my captain will decide what to do with you. I don’t think I need to explain what happens if you try to run, do I?”

Tariq shook his head, and he cursed - under his breath - his luck; he could only hope this captain was a reasonable man who would listen to him. As they boarded a camel, even if he was in front, he still looked behind him, his eyes fixated on the bell.

As the port came into view, he thought a prayer in his mind for his ancestor’s spirit.

Chapter Text

“I’m just saying, it’s a waste of money.” Paracelsus pinched the bridge of his nose, seeing what Gareland had purchased.

“It’s not like hurting for cash. Plus, can’t you create some jewels to sell if we run low?” She defended herself, trying to figure out how to operate the thing.

“Well -” A quick turn of his head brought into view his partner, holding onto what he assumed was the same man who attacked them earlier, “Ah, there you are, Serpacinno! Everything went well?” He saw the wound on her hand, “Most things went well?”

“This is Tariq. Have fun.” She was clearly out of patience as she nodded to Gareland, who sat with her to help dress her wound more satisfactorily.

“Hello, Tariq?” The tone was questioning, which wasn’t terribly surprising given he’d been dumped this man not ten seconds ago.

“I assume you are the captain?” He wiggled his hands, “Please, release me.”

“Well, I assume my friend over here had reason to bind your hands in the first place.” The captain explained, hands on his hips. “I take it you’re the one who shot at us in the graveyard?”

“I was misguided.” He bowed his head slightly, “If you’d let me explain, I’m sure you’d see that we have a common enemy.”

The alchemist led him into the captain’s quarters where they could both sit, and where he could keep an eye on him more easily, “Let’s hear it.” He leaned back and put his feet up, to make himself seem more comfortable.

“I thought you and your partner were the Medines,” Tariq explained, “They are a wealthy merchant family, they’ve bought every politician in Iralo.”

“To my understanding, this bell summons a spectral image of Shah Bahmen.” He quirked an eyebrow, “Why do these Medines want it?”

“Your understanding is correct. Supposedly, he lived during a time when there was a great gifted craftsman,” Tariq got closer, and his tone more frantic, “That bell was able to store his soul, but not his sword. The Medines have it, and they probably want the man himself to teach them how to use it.”

“I certainly see how they’re your enemies,” He started, “But I fail to see how they’re mine.”

“You think they won’t figure this out? Or that they’ll forgive this transgression?” He asked, leaning further forward.

“It sounds like you want to do something which will only inflame their ire, though.” Paracelsus offered back.

“They will not stop chasing you,” He implored, “They will keep sending qatl after you!”

“Cows?” Tariq was insulted by the tone, littered with disbelief, “Regardless, I don’t plan to stick around here very long. You think they’ll send these ‘cattle’ all the way to Ashland?”

“Assassins, pirate.” He was falling into Paracelsus’ trap by getting irritated, “And sure, they might stop - but do you think you can evade them for long enough? You have a crew of three.”

For his part, the captain remained calm, putting up one finger, “Let’s clear up some confusion. I am not, nor will I ever be, a pirate. This is not a pirate ship, nor are Serpacinno or Gareland pirates.” The friendliness of his words was betrayed by the lightning in his tone which threatened to strike down his insolent prisoner, “But, forgiving that transgression, allow me to explain. I will help you fight against these Medines, on my terms.”

“And those terms are what?” Hook, line and sinker.

“I will give you a replica of the bell, and just as we pass around the other side of this country,” He pulled out a chart for emphasis, “I will set you adrift, and the Medines will capture you, but you’ll have a secret weapon: the key to your handcuffs.”

The plan was sloppy and hinged entirely on one man’s ability to overpower an entire ship of hardened sailors. In addition, it was just stupid in general - the potential issues caused by a storm, or the Medines’ ship being more well-prepared than they anticipated were obvious. And that wasn’t even accounting for the fact that once Tariq was on their ship, he was no closer to getting what he wanted.

“You can’t seriously expect me to agree to something so idiotic!” He tried to put his hands on the desk to appear more threatening, but such a gesture was hard when they were bound.

“Why not?” The captain’s head bounced in a display of faux confusion, “Unless you have a better plan?” This was the real objective, to hear Tariq’s plan in a way that allowed the assassin to believe he was in control; he wasn’t entirely opposed to helping out this man, but only if he could benefit in some way, the potential of recruiting an assassin was intriguing.

“Your friend can keep the bell safe, yes?” He was more keen than Paracelsus had anticipated, “We will all get captured. The Medines will not have a hearing without the patriarch present.”

“So we take him hostage?” He was quickly losing interest in the plan.

“We kill him; slaughter him like a dog.” Was certainly not the direction he expected this conversation to go, “Leave Bahmen on the ship to defend it; you free us, I know you have that capability. Then we part ways.”

“You’ve never killed anyone, I take it.” The sailor leaned in closer, “For all your talk - you can’t have actually done it. Nobody who’s killed, nobody sane at least, is that eager to repeat such an offense.”

“You have?” Paracelsus paused, he had gotten a bit worked up and overshared. He took a breath to recenter himself, debating if he had already plunged too deep and had to divulge the gory secret.

—

“Lieutenant, what brings you here?” The question came from a man dressed in bright, silken robes, who himself was in a fancy room meant to entertain guests.

Graave took the cookies and tea offered gratefully, “We have reason to believe a crew of criminals will be sailing through here within the next week, Mr. Battak.”

“Pirates?” Mr. Battak asked, seeing as pirates hadn’t attacked his land in decades, it was rather surprising.

“Something like that.” He answered, “Don’t worry - we’re not asking you to commit any resources or men to their capture. All we ask is that you tolerate our presence on the coast until we can do so.”

Suddenly, like a streak of thunder, the door opened and a servant rushed in, before he bowed deeply, “Sir, I’m sorry for entering uninvited, but there’s been word from the east coast - someone managed to get past Tariq and steal the Shahanshah’s bell!”

The man in charge kissed his teeth, waving his hand to the servant to tell him to leave, “You’re dismissed.” He turned back to the marine, “I take it I don’t need to explain the price for our cooperation?”

“Of course sir.” Graave was nothing if not humble; even though this old man clearly didn’t understand the importance of his assignment (which he ultimately fabricated), that didn’t mean that he could just mouth off to the man - a lesson his protogé had yet to learn, “One day, Peeares, you will understand the importance of crow.”

“Crow, sir?” The angel cocked an eyebrow, his superior noting his odd habit of only doing so with the left side of his face.

“Eating crow,” He rolled his large, carnivorous eyes, “Bowing your head to ignorant politicians is an example.”

Peeares, in response, rolled his eyes, “But what I don’t get is why? Why should we bow our heads?”

“There are a number of unanswerable questions, miboy.” He stopped in his tracks to turn and face his ward, “That is one of them. All I know, as a soldier - as a man, is to obey such rules.”

“Tch, whatever.” Peeares would’ve kicked a rock, were there any in the great hall in which they now found themselves. Instead, he contented himself with crossing his arms broodily; he’d already made trouble earlier when meeting Battak and didn’t want to cause any further.

“Cheer up, lad.” Graave wrapped an arm ‘round his shoulder and pulled him close to ruffle his hair, “We’ll wrap up this revolutionary business and be in a bar by May.”

A smile, toothy and low, came to the lad’s face, although his disgruntled posture remained unchanged, “And I suppose we’ll show off our new medals, and make love with the girls?”

“See, that’s the spirit!” The bearman threw his head back and laughed heartily at the choice of words. “Make love” was an odd way to say “fuck”, but his charge was still a boy.

Back to his duties, though, he had to admit he found the situation odd. The privateers couldn’t have arrived - if he was correct about the size and count of their sails - in this land and longer than a few hours ago. Even he had just made port not two rings of the bell before, and yet someone had already managed to cross the country and deliver this news, conveniently timed with his meeting, to the merchant. And that was the other odd thing, Medine bin Battak was a merchant, far as Graave knew, and yet he was the contact here, not the mayor, or governor, or any official - but a merchant.

“Still, what a load of shit.” Peeares was always like this in private. In front of the men he could pretend to be a proper sailor, but around Graave, who was not much like a father, but still like a somewhat more distant relative like an old uncle, he let slip the mask.

The truth was that the boy was crass, which was to be expected, as the sailors who reared him, especially Graave, were known to be so when drunk, and as sailors (who at that time were more involved in warfare), they were drunk - frequently, which led the young lad to picking up their habits. And if Graave was more the doting type, he’d remark that the boy’s mannerisms, similar to that of an old man who’d been put through too much, but with none of the actual worldliness to back it up, were cute.

He was assuredly not the doting type, however, and instead found his antics pointless and irritating, which was much to the bemusement of his peers, who laughed at his plight. That is precisely why, as he dismissed Peeares and lit up his own cigar, he worried about him. The merchant he’d spoken with was pale when he saw the angel; that, in and of itself, wasn’t entirely uncommon. They were a rather rare people, and their physical similarities to Paacist descriptions of ascended souls combined so that most people believed they truly were said ascended souls.

No - what worried him was the hush tones in which he spoke. He knew Peeares thought so too, that’s why he was kicked out before they could speak of the actual important matters. He was constantly whispering, praying presumably. Graave wondered if Medine knew something he didn’t.

“Ms. Taylor…” He grumbled to himself. This was the name of a woman in his command who was born in Iralo, and someone who he supposed would be the best resource to figure out if this was a cultural issue.

So, in service of returning to his ship, he swung open the doors to the outside of Medine’s beautiful, yet unabashedly opulent, manor. He put a hand over his eyes to guard them; the sunlight was so intense in this part of the country that the people’s irises got bleached from exposure, giving them all a nice purple tone.

But neither the sun nor the eyes was the weirdest part of the town to him; no, that honor had to go to the streets, labyrinthian and narrow - even the major roads. It was a headache, that the food - packed with enough spice to clear his sinuses for a year - didn’t help to alleviate.

All in all, he wasn’t sure if it was the heat or something else, but this trip was not a good omen.

Chapter Text

In the end, Paracelsus managed to calm himself; it was doing no good for anyone for him to be getting hot headed. He rubbed his face completely, no doubt looking like a fool, but it was nonetheless effective. “Whether or not I’ve killed anyone is irrelevant; you’ve still only provided the thinnest outline of a plan.”

“What about you?” Tariq asked in turn, “You were able to figure out my plan and shoot me while I was jumping.”

“You’re clearly very observant,” The captain huffed, “Come on, anything you think might be helpful?”

“One of the Medines - Sarahne, I think. She’s butted heads with him, publicly even.” He offered.

“Okay. We have a potential in. Now remind me again what exactly your objective is?” Paracelsus poured more coffee, and finally undid Tariq’s restraints, “It can’t just be killing Medine.”

The Iralion took the coffee, tilting it up to show his appreciation, “The Shah’s shield. Killing Medine - that’s secondary.” He took a long, exaggerated sip from the coffee, possibly trying to observe the other man’s reaction, but he gave no such information. “Your friend out there must know about it.”

The other man only gave a response by way of shrugging, “Maybe, maybe not. Why do you want it?”

“Why should I tell you?” Tariq squinted, even if such a thing were hard to see behind his veil.

“You’re sitting on my ship, asking for my help.” Paracelsus leaned in closer to drive home his point, “My friend out there got what she was looking for, as far as I see, we have no reason to help you.”

“I can offer you money.” Tariq leaned closer to contest the machismo over the table, “All of it. You can take anything else from them, I just want his shield.”

“Why do you want the shield?” The tone the alchemist used was getting on his potential ally’s nerves; it was explicitly neutral, as though he was sparing him from some rage or condescension. Then, the tone morphed into recognition, “Wait, I get it.”

In an instant, he tore the veil off of Tariq and got the confirmation he was looking for. This man, or boy - he couldn’t have been more than sixteen - was the spitting image of the Shah. Well, spitting image was a bit of a strong nomenclature, the Shah was very ethereal and thus hard to get an image of. But this young man, similarly handsome and lanky and with the same curly mop of hair, which could not have been comfortable to wear beneath a helmet, was the closest thing they had to seeing what Bahmen actually looked like.

“This shield is some type of birthright, I assume?” He continued his questioning, especially now that the young man had backed down, turned away and flush in embarrassment.

“It’s important. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my country.” He started, “But there is a story - Bahmen, my ancestor, supposedly used his sword to cut down an entire invading army. The real story is that he used that shield to defend the gates to the capital.”

“That’s very noble.” Paracelsus blew his lips, “Let’s see what the others think, hm?” He cocked his head toward the door, and the two departed for the deck.

—

“Mr. Peytan,” The same pirate captain who had at one point attempted to board the Gale, sounded out, “I should quite like to know if we’re still on course.”

“Yes, for God’s sake,” He looked at the captain, and before he could fully return his face to where it was pointed before, he turned back, a pointed glare painting his face, “And please, stop holding your waistcloth.”

The captain threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh, he had to admit it was a bad habit he had, and if you believed the shanties, bad luck, to walk with your hand holding onto your breeches. Aside from that bad habit though, the captain was a good-looking man, grizzled and on the older side, with a long black beard, braided at the ends, and thick salty hair which now showed the first signs of graying.

“Row-ho, Row-ho, row with all your might!” Speaking of shanties, his crew was in good spirits. The mast was repaired faster than they anticipated, and they were now in pursuit of their mark. The boy must’ve had something he wanted to hide, something that made standing up to pirates worth the risk. He was in similarly good spirits, the boy was lying - that much was obvious, and he thought that keelhauling a rat like him would make good entertainment for his men.

It was only a matter of time until they caught up, if Peytan was right, and Captain McGraw was all too happy at the thought. This boy had become something of a fixation in his mind, he must’ve been ignorant, seeing as he was one of the first men to ever attempt to escape once he saw their colors, and certainly the first to do so with a skeleton crew. Still, despite his impertinence, the boy had taught him a valuable lesson about the sea, and he’d taken great care to careen the ship and apply some lacquer to hopefully keep it from getting too nasty.

It would make the keelhauling less eventful without the requisite barnacles, but everything had its price. That thought led him to his next, specifically, the price of captaincy. Price was the wrong word (burden would be more accurate), but it made a convenient segue to what he was doing now.

“Carlow,” Was kneeling, his hands bound behind his back and his mouth gagged, so was his companion, “Perain,” whom the captain addressed in the same tone before McGraw himself squatted down, running his pistol, adorned in shiny brass and fine oak, over their faces, “Which of you is lying?”

There was a dispute earlier, Carlow and Perain were seen brawling in the quarters, which woke up a few of the third watch. When they were pulled off of each other, each claimed the other was taking more than their share of loot. Such a crime was, of course, punishable by death.

“Captain,” The financier, a meek bookish woman whose thick wool covered her eyes, “I believe it was Carlow.”

“Hear that, mates?” The captain stood back up far faster than his knees would like and leaned back to spread his arms far to project his confidence around, “It was Carlow!”

The shanties only grew in volume, and the newly branded traitor started convulsing, shouting through his gag; even if his words were unintelligible, everyone knew he was likely pleading his innocence. Still, it didn’t truly matter, the captain had enough authority to execute the man in lieu of actual evidence and did so summarily, the shot ringing out for miles on the sea.

“Normally, we’d give him a sea burial.” The captain said, watching some of the stronger men toss his corpse overboard, “But this one deserves no such thing.”

He helped Perain to his feet, and the man bowed his head and clasped his hands together to thank the man who had saved him from damnation. This was who McGraw was, a savior to some and the executioner of others. He summoned the treasurer, Ms. Silver to his quarters, and the whooping and laughing from his crew made it evident what they thought was happening.

“Ms. Silver,” McGraw said after the door was closed, but before he laid his pistol on his table, “I know it weren’t Carlow; I don’t particularly care which of those anchors died, God know Perain ain’t taking any more chances, but I have to question your agenda in all this.”

Silver swallowed heavily, her mind involuntarily focusing on the lookout shouting that he spotted a storm on the horizon, incapable of addressing the real and present danger she found herself in. She figured honesty was the route most likely to lead to survival, “Carlow made unwanted advances to me. I saw my opportunity to eliminate him and I took it.”

In response, the captain smirked and slid the pistol toward her, “That is how you eliminate someone. For all you knew, I would’ve called you deception out in front of the crew - Hell, I almost did, before I came to my senses.”

“I appreciate your discretion on this matter, Captain. If that will be all.” She stood up and made for the door.

“One last thing,” He held up his finger, and she stopped, hand not three inches from the doorknob, “You dole out your own justice again, I’m afraid I might not be able to come to my senses.”

“If that will be all.” She repeated, leaving the quarters and white-knuckling a small pistol she concealed in her jacket.

—

Tariq looked, hesitantly and expectantly toward the crew of the Gale; he had delivered his reasoning and suggestion, and all he could now was watch their huddled backs discuss it. They stood, quietly whispering and subtly gesticulating, hiding their motives.

“Tell us everything you know about this daughter.” Paracelsus commanded, astern almost five minutes of deliberation.

“I…” He started, running his tongue along his mouth and avoiding their gaze, “Don’t know much. Medine is a staunch conservative, I know she’s hosting an auction.”

“What’s the auction for?” Gareland asked, suddenly more invested in the success of this crew.

Tariq rolled his hand awkwardly, as though it was connected to a mill in his brain that would churn his thoughts, “I think it was about a new housing project.”

“You think?” Parace sighed; he’d vouched for Tariq, something about the young man had appealed to his emotions, but this was looking grim. He sighed again - it was his mistake, after all, to trust who was practically a boy to know the internal politics of the merchant class family. “Do you at least know when it is? I really can’t spare more than a week here.”

“Yes!” He looked around frantically, searching for the date on the deck, “Three days from now.”

At the captain’s gesture, the proper crew turned ‘round once more, and huddled their shoulders, and Tariq couldn’t hear their next conversation.

“Are you satisfied that it’s not a ruse?” The captain asked. Authority to make decisions in spite of your crew’s wishes was not something easily afforded, and especially not by a captain of three, so Paracelsus sought to gain their permission.

“I think you’re sleazy enough to know when someone’s trying to pull one over on you,” Gareland waited a few moments, “No offense.”

“I never asked you to mince words.” He chuckled and turned to his partner, “Well, Serpacinno?”

“Truth be told, I’m not convinced.” She shot a pointed look at him, “Maybe it’s easier for you, with not a scratch on you, to trust him,” She cocked her head toward the fairy, “But I agree with her; if anyone’s qualified to tell if we’re being lied to, it’s you.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” He saw in Serpacinno’s eyes a certain expression, the most dangerous of all expressions and the worst killer of a ship - mistrust. Perhaps it had not yet fully bloomed in her mind, but no doubt the seeds of doubt were sowed; by what, he wasn’t sure, but he called off the huddle for now, thinking about the comment about his being unharmed.

“Listen up, mates -” He called, getting all three of his shipmates’ ears, “We’re docking here for tonight. With favorable winds, we’ll make landfall halfway through this channel in two days’ time, at which point we will consider the viability of Tariq’s suggestion. Serpacinno, whenever you’re satisfied with your training, please have the Shah on lookout.” He pointed a finger at the crow’s nest, “There’s a bell he can ring if he sees anything. I’d like to see you in my quarters, if that’s alright.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and for a second he feared that she was onto him. But - she nodded, and rang the bell to commence her learning.

Chapter Text

“Officer Taylor.” Graave gestured at the chair in his quarters, already pulled out a few feet from his desk.

“Lieutenant Graave.” Taylor replied, offering a salute - which was quickly matched and dismissed - before sitting down.

“First off, I’d like to congratulate you on your rise to Chief Petty Officer.” He poured a glass of whisky, his spirit of choice, for both of them, and toasted, “And second, I’d like to request your assistance with a personal matter.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.” The officer confirmed, trying to throw back the overly-smoky drink.

“Twenty years.” Graave swirled the drink, “Older than Peeares.” He looked up at her, “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask. As you know, I met with Medine himself not long ago, but something rubbed me the wrong way. It’s hard to describe, but the way he spoke, is there a particular way Iralions speak of the dead?”

“Sir?” She searched through her mind, “I don’t think so; if you don’t mind me asking, is something the matter with him?”

“I’m not sure.” He admitted, downing his glass in one go, “Sorry for pulling you away from your duties for this.” He saluted, “As you were.”

“Aye sir.” She nodded, returning to her duties.

He sighed, he was probably overthinking the whole thing, but Peeares was practically his protogé. At least the next time, he’d have to bring Taylor along, if nothing else, than to confirm, after meeting the merchant herself, that Graave was worrying over nothing. His heart couldn’t take it, after all. His heart probably also couldn’t take the whisky, but that was less important at the moment.

—

“What do you need,” Serpacinno stood in the doorway of the captain’s quarters, “Captain?”

“I just wanted to check in with you, see how you were feeling about all of this.” He replied.

“To tell you the truth?” She asked, but no reply came, “I don’t trust Tariq, and I don’t think we should go along with him.”

“And why haven’t you said anything,” Paracelsus crossed his arms over his chest, “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

“I trust you and Gareland,” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder to the deck, where the fairy sat with Tariq, playing cards, “Far as I’m concerned, and this is mostly a gut feeling, she’s with us now; that makes it two-to-one.”

“Well now I feel foolish,” He chuckled, “Truth be told, I called you here because I thought that you didn’t trust me, or you thought I wasn’t exposing myself to enough danger.”

She shut the door behind her, and took a seat in front of him, “Nah, I get it; not everyone’s as tough as me.” She smirked, “If I can be honest though, I do find you a bit paranoid.”

“Paranoid?” He fell back to a tone of fake indignance, “Surely you’re joking?”

“I’m serious, you were muttering in your sleep about the pirates we ran into the other week.” She leaned in.

“You were listening to me sleep?” He shook his head, “Back to the matter at hand - why don’t you trust Tariq?”

“It sounds too good to be true. Conveniently, some disgraced prince or something or other,” She rolled her hands, “Shows up, more conveniently - he needs our help and promises us the world in return.”

“Now who’s paranoid?” He joked, “I’ll admit, it does sound like a trap, but I’m more than confident in our crew, should things go south.”

“That’s more like it.” Serpacinno laughed, and Paracelsus joined her, confident that the misunderstanding had been cleared up, “Well, if that will be all…”

As she stood up, the captain put a hand up to stop her, “Actually, I was planning on going to get dinner in town, maybe invite the others. Join me?”

Her eyes softened, ever so slightly, at the invitation. She made a noise like she was considering it, before she nodded.

—

“Shit, marines.” Paracelsus stopped in his tracks, and his three companions failed to slow down in time and crashed into his back, almost making him fly around the corner.

“Why are there so many of them?” Serpacinno turned her head to look at Tariq pointedly.

“I swear I don’t know!” He held his hand up in defense after he rubbed the shock off of the back of his head, “Normally there’s none around.” With their attention gathered, he waved his hand to usher them about, “I know a side street, I doubt the marines will check.”

And so, they fled into the safety of one of the number of small, winding alleyways, looking about themselves the whole time for any sign of the Union. Luckily, there were none, and Tariq led them down the small back road until it emptied back onto the street.

“Uff, sorry.” He bumped into a woman, a marine by the looks of it, whose glasses had just fallen off of her face, “Are you alright?”

As she was squinting at the ground, Paracelsus realized his good fortune and used his boot to subtly retrieve her glasses, turning them into an extra bit of granite sticking off of a nearby wall.

“I’m fine,” Tariq beat the captain’s hand away, lest they all be spotted by this sightless soldier, “Did you lose your glasses?” He asked, as the woman groped around the road. The four of them joined in, as a show of goodwill, sweeping and patting in a very convincing facsimile of care.

“Yes, and just my luck too, outside of my father’s restaurant,” She stood up and dusted herself off, “I don’t suppose any of you found them? Even if they’re broken, I can fix them.” Made the captain more sure of his decision to not simply break them.

“Sorry, they must’ve fallen into some crevice.” Said captain nervously informed her, “By the way, I heard mention of a restaurant?”

Serpacinno shot a look at him like a wildebeest looking at its companion jumping into the jaws of a lion. In return, he lightly patted the air around her, trying to communicate his certainty. The other two of the crew either didn’t know or care what was going on with them, probably too scared by their near-miss of the law.

“Oh yes,” She beamed with pride, “I’m in the area because of work, and I thought to stop by. Care to join me?”

Paracelsus’ nose twitched, the thought of extracting some information as to the navy’s reasons for being here was as enticing as the prospect of getting to eat already, “Sounds like a plan.”

—

“Appa, I’m home!” The marine shouted, holding the door open for a few moments after the party had entered, thanks to her not seeing them pass. Gareland turned around after a few paces to notify her and lead her by the shoulder further inward.

The place was decorated thoroughly with pillows of all bright colors, seats barely six inches off the floor, and similarly low-set tables made of bright white and blue ceramics, which gave off a distinctly foreign air to the present foreigners. The walls had windows made of stained glass, which let the fair orange light of dusk pour in and bathe the room in its warm glow. What little space was not afforded to the windows housed shelves containing all manner of handcrafted goods, from fine silks to vases filled with dust.

“Farah!” Her father, a distinctly fair-skinned (and Paracelsus thought, unfitting) man embraced her and spun her round in the air, “What brings you here?” He was fat, but gave the distinct impression that it was but a thin layer over a densely weaved body of strength.

“We’re stationed in Bataine,” Tariq blanched at that, recognizing the name as the Gale’s, or Current’s - as he remembered the names were somewhat interchangeable - destination, “And I got permission from my officer to visit you for a night.” He was confused by that, seeing as Bataine was over a week by horse, and even modern inventions like steam carriages (of which, none connected the two locales) would take at least three days. So why would she come back for just one day? And why were other marines here?

Parecelsus certainly shared the latter concern, but let the issue rest for a moment, and watched as the family was reunited, “And who are these people?” The father gestured to them, a warm smile on his face.

“Customers,” The captain offered his hand and was surprised when his arm nearly came off with the handshake, “We bumped into your daughter just outside, Mr…”

“Taylor.” Was his response after he let go, “But all my customers call me Patte.”

“Well, Patte,” The captain smiled, “I’m afraid to admit, I have no idea what’s good around here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix you something nice.” The cook replied, clapping his hands together, “Tea?”

The foureigners nodded, and he retreated into the kitchen as his daughter sat with them, “So what brings such a unique group here.” She squinted deeply, which gave them all pause for a second, “I can tell, even without my glasses, you’re not all from around here.”

“We’re all friends from college, I’m…” Paracelsus almost offered his own name but had the good sense to realize the suicidal nature of such an offering “Lican.”

“Naedriel.” Gareland offered, visually trembling.

“Sarah.” Serpacinno, considerably more calm, answered.

It was to Tariq’s great fortune that, as he offered his actual name, Ms. Taylor had not attended the meeting where it was said, “I actually am from around here.”

“Oh, my apologies,” She batted her hand, “I really am blind as a bat without my glasses.”

Paracelsus lightly elbowed the young man, as a way of chiding him, and he looked back with a face of indignation. Then, came the tea while the food was still being prepared, and although Paracelsus was far from a connoisseur, the drink was good and served to whet his appetite for the food, which had a strong, pleasant odor to it. The cook came back out with food in hand, and since there were no other customers at this hour, he decided to sit down and break bread with them.

The captain took his dish, some noodle soup, and ate it with the utmost gusto. It was a far cry from familiar, and he probably wouldn’t be cooking it, but compared to the weird jellyfish slurries and shark steaks, it was very refreshing. That was a mistake, he thought, trying to show off.

“So, Farah, why are you in Bataine?” Patte asked, indulging in his own meal of bread and some type of oily paste.

“I shouldn’t say…” She nervously chuckled, but after some prompting from her father, her foul attitude towards the secret subsided, and she continued, “Alright, alright - Lieutenant Graave has us continuing our search for some pirates, or revolutionaries; the story always seems to bend to his convenience.”

“You didn’t happen to catch their names?” ‘Lican’ asked, and all eyes immediately befell him, “Sorry, it’s just - I go to college to study crime and punishment, you see. I’m very interested in criminal minutiae.”

“No need to apologize, I was just taken aback.” She carefully picked at her food, what with her hazy vision, “They had such queer names, I believe the man was named something similar to… Patrick Ellis?”

Ellis himself, to his credit, managed this confirmation better than his companions, whose trembling nerves were only matched by the father’s obliviousness and the daughter’s blindness. His comportment was still calm and measured, although it may also have been that he suggested it.

After some more time of unrelated chattering, the skipper looked at his watch (that no one would have been able to identify on him earlier), and tapped his forehead exasperatedly, “So sorry to say, and this dinner was wonderful, but we really should be going.”

He laid out a few bills and exchanged farewells with the hosts. He wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped, but he also didn’t want to pry further for fear of seeming suspicious. It was then that Tariq, perhaps because of his relative new coming to this group, made a realization.

If the captain had a golden tooth that he used for dramatic effect, he would look very much like the young man’s frame of reference for a pirate.

Chapter Text

The following two days of sailing had been rather uneventful. On the morning of April Thirteenth, the Gale had left port, loaded with enough supplies to make it to the city of Baitane. Aside from a few other ships, bearing the opposite direction, there was a lack of any significant meetings. That should not be interpreted, however, to mean that the meetings they did have were of any importance - just the standard “Hullo” through a speaking trumpet.

The fourteenth was much the same, a dull day, mostly spent playing cards and singing songs. At least, Gareland had gotten to try out the hookah she’d purchased with her friends; even Serpacinno, who didn’t drink as a principle, engaged with them, reckoning the two debaucheries were wholly different, and thus - the latter was acceptable.

This day was not boring, however, for those on board the Fox. The ship’s master, Peytan, said they were within a day’s travel of their mark. By five bells tomorrow, they’d be upon them, and hopefully thereafter, plunder all they were worth.

“Men, I know: typically we don’t go this far east,” He sauntered about the deck with a powerful swagger - chest puffed out and arms crossed behind his back, “But, for him to have so boldly shoved us off, the captain must have quite the haul, don’t you think?” He flashed his gold tooth to emphasize the point.

“Actually, captain,” Silver spoke in hushed tones, waving her hand over the crew, “I’ve taken a look at our haul, and if this bounty isn’t as bountiful as you’ve promised, I don’t believe Quartermaster Atez shall be able to quell a mutiny.”

“How bad is it?” He asked in the same quiet voice; the crew had only had minor success chasing them, finding a few merchant ships carrying nothing of any significant value.

“Unless we can secure a value of at least five hundred dollars, the pay tables will have to go unfulfilled,” She pointed to a small piece of paper she held, “Even if we cut out your shares, mine, and Atez’, we’ll be short about three hundred thirty.”

“See if there’s anything we can sell now, blast it!” His voice got excited with anger and his face was red and sweating. It had become increasingly obvious over the past days that his decision was not a popular one, and he’d overheard a number of conversations about calling council to decide on new leadership. The most perplexing element was its recency, like the message of mutiny was being spread on the winds.

He wasn’t stupid - he knew what it was. Or, at least, he knew it had to do with Ms. Silver. How? He couldn’t say, but the timing of her arrival on the Fox, and the Fox’s subsequent rebellion was almost too easy to connect. So, he smoked from his long pipe, filled with tobacco, and thought up a solution - or maybe a course of action.

He knew he’d have to kill the treasurer, that much was true. But the issue arose that she managed to swiftly cleave the loyalty of the ship in twain. Over a dozen of the men, though most were fodder, had already expressed support for her. No, to kill her, he’d first have to earn back the trust of those whelps.

“Mates!” He called, and the men all stopped doing what they were to look at him, “I will be the first to admit - we’ve had a rough go of it, it’s plain to see.” He walked up and down the deck, the boards quaking under his weight, “So I’ll tell you what: the next merchant ship we see, we’re run ‘em down!” He raised his fist in the air, and his mates shouted back with excitement. “That’s what I like to hear, boys!”

Silver, meanwhile, grumbled at the gunwale; she knew that if he was successful, he would only further cement his position, and if she was too obvious in her sabotage, the same would happen, and she would probably be killed. Granted, if they succeeded, and she didn’t sabotage them, McGraw may very well find an excuse to kill her anyway.

She was too far from any other ship to use her gift in any meaningful way, so she bided her time, making pleasant conversation with the crew. She knew she’d get her opportunity sooner or later. The wind had picked up, contrary to the nowcaster’s prediction, and they spotted a small schooner, two masts and barely armed, within three hours.

“With any luck,” The captain addressed his crew, with only five hands below deck, from his quarterdeck, “This will be an easy mark. Remember, our flag means death - and they know that as well as we do.”

The two ships were bearing towards each other, and with the time being three PM, the visibility was high. The merchant ship continued on its course, with no change to its direction. This was not a move of arrogance, but rather the captain was fooled by the new official look of the crew and ship, who had learned from their mistake.

A thousand yards out, the merchant ship being well within the range of the pirate ship’s great guns, said pirate ship struck their colors and raised their black flag. The effect was immediate, and the schooner furled their sails to slow down and await boarding.

“Good day, lads!” McGraw stepped onto the deck, after the crew had thrown over their boarding hooks, “May I speak to the skipper of this craft?”

“I am he,” A tall, broad man with a barreled chest and a stern look greeted him with a handshake, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“C’mon, man,” McGraw opened his arms and tilted his head, “You know why we’re here - we tie up your crew, take your loot, and sail away.”

“My men can disarm themselves, but I think you can understand why we can’t let you tie us up.” The skipper responded, not backing down now that the pirate’s captain was within range of a potential deadly blow.

The pirate made a great show of walking about the deck with his arms akimbo and his head pointed down as though in thought. Everyone held their breaths as he did so: the men still loyal to McGraw were anticipating their next orders, Silver’s supporters were similarly engaged, though wondering if their treasurer would take this opportunity, and the merchants were worried their captain may have overstepped to protect their insured merchandise. This three sided coin rolled on the deck for some time, though not nearly as long as most of the men thought. In one minute the captain stopped, having apparently reached a conclusion, at the captain’s quarters.

“Seeing as you were so cooperative in slowing your vessel,” The captain swung open the door, “As a sign of my good faith, I’ll allow your unarmed men to be locked in your quarters until further notice.”

“That’s agreeable, captain.” The skipper led his men into his quarters. The men, for their part, were more concerned with taking in the air in what was typically a room they only transiently occupied and Ms. Silver watched this happen with great disdain; men had become soft recently, as modern anti-piracy measures had been greatly effective, most sailors now lived without fear of the marauders. Whether for better or worse, this lack of fear meant most sailors (these men included) were not ready for when it happened to them.

McGraw, however, was relieved that they had surrendered so easily. It was the pride of every famous pirate to be missing a limb, mostly so you could tell the story of how the limb ended up missing, but the dying breed that he was, he surmised he may be one of the first and last pirate captains to retire with all four limbs. So, he locked the men and captain, who by the looks of it was old enough to remember the terror that pirates used to represent, in the quarters and had his men poke around the ship for any valuables.

“Alright, we’ve probably got about thirty minutes ‘fore some other ship comes along,” The captain joined the crew below deck, pistols ready for anyone lurking in the hold, “So let’s make this quick.”

Silver lit up a cigar, it always helped her to calm down when she was nervous, which she certainly was now; she used her gift, squinting her eyes to see the ephemeral, yellowispy figures that rose up as she foresaw the possible courses of action. None were particularly helpful, even if she unlocked the door, these men were too scared to do anything. She considered threatening them, but a full-scale mutiny, as she saw, ended with her body falling off the gunwale into the sea.

She took another puff, and the billow of smoke drew her attention to the mast. She squinted - a lookout was still positioned up top. Was he forgotten about? Did the crew mean to have a man on the outside? Now that she got a better look with her spyglass, the man was leaning back and his head fell over the bucket. By some stroke of bad luck, he was asleep, and somehow slept through the whole boarding.

It was then she realized her captain’s blunder: he had only left men loyal to her on board the Fox, save for a deckhand named Jan, who was outnumbered by a factor of three. So she made a motion over her neck, and another deckhand, loyal to her, slit Jan’s throat from behind and dumped him overboard.

“Good work, man.” She clapped him on the back and jumped to the other deck. Closer now, she could see that the lookout would follow her back down, and so she trusted her gut and started the slow, stealthy climb up the ladder. When she reached the top, her earlier assumptions were proven when she heard his loud snoring.

She put a hand over his mouth and used the other to draw a pistol, which she tapped on his head thrice before he woke up. He tried to scream, but found it muffled through her wooly appendage, “I’m going to let go, and you’re not going to scream, understand?”

His eyes widened when he saw the pistol, and Silver would’ve been shocked if anyone ever nodded quicker than that man did, “Who are you?”

“I’m Lorane Silver,” She gestured for him to follow her down, “And we’re going to help your crew.”

“What, why?” The lookout asked, understandably.

“I don’t agree with the way my captain’s been running things,” She replied, landing on the deck, “But hush now - bad luck to speak ill of the captain on the deck.” Once he was on the deck, she pressed the gun against his head and fired without hesitation and with a certain coldness in her eyes.

She heard the signature silence of a battlefield shortly before events popped off. Swiftly reloading the pistol, she shot again, this time at the handle of the door, which allowed it to swing open, and allowed the crew to see their lookout, dead on the deck. Conveniently, at the same time, their confiscated weapons floated back up the ladder, thanks to her second gift.

Shortly after she fled to the quarterdeck, to get a vantage point, McGraw returned up the same ladder, his own custom four-barreled musket pointed at them, “Now, mates, I don’t know what happened here - but don’t get any ideas.”

There was a tense period of silence, where the pirate took a few steps towards the weapons before the merchant’s decided that they’d rather take their chances and leapt towards their guns. McGraw sighed, and shot the first man he could; three balls pierced him, and the fourth ricocheted off the gunwale, striking a second man.

“It’s a fight then,” He grumbled, waving his arm at the ladder, “Come on then, men!”

With a rallying cry and a cutlass thrust skyward, everyone on board knew the fight had just started.

Chapter Text

For his opening move, McGraw took cover behind the capstan and lit up a smoke bomb. With the confusion, volleys of bullets flew forth from both sides, albeit for each man he lost, the merchants fell by two. A bullet came from the bow, which wouldn’t have been all too surprising, had it not lodged itself in his shoulder. One of the enemies had somehow teleported, and disappeared just as quickly.

“Captain,” Atez, one of the few men McGraw was certain could not be swayed, came over to him, “Do you think -”

“Yes!” He replied as he gritted his teeth, “Yes! Silver is on the account for this one.”

The assailant, reloaded musket in hand, attempted the same maneuver, but the quartermaster had already had his pistol trained in that direction and dropped him as soon as he spawned into view. He then helped his captain to his feet.

“Luckily,” His hand was mostly dry, “The wound seems superficial. You’ll live.”

McGraw nodded sternly, as his rising anger gave birth for a storm to roll in, encompassing both ships in its downpour. This turned out to be quite the boon for the merchants, as the smoke bomb’s fuse was doused, and the pirates, without cover from the rain, found their powder wetted and unusable. And, as the smoke started to clear, McGraw’s suspicions were confirmed, what with Silver standing on the quarterdeck, overlooking the whole battle. He had no time to think about that, though, as a thunderbolt struck right at the base of the mainmast.

One member of the vanguard was killed instantly, and three more men joined him when the mast fell over from the shock. Another of the vanguard, whose skin turned rocky, pushed forward, remembering his own strength and using it to block them in. What’s worse, for the captain, was that Silver had the audacity to slip into the ranks, fighting on the front now that it was safe to do so.

“Captain, what happened?” Atez asked, quite loudly at that.

“Two shots were fired above deck, and then this crew’s fighting back,” He replied, his breath not quite with him, “Seems to me like there’s a traitor.”

“Captain,” Silver crouched at the body, producing from it two unloaded pistols, “Seems I’ve found the culprits. Now that I think of it, where’s Jan?”

“What does Jan have to do with this?” McGraw knew all too well what Jan had to do with this.

“Seems to me,” She put a finger to the mast, “Our friend shot dear Jan, and then must’ve fallen from the crow’s nest.”

“And the second shot?” He replied.

“Must’ve gone off when he fell.” She offered. The financier knew it worked, as she heard the crew murmur and saw the captain punch his gums with his tongue.

“Captain!” The rocky man at the door shouted, “They’re breaking through the floor!”

McGraw put his hand on his chin, wondering what was directly below the aft. Then his eyes went wide as he realized that the men had suggested that’s where their powder magazine was kept. He waved his arm to get the men in line, and took a few of them to rush down the ladder. He got down there quick enough, it seemed, as he was able to rush over and kick a water barrel to dampen the magazine just a second before the deck gave way and a merchant fell down with a lit fuse in hand.

“Now son, it seems to me you’ve been beaten,” McGraw said, lowering his wrist to point the tip of his saber at the young man, “But there’s no need for us to continue this a-fightin’. Way I see it, you put down your guns and swords again, and we’ll let you live. Pick a fight, and you’re still outnumbered three-to-one.” He evidently had a great idea, as evidenced by the hands on his hips, “Tell you what: all seven of you men left, you’re all eligible to sign up with us.”

Through the hole in the deck, Silver and McGraw stared daggers at each other - neither had truly made significant progress in weakening their adversary’s position - what with the death on both sides - instead just deepening the trench between the two sides of the crew.

—

“They seem to be getting along well enough.” Paracelsus cocked his head toward the middle of the deck, where the two younger ones played with a queer set of black dominoes with red and white dots.

“I think they feel a certain kinship, seeing as they’re both just teenagers,” Serpacinno replied, on her second cup of coffee, “Can’t say I don’t empathize.”

“Yes, I have to admit, it does feel a little odd - lugging these kids about,” He rubbed his chin, “It also gives me no lack of stress - thinking about making port for a few days. I’m worried they’ll wander off.”

She rolled her eyes, “Looking at you, I would never have guessed you’d be an overbearing father.”

“It’s not overbearing,” He blew a raspberry to signify his disdain, “It’s perfectly normal! While it’s easy to forget, us two are the only aboard that are actually invested in the long term success of our enterprise and I’m going to -” He snapped his fingers in exasperation and shook his head with a heavy sigh, “Nevermind. I’ve realized it’ll be better if I take Tariq into town, that way you and Gareland can guard the ship.”

“Why am I left to guard the ship?” The swordswoman asked indignantly.

“Well, I have to go investigate the viability of this heist, and Tariq has to be there with me.” He explained matter-of-factly.

“Why do you even wanna do this?” She leaned back and crossed her arms, and she saw the annoyed look on the captain’s face, “Yeah, you already gave me an answer, I know. But that was bullshit, and you know it.”

He puffed a bit, annoyed that he seemed to be entirely unable to get even the simplest of lies around her perception, “I know this might sound foolish, but at first it was because I thought Tariq might make a good assassin, and I wanted to be in his good graces. Obviously, that was before I knew he was a kid. Now, and you may find this part hard to believe, I would feel bad about leaving him dry now.”

“No, I believe you,” She replied with a smirk, “You still can’t seem to grasp it - but I can tell when you’re trying to hide something.”

Parace, in response, gave a puff of the lip and tilt of the head as though to say “fair enough”. Not a second more passed before the bell rang from the crow’s nest. So, the captain formed a spyglass and confirmed that they would be landing before dark.

“Regardless,” Serpacinno replied, “We’ve got a lookout. And I get that for a man of the salt, it may seem like nothing to complain about - but I’ve spent the last few weeks almost entirely at sea. I’m getting off the ship here.”

Paracelsus sighed and rubbed his face, “Alright, fine, fine. I’d ask you to reconsider, but I realize it’s a lost cause. I guess we’ll have to put all our faith into the little fairy, then.”

And so, at around three PM, the Gale was moored, with a more reasonable fee of fifty dollars, and the captain made the final preparations to take off. He gave Gareland, in secret, a musket of peculiar make, with a long, rifled bore and a strange magnifying lens, both of which he claimed would help with the accuracy. She gave, in return, a mock salute and a dutiful promise to watch over the ship.

“Serpacinno,” Paracelus handed her a small red tube, capped on either end with some white rubber, “Since you’d like to step ashore, I’d ask you to look into something for me.”

“Sure, seems only right. What am I looking for?” She spun the tube round and round, scrutinizing its uniform surface for any indication of what it might be.

“Less of a what, and more of a how,” He lightly grabbed the tube, annoyed at her inspection, “Specifically - how are there marines here ahead of us, if they had to leave after us? If you’re in danger, just snap the tube, it’ll let off a sort of plume I can follow.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan,” She resumed her inspections, “And how will I know if you need help?”

“Look for a red cloud of smoke,” Paracelsus replied, handing a flare to Tariq, “That’ll be the signal. Tariq?”

“Hmm?” The young man asked, not having paid attention to the conversation, “What was that?”

The captain groaned, “I’ll fill you in later. Remember, we’re staying at the White Horse tonight. Tariq, let’s go.”

The men set off, in search of the opera hall that would be used for the charity. All things considered, it was a nice building, even if the wing that was currently being constructed made the area noisy. The captain, though, did not see this as an inconvenience, but rather an opportunity.

“Tariq,” He clapped the young man on his shoulder, “Let’s go do some investigating.”

“Wait!” His companion replied, “There’s workers everywhere, what’s your plan?” Paracelsus just grinned at him, and before he realized it, both Tariq and his new friend were dressed in the same outfits as the workers, “Don’t take this the wrong way - you still look foreign.”

“That’s why I’m relying on my dear brother-in-law to speak for me.” With a tone that allowed no disagreement, the captain kept walking to their objective, and Tariq followed behind, nervously.

“Hello -” Tariq, after being somewhat pushed along, started, stumbling over his words, “Do you need any workers?”

“No, but,” One of them replied in a friendly, jovial voice, “I wanted to go home for the day. If you’re willing to work for free…” He had a joking look on his face.

“Why not?” Tariq laughed like a man who knew he was guilty, but not what of.

The worker squinted in response, and for a second, Tariq heavily considered running away. He was offered a handshake, and he took it friendly, “What are your names, then?”

“Tariq and…” Paracelsus’ eyes widened; he might not have understood the language, but he recognized the name, “Paracelsus.”

“Odd name, isn’t it?” The worker asked directly to the captain, ignorant of his ignorance.

“You’ll have to excuse my,” Tariq blanked for a moment, “Brother in law. He doesn’t speak our language.”

Now the worker’s face was painted in the color of suspicion, but he hid it for the moment. So, he gave them a set of tools and left to find his boss.

“We’ve tipped him off,” Parace said, “Badly. Let’s have a look around.”

“What are you doing?” Tariq said, not offering a better course of action and still following behind his captain.

“We’re looking around - while we still have the element of surprise.” Parace replied, leading him to a tunnel which, with any luck, ran below the whole building.

“So, what’s the bigger picture here?”

“The bigger picture,” Paracelsus created a spool of thread to keep track of where he was, “Is finding out how we’re going to abduct Sarahne bint Medine, and where we’re going to take her.”

“What?!” Tariq took a few strides to stand in front of him, “What do you mean, abduct her?”

Paracelsus hooked an eyebrow, “I thought you wanted to kill Medine?” He brushed past his young partner, “We’re going to need a way to get close to him.”

Tariq fiddled with his fingers and bit his lip, nervously, “I don’t want to hurt anyone, that doesn’t need to get hurt.”

Paracelsus stopped in his tracks and sighed. He was right - in many ways, Tariq was like a younger version of himself, naive innocence and all. Not keen on lingering on that thought, he started formulating a new plan, one without an abduction.

He would strive to maintain Tariq’s innocence, as long as he could.

Chapter Text

“How did you figure these tunnels were here, anyway?” Tariq asked as his head swiveled around, looking nervously to and fro at the walls.

“On the outside, at the bottom of the walls,” Paracelsus replied, “There were these small bars that I assumed were some type of highlight window.”

“And?”

“I assume we’re just too deep, laterally, into the structure to be approaching the outer walls. Stop.”

Paracelsus held up his hand, and the reason became all too obvious when footsteps grew around the corner, approaching the intersection and threatening to expose them. The captain quickly grabbed Tariq by the hand and led him to a four-way intersection, where either intruder hid behind one side and allowed the sentry to pass without incident.

Or rather, that was the plan. Instead, the sentry did pass, but he stopped when he saw a glimmer out of the corner of his eye. He leaned down and inspected it, and found the length of thread it was attached to. He grabbed a knife he kept in his waistband, clutching it tightly, but before he could spin around to confront the intruders, he found himself on the receiving end of a club to the head.

“He’ll be fine,” Paracelsus said, trying his arms, “I can’t imagine it’ll take more than a few hours for him to be found.”

“You hit him pretty hard,” Tariq blanched as he stepped over the unconscious man, “Are you sure he’ll be fine?”

“I’m no doctor, but he’s not even bleeding. Now, let’s finish mapping out these tunnels.”

—

Serpacinno brought her hood over her head; the deeper she got into the town, the more and more marines swarmed around. A pleasant side-effect of this was that she now spotted a marine standing alone, unguarded. She crept up silently behind him, like a snake in tall grass, and seized him, wrapping an arm around his midsection to bind his hands while her snakes flitted their tongues out menacingly at his throat.

“There we go,” She confiscated his sword and gun, “Nothing to worry about.” With her palm open and flexed, she chopped the back of his neck to knock his lights out for a few moments, after which she used those precious moments to bind him and steal his overclothes.

Now comfortably dressed as a marine, she left the man and got about something approaching a regular patrol. She gave a half-hearted excuse to join up with another, small group of marines keeping an eye on the elevated section of the city. There, the company came upon Farah Taylor, seemingly writing a report.

“Any updates?” She asked, not raising her head from her notepad, which made Serpacinno gulp in anticipation.

“None, ma’am,” The marine in front saluted, “Except for… Well, Dane’s gone and disappeared.”

“If Dane had disappeared, there’d be seven of you,” His blunder was enough to make Farah look up from her paper, “There’s eight,” She pointed to Serpacinno, “So who’s that?”

“Dane’s, er…” She stammered, “Replacement. The Lieutenant sent me.”

Farah paused for some time, and were it not for the hood making Serpacinno look different she might’ve caught her “Good enough,” She cocked her head to indicate towards the very top of the town, upon which a temple sat, “Go check in with the watchdog.”

Serpacinno nodded, for fear that her voice was going to fail her. Then, she marched with the rest of the platoon to the crow’s nest. There sat the “watchdog”, a huge woman, clearly part hound, with purple eyes that had some sort of crossmarks on them. So still did she sit, that everyone, on first seeing her, thought she was a statue.

“Any news?” She asked in a low, baritone voice.

“We haven’t seen any, but -” One marine said, “Their ship is in harbor.”

The hound took up her weapon, a large x-shaped bow and aimed toward the pier, “Which one is it?” Her eyes grew wide, and her pupils dilated, presumably taking aim.

“The Living Current.” The same marine answered.

“Wait!” Serpacinno shouted, “There might be civilians aboard.”

Sarabi, the sniper, sighed, “You’re right.” She lowered the weapon and returned to a neutral stance, observing the ship, “But I can at least take down their lookout.” She returned the weapon in front of her, aiming it at Gareland.

Seeing no other option, Serpacinno lept into action, drawing a longsword from her pockets and pressing it against Sarabi’s neck. All the marines raised their weapons or took up stances at once. She chewed her lips in thought, grabbing the bow and throwing it down on the ground.

“Everyone down on the ground!” When Serpacinno didn’t get the response she was looking for, she reiterated “Now!” They complied, slowly, lowering their weapons and putting their hands on their heads, “Now, I have a question. How did you get here before us?”

“Miss Taylor,” The helpful marine said, “When she sleeps - the ship goes faster. Much faster.”

“Good enough.” Satisfied, the gorgon searched through her pockets for rope, but came up three or four men short. She tied up as many as she could and pocketed all the weapons. Now there were two free soldiers kneeling on the ground, and that wasn’t even counting the massive hound sat at the glazed wall. She took another look through the window, and Sarabi saw her eyes widen when Serpacinno glanced at the pillar of smoke filling the sky.

—

“Lieutenant Graave,” Farah saluted her boss, “I believe we’ve got one of the revolutionaries trapped with the watchdog.”

Grave smiled, which felt like it may have been for the first time in days, “Good work, Officer Taylor. I'll apprehend them, send a company after me.”

Grave kept his smile up as he started his walk, happy that this whole business was soon to be behind them.

—

Tariq and Paracelsus, meanwhile, had just emerged from the tunnels back into the streets, having evaded detection as far as they could tell. With a map of the tunnels in hand, Paracelsus initially planned to return to the White Horse to wait for his partner.

Instead, along the way, he was grabbed by the shoulder by a goat-looking woman with a gun, who told him, “Come with me.” Worst of all was that she was flanked by two large, broad-shouldered sailors.

Not one to argue with a weapon, Paracelsus kept a hand around the corner of the street they were on, partially to block Tariq from walking into sight, and partially to hand him the map. His young friend, to his credit, took the map, and disappeared to skulk away from the confrontation. With the map gone, Paracelsus put his hand forward to indicate towards the bay.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way we can expedite this?” He asked, stumbling along, “I have somewhere to be tonight, you see.”

His joke, it seemed, was not appreciated by the man who gave him quite the blow in the back for it, which made the alchemist stumble forward a few feet before settling into a regular pace. He took note of the eyes of his captors, not purple, which seemed to indicate they were foreigners, and with a certain air about that seemed to suggest they weren’t entirely legitimate citizens.

“On.” One man put so summarily, knocking Paracelsus onto a rowboat.

He rolled his eyes once he realized he was the one expected to row them. They already had a gun to him, and now they expected manual labor? He shook his head in exasperation as he began doing just that sort of manual labor, hugging the coast until they came upon a small bay in a cave about three miles from the harbor. At the boat, he loosely tied it to the tackle on the side and climbed the Jacobs ladder to board.

“So?” He asked his captors, “Why am I here?”

“Hello, son,” McGraw grinned from the quarterdeck, chuckling when Paracelus’ eyes filled with recognition, “We was just bringing you here to parley.”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

The pirates made him sit on the deck at this point, chaining his wrists behind him and around the mast. Then, the captain decided to grace him with his presence, and his breath almost made Paracelsus wish they’d just kill him already.

“I know you were hiding something from me, lad -” McGraw said, “Something you’re willing to risk your life for.”

The alchemist pursed his lips and licked his teeth in thought. He didn’t truthfully know what, specifically, they were after, but he was sure that once he told them what they wanted to hear, he was dead, “Let me write a letter to my friend. Then we talk.”

McGraw whacked him across the face with his fist for daring to make a demand. With indignation in his eyes, he repeated the blow several more times to punish the young man for speaking out of line. Once his rage was seemingly sated, he kneeled down and gripped Parace’s face to make him look McGraw in the eyes, “Tell us first. Then you can go, free and clear.”

“That’s a bold-faced lie, and you know it,” Paracelsus maintained his smirk, trying to look in control of the situation, “Let me write, or you can throw me in the ocean right now.”

“I can think of far worse to do to you, what you don’t speak.” McGraw reassured him.

“There’s a map on my ship. I’m not quite sure what’s buried there, but I have it on good authority that what’s buried there is worth a ludicrous sum.”

“Well, do keep going.”

“You’ll kill me as soon as I’m of no use.”

The captain grumbled for a moment or two, but the act of goodwill was clearly enough, as he retreated to find a paper and pencil. When McGraw returned with the materials, he put the pencil in his captor’s mouth to write. Dear Serpacinno - I’m fine, don’t worry about me, and I’ll still be around tonight. Any questions, ask Tariq.

Paracelsus

McGraw inspected the letter and chuckled at the thought of him escaping, before he let the raptor take it away, “Alright, let’s hear more. In specific - what are you doing here?”

“Just taking a look around town,” Paracelsus’ tone was even and confident, knowing that anything less was likely to get him killed, “And resupplying, of course.”

“That’s not true,” He was delivered another blow to the chin from McGraw, “You know it. I know it.”

“You’re an astute man, Captain…”

“McGraw.”

“Captain McGraw. On the map, there’s a note, I need to find a woman named Georgia for the last part, and I have reason to believe she’s here.”

“You sure seem to like that phrase. ‘Reason to believe,’ eh? Do you have any actual proof that she’s here?”

“None whatsoever, at least of any substance. The only indication is that this is the final touchpoint before we sail off to Uni-Blanc.”

“Then I guess we’ve some work to do, don’t we?” McGraw gathered a few men, and although none of them spoke the local language, he was sure he’d be able to make do. “When we get back, we’re all gonna take a short jaunt to your ship.”

That left Paracelsus on the deck with around two-thirds of the crew still present. Notably, among them was the same goat woman who’d grabbed him earlier, who waited about an hour before first making contact with him.

“I know you’re lying,” She said, crouching down, “You’ve been telling him what he wants to hear - why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I want to live.”

“And when he comes back and realizes this ‘Georgia’ doesn’t exist?”

“Let me worry about that.” He tried to turn away from the prying woman. She was far too shrewd for his liking, and he knew she was onto him.

She clicked her tongue, and wagged her finger a few times, “No, no, no. You have a plan to escape, and I need to know it.”

At that, Paracelsus groaned. He knew there was no good way out of this.

Chapter Text

Serpacinno leaned on the railing that overlooked the harbor and came to two conclusions. One: Tariq’s party was in danger, and two: the fall from this height would assuredly kill her. She ran her hands over her face a few times, breathing heavily as her anxiety grew.

“Can anyone here fly?” She asked to her captive audience. They stayed as silent as monks in prayer, seemingly refusing to acknowledge the question, which only added to her frustrations, “If nobody answers me, I will throw you all out the window!”

One of the younger-looking marines meekly raised his hand, “I can’t fly exactly, but I can get you down the hill.”

“Good enough.” Sepracinno said and grabbed the marine by the shoulder. Then, she took a few steps back to get a running start, and jumped out the window as far as she could.

The marine activated his gift immediately, slowing their dissension considerably, but not enough that the other group of marines which were attempting to flank her were able to get a clean shot. Once she landed, she sent the marine off and ran toward the smoke signal.

—

Garleland was extraordinarily bored; she was already prone to hyperactivity and a certain amount of self-distraction, but it was getting unbearably quiet at the ship. She’d even resorted to playing solitaire by herself to keep herself sane.

“Hello, can I speak to the owner of this ship?” She heard a rough, breaking voice call from the deck.

Getting her gun aimed, she panicked at her own lack of diligence. She thought she’d hear any intruders, and even still, she only looked away from her post for a few seconds at most, “I’m authorized to speak on his behalf.”

“His? Very well!” Now that she got a look at this man, he was far from pleasant to look at, with a singed, gaunt face which was wrapped in bandages at several points. He stood tall and lanky, though with a distinct wiriness, that combined with his black robes to form an otherworldly image, “If you’ll allow me an assumption, is his name Paracelsus?”

She teleported down the mast, so as to not have to lose her sights on him, and barked, “I’m not allowing you anything until you tell me your business here.”

“This ship was just recently commissioned, sometime in early March, yes?” He continued, “Interestingly enough, this name has some significance to Parecelsus’ father.”

“His father is dead.” Gareland breathed nervously, the man wasn’t making any moves, and by the three radial arrows he wore around his neck, he was of the same belief, but his presence here was unnerving enough.

“Oh? Is that what he’s told you?” His thin, pale lips gave way to a grotesque smile, stretching far too wide and showing far too much of his yellow, crooked teeth.

“How about you tell me something? To start, who are you and how did you get on the ship?”

“Fair enough, young lady,” He dipped his head ever so slightly to show respect, “My name is Pryus Tyburn. I already happened to be in the area.”

“Don’t dodge around the question, how are you here?”

He kissed the fetish around his neck and pointed it to the sky, “I have friends in high places.”

“Don’t speak in -” Gareland was cut off when a shadow grasped her mouth, holding it silent and reached around to disarm her.

“Young lady, it’s impolite to accost guests.”

“You’re not a guest!” She struggled against the pitch-black embrace but was ultimately unsuccessful in doing anything but tiring herself out.

“That’s alright,” Pryus assured, “I’m sure Paracelsus will see things differently when he returns.”

She couldn’t teleport out of his grasp. Similarly helpless to free herself, she was unable to alert her captain on land, and realized she failed greatly at her duties as lookout. Then it occurred to her: if the man was attacking from the shadows, he would be vulnerable to light, and as she kept matches under her jacket, she started to slowly move her hands to their destination. When her hand was just over her jacket, she squinted her eyes, “Paracelsus!” Flew from her lips, and when Pryus turned his head, she took the opportunity to grab a match and strike it, before she brought it to burn her attacker’s hands.

“That was a very bad idea.” Pryus bid the shadows attack her once more, but this plan was evidently foiled as Gareland had moved out from under the shadow of the mast and had in fact requipped herself with her gun.

She debated internally with herself as to whether or not she should shoot him, but in doing so she turned her head and caught sight of something most peculiar: a projectile, although it looked more like a great streak of blue light, was approaching the ship at an alarming rate. So she teleported below deck, and the last thing she saw was the projectile changing course to cleanly impale Pryus on the mast.

Pryus, in response, threw his head back and started sputtering with laughter and coughing. After a few seconds he seemed to grow tired of it, and he melted away into shadow.

—

“Where’s Paracelsus?!” Serpacinno seized Tariq by the collar, lifting him against a wall in the alleyway she found him.

“I swear I don’t know!” He put his hands up in defense, “He rounded a corner, and I heard some people drag him away.”

She dropped Tariq and rubbed her hairline in exasperation. She crouched down in the alley, and had to fight with herself to not run down to the harbor and buy a ticket away from Bataine. Just as the thought entered her mind, however, it also occurred to her that running away was becoming something of a pattern for her.

Whenever anything gets hard, She clenched her fist, thinking, I always leave. Always. Am I really gonna run again?

Then, like a message from above, a few seconds later a small black raptor flew over to her and delivered her a note. The letter corroborated Tariq’s story, and she probably shouldn’t have been surprised that someone like Paracelsus had already made enemies.

“Sorry, kid,” She patted Tariq's shoulders, “I was just panicked. What’s the plan?”

“It’s alright, I’m -” He was cut off by the wooosh of a great arrow flying above his head. Then, he remembered what little he knew about Bataine, specifically, about its ‘guard dog’, “Stay down! That’s Sarabi.”

“I thought I -” Serpacinno fumbled in her pouch, “I thought I disarmed her. I’ll meet you later, at the inn; I need to find Gareland.”

—

“The captain will be back soon enough,” Silver warned, “Whatever plan you have - I’m in.”

“No plan, save him coming back with Georgia.” He offered back.

“You and I both know that’s not true, and the more you stall, the less likely I am to offer sympathy.”

“I don’t need your sympathy, just to uphold my end of the deal.”

“I can help!” Silver slammed her hand on the mast in frustration, “I’m planning to mutiny already, and I think our goals may be aligned here.”

Paracelsus stared at her for a good few seconds, weighing the decision in his mind. He eventually relented and clicked his teeth, “Truth be told, alcohol would help. Strongest you can find.”

“At a time like this?”

“Not for drinking,” He motioned her to lean closer, “I’ve designed a weapon to erupt a great jet of flame. I just need fuel, and I doubt you people have any fish oil.”

“And this weapon, is it microscopic?”

“If you don’t want to do this, feel free to bow out. Or just believe me.” Lorane nodded and ran below deck, retrieving a type of reinforced vodka for him. He nodded and stealthily put it behind his back. With that matter settled, he asked, “What reason do you have for this? I like to know what sorts I get into bed with.”

“I want his position.”

“Ahh.” Paracelsus clicked his tongue. So that was the sort he was making with. He knew it was foolish to hope to be involved in the company of goodfellows (almost as ridiculous as the thought that he was the arbiter of who qualified and who did not as a goodfellow), but he felt within his rights to hope.

Still, for now, this would serve his ends; but if there was one thing he knew about criminals, he knew that they loved to increase the cost of their ransom over time. If he was to help them now, they’d no doubt be asking again for his assistance at some later point - the only difference being that this time he’d be pushed beyond his limits.

He wouldn’t have too long to marinate on his thoughts, however, as McGraw shortly returned, and his face was the definition of quiet rage. His rage had given way to another storm, and the alchemist balked at it. Worse was that this insider smacked herself like she should’ve been able to see this coming.

“You’re playing me, boy,” McGraw wasted no time in striking him across the jaw again, “Start talking. Now.”

“Once upon a time,” Paracelsus had suddenly, and unseen by anyone except Silver, who was of a particularly observant sort, gotten his hands on some type of clear crystal, holding several in his palm, “I went to college. There, I became friends with a man named Georgia, who claimed to be studying something called ‘chemistry’. Apparently, it’s the study of materials, substances and other such things-”

He was whacked again, “Tell me the truth, now, or I will have your hide.” McGraw pulled out a large serrated knife to accentuate the point.

Paracelsus, meanwhile, took the opportunity to get his breath back. The cold desert night and rain meant the crystals hadn’t quite melted from his body heat yet, and he needed a few seconds more for his plan, “I’m getting to it. Apparently, as a chemist, he discovered something called ‘pyroglycerine’, which is normally liquid. At around sixty degrees, though, it melts. And do you know what is so important about this liquid?”

The captain had heard enough, and the storm was now becoming hazardous. His rage ultimately prevailed over his reason, and with a shout, he leapt toward the mast and thrust his knife forward. Paracelsus, meanwhile, saw his opportunity and undid his shackles, jumping to his feet and dodging, where McGraw had found his knife sheathed within the mast.

“It’s very sensitive,” He said, “That’s what’s so important.” And when it had finally liquidated, Paracelsus swung his arm in an arc toward the aft of the ship; the glycerine flew and landed on the hull, but the sudden impact set it off and the captain’s quarters were alight with a tremendous fireball and explosion that knocked all on their asses.

“Here,” Paracelsus, anticipating and bracing for the ringing in his ears, got his senses about him and handed the weapon he had talked about, loaded with a canister of the alcohol to Lorane, “You want his position? Take it yourself; we’re done.”

And just like that, he was gone.

—

“Parcelsus?” Gareland asked, “You’ve looked better.”

“I’ve felt better,” He walked with a limp, clutching his left hip, “Why aren’t you on the ship?”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” She started, but realized they weren’t alone, “But Serpacinno’s here. We’ll talk later.”

“You two found each other?” Said gorgon pointed between the two, who were both in their own way severely rattled, “Tariq’s waiting for us.”

The town was quite active as they made their way to their rendezvous, having been alerted by the plume of smoke rising from the harbor. Paracelsus grinned, confident that the first responders would not only discover the pirates, but bring a swift end to their piracy. With that comforting thought, they made the trek to the inn in relative quiet, spotting Tariq nervously pacing back and forth at the portico.

“Plan’s on?” He asked, having slipped the prerequisite actions to Tariq earlier.

“Plan’s on.” Tariq responded, just happy to have some security in that moment.

Chapter Text

“Baba? What are you doing here?” Sarahne embraced the man regardless of their differences in opinion, “I thought you were preoccupied?”

“I made time for my daughter,” He hugged back, wrapping her in his large, luxurious coat, “It’s been too long, Sarahne.” The real reason for his visit was the fact that he’d a premonition recently, such was his gift. The contents of the premonition were hazy and indistinct, but he knew for sure that his daughter was in the custody of some less than savory characters. So, he did what any good father did, and brought along some extra security.

“This isn’t good,” Paracelsus leaned casually against the wall, keeping his head down, “This place is more guarded than we thought. There’s no way we can pose as security.”

“You don’t think we could sneak in, walk in all cool-like? I know you can bullshit your way through most things.” Serpacinno offered, never taking her hand off her sword.

“Maybe, maybe not,” He replied, “But I doubt all three of you could follow in my performance.”

“So what’s the plan?” Garland chimed in, observing the subsiding storm.

Paracelsus shook a small vial filled with a clear liquid, in which some type of powder dissolved with each time he shook it, “I know the general layout of the tunnels underneath. We sneak through, come up below and behind the main stage, use this little concoction to put the guards to sleep, and we know the plan from there.”

“The man you paid fires his gun in the air, proclaims he’s the real Paracelsus, and we sneak Sarahne away under the pretense that he’s a threat?” Serpacinno clarified, but gave no room to interrupt, “Which assumes that this man makes good on his promise.”

“I’m all ears to alternate plans,” He spread his arms open, gesturing for a response which never came, “Alright then. Let’s go.”

Thus began the enactment of their plan as they crept under the building, ducking and darting around so as to avoid the sentries on patrol. The whole time, the captain kept his thumb over their current location to keep track of where they were. Then, below the main hall, they moved a few yards west to the back, to a back room, and Paracelsus touched the floor, improvising a hole in the stony layer.

“Up we go,” He said, pulling through Serpacinno first, then Tariq before Gareland came up on her own, “Here.” He handed each of them a rag and poured some of the solution over it, “Hold it to someone’s mouth for around ninety seconds and they’ll be out like a light.”

“And how are we supposed to hold it on their face for a whole minute?” Tariq asked - being the least crafty of the group, he was the only one who needed it explained.

“Can’t you literally turn invisible?” Serpacinno asked with some slight contempt in her voice. To be fair to her, it was a stupid question for someone like him.

He nodded, now sure of himself, “And remember,” Paracelsus said, adjusting his belt, “Make sure they don’t fire their guns. One BANG and it’s over.”

They all nodded, and the mood in the room was unsure. In theory, the plan was flawless, but any number of small imperfections would add up to make its surface as rough as sandpaper, and they would be the ones dragged against it. Still, they came this far, and they each slowly crept around, searching for the guards they figured were near the stage. Paracelsus was the first to find his target, and he made quick work of the man’s gun before he took him down and tied him up. Tariq followed suit, opting to snatch the gun first before dousing his mark’s lungs. Third was Serpacinno, who held the blade of a small dirk near her prey’s holster to subdue him. Finally it was Gareland’s turn, and she threw caution to the wind, bringing the rag up first and, using the panicked motion with which her guard had reached for the gun to her advantage, batted his hand away for long enough to knock him out as well.

The four invaders exhaled uneasily, proud in their small victory.

—

“You will not take this ship, not while Hames McGraw yet breathes!” McGraw shouted, bringing his gun to fire at Lorane. She’d just challenged his captaincy, and the price for such an action was known.

He fired, and his marksmanship continued to prove his weakness, as three of the four shots whizzed clean past her, and the fourth only managed to graze her neck.

“Good thing then, that McGraw will die here!” She replied, firing her pistol, and in an almost comically ironic twist of fate, also only managed a grazing blow on his shoulder. She quickly recalled the bullet, though with its weakened velocity, its more assured target in his back was rendered far weaker than what it should’ve been, “To swords, then.”

McGraw made the first move, drawing his long cutlass, the storm he’d conjured raining a bolt of lightning into his sword, sending thunder down the deck, which rippled outward in a circle along the raindrops before climbing the gunwale and finding its terminus in the ocean. He didn’t stop at one swing, and quickly followed it with a series of slashes - clearly the work of an experienced sailor - which Silver could barely contend against. She was steadily pushed toward the remains of the quarterdeck which were still aflame despite the rain.

She then dashed toward the door, realizing her inadequacy at close quarters combat would leave her dead, but McGraw was faster, blocking her path. He pushed forward again, trading in the slashes which Silver was barely able to parry with thrusts that Silver had no hope against. The captain smirked, all too eager to end this, and he drove her over to the gunwale, repeating his earlier trick, although the lightning was much more effective at helping him knock her blade into the drink.

“I gotta admit, Silver,” He leaned in close, tauntingly, “Your swordplay could use some work, but it’s better than most novices.” Then he chuckled as he raised the sword above his head and prepared to strike.

Just before he could deliver the finishing blow, however, silver recalled her sword and managed to fully parry her adversary’s, in the process destroying both weapons. Seizing the shock on McGraw’s face, she took a low stance and tackled him straight into the captain’s quarters.

“And I must admit,” She said, taking a few steps away from him now that the rain couldn’t reach them, “You were right about that man. He is quite wealthy.” With the final message delivered, she aimed the unique pistol the aforementioned man gave her, and fired. The effect was immediate and horrifying, as McGraw’s flesh melted off his skin and his screams became a gargled mess. The jet of fire died after some time, and she started a wild, mad chuckle at her victory.

When she stepped over the charred remains of her former captain, she was pleasantly surprised that the men who’d managed to get their wits about them were already loading buckets with sand to douse the fires still on deck. Then, she took a gun from one of the men who were rendered unconscious by the explosion, and aimed it in the air.

—

Bang! A shot rang out, quickly followed by, “Heed my words! Paracelsus von Hoenheim has come!” None of the crew bothered to listen past that, and all got into position.

“Ma’am, we need to leave,” Tariq quickly went to Sarahne and grabbed her shoulder, “Come with us.” In doing so, he caught eyes with Medine, and so he ushered the woman out faster.

“What’s going on?” She asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t worry, your uh… father, hired us.” He responded, leading her to his party.

“Hello ma’am,” Paracelsus offered his hand, “I’m the real Paracelsus, and I’d like your help.”

—

“It’s confirmed,” Peeares said, “They’re in the building.”

“Excellent,” Graave nodded back and waved his hand, “Men, surround the building! The target is able to pass through walls, so I want every square inch of the structure covered.”

“Lieutenant,” Farah saluted, “Sarabi’s covering the western side. If they slip out through there, she’ll take her shot.”

“Good.”

“And another thing,” She continued, leaning a bit closer so as to conceal their conversation, “I spoke to one of Medine’s aides. About Peeares, I think you should know - Medine’s gift, he can see visions of the future. In one of them, Peeares dies, and soon.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to make sure it doesn’t come to pass, eh?” And that was what Farah had hoped to hear. The whole reason she’d even signed with his company, Graave’s bullheaded nature that allowed him to fearlessly charge forth into danger.

“Everyone’s in position.” Peeares said. Graave, rather uncharacteristically embraced him in a silent act of inappropriately public affection, and Peeares, characteristically, grumbled and tried to push him off.

Graave nodded after he let go, and the smirk on his face let his protogé know everything he needed to. This whole ordeal would be over soon, and they’d return back to their proper post, far away from this land.

—

“My father is here,” Sarahne argued, “You know you’ll never get away with this.”

“And here Tariq had me thinking you didn’t like your father,” Paracelsus joked as he handed out a few bottles, filled with an orangish powder, “I see that was wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, exactly, but stealing from him? Why would I help with that?” She questioned, with impassioned words.

“The people here are suffering, Sarahne!” He shouted back. It was a farce, for as much as he did feel empathy towards them, he wasn’t planning on leading a full-scale revolution against the Medines or anything, “Suffering because of your father!”

“And what? You’re going to redistribute his wealth?”

“Of course we’re keeping some for ourselves,” He swallowed thickly, “But yes, we’ll be giving away much of it.”

“I’m sorry, I still can’t… help you. Please, return me to my father and I can tell him this was all a misunderstanding.” The first blemish had formed.

“We’re not holding you here,” Paracelsus replied, tossing his gun away, “You’re free to leave - if you can shut your eyes to your people’s suffering.”

“What are the bottles for? Your intentions don’t look peaceful.”

“If I should get ripped from my friends,” He chose his language carefully, trying to appear as sympathetic as carefully, “They’ll need to be able to break in the vault on their own. Concrete, metal, it doesn’t matter - this will burn straight through.”

“Sounds like you don’t need my help.”

“We don’t need you to do anything, if that’s what you mean. We just need you to tell us where it is and its layout.”

“I’m free to go?” Parace nodded, and by the look on her face, she knew the second imperfection was revealing itself, “You are good people - give yourselves up, you won’t be hurt.”

“Fine, but humor me for a moment more?” Sarahne stopped in her tracks, sighed, and turned around to face him, “You’re a good person. Not me.” The others in his group all turned, confused at his strategy, “But it’s not good people that enact change. Allow me to enact change on your behalf - you wouldn’t have had this event today if you thought all was well.” She looked contemplative, but Paracelsus heard the sound of footsteps around them, “Last chance, we’re leaving now.”

Sarahne nodded, somewhat reluctantly, but still she nodded, “Do you have a piece of paper?” Paracelsus pumped his fist as he produced the necessary items. With any luck, this would work out, and he felt hopeful that they might actually do this. Then, once the details were secured, he nudged Sarahne away, firing a shot into the wall behind her to disguise her intentions.

Sarahne immediately ran crying to her father to continue the illusion, and Medine said, “Go - get them!” To his soldiers, quickly hugging her back.

“We have to expedite the plan,” The captain said to his crew, now in the tunnels, “We get what we want today, and then leave.”

The crew nodded. Somehow, despite the misgivings they’d each individually had about him, he had managed to, at least temporarily, win their trust.

Chapter Text

Paracelsus breathed into his hand, preparing to enact the next step of his plan. He then turned to the windows, finding a small patch where only one guard was stationed outside. He touched the wall, turning a small portion into a handheld hook. Using the hook, he looped it around the legs of the marine and pulled him inside, at which point the marine found himself on the business end of a multitude of weapons.

Tariq was the first to venture out, cloaking himself so he could get a good look at their surroundings. He saw a light sparkle near the apex of the city and deduced that it was probably the glint of Sarabi’s bow, primed to fire when she caught sight of them.

“We’re still being watched.” He confirmed, dropping back under the floor.

Paracelsus stood in thought for a moment, gripping hsi chin as he looked at the marine on the ground, now bound. Then after some moments he nodded and replicated his clothing onto all of his companions. Together, they all stepped out of the building, and the captain repaired the hole as if they were never there.

“Oi!” A marine shouted behind them, which caused them all to stop in their tracks, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“We were given orders by,” Paracelsus didn’t turn around, “The lieutenant, to block off the roads out of the city.”

“But no such order has been given.” The marine replied, walking up to the group.

“I guess this goes a little above your head?” Paracelsus offered, opening his arms exaggeratedly as he finally turned around.

“And who exactly are you?”

“There, the criminals!” Paracelsus shouted and pointed. When the marine turned around, they all made a break for it, running as fast as they could.

“Get back here!” The marine shouted. They vacillated a few times in their mind before turning around again to get the rest of his command, rather than chase them on his own.

“They’ll definitely be locking down the roads now,” The captain said, “We’ll need to hitch a ride soon.”

“What about the ship?” Gareland asked.

“If anyone’s religious, I’d suggest you pray.”

“That’s your plan?” She shot back.

“No - the plan was for you to stay on the boat,” He turned to address them, and saw that soldiers were mobilizing behind them, “Now we hope.”

—

“May I sit?” Graave gestured to the spot next to the Medine’s patriarch. When the man cocked his head toward it, the lieutenant decided to sit down.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, dismissing whoever he was previously speaking to.

“The troops are organizing,” Graave groaned at the aching in his back, “So I thought I’d take a moment and chat.”

“Chat?” Medine asked.

“Chat.” Graave confirmed and pulled out a letter, “One of my soldiers wrote a small report. Peeares, the angel with me, is he to die?”

Medine sighed in annoyance, taking the letter and reading it over, “Yes. All I can tell you is that it will be in a crypt, nowhere around here.”

“One more thing then - can your predictions be wrong?”

“It’s not impossible. That being said, I wouldn’t rely on it.” He tapped his fingers on his knee for a few seconds, “I hope you haven’t forgotten why you’re here?”

“Of course not, sir. Thank you for your time.” Graave groaned and pushed off his knees.

—

“Here you go, good man.” Paracelsus handed a bill to a carriage driver, as a trusted vendor, the driver was able to smuggle them out of the city without issue.

Now, they were at the national bank. The town it was in was relatively small, far from the bustling port city of Bataine, just forty minutes away sat a quaint little village, of which the bank was no doubt the economic center.

“Just closed, sir,” The teller said as the group approached the bank, “Please come back tomorrow.”

“It’s very urgent, sir, please.” Paracelsus urged, his hands together in begging.

“I’m sorry, sir, we’ve just closed.”

The captain leaned in close and brought his mouth to the banker’s ear, “Here, look,” He produced a briefcase from behind his back, “I’m with the marines. There’s been concerns of counterfeit bonds.”

“Sir, there’s a crowd forming.”

“Then let’s go inside.” Paracelsus pointed his palm to the building like he was inviting the teller inside his house.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Tea?” The teller made for the group to sit.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Paracelsus sent the teller on his way, and beckoned Tariq, who was standing by, cloaked in invisibility, to come near, “Take all of the bottles, and while we occupy the teller, go with Serpacinno and get what we came here for.”

“Who’s Pryus Tyburn?” Gareland asked casually, as if she was inquiring about his dinner plans.

“Where did you learn that name?” Paracelsus looked around, hoping to see any sign of the teller.

“On the ship earlier. He showed up and started rambling about something.”

“Yeah - that’d be him.”

“And who is he exactly?”

“He’s a priest I used to know,” He pointed to the door, which was clicking, “The teller’s coming back.”

“Sorry about the wait,” Gareland looked between the two men, unsatisfied with the answer, “Where is your third?”

“She ehh, went to smoke.” Paracelsus dipped his head in thanks before drinking the tea, before opening his briefcase, “But, as to the actual reason I’m here…”

—

Serpacinno and Tariq stood at the door of the vault. Inside, supposedly, was not only three point four million Iraloan mimar, but several dozen safety deposit boxes and, most notably, an interior vault owned by one particular Medine.

“Here.” Serpacinno held her hand out for the bottles, and mixed the dust with a small amount of water to keep it adherent to the door. Then, with a quick flick of a match, the whole mixture caught alight, burning with a silent intensity that astounded the onlookers with its orange glow, “Holy shit.”

Various denominations of mimar sat in front of them, piled semi-randomly into huge stacks of multicolored capital. Just breathing in the air of the vault seemed like it should cost something, what the wealth flooding into your lungs. Serpacinno, against the directions of her captain, and in spite of her good judgment, shoveled a few hundred into her pouch.

“And it’s not even the main event yet.” Tariq commented, thumbing through a few stacks himself, noting their almondy smell.

Speaking of, they were thankful there was no need for a deep investigation to find what they were looking for. A large silver door, adorned with gold trim, clearly demarcated the inner secure vault from the rest of the room. Applying more of the watery powder, Serpacinno struck the match, more than enthused to take what they could.

—

“And that’s the point I’m getting to,” Paracelsus pointed to one of the bonds he’d held in his briefcase, “These bonds were issued in 1721, twelve years ago. I get why they can’t be verified by smell, but the inking’s all wrong.”

“I understand sir, but how does this apply to me?” The teller replied, himself verifying that the dyes used were all too recent to have been printed over a decade ago.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. These were the bonds we were able to recover, others like this were paid out at this bank.”

Before the teller could even formulate a response, the whole room was interrupted by the sound of screeching. Paracelsus immediately recognized the sound - whatever Serpacinno had just burned into was made of screaming metal, the type that makes a loud, piercing noise when subject to physical deformity. The teller recognized it too, and pulled a gun he kept hidden on the underside of his desk.

“You’re not with the marines, are you?” He asked.

“Admittedly not.” Paracelsus leaned back in his chair. There was a gun pointed at him, but if his companions had any sense, it wouldn’t be for long, “But what can you do? There’s three of us and one of you.”

“I have the gun -” He tapped Paracelsus on the forehead with it, which disoriented him, “Move.”

They summarily arrived at the vault, whereupon Paracelsus was made to enter first, followed by Gareland, “Good, you’re here,” Serpacinno said, not turning around and seeing the danger, “This damn steel won’t stop ringing my ears!”

“We have to shut it down,” He said, trying to think of a way to communicate the situation, but Serpacinno didn’t even seem to hear him, “We have to shut it down!”

“Down?” She turned around and saw the teller with the gun. Then, she looked over her shoulder, and saw the mostly empty vault was now being pilfered by some unseen force, “I see.”

“I can’t believe my luck,” The teller said, “I’ll certainly be getting a nice bonus for this one.”

“Oh?” Paracelsus raised an eyebrow, “Is that what this is about? Money?”

“Everything in this world is about money.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Paracelsus made a big show that he was empty handed, and slowly reached into his jacket pocket, producing a small clip of bills, “Fifteen dollars. Is that agreeable?”

“I know you got much more than fifteen dollars from what you robbed.”

“Astute,” Paracelsus reached back into his jacket, “Fifty more dollars ought to cover it.”

The teller grumbled as though he wanted to ask for more, but decided against it, took the money, and let them leave. Tariq joined them outside, beaming ear-to-ear with pride when he revealed the shield he’d come for. He was so proud, he flipped it up and round several times, showing it grow and shrink as he willed it.

Paracelsus extended a hand to him when he looked content, and Tariq immediately took it, “You’ve been a great companion, Tariq. Best of luck in the future.”

“What… do you mean?” The young man asked back.

“I thought you were only sticking around to find your shield?” Paracelsus was going to hand him a cigarette for the road, as was custom in final partings in his culture.

Tariq took it regardless and struggled to light it, despite his best efforts, “Oh, yes,” He started hacking and coughing, “Well - I just figured, you know…”

“You have nowhere to go?” Paracelsus patted him on the back.

“No - that’s not it, just -”

“We have to go!” Serpacinno shouted, “The marines could be here any minute!”

“I’ll leave it at this -” Paracelsus puffed his cigarette in time, “I don’t particularly want to be responsible for you. You’re a good kid, but a kid nonetheless.”

“I can take care of myself, I think I’ve proven that.” Tariq followed him as he went about getting a carriage.

“You shuddered at the prospect of taking a woman hostage,” The alchemist explained, “I’m going to have to do much worse. I wasn’t lying to Sarahne - I’m not a good person.”

“I will endure!” Tariq shouted as his captain started to enter the carriage, “These past few days have shown me who I am.”

Paracelsus sighed, he knew it was the ethically wrong decision, he knew he shouldn’t encourage this irresponsibility, but he sighed “Alright, get in.” When Tariq was fully seated, “I can’t coddle you. You’re going to see the raw, dirty business you’re party to.”

The ride back was silent, for the distance they traveled; they only made it fifteen minutes before they came upon an entire caravan of marines. It seemed the dirty business was catching up to them quicker than they could have thought.

“If you keep driving, I’ll double your pay,” Paracelsus handed out a few guns to each of his crew, “For future reference, I think we oughta buy a horse.”

“Hold on -” Gareland put her hand up after taking the gun, “Are we seriously shooting at the marines?!”

“Back in Yuriol we fought with them, ain’t that right?” He nudged Serpacinno with his elbow, and she responded by rolling her eyes.

Gareland was far from the only nervous one, though. Tariq was shaking like a leaf in the wind and Serpacinno rocked her knee impatiently. Regardless, now it was do or die, and there was no giving up.

Chapter Text

“Paracelsus!” Graave shouted at the top of his lungs, “Surrender now, and I give you my word no harm will come to you!”

“You know,” Paracelsus bought time as his party’s carriage approached the blockade the marines made in the road, “I think, in another life -” He aimed a large, heavy tube directly at them, “We’d be drinking buddies.”

Immediately, a spout of liquid flame erupted from the makeshift cannon, and the orange liquid shot in ropes to engulf the blockade in its heat. The effect was pronounced, as the two carriages in the middle instantly sat about removing themselves from the line of fire, with the marines themselves quickly abandoning the vehicle as it became clear the cart would soon be cinders.

“Fire at will!” Graave shouted in response. The soldiers followed the command, and the two sides traded volley after volley of musket-fire as Paracelsus’ crew managed to get past the blockade. This didn’t come without sacrifice however, as the spokes on their cart were shot through without their knowledge and Serpacinno was grazed in the temple - thus rendered inoperable for the time being. Their reward? Gareland, being the only one truly competent with a gun at range, had managed to hit three marines.

“This is gonna hurt, alright?” Paracelsus poured a bit of alcohol on the wound before dressing it and resuming suppressive fire. She groaned something fierce in response, like a large predator realizing it’s broken its leg. The legs of the camels on the marines’ carts were not broken, however, and summarily gave chase to the criminals, though their increased occupancy meant they were slower by a small amount.

“Ms. Taylor, if you’d be so kind.” Graave handed her some white tablets, which she took without complaint and with a salute to knock herself out. Her hypnotized, the air around their carriage stirred as the speed picked up significantly, with the marines now gaining steadily on their mark.

“So that’s how they do it?” Paracelsus remarked, readying his gun once more to deter the soldiers.

Graave was swifter than Paracelsus gave him credit for, and certainly swifter than his large body would seem to indicate; he jumped onto their carriage and drew his sword, pointing it towards the alchemist.

“Everyone, keep firing at the carriage,” Parcelsus commanded as he barely managed to deflect a slash from Graave’s cutlass, “With Serpacinno incapacitated, I’ll try to fight this one.”

“Oh please,” Graave added his paws to the mix, keeping one hand on his cutlass and the other slicing with his claws, “You must know how outmatched you are here. I have decades on you, son.”

Paracelus didn’t feel the need to dignify that with a response, instead opting to fully go for the defense. He used every trick he could think of, starting with creating serrations of the back of his sword - which Graave saw through and changed the angle of his slash - to forming a net to try and capture him - which the lieutenant simply rendered with his claws and teeth - to sweeping his legs, which to be fair, could have worked, were it not for the fact that Graave’s legs were much stronger than he could’ve anticipated.

The bearman even had the time to reach down and grab Tariq by the neck, dangling him over the road. Paracelus tried to get back with his sword, but the decades of experience were clearly overwhelming him, “Well, Paracelsus? No gun?” Graave taunted, “This proves my suspicions. You aren’t going to kill me. And If you can’t kill me,” He made a motion like he was about to drop the young man, “You have no leverage here.”

Meanwhile, a shot rang out from below, which wouldn’t be shocking, all things considered, save for the fact that the shot was now accompanied by a hole in Graave’s shoulder, the same one that was holding the sword, “Dammit, deal with him, Paracelsus!”

So, with the sword dropped, Paracelsus turned his own sword into a club and put his whole strength behind one final blow to the head. As soon as Graave fell, Paracelsus leapt into a prone position to catch Tariq and pull him back up, “Feel any regrets yet?”

“I was scared,” Tariq rubbed his throat, “I won’t lie. But I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” The captain replaced his gun, “Because we still have a while to go.”

“Actually,” Serpacinno groaned, leaning on her elbows to get up, “It seems like they gave up.” With the minor victory, everyone in the carriage leaned back and let spill a sigh of relief.

“Well that explains how they’re able to beat us,” Paracelsus was the first to break the silence, “That woman speeds things up while she’s asleep.” He gave a sort of squeaking laugh, like he was starting to realize the futility of flight.

“So, now will you tell me about Tyburn?” Gareland interrupted his cynical laughing fit.

Paracelsus, for his part, managed to calm himself down, even though all eyes were now on him, “On the current. Let’s call it motivation to survive.”

“This fuckin’ headache’s gonna kill me,” Sepracinno used the ball of her hand to rub her temples, “That bullet got me good,” She lifted one of the snakes near her crown, “Even cut up Shirley.”

“Sorry, I must have not -” Paracelsus stopped, partway through applying another bandage, “Shirley?”

She pointed at each snake in sequence, “Shirly, Curley, Whirley, Pearly, Burly, Hurley, and Early.”

“Not good at naming things, eh?” Tariq asked.

“Oh, shut up.” Serpacinno threw her arm over her eyes to hopefully rest before they had to get to the ship.

—

“I’ll be fine!” Graave groaned and tossed over on his side, “We need to chase them!”

“How are they always ahead of us?” Peeares finished wrapping the wound, and roughly tied it off.

“He’s not ahead of us -” Graave groaned, brushing his junior off, “He just knows how to come up from behind.”

“So?” Peeares asked, “Are we going to stop them?”

“Are we going to stop them?” Graave actually managed to chuckle, even if it caused him no shortage of pain, “They have to leave by boat. There’s no way they can board without our permission.” A permission they certainly would never grant, “Alright, listen up! Me, Peeares and Taylor will take two of the seamen and pursue the criminals.” He turned to address one man in specific, “Ensign, tally the casualties and damages and follow immediately afterwards.”

So, with a salute, they were off. The hypnotics hadn’t worn off yet, so they were able to resume their course at a great speed; with any luck they’d be back in the city soon. Luck, Graave thought, That’s what it always seems to come back to.

—

Luck, it would seem, was not on the side of Paracelsus. The Current was currently occupied by a number of marines, no less than twelve, but no greater than twenty, and the main deck was constantly watched. Even from their slight vantage point on the outskirts of the city, there was no chance of taking them all down from a range, and with the sheer number, attacking the ship head on would be suicide. And all of that wasn’t even considering the fact that Sarabi still sat on her perch, watching for the exact moment they tried.

Still, they had to get back to it. The Current was their only way out, and Paracelsus reluctantly knew who could help. So, he took his crew to a small harbor, the same one he was at earlier, and waved the flag of parley.

“Oh, Paracelsus, good to see you!” Silver shouted, having her crew lower the corvus, “Come aboard!”

“SIlver,” He hailed, “How fortuitous.”

“I knew you’d be back,” She replied, “Marines in the harbor, something’s not normal. It all has to do with you, doesn’t it? You and your merry little crew?”

“Yes,” He pointed to them, “Serpacinno, first mate: Gareland: chief gunner, and Tariq: helmsman.”

“Quite an odd selection of crewmen to bring aboard for a parley. No vanguard?”

“At the moment, we are the entirety of our enterprise.”

“That does make sense, with everything I’ve learned,” She put her hand to her chin, clearly formulating some scheme, “What brings you here?”

“We need your help,” He produced some cigarettes from his coat, handing one to Silver, “Our ship is currently overrun by marines, and we obviously need to take it back.”

“Tough, then,” Silver took a long draw from the cigarette, “Not much you can do against marines when they’ve got your ship.”

“We can get them off the ship, I need some help afterwards.” He left it unsaid that in doing so, they were keeping a promise they’d made.

“And what’s in it for me?”

“You clearly have something in mind.”

“It’s painfully obvious you’re searching for something. The small crew, so as to split the booty fewer-ways, the discretion with which you’re handling it, and most importantly: the fire in your eyes, captain.”

Paracelsus chuckled; the first time anyone called him captain since his desertion, and it happened to be someone he couldn't stand, “You’re right. I’m looking for something of great importance. Help our interests, and we’ll cut you in.”

“No, no, no, captain,” Lorane took a step closer, and Paracelsus realized she was actually around half an inch taller than him, “I need more details than that.”

“It’s all speculative, but I believe there’s a legendary sword somewhere in Tanendille,” He offered, “I believe with the right buyer - it might fetch as much as ten thousand international dollars.”

“Well now you’re boring me,” She blew smoke in his face, “That's a preposterous claim, and I assume you have nothing to substantiate it?”

“Nothing to substantiate it?” He scoffed, and pulled an old, stained piece of parchment out of his coat, which depicted a long, straight sword, “Verify it however you like.”

Silver verified it by giving it a simple once-over, and Paracelsus knew he’d got her on the hook when he saw her eyes widen, her pupils filling and practically turning to dollar signs in anticipation, “You’ve got it, Paracelsus. You get the marines on land, and we’ll take them down.”

They sealed the deal with a handshake, and Paracelsus took leave with his crew to work on their side of the plan. Before he could fully enact it, Serpacinno grabbed his shoulder, “Is there really such a sword?”

The captain rolled his eyes and blew a raspberry with his lips, “Not that I know of. Don’t worry - I plan to deal with Silver before we arrive in Tanendille.”

“Well, how are we getting the marines off the Current?” She asked.

Paracelsus pointed to the sky, “We’re going to keep our promise to Sarahne, and do some wealth redistribution, and we’re going to do it with balloons. Your jackets, everyone.”

Everyone quickly complied, and he turned the jackets into a dozen small balloons, each tied to a small basket, which the crew filled around half of the gold and treasure they found in Medine’s vault. All balloons filled, they lit the wool, and the hot air produced from such a reaction caused the balloons to lift into the air, flying high above the city streets.

“Gareland,” The captain handed her a musket, holding the others in reserve, “Shoot the baskets, if you will.”

“Aye aye, captain.” She replied before taking fire. Once one musket was shot, Paracelsus handed her another, until finally all the baskets were shot through, and the wealth rained from the sky down to the streets below.

“Back in the day,” Tariq said, “Making it rain gold would have made you a king.”

“Now it makes you a criminal,” Gareland said, “Times have changed.”

It took less than thirty seconds from Gareland’s words to the very first of the citizens stuffing gold into their purse. And once the first person started, he was quickly joined by another, and another, and another until the streets were inundated with folks trying to strike it rich. It wasn’t long after that, that through his spyglass, Paracelsus confirmed that marines had evacuated his ship.

Now came the time for Silver to follow through.

Chapter Text

“Alright, let’s make a break for it!” Paracelsus took off sprinting with his crew back to the Current. Sarabi was too busy firing at Silver’s crew to notice them, and Paracelsus was able to board his ship relatively painlessly. The whole crew, the Shah included, helped to raise the capstan, unfurl the sails, and cut the mooring lines, “Now, Silver! Get to your ship, and follow me!”

“I thought you said you had a plan to deal with her?” Serpacinno asked, tying off the sails.

“I do,” He leaned over the gunwale, lowering a small note on a fishing hook into the water, “But I suppose it would still behoove you to make peace.”

Shortly thereafter, a mermaid (in fact, the same mermaid they’d made use of earlier) emerged from the water, a confused - by human standards - look on her face, “Human, what is the meaning of this?”

Paracelsus fastened himself into the bosun chair and lowered himself down to shake the mermaid’s hand. She didn’t quite get it, seemingly, as she tilted her head curiously, sniffing his hand as though debating on whether it was food, “Here, just grab it,” She did so, and the captain did the honors, “There - just like that.”

“Is that all you wanted from me?” The mermaid’s speech was stilted and inhuman, almost being a small whisper. And her pitch black eyes and blue, scaly skin made her all the more bizarre.

“No, sorry, it’s a human tradition,” He grabbed a few of the relics they stole, and held them out, “I actually wanted to make a deal.”

“You want me to pilot you somewhere? No need for theatrics.” She replied, hovering her hand over each one, deciding which to take.

“Not quite,” When the mermaid rolled her eyes and appeared to be descending, he grabbed her wrist, “Hold on, hold on. I think that what I’m suggesting could be very beneficial, for the both of us.”

She popped back up, squinting at him, “Release me, human. What is your deal?”

He let go, “There will be times where I don’t have the items to feed you. At such times, I may still have need of your services. I’d like to be able to operate on credit, and as a token of our cooperation, you can have all of these.”

She squinted again. She could tell he wasn’t lying, but it still seemed like a risky decision. Regardless, she took all of the items, “You may call me Gru’lya, human.”

“Paracelsus,” He replied with a smirk, “I mean to say that’s my name. Later, I’ll pour red sand into the ocean. At such time, I implore you, please, take us away from here, as fast as possible.”

Gru’lya nodded, diving below to wait.

—

“Captain,” One of Silver’s crewmen shouted, “It seems the other captain left this here.” He held up a small bell, a replica of the one currently in Paracelsus’ possession.

“I wonder what it could be?” Silver took in and inspected it, “I’ll take it as a sign of things to come. Now, all hands, get us underway!”

“Aye, aye, captain!” The crew shouted back, getting to work, putting as much strain on the mast as they thought they could without it falling again.

—

“We’re too far behind them,” Graave said, observing his own crew making sailing preparations, “If we leave here without the bell, it will be an embarrassment to the Union.”

“Of course I agree sir,” Peeares saluted, even if the gesture was mostly meaningless in light of their personal relationship, “But it truly seems they’ve got ahead of us, not to mention the ship they’ve got in consort.”

“What’s gotten into you, Junior Lieutenant?” Graave made an annoyed face, “Such pessimism doesn’t fit you. Our guns outnumber both of theirs, two-to-one. We’ll sink them both if we need to.”

“Of course sir, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright, son,” Graave put his hand on his protogé’s shoulder, “All guns - get ready to fire on Ms. Taylor’s command!”

Every cannon was summarily loaded and primed, with the gunners keeping them aimed at the rough bearing that the ships would be passing through.

—

“Tariq, adjust bearing a fourth of a point starboard,” Paracelsus instructed. The lad seemed like he had a good hand for helming from what he could tell, and it certainly helped that Tariq was on the larger side, being more easily able to counter the waves and wind, “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes, Captain.” He acknowledged.

“All hands - we’re going to keep this distance from the coast, and slip between the Fox and the Saber, have them fight each other while we break to open waters.” Paracelsus was still readjusting to actually ordering a crew around, but he knew that such a thing was necessary to maintain cohesion amongst them on the sea, “As you were.”

Five minutes later, the Fox came up on their starboard-side, and the two maintained a distance of a hundred yards between them. Far enough, as the Current’s captain noted, to be out of range of their smaller guns, but close enough to be in range of the Fox’s larger ones. They also, coincidentally, had the guns manned, but unloaded.

“The Saber’s coming into sight, Captain!” Gareland shouted, “Relative bearing - three-hundred degrees!”

The first things to come into sight for the deck were the guns. Long, thin implements that were directly affixed to the ship and breech loaded from the back, which meant the gunners responsible only had to have a small hole through which to see, rather than the traditional ports either of the privateer ships had. A decisive advantage to be sure, not even considering the difference in size and number of sails which would make it faster and more maneuverable.

“Paracelsus!” Silver shouted through her trumpet, “Why haven’t you adjusted course to go about their starboard?”

It was a phony plan, Paracelsus thought - but didn’t verbalize, “They cut the rudder! You have to adjust course!”

“I don’t like this,” Silver leered at the Current, “Not one bit. Sandwiching us between the Saber and the coast?”

“I concur, captain,” Her new first mate said, “What do we do about it?”

“We maintain course,” Silver replied, never once taking her eyes off the Current, “That way the Current is sandwiched between us and the Saber.”

“Very well, captain.”

“They’re catching on,” Serpacinno told the captain, trying to subtly look over at the other ship without it being obvious, “They’re catching on, and we’re less than five hundred yards from the Saber.”

“I was hoping to get to speak to Graave,” Paracelsus quickly wrote up a note, before he took said note and had transferred it into a cannonball, “Gareland! Get down here!” He handed her the cannonball, “Do you think you could land this on the deck of the Saber?”

“I suppose I might be able to,” She eyed the distance between them, “But I think it would be hard.”

“And then what?” Serpacinno interjected, “You’d have just fired a cannon at a Union ship. We’d be obliterated.”

“I have a plan to get past them - Gareland,” He grabbed her by the shoulders, “Can you do it?”

“I’ll do it,” She nodded resolutely, “But you better see us out of this.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, and ran over to the gunwale with a sack, “Then - at your discretion.”

Gareland breathed in slowly, trying to calm her nerves and line up the perfect shot. With the angle calculated, she filled the cannon with just the right amount of powder, doubting the whole while about whether or not it was the right amount of powder. Then, with a final breath, she lit the fuse and let loose the cannonball.

No one on the sea at that moment, at least of those that could see what was happening, breathed at all as the cannonball soared through the air, whistling like a herald of doom as it cleanly landed on the deck of the Saber, plowing through its main and secondary decks before stopping just short of puncturing through and swamping the vessel.

Paracelsus hastily poured the sack out; Lorane failed to see through the trick, but nonetheless realized there had to be a trap laid, and so, disregarding the fact that her wool would be ruined for some time, she abandoned ship.

Graave opted to take retaliatory measures, first firing a volley of chain shots which managed to down the masts of both the Current and Fox. Swiftly and decisively, he took action by repeating the volley, albeit this time with grape shot, aiming to maim the vessels beyond repair. Luckily for the crew of the Current, their recently-hired mermaid had the foresight to realize that the typical methods would be ineffective, and decided to wrap her long, serpentine tail about the hull. It coiled over three times before it stopped, and the water again took a light blue glow as the ship was quickly dragged away at a blistering twenty-two knots, fast enough that the whole crew was knocked to their feet.

“Holy shit,” Serpacinno, the first to stand back up, turned around to see the volley repeating itself again and again, tearing the Fox apart like a predator that caught its prey. She turned her eyes down and saw the sack floating aimlessly behind them, then turned to her captain, “We did it! We’re -” She saw the great beam of light sticking through his chest, just below the sternum “Captain!”

“Tincture -” He coughed up blood, “Tincture of iodine. In my trunk.”

Tariq, now himself stabilized and adjusted to the speed, stood up, tore off his shirt and ripped it up to make a small bandage. Serpacinno returned with the tincture, and Gareland had now come up to the quarterdeck.

“This is bad,” She remarked, recoiling from the projectile that pierced the captain, “But it could be worse. Whatever it is, it’s red-hot,” She took the pieces of cloth from Tariq and wrapped them around her hand to rip it out of Paracelsus’ chest, “It’ll cauterize itself.”

Serpacinno read the bottle, quickly realizing she had no idea what an “antiseptic” was. With only her instincts guiding her, she tore the cap off and poured it into the wound, which only caused Paracelsus to violently shudder and jerk, pouring more blood out. Then, with all the dexterity of a wolf attempting to operate on another, she sewed up the wound as best she could and used the remaining cloth to tie off the wound, applying more tincture for good luck.

—

“Lieutenant,” Ms. Taylor, having already overseen the complete obliteration of the Fox, cautiously approached the cannonball, “It appears inert.”

“It looks like it was two pieces hastily melted together,” Peeares observed, standing back, “Wonder if there’s something inside?”

“There is, indeed,” Farah took a knife and pried the weapon open, seeing the message, addressed to Graave himself, “It’s for you, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Grave [sic],

It wasn’t hard to figure out Medine’s intentions in allowing you to operate here. You will find what you seek on the Fox, unless Lorane Silver has taken it. I know it may seem like another crime of convenience, but I’d like to say this: I hate pirates as much as you do. Consider this a temporary peace offering; I know you’ll continue to chase me. It’s your duty now to see me behind bars, and mine to evade you. But at least for now, it would behoove you to forget about us.

Your drinking buddy

“Well, he’s quite the writer,” Graave tore up the note, “But he’s lying. Bacon to bones, they still have the bell.”

“Shall I tell the deck to pursue?” Peeares asked dutifully.

“Indeed. Have one of the ensigns contact another Union base to clean this up.”

“Lieutenant!” One of the divers came up with a salute, “We managed to recover a number of items, and we found this,” He produced the replica bell, “In the captain’s quarters.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Graave did his best to inspect it, but it wasn’t as though he was an antique appraiser, “I guess he wasn’t lying. Junior Lieutenant, belay those orders. We’ll clean up here first before pursuing.”

Peeares saluted reluctantly. It was the first time he could ever remember disagreeing with his superior officer, but at the same time, he was the superior officer. Still, it didn’t stop him from leering his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Chapter Text

It was the night of April Sixteenth, 1733, one night after the encounter with the Saber, that Paracelsus woke up. The first immediate sensation was a massive, stabbing pain in his chest, but as he looked down, he noted that his crew had at least done a decent job of patching him up. The second thing he noticed was that Serpacinno had pulled up a chair, and laid her head down near the headboard of his bed, and was dozed off at the moment.

“Serpacinno,” He gently shook her shoulder, “Wake up.”

“Paracelsus?” She asked blearily, rubbing the sleep away from her eyes, “You’re awake!”

“Please don’t shout,” He stood up, looking for some nourishment, “My head is killing me.”

“Sorry, you just, you really worried me,” She pointed to the door, “The masts are down. The mermaid refuses to speak to anyone but you, and Tariq and Gareland are in the dumps.”

“Help me up,” He noticed the other bed in the room, “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

“I’m the first mate, aren’t I?” She asked, proudly, “I think I deserve a spot in the officer’s cabin.”

“Fair enough,” He groaned, managing to finally stand, albeit shakily, “Who’s at the helm right now?”

“The Shah.”

“Lovely,” He replied, moving over to the gunwale, “Gru’lya!”

“You’re awake,” She peered her beady eyes out of the water, “Your crew was worried.”

“I’m sure,” He waved his hand dismissively, “Regardless - why wouldn’t you speak to my first mate?”

“You and I shook hands” She pointed with an accusatory glare, “You said it was an important human tradition.”

“I understand the confusion. However, Serpacinno can speak for me if I’m not here, alright?” He asked.

“Hmm,” The mermaid clearly was deep in thought, her natural suspicions against humans only being amplified when they asked things of her, “If you say so.”

“Good, good, now, can we get underway?”

“What?” She tilted her head inquisitively, “Do you think I don’t sleep? I’ll be resting now, when I awake, then we move.”

“Very well, then,” He turned to address Serpacinno, “Do as you will. I’m gonna fix myself something before I sleep.”

“You aren’t going to fix the masts?” Serpacinno asked, incredulous.

“The way it is - I don’t think I could so much as reload a gun.” Now that he mentioned it, his first mate noticed his limp, and the clutching of his side.

“Alright then. Gareland tried cooking, there’s some…” She delivered the words with a certain biting, gross tone, “Fish, below deck.”

—

“The bell is phony,” Medine snarled, barely holding back his rage, “You have delivered unto me a fake.”

“It’s no fake, I assure you,” Grave replied, “At sea, we heard the pirates say some phrase, I don’t know if it’s related to the summoning.”

Medine paused for a great while, squinting his eyes incredulously the whole time. After an awkward, sizable gap, he asked, “What did they say?”

“Sorry, sir,” Graave offered, “It was too far away, and I don’t speak the language.”

The merchant just scoffed in response, “You know the pirates managed to capture my daughter? They slipped past your men, a group of four slipped past your men.”

“I don’t deny that, Sir, but with all respect, your own men were barely a factor at all.” It was a somewhat confrontational and unhelpful truth, but a truth nonetheless.

“My men have grown soft, it’s true. But that’s because we actually maintain peace around here.” Another inconvenient truth, but ultimately the less effective one in the face of -

“And that is due to the actions of the Union,” Graave shut him down completely, “But we’re getting off-track. The bell is yours, the bodies are in your harbor, if you wish to dredge. I take it neither of us particularly wants to keep looking at the other, so if that will be all?”

“Don’t think of me as some foolish miser,” Medine replied ominously, “I know how shaky your Union’s hold is around this region. You might think the scales of your justice are immovable, but I have a powerful thumb, and it would benefit you to remember who you speak to.”

“Listen to me,” Graave towered over Medine physically, and he looked like a solid iron wall in comparison, “You’re a merchant. A powerful one, I will admit, but a merchant nonetheless. I represent the agenda of the collective minds of the free world. You wish to play tug of war? You’ll find my team more populated.”

“I think you misunderstand me, Lieutenant,” Medine smacked his desk with his palms and stood up furiously, “I have influence with the president of Iralo; I hope it’s not true - but if you’re stabbing me in the back, then there will be consequences.”

“I assured you, sir,” Graave almost spat the word out, barely managing to hide his thinly-veiled contempt, “There is no such trickery on my end. I really must be getting to my paperwork now, farewell.” All Medine could do was glare at the back of his head as the lieutenant exited calmly and cooly, “Oh, and one more thing: I don’t know if you can’t or you refuse to see it, but your daughter is clearly the reason the pirates were able to fulfill their objective.”

“How’d it go, Lieutenant?” Peeares had mostly quelled his earlier indignation, seeing as now there was nothing to be done but simply accept it.

“Swimmingly,” Graave said, motioning his soldier to walk with him, “Save for the fact that you know my personal opinions on those rich elite-types.”

“Speaking of those rich elite types,” The angel pressed a note to his superior’s chest, “This came from command this morning. Farah insisted I don’t read it.”

“Well, son, that’s because Ms. Taylor isn’t a scoundrel,” He opened the letter and began reading, “Ah, that’s no good, then. Captain Jorge Gamzar is set to be medically cleared for command by July.”

“Then perhaps the paperwork should wait?” Peeares suggested earnestly, in no small part trying to forward his own agenda.

“No, I’m a man of my word, “Graave replied, “Even though I never got to give it to Paracelsus, I’ll no sooner betray myself.”

“But -”

“That’s final, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

—

“You’ve seen better days, my friend,” A man, lanky with a smart look helped Lorane lie down, “What happened?”

“You heard the fighting earlier?” She asked, throwing her arm over her forehead, “A stray chain shot took down the mast while I was on watch.” She even chuckled weakly to sell it.

“Well, if they’re headed inward,” The nurse mused, “We can drop you off in Tanendille.”

“That would be lovely, sir, may I ask what the purpose of this vessel is?”

“We transport Iraloan grain all over Mellan.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” She coughed weakly, “Well, when I recuperate, I wouldn’t mind earning my keep.”

“Oh, no need,” He reassured, “This crew is a little old-fashioned, you see. We don’t have any women working, just rest.”

“Are you sure?” She tried to hide her annoyance; if there was one throughline in her life, it was being underestimated by men, “I would hate to be a burden.”

“No, no, it’s no burden at all, rest!”

“If you insist.” Silver rolled on her side, grumbling the whole while.

Once she was alone, she produced her journal, or what was left of it, from her coat. Almost all of it was soaked through and unusable, but she found the most essential piece undamaged. Paracelsus’ smelling-patch, made from some hair she’d managed to snatch. With any luck, she’d be able to track him down through the mail raptors.

Then, it was just a matter of what she wanted to do. Obviously capture was the first item on the agenda, but then what? Torture seemed like an appealing option, and the most likely one, but even that had quite the number of permutations. She first thought of peeling skin or fingernails, which was always a fun option. Next came from the gouging of eyes, the drilling of ears and other maiming of the extremities. There were also more esoteric options available, drowning, boiling, thunder-snakes if she could procure them.

Before she even knew it, she had reached her hand down, taking pleasure in all the ways she could inflict as much pain as she wanted. She’d never shied away from the thought of her own sadism, but perhaps it was just the target. McGraw was never of any interest, and with him the remainder of the crew. Perhaps it was just the unique combination of his inoffensive face, which had a unique combination of being very strikable and at the same time devoid of any pain left to give, and his arrogant, lackadaisical attitude, but she wanted to see just how far he could be bent before breaking.

So, with that pleasant thought, and her own release, she drifted off to sleep, content for now to simply bide time until she could take charge and indulge in her own desires.

—

We find ourselves back on board the Star, the ship that, as mentioned some chapters ago, was the current vessel of Parkna and Jeyro. The deck was, at present, fully manned. The mermaids, of which the captain Hearnah had made quite prolific use, were ultimately proven ineffective by the steam-engine of their pursuer, the Iron Maiden. They made no headway - even expending all of the precious items they had on board, the Iron Maiden never once slipped out of view. The worst part? They had been gaining on them for some time now, as they’d no more food for the mermaids.

“Well?” Hearnah, smoking a long pipe as though he weren’t in mortal danger, asked.

“Sir,” One of the seamen reported, “The chip says we're losing speed. The bosun says someone on board the Maiden is interfering with our wind.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” He exhaled a great big puff of smoke which seemed to manifest itself as a tiny effigy of a ship, floating off into the sky, “Say, those engines of theirs, they produce a mighty lot of heat, don’t they?”

“Aye, sir, but-”

“Pour all of our alcohol into the sea,” He put his hand up to stifle and rebellion, “They won’t propel themselves through it, lest they catch fire, so they’ll be relying on wind, which should considerably lessen their advantage.”

“I’m sorry to say it, sir,” His sailor pleaded, “But the crew won’t have it. Last thing we need right now’s an open mutiny.”

“We can make port in less than two days, we’ll touch down in Cape Guile, and it’s neutral territory there, the marines wouldn’t dare touch us. We can drink until we drown there.”

“And then?”

“And then…” Hearnah stammed for a few moments, “And then, we figure it out… then.”

Hearnah chuckled. The sailor too, and soon they were laughing together as though they hadn’t just been arguing. With a salute, the sailor went to disseminate orders and set about informing the crew of the plan.

Below deck, recuperating from a lash the bosun had marked him with for some mischief or other, lay Jeyro on one of the least comfortable beds there ever was. As doting as Hearnah could be at times, his ward found his hospitality extremely limited when it came to the furnishing of the ship. So it was he found himself writhing in agony as the ship’s surgeon, a notorious drunkard by the name of Wellick, who had at present a bottle in his off-hand, sewed him up like a patchwork doll. To his credit, the stitchwork was precise and clean, and nobody’d ever had an infection that he couldn’t cure.

“Sir, the captain-” His mate tried to grab the alcohol from him.

“To hell, ‘the captain’, lad,” He took another large swig of the whiskey, “He wants my liquor - he’s free and clear to try to take it. ‘Sides, he knows I can’t doctor worth a damn without it. Now, on your feet, Jey, got other patients. And Duckett, mate, I swear to you, touch my stash and you’ll wake up with your lips sewn together.”

“Is it always so… lively?” Parkna asked, helping her uneasy friend to his feet.

“Normally?” Jeyro asked, “Much worse. No watch is able to sleep ‘cause the others make enough raucous to wake the dead.”

“That’s reassuring,” The catwoman said sarcastically, “Almost as reassuring as knowing that great big steamer is still on our tail.”

“We’re making port soon, feel free to leave.” He replied, wasting no time going above deck to report to the captain.

“Well, I have no money, exactly.” She rubbed her arm sheepishly, like a scolded child.

“And? This isn’t a charity house,” He replied, practically spitting the words out, “I helped you out because you helped me. As far as I’m concerned, this free ride to Yuyonia is quite enough.”

“I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong, but it just seems like the ship is cornering itself going inward like this. What’s in Ashland that’s so important?”

“Captain says he has a man to meet there,” The words were matter-of-fact and concise, but clearly even Jeyro had a hard time justifying them, “Ship’s the captain’s. We’re on the ship.”

Parkna bit her nails, a bad habit she’d had ever since she was a kid, worried about the timeline. They’d arrive in Ashland, at the absolute earliest, sometime around early August, but potentially as late as the middle of September, and then afterwards they’d go to Yuyonia. Her destination, however, was over thirteen months by conventional travel, and although the ship had its fair share of wind-blowers, they’d probably only shave some two or three months from that. Her brother, last she heard, wasn’t scheduled for execution, but that could change any moment.

All things to worry about in the future, she supposed.

Chapter Text

“Parace!” Gareland, uncharacteristically, threw her arms around the captain, much to his chagrin, “I really thought we lost you for a while.”

“Me too, Paracelsus,” Tariq added, a smile adorning his visage, “It is good to see you awake.”

“Thank you, thank you,” He put his hand up weakly, “But before we celebrate, we need to pull up the mast. I can barely use my gift on account of the hole, but if we pull it back into position, I think I can enact some basic repairs. We’ll start with the main.”

The whole crew got to work, each grabbing as much halyard as they could, save the injured captain, who oversaw the work. He started singing a shanty, and the others looked confused for a moment. Then they heard the rhythm, realizing that pulling with it was a good way to ensure their coordination. Due to their efforts, before the second verse had concluded, they’d made the mast stand again, and Paracelsus made good on his promise, though he’d doubled over, winded.

“I don’t think we’ll be doing the mizzen as well,” He panted and wheezed, “That took just about everything I had in me.”

“Just about?” Serpacinno asked, and if Paracelsus didn’t know her for her austerity, he’d almost say she was joking around, “Sounds like we might as well get the mizzen up.”

Gareland gave the captain a look that made him worry. She clearly wanted to resume their earlier conversation, but didn’t want to call him out in front of the others.

“Just about, because I have a better idea,” He used part of an empty barrel to make four equally sized green bottles: the type with glass so thick, you couldn’t see through it, “Let’s play a game. We each take a bottle, smash it, and look at the powder. If your powder’s gray, you sit out; if your powder’s white, you ask a question, and if your powder’s black, you answer. Sound fair?”

“Any question?” Gareland, not so subtly, asked.

“Any question.” He confirmed.

“And we have to tell the truth?” Serpacinno adopted a familiar look of suspicion, overtaking her previous joviality.

“Well, nobody will ever know, if that’s what you’re asking,” Paracelsus answered, “But that’s the spirit.”

“Fuck it,” She replied back, “I’m in.”

“In.” Tariq said.

“In.” Gareland confirmed.

“Alright then,” He offered the bottles, “In the interest of fairness, I’ll take whatever bottle’s left.”

Everyone having hesitantly taken theirs, the captain introduced a small dish to the deck to catch the powder. They all nervously looked around at each other, worried about who would get what, before all smashing them down simultaneously, spilling the contents into four piles which mingled at the center.

“I guess I’m first then,” Paracelsus of the White Powder started, “Tariq: What’s the situation with your parents?”

“Excuse me?” He replied, hand on his chest, he stammered for a few moments, but realizing he already agreed to the game, he gained his courage back, “There’s not much to say. My father claimed I grew obsessed with our ancestry, and my mother agreed. I left when I was fifteen.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Gru’lya, with her chin resting on her arms, which themselves rested on the gunwale, spoke up, “I can tell.”

“Hello there, Gru’lya, Tariq and Gareland. Gareland and Tariq, Gru’lya,” Paracelsus recreated the bottles, with an additional one, “Would you like to play?”

“No thanks captain,” She pushed the bottle away, “But if you have me doing labor, the least you can do is keep me entertained.”

“Fair enough,” He concluded, “Again, then?”

They all smashed the bottle, and this time Paracelsus held the opposite color. Gareland would be his interrogator.

“You already know what my question is, I assume?” She asked.

“Yes, yes, but you should know that technically, according to the rules, that was your question.” He put his hands up preemptively, “But I digress. For context, what little memories I have of my father place him solidly in the “pirate” category. On board his ship, Pryus Tyburn was the priest. I never much liked him, and seeing as I wasn’t religious, I never made an effort to know him. He likes booze and women, unless he’s had a religious awakening.”

“And what did he mean when he mentioned the name of this ship had a significant meaning to your father?” She continued.

Paracelsus simply swept up the sand, again reforming it, “That’s another question.”

“This has to be rigged.” Tariq, again with the black powder, remarked.

“Eh,” Serpacinno shrugged, “I think it’s pretty fair.” She put her hand to her chin in thought. There was very little she cared to know, to be completely honest, but she still had to think of something, “I’ve got it. Why’d you stay with the crew?”

“I thought it was obvious,” He sighed in relief at the easy question, “I find the work fulfilling.”

“He lies!” The mermaid pointed at him with wide-open eyes, clearly getting her entertainment.

“Alright, alright!” He shouted back, coughing into his hand, “Truth be told,” He tried to stall, “Truth be told… The captain is a very intriguing man.”

Gru’lya gave a thumbs up, which was apparently more universal than the handshake, “Damn right, Tariq!” Paracelsus ruffled his hair, even if the gesture looked odd with Tariq sitting about three inches taller than him.

“Twice in a row,” Serpacinno examined the contents of her new bottle, “Lucky me. Now I’m interested, answer Gareland’s earlier question.”

“I believe I’ve mentioned my sister?” He asked, “Truth is - she’s my half-sister. Her mother’s name was Gale Craye, and if you remember, the ship was originally registered as the Gale. My mother’s name was Tanendille Current, and truth be told - the name was an intentional homage.”

“Never would’ve taken you for an overnursed child.” Serpacinno leaned back on her hands, disappointed in the banality of the answer.

“I assure you it wasn’t a case of overnursing,” He sighed, “I was either going to name it after her or my sister, and I’d rather not call it the Living Maiden. It sounds weird.”

“You’ve always been tight-lipped about this maiden of yours,” Gareland was more satisfied with the answer, “Care to elaborate?”

“Again, another question.” Paracelsus was fortunate to be left alone this round.
“I have a question,” Serpacinno cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention, “I thought you said we were going to Tanendille, as though it was a place?”

“Since it’s of importance to the crew, I’ll answer,” Paracelsus said, distributing the bottles again, “My mother was named after the city. Where she was from, I suppose.”

“Gareland,” Tariq began with quite the joyful grin, “Why are you with the crew?”

“I suppose I can’t blame you for not knowing, you weren’t here,” She sighed, “They’ve agreed to help me get my brother back.”

Another banal answer was met with another lame reaction from the crew. Still, the highs had so far outweighed the lows, and they continued.

“Serpacinno,” It was clear Paracelsus had been waiting to ask her a question. In his mind, she was a tremendously unclear element. She was rough and tough, but not without a certain softness that lay under her hard exterior. She seemed to have caught onto his untruthfulness, but still seemed to trust him more than most who’d similarly known him, “Where’d you learn the sword? No sailor I know holds a saber like you do.”

“Well, you know I’m not a sailor.” She answered plainly, although it clearly wasn’t enough. “I was eight, and at the time I lived in Gorale. The mayor was a famous swordfighter, a knight from some war that happened in his youth. After his retirement, he took me on as an apprentice. As for why, I have no idea.”

The crew continued on like this for some time, having found a way to pass the time on the otherwise suspiciously empty sea.

—

“Lonceré!” A voice could be heard shouting. The only thing louder than the shout was the sound of feet on cobblestone, as the man the voice belonged to chased said Lonceré through what was clearly a crowded city.

The chased had the distinct advantage of youth, being at least ten years younger than the one doing the chasing, and athleticism, jumping over carts, barrels and even small dogs to get away. He turned a corner into a small alley and jumped as high as he could, reaching a crack in the bricks that let him pull himself upward, grabbing higher still to climb onto the roof of a small boulangerie. Using his gift, he slowly willed one of the croissants sitting on display to float upwards toward him, so starved he was by the chase.

“Bad karma to steal.” He muttered to himself and threw a bill down to pay. Luckily, stranded though he be, he at least gave his pursuer the slip. He honestly didn’t see the logic in Tanendille’s minister of finance chasing him across the city. Did he sleep with the minister’s wife? Yes. Did he show any remorse? Not particularly. But he didn’t tell anyone, and of course the wife wouldn’t, so there was no scandal to be had.

Still, it was easier to extricate the tooth of a lion than try to explain the actions of humiliated men. So, Lonceré sat, munching his snack, pondering his next move. He may have actually gotten in over his head this time, and with the general chaos in the city, he feared the possibility of being found. In response, he did what he did best, and a second version of him appeared next to him, snatching a piece of the croissant.

“Any ideas?” The first asked.

“The Bohemians?” The second offered.

“They might trade me for something,” The first pondered, “Maybe the Contre-Force?”

“You’re worried about being traded as a hostage?” The second laughed, “If anyone will do it, it’s them.”

“You’re right, deux,” He snapped, and the double disappeared, “Guess I’ll have to find a hiding place.”

Then he remembered. As a child, he often played near the coast, and one time in particular, he remembered seeing a sewer access. Now, he wasn’t normally one to live in filth, preferring the high society of rich old women, but it would make a good hiding place. Food would be an issue, as with clean water, but the sewers were sealed off a long time ago, written off as a failure of engineering. No one would be looking down in the refuse, after all.

When he managed to sneak his way over, however, he clearly had misremembered. This wasn’t a sewer at all, and when he slipped past the grate, he realized that this must’ve been some ancient catacombs. Why was there a system of catacombs under the city? He was no historian, but the plaque was dated to 1322, and if he recalled correctly, that year saw a great plague ravage the city.

Then there was the second weird piece of the puzzle. The mimic mice, so called for their ability to mock human speech, were plentiful here, practically overflowing the damn place. He could scarcely step without catching one underfoot.

“I don’t suppose you actually understand me?” He asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer.

“Most don’t,” A second voice, though not his second voice, rang out, “I, however, do.”

Before him stood what was clearly the king rat. Lonceré raised an eyebrow, mouth agape in shock. There was a bipedal, six-foot rat with a crown, cloak and scepter all. Tied by the tail were several other rats in a similar level of dress, all walking together coordinated in one direction.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance?” He asked more than said, “Am I already hallucinating?”

“I don’t think so,” The rat king said, before he patted himself several times, “I surely hope not.”

“Do you have a name?” The human asked.

“Charlemagne, friend,” The rat offered a handshake, “You?”

“Lonceré,” He took it, “Friend. How long have you lived down here?”

“Oh, twenty or so years. It actually gets quite lonely, only talking to yourself.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.”

Chapter Text

“We still have a week until we reach Tanendille,” Paracelsus informed the crew from the quarter-deck, as part of their new morning meetings, “Good news is, looking at this newspaper, for some reason the marines are keeping their distance.”

“Any reason for that?” Garland asked.

“Seems the whole country’s in disarray,” He flipped the page, “Seems a shame for one of the founding members of the Union.”

“Well how do you feel about it?” Gareland sipped her coffee, “You said you’re half Cartesian, right?”

“I have no particular attachment to the place,” He waved off her question, “Never even been there, but my friend said it was lovely. Come to think of it, that’s probably why the sea’s so empty. No marine patrols means people probably aren’t risking the voyage.”

“Good for us though?”

“Good for us though,” The captain cleared his throat, “I’m going to go do some reading - as you were.”

—

April twenty-fifth, 1733. Cartesia was now coming into sight over the horizon, and all aboard the Gale were anxious for their arrival. Before they reached the dock, however, they were hailed by flag by the Union ship the Bête.

“May I speak to the captain?” The marine captain, a tall man with octopus tentacles for legs asked. With every word, his long, curly mustache bounced to and fro.

“I am he.” Paracelsus responded.

“I don’t recommend making port here right now.” The captain looked over the whole of the deck.

“Sorry, is it closed?”

“Not closed at all, but Tanendille’s a bit… chaotic right now, you see?” He gestured toward the city, which was useless at the distance they sat.

“I know, but my mother lives here,” Paracelsus pointed to the mast, “And as you can see, we really can’t get around too well.”

“Fair point. Just know the Union can’t guarantee the safety of the place right now.” He warned.

“I will certainly keep that in mind, Captain…?”

“Bonaparte, Jean-Baptiste.”

“Patrick. Thanks for the advice, Captain Bonaparte.”

“Good luck then, Patrick,” Baptiste signaled to lower the hailing flag, “You’ll need it.”

“Shouldn’t they have arrested us?” Tariq asked, dumbfounded.

“The head marine, the big bear who’s after us?” The captain prompted, “He’s a Lieutenant. By all means, he shouldn’t even be captaining his ship, I doubt his superiors even know about his activities.”

“How do you know so much about the structure of the marines?” The helmsman continued.

“My sister’s an admiral,” Paracelsus said as though it were the most casual thing in the world, “Plus I was… briefly involved with the revolutionaries.”

“You failed to mention your sister is an admiral?” Serpacinno balked, “Vice, rear?”

Paracelsus looked around awkwardly, “Fleet, although that was only a temporary, wartime position during the Third Campaign.”

“Fleet Admiral?” Serpacinno shouted, “Third Campaign?”

“I’ll tell you all about it some time,” He promised, “For now, we need to dock. All hands, gather!” Everyone gathered round, “I know we didn’t get to stay overnight in Bataine, so I’ve decided to extend our shore leave here. We’ll be staying for two weeks.” The crew, Serpacinno especially whooped and hollered, “Other than a well-earned rest, we only have two objectives here: sell all the gold and gems we got in Bataine, and get the mast repaired.”

“Parace?” Gareland asked, “Me and the crew were talking, and,” She looked to the others for support, “We need to hire a cook. No offense, but your cooking is nothing to write home about.”

“And yours is better?” Paracelsus asked.

“No, it isn’t,” She admitted, “Which is why we need a cook.”

“Alright, I’ll find a cook.”

The whooping and hollering resumed as they came into port, and the mood was cheery as they tied up the ship and the captain handed the dock-worker the money. Shortly thereafter, they left the dock itself and saw the magnificence of the city. Whereas Baitane’s natural landscape, with a circular harbor that increased in steepness from the center, was its main attraction, here the buildings were the focus. They were tall, constructed of stone and tightly packed together, each house sharing at least two walls with a neighbor, and the businesses were all vibrant and chic.

Unlike the buildings, however, most of the people were dressed in worn, faded clothes made of simple materials, a far cry from the beauty of the architecture. The ones that weren’t, the ones that donned fittingly fashionable, bright pastels were few in number, and the ones that were there looked down on the plebeians.

“Hoy!” A female voice, belonging to one of the aforementioned plebeians apparently, shouted, “Strangers!” The two most notable things about her were her long, honey blonde hair which only parted briefly in the center so her face stuck through, which otherwise fell down to her lower knees, and the grip she had on her sword, which was strangely polished and well-kept, clued the crew in to her intentions.

“Hoy to you as well,” Paracelsus started toward her in a friendly manner, but stopped when she pointed her sword forward at his neck, “Sorry, do I offend?”

“I challenge you to a duel, stranger.” She so helpfully informed him.

He lightly pushed the tip of the sword down with his index finger, “Might I inquire as to why? We just got here.”

“Her hand,” She pointed to Serpacinno, “In marriage.”

“Me?” Serpacinno asked, “We’re not even married! And besides,” She crossed her arms and huffed, “You’ll find his sword skills lacking.”

“Oh? So you will duel for your hand?”

“No!” Serpacinno shouted, offended, “I’m not a prize to be won.”

“Of course not,” The fencer came over and grabbed her hand softly, “You are… a beautiful flower, or a gentle breeze that restores.”

Serpacinno chuckled, even if her face was annoyed and her arms were still crossed, “I’ve already spent enough time around him,” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder to Paracelsus, “To know when someone’s all talk.”

“I take offense to that,” The captain interjected, “I’m not all talk. Half talk, maybe, but certainly at least half action. Anyway, Serpacinno, best of luck with your m-”

“Shhh,” The fencer interrupted him harshly, “The morning announcement is starting.”

After she said that, the mice, mostly black save for the white, skull-like pattern on their heads, all stopped moving simultaneously. Then, they stood on their hind legs as though possessed. Everyone stopped what they were doing, and the high-class were even temporarily nonplussed by the presence of the sackcloth masses. The most notable thing, to the captain, was the voice they all spoke in.

“Bonjour, Tanendille! I hope you’ve slept well. First order of business: the Contre-Force have begun amassing arms at the Pont-de-Monjour, Musée Mondial, and Bâtiment de Jour. I, personally, advise avoiding the northern quarter for now.

On the Bohemians, they’ve been gathering a stockpile of their own, seemingly in preparation for their Gala, which as a reminder, happens this Saturday.

As for the government, I don’t think I even have to say anything, do I? After all, they’re so transparent about what’s happening, aren’t they? Isn’t that why the Union refuses to even touch Cartesia at the moment?”

The announcement continued for some time, but had transitioned to a lighter-tone, and truth be told, most weren’t keenly interested in the inner workings of a fromagerie or that a certain Professor Doyle was going to publish a paper soon.

“Tch,” The fencer clicked her tongue, “I have to go now, here,” She handed the target of her affections a visiting card, “I’m not giving up.”

“Congrats on your engagement,” Paracelsus walked past Serpacinno’s shocked-still form with a clap on her shoulder, “Let’s find lodgings, unless you’d like to stay with your lady friend.”

“Is it just me,” Gareland whispered to Tariq, “Or is he jealous?”

“I have to agree with you, it does seem that way.”

“What are you two lazing about back there for?” Paracelsus asked irritably, “Get a move on.”

The two younger crewmembers exchanged a knowing look and a giggle at that.

—

“Any leads?” The voice asking came from a high-pitched, refined sort of woman. Said woman was sitting at a desk in a room where all the blinds were closed shut, and because of this, the person she was talking to couldn’t see her face.

“Sorry madam,” Her deputy replied, “We think we know the speaker, but we still can’t locate him.”

“Well, who is he?” She asked, and the little bit of light pouring in from the doorway allowed the subordinate to see her cross her hands above her desk.

“We believe it’s Lonceré Dominguém, Mayor Montpellier.”

The woman at the desk sighed heavily, “Of course it is. If there’s nothing else, you’re dismissed.”

Lonceré Domingué was already a known political dissident. His writings were a mixture of his own delusional ramblings superimposed onto the structure of society, and his own unique political rantings, a philosophy he called Cooperative Industrialism. For a long time it was easy enough to ignore him, his open-secret association with the revolutionaries had made him unpalatable to most, but recent civil unrest meant he had gained quite some popularity, and they’d confiscated his manifesto more times then they could count.

The mayor pinched her temples, for she could feel a headache coming on. For whatever reason, Lonceré had maintained a three-way stalemate between the three factions in the city.

“Coffee, Madam Mayor?” A humanoid entity, save for the fact that it was brightly glowing, manifested itself beside the mayor.

“Merci, Copain,” She laid her head down on the desk, “And tell them to douse the candles, it’s too bright.”

“As you wish, Madam Mayor.” With that, Copain departed to fulfill his orders.

—

“Gentlemen, ladies!” A man slammed his fist on his podium, “Why are we allowing our petty differences to divide us?” He waited a moment, using his arms to prompt the audience to respond, which they never did, “We can’t allow them to divide us, because what makes us the same? Hmm?”

“No Wealth, No Health!” The people shouted back in unison. For all the differences between them, be it race, gender, or anything else, they managed to come together under their leader, Bordeaux.

“No Wealth, No Health indeed!” He shouted, regaining their attention, “And what are we going to do about it?”

“March on the Château!” They responded more emboldened than ever.

“Right, but the issue -” He pulled out one of the mimic mice, which was flailing and struggling in his grip, “Is the man controlling these. Domingue may be a great theorist, but preventing us from taking action? Unacceptable!”

“Unacceptable!” The crowd roared back.

The speaker put the mouse down, and stabbed it, “So - here’s our new directive. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to get him on our side, or kill him!” The crowd shouted once again, but more nondescriptly, without care for any specific language, “Very good! Ladies, gentlemen, au revoir, et bonne chance!”

With that, the crowd was dismissed to their duties.

—

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Tariq asked Paracelsus, now that they were split up from the women.

“What do you mean?” He asked back, “I’m fine.”

“You’re bouncing your elbow on your knee,” It was true, the repeated thud sounds definitely were annoying to anyone in earshot, “Is it because of that, er… D’Aubigny?”

“No!” Paracelsus snapped back, “Sorry for shouting. No, it’s not because of D’Aubigny.”

“So you are mad?” The helmsman was not letting up.

“I think I recognize the voice in those announcements,” He finally gave in, “I thought he was dead.”

“You sure that’s it?” Tariq grinned, poking his captain in the side, “You did seem pretty jealous earlier.”

“Now you’re gossiping?” Paracelsus tried to regain control of the conversation by calming his motions and taking a lighter, joking tone, “I’m not jealous. I’ll admit that she was right - Serpacinno is certainly beautiful, but…”

“But…?”

“Cheeky man: but nothing.” The captain turned for a second, but quickly turned back, “And besides, don’t think I don’t see how you look at Gareland.”

“Hoy!” D’Aubigny’s voice, which was becoming annoyingly familiar, sounded. Following her voice was her herself, with her arm wrapped around the shoulders of a woman, “How fortuitous of a meeting.”

“Fortuitous?” He asked, “I’d say the odds of us meeting, given how many bars there are here, is more astronomical than anything.”

“Fated by the stars?” D’Aubigny wasted no time in ordering a drink of her own, “A poet after my own heart.”

The irony was not lost on either of them.

Chapter Text

“Oh, try this,” D’Aubigny had ordered for Paracelsus, a green type of alcohol referred to as “absinthe”, “It’s stronger than any whisky.”

“I’m more one for rum,” Paracelsus swirled the liquid around, “Although truth be told I’m not one for liquor, per se,” He took an exploratory sniff, “Still, down she goes.” He toasted, throwing back the drink, “Tariq?”

Tariq maintained a sour, unpleasant face. He’d never drank anything so strong before, and his body desperately wanted to purge the disgusting substance poured into it. Still, he persisted, and after some time, managed to sigh without gagging.

“I’m alive,” Tariq confirmed with a thumbs up, “Although - that may be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“The worse it tastes,” D’Aubigny said, “The better it works.”

“She’s right, Tariq,” Paracelsus had another, “Invariably, the stronger an alcohol is, the more noxious.” He turned to address the fencer, “To our new friend… I suppose.”

“Mirabel,” D’Aubigny took her arm off her companion for long enough to give her hand out, “I’m sure you saw, but I’m Sally D’Aubigny. You seem like a decent man, and we both love the same woman.”

“My only love is the Current,” Paracelsus retorted, but still shook her hand, “She’s the most beautiful lady there is.”

“Not so beautiful with her mast down,” She laughed, but the look on the captain’s face suggested he wasn’t taking it so humorously, “But I get it. There’s no accounting for taste.”

“I don’t know if I’ll take that from a woman who has to swim through mice to get about her city.”

D’Aubigny put a finger up like she meant to retort, but shrunk back, shrugged, and downed her own glass, “Sorry, sorry, I realize our sense of humor is not quite the same, hm? I meant no offense.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Paracelsus had his arm looped around Tariq, who was barely holding it together, “I should be escorting this young man back, now,” He stood, “Up we go, Tariq.”

“Not so fast, Captain,” D’Aubigny leaned backward on the bar, arms akimbo, “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The captain groaned at the annoyance. He disliked the woman as a matter of course, although he would have great difficulty articulating why, and he already felt he knew the nature of her question, “Do tell.”

“Mirabel,” Sally made a pouty face, addressing her companion, “Please, a moment alone, Dear?”

Mirabel kissed her teeth and sighed, but nonetheless complied; immediately thereafter, Paracelsus said, “If I may: Why do you chase Serpacinno? You seem to have a woman already.”

“Mirabel?” Sally asked like it was a nonsensical question, “She’s a… Geneviève, you know?” He clearly did not, “Fun, but not per se, a woman of the family.”

“I’ll ask later,” He digressed, “Regardless - what did you want to ask me?”

“Is there room aboard your ship?” She asked.

“You’re serious?” He inquired, “You a cook?” She shook her head, “A writer?” She shook again, “A musician or navigator? Maybe a quartermaster?” She repeated the action again, and were it not for his bias, the captain might have found the way her hair swung around amusing, “Well, is there any particular talent you possess?”

“I’ve never once slept,” She claimed, “Never once, ever since I was born. I don’t think I can sleep if I try.”

“Alright, well, I’ll think about it,” He absolutely would not, “That’s a sailor’s swear, off we go Tariq.”

—

Lonceré leaned against the wall of the crypt, spinning a skull around in his hands. He kept doing so for a few minutes, until he decided the bread he’d left to fry on the skillet was sufficiently browned and crisped. Then, he applied a generous serving of blueberry jam Charlemagne had secured for him to the toast. Finally, to top it off, he placed a few slices of bacon to complete the sandwich.

“Just occurred to me,” He handed the sandwich to the mouse he’d learned to recognize as a friend, “I have no idea what’s safe for mice to eat.”

“Not to worry, friend,” Charlemagne took the sandwich and licked his lips, “Us mice are of a strong constitution.” He took a bite, and took only a small break to process the flavor. Once he had truly grasped its depth, he gobbled up the rest of the meal with gusto.

“I’m glad you like it,” Lonceré replied, more slowly eating his own, “Although there’s nothing very special about it.”

“Maybe not to you,” The king replied, “But I’ve only ever had half-eaten, discarded and cold food down here.”

“I guess that’s true.” The chef was shaking as he ate his food, “Say, next time, please get opium. I’m going through withdrawal here.”

“My fellow, you haven’t heard? The mayor’s outlawed smoking. She knows you’re the one behind the speeches, probably trying to flush you out.”

“And how many ships have docked here recently?” He asked, “One?”

“One, indeed,” The king replied, “Today, as a matter of fact. I’ll have the mice search it, then?”

“Please do, dear God.” The cook threw his arm over his head, which was now some weird combination of burning up and freezing cold.

—

“Halt -” A commanding voice cried out, stunning Serpacinno and Gareland, who were presently engaged in a casual jaunt, “By order of Paladin Roland!”

The women reacted to the sound of wings beating and wind whipping first, as he descended from above on his large, golden wings. The first thing they visually reacted to was his sheer size, he must’ve been at least six-foot-seven, and potentially as tall as six-foot-nine. To add to that, he was fittingly wide, and the extra width added by his armor (made of a beautiful combination of white and gold steel, all wrapped in a blue cloak) made him appear to take up the whole, narrow street.

Almost instinctively, Serpacinno reached for her sword. She found herself unable to, and her blood ran cold when she realized that she was completely immobilized. The paladin walked around them twice, inspecting them and disarming them before he released his hold on them.

“Give me my sword.” Serpacinno immediately demanded.

“I should think not,” Roland replied, “It was plainly written on your face what you intended to do with it.”

Gareland put her hand on her companion’s shoulder, to tell her that the fairy should take the lead, “Sorry, Paladin, but think of it from our perspective: We had no idea who you were.”

“Wait,” They could almost feel Roland squint behind his mask, “Miss Ustdottir?” He paralyzed them again, “Consider yourself under arrest.”

“Gareland?” Serpacinno used all her strength to turn her head to the side, “What have you gotten us into?”

“You may have fooled the Union’s lawmen, fairy,” He approached with two sets of iron cuffs, “But we Cartesians know better than to trust a Morrelonian.”

Luckily for Gareland and Serpacinno, they were provided relief shortly. Said relief came in the form of three people, all dressed in makeshift black clothing who jumped out of windows from the surrounding houses. They all descended upon the paladin, swords pointed downwards for the kill. One shouted for his death as they dropped, but his prediction would be turned upon him as he was met with the paladin’s sword, now upturned, skewering the assassin by entirely natural means.

“Shit!” The other two cried, having missed entirely. Then, they tried to turn tail and run but were stopped in their tracks by the paladin. With his attention turned, however, Serpacinno and Gareland made a run for it, racing as fast as they could from him.

“What the fuck was that about?” Serpacinno, enraged, grabbed Gareland by the collar and snarled at her.

“Don’t act surprised,” The fairy shot back, “You knew who I was when you let me on the ship.”

Serpacinno ran her tongue along her cheek; it was true, and angry as she was she couldn’t refute it. She felt a nagging feeling in the back of her head: the same one she’d had when they separated in Bataine, in fact. She felt like the only choice was to flee. Every muscle in her body told her it was going to be impossible to float under view of someone like Roland, and the ease with which he dispatched of the people after his life was unsettling, to say the least.

“Serpacinno!” Gareland slapped her across the face to bring her back in control of herself, “We need to leave!”

“We’re not done.” The gorgon glared at her short friend, before running away in a huff.

—

“Alright, down you go, lad.” Paracelsus placed Tariq upon his bed, before he went to go over to his. As he was unlacing his boots, he heard a knock at the door, “It’s unlocked.”

In came the rest of his crew, huffing puffing like they’d sprinted the whole way there. He let them catch their breath for a few minutes, doubled over and clutching the wall for support.

“What’s got you two in such a hurry?” The alchemist asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Apparently, the little fairy is more shady than I thought,” The first mate maintained her angry glare, “Some knight or something tried to arrest us. Nicked a favorite sword of mine, too.”

“You really didn't put it together?” Paracelsus raised his eyebrow, “You seriously need to inform yourself. Her boss is Lorenzo Dakrine,” Serpacinno didn’t react, “He runs a crime organization in Morrelone, called the Families.”

“That’s not in the papers,” Serpacinno blushed, not having read any such newspapers, “At least none I read.” Her brief embarrassment morphed to a duller rage as she turned to Gareland, “And just so you don’t get any ideas: I’m not forgiving you so soon.”

Gareland bit her tongue; in her mind, she hadn’t explicitly done anything wrong, and the swordswoman’s ignorance was of her own making. Still, in an effort to keep the peace, she said, “I understand. Maybe we should get back to the more pressing matter, though?”

“We’re fine,” Paracelsus replied, “The ‘announcements’, remember? ‘Avoid the northern quarter’. Lucky us, having lodged here.”

“It wasn’t us,” Tariq, half-asleep and barely lucid, “We didn’t choose this hotel.”

“Thank you, Tariq.” He replied with an awkward tone about him, hoping no one would ask any further questions.

“Who did, then?” Gareland, happy to have any other topic to talk about, asked.

He groaned like a child whose parents were scolding him, “The fencer, D’Aubigny or something.”

“How’d you come to meet her again?” Serpacinno, now suddenly interested in the conversation, asked.

“We met her randomly,” He waved his hand dismissively, “While we were drinking. We have some similar tastes and she recommended this place.”

“So that’s the plan, then?” Serpacinno asked, “We just wait a week in this part of the city and hope nothing else endangers us?”

“You’re a fast learner,” Paracelsus made his way to his bed and lied down, with his hands behind his head, “I am open to suggestions, though.”

Serpacinno groaned; that was assuredly a lie. She’d been around him long enough to recognize the different tones of voice she used, and that one meant he was definitely not open to suggestions.

“Well,” Garland broke the somewhat awkward silence, “Is your gift returned to you, Parace?”

“Assuredly not,” He blew a raspberry, “The wound’s also not healing right. I think - I hope it corrects itself with time, I guess we’ll see.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gareland fiddled awkwardly with her hands, the pride at having patched him back up having disappeared and been replaced with a disappointment that she didn’t do it right, “I thought it looked good.” She was now two-for-zero in terms of brightening their spirits.

“Don’t worry about it,” He replied, all too casual for someone whose chest had a hole in it, “I’m not sick, thankfully, and you’re no surgeon.”

“You’re taking it well.” Serpacinno observed.

“As far as I can tell, which admittedly isn’t much, the arrow, or projectile, I suppose, missed my organs and bones.”

Before the conversation could continue, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Chapter Text

Everyone in the room, save Tariq - who was now definitely passed out - grabbed a weapon. Paracelsus was the first to move, walking up the door and putting his ear against it. He didn’t hear any talking, and the shadows in the hallway seemed to indicate it would be one person, anyway.

So, the captain signaled everyone to lower their weapons, even if they maintained their grip on them, then he opened the door. Standing there was a man of a generally unremarkable appearance. He had on something of an exotic suit, a white shirt with a black vest which had a number of yellow and red elements trimmed onto it, which all sat over a pair of black slacks. That was about where his interesting looks ended though, with an average, unassuming face and head of hair - even his build was normal, save for being somewhat lanky.

He wordlessly, with a very slight smile, pulled out an envelope from his coat and handed it to Paracelsus, before saying, with his hand over his mouth, “An official invitation.”

He opened the envelope, holding it far away from his face in case it was some type of attack. His pessimism was unfounded, however, and it really was an invitation of some type. It was, specifically, for the Gala which he’d heard was occurring in some two days.

“There’s no name on this,” Paracelsus pointed out, “Sure you have the right place?”

“Sorry sir,” He covered his mouth again, “This letter was simply addressed to the occupants of this room. No mention of a name.”

“Ominous,” Paracelsus commented, “To whom shall I give my regards?”

“Sorry again, sir, but they wish to retain their anonymity.” He replied, “They do strongly hope you attend, though.”

“Well, I suppose… give your employer my regards.”

“Of course, sir,” He pointed to Serpacinno with his free hand, “And, might I say, that is a nice sword, ma’am.”

“That was odd.” Paracelsus shut the door. The man was clearly a foreigner, but being a foreigner himself he didn’t particularly care.

“Xenepol…” The greeter’s wife, who was kept just a few feet out of sight, started, “I wish you wouldn’t meet with such suspicious characters.”

Said wife was dressed like a mourner, with a black dress and veil on. That was not the most notable thing about her, however, as she stood somewhere between nine and ten feet tall, having to hunch over severely just to fit in the hallway.

“Rian, iubitul meu,” Xenepol put his hands out upside down, which Rian carefully, delicately, joined with her own, “The boss ordered me to.” Rian mumbled something under her breath, quietly like she didn’t want her husband to hear it, “Sorry, I don’t think I caught that one.”

“I said: the boss would be fine if we just killed them instead,” Which was not untrue; their boss was staunchly of the belief of survival of the fittest, “I think I could’ve, too, if I got the jump on them.”

“I’m sure you could’ve,” He kissed her hands with an equal gentleness, like she was a delicate little flower, “But that also means that I had nothing to worry about, right?”

Rian sighed and smiled softly, “You’re right.”

—

“Captain Bonaparte.” Graave saluted, “It’s an honor, sir.”

“Lieutenant,” Bonaparte returned the salute, looking up from his paper, “What brings you this far insea?”

“The Saber’s been authorized for shore leave, as it were; we put it to a vote, and the crew decided here.”

“Curious,” Bonaparte took a pipe he had handy and lit it to give to the Lieutenant, “Surely you’ve heard?”

“I have, sir,” Graave toasted the pipe, “But the standing orders are to not interfere, yes?”

The captain shook his head and chuckled, a grin on his face, “You think you’re the first glory seeker who’s come my way? Denied.”

“I would humbly request you look at me while speaking,” The bearman pulled a long draw, “Sir.”

“My apologies,” Bonaparte put down his things and rested his chin on his hands, which were clasped above the table, “But my standing is unchanged: I cannot ensure the compliance of your crew while maintaining my own post.”

“You’re friends with Captain Gemzar, yes?” He offered, and Bonaparte gave a curious look in return, but nodded nonetheless, “If he were to make the request, would you deny him?”

The captain sighed wistfully, looking out the port window, “I’d trust Jack to keep his crew in line. The last time I saw you, you weren’t even commissioned. You graduated from the shoe, what, six months ago?”

“And yet, despite my inexperience,” Graave offered back, “Captain Gemzar named me as the acting captain while he recovers.”

“Hand me that bottle, Lieutenant,” He pointed to a whisky he’d kept for special occasions, “I’ll need a drink if you’re to be allowed this.”

It took all the lieutenant had to not to crack a grin as he did so, pouring two generous shots for each of them. They clinked the glasses and both downed them in one gulp.

“You are to avoid the northern section of the city, no exceptions” Bonaparte warned seriously, “And above all - should you be contacted by a man named Bordeaux, you will show him the utmost respect.”

“Of course sir,” Graave saluted and made for the door, “And one last thing - Captain Gemzar’s recovering mighty well.”

“To his health,” Bonaparte had another drink, “And to your liberty.”

—

Lonceré woke up the next morning with his hands shaking rapidly. The withdrawal was getting quite serious now, and he knew a few more days without something to keep him going would probably be his end. He rolled over, despite the fact that his whole body was protesting the brutal treatment. And when he finally managed to blearily open his eyes, he discovered he was lying next to a pipe, a note, and a book.

“Thank God,” He lit up the pipe, “Or… Charlemagne.” He quickly eyed the note, giving it a once-over. This was the log kept on the previous owner of this opium. He wasn’t particularly interested, though, and didn’t bother to read through it, far more concerned with feeding his own addiction.

Not like the Living Current was a meaningful name to him, anyway.

—

“En Garde!” The announcer shouted. In response, D’Aubigny held her sword aloft just above the waist, quite low for most fencers. Weirder still, her whole posture had her on the backfoot, waiting for her opponent to make the first move. Her opponent, however, clearly knew this, and only hesitantly approached, one slow footstep after another.

“Scared?” She asked, and her opponent flinched as she stomped forward. With one of their feet in the air, D’Aubigny seized the opportunity and ran forward at superhuman speeds, placing the tip of her foil under his chin.

“First point to D’Aubigny!” The ref announced, much to none of the audience’s surprise. The woman was a good fencer - maybe her technical skill was lacking, but her sheer athleticism (and her speed afforded to her by her gift) allowed her to swiftly dominate most bouts.

“I’ve got you figured out now,” He opponent, some fencer she didn’t even bother to learn the name of, said before the typical sword-salute, “Prepare yourself.”

“En Garde!” The announcement came again, and with it a change of strategy. No longer content to wait around, D’Aubigny charged forward, hoping for an easy score. She clicked her tongue when he managed to snake around her flank with a suspicious, calculated precision. A moment later he was fully behind her, without stepping off the piste and tapped his sword against her back.

“Second point to Montagne!” The ref exclaimed.

“You cheat,” She pointed an accusatory finger, “What trick are you playing?”

“No trick,” He raised his hands in defense, “I just ran through the possibilities in my head - I know everything you might do, now. And besides, weren’t you the one who asked the rules to be relaxed?”

D’Aubigny stubbornly refused to respond, instead crossing swords and returning to her line, waiting for the third “En Garde!”. When the bout began again, she tried to repeat her earlier feint, but Montagne didn’t fall for it and waited for her to commit before making a move himself. They each waited for just a moment, the still air providing the perfect atmosphere to show off the competitive tension between the two of them; then it happened.

At the same time, they both approached and both heard the clink their swords made against each other. They backed off for a moment, and Montage took the initiative, swiping first to her torso, then her chest, then her neck, all of which were parried by D’Aubigny. After the trifold attack had concluded, she readied her own tactic, taking a step back to give herself the runway she needed to slide below and between her opponent’s legs, striking his knees as she passed. Her plan was evidently seen-through, however, because the blade failed to connect when Montagne planted his own into the piste to deflect hers.

“As I said,” Montagne now walked her towards the warning-zone, hoping to ring her out for the final point, “I’ve seen through everything you might do.”

“A wager, then?” She asked, still futile attempting to strike his body, “One last blow. If you can react, you win, if you can’t, I do. Sounds fair?”

He laughed with his full belly, as though the notion that he might lose was an impossibility, akin to a dog growing wings, “I’ll take you up on that.”

So Montagne lowered his stance, allowing his sword to rest near his hips as D’Aubigny raised hers far above her head. If she wanted a chance to win, she needed gravity on her side. She breathed in to steady herself, and after one last second of waiting, she swung downard, with all her strength. Spectators would later recall that her sword almost glowed as it deftly skimmed the surface of her opponent’s blade before crashing down into his chest.

“The third point goes to D’Aubigny!” The ref ran over and grabbed her wrist to raise it in the air, “The winner is D’Aubigny!”

She ripped off her mask in record time, throwing it to the side as her hair fell from its confines around her body like a golden waterfall. She hooted with delight as she shook Montagne’s hand in a sporting fashion, even if her gloating was perhaps unsportsmanlike.

“I apologize, Monty,” She said as she shook his hand, “You could’ve won if you didn’t let me provoke you.”

“We both agreed,” He responded, “I lost, fair and square. But the outcome won’t be the same next time.”

“Mademoiselle,” From the nearby door, someone interrupted the post-match celebration to grab Sally’s attention, “Monsieur Lascu is here to see you.”

“Lascu?” She turned to look, and sure enough he was standing there with his massive wife.

“Indeed ‘tis me,” He said, taking the question literally, “There’s been a development. I delivered the letter, but he seemed hesitant. I doubt he’ll show.”

“That’s it?” She asked, rubbing down her sword, “I’ve already rendered my judgement on that matter.”

“Hold on, hold on,” As she tried to walk past him, needing to attend to her duties, he stepped ahead of her with remarkable agility, “Our payments for this service are inexorably linked, remember? You’re absolutely certain he’ll appear?”

“What’s the matter with you?” She brushed past him, “He’ll appear, I assure you. And we’ll both get paid.”

“Sally -” He started.

Within a moment she had turned to face him and put her sword, which was in fact not as blunt as Xenepol believed a dueling sword would be, on his neck, saying “He will show.”

“Should I get an upperclassman?” One of the others in the hallway asked, seeing the unfolding scene.

“No need,” Sally replied without once taking her eyes off of Xenepol, and especially keeping watch on his wife whose hand was most definitely on a weapon she kept in her bust, “I was just seeing them out.”

Chapter Text

The crew of the Current were out for a walk the morning after their strange visit by Mr. Lascu. Well, currently, they were occupied waiting outside a charter-house. One Paracelsus exited, looking quite pleased with himself and holding a small loculus.

“I’ve set the mast repairs in motion,” He started undoing the clasp on the bag, “And better still -” He produce three small pieces of paper best described as ‘certificates’ declaring that himself, Serpacinno, and Tariq were all part owners of something called ‘The Current Company’, “I’ve got a business charter, legal travel papers and official documentation proving our venture’s legitimacy.”

“Are you forgetting someone?” Gareland asked, noticeably annoyed at her exclusion.

“I’m sorry, I was under the assumption that you’d be disembarking permanently in Morrelone.” The captain answered, “No sense in issuing you a share if you’ll be leaving so soon.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Gareland’s tone was pensive and somewhat somber, and she chewed on her bottom lip as she willed the words out.

“I was under the assumption -” The words felt a bit more forced from Tariq, as though he was trying to force himself to sound more mature, “That Morrelone was our ultimate destination.”

“I guess now’s as good a time as any,” Paracelsus saw all eyes on him; it seemed that Tariq’s misconception was shared by the others, “My dream, or ambition, or whatever you want to call it only starts in Morrelone. When I was a kid, I had a bad habit of reading my sister’s journal. Around the age of thirteen, I became aware of a certain item the marines were searching for.”

“Kósmeidí, yes, you’ve told us.” Gareland urged.

“Yes, Kósmeidí,” He picked up, “They were searching for it for a long time, but never found it. That’s because they shouldn’t be looking for a sword, but six pieces of a sword. Each at the center of a different shell.”

“Wait,” Serpacinno interjected, “I’ve been following you for two months because of this ridiculous story? I thought you were joking.”

“I know how it sounds, trust me,” He stated, “And I won’t blame you if you decide to desert. But allow me to at least say this - once we get to Ashland, and we get the piece that Dakrine has, I can prove the existence of the others, I swear it.”

“My answer hasn’t changed,” The ever-stalwart Tariq replied, putting his hand forward in the center of the group, “I’ll see it through.”

“If I’m to leave out of Morrelone, then I might as well stay until then.” Gareland put hers in as well.

“I think it goes without saying I’ll be there.” Paracelsus added his own hand to the mix, “Serpacinno?”

She stood there for a few seconds, evidently pondering her options. Please, Paracelsus found himself involuntarily thinking, Please put your hand on mine. I’m not ready for you to leave me. After a few more seconds, she rolled her eyes and puffed, before she too joined the gesture, and the group was all resettled.

“Good, now -” He grabbed the shoulders of the two people whose feet actually touched the ground and dragged them into an alleyway, before Gareland swiftly joined them, “Marines. I recognize the woman from Iralo.”

“I thought they weren’t getting involved?” Serpacinno asked.

“Look at their clothes,” He pointed out, “Not in standard navy dress, they’re on leave. I guess they just so happen to be vacationing here.”

“Just so happen?” Tariq asked, peeking his head around the corner, “I can’t help but feel like it was deliberate.”

“That’s what I was getting at.” The captain confirmed, to which his helmsman dumbly nodded.

Just then, the announcements started up for the morning and the mice stood at attention, all mindlessly repeating the words they’d been fed, “Bonjour! First, to the captain of the Living Current, I extend my thanks for your opium. Of course, should anyone wish to donate, simply leave it on your windowsill -”

Paracelsus didn’t bother to listen past that. Whoever was behind this had stolen from him, although he didn’t really care for opium, he kept it for medicinal reasons, and moreover, it was the simple principle of the thing. Now whoever this was had made it personal, and Paracelsus silently vowed his reprisal.

—

“Madame Mayor,” Copain shook his longtime friend by the shoulder, trying to rouse her from her sleep, “I believe I may have some information for you.”

“Hmm?” She yawned heavily, throwing her arms above her head within the dark confines of her office, “Oh, Copain. What is it?”

“The announcements this morning mentioned a ship - the Living Current.” He explained, “Specifically, Monsieur Domingue expressed his gratitude for their opium. Perhaps they’re connected?”

“Speculation?” She asked, taking the cup of tea her assistant had so graciously offered, “I can’t say I’m impressed. Though, I suppose investigating it can’t hurt. See if you can’t find a crewman, please.”

“Of course,” Copain started to the door, but stopped just shy, “You have a public appearance later, shall I send someone with your medication?”

“Yes - Merci, Copain.” Even after thirty-three years of living with her gift, she still had the tendency to treat him with a certain level of respect. Respect some would say was undeserving, given the fact that he never requested it, but respect that she felt he was nonetheless entitled to as both her assistant and friend.

—

“Lieutenant Graave,” Bordeaux exclaimed, “Good to meet you. When I heard marines were landing here, I admit I was surprised. How did you get Jean-Baptiste to agree?”

“Not one to mince words, eh?” Graave responded, “I appreciate it. I normally serve under a close personal friend of Captain Bonaparte’s.”

“Normally?” Bordeaux leaned back, “What happened?”

“Routine diplomatic mission in Terrinia,” He responded, “We thought it was routine, I should say. Turned out there was a crazed gunman who tried to shoot the governor of…” He paused for a moment as he tried to force the words back into his mind, “Pinare. The Captain intercepted the bullet and the assassin was arrested. He’s off medical leave in just two months.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” The only thing betraying Bordeaux’s words was the smile he bore - wide and wicked, with plenty of teeth and a lack of eye, “The world always needs more good marines.”

“Good marines, sir?” The lieutenant asked.

In response, Bordeaux chuckled and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a lengthy scar running down the entirety of his arm. It was a pale red, angry and pulsing and looked fresh, “Admiral John Steele’s gift to me. You see, I got into a bit of a spat with the law when I was younger.”

“I’m… sorry to hear that. Would you mind?” He inspected the scar. Definitely fresh, contrary to what his words would indicate, “It still looks new.”

“Well, never let it be said I didn’t get anything out of it.” Bordeaux, like a madman, pulled a needle out from inside his jacket and ripped the scar open, clenching his teeth with a familiarity that could only come from repeated exposure. When the whole job was done, he turned his arm topsy-turvy, and a sickening amount of blood fell out. It pooled on the ground, like a red river that flowed towards itself, coalescing to form a shortsword which was sickeningly crimson, “He put a weapon inside of me, with no regard for my safety.”

Graave tentatively picked up the sword after Bordeaux waved his hand to it, “It looks normal. What interest did the Admiral have in it?”

“The wounds caused by it never heal.” Bordeaux reclaimed the sword and placed it against his arm. Sensing its home, the weapon returned into his arm, even going so far as to fix the wound and leave another fresh scar.

“And you say he implanted this in you, without your consent?” The bearman asked, leaning in.

“I suppose I did technically choose it,” Bordeaux said, “Although the other choice was execution. Not much of a choice, that one.”

Graave, truth be told, didn’t believe it. Nothing in particular was suspicious about his story or mannerisms, but his own beliefs about the marines informed the lieutenant of only their good side. He was only a lieutenant, not even a commander yet, and as such lacked the experience to truly tell if his story was true. Still, he had a duty, and bowed his head as such, “On behalf of the Union, I offer my apologies.”

“No need,” Bordeaux waved him off, “It’s an old wound. And besides, I’m a successful businessman now. I don’t have much to complain about in my life.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Graave pushed off his knees to stand, “If you don’t mind - I’d like to start my shore leave now, as it were, and relax.”

“Of course, of course,” Bordeaux handed him a small bag, “A token of our friendship.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please, call me L’Orange.”

—

“No.” Serpacinno said, crossing her arms, “I’m not letting you go.”

“I’m the Captain,” Paracelsus replied, indignantly, “Unless you’ve forgotten?”

“And I’m the first mate,” She pushed a finger into his chest, “That means you have to trust my judgement sometimes. The Current is in enemy territory now. We agreed we won’t go to it until we’re ready to depart.”

“I know who’s behind the announcements here!” He shouted a little louder than intended, “I swear - I have heard his voice. I know he’s from Cartesia, and I know his love of opium. If I can get a message to him, we can figure this all out.”

“What do you care for ‘figuring it out’?” Her words were punctuated by her own fingers curling and unfurling repeatedly, “This has nothing to do with us.”

“I know, I know,” He rubbed his hair, a nervous habit he’d picked up from his sister, “Tariq!” He snapped and pointed to him, “You can do it without being seen.”

“Me?” He pointed to himself, “I can only stay invisible for maybe ten minutes.”

“I can’t become invisible at all.” Serpacinno said.

“Me neither.” Gareland and Paracelsus, respectively, said, followed by the captain’s “Then it’s settled. Besides, I thought you were all-in.”

“Fine,” Tariq slapped himself lightly on either side of his face, “I’ll go. What am I looking for?”

“Opium. Stand just abaft the mainmast, grab the third plank. It has what we need. Godspeed.” Paracelsus gave a sarcastic salute and sent him on his way.

“You think he’ll be fine?” Serpacinno asked, watching him depart.

“You worry too much,” Paracelsus replied, going back to his general sight-seeing, “He says he’ll be back, he’ll be back.”

“What makes you so sure?” She inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“I suppose the same thing that inspired you to believe in me.” He cracked a smile seeing his partner’s exasperated, cringing reaction.

They were about to resume their lackadaisical walk about town, when all of a sudden, a glowing, humanoid entity appeared in front of them, and introduced itself, “Greetings, Paracelsus. You may call me Copain, please come with me.”

“Sorry, why exactly?” He raised a fair point.

“The mayor wishes to speak with you,” He urged, “Please, we haven’t much time. I insist you come with me.”

“I suppose I’ll be back, too, then,” He saw the look on Serpacinno’s face, “Seeing as it is so urgent.”

“Please step back, mademoiselle,” Copain said, putting a halting hand up, “I know who you two are. I’ve simply decided Mr. Hoeinheim’s cooperation is more important than your arrest.”

So, the captain left with the companion, once more leaving the two women (who were not on the best of terms at the moment), alone. Gareland was the first to speak up, asking “His last name is Hoenheim?”

Before Serpacinno could answer, though, Sally came up to her, “Sorry, fairy, can I borrow your lady-friend for a spell?”

“Huh?” Serpacinno sputtered at her arm being grabbed and her being pulled along. She wrested control back from her assailant, “Hold on. Gareland, doesn’t it feel like we’re intentionally being split up?”

“I can assure you I mean no harm,” Sally urged her along, “The fairy can handle herself.”

“For what it’s worth,” Gareland said, “I doubt she’s lying.”

Chapter Text

“Tea?” The mayor asked, gesturing to the cup on the table. Paracelsus found himself seated very near to a soapbox the mayor had either just stepped down from or was preparing to step on.

“Thank you, Miss Mayor,” He sipped the tea, “Madame Mayor, I meant.”

“No problem,” She replied cheerily, in the way only a public servant could fake, “But to the matter at hand - Do you know a man named Lonceré Domingue?”

He sipped his tea again in thought. He considered lying briefly, but decided it would probably be best to stay on her good side, “That’s an understatement. We worked together for three years.”

“Oh? That’s good to hear,” She leaned in closer, a wicked smile on her pale visage, “So you wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

“No idea,” He lied, surmising the mayor’s intentions were probably less than friendly, “Of course I’d like to see him, but I was hoping you knew how.”

The glowing one immediately snapped his view to Paracelsus after that, and his gaze remained firm on the captain, analyzing the veracity of his statement.

“That’s a shame,” Montpellier said, eyeing her friend’s gaze, “Of course, there’s a reward if you do come across him.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Paracelsus said, standing up, “And thank you for the tea.”

Once he was out of earshot, the mayor curled her fingers to bid Copain come closer, and she whispered in his ear, “I’m convinced. Follow him.”

The captain of course knew their intentions. It was painfully obvious they were going to make him give up Lonceré’s location, one way or another. So, once he was far enough away from the stage, he broke off into a sprint, only occasionally throwing a look over his shoulder to see if he was still being pursued. When it became obvious there was no outrunning the entity, he ducked into an alleyway. There, he used all the strength he could muster, pushing through the immense pain in his chest to transform the brick walls on either side of the street so that they formed another wall, covering him from view.

Secure in his own privacy, he leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the ground, trying desperately to force the pain away. The wound had technically closed, but it was so easily-agitated that even the slightest contraction or stretch of his torso, or use of his gift, was enough to send him reeling.

It made him feel helpless.

He huffed and puffed for what felt like hours, but in reality, must’ve only been a few minutes before the pain finally subsided. He stood back up, thankful he had already made hand-holds he could use to climb over the wall instead of forcing his way back out.

“This will go much easier if you cooperate,” Copain, who was waiting on the other side, informed, “Otherwise, I will be forced to arrest you.”

He weighed his options. Flight probably wasn’t an option - Copain, whatever he was, seemed to not tire, fighting in his condition was probably impossible, and as much as he trusted his gift of gab, he wasn’t going to fabulate his way out of it. Just as he pondered a fake surrender, he was saved, seemingly, by the street falling into a pitch-black darkness which blotted out the street.

“Come with us!” Someone shouted in the darkness. It was accompanied by a gloved hand piercing through the inky black and pulling Paracelsus by the wrist, “What’s your name, friend?” After being extricated from the dark, he found himself in the company of a man and a woman, both dressed in rather unassuming clothes, running away from their creation, which hopefully still contained Copain.

“Just call me Ellis,” He lied, matching their pace, “Who are you?”

“We’re part of the resistance,” The man said, “Any enemy of his is a friend of ours.”

—

Tariq walked through the streets, nervous. Nervous, mostly, at being on his own; he’d grown too accustomed to the company of the Current’s crew and now found himself uncharacteristically lonely.

He also had evidently stumbled into the wrong part of town, or right, depending on how you looked at it. There was, at just about every yard along the street, another whore looking to swindle anyone out of their money. He certainly would’ve been an easy target, a young man with no experience and (thanks to Serpacinno selling the treasure they’d stolen) a hefty purse, were it not for his firm resolve to complete the objective he’d been assigned.

A resolve which was quickly melting away, as a woman came up to him and wrapped her delicate, slender arm around his chest, “Tell me, what’s such a handsome man doing all by himself?”

“I’m…” He sputtered, his mind trying to come up with a response, “Just, uh…” He continued faltering, his forehead sweating profusely as she snaked her arm upward, “Out for a walk.”

“Oh?” She put her other hand on her lips, a scandalous expression on her face, “I don’t suppose I could convince you to come with me?”

“No, sorry, I -” He balked when he saw the Peeares, although he didn’t know the angel’s name, also making conversation with a woman of the night. He immediately disappeared, cloaking himself and dashing off, as far away from the marine as he could.

When he finally stopped, dropping the invisibility, he realized he was lost. He’d run so fast, and with no sense of direction that he was completely misplaced. He probably looked mad, snapping his head rapidly in all directions, trying to find his way back to the port. He considered asking for directions, but he didn’t want to add to his insane image, so he took off again, in a direction that felt right.

Luck be a lady, He thought, and his prayers were answered. The port was indeed in the direction he’d gone running, and the Current’s repairs were already underway, with shoremen pulling up the mainmast.

“Hello!” He hailed, stepping on the gangway, “Or, hoy!” He corrected with a wave.

“Hoy?” One of them, probably the boss, asked, more than said, “Have you business on the ship?”

He produced the share from his pocket, “I’m the helmsman,” He stated plainly, “Just here to grab something for the captain.”

“Apologies, sir,” The assumed boss replied, “Just wanted to confirm.”

Tariq just gave him a half-hearted wave as he went to work, recalling the instructions. Something about the mainmast and being “abaft” it. He turned over his shoulder, “Excuse me, do any of you know what ‘abaft’ means?”

“In front.” One of them replied, without taking his eye off the job.

Tariq gave him his silent gratitude before stepping in front of the mast and counting out three steps. Was it three steps, He wondered, Or three planks? He decided on both, taking the first plank his third step landed at, and the third one that also could’ve been the answer. Now it was just a matter of getting back without detection.

He actually felt pretty satisfied with himself, even if he had lost his cool temporarily, this mission had gone with no major hitches, “Hello, helmsman.”

It was the Taylor woman, that much he recognized. “Hello -” He left his jaw hanging open, trying to conjure a retort, before he limply gave up the prospect.

“Who do you think you are?” She marched towards him with all the anger of a sea-captain freshly marooned, “Waltzing about here like a free man.”

“I am a free man,” He replied, “You failed to arrest me in Iralo, and I know you can’t do anything to me here.”

Taylor clicked her tongue in annoyance and licked her teeth for a similar reason, “That’s true,” She conceded, “But I’m warning you - The Lieutenant will find your captain, and he’ll arrest him.” She saw the taller man start to speak, and cut him off, “If you feel wronged by that, petition for his release. I’m sure the courts will see it your way.”

Taylor felt cocksure after that, even going as far as smirking and crossing her arms over her chest, before Tariq replied, “Should I remind you Captain is a higher rank than Lieutenant? I very much doubt he’ll get caught.”

Taylor pointed angrily at him, but took a deep breath, “No, no, I’m not doing this,” The smug look on Tariq’s face certainly made it hard, though, “I’m a marine, I’m better than this.” She resumed pointing at him as she walked away, “But be warned - Lieutenant Graave will catch Paracelsus. You can count on it.”

Yes, Tariq thought, nodding confidently at nothing as the marine walked away, I must look like a lunatic.

—

“What’s so fuckin’ important?” Serpacinno asked, arms crossed over her chest.

“I like this feisty side of you,” Sally flirted, much to the other woman’s irritation, “But seriously, does there need to be a reason?”

“If you’re gonna be evasive, I’m leaving.” She turned around, unwilling to waste any more time.

“Sorry, sorry,” The fencer apologized, “Here, consider this,” She reached into her mouth and pulled out a tooth. She folded it open, and took out a small diamond, which she affixed to a band she kept in another tooth, “A declaration of my intention.”

“You’ve already declared your intention,” The first mate scoffed, brushing her off, “I’m not interested.”

“At least come to the gala tomorrow?” She asked, grabbing Serpacinno’s hands, “Give me your answer then.”

Serpacinno wanted to shout that she’d already given her answer, but it seemed Sally ran away as fast as possible, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. So instead, she just stood there blankly, thinking: What the fuck?

—

“LJ!” Gareland put her hand over her chest, startled at the tapping on her shoulder.

“Gareland!” A tall, skinny man greeted her. He was a hybrid, bearing a strong resemblance to a particularly melanistic fox, with red and black ears, standing tall and proud, which framed his more vulpine head. He quickly wrapped his arms around the fairy in a hug.

“Don’t think I can’t feel that,” Gareland said, producing a small flip-knife she kept on her person - her sword having been left on the ship in favor of discretion, “Retract your claws, mutt. You might kill me, but I’ll spill your intestines on the ground.”

As the words left her mouth, she heard a snarl and had to hold back one of her own. This was the Gareland she tried to hide from the others. The one that made her feel small and helpless, unworthy of the help others tried to offer.

Eventually the fox relented, with a “Sorry, Gareland. I was just excited to see you again.”

“Don’t lie, Lorenzo,” She addressed Junior, “Why are you here? And why did you wait until I was alone?”

“Do you think anyone would know if you died in this backwater little nowhere?” He asked casually, picking something from his teeth.

“I think you’re more than welcome to try,” Her hand was shaking as a dark miasma pooled at her feet, licking at her face, “Or are you frightened?”

“No, no,” He chuckled, and the miasma seemed to dissipate in the street as he walked away, “It’s just a little too public for my tastes.”

“I’ll watch my back,” She warned, “You better watch yours.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” He waved over his shoulder, “As the Cartesians say - au revoir.”

And then, he disappeared into the crowd. Despite his unusual appearance, he had an uncanny talent for hiding out amongst people. But what concerned her more was the question of how he knew where she was. It was a no brainer why he was here - he’d always been jealous of the bond she shared with their adopted father. But he hardly ever left Morellone, let alone been all the way to Cartesia, at least as far as Gareland knew.

I have to go to bed early tonight, She thought, after her heart stopped sounding like a war drum, I have church first thing tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“Ellis, was it?” One of the people from earlier asked Paracelsus, now that they were safe inside what appeared to be a slum-lord’s paradise.

“The one and,” He doubled over to catch his breath, “Only. Wow, you people are athletic.”

They pulled down their hoods and revealed the secret of their athleticism; two brown rabbit ears sprouted from their heads, and it was suddenly all too obvious why they were so quick.

“I’m Anne-Marie Marseille,” The woman of the two replied, “This is my brother - Felix.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintances,” Paracelsus assured, “And, er - thank you for assisting me earlier.”

“As I said,” Felix butt in, “Any enemy of Copain’s is a friend of ours.”

“I think you might be mischaracterizing our relationship,” Paracelsus so eloquently put it, “It was a small disagreement, nothing major.”

“One that led to him threatening to arrest you.” Anne said. Paracelsus sputtered for a moment, trying to come up with a retort, but found himself unable to, “Now the question is - what happened?”

“You understand I’m a bit hesitant, yes?” He chuckled nervously, “I mean, I hardly know you folks.”

Then, getting a good idea, Felix’s eyes widened, and he produced three shot glasses from a cupboard. Digging further in, he found a bottle, nothing high quality, but of a very special make that was sure to turn strangers to friends. He filled each of the glasses to the brim.

The captain blew through his teeth, clearly unsure, but took it nonetheless. It tasted like piss, to be honest, it was clearly some type of poor hooch, “I appreciate the drink,” He threw it down, immediately recognizing that it had been spiked by cocaine, “If you really want to know - I stole a great sum of money from a merchant in Bataine. Poor form got me caught, and he’s trying to hold me until the marines come to pick me up.”

Anne whistled, leaning back after enjoying her own drink, “Damn, not bad. Care to share?”

“Not particularly, no,” He said, laying out a bill, “But I can pay for the drink.”

She shamelessly took the bill, stuffing it into her pocket; it was worth significantly more than all three of their drinks together. “So what brings you to Tannendile?”

“I’m only here temporarily,” He answered, “Just passing through on my way insea.”

“Give it up,” Felix sighed, annoyed, “It’s not going to work.”

“I beg pardon?” The captain asked.

“Anne-Marie,” Felix continued, unabated, “I tell you - it won’t work.”

“We know you’re lying,” The older sister gestured to her ears, “About your name. And about what you were talking about.”

“And if I am?” Paracelsus raised an eyebrow, gripping onto his waistband, which concealed an emergency pepper-box pistol.

“Calm down,” Anne told him, “We’re just interested in mutual cooperation.”

“My name is Paracelsus,” He admitted, still holding the weapon, “Now we know as much about each other as each other.”

—

“You were right, sir,” Farah saluted Graave, “Tariq’s the easiest to get at. He seems to see his captain as some sort of older brother, or perhaps father figure.”

“That’s your professional opinion?” The lieutenant asked sarcastically, and Taylor certainly didn’t appreciate it.

“My apologies, Lieutenant,” She turned her nose up and away, “I assumed you actually wanted to catch them.”

“Hah!” Peeares snorted, “She got you with that one, Lieutenant.”

Graave grumbled, annoyed, but continued on, “Regardless, that fails to provide us with an appropriate approach.”

“Why not just lift him? It wouldn’t be too hard.” The angel suggested.

“We have to obey the captain’s stipulation,” Graave countered, “Even including you two in this is stretching his goodwill.”

“I think the three of us should be sufficient,” Taylor suggested, “At least if we can catch him alone.”

“If catching him alone was guaranteed, we’d have one of them already,” He sighed, this was looking to be a bit more complicated than he thought, “Do we know anything about any of them that might let us guess where they might be?”

The trio sat enraptured in thought, each of them with their own tics. Graave scratched his chin, Taylor tapped her lip, and Peeares sat there blankly. Then Taylor gasped, snapping her fingers.

“The fairy - she’s a devout Paacist, yes?” The other’s eye lit up in recognition, “Can we grab her at the Saturday sermon tomorrow?”

“Seems like a waste to have looked into Tariq then.” Peeares pondered.

“On the contrary,” His superior countered, “I think furthering our psychological profiling of them can only benefit us.”

—

“Is everything in place, Sally?” Allifer, a tall man of a darker complexion, with a greying blonde mane, asked, “I assume you’ve sent out the black letter?”

“Of course, of course,” She thought back to Paracelsus, “I think the people will enjoy it.”

They found themselves at the site of the gala to be held the following day, inspecting the grounds for one final go-about before preparations were to begin. Despite Lonceré speaking of it like it was an ill omen, the event was truly meant as a harmless celebration. Unfortunately, the politics of the city precluded this intent, and as such the organizers were worried about the potential of sabotage.

“I should hope so,” He was drinking directly from a barrel, using both of his strong arms to empty the container into his gullet, “We’re celebrating a great occasion, after all.”

The occasion in question was the recent passing of a referendum, officially recognizing the Bohemian lifestyle, specifically by re-allowing immigration from Gallore, a country to the north of Cartesia. The two nations had long been of a strenuous peace, preferring to stay out of each other’s way, rather than cooperate. Gallore’s recent admission to the Union, however, made their relationship difficult to maintain.

“Yes, yes,” Sally waved him off, “You forget my mother’s from Gallore.”

“I don’t forget,” Allifer lied, “I just want to make sure everything goes well.”

“Alfie,” Sally punched him in the shoulder, “You worry too much.”

“I worry too little,” He shook his head, “There’s so much that could go wrong. The refreshments could spoil, the musicians could strike -”

“And the buildings could collapse,” She added, “Or maybe the ground will open up and we’ll all be swallowed up by the devil.”

“I’m serious, Sally.” He sighed and leaned forward in his seat, putting his face in his hands, “All this stress is gonna make me go gray.”

You are gray, She kept to herself, “It’ll go off without a hitch.” She said.

—

“So, let me get this sorted -” Paracelsus made a gesture with his hand like he was encircling the whole conversation, “The ‘Contre-Force’ is clashing with the government of the city. They seek not to depose the current mayor, but… what, exactly?”

“We wish to weaken her support,” Anne-Marie explained, “So that none, not even the aristocracy or the clergy can enable her re-election.”

“At which point, the obvious front-runner would then be Bordeaux?” He asked, to which she nodded, “For a democratic dispute, it sure seems militant.”

She sighed, pouring herself another drink, “It didn’t start this way. It was always intended to be peaceful.”

“Then what changed?”

“The truth,” She whipped her head around as she quickly downed her second drink, “Is that I’m not qualified to speak on that. All I can say is that if you treat your citizens like dogs, they’ll have to bite back at some point.”

“It’s a shame,” He held his cup out for another drink, which he received speedily, “The mayor seemed like an amicable enough lady.”

“Well, that amiability is what got her elected.” She shrugged, “She promised change - seemed like a real champion of the hero. Then, as soon as she’s elected, she’s come down with some mystery affliction and scarcely leaves her office.”

“Certainly odd.”

“Certainly - but I’d like to swap topics now, if you wouldn’t mind,” The words were more of a demand than a request, “Domingue - where is he?”

“I swear I don’t know -” He put his knuckles against each-other, a common Paacist gesture for sincerity, “But I’m working on it.” The explanation would have to stand for now.

—

“Again.” Serpacinno, after a huff and a puff, said. The Shah, fully realized once more, took up a defensive pose, and the snake woman approached, silver sword aloft and arms covered in minor nicks and cuts. There was no point to training without consequence, after all. And the river made a nice backdrop for it.

When they were just at each other’s range, with the King barely having a longer reach, Serpacinno stopped and appraised her options. She deliberated for but a moment, and feinted a slice from the right, before abruptly changing angles as Bahmen went to block it. It was too late, and she was deflected anyway, followed by her opponent going on the offensive, batting away her defenses before his sword was at her neck.

“Dammit!” She shouted, throwing her weapon to the ground, before recentering herself and picking it back up, “Again.”

Opting not for a feign, but for an overwhelmingly fast strike, she pointed her sword forward and lunged. It was sidestepped, but she anticipated this and twisted her ankles to redirect her momentum. Then, she bore a wicked grin on her face as the silver made contact with his ghostly flesh, and for the first time in the hour they’d been sparring, he recoiled in pain with a hiss.

In response to the sensation, he redoubled his efforts - slicing at her and finally allowing her to truly be on the backfoot. To her credit, she did well against his shamshir, even if he was a bit more nimble, she was at least able to keep up with the current barrage. However, her relative lack of experience meant the Shah was able to pick up on a small gap in her swordplay - any attack on her left flank she was slower to react to.

“Dammit!” She lost her footing as she tried to pivot around his blows, and once more Serpacinno found herself on the ground, sword at her neck, and once more her pride was wounded. Standing there, offering her a hand, was Tariq, of all people. She was thankful regardless, though she would’ve never admitted it, and took it to stand.

“What’re you doing here?” She asked, dusting herself off and dismissing her sparring partner.

“Waiting for the captain.” He replied plainly.

“Course you are,” The swordswoman sighed, “You a queer or something?”

“No,” He chuffed, “My dedication isn’t motivated by romantic interests.”

“You’re even speaking like him.” She muttered under her breath.

“Don’t worry Tariq,” Both of them jumped when they heard Gareland’s voice, the fairy forcing herself to put on a cheery facade, “She’s just wary of competition.”

Before Serpacinno could indignantly reply in the negative, Paracelsus shouted, accompanied on either flank by some type of rabbit-person. They were all clearly drunk, with red faces and shaking, stumbling legs.

“Please tell me these aren’t new crewmates,” The first mate, observing their unserious faces and ragged clothes, observed, “No offense meant.”

“The Marseilles,” He continued, unabated by her protestation, “Anne-Marie and Felix. No, they’re not joining our crew,” He hiccuped into his hand, “We’re just helping each other out until we depart Cartesia.” He extended his hand, “So, Tariq?”

The helmsman handed his captain the planks of wood, and his captain in response broke them both open, finding the greyish crystals in the second.

“As I told you earlier -” He pointed to the siblings, getting a paper to write on, “This is how I get in contact with him; we go back quite some time, I’m sure he’ll respond.”

“Another friend from college?” Serpacinno asked.

“No - good guess, but no,” He replied, starting to write with great vigor, “You know I was involved with the Revolutionaries for a time. We were in the same section.” Then, he sat in thought for a moment, his hands not moving, “Though I suppose I did join the Revolutionaries when I was in college.”

“You say that like it’s normal.” Gareland added.

All the captain defended himself with was the simple declaration that “Everyone has their hobbies.”

Chapter Text

Saturdays were, and currently are, notable for three reasons. The first: they represent the start of the week for much of the civilized world, the second, related to the first: they are a holy day for Paacists, both Orthodox and Reform, who observed the day of Requiem, an old tongue word for rest, and third: for everyone who wasn’t Paacist, they still probably weren’t required to show up for work until typical church hours were concluded, so it was a great day for day-drinking.

Paracelsus was certainly engaging in the third. He, along with Tariq, who had mostly just followed him, were engaging in a light bit of debauchery in preparation for the Gala. The morning announcements seemed to confirm Paracelsus’ suspicions, and Lonceré had hinted, for the two men knew each other well enough to slip a few messages between the lines, that he would appear at the Gala, even if he was disguised.

So, imagine his shock when a huge, warrior looking man with a giant mop of hair approached him, barrel of beer in his hand, “You must be Paracelsus!”

“Indeed I am, mister…?” He put out his hand for a handshake.

“Allifer Nice, just call me Alfie.” He grabbed the captain’s hand, but pulled him in for the traditional Cartesian greeting - la bise, where he kissed each of his cheeks in friendship.

“I have to say, Alfie,” He eyed the surroundings - fair games, stalls, as well as street food and drink abounded like a monument to hedonism, “If this is what all your parties look like - I daresay you’re in danger of making a new friend.”

The large man roared with laughter, throwing his head and waist back jovially as he slapped Paracelsus on the back, making him stumble forward, “Friends are never danger! Come, come, you have quite the role to play.”

“I do?” He asked, before remembering his encounter with the peculiarly ordinary man, “Oh yes, the envelope. What will I be again?”

“Oh it’s simple,” Alfie started as they walked, “You’ll be Tikno Meripe, in your tongue - Little Death.”

“Sounds grizzly, I hope I don’t have to murder anyone.” He joked.

“If this was a hundred years ago, maybe,” Made him worry, “But now? You just put on a mask, poke people in the back with the Little Death’s sword, and give them a fright. Oh, and enjoy yourself, it is a party, after all.”

—

Erstwhile, Gareland was observing the second principal of Saturdays. She sat in a cathedral with high, domed ceilings, elaborately painted with images of the heroes of Paacism - Paace himself, of course, surrounded by his four most trustworthy confidantes. She felt a silent gratitude as she sat there, praying and listening to the priest, blindfolded as per tradition, and his sermon.

“Sister,” Her good mood was interrupted by LJ, who was sitting beside her, vulpine hands in prayer, “How goes it?”

“I will tolerate your presence here,” They both turned around, and Gareland immediately recognized by stature and voice that it was Roland, the Paladin who’d formerly accosted her, now with his admittedly handsome face out for all to see, “But interruptions of the sermon will not be permitted.”

Further back, Peeares watched with rapt attention at the scene unfolding. Graave had the entrance covered, and Taylor had taken point on the opposite row of pews, forming a triangular net to ensnare their target. It would have to wait however, as the sermon continued without incident, the marines hesitant to make a scene of it in public.

Once it was over, Gareland got up hastily. She was surrounded, on all sides, by enemies - though thankfully none of them seemed to realize that they all had the same mark. Curiously, Rolan walked side by side with her, discouraging the junior officers, to the door, “Leave.”

“What, why?” Gareland asked instinctively.

“You’re a real woman of faith, aren’t you?” She nodded, “Then leave, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

She understood the implicit implication that he was to be of no help against the others, and quickly scurried outside, only to be met with the gigantic form of Graave standing by the door.

“It’ll be easier if you cooperate,” He said, preparing the iron clasps, “Come quietly, and I personally swear that we’ll release you when we have Paracelsus.”

As she whipped her head around to flee, she saw his officers standing at the door, and LJ further behind, still lurking in the shadows of the church. She sighed, annoyed, but whistled a low, droning sound like a death rattle.

“You owe me for this.” A deep, inky blackness spread across the floor, emanating from LJ. The three marines, trained and disciplined as they were, couldn’t help their instincts, and they all shuddered as he stepped between them, “But then again, I couldn’t let any of them catch you, could I?”

Thanks to his particular discipline, Graave was the first to recuperate, quickly grabbing Lorenzo about the waist and charging into a nearby wall. It was a truly animalistic sight once they reached their destination, with the two beastmen biting and clawing each other - reduced to their animal instincts in combat. Neither were disarmed, each having a sword and two pistols, but neither seemed intent on using them.

“Don’t interfere.” Graave warned as Taylor drew her own pistol, “Sometimes, us hybrids, especially those of us that are predators - need to fight like this.”

“But sir-” She said.

“But nothing! Get the girl.” The lieutenant roared back. Then the bloodbath truly began, and with a great fury, Lorenzo bit into his shoulder, tearing a chunk of flesh off with ease before spitting it out. To get him back, the bearman dug his claws into the fox’s chest and dragged downward, making a might gash through his torso.

“So much for being inconspicuous.” Taylor sighed, resigning herself to give chase to Gareland, who wasted no time in taking advantage of the distraction.

She was of course, being able to teleport, and being surrounded in the concrete labyrinth of the city, incredibly elusive, ducking and dodging around with ease. Still, Peeares was able to observe from above, and with a gun, a powder horn that contained enough for a protracted engagement, and a similarly packed bag of shot, he was able to clearly communicate the criminal’s whereabouts.

“Shit!” She returned fire, and her superior aim meant she actually hit her target, landing a blow on Peeare’s left shoulder, unfortunately for her, his nondominant one.

Within a second, Taylor had caught up to her, and reached with her lanky outstretched arm to seize the fairy. The clasps clicked into place around air, Gareland having narrowly pulled her hands back in time. She tried to draw a gun to end the fight, but Taylor proved too formidable and smacked it out of her hands. Another shot rang out - Peeares had fired it, and it was off by less than a centimeter as he descended.

“Just give up -” The ensign tried the same trick again, and did manage to snag one of the fairy’s hands, along with her own. “I’ve got you now.”

Try as she might, Gareland was unable to provide positive proof to the contrary. She blinked, bringing Taylor, who was now connected, along for the ride. She even tried doing so in such a manner that the ensign would’ve been disoriented, but whatever vertigo existed didn’t matter, for Taylor was still even trading blows with their swords.

“Sorry, can’t,” Gareland very nearly lost her balance as Taylor brought her saber from above, pushing the fairy’s sword away until she managed a midair pirouette to regain control of the situation and push back the opposite direction.

—

Lorenzo’s eyes were nearly glowing as he managed to dig his claws into Graave’s bicep. Not one to be outdone, his adversary responded with a similar move, except his managed to find purchase a bit lower, and miraculously missed the major arteries of the forearm.

By now, they were each covered in innumerable cuts, punctures, bruises and lacerations that by the time either of them were treated by a doctor, they’d look as though they’d been sewn together from various constituent parts. Still, neither relented, and neither gave an inch in their primal, animalistic frenzy.

Then the warriors came to a mutual understanding, they would now truly be forgoing the pleasantries of a “civilized” fight. There was no martial art on display as they raced to the climax of their encounter. Rather, there was merely a contest of endurance, as each launched blow after blow upon the other, not caring to dodge or brace themselves. Over the course of just eight scant seconds, they had managed to lose an additional three quarts of blood between the two of them.

Eventually though, their coupling ended, and Lorenzo, being simply outmatched in height and weight, was the first to fall, his eyes glazing over as he dropped first to his knees, then his face as the Earth landed one final blow against him. Graave had no time to celebrate, falling shortly thereafter in one continuous motion, and rocking the ground below him as he did so.

—

“Not going to happen.” Captain Bonaparte had flagged down a wheat-selling ship who was trying to dock without going through him.

“Sir, with all due respect -” The merchant said, “The docking fee you ask is ludicrous!”

“Really?” He asked, “I shouldn’t think so for a merchant ship. A pleasure cruise of four was able to pay it, with no complaints, just a few days ago. Besides, you don’t want to dock here. There’s quite the kerfuffle in the city, you see.”

“That is exactly why we want to sell here.” The merchant explained, trying to change the topic, “No one else is, so they will pay any price we set for the grain.”

Bonaparte finally looked up from the chart he was looking over with a sigh, “Double the fee. Payable when you leave.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Monsieur Bonaparte.” The merchant captain bowed with a practiced reverence.

—

And the first tenet of Saturdays was currently being engaged by the man of the hour, Lonceré. Not like he ever truly had a job, so to speak, mostly floating his way through life on the goodwill of others - his eight years of service to the Revolutionaries being the only taste of discipline he ever had. Still, he was making good on the relaxed atmosphere the day of rest provided.

“Thank you, my good sir.” He pitched his voice down as he took a drink from one of the stewards, the mask doing the rest to obscure his identity. It was unbelievable, the note from Paracelsus. The chances of them seeing each other again were astronomical, but somehow, fate had seemed to intervene.

“Excuse me,” He tapped a (in his opinion) most wonderful mademoiselle on her shoulder, “Have you seen a man about yay-high, looking very brooding around here? He’s recognizable because of his scar under his chin and his refusal to drink or smile.”

“Sorry, no, sir.” She walked away hastily, and Lonceré soon realized why. All the time spent underground had made him rank, with a definite odor that probably resembled death.

Lonceré grew anxious, he was always paranoid but not being able to see Paracelsus was confirming the worst of his fears. And, speaking of fears, whoever was the Little Death at this occasion managed to scare him something fierce, as he got poked in the back.

“Shoo,” He smacked the sword away, “Begone, I’m looking for my friend.”

“Apologies, mate.” Little Death replied, but his body language made it clear he took great pleasure in scaring the poor philosopher.

He kept walking for a few more minutes, intermingling as best he could with the crowd. They parted like a dress shirt being unbuttoned due to his stench, but he persisted nevertheless.

Wait a second, He chided himself for his ignorance as he came to a complete halt and formed a bubble of non-approach around himself, I recognize that voice.

Chapter Text

“Here, try this.” Sally handed Serpacinno a few cork rings.

“What, I just throw it at the guy, try to land the ring on his horns?” She asked, giving an exploratory throw before she even awaited a response. It missed by a wide margin.

“More or less,” The long-haired woman answered, “But the objective is to actually score.”

“You’re a real comedian.” Serpacinno threw again, missing by a wider margin than before.

“So I’m funny?” Sally elbowed her lightly in the ribs, to which her companion sighed and rolled her eyes, “See, you’re already falling for me.”

“Far from it,” A third throw revealed that the first two were indeed not flukes, as the margin continued to widen, “But I’ll admit it - your flower festival, or whatever’s going down here, is nice.”

“Excuse me, coming through!” A disgusting-smelling masked man pushed behind them, nearly knocking them over as he barrelled through.

“Quite the musk on that one.” The fencer waved a hand in front of her nose, trying to dispel the noxious odor.

Serpacinno repeated the gesture, before asking, “Where’s the food?”

“Here,” Sally ran inhumanly fast to procure some crepes, infused with strawberry of course, for the two of them, “A personal favorite of mine.”

“They’re good,” Serpacinno grumbled, but ate the rest of the treat with gusto, “I hate to admit it - but your people’s food is nice.”

“What would you know of my people?” She asked curiously.

“Not much - just bits here and there.” She finished the treat, “I don’t find your food to be as palatable as most people.”

“Good thing we’re leaving, then?” Sally asked, dragging her off to another attraction.

“Look,” She stopped, turning Sally around to face her, “I’m serious. I don’t know if I haven’t been properly communicating this - but we clearly want different things from each other.”

“I think you’ll find, it’s not so different after all,” Sally argued, “Look where we are - the country, no, the city of love. Maybe you just don’t understand love?”

“I understand love.” She assured, “I think. It’s just… I’ve always seen it as something that has to grow.”

“Then let it grow with me,” She insisted back, grabbing the swordswoman’s hands gently, rubbing her thumbs in circles over her knuckles, “If you just give it a chance-”

“Stop.” Serpacinno said with finality, “It won’t. You’ve made me realize something, it already is growing. Just, not with you.”

Sally smiled gently and took her hands back, “I don’t need to hear any more.” She sighed wistfully, mourning what could have been, “He is lucky. You are truly exceptional, Serpacinno.”

“You barely know me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, just happy that Sally seemed to finally be seeing reason.

“I’m a romantic, can you blame me?” She shrugged, moving onward, “But just because you have a little crush doesn’t mean we can’t have fun, huh?”

Serpacinno smiled too, now, intending to make use of the rest of their time to relax, “Lead the way, then.” She pat herself down, a confused look on her face, “Wait, did that guy earlier swipe my pouch?”

—

Lonceré whistled to himself as he observed the pouch he’d managed to lift. Nothing, whatever, He thought as he tossed it over his shoulder behind him, How has he completely disappeared? I swear it was his voice.

“Thank you very much.” He heard Paracelsus’ voice again, likely taking some food. He walked in the direction he heard it, but Capitaine was nowhere to be seen. Lonceré cursed his friend’s short stature, it made him far too able to hide in crowds, even with the mask he was wearing.

He was immediately distracted by the most glorious sight he had ever seen: a tall, shimmering fountain of wine which flowed freely and without abandon. He greedily cupped his hands together, a most unsanitary practice that would continue on much longer than his lifetime, to get a serving of the liquid delight.

To his right stood a young man, a little taller than him, and lanky enough to entangle his own limbs like a knot, with an awkward mop of curly hair and a thin, juvenile mustache. He had a decidedly foreign look, with a swarthier complexion and purple eyes- probably Iraloan.

“How goes it?” Lonceré tried to make small talk in an effort to not seem suspicious.

The lanky young man looked around for a few seconds, “Me?” He asked dumbly, there was no one else currently at the fountain, “It goes. How goes it for you?”

“It goes.” He replied, before walking around the young man, hand on the small of his back as he passed to stabilize himself. Luckily, he had a much more full wallet than his previous mark.

“Weird,” Tariq had a cringing face as he sniffed the air, “Wonder who that was?”

—

Paracelsus sighed as he took the mask off for a moment. It was way too hot, and the stuffy headwear had no ventilation whatsoever, so he had to fan himself to draw the sweat off. He took a small hors d’ouevre and popped it into his mouth, scarfing down the appetizer to regain some strength before he resumed his activities. He was sure Lonceré would show; the man, for all his faults, did what he promised to do. For now though, he was just wandering and enjoying himself.

“Tariq!” He threw an arm around his helmsman, who was still drinking from the fountain, “I feel like it was a mistake to teach you about alcohol.”

“No mistake, Captain,” Tariq answered with a dopey, giddy smile, “I feel great. Except one thing.”

“What’s that one thing?” He asked.

“I lost my wallet - or,” He giggled, “Maybe it got stolen.”

The captain grumbled, “You’re responsible.” Before leaving to go check elsewhere. It’s a shame Gareland couldn’t show, He thought, observing the live music, She’d probably like it.

—

Taylor raised the cuffed hand above her head, making Gareland’s arm stretch painfully in response, before she whipped it over her head, hoping to slam the fair down on the pavement with it. Suddenly, as Gareland was reorienting herself after being flipped through the air, Peeares swooped in from above, spear in hand pointed straight toward her.

Gareland took the chance and, using strength disproportionate to her stature, managed to position the chain straight in his trajectory. He completed all the necessary work to free her, his weapon piercing straight through to complete her goal.

She shouted “Yes!” As her foes shouted “No!” and immediately set about fleeing once more. Her plan was cut short, however, when she realized how far she pushed herself. As she made the hand sign she required to escape, her brain immediately sent a sharp, stabbing pain throughout her whole skull which made her vision rattle.

Taylor and Peeares came to a stop, looking awkwardly at each other, as she fell to the ground, watching her seize and convulse, not without a bit of foam lapping at the corners of her mouth.

“I guess this works,” The ensign crouched down, producing another pair of cuffs to keep her constrained, “Let’s just hope she doesn’t die.”

—

The Gala was now winding down. Being later in the day, the sky made a beautiful ocean of orange and purple as the sun hid from view. Paracelsus was nonplussed that he still hadn’t found his friend, but with some time still remaining, he figured it would simply be a late re-introduction. Currently, however, he found himself returning the items he’d been given by Alfie.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself.” Alfie shook Paracelsus’ hand, nearly dragging the smaller man up and down like a whip.

“It was very fun,” Paracelsus replied, slapping him on the back, “I regret having to leave so soon.”

“Having to?” The large man asked with a comical tilt of the head.

“Work - the life of an -” He was cut off when a firework exploded overhead, and a great big constellation of sulfur formed the shape of a rose, before falling back down, “Of an engineer is never done.”

“An engineer?” He asked with a flourish that indicated he had need of one, “You wouldn’t mind a few questions, then?”

“I suppose not, why?” He asked, seeing Alfie produce what appeared to be a map of the city. It was decidedly not recent, however, as even Paracelsus’ limited knowledge of the city proved the chart had several inaccuracies.

“You know about the Bohemians? Where we come from?” He asked, and Paracelsus shook his head. So, Alfie recounted their history of persecution to him, “I desperately want to prove that we can coexist with all the other Cartesians. I figure the best way to do that is to help.”

“And what’s the problem you’re trying to solve?” Paracelsus looked over the map again and again - wondering what its relevance could be.

“The prevailing theory is that this Mr. Domingue is currently in the abandoned sewers,” He pressed his large, calloused finger along the map, “I was wondering if you might be able to take a guess as to where the most livable portion is?”

Unknown to either of them, Domingue was watching from a small distance, keenly intent on gauging Paracelsus’ decision. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the unfolding conversation.

“Sorry, I should’ve clarified,” Paracelsus handed him back the chart, “I’m more of a bridges and buildings-type engineer. You’d probably do best asking a doctor.”

“A shame,” Alfie sighed, but smiled and shook his hand, “Still - thank you for taking a look.” He shook his head as the fireworks, too, subsided, before slapping his palms on his thighs and standing, “Well, it’s getting late. Farewell, Paracelsus.”

“Farewell to you as well, Alfie.” He responded in kind, happy to be able to meet with his crew, at least.

Fate had other plans, however, as before he could look for them, a mouse came up, whispering his name at his ankles. The alchemist kneeled down and sighed, knowing the voice, and similarly knowing it was probably a test.

“You don’t even understand what you’re doing,” He picked up the mouse by its tail, and the creature took it pretty well, all things considered, “You’re just a little mouse.”

Then, he placed it gently on the ground, following it as it (hopefully) led him where he needed to be. Serpacinno was responsible enough and would probably be able to gather Tariq, so Paracelsus didn’t feel bad for going on a little excursion. He first followed the mouse, still occasionally looking back to make sure he was following, through a series of alleyways which only got windier and thinner as he continued. This continued for what felt like a half-hour until he came upon a small house, decrepit and derelict in a small, obscure corner of the city.

“You’re lucky I need a cook.” The captain grumbled as he knocked. So dilapidated was the house that the door gave way as he rapped his knuckles on it, the top hinge half-hanging off.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. This could all still possibly be a very elaborate trap. Set by whom, he had no conception, but it was nonetheless a possibility. The floorboards creaked underfoot, filling the darkness with a distinct eeriness which was matched only by the presence of a ray of moonlight peering in through what was once a roof.

“Enough is enough,” He said to whomever was listening, “You know it’s me, Lonceré, dammit! Show yourself!”

From the moonlight, the barrel of a pistol poked through, a dusky hand gripping it, “S-N-C.” The voice of his friend eagerly awaited a response.

“One-one-seven.” Paracelsus grabbed the gun and pulled it toward him, embracing his friend as he stepped into view, “You bastard! I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you.” He replied, “What are you doing here?”

Before answering, Paracelsus got a good look at his friend. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t grown or shrank, still standing a few inches above his captain. His hair, once a great curly ball, was now arranged in locks which served to make him look a bit unkempt in combination with his facial hair. He’d also, seemingly, lost some weight, but retained his roguish, handsome look.

Chapter Text

“Sorry for pointing a pistol at you,” Lonceré pulled forth two chairs for them, “And for the secluded location.” His head and his tone dropped, “You just… never know who you can trust.”

“I understand,” Paracelsus sighed as he took his own seat, “But never point a gun at me again.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Lonceré dared not laugh at the situation lest he incur the wrath of said captain. But as he looked at him, he couldn’t help but feel as though the alchemist had softened up. A smile, soft and gentle, now adorned the face that was once adorned by a scowl.

“I’m not your captain anymore,” He offered, lighting up a cigarette for both of them, “I mean - I did intend to offer an invitation -”

“Accepted,” Lonceré sprung to his feet, “When do we ship out?”

“Wednesday,” His captain quirked an eyebrow, “Why so eager?”

“I’m a free spirit,” His tone was assuredly nervous, a far cry from the confident man Paracelsus knew, “I can never be held down in any one place.”

“How are you alive?” He changed the topic, not wanting to pry further, yet, “I mean, I saw you and your double get shot.”

The cook fidgeted nervously with his hands, as though unsure of whether or not he could divulge the information, “I lied about my gifts. I can’t create doubles,” He held up three fingers, “But triples. I always kept one hidden, just in case.” His captain was about to interrupt, but he interrupted his interruption, “How about you, Captain? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before.”

There was much implication in that comment, and Paracelsus knew it. He didn’t look back fondly on his time in the Revolutionaries, and neither did Lonceré. He was sure it was in no small part due to his own command, a topic which he was very conflicted about.

He spent too long pensively perusing his catalogue of regrets, however, and said “I suppose it’s because it’s free?” He offered, but the joke was clearly insufficient, as his cook narrowed his eyes, apparently now more comfortable with the prospect of questioning him, “I’ve decided to continue my work, from those times.” He wrung his hands together, now being the nervous party, “But I’ve decided to go about it differently. I want to make a difference in this world, Lonceré. Believe me I do. But I realized that treating my people, my friends, like candles would inevitably burn them out.”

You couldn’t have realized that three years ago? Lonceré thought, but decided not to verbalize so as not to antagonize an already resolved issue, “When you say ‘continue your work’?”

“I mean it.” The captain confirmed.

“But you’re one man,” He offered, leaning back on his chair. The smoke from his cigarette trailed upwards, and for some reason both of them couldn’t help but let their gazes follow it, “With one crew. Unless you mean to tell me you have a whole fleet now?”

“I barely have a crew,” Paracelsus’ words may have been venomous, but his tone and body language was one of reverent joy, “But I’ve grown fond of them. I believe in us.”

“Have you told them?” The cook asked, “What they really signed up for?”

Before Paracelsus could formulate a response, the door was kicked open and off its hinges, sending tiny splinters flying at the duo. Immediately, bees started swarming the room, their stingers acting as tiny dirks.

On instinct, Lonceré used his second gift, his telekinesis to lift a chair and swat them away, batting the tiny invaders back, “Were you followed?!” His words were barely audible over the deafening buzzing noise.

“I must’ve been!” Paracelsus shouted back, readying his pepper-box for whoever was attacking them.

It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, the Tanendille police. The beekeeper , as he was known in Paracelsus’ mind, stood at the back, providing long-range cover with his familiar as two of his cohorts charged the two of them. They seemed to be fairly mundane, neither empowering themselves or otherwise using their gifts as they raised their pistols.

The captain acted fast, throwing his jacket, which he turned to steel (albeit not without his own great supply of pain) which eventually managed to trip the two attackers up. “Two down -” He said.

“About twenty to go,” Lonceré quickly duplicated himself, using their combined strength to lift the door with their minds, “Give or take.”

He sent the door forward, blowing it past a policeman who used her superior agility to duck under it, at which point it struck two of them flowing into the door like water. Speaking of, the officer who’d managed to avoid the attack used some type of water motif as he legs became springy, compressing and bouncing off the walls as she closed the distance between the two and one-half men she was leading the charge against.

“Take this!” She relied more on her martial arts than any swordplay, it seemed, as she took to savate-boxing Paracelsus, while his friend was busy holding off the rest of them.

“Would you believe -” The captain ducked under a high kick aimed for his right temple, “Would you believe -” He jumped over a sweeping kick, “This is all a misunderstanding?”

After a few more moments of dodging, he foresaw the fight taking too long if he kept it up. So, he formed a cat’s cradle between his outstretched palms and waited until the boxer extended her arm. When the moment came, he lunged at his opportunity, using the rope between his fingers to bind her hand.

“Lonceré!” He quickly disentangled himself and produced a few daggers, all the while pushing down the pain in his chest, before throwing them at his cook.

He picked up on the subtext quickly. Lonceré and his clone used their minds to command the daggers, almost forming a small squad of invisible soldiers, slashing their knives in service of the two. It still proved insufficient, with no leverage to back themselves, the daggers were knocked away by another police officer, a tall man with ram horns, who used said horns to charge his way through the weapons.

The officer used those horns to great effect, batting away the small block of wood Lonceré had used as a makeshift weapon. With the cook on his backfoot, his front foot in the air, and both arms now knocked akimbo, the ram-man used the opportunity and gored him through the chest with his horns.

As the light faded from his eyes, his consciousness quickly flew to his double, and his original body disappeared into smoke, the only proof of its existence being the blood on his horns. Within a second of the cook regaining his bearings, a gruesome crack sounded from the officer’s chin, as Lonceré used his gift to send a loose stone in the ground hurtling upwards in defiance of gravity.

“There’s too many of them,” Paracelsus limped over. Despite not taking any particularly strong hits, the combination of the bees sapping his stamina and his gift damaging him had him doubled over, “Why’d you lead me so far?”

“I lived here when I was six,” Lonceré himself was huffing and puffing, the exhaustion taking its toll on him, “I thought it was a nice metaphor.”

There was no time to rest, however, as the remaining police, thirteen of them, had surrounded the two. They’d fought off worse odds, but with the fact they hadn’t fought together in years, and their own respective exhaustion, it was certainly shaping up to be a challenge. The group enclosed them slowly, taking it one step at a time as the ring around them grew smaller and smaller.

“Why aren’t you shooting them?” Lonceré whispered.

“That’s not who I am, anymore.” Was the only cryptic reply Paracelsus gave.

The cook rolled his eyes in familiar exasperation. Paracelsus’ ever-shifting temperament had gotten them into trouble too many times to count, and how his pacifism would prove their downfall. He was about to resign himself to capture, sure his captain could free them from their confinement, when a shot rang out, blowing clean off the head of the beekeeper.

“Shit.” Paracelsus saw Silver standing in the doorway. She just had to be there, didn’t she?

“A lover?” Lonceré took his opportunity, lunging at one of the (now distracted) officers, disarming him in the process.

“Far from it!” Paracelsus similarly grabbed an officer’s weapon, using it to incapacitate two others.

“Oh, you wound me, Paracelsus,” Silver produced another pistol, shooting down one of the officers who was unlucky enough to regain his bearing quickly, “You know - they say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

You’re more of a she-devil, The alchemist had the good sense not to antagonize who might very well be their savior. The three formed a shockingly effective team, and the fight was cleaned up within a few minutes.

“What are you doing?!” He snatched a gun from Silver’s hand, rendering it inert. His overuse of his gift was starting to take its toll, but neither his wobbly legs nor the blood pooling in his mouth was enough to stoke his rage.

“You know they’ll only continue to chase you, right?” She asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which, to be fair, it was.

“I’ll not allow you execute them any further,” Lorane shuddered at the fire in his eyes, more accurately at the thought of extinguishing it, though she didn’t let it show, “Three dead is more than enough.”

“You’ll be an upstanding member of society, yet.” Lonceré chuckled at the joke, before starting to fall on his side, “Is it just me - or is the world turning sideways?”

He was rendered unconscious as soon as his head hit the ground, and his captain quickly rushed to his aid, intending to sling him over his shoulder. For a brief second, just the smallest fraction of a moment, he realized his error in turning his back to Silver and felt a needle pierce his neck and heard the low hiss of a syringe.

—

“I’ve been robbed,” Tariq sing-songed, twirling around a stake that held a tent to the ground. He was flushed and smiling like a dope as he dizzied himself, “And what’s more - I’m alone… all alone.”

“Get down from there!” Serpacinno shouted. He was twirling around the stake, yes, but with his feet positioned in such a way that it looked like he was climbing a great tree, “You’re gonna fall!”

As if he wanted to prove her point, he let go and allowed himself to drop to the ground. He dully thudded as he hit the grass, and groaned painfully as his back ached worse than it ever had before.

“Told you,” She at least had the kindness to help him to his feet, “Have you seen Parace?”

“Parace?” He asked.

She sputtered over her words, much to the amusement of Sally, who was still tagging along, “Paracelsus, I meant.”

“No idea,” He offered professorially, “But didn’t he say he was planning on meeting someone here?”

“Whatever,” Serpacinno’s mind was drifting to Gareland, “He’ll be fine.”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Sally pointed out, fiddling with the pockets on her slacks, “He get lost a lot?”

Serpacinno brought her hands, balled into fists, to her hips and sighed heavily. “Yes.” She sighed in annoyance, even if ‘lost’ wasn’t exactly the right word.

“Sorry, folks, but we’re finishing up here,” The owner of the tent came from around the corner and said, “You have to leave.”

“Alright, alright,” Sally ushered the other two away, more than aware of how impatient Cartesians could be, “As you said - I’m sure he’s fine.”

“It’s just frustrating when he doesn’t tell me what’s happening.” She vented, and pointed her thumb over her shoulder, “He doesn’t seem to care, but I like knowing the goings-on.”

“Then maybe you should just ask him?” Sally suggested.

Serpacinno’s teeth found their way to her lip as she chewed pensively. She was never necessarily the best at communication.

Chapter Text

“You’re horrid.” Gareland’s face was one of sheer disgust. Her hands were bound behind her back, in such a way she couldn’t form the hand signs required to escape. Worse still, her arms were interlocked with Junior’s.

“Quiet, woman.” He whispered, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the marine who was assigned to watch over them. He slid his hands around, trying to undo the thick leather gloves that prevented him from cutting the ropes.

“Mutt.”

“Wench.”

An awkward silence hung in the air. Not quite silence, the ensign just didn’t hear the scraping of leather. The fox grunted in pain as his claw got caught in the material. He waited a few moments to see if the game had lost its feet, but no such evidence presented itself.

“I feel your claw,” Gareland swallowed her pride, “A little lower… the rope’s a little lower.”

“I’m not freeing you.” She felt his appendage flit away from her skin, clearly aiming toward himself.

“You know it’s a better idea!” She desperately cried in a combination of a shout and a whisper. Lorenzo didn’t deign to respond, instead focusing his attention on the rope he was sawing and the ensign who was doing a poor job of watching them, “I’ll shout! I swear on my brother I’ll shout!”

That gave him pause. The sawing stopped, his silence a clear indicator of his deliberation. In that small interim, Graave stepped through the doorway, covered nearly head to toe in gauze.

“Get going, son.” He informed the guard, “Now that it’s just us three - I believe we need to have a talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Gareland turned her nose and shut her eyes.

“You?” Graave turned his attention to the other predator, who, for his part, made the same show as Gareland, without the words, “I respect it. No, really, I do. You have your orders, as do I.”

A small squeaking caught the Lieutenant’s attention. It was one of the mice he’d seen flooding the city. He paid it no mind, he knew the city was positively filthy and couldn’t be happier to be nearing the end of his time here.

“Paracelsus!” The fairy’s shouting caught his attention as she leaned her whole body into the noise, “I know you found him! I’m-” He cut her off by shoving a rag in her mouth.

—

The night-time announcements were missed that night, duly noted among all the citizens who had grown accustomed, if not welcoming, to the interruption of the monotony of everyday life. The reason for this had a sputtering, coughing fit, as he sat up from the wall he was seemingly purposely propped up against.

He shook his head, trying to clear the blood from the fight, the grime from his stay underground, and his own head trauma. He undid the last point when he whipped his neck about, “Paracelsus?” He shouted, but no reply came. Then, the memories came back. They’d been ambushed, nearly caught, and saved by someone who seemed to know his captain. But just who was she?

“I’ve got to find him,” He stretched, at least trying to force his limbs to be limber, “And I’ve got to talk to Charlemagne.”

—

“With all due respect, Madam -” Copain started, finger raised to enunciate the point that he didn’t get to say.

“If there’s no body, there’s no positive proof.” The mayor rubbed her temples, her headaches only increasing in both frequency and magnitude as of recent, “If he dies without a body, this matter will never close.”

“I don’t disagree,” He replied, “I simply think you’re not looking at this objectively.”

“Objectively?” She rose from her chair with a glare on her countenance, “How am I to see this objectively, Copain? This radical is traipsing about my city, and apparently, we’re powerless to explain either his presence or sudden absence.”

“I understand your frustration,” Was assuredly the wrong choice of words. He simply lacked the emotional capacity to understand any frustration, even that of his life-long friend, “I only suggest that your lack of transparency and reclusion during this time does not bode well with the citizens. You must consider your chances of re-election.”

I won’t live to see next election. Her anger swelled briefly before breaking like a wave against the shore, “You’re right as always. Perhaps… we can put the man-hunt on hold, for now.”

“For now.” Copain reaffirmed, albeit disingenuously. He resolved, then and there, to find Lonceré on his own, to let the mayor find rest. With their farewells said, he set about doing just that. He’d already succeeded twice in finding Paracelsus, how hard could a third try be?

—

Serpacinno looked at the calendar in the corner, its date displaying the twenty-ninth. She just woke up, in her room that she previously shared with Gareland. Similarly, Tariq found himself missing the company of his captain, and the two solo travellers met up in the lobby of the hotel to discuss it.

“The announcements have stopped.” Tariq said, sipping his coffee. They were the two on the crew who were the least familiar with each other, and it showed in the air and the formal small talk they engaged in.

“I suppose that’s good?” Serpacinno asked, although they both knew he wasn’t going to offer a genuine answer, “It must mean he found him.”

“This is stupid,” Tariq slammed down his cup, “Why can’t we talk to each other?”

“The truth is that I find you too carefree.” She said following and preceding a sigh.

“What of Gareland?” He asked.

.”What of Gareland?” She repeated in a tone that told Tariq he should be cautious.

“Is she not equally as carefree as I am?” He leaned back with a defensive posture. Despite his towering over her, he couldn’t deny Serpacinno’s attitude had him cowed from day one.

“She’s a kid.” She responded.

His rebuttal was swift and sharp, “A kid? She’s older than me.”

“Only two years.” Her tone was smug, as though it was a great argument.

“She’s still older than me!” Tariq shouted, “And what’s more - she skips on cleaning and maintaining the boat more than me.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Her tone fell to an uncharacteristic softness as she recalled what little she knew of the fairy’s past, “I can’t help but feel for her.”

Another silence fell on the two. Tariq wanted to rebuff, but he felt that it was better to let the issue rest. He knew Gareland was there before him, and there was nothing that could be done to fully bridge the gap between them. It also didn’t hurt that he found her cute.

“I’m sorry,” Serpacinno was the one to break the silence, “I don't dislike you, exactly. I’m sure with time we’ll grow closer.”

“It’s alright.” Tariq was also crestfallen, feeling a sort of responsibility for dragging down the mood.

“Let’s take a walk, clear our heads.” She didn’t bother waiting for confirmation.

“You’re worried?” Now outside, he let the sounds of the street make him sound quieter in comparison, “I’m worried.”

“Of course I’m worried,” Serpacinno shrugged her shoulders, “But I guess I’m always worried.”

“Last time he left a note,” He kicked a loose stone on the ground, “But nothing this time.”

“I guess there is a way to make you worried, eh?” The question was made in good humor. It was not, however, received in the same way.

His pout formed quickly, but it was clearly meant to be hidden, as he turned his nose. “I left home without so much as a goodbye.”

She pondered his words for a minute, her own thoughts failing to adequately address his hang-ups. She was able to vaguely realize that he was probably now racked with guilt, but she was far from a counsellor, or anything of the sort. So, instead of words, she silently brought her hand to his back, giving him an awkward rub as a show of solidarity. He shot her a thankful look, and his expression lifted ever so slightly. Shortly thereafter, his hand met hers, and she took that as the signal to let him be.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lose myself.” The words that broke the silence rung hollow, “And - I’ll try to be more disciplined.”

She shook her head and sighed, her hands falling like leaves to her hips, “It’s alright.”

—

“Is something the matter, friend?” Charlemagne asked, before seeing Lonceré pack his bags, “Oh, you’re leaving?”

His short-lived companion slumped his shoulders and stopped, momentarily, “Sorry, Charles, I’m shipping out soon.” He turned around suddenly with a flourish, “But, may I make a selfish request?”

“Of course.” It was hard to read his emotions, being a massive anthropomorphic mouse, but he seemed sorrowful as he confirmed, “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I shall miss your presence.”

Deciding to shelve that last part for now, he let the walls echo his request, “My captain, I believe, is under duress right now. Please, I need to find him- and his crew.”

“Paracelsus, correct?” Lonceré nodded, “I’m sure you can make a list of everyone who’s spoken about him.”

His friend sighed and rolled his eyes, “Alright - What’s the matter? You’re positively dejected.”

“Sorry, you’ve just been a real friend to me.” Charlemagne rubbed his scepter, “It’s very hard to imagine your leaving.”

“If you’re lonely, why not venture up?” He asked, leaning against a wall and pointing in the appropriate direction, “Tanendille’s got no shortage of people.”

Charlemagne shook his head, “They’d never accept me.”

“It’s not 1715, there’s plenty of inhumans now,” He countered, “Mostly hybrids, yes, but there’s angels - and even the occasional demon.”

“And giant mice?”

“No one minds the little ones. Some even can learn to cook.”

“The little ones aren’t dressed like kings.”

Lonceré rolled his eyes again, “Are you just making excuses? Tell you what - I’ll come with you before I leave, I’ll show you the people aren’t as bad as you think.”

“Alright,” Charlemagne nodded, finding his own resolve, “Let’s find your captain.”

—

Paracelsus awoke with a mighty headache. His skull felt all too small for his brain, which was rattling about against its confines. His hair was slicked with a combination of blood and sweat, and his whole body felt filthy. He was lying in a bed, not where he expected to be, but it was nonetheless comfortable enough.

“Fuck,” He hissed, taking a towel from the run-down nightstand to wipe his forehead clean, “Where am I?”

He went to open the door, but the handle slid against the metal without giving. He tried a few more times before realizing it was locked from the outside and moved to a window to try his luck there. The cause for them was more obvious, in that there were no windows. With nothing else to work with, he tried the door again, intending to use his gift to open a path, but it failed him.

“What the hell did you inject me with, Silver?” He rhetorically asked, trying to bash his shoulder against the door. All it accomplished was hurting his shoulder.

He patted himself down. Silver had done him the kindness of relieving his weapons. Then, after climbing up on the bed in the corner, he groped around the ceiling, feeling for an imperfection or crack. He found a suitable one, and with a great crack, he pulled out a crude length of wood, which he stuffed under the mattress.

He panicked as he heard footsteps approaching. It was the telltale squeak of boots on rubber. So, to disguise himself, he climbed back under the covers and threw his arm over his eyes to pretend he was still asleep.

The shrill call of “Paracelsus?” Confirmed his worst fears. The door clicked, really clicked this time, and unlocked to reveal Silver coming in.

“Yes?” He groaned, tossing over to face the wall. A second later he shot up and whipped his head around to feign surprise, “Where am I?”

“You’re home, dear.”

Chapter Text

“I think you’re mistaken,” Paracelsus gripped the bed just above where he stashed his weapon. Silver’s hand fell on top of his, and panic shot through his system - panic that she might be on to him, “I don’t currently have a ‘home’, per se.”

“Don’t be obtuse-” She flicked him on the head, which hurt more than it probably should’ve, “Your new home.”

“That’s…” Fucking insane, “Very generous.”

“I pride myself on my generosity.” Her teeth, Paracelsus realized, were very sharp for a hybrid of a prey animal, “I’ve afforded you some privacy. I know sailormen get awkward around new women, at first.”

She finally let go of his hand, but the appendage falling back to her hip, where she stashed her own weapon, cowed him into forgoing a potential attack. Instead, he followed her as she led him on a tour of his new home. It was similarly dilapidated as the bedroom, with clear leaks and drafts coming in from multiple sources.

He very quickly came to the conclusion that she was just as crazy as he’d anticipated. She described the place with an almost worshipful manic, despite the fact (that she’d let slip) that she’d never lived here. She also went to great pains to illustrate how their new domestic life would be. At one point, her hand paused as it hovered over an old, dull knife, before resuming its sweeping ministrations.

“I know it’s a fixer-upper, but I know we can turn this into a real home.” She brought her fist in an arc in front of her stomach in a show of enthusiasm.

“Forgive me, Silver,” She glared at his response, “Lorane. Forgive me, Lorane, but I’m not quite ready to settle down, yet.”

“But you haven’t even tried it.” She implicitly threatened, “And right now, outside’s the last place you want to be. The fighting’s gotten really bloody now.”

“The fighting?”

“I’m not too well-versed in the politics here,” She shrugged, “But it seems like the militarism on both sides has come to a head.”

He looked at the door. The beginnings of a plan were formulating in his mind - If he could just get outside, he thought he could slip away and blend into the crowd. The only issue was actually getting there. It didn’t help that, despite the house’s ramshackle accommodations, there were no mice he could shout “Help! It’s me!” to, and based on Silver’s words, Lonceré probably wasn’t currently listening.

“Whatever you made smells delicious.” He changed the topic, hoping to avoid her ire.

“Thank you, Paracelsus.” She walked over to the oven, and on the opposite side of the room from the door, “Salmon pie, a Silver family recipe.”

“It’s delicious.” He offered genuinely. It was savory and buttery, she was clearly a good cook if nothing else.

“Thank you, love. The salmon here is a bit off, but it’ll do.”

Love? The alchemist thought, though he maintained his pleasant smile as he ate. One hand always remained on her weapon, always, which made cutting the pie a task for her forced partner.

“If I might ask, Lorane,” He said between hopefully-unpoisoned bites, “Whence did this affection for me come?”

“Patience, love.” She repeated the nickname with more confidence this time, “Dinner first, then we can talk more, yeah?”

—

“What the fuck is going on?!” Serpacinno ducked, along with Tariq, into a side alley. Bricks and stone were being thrown, bullets were flying and swords were being drawn. Whatever negative peace was afforded while neither side could stand to gain an advantage had only put the city in a pressure cooker which was now about to explode.

“Things have gotten really bad.” Tariq intelligently commented.

“It’s almost unbelievable,” She replied, “I thought this place was - behind you!”

Tariq ducked, and a bit of hair off the top was taken before he retaliated by punching the assailant on the chin, knocking him out cold. “Thanks.” He said, though it felt awkward.

“Of course.” She replied, equally awkward in the way she dusted her hands. Where are you, Paracelsus?

As she looked around for an escape route, she crouched down when she saw one of the mice carrying something. It was a small scrap of paper, and whoever wrote on it had horrible handwriting. The only information given was the name Paracelsus, and then an address, and a time.

“You think it’s a trick?” Tariq asked over her shoulder.

“I don’t see who would be trying to trick us.” She said, “But it couldn’t hurt to be cautious.”

—

Luckily the nighttime offered some reprieve from the fighting. The citizens were too busy cleaning the bodies from the morning to continue the conflict, and a tentative peace was established. Tariq and Serpacinno found themselves hiding around a corner, crouched and viewing the address they were given.

Shockingly, the first to show up was Xenepol, his wife seemingly absent as he tapped his foot impatiently. Sally joined him soon after, throwing her arms outward before she slapped him on the back, much to his dismay. Then came the… The, the - well Serpacinno couldn’t remember their name, but they had rabbit ears.

“Who’re all these people?” Another figure, one Tariq and Serpacinno knew as Ms. Taylor joined the group.

“Seems we’re not the only ones looking for the Captain.” Tariq said.

They heard the click of a hammer behind them, and they whipped their heads around to see Lonceré, though they were ignorant to his identity, standing behind the gun. “Your names.”

“How’re you gonna shoot us both?” Serpacinno asked, her hand moving to her sword, “Only got one gun.”

Tariq looked between the two of them, unsure if he should spring into action or not. He certainly didn’t want to be the one to get shot, but he also couldn’t accept the possibility of Serpacinno getting shot either.

“And it would alert everyone else.” He offered, “Everyone will hear you shoot.”

“That’s a risk I might just have to take -” The figure countered, checking if anyone else had approached him, “I’m giving you five seconds to tell me your names, and your ship’s name.”

“We aren’t sailors.” Serpacinno half-lied with a straight face.

“He has purple eyes, you don’t. Four seconds.”

“I’m Serpacinno, this is Tariq.” Lonceré’s face immediately sagged a bit, as though that was the response he was hoping for, “We sail on the Living Current.”

“I apologize for my actions,” Lonceré stashed his gun in his belt, “I thought that if I called everyone here, Paracelsus’ crew wouldn’t expose themselves so easily.”

“You know where he is?” Her tone betrayed her enthusiasm.

“Yes, but I’m not sure if I can get him by myself.” He looked over to the larger gathering again, seeing if any had stirred, “I thought there were three of you?”

“We haven’t seen Gareland since yesterday morning.” Tariq offered, his own tone betraying his worry.

“What about them?” Lonceré asked.

“I don’t know,” Serpacinno put her chin to her hand in thought, “I’d like to think we can trust Sally. But I don’t want the marine to see us.”

“The marines? Last I heard, they’d cleared out.” He remarked.

“I thought so as well.” She replied, wringing her hands, “We should move. Waiting around here won’t solve anything.”

“I agree,” He turned heel and started running, “Best to move quickly. I don’t know when the violence will start again.”

—

“So you were asking why I have feelings for you, Parace -” Silver began, quite proud of herself, And truth is, it’s quite contradictory. I know you despise me, but that excites me for some reason. I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

“I don’t despise you,” Paracelsus replied, very much so despising her, “I’ll admit - I was apprehensive at first, but you’ve been an exemplary host.”

“But you still think of me as a ‘host’.” She pointed out.

“W-Well, as you said, sailors… We can have a hard time adjusting to more flirtatious, aggressive, women.” He clarified with a nod of the head, as though it was reinforcing his point, “And I’ve only had experience with men, sorry to say. Women are still something of a mystery to me, you see.”

She unbuttoned the top of her shirt. Her jacket was already discarded, having abandoned it under the obvious pretense of the balmy, muggy weather. To be fair, it was warm, and it was raining, but she couldn’t have been less subtle about it. Then, she replied, quite cleverly, “I’m quite the same - I’ve no experience with the unfairer sex.”

For just a second, her hand came off her hip, and Paracelsus lunged at her weapon. She caught on quickly, though, grabbing his wrist with her shockingly strong grip and wrenching it backward, making him wince in pain, “Naughty, naughty. I’ll forgive you this once, Paracelsus,” She gave a final tug which threatened to pull his shoulder out of its socket, “But never try that again. Do we understand each other?”

He forced himself to nod, and she finally released her grip, letting his arm fall limply to its side. Luckily, the captain had the good sense not to challenge her glare, and with a bit more good sense, started to undo the laces on his own garments.

“I’m sorry,” He said in the midst of his actions, “For lying. I do despise you.”

“I know, love.” She smiled softly to herself, “That’s why we’re so compatible - neither of us need to lie to each other.”

He still felt the distinct absence of his gift - his true lifelong partner, the one friend he could always rely on to save him, and fought back tears at the helplessness he felt. His whole life, well most of his life, he had been adept at running away. And now, when he needed it more than ever, it failed him.

“Come then, love.” With his shirt off and hers matching, she led him by the hand to her bedroom - a bit less run-down than his own, with a window that might prove useful, and a significantly more comfortable-looking bed.

“Wait - if you want my cooperation,” He dug his heels into the ground, “Where is Lonceré?”

“Who?” She tilted her head, “Oh! Your friend? Believe it or not, as a sign of goodwill, I patched him up and left him a safe place. Well, safer than by a horde of police, at least.”

“Well, thank you for that at least.” He let himself by laid down on the bed, but balked when his wrists were bound between the slats in the headboard, “Hey! What are you doing?”

“Sorry, but you have to understand, I have some particular interests you might have an objection to.” She was now committed to fully undressing herself, starting with her modest, simple brassier, “Now stop kicking, or I’ll tie your legs down, too.”

He hesitantly complied, though every cell in his body was telling him to do something to fight back. He found himself unable, though, as they were now both fully in the nude. His own body betrayed him, and now he was unable to stop the tears from falling.

“Don’t cry yet,” She unrolled a small cloth she kept on her nightstand, and a number of metal implements revealed themselves, “We’ve barely started.”

He started fully thrashing against the restraints when she decided on a crop, which she demonstrated by batting against the bed before she licked her lips, loving the sound of it. He winced and cried as she tried it on his feet first, beating the soles before moving up along his legs, drawing out his pained gasps and moans with each strike.

“You’ll regret this!” He shouted, trying to regain any amount of control, “I’m a marine! I’m here on a special mission and if you -”

She cut him off by squeezing his jaw, before slapping him across the face, “I know your game, Paracelsus. I may not know what you’re really doing here, but I know the type of scam you pull.” He tried shouting for help, but she cut him off again, “Shout as much as you want, you’re a foreigner in a poor part of town -

No one is coming to save you.”

Chapter Text

“Captain!” Lieutenant Commander Dauphin, executive officer of the Bête, shouted, “A communiqué, for your eyes only.”

“Merci, commander.” Captain Bonaparte took the ornate, black and yellow letter and retreated to his quarters after dismissing Dauphin. Then, he opened it, his eyes widening only slightly in shock. He wasn’t expecting the circumstances to progress so quickly, but he knew it would happen sooner or later. He sighed, putting his feet up, and taking a drag of his pipe.

“Jack, seems your faith was misplaced.” He said to no one.

Captain Bonaparte of the UAS Bête, read this notice in full. The UAS Saber, currently captained by Lieutenant Douglas Graave, has failed to report for three consecutive check-ins. Her last reported heading indicates she’s heading insea, likely near or at Tanendille. Do not disregard earlier orders, stay outside of the city, but if you come across the Lieutenant, you must order him to return to his post, or, failing that, you must arrest him. He threatens to unravel everything the Union is working towards, Jean-Baptiste.

This has been an official notice from the office of Admiral of Fairview, outermost ring of Corlagnoa, sector three, Marcus Fishburn.

—

“Lieutenant,” Gareland said in a sickly-sweet voice, “I’m sure this has all been a big misunderstanding. I’ve only been aboard his ship, I assure you I’ve nothing of substance to do with Paracelsus.”

“And yet, you shouted for his help, did you not?” He retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That much is true.” She conceded, “But I was scared! Someone snatches me off the street, how should I know it was the marines?” The whole time, she was wiggling her hands as silently as she could, allowing Lorenzo to get at her ropes. Can’t you cut any faster, idiot? She thought as she swore Graave was about to turn and see them.

He did turn, in fact, but Lorenzo’s face was as impassive as it usually was, and the leather glove was angled in such a way the hole in it couldn’t be seen. Graave walked around them, examining the pair with scrutiny for a few moments.

“And if you knew - would you have cooperated?” He asked.

“Of course!” She shouted, “I’ll have you know - we fairies are very grateful for everything the Union has done.”

“Indeed? So why are you trying to cut the ropes?” Lorenzo’s eyes widened by a tiny, imperceptible amount. The lieutenant grabbed his wrist and pulled off the glove, revealing the hole in it. He got another glove for the fox, wrapping some cotton around the fingers to ensure a total blockage before he made him don it again.

“I hope you understand the only reason I haven’t tortured you is because of your boss’ influence in Morrelone.” He threatened, “But my goodwill only extends so far.”

Both of the captives looked at each other, wondering if the marine truly intended to make good on that.

—

Paracelsus laid on “his” bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. For once in his life, he lacked the words to describe his situation, and a throaty groan was the only sound that seemed sufficient to describe it. He looked at his body, what was once completely free of blemishes (save the scar across the bridge of his nose) was now covered in little cuts, lacerations that would scar over, and more bruises and burns than he cared to count.

His eyes had long since failed to make tears, having been wrung dry of any moisture for at least two hours, so he just threw his arm over his eyes, unwilling to stare any further at the proof of his weakness. His gift was still absent, of course, and he kicked himself for overdoing it before, in Bataine, as that seemed the most likely explanation to him. He decided then and there to damn the consequences, he would use his weapon against Silver next time he saw her.

Then, he heard some shuffling outside. There was a bang - like a door being slammed, and some shouting. The other didn’t see Silver, to his memory, or hear her voice, so if this was his crew - and most likely it was, based on the voices - they were woefully ignorant of who they were talking to.

“Come on…” He pressed his ear against the door and confirmed it certainly was his crew, at least Serpacinno and Tariq were there - and there was no way they could’ve found him without Lonceré’s help. He shouted, “I’m in here!” But they didn’t seem to hear him.

He took the length of wood and jammed it into the deadbolt on the door, wiggling it and trying to pry it open. It almost gave, but the wood broke earlier, splintering all over the ground. He heard Serpacinno ask “What was that?” To which Silver replied, “You can see how old the house is.”

With nothing else working, he started banging as loudly on the door as he could, in a manner so rhythmic it would be hard to pin it on a random noise of an old house.

“We have to go in.” He heard Lonceré say, “Please, we just need to take a look around, madam.” He was probably trying to seduce her, a tactic he knew the cook to employ.

There was a silence for a few seconds, before Silver spoke up, “I’ll be in my room. Please take care not to disturb anything.”

He scrambled to clean up the fragments of wood dropped on the ground, shuffling them under the bed. He maintained a neutral face as she shuffled into the room, locking it behind her.

“Keep quiet,” She glared at him, “I don’t think I have to warn you of the consequences.”

He did, but he also knew of the rewards. Still, it wouldn’t do to be too obvious at this moment, and he waited impatiently as his crew searched for him, unaware he was less than ten feet away. A few minutes later, they reconvened, discussing their lack of success.

A knock at the door sent Silver to her feet, “Ah, finally done then?” She cracked the door a tiny amount, not enough for them to see him. Her concentration breaking was all he needed though, as he shot up and whacked her on the head with his makeshift weapon.

She fell over shortly after, and he stopped over her to the door, grabbing her gun in the process. Before opening the door, he kept it trained on her head, putting pressure on the trigger like he was about to fire.

“You alright?” Serpacinno’s voice brought him back, and he stowed the gun and walked out with a forced smile.

“Better now that you’re all here,” He wrapped her in a hug which she hesitantly reciprocated, “Where’s Gareland?”

“What happened to you?” She asked, checking him up and down.

“Don’t worry about it,” He patted her on the shoulder and turned to address the whole group, “Glad to see you’re all acquainted.”

He tried to walk away, to lead them (and himself) away from what had just happened, but his mate grabbed his arm and pulled him to look at her, “We can all see you’re shaken up. What happened?”

“I’m fine.” He chuckled, squeezing her hand sympathetically, “Really, I appreciate the concern. And I’ll admit the experience was unnerving, but it’s settled.” As he passed her, he leaned in close, and whispered, “Not here. Not now.”

She stewed, but allowed it for the time being, if only in the interest of moving along and regrouping. The lack of an explanation was getting to her though, she glared and grinded her teeth the whole time.

“About Gareland,” Tariq said, stepping over the unconscious form of some individual, “We uhh… don’t quite know. We haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.” Then, he had an epiphany and turned to the cook, “You - can’t you find her?”

“Me?” Lonceré put his hand over his chest, offended, “I’m not an inquiry agent, I can’t just find someone based on their name.”

“She’s short,” Tariq added, “Shoulder length green hair, pointy ears - cause she’s a fairy.”

“Boy!” He clapped the larger, younger man on the shoulder, “You should’ve led with that.”

“So you can find her?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Is that a no?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“Be nice, Lonceré,” Paracelsus chided his cook, “Can you or can you not?”

“I can -” He grabbed his chin, “I may already have.”

“Well?” The captain gestured with a rolling gesticulation.

“I’m assuming I should’ve led with that?” He smacked his lips, embarrassed, “I think she’s held by someone - she even called for your help.”

“And you didn’t think to start with that?” He asked.

“Well I was hoping you would introduce me first?” He tried to sidestep the criticism.

“Don’t lie, you forgot,” Paracelsus punched him in the shoulder, “Lonceré - Serpacinno, my first mate, and Tariq, my helmsman. Serpacinno, Tariq - Lonceré, my cook. There, introduced.”

—

As she prepared to sleep, the mayor thought back to her earlier meeting with the national Counsellor of Defense. Her tea tasted more bitter than normal as she recalled his words - “The president has some concerns about the recent affairs in our capital.”, which came as no surprise. The situation had spiraled out of control, but what confused her was that any request for military intervention from the national government was met with denials and refusals.

She was a hair’s breadth away from uncovering a conspiracy, she was sure. Someone higher up was gumming up the system to stifle her efforts. A political opponent? Someone sympathetic to L’Orange? Oddly enough, with the challenge in front of her, her headaches had dissipated, leaving her mind clear of pain for once.

It was probably for the worse, to be honest. The headaches had become a sort of partner to her, keeping her mind focused, dedicated towards her goal, even when her aspirations seemed further than ever. As her consciousness started to dim and her eyes felt like lead weights, she let her mind wander back to her past.

—

“Veronique! Veronique!” Bordeaux, a more youthful man than now, hailed her, “Wait for me!”

“Why would I slow down for you?” She huffed, in fact slowing down, “You need to keep up!”

The two currently found themselves on the ovular track field. It was a recreational activity they both partook in, but Montpellier was much more athletic by nature and quite frequently left Bordeaux in the dust.

“I’m trying my hardest,” He bent over, hands on his knees, “I think I’ve gotten better recently.”

“Your stamina leaves much to be desired.” She harrumphed, crossing her arms. They looked at each other wistfully, examining the rising and falling of their chests. All panting and flushed, they both knew what they wanted - and they could’ve easily acted on it, were it not for -

“Greetings,” Copain greeted, “Sir, Ma’am.”

“Oh, please,” L’Orange recovered from his distraction and rolled his eyes, “You two are barely two years younger than me.”

“It is simply a matter of respect,” Copain informed with a raised finger, “Tell me - how did you find the professor’s lecture? I thought it was most interesting.”

“Agreed, mon ami.” Bordeaux, ever the good-natured fellow, wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder and pulled him in in a not so subtle way to regain his stamina, “Say, Copain, have your plans après-diplôme changed at all?”

“Well of course not!” Veronique answered for him, “We’re going to be the most famous painters of our time! We’ll be modern-day Pourés!”

“She is correct.” Copain confirmed, though all three of them knew he wasn’t going to go against her wishes, “Although it may be somewhat arrogant to assume that level of success.”

“I’m not arrogant!” She pouted, “I’m just confident in our abilities.”

“Ah but confidence is one of those,” Bordeaux put his fingers up, “‘Human feelings’ you don’t understand, eh?”

“Not entirely. I understand the feelings, I simply can’t empathize.” He clarified.

A trait that would prove their undoing.

Chapter Text

“I don’t think this will solve anything.” Copain, grabbing Veronique’s bottle and stowing it away, said.

“It’s not meant to,” She replied, barely lifting her head off her desk, “It’s just meant to numb me.”

“I take it you weren’t pleased with your parent’s letter?” He asked, rubbing her shoulders.

“Astute observation,” She mumbled into the smooth, wooden surface. It was a gift from her parents, and as she ran her finger across it, finding no cracks or blemishes on it, she realized it was meant to be an example for her, “I have no interest in being a statesman.”

“I can only offer my condolences.” He said, continuing his appreciated rub.

“It’s alright -” She pushed herself off her desk with an abrupt motion, containing all the grace of an untrained dancer, “I’ll simply have to deal with it. I can talk to them, they’ll be reasonable, surely.”

“Like they were reasonable when you said you wanted to study here?” He asked, his hands feeling empty.

“It almost feels like you’re discouraging me.” She chuckled, knowing he wasn’t really capable of such a thing.

“You are correct in your assumption, I am not capable of discouraging you.” She had apparently mumbled her thoughts aloud, a habit she was trying to break, “I’m simply arguing that it behooves you to be prepared for the possibility that they don’t allow you to do as you please.”

“I am prepared,” She crossed her legs and her arms, “I’m just hoping they see that I won’t falter. I’m going to be a painter.”

“I see.” Copain responded, making towards the door, “I’m going out, good night.”

“Where are you going? She asked.

“I find it particularly helpful to observe people at night -” He explained, a gentle, wistful smile on his face, “It allows me to glean more of their true nature, as it were.”

“Have fun.” She waved. Her smile faded nearly instantly as he left her with the gnawing responsibility of potentially defying her parents. She felt a headache start to form in her temples and decided to let the issue, and herself, rest, hoping that her dreams would provide a sufficient answer.

—

“My good man!” Bordeaux heartily wrapped Copain about the shoulder with his arm, “How goes it? I saw this most delectable tavern -”

“Veronique is in trouble.” Coapain, uncharacteristically worried, replied, “Her parents don’t want her to pursue art. She refuses to capitulate.”

“Seems like the problem has resolved itself,” His baritone voice boomed and echoed through the near-empty campus as he led on, “Her parents just have to accept it.”

Copain shuffled in front of him, blocking his way, “Her cousin was committed for disobeying Veronique’s parents, despite her own parent’s objections.”

“What?” L’Orange blew a raspberry. “Poppycock! I’ve met her parents - they seem like perfectly respectable people.”

“From the outside, I agree. I just wish there was something we could do about it.” He consciously grabbed his chin to give the appearance of a scholarly man.

“Well if that’s how you feel,” The older man’s voice turned mischievous, “I can think of a few ideas.”

“Oh?”

“Well, we could always tell them Veronique died.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Bribery?”

“We have no money.”

“We could just lie - say that she’s studying politics.”

“They could always contact the president of the university.”

“Well,” L’Orange rolled his shoulders, “There’s always another option.”

“If you are attempting to build suspense by waiting - consider it built.” Copain said.

“We could always threaten them,” He looked around to make sure no prying ears were in place, “Or kill them, if it comes to that.”

“Pardon?” He tilted his head, like a dog, “I believe I misheard -”

“It was a joke, Copain,” L’Orange once again puffed and blew his lips. Luckily for him, Copain could rarely tell when people were lying, “Let’s go drinking, we’ll figure something out tomorrow.”

“A joke - I see.” He took a few moments to process it, “I am going to kill you.” The two shared an awkward few moments of staring at each other, “Was it effective?”

“Not a bad start.” L’Orange forced a chuckle, so as not to hurt the feelings of his friend.

—

In a quiet little intersection, Paracelsus led Serpacinno away by the shoulder, hoping to afford them some privacy. He peeked around the corner again, verifying his partial crew was still distracted talking with each other. He sighed, part to steel his nerves, and part because he wished he didn’t have to. Still, despite all his gift of gab, it was clear he wasn’t going to be getting out of this situation. His partner was demanding answers, and he had no choice.

So, with a flourish of throwing up his hands, he started - “Well, I spent a non-insignificant amount of time at the gala looking for Lonceré. Suffice to say, I couldn’t find him until the end.”

“And what, you, you-” She stammed and stumbled over her words for a second, “Ran away with him? Why?”

“He’s paranoid,” Paracelsus explained, leaning against the wall in a casual way, “I don’t know what, but something has changed him. He didn’t used to be this way.” He shook his head, “I digress. The point is: I met him afterward, and… we got ambushed by the police. Silver showed up, and -”

“Silver?” Serpacinno raised her eyebrow and her voice in measure, “Do you have some past with her, too?”

“Back in Bataine, she was the pirate I encountered.” He explained, “I thought the marines arrested her. I suppose she got away.”

“And then?” She prompted, noticing his flighty, uncomfortable face.

“After we dealt with the police, Lonceré had expended all his strength. His gifts have always run a gauntlet on his brain organ, and it was too much for him. I went to check on him, and Silver injected me with something.” He sighed, feeling a small weight fall from his chest.

“Injected?” She walked over and slammed her hand on the wall next to his head, pointing a chiding finger in his face, “What were you thinking, turning your back on her?”

“I know, I know,” His pleading was cowed and ashamed, putting his hands up, and letting his normal fraudulent smile fall from his face, “I had the exact same thought as it was happening. I was stupid -”

“No,” She leaned in close, and for the first time, she was glaring at him, forcing him to swallow whatever he was saying, “You made a mistake. A mistake I can’t say that I wouldn’t have made.”

“I appreciate the thought, but, I should’ve told one of you, if I wasn’t alone-”

“Enough!” She shouted, baring her teeth to him. Even though she was an inch or two shorter than him, it was clear she had him sufficiently cowed, and her tone became gentler and less chiding, “Stop blaming yourself, and just tell me what happened.”

“It was a bizarre experience, I think she had some delusional fantasy,” He shifted again, his breath hitching as he looked for anything that might give him an out, but nothing presented itself, “We’d be some domestic couple. She fed me, but later she…”

The swordswoman let him have his peace for a few seconds, but her patience was a rope that was lit on both ends, and soon grew thin, “She what?”

“She raped me.” He hung his head in shame, and braced himself for some chiding from Serpacinno. Some declaration of his weakness, and his further weakness at being so easily shaken up.

Instead, he looked up and found her dead, angry stare. But it was not directed at him, and her hand was shaking as it maintained her grip on her sword, “Did you kill her?” She asked, “When you knocked her down, did you kill her?”

“No.”

The shaking on her sword grew more intense, and her teeth were gnashing like two ships colliding at sea, “I’ll do it.”

“Don’t!” He shouted, wincing at his own outburst, “I can’t have that on my conscience. I’m not a killer, and I won’t allow you to be either.”

“Oh?” She turned from him, “What gives you the right to determine what I do, or do not, do?”

“I’m your captain, dammit!” He replied back, gnashing his own teeth, “And if you want trust - I want cooperation.”

“Parace…” The name almost felt like venom on her lips. He made no habit of enforcing its exclusivity, but the nickname suddenly seemed like an iron ball, too heavy for her to pick up, “Alright. I won’t kill her. But you’re not leaving my sight until we sail again, got it?”

For the first time in the conversation, the captain bore a small, meek smile, and threw his arms around his partner. They embraced for a short time, in all likelihood it was only a few moments; but to the both of them, they felt time slow as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s grasp, heads on each other’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Serpacinno. For everything.” He said, letting her go.

“Anytime, partner. Now let’s go find Gareland, yeah?”

—

“You have to go in, Tariq.” The captain said, shaking his head, “You can be unseen, we can’t.”

“But I have no idea what to expect in there!” He argued, “It could be dangerous!”

“None of us know what to expect either,” Paracelsus’ incredulous face said, “Tell you what: You do this, I’ll replace the money that got stolen.”

While Tariq was busy rubbing his hands and blessing his good fortune, Lonceré looked away and whistled lowly, suddenly jealous of the younger man’s ability to cloak himself.

“Good luck.” He said, using the same technique from before to stealthily replace Tariq’s wallet.

Tariq rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. He breathed in, breathed out, and repeated the ritual a few times before he felt his gift wash over him, his body fading from view as the rest of them all hid out of sight, waiting for him to make his move. Eventually he did, knocking on the door of the building Lonceré had told him would have Gareland in it.

“Who’s there?” The angel, Peeares asked, opening the door. He looked around for a few moments before closing the door, attributing the knock to a random prankster.

Unbeknownst to him, Tariq had snuck in, quietly tiptoeing to avoid detection. He even held his breath, pointless as it was, what with the hustle and bustle and bloody noises of the city, until he was a solid dozen feet away and all at once, he released a loud puff that might’ve drawn the marine’s attention, were it not for something else grabbing his attention.

“And what’s more, I greatly protest this treatment!” Gareland was continuing her protests, her energy seemingly a bottomless well of annoyance as she shook back and forth, rattling the chairs and the ropes and the ground all at once.

Tariq curiously eyed the man she was bound to, a hybrid like Serpacinno, but to a much greater extent. Whereas Serpacinno’s serpentine lineage only manifested in the snakes atop her scalp, and some minor scaling around the wrists and ankles, this man’s vulpine heritage was quite pronounced. He sported a uniquely shaped head, with two prominent, red and black ears proudly protruding from his skull. The fur continued all through the skin Tariq could see, which to be fair, was not much.

Shaking his head and willing the thoughts away, he approached quietly and cautiously, as cautious as he ever was. He tapped her on the shoulder, at first lightly and slowly, but with increasing fervor as his signal was ignored.

“What?!” She finally shouted, throwing her head over her shoulder and looking right into Lorenzo’s eyes.

“What?” The foxman turned his nose indignantly, clearly annoyed at having been caught in thought, “I didn’t do anything, you crazy wench.”

She gasped in realization, setting off both the man she was tied to, and the Lieutenant guarding her. She played it off with a raspberry, and said, “See? Your boorish treatment is giving me hallucinations!”

Tariq then started to untie her binds.

Chapter Text

Tariq held the rope in his hands. It was simple enough to get off the binds holding the fairy exclusively, but now that they were gone, he still had to contend with the ropes holding both their wrists together. He wasn’t anyone too familiar with rope, only recently having learned the bowline, and regardless of his ability to do it, there was still the matter of freeing a potential adversary, someone his captain might’ve called a “radical element”.

But, the age-old adage did state “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, and seeing as the marines were the ones who kept him tied up, Tariq was willing to bet they were enemies. So, enacting his best judgement, he threw caution to the wind and untied the ropes, letting them audibly slap against the ground so as to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind as to what just happened.

Immediately, he felt a chill run down his spine, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he felt an overwhelming sense of dread overtake him. His heartbeat was so prominent, he swore he’d be caught just by the sound alone. Then came the breath leaving his throat - in his limited experience with such matters, he thought he was having an encounter with death itself.

Before he could grow any smaller with fear, however, he felt a small dainty hand find his with a surprising accuracy, almost as though his invisibility was slipping. When he finally regained control of his faculties, he confirmed that was indeed what was happening as Gareland dragged him with an unfitting level of strength.

“Come on, you lug!” She shouted, though the young man dragging his feet meant they were blocked from the exit by the Lieutenant.

“You’re not going anywhere!” He shouted, drawing his sword. With a great leap forward, aided by the wings on his back, he lunged toward the two, cutlass pointing straight for the fairy’s heart.

“Get down!” Tariq tackled her, not managing to dodge the sword completely, and taking quite the nasty gash to his shoulder as a result. He grunted as he stumbled to his feet, barely managing to draw his sword before Peeares had brought his own over him again, slicing and stabbing at him with a frenzied vigor.

Neither of them were truthfully too experienced with a sword, and neither were all that good. Their slices were awkward and bumbling, and both seemed ready to trip at any given moment as their back and forth provided no meaningful progress on either side. In an effort to break the stalemate, Garland delivered a decisive stab to the Lieutenant’s side, bringing him to his knees while Lorenzo still held his boss at bay.

Without further ado, she escorted them out of the building, throwing open the door to reveal… nothing. At least for a moment, she thought they were out of luck, but the rest of the crew revealed themselves quickly enough, and soon they were all absconding away.

“Gareland?” The captain delivered his question with an unrecognizable quiet, as though the boisterousness was wrung from his brain like a sponge, “You holding up alright?”

“Yes - this is he, I assume?” She asked, pointing to Lonceré, easily the least athletic, and most easily tired of the crew, “The man behind the announcements?”

“Formerly, yes,” The man in question huffed and puffed like a steam engine, “I’m joining the crew, though, so I think I’ll have to resign.”

“And Tariq,” Paracelsus seamlessly wove the words together, “You’re literally invisible. How did you get got?”

“Sorry,” The young man, with only around half of the adrenaline still in his veins, clutched his shoulder painfully, “One of them, or maybe the fox, they had this indescribable presence. I was scared out of my mind, and I must’ve lost focus.”

“It’s alright, we’ll get you patched up,” He laughed, though not mirthfully, “I’m just glad we’re all back together again.”

“Now we are!” The ever-increasingly familiar voice of Sally sounded, approaching from the rear, “I thought I told you - I really do intend to sail with you.”

“How did you find us?” Serpacinno asked.

“You all dress like foreigners - it’s not hard when you can run as fast as I do.” Sally replied, her usual teasing gone, in its place a calm solemnity.

“Can we take a step back -” Paracelsus asked, and his crew complied, Lonceré gratefully bowing his head, “Not literally! I meant, it just registered to me: what ‘fox’ are you referring to?”

“It’s a long story.” Gareland said, the explanation standing for now.

—

“My god,” One of the corpse gatherers wiped their hands of blood as best they could, which was not very, given the rather devastating nature of the fighting, “That’s the eighth child today.”

“I heard they’re bringing the gendarmerie in.” His coworker said, heaving another corpse onto the cart.

“The gendarmerie!” The first one scoffed, puffing his chest out, “That’ll be the day. Maybe they’ll clean all this mess up.”

“And so we shall.” A hand came down upon his shoulder, and looking up from the rough, calloused appendage, he saw the helm of the national police, with the signature blue feather pluming from the comb. The helm turned away from him, clearly indifferent to his presence, “Deodat, I see your point about the stench.”

“Where were we to meet the paladin?” Deodat asked, his hand clenching around his horses’ lead. He kept the equine close, not wanting to stain his feathers.

“You are to meet him near the fountain,” His boss pointed her long, armored finger pointed authoritatively, and all who heard her voice felt a compulsion to follow it, even bumping into each other when they lost their focus on where they were going, “I’m meeting the mayor. You have command until I return.”

“You heard the Captain!” He shouted, rallying the troops of Toulouse rode away on her own silver horse, “Fan out and search the area. Consider any suspicious actions arrestable.”

The group did as commanded, although they were without their own steeds to expedite the process. Soon enough, they’d formed a loosely defined perimeter, keeping tabs on anyone approaching the fountain, where the second in command sat, waiting for Roland.

“Lieutenant.” Roland, sans armor, greeted politely and formally, with a distinct lack of friendliness.

“Paladin,” Lieutenant Avignon replied with a bit more cheery of a voice, “I’m glad you recognized why Central Intelligence was so insistent on this being discreet.”

“This is what you call discreet?” He gestured to the scattered police with a wide, sweeping motion, “Anything but.”

“Discreet for you, I mean,” He elaborated, pointing a clawed finger at the paladin, “Nobody recognizes you without the armor - which makes this a perfect scenario for you to talk.”

“Talk about what?” The paladin raised an eyebrow, and his face made it clear he was annoyed.

“The mayor’s deteriorating condition. I know you know, there’s no point in hiding it.” His accusations were heavy, and sounded like great iron balls clacking together, “We need an explanation. The state of this city is unacceptable, and she will either fix it - or resign.”

“She will fix it. If you read the report, once we find Domingue -”

“Domingue?!” Deodat shouted, before taking a deep breath lest his temper get the best of him. As he did, Roland swore he heard the flicking of a forked tongue, “Look around you - Domingue is a distraction.”

“We believe that we can leverage his information -”

“To what end? Destroying the insurgents?” He leaned in close, so as to not give anything away to prying ears, “Central Intelligence be damned: don’t worry about their secret caches of weapons, or their bases of operation. If you don’t make progress within the next two days, Montpellier will be held in front of a judicial tribunal.” Which Roland recognized as the judicial hurdle to overcome - when one was sat in front of a Tribunal, they were essentially guilty from the onset.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t, I don’t have any authority. But despite my disdain for them, Central Intelligence does have that authority. And they will hold her personally responsible.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Officially, I recommend exercising your best judgement and doing what’s necessary to stop this incursion,” He looked around again, confirming no one was nearby, “Unofficially, I’d recommend you get her committed. At the least, it will buy her time to prepare her legal strategy.”

“I can’t imagine Central Intelligence gave you that one.”

“They didn’t,” He whipped his head back to the Paladin, who in turn whipped his head at the Lieutenant, “As I said, that’s an unofficial suggestion. Believe it or not, I have great respect for the mayor.”

“One issue, though, I can’t have her committed. I’m just a bodyguard.”

“Her gift - Copain, I think his name is, should be able to,” He argued, “Try to convince him.”

“I’ll take it into consideration. Will that be all?”

“Indeed that will be. Good luck.” The two of them stood, shared a handshake, and walked away.

—

“Can’t you synthesize something for him?” Gareland asked, observing Tariq’s writhing, wriggling figure, who was deftly, accidentally dodging any attempt at wrapping his wounds.

“Sorry, whatever Silver hit me with knocked out my gift.” Paracelsus tried once more to generate some gauze, finding no luck. He took special note of Serpacinno’s shaking hand, “Stay still!”

“Did I miss something?” Sally asked, “Who’s Silver, old lover?”

Both captain and vice gave an awkward look at that, turning back to whatever they were paying attention to. With no one else able to give an answer, Sally stretched her arms above her head, clasping them almost like a cat before lounging around, content to let everyone else do their own thing while she relaxed.

“You sure are lazy for someone who claims to be that fast.” Serpacinno said, letting her own legs rest.

“I don’t claim it, I am that fast.” Sally corrected her, offering no additional commentary. The sound of the captain wrestling with his helmsman to try and dress his wounds made quite the backdrop to converse.

“And you’re the only person with proof of that.” The swordswoman argued back with a cocky smirk.

Sally rolled her eyes (although it was hard to see past her long, full hair), then her ankles and wrists before stretching again and standing up. With a small adjustment to her neck, she disappeared in the blink of an eye, and after a few moments, returned just as quickly with a flag. The same, beat up, creased flag Serpacinno recognized as hanging off the Current. Also a few crackers.

“I’ll admit,” Serpacinno crossed her arms, and her grin made way for a grimace that stretched over her face, “I wasn’t expecting that. What are the crackers for?”

“Hunger.” Sally said between bites, “I get quite famished, running around.”

“Finally, you lanky freak!” Paracelsus had at last managed to get the wrapping around Tariq’s shoulder, “I’d run to the ship to get some tonic, but I’m exhausted.”

Serpacinno looked over at Sally, who replied “Absolutely not. I’m not a dog.”

“What? She can get it?” Paracelsus asked. Sally was about to open her mouth to retort, but Serpacinno cut her off and confirmed, “Well I’d say it would only be right to get it for your crewmate,” He tossed her a key, “The medicine chest is under my bed, look for hydrogen peroxide.”

With all eyes expectantly fixed on her, she shrank into herself, wishing she could trade gifts with the one being operated on. Instead, she had to resign herself to her role of delivery girl, and with a sigh, spent a few minutes before she returned with the largest, most medicinal looking bottle she could find, seeing as she barely spoke their language, much less read it.

“Close enough. One three: one, two -” He went early, which made Tariq flinch and jump like a pomeranian, “There. All better.”

With the matter closed and done, they gradually all retired for the night, awaiting the next day.

Chapter Text

There were now only two days until the crew of the Current left the ports of Cartesia. It was also officially the penultimate day that the Mayor had to resolve the crisis in her city. As usual, she was one of the first in the city to stir, bright and early, at five in the morning. She sighed as she observed the piles of stationery on her desk, her headaches had only been increasing, and the news she was delivered about the potential of a judicial hearing had only further inflamed her nerves.

“After everything I’ve done.” She picked up one of the letters, sent from some minister who had nothing better to do, before tossing it away. What did it matter if she was going to be scapegoated, anyway. Then, she thought back to when Copain had almost found Domingue, and decided a final gambit, “Copain!” She shouted, prompting him to enter the room shortly thereafter, “Get my drafting stationery, I’ve one last card to play.”

“Card, ma’am?” He asked, faithfully executing his instructions.

“A human expression.” She explained, paying no more mind to her friend.

—

“Absolutely not.” Serpacinno crossed her arms over her chest and stood wide in front of Paracelsus, “You remember what happened last time.”

“I’ve got these three with me,” Gareland, Tariq and Lonceré stood behind him, lacing their boots and buttoning their jackets, “You can come too, if you like.”

She was tempted to take him up on the offer, but she got a better idea at the last second. She grumbled as she mulled it over, but finally relented, “Something came up last minute. Be careful.”

“Have fun.” Paracelsus said, throwing his jacket over his shoulder in an attempt to appear stylish. It didn’t work, but no one wanted to comment on it.

“As I was saying -” Lonceré rushed a bit to get ahead and face the captain, “He’s an eccentric character -”

“A giant rat?” Tariq asked, incredulous.

“Weirder things are out on the sea, I assure you.” The cook was as quick as a horse with his retort, “One time at sea, the Captain and I encountered a green ship that-”

“Not the Lute!” Paracelsus threw his head back and groaned in frustration, “That damned ship.” His tone was clearly meant to be non argumentative, but Lonceré knew better, this was a topic not to be brought up.

“Well, supposedly, there’s an admiral out there who rides on a dragon.” Lonceré said, quite proud of himself for his swift change of topic.

“I see why you get along with him,” Gareland looked between captain and cook, “You both talk a lot.”

“I speak the truth!” Paracelsus put a hand on his chest like he was putting pressure on a deadly wound, “I may phrase it so that it helps me, but I assure you it’s different from the tall tales he spins.”

The group, sans Lonceré all laughed at that, uproarious at the notion of a fully truthful Paracelsus. Unbeknownst to them, their actions were monitored by a group of marines, following behind them at a safe distance.

—

Bordeaux, meanwhile, put his feet up as he thought contentedly about the situation he was presented with. It was all too easy - exactly as the powers that be ordained, he was soon to be in an advantageous position with almost no effort on his part. All he had to do at this point was wait, and everything would fall into place.

So then why was he so uneasy? There were, of course, minor fluctuations in the plan, but they all seemed to be working themselves out. The revolutionary, for instance, had gone silent, the Gendarmerie had, predictably, arrived too late, and the Union’s continued apathy all but ensured there could be no loss for him. But the small, seemingly unimportant details were starting to compound on top of eachother, and he wondered if the scales of fate were starting to tip the other way.

“Sir?” One of his assistants roused him from his thoughts, “Sir? Someone’s here to see you.”

He put his hand up in acknowledgment, and his assistant left him with the Marseille twins. They stood at attention, ever dutiful, as Bordeaux knew them to be. “What can I do for you?” He asked.

“Our pay?” Anne-Marie asked. Bordeaux rolled his eyes, but pulled out a small clip of money to give the two, “We’re certain that Paracelsus is leading us to wherever Domingue is hiding. I think he thinks we’ve forgotten about him.”

“And you’re here… why, exactly?” He had a way of speaking that made everyone uncomfortable. Not from fear of retribution exactly, but the way he carried himself was almost paternal, and his disappointment felt like a father’s.

Still, the “older” twin was still headstrong enough to not cow entirely, and for her part, managed to keep her gaze level, “We’ll get right on it,” She sighed, and brought forth the courage to speak her mind, “Besides, it’s not like he’s working with anyone fast enough to keep up with us.”

—

“And you seriously lived down here?” Paracelsus asked, holding his shirt over his mouth. However long ago this complex was condemned, the stench had only been accumulating, “Remember when we infiltrated that plague ship? It was less noxious than this.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lonceré rolled his eyes, “There were corpses on that ship. It was leagues worse.”

“I think your nose is broken, chum.” The captain turned around, “Tariq? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is this odor?”

Tariq answered, after some time and with great difficulty, gagging all the while, “Eight - no, nine. It reeks.”

“Wait - that’s why you smelled so bad at the party?” The captain asked as they came upon a fork, at which they turned left, the cook having spotted his own markings that he’d made the first time he entered.

Shortly after, though the time was stretched and scraped like cold butter on bread due to the cook’s steadfast commitment to silence (mostly to avoid the awkward conversation of what he was doing at the Gala), they came upon a divot in the walkway, with a small archway above it. They all took their shirts off and left them where they were, as they now had to wade through waste-high water - filled with whatever contaminants had been stewing - to pass through to another landing, where they found a stash of candles Lonceré had previously left.

“Stop.” Paracelsus told them, holding up his hand, “I heard something else walking with us.”

He crouched down, lighting a candle to better illuminate the passageway they’d just exited. Then, seeing nothing, he got down even further, using one hand to go prone and take a closer peek. Still nothing; he waited a few seconds more, before deciding it must’ve been some debris, or perhaps a mouse falling into the water that caused the splashing noise.

Still, to be on the safe side, he held up the rear as they continued on, chatting and reminiscing on the part of the two former comrades, and with no share of jealousy that he wasn’t partaking in their closeness on the part of the helmsman. Even throwing a glance over his shoulder every few minutes, in the next half hour that elapsed, he saw neither end nor head of whatever pursuer he imagined there to be.

And then, at last, they stumbled upon the main chamber, a bedroll hastily established in the corner, with a small fire for cooking. Off on the far end sat what appeared to be a ramshackle throne, some type of cardboard and stone menagerie built in the image of a royal seat.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Paracelsus said, taking the whole scene in, “There really is a giant rat.”

—

“Your footwork,” Serpacinno huffed, wiping sweat from her brow, “Gives you away.” She parried another blow from the Shah, and feeling quite confident in the turn, she went on the offensive, very quickly being struck on the back by the flat of his blade and falling to her hands.

She slammed her fist on the ground before jumping back to her feet and taking up a stance some five yards from the apparition. She took a deep breath and tuned out the chatter of the street, the bustle of the feet and hooves, and stepped forward, clashing blades before falling back to catch her breath. Another round of blows was exchanged, but this time, she found herself on the offensive, pushing the ghost back.

In a flash, she had managed to reverse her blade, getting behind the Shah’s guard and wresting his weapon away from him, taking great satisfaction in, for the first time, holding the tip of her blade at his neck, even if the gesture was ultimately meaningless.

“Very impressive.” Sally said, lying on a small raised surface, only half paying attention, as she was thoroughly absorbed in a picture book she was reading. Then, under her breath, she muttered “You warriors and your swords.” The irony that she was reading a book about a chivalrous knight saving a fair princess was most certainly lost on her.

Just as it seemed the duel was about to begin again, it was interrupted by a masculine clearing of the throat from behind. Gareland, Serpacinno, and Sally all came to attention, ready to leap into action, but the luminous man had his hands held up in peace.

“I’m bidden here to act as friend, loathe though I may find it.” He explained, talking a few slow steps forward, “Is the captain here? I suppose the appropriate phrasing would be that I extend an olive branch.”

The three looked between them, Sally’s attempts being thwarted by her rather voluminous head of hair which made her eyes nearly invisible.

Serpacinno was the first to answer, the other two naturally looking to her for such a response, “Er,” She scratched her chin in a manner befitting of a dignified, goateed, professor, “Why am I even thinking about this? No!”

“That’s awkward,” He replied awkwardly, “You can’t really stop me.” Serpacinno, at that rebuff, pointed her sword towards him, “If it makes you feel better, you can attack me. It will only tire you out.”

Still feeling compelled to try, the swordswoman swung and struck with a fervor becoming of a great warrior, to no avail. She tried every manner of attack she knew - from simple oberhaws and mezzanos to the more esoteric stoccatas and zornorts - but all that each attack accomplished was sapping her strength.

“Alright,” She huffed, wiping the sweat from her brow, “Maybe I can’t hurt you.”

“As I said, it would be a fruitless endeavor.” He crossed his arms in what might’ve passed for annoyance, “I’ll be waiting here.”

“Do you at least have a watch?” She asked in return.

“I do,” He pulled out a gold, expensive looking, pocket watch, “It’s dix a demi.”

“Shit!” She exclaimed, “I have to go do something very important.”

“Me as well,” Sally said, at last putting down her book and standing, “I have to pack if we’re leaving soon.”

“What?” Gareland finally piped up, “You can’t leave me here alone, with the enemy, again.”

“As I’ve said, I’m no -”

“She’s right,” Serpacinno cut him off, “Sally, you stay.”

“But -”

“No arguments. You’re part of the crew - that means taking orders.” She crossed her arms over her chest in what was real annoyance, “First order - stay here and watch Mr...”

“Copain.”

“Copain!”

“Ugh, fine.” She rolled her eyes, although it meant nothing, and went back to reading, “Don’t move, I’m much faster than you are.”

As Sally sat there, humming in contentment at her book, she was unaware that for once in his “life”, Copain had felt a strong sense of fear - whatever their ghostly apparition was made of, the luminous man had realized that it was nothing conducive to his health. But one feeling still reigned supreme even over the most primal of emotions - desire. A deep, burning desire, to do right by his closest friend. Even if she had bid him cooperate with these pirates, he was going to remain one step ahead of them.

And wait for his opportunity.

Chapter Text

“You may refer to me as Charlemagne.” The rat said, stepping down from his ramshackle throne. He held a powerful, regal glare that gave him the impression of a real king.

Paracelsus, and Tariq for that matter, bit their tongues to hold back the collective thought And he speaks?, and instead just held their mouths agape like fish that were unceremoniously removed from the water. As the more tactful one, the captain first recovered and shook the king’s hand, though not without a healthy spoonful of trepidation.

“Apologies, mate, it’s just - I’ve never seen someone quite like you.” He replied.

Then, with a great bellowing laugh and a powerful clap on the sailor’s back, he let the glare and grimace go with the wind, which in their current environment was really more of a stale, malodorous draft. In its place his teeth, yellow and haggard though they were, stretched into a smile a mile wide.

“I’m just joking, my good fellow! Prithee tell, what doth a handsome pair of gentlemen such as yourself seek in these catacombs?”

“I’m Paracelsus, and this is Tariq,” He coughed into his hand to try and regain some lost sense of normalcy, as though he wasn’t talking to an eloquent, strangely well dressed rat, “We seek only friendship, good fellow. Lonceré here tells us you’re quite lonely in these bleak, dreary halls.”

“Paracelsus, hm?” The king rat gripped his chin, “Well, I make do. The rats speak, and more to the point, they never judge my appearance like humans. Or any of those other assorted sort you surface-dwellers consort with.”

“Well, not to discredit you, but I’ve had my fair share of difficulties with that ‘assorted sort’,” Paracelsus smiled, “And my crew are similarly outcasts.”

“A delightful invitation - ” There was no such implication “ - But I fear, friend, that I must decline, though that is to say not that it doesn’t pain mine heart. Unfortunately, the same curse which gives me mine grim guise locks me to this city.”

“You never mentioned a curse!” Lonceré interjected, offended at having been left out of the loop.

“On several occasions, actually,” Charlemagne rebuked, “Thou simply possesses the listening skills of a lesser ape. The scepter?”

Lonceré then put his hands on his hips, and made a grand show of exclaiming in recognition. He even went as far as to walk over to the throne and attempt to lift it, before his hand was caught by the king.

“Tut tut, foolish fellow,” He chided the cook, “Truly, thou art not as evolved as thy comely compatriot. Whosoever wields it must fully accept the curse - form and prison in tow.”

“Wait!” Tariq was now the one to speak up, “I think you were right, Captain. Something is following us.”

“Three someones.” Charlemagne replied, tilting his head in confusion, “They aren’t with you?”

As if on cue, Graave, Peeares, and Taylor all jumped out, without the foresight of removing their tops having soiled the garments, and stood at the ready, guns primed.

“Damn, you are persistent.” Paracelsus marvelled, subtly scanning around the room for any quirk that might give them the advantage.

“I prefer the term driven.” The Lieutenant responded, “And you have proven quite the tiresome quarry.”

“What can I say?” He joked, tapping his foot. It seemed like a nervous habit at first, but Lonceré knew better. It was a rhythmic, patterned tapping that repeated, and each sequence bore a letter: W - E - T - G - U - N - S was the message, “I’ve never been one to be tied down.”

Immediately recognizing the signal, Lonceré used his gift to grab a length of rope in the corner before sending it toward Taylor, who tried to fire her gun, but found it inoperable. A second later, the pistol was dragged from her hands and thrown across the room.

“No you don’t!” As Paracelsus tried to create a gun to swing the fight in his favor, Graave dove at him, knocking it out of his hands and knocking the Captain’s breath out of him.

“By Paace, just give up!” He shouted back, slipping out from under the bearman’s grip and managing to make himself a small whip. It was most likely a mistake, given the thick skin of the Lieutenant, but he nonetheless persisted.

Meanwhile, Tariq stood behind his shield, taking blow after blow upon it from Peeares’ spear, which came down with a rhythmic tunk tunk tunk. Being rather inexperienced in melee combat, the lad was rather on the backfoot as he clumsily reached for his knife and disgracefully swiped at his opponent.

“It was you, you know,” The angel said, “You were the one who ultimately led us here!”

He followed up his words with a low sweep of his polearm which knocked Tariq onto his back. The helmsman first rolled right, over his shoulder, and then back again to dodge a pair of stabs directed to his torso. A third one seemed to be ready to gore him, but a spillover from whatever Lonceré was currently engaged with slowed him just enough to allow Tariq to shield himself. Due to the strong recoil of the weapon against metal, Tariq was able to sloppily, but undeniably able to turn the tides in his favor by kicking the Marine’s shin and sending him reeling.

With a quick, spritely jump to his feet, Tariq responded with a great blow to the head from his shield, having dropped his blade too far away to be of use. With that stun, Peeares dropped his spear, using his hunched-over form to retaliate and knock the younger man’s shield out of his hand. They both assumed a fighting stance, low and wide like they were about to get into a wrestling match.

“I don’t remember you.” Taylor said, in the meanwhile.

“I don’t remember you either -” Lonceré said, summoning his double and ducking under a horizontal slash from her saber, “Are we supposed to remember each other?”

“I don’t particularly care -” She swung, slicing his double apart, receiving for her efforts a loose stone across the jaw, “- I just thought maybe I missed you back in Bataine.” Then, in her own retaliatory manner, she socked him clean in the face with her off hand, slashing him across the chest while he was stunned.

“Never been.” He hissed in pain, using his gift to fight with his sword from afar.

While it was nothing new to him, the remote duelling afforded to the cook was sufficiently off-kilter to throw off Taylor’s normally impeccable swordplay. An opponent with no weight, whose footwork you can’t read is a unique brand of torture, but luckily for her, it also meant that when his double, with loud thunderous footsteps, came charging, she was able to easily redirect the unheld weapon to attack his clone.

What she was unable to foresee, however, was Lonceré diving and grabbing the gun Paracelsus had earlier dropped. He held the double-pistol triumphantly, assured that they had now won the fight. No sooner had he started relishing in his victory, however, than had one of the Lieutenant’s claws come flying from his paw and pierced the cook’s hand, causing him to fire the gun - hitting Taylor in the knee - before dropping it again.

“Dammit!” He shouted, “You just wait there a second.” He began the arduous process of wresting the claw from his hand.

“No - you wait!” Taylor said, gripping her knee and writhing on the ground, “Bastard!”

Meanwhile, having long since abandoned their weapons, Tariq and Peeares set upon grappling each other. Both being somewhat on the lanky side, and both equally alike in their inexperience in such fields as hand-to-hand combat, it was rather unimpressive. It quickly devolved into a tangle of limbs with no real coordination or purpose, hair and limbs being pulled and lame attempts at submission holds being executed. Eventually though, mostly by sheer coincidence, Tariq’s elbow found its way into his opponent’s face, whereupon he was stunned for some thirty seconds, more than enough for him to straddle the angel’s chest and pin him to the floor, and knock him out with a blow across the chin.

“Don’t take your eyes off of me!” A short few minutes ago, we return to Graave delivering a square uppercut to Paracelsus’ stomach, which was only exacerbated by the difference in size and weight between the two.

Paracelsus, for all his wit, was rendered speechless, albeit mostly due to the breathlessness the blow upon his torso delivered unto him. Before he could even recover, Graave kicked him in the shin, knocking him to his knee, before finishing the combo with a brutal smack to the temple, knocking the Captain on his side.

Still, not one to be outwitted by brute strength, he returned with a slap on the ground, raising the floor to hit the Lieutenant in the jaw, which did very little, all things considered. In fact, it was so poor in efficacy, all it really caused was the bearman getting enraged and raising his saber above his head.

“Don’t move.” Tariq said. He’d regained the pistol and had it pointed at the marine.

“You aren’t gonna shoot me, son.” Graave said over his shoulder, “You don’t have it in you.”

“Don’t shoot,” Paracelsus wheezed, “That’s - that’s an order.”

“What other choice do I have?” Tariq asked. His body language was clear, his hands were shaking, his breaths were short and erratic, he was nervous.

“Listen to Parace,” Tariq advised, still on his back, “It’s not worth it.”

“You haven’t done anything too far, son,” Graave said, “You can’t come back from killing a marine.”

“We’ll get arrested if I don’t do this!” He shouted, trying to convince himself more than anything.

“He can’t,” Paracelsus pleaded. He saw the look in Tariq’s eyes, a look he was all too familiar with. He absolutely refused to allow his friend to make the same mistake he did, “I’m the only one who can patch his soldiers up. He’ll have no choice but to let us walk.”

“You will never escape me, Paracelsus,” Graave argued, “Now or in the future.”

With that, the Lieutenant signed his death warrant. Shortly after, a shot rang out, and Graave’s lifeless body, with a new hole in the head, fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Immediately after, the shooter dropped the gun, his whole body now shaking.

—

“What are we doing here?” Gareland asked, observing the decrepit house.

“Personal business,” Serpacinno replied, “Stand guard.”

Immediately after delegating that task, the swordswoman kicked the door in, looking at the abandoned abode and scanning for any signs of habitation. She heard a familiar voice groaning from the other room, and upon investigating, her suspicions were confirmed - there sat Silver, packing and dressing the wound she’d sustained on the head.

At that moment, she had a million emotions she wanted to convey. Rage, disgust, even a fleeting sense of guilt, but all that came out was a choked, gargling growl.

“You again?!” Silver asked, searching desperately for a weapon to defend herself.

Just as she was about to grab one, Serpacinno stabbed the responsible hand, pinning it to the floor before kicking the gun away. Then, she knelt down, gripped Silver by the hair and forced her to look her in the eye, “Me again.”

“What does he even mean to you?” The sheepwoman tried in vain to break free from her iron grip, but a warrior’s hands are useless without serious strength.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Serpacinno spat back, lowering her gaze into a powerful glare, which combined with the snakes on her head standing on edge to give her a menacing, almost demonic gaze, “What matters now is what to do with you.”

“What do you expect me to do? Beg for my life? You’ll either kill me or not.”

Serpacinno gave a heavy sigh at that, she was right, after all. “Parace doesn’t believe in killing. You’ll find I have no such problems.”

And in an instant, Silver’s head was removed from her body, and Serpacinno simply cleaned the blood from her sword as she left.

Chapter Text

“At least you don’t have to worry about anything like that,” Veronique said, observing a butterfly which had landed on her outstretched finger, “Your parents are farmers, right? They mustn't expect much of you.”

“That was shockingly prejudiced of you, Veronique,” L’Orange was absorbed in painting his newest plein air painting, the subject of which was the forest that sat near their school, “True - but still prejudiced. They’re just happy I’m attending such a prestigious college.”

She wanted to comment that his brushwork was sloppy, but it would ruin the moment. So instead, she quietly sat and admired the way his arms would contract and expand as he painted, which was itself the better work of art. Eventually though, he finished his amateurish watercolor and left it to dry, joining his friend on the ground and spooking the butterfly in the process.

“Your art is improving.” The young lady said as the butterfly flew away, “I can tell what it’s supposed to be.”

“Very funny, at this rate you might make more money as a comedian.” He replied with an annoyed sucking on his teeth.

Copain returned to them, at that moment, letters in hand, as he had been sent to retrieve them earlier. L’Orange also received a basket of his namesake, as a gift from his family.

“They’re not for eating,” He chided as his friend reached for one, “They’re for juicing. You can have some later.”

“Not one?” She asked, pouting and lowering her eyes - something her friend was notoriously unable to resist.

“Not one, I’m afraid,” He snatched it from her hand, making sure to do so delicately as to not break the skin, “They’re a rare breed, I swear the juice is worth the wait.”

“May I try some?” Copain asked.

“You can drink?” The young man asked.

“Now who’s prejudiced?” Veronique asked, “Of course he can drink - he just doesn’t need to.”

“Then by all means, he can have some juice.” L’Orange replied, standing up, “Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait until Monday. I have some business in the city over the weekend.”

“Have fun,” His friend replied, waving him off, “I have a party to attend, in any case.”

—

“Damn carriage,” Bordeaux, holding a jar of orange juice in one hand, said as he brushed himself off with the other hand, “Two dollars and three hours of the least comfortable seat known to man.”

He had some business in the city, indeed. Veronique’s father, Jacques, was a minister of some importance within the city. As the chief of staff, he had immense sway with the mayor, and in fact had managed to make room in his schedule for a meeting with a well-respected businessman and professor.

“Come in.” He said, after hearing L’Orange knocking on the door.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” L’Orange put down his jar, bowing his head in appreciation, “Thank you for your time. A drink?”

“Sorry,” The man’s voice was a deep, gravelly baritone chorus, almost like multiple judges speaking at once, “But you can understand why I don’t accept drinks from people I don’t know, Mr. de Gaulle.”

“Fair enough, sir,” He grabbed a glass, and poured himself one, “But you’ll understand if I do?”

“Go ahead,” And once he saw ‘Mr. De Gaulle’ drink a glass, he realized it was safe and poured himself one as well, “I hear you’re the one who's supposed to look at the bank’s books?”

Bordeaux smiled and pulled out a forged license of accounting, with a perfect replica of the minister of finance. The chief inspected it twice over on both sides. After determining it was to his satisfaction, he took a drink and handed the license back.

“It’s quite sweet.” He commented, putting the glass down and grabbing some ice, “Too much for my taste.”

“My father crossbred these oranges himself,” Bordeaux replied, leaning back, “He’s something of a scientist when it comes to farming.”

“Oh?” Mr. Montpelier cracked a grin, “My father was a farmer as well.”

Suddenly the two had seemed to forget the reason they were meeting, as they both discussed the trials that came with being raised on a farm, and the gratitude they both had for being able to break into politics. As the conversation continued, the Chief felt hotter and hotter, and his words were less and less distinct.

“What’s wrong sir?” Bordeaux asked, wiping the older man’s brow with his handkerchief.

“Forgive me, I must have caught some malady or other.” He tried to stand, but his legs were weak and they couldn’t support him. He also suddenly felt his breath leave him, and his body grew heavier and heavier.

“Oh, my,” Bordeaux said with a feigned worry, “It seems I’ve forgotten the theriac.”

“How -” The Chief tried to choke out, and the last part of his body with strength, his hands, gripped the younger man’s collar angrily.

“I’m sorry, but I ate them everyday as a child. I must’ve built some,” Bordeaux ripped the offending hands off of his shirt, “Tolerance, or something. But I must admit - It’s a happy coincidence. You see, sir, I was lying, I’m no professor or economic forecaster. I’m your daughter’s friend - from college. I simply couldn’t accept your refusal of her passions.”

“You fool - you little upstart -” Were the final words that ever left the Chief’s lips, as he collapsed and slumped on the floor.

Bordeaux at least had the good sense to hide the cups and throw the bottle of drink out the window before he told the man’s assistants of his heart attack.

—

“Clear out!” The Deputy Chief of the Gendamerie shouted. He was standing ahead of his men, who were in turn forming a perimeter around the state house. He was already agitated on account of his cold blood not liking the rain that was pouring, but the Chief had trusted him to hold the line, so he would. The agitation only grew as the rabble-rousers had gotten more and more bold, even going as far as to start lighting fires and exploding bombs.

Meanwhile, inside, the Chief herself sat in a meeting with the Mayor, sipping sweet orange juice with ice, as she said, “They’re prepared to offer you a great sum of money if you step down gracefully and quietly.”

“How great of a sum do you mean?” Montpelier replied, “I won’t accept anything less than a total of two-thousand dollars and a manor in one of the Northern provinces.”

“Thirteen-hundred, and a house, in the city where they can find you.” She replied, mimicking her foe’s calm, cool demeanor.

“You make it sound like you don’t trust me,” The Mayor took a sip of her drink, hiding her scowl, “And perhaps you have good reason.”

“Good reason?” Toulouse asked, “Do tell.”

“I’ll be frank, I have a lot of information neither you nor your superiors wish to have revealed,” As though to prove the point, she put a stack of papers on the desk, and chided Toulouse when she reached for them, “Don’t think these are the only copies. If I were to suddenly vanish, what might my allies in parliament think?”

“Don’t be hasty,” The Chief was glaring openly now, and though she was calm, it was clear she was in no mood for arguing, “There’s no need to escalate things further.”

“From where I sit,” Montpelier said, “It seems like you’re the one who’s escalating.”

The Chief gnashed her teeth for a few minutes, thinking the decision over, before she nodded, “Fine. I’ll see to it that your demands are met.” She stood up and left, but not before a final warning, “Still - I’ll say this. If any of those secrets ever find their way to the public, I assure you it will not be received well.”

As the intimidating woman finally left, Montpelier leaned back in her seat and let out a great sigh of relief. In fact, those secrets were the only copy, and whatever friends she once had in parliament had long since abandoned her. If only it weren’t for that damn diagnosis - She thought, before stuffing it down. Lamenting on her limited time wouldn’t set anything in motion, but she knew how to do so.

—

Bordeaux drank down his coffee with gusto, long since accustomed to the loneliness plaguing his heart. As a result, the subtle longing he felt toward his former friend was easy to bury in his heart, and any affection he may have held for her was nothing in the face of his ambition.

Speaking of, he read the letter on his desk, the most recent update from the Marines. Apparently, their plan was going swimmingly - the Mayor was being blamed for the recent goings-on, and his name was being spoken of as a potential replacement in the eyes of the legislators. No longer would he have to live in the shadows of society, away from view. He knew he had it in him to be a politician, disfiguring burn be damned. Now was the time to simply wait and allow everything to fall into place, starting with -

“So Mr. Bordeaux,” Allifer, the intimidatingly large man that he was, said, “Why did you want to see me?”

“You, Mr. Nice, are in quite the unique situation.” He explained, leaning forward and allowing that same burn to come into the light, “You’re well-respected by both immigrants and natives, and it seems as though you have some real ideas to improve this city.”

An awkward silence fell on the meeting, with Allifer rather stunned, to say the least, “I thank you, and pardon my saying so, but surely you didn’t call me here for counsel?”

“Better than that,” Bordeaux smiled pleasingly, “You didn’t hear this from me - but rumors have been getting about that I may soon find myself in quite the powerful position within this city, and I’ve been shopping around for a face, so to say.”

“I’m not quite sure what to say, sir.” Allifer replied, choking down his afternoon ale, “I’m flattered, of course, but this is quite the responsibility.”

“Of course it is, but you’re quite the man,” Bordeaux pointed at him, and the absurdly large man felt his being start to hum with a vigor, and a newfound zest he’d never quite experienced, “Of course, there will be no shortage of challenges, but their number will be rivaled only by the privileges you will enjoy.”

And as the meeting dragged on and on, Allifer felt himself unable to completely renege the option.

—

“You monster!” Taylor cried, in both senses of the word, as tears poured from her eyes with no abandon, “You killed him! You fucking killed him!”

“Captain,” Lonceré said, covering her mouth with his hand, “What should we do about them?”

“We’re not killing them, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Paracelsus said over his shoulder as he tried to comfort the sobbing form of Tariq, “Look at me, Tariq. This is not your fault.” He grabbed the boy’s face and made him look him in the eyes, “You should never have been in this position to begin with, by Paace I’m sorry.”

“But I was the one who did it.” Tariq’s normally loud, unashamed voice was now quiet and reserved, and his gaze, though fixed on his Captain, was empty and glassy, like he wasn’t really there, “I was the one who killed him.”

“You were,” He replied, hugging his tighter, “And you’ll unfortunately have to live with that for the rest of your life - but the pain will fade, if you let it. And, if you don’t kill anyone else, you will learn to move on with your life.”

“How can you do it?” Tariq asked in turn, burying his head into Parcelsus’ chest.

“It gets easier over time, but get up,” Paracelsus said, raising them both to their feet, “We have to leave and get back to the others. I think it would be best if we accelerated our departure."

And so, after treating everyone’s wounds, and wishing a farewell to Charlemagne, the three had to leave.

Chapter Text

It was roughly three in the afternoon when the crew was all reunited, looking mostly worse for wear. Worse still was that Copain was still there, just hanging about.

“Domingue?” He asked, shaking the cook’s hand.

“Some refer to me as such,” He replied, shaking the other man’s oddly warm hand, “Who are you?”

“I’m the mayor’s assistant.” He replied, making Lonceré’s hair stand on end, “She wants to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?” He asked, looking at his captain, “Wouldn’t it be best to ask him?”

“You’re the one behind those announcements a few days ago, yes?” He ignored the question, “You have to continue them. The mayor is prepared to give you a folder full of state secrets she wishes to leak.”

“Hold on, why should we trust that?” Paracelsus interjected, “And furthermore, what would we get out of this?”

“You would get safe passage for the Current. And as for the matter of trust, I think it’s unimportant.” Copain boldly stated.

“Believe it or not, we actually agree on that.” Paracelsus countered, “But there’s another matter I’m sure we agree on - collateral. You have something of mine, but I have nothing of yours, save your word.”

“You must think yourself terribly clever, Mr. Paracelsus,” Copain looked down at him, and though his face was featureless, it almost appeared to hint at a challenging glare, “But in this case, I must implore you - understand that you can have nothing other than my word.”

“Can it be done today?” He asked, seeing all the heads of his crew snap toward him, “There will be no other way I can ensure our cooperation.”

“Parace -” Serpacinno reached out to his shoulder.

“Please, not now. There’s been a development on our end, and suffice to say it’s now or never.” He turned back to address Copain, “We will be leaving tonight, by land or sea.”

“Fine, you and Mr. Domingue will come with me.” Copain instructed.

“Just give me a minute,” Paracelsus huffed with a tired, unspoken annoyance, and led Serpacinno off to the side, “A moment?”

“What the fuck was that?” She asked, pushing a finger into his chest.

“I know. I know,” He was now having to actively strain to keep a cool head, every second was longer than the last and he meant what he said about leaving their that night, whatever energy the city had brought to him he had thoroughly overindulged on, “But sometimes, loathe as I am to admit it, I have to put my foot down.”

“Put your foot down?” She asked, similarly angry, “More like puff your chest out and be a big man.”

“You have no idea what has transpired today -” Their voices were getting angrier and they were at serious risk of drawing not only their crew’s attention, but the public’s, as well, “So please, do me the favor of saving this until we’ve left this damned place.”

“I have no idea?” It was taking all she had not to erupt, not to bare her fangs and push him against the wall, “Then tell me - what happened that’s got you so fucked up?”

“Tariq shot a marine!” He shouted, for sure letting everyone hear their dispute, “That Lieutenant that’s been following us is dead, and I couldn’t protect him from this. Just like I predicted!”

Immediately her gaze softened, and her mouth hung ajar in shock. She didn’t know him all that well, but it certainly seemed to explain the boy’s mouse-like quiet. She looked at the Captain’s face, normally jovial and disarming, and noticed it was bent into one of shame and regret. The swordswoman also realized she knew him less than she thought. Whatever the reason, there was a wall between them, and she became uncomfortably aware that whatever the purpose, he was always acting.

“I’m sorry, Paracelsus, I -” She tried again to put her hand on his shoulder, this time to offer some counsel, however poorly she thought it would be received, but he brushed the offending appendage away. Quickly, disturbingly so, his face returned to a more familiar, but noticeably more forced, neutrality.

“It’s alright, I shouldn’t have snapped.” He tried to rebuke, but was shut off when Serpacinno hugged him. And it was no chaste embrace, but rather, she threw her whole weight on him, and despite him being a scant few inches taller, he couldn’t have felt smaller in the moment. So, throwing his arms around her in return, and only now realizing how warm she was and how well his arms fit around her, he bit back tears, battening his mental tarpaulins.

In the end, the tender moment was interrupted by the cook explaining the urgency of leaving, and Serpacinno ultimately found no way to break the news about Silver.

“Thank you, sincerely.” Paracelsus said, with no artificial humor in his words and no forced joy in his eyes, “Have Sally start loading the ship, if she still intends on sailing with us. Everyone should begin packing, and if you wouldn’t mind dealing with my belongings, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, Parace.” She shot him a sympathetic glance.

—

“I’m not a pack mule.” Sally muttered to herself, hastily shoving her things in a rucksack. She was always a light packer, just a dozen changes of clothes, her sword, her helmet, several bottles and jars of toiletries and perfumes, a few of her favorite picture books, a journal, several of her favorite hair brushes, a mirror and some other unmentionable that need not be elaborated on. All in all, very light, if your definition of light was to stuff the container to the brim.

“Sally?” Her friend / confidente, Maïa, gave her la bise, as per tradition, “Where are you going? Everyone’s missed you these past few days.”

“I’m flattered,” Sally said, continuing to try and defy the laws of volume to fit yet more perfumes into her bag, “But some sailors, in the city, they’ve agreed to let me sail with them.”

“Sail where, Sally?” Her friend asked, trying to help her impossible mission.

“Wherever Genevieve is!” Sally grunted, falling on her face because of the momentum afforded to her by her pushing and squeezing.

“You must really love her, huh?” Maïa asked, before adopting a panicked look, “Wait - you mustn’t go back there tonight!”

“Why not?” Sally asked, rolling her eyes.

“My father works in the city - he said that there’s going to be an all-out battle at the mayor’s house soon!” She warned, grabbing Sally’s hands.

“Shit,” Sally groaned, lamenting that “I’ve got to warn them. See you, Maïa.” She gave the older girl a more intimate kiss, before walking away with an affected stride, “Or maybe not.”

—

“Come, this way,” Copain motioned the duo towards him, “They won’t see us sneak in the back.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Lonceré leaned in and discreetly whispered, “Are we going to double-cross them?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Paracelsus said, his mind clearly elsewhere. Lonceré knew him well enough to know when his mouth and his mind were piloted by two separate parts of his brain, “I don’t think so. If they wanted to betray us, they’d probably have done so already.”

“Forgive me if I’m being impetuous, but you should be focusing on what’s happening right now.” The cook replied.

“I will admit I’m distracted,” Paracelsus said, finally following Copain through the door, “But don’t think I’m incapable of seeing this through.”

Lonceré dashed a few steps ahead to address his Captain in the eye, even though he had to look down, “I’m not doubting your capability, it’s just that, ever since… that happened, you’ve been distracted.”

“I just can’t stop thinking that maybe I’m cursed,” Paracelsus replied, “First there was everything with the Chameleon, and now I can’t help but feel everything’s gonna repeat itself.”

“If you believe it, it will be true.” Lonceré argued, “You taught me that. It’s something more than that.”

“Fine,” The Captain huffed, turning his head, “It’s Serpacinno.” And then, after seeing the look of blank unrecognition on his friend’s face, “The swordswoman. I don’t know why I find myself caring about her opinion so much.”

“A man caring about what a woman thinks of him?” Lonceré put his hand on his chin in a mock show of confusion, “No idea what you might be suffering from.”

“One thing I didn’t miss was your sass.” Paracelsus said, putting a finger up when he saw the cook about to speak again, “Not now. If anything, you’re right about my needing to focus.”

“Don’t bother sitting, gentleman, I plan to be quick.” The mayor said, taking and dropping a stack of files in front of the cook, “In this, you will find everything you’re to say. Once those secrets are out, your ship will be free to leave.”

Paracelsus took the first few papers off the top, looking through them, “The Union is planning to replace you?” He asked, “Well then, I guess that makes sense. Why else wouldn’t they be intervening when this is happening to a founding member? Do you have any idea why they’re replacing you?”

“I’ve held on too long,” She said, throwing her hand on her head, “When you try to change the world your whole life, you end up just driving yourself crazy.”

“Alright…” Paracelsus raised an eyebrow at her musings, but made for the door, “We ought to get started.”

As he made to do so, though, a massive explosion rang out, and the shockwave was so profound it knocked him and Lonceré to the ground. As they stumbled to their shaky feet, with ears ringing and foreheads bleeding, they saw that the back wall had partially collapsed.

“Shit!” Paracelsus shouted, looking for his friend, “We have to go!”

“Right behind you!” His taller friend shouted in response, and the two of them dashed as fast as they could, with the cook clutching his hand.

—

“Did you hear that?” Gareland asked, looking toward the loud boom she heard, “Look - it’s fire! Should we go help them?”

“No, we should have faith,” Tariq said, a solemn look on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest, “He said he’ll be back, I trust him.”

“You’re shaking,” She replied, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Are you sure?”

“I just,” He replied with a great pause, getting the kedger ready, “I don’t think I would be of much help over there right now.”

“Look, Tariq,” She said, helping him heave the anchor to the smaller ship, “I won’t pretend I didn’t hear what he said, but you shouldn’t think so hard about it.”

“How can I not?” The speed with which he turned his neck to her would make a whip blush, “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Look at everyone on the crew:” She argued, “Our Captain - whom we know almost nothing about - was a former revolutionary, the cook was his former comrade, our first mate is a similarly -” She grunted with exertion as the finally got the anchor on the tow, “Mysterious warrior, and you can’t tell me she never has a crazy look in her eyes. Then there’s me - and the less said about that subject, the better.”

“Your point?” He asked with a skeptical look.

“My point is that we’ve all done things we’re not proud of,” She gave a small curtsy when he helped her climb back to the main ship, “But maybe that’s why we’re all here - we’re all looking for people like us.”

“You forgot about me!” Sally shouted, flanked on either side by the city watch who were responsible for ensuring they couldn’t leave port until the appropriate time, “I’m not looking for anything like that. And besides, I don’t plan to even be here for long.”

I didn’t either, Gareland thought, staring at her hands, and the recently arrived Serpacinno, But maybe I could stay with them for a while longer than I’d planned.

Chapter Text

“Oh fuck,” Paracelsus groaned, pulling Lonceré around a corner, “I really hope they didn’t see us.”

“Who?” His cook asked, looking around the corner. Upon doing so, he saw a pair of rabbit-eared twins approaching them.

“Idiot.” The Captain hissed under his breath, turning to address the new arrivals, “Hello there.”

It seemed they were in no mood for pleasantries, as the older twin started kicking at him with her long, powerful legs. She even added a bit of fire from her gift for flair, despite the rain dampening its efficacy somewhat. He did his best to dodge, but holding the papers made it a moderately difficult ordeal.

“This is a big misunderstanding!” He said, ducking under a sideways kick to the head, “Believe it or not, we want the same thing.”

“Oh shut up,” Anne-Marie insulted, “You’ve been conspiring with her the whole time.”

The Captain finally gave up on restraining himself, and made a small bully stick to thwack her on the side of the knee, “Alright, I’m giving you one chance to give up.”

She bore her teeth, flashing them in a wicked snarl, and growled to try and intimidate him, “I’ll fucking kill you.” She spat at his feet, before she limply tried to lunge at him.

In response, he simply repeated the stroke, striking her left leg this time, “I tried to warn you.” He looked over and saw Lonceré had since dealt with the younger twin, “Let’s go.”

—

“God, isn’t it ironic?” Montpelier lamented, looking out the window to see the city she loved being reduced to this, “If I knew all this was to occur, perhaps I would’ve run away with L’Orange.”

“I don’t think it’s productive to speculate on that,” Copain said, laying a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, even though he had to admit that she wasn’t entirely wrong, “And besides, for all we know, Mr. Bordeaux is dead. You wouldn’t want to wind up like that.”

The office behind them lay in ruins, books and furniture strewn about randomly and burnt, with the wall itself having given out, leading to the floor and carpet getting soaked where it wasn’t singed. Still, for all its faults, it was distinctively hers, at least for the time being, and so, with the letter from before drafted, she waved a bit of summoning jerky, and sure enough, a small black raptor landed in front of her.

“Here, little one,” She carefully gave the beastie her letter, as well as the coin required for such a service, and allowed it to smell from a patch she kept in her desk, “If he’s still alive, I want L’Orange to read this.”

The raptor, instead of flying, simply glided over to the door, whereupon he dropped the letter and flew away. For a moment, as she hunched to pick it up, the Mayor thought the bird mad and wrote off the expense as her atonement for any number of mistakes she made in her thirty odd years on this planet, before she realized what the implication of the mailbird’s action was.

She threw the door open, and there he stood - L’Orange Bordeaux, her once dear friend, was as tall (and, although she would never admit it, handsome despite, or perhaps in part due to, the disfigurements) as she remembered.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, not without a healthy dose of venom and grimace.

“I came to relieve you,” He said, a sad, almost pitying look in his eye, “I’m your replacement.”

“You?!” The shooter woman screamed out in a moment of pure rage, “Now, by what mechanism does a father-killing lunatic like yourself manage that?”

“Lunatic?” He shouted back, grabbing the burn on his eye, from acid that she had poured on him when the knowledge of his misdeeds found her ear, “Look at what you did to me. I had to sell my body to that sadistic Admiral just to survive.”

“All these years…” She shook her head mournfully, “I thought if you survived - you might’ve grown, might’ve taken time and reflected upon the great and terrible things you’d done. But you still refuse to take responsibility for anything. And what’s more - I wrote an apology in that letter. But I’m glad you’ll never read it, and what’s yet more - I think you deserve everything that you received after what you did.”

“And here I thought you might’ve loosened up -” He countered, “I thought I’d have you grovelling, thanking me for doing what was best for us. Can’t you see? This isn’t what either of us wanted out of life!”

“Us?” She roared in anger, trying to hint with her eyes for Copain to search her desk, “You acted on your own ego - without consulting me - about what you thought was best for you! I can’t believe at one point I loved you.”

“Has that tumor in your head driven you mad?” He asked, jabbing a finger at her forehead, “Even now, hearing the music, you refuse to face it. You don’t hold the cards here, Veronique!”

“Oh shut up.” The Mayor spat, both literally and figuratively, before slapping him on the cheek, “I should’ve been able to tell you were scum from the start. You always hide your intentions behind metaphors and aphorisms because you’re too scared to face yourself.”

While Bordeaux fished a needle from his jacket and jammed it into his arm, Copain had finally got the message, calmly searching the mayor’s bureau for the firearm he knew should be there, yet paradoxically had made itself sparse. Then it struck him - the alchemist had touched the desk. Had he, in that moment, managed to gain some of that collateral he was searching for earlier?

“Ma’am,” He said, with no shortage of reservation as Bordeaux continued dragging the needle along his forearm, his blood coagulating on the ground in the shape of a sword, “I regret to inform you that your pistol has been absconded with.”

“Dammit,” She growled, before taking a deep breath to regain her composure, “Copain - see to it that my wishes are taken care of. Bordeaux, do as you will.”

Copain left, and for the first time in his “life”, he may have felt some emotion. The unfamiliarity of such a sensation meant that he wasn’t sure what it was - regret, grief, and sorrow were likely suspects, but regardless, he felt too much loyalty to ignore his dying friend’s wishes.

“I thought this would be much more satisfying.” He said, using the sword to, finally, kill the former Mayor.

However, his victory was short-lived, as soon after, he felt a blade, cold as ice and thin as a feather, pierce his sternum. When he looked at the assailant, he didn’t recognize him, but readers would do well to know it was the same Xenepol from earlier, here to take the fallen sword before dashing away.

“Bad news, Xenepol -” His wife, Rian said, fending off two of the Gendarmerie with a long chain, “They’re onto us.” With a great grunt of effort, she twisted the chain, using her large stature to drop them to the ground before using the end of the chain - a small, sharp sickle - to slice their bellies open.

Xenepol himself narrowly managed to lock blades with another policeman, before biting the law’s throat out and spitting it on the ground. Another charged him. He simply ducked and allowed Rian to decapitate him with her sickle, before pointing his sword forward and allowing yet another lawman to impale herself on his weapon.

“What do you think the chances are that that man with the boat is still here?” He asked, admiring his wife as she wrapped the chain around an officer’s throat and garrotted him to death, “Furthermore - what are the chances he might be willing to give us a ticket out of here?”

“Furthermore?” She asked, “You’ve never used that word before.”

“What does it matter?” He chuckled in an embarrassed sort of way, pulling at his collar, “Anyway - just answer the question.”

She scratched her chin with one hand, using the other to trip a man with his sword aloft, before throwing him out a nearby window, “I don’t want to stay in the countryside or anything like that.”

“Too dull?” With no more enemies, he wiped his sword and mouth down.

“Too dull.” She replied, cleaning her weapon as well.

“That’s a shame,” He laughed in earnest this time, “I thought I’d just sharpened our weapons.”

“Oh, you fool -” She said, gripping a final assailant by the neck before slamming him into the ground, “ - Let’s get going.”

—

While running back, Lonceré was, the whole time, speaking the script to a mouse they’d found, now being around a tenth of the way to completion. With the boat finally in sight, they hastily hopped aboard, and he began the process of speaking to a larger group of the rodents to spread the message faster.

“I’ll be damned,” Serpacinno said, hands on her hips, “You seem to have made it work.”

“We all made it work.” He corrected, now with a softer, more genuine smile, “And, I just wanted to reiterate that I really do appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Really, I understand.” She said, returning with a similarly shy smile, “I mean - we’ve all been stressed. At least I have.”

“It’s just unbelievable,” He argued, “We just happened to arrive here, at the worst possible time. You know they call it the ‘City of Love’?”

It started out with him chuckling sarcastically. Then his partner joined, and the two of them quickly escalated into laughter. Eventually, they threw their heads back and leaned on the gunwale, breaking into a full-on fit for a few minutes before they saw everyone looking at them.

“Paace,” He ignored them long enough that the stares dissipated, “I can’t believe it. Well,” He hopped to his feet, “Let’s get everything ready.”

—

“I told you the West was a shithole.” Avignon, the Chief’s deputy remarked, “Look at what’s happened here. Never would’ve happened back out East.”

“Agreed.” Toulouse said, “That being said, we don’t have a choice now.” She pulled out her rapier, an especially long sword, at nearly six feet, and flexed it behind her, throwing the excess moisture off of it, “Let’s do it.”

She immediately took up a sideways stance, holding her off-hand at her shoulder, thrusting the blade forward at Xenepol. He managed to dodge it gracefully, but when she used that same off-hand to point behind him, his normally impeccable focus was inexplicably driven towards the object of her gesture.

“Agh!” He grunted, feeling the blade pierce his side. Luckily it wasn’t too deep, but it still stung like hell as he pressed a handkerchief he had over his bloody side.

He tried to charge, but was once again rid of his wits as he was forced to stop and look at the ground near his feet, receiving for his misgivings a slashing about the length of his arm with the rapier’s edge.

At the same time, Rian was having her own share of trouble with the reptilian foe she stood down. Despite her massive advantage in size, and the unorthodox nature of her weapon, she was finding herself vexed with his inhuman reaction times, allowing him to perfectly weave in and out of her pattern of swings to close the distance.

“Now I have you!” He shouted, sinking his teeth into her arm, right over her basilic vein and delivering a worrying dosage of venom into her body. What was worse for her still was that he refused to let go, even as he made a strike at her neck with his sword.

Eventually though, with a great deal of both effort and blood loss, she managed to wrest his jaws off of her and toss him some three meters away. Before she could begin another wave of attacks, she shared a look with her husband, and with no words exchanged, they spun around, each duelling their partner’s former opponent.

Chapter Text

“You’re a lizard, yes?” Xenepol asked, buying time for his sword to split horizontally, the two halves giving way to reveal a glowing core which soon shot a sort of beam of light into the sky, manifesting a great number of swords from it.

“What about it?” Avignon asked, catching his breath. The venom he’d ejected took a lot out of him.

“You’re cold-blooded, then?” The swordsman retrieved a queer blade, long and slender, with a fine tip. The weirdest thing about this was the material - it appeared to be made of a refined ice, and in fact the air around it crackled with the cold, and the rain froze to hit the cobblestones with a satisfying tink.

“Good luck.” Was the only warning the lizardman gave as he dashed forward, and true to his tone, he had no trouble at all dodging his opponent’s various thrusts and slashes, now having regained some stamina.

Slowly, however, the cold was taking its toll on him. Each dodge was closer than the last, each parry less solid and each appropriate punishment more superficial. Eventually, the effects were compiling too heavily, and he found himself on the backfoot, panting and huffing as he was now the one who felt his body being prodded and cut.

“I never thought I’d die in such a shithole.” He said just as the blade pierced his heart.

“A poor choice of last words, to be sure.” Xenepol said, returning that sword to its luminous storage.

Even with her sight failing and her body hurt, Rian used her inhuman stature to continue her assault, even if occasionally, she was forced to direct her attention elsewhere. Eventually though, she slipped up for just long enough to allow the Chief to get her rapier in between the links of her chain and stuff the taller woman’s means of attack.

“Damn you!” She said, momentarily glancing at Deodat’s corpse, “What the fuck is wrong with this city?!”

The singular lapse in concentration was enough for Rian to gain back control of her weapon, but the Chief was nonetheless confident in her abilities. Deodat’s killer was regaining his strength, and this woman in front of her was already badly injured. All she needed was one final distraction, and so she pointed behind her opponent.

“What?” She asked, observing that Rian had not changed direction, “How?”

“It’s easy,” Rian explained coldly and calmly as she sliced the Chief’s neck open, “I simply can’t see right now, on account of the venom.”

“She’s dead, dragă.” Xenepol said, looting her sword and taking his wife’s hand, “Let’s get going.”

—

“I suppose that’s everything.” One of the Cartesian soldiers said, waving his men off the ship, “You’re free to go, Mr. Paracelsus.”

Immediately, he took Lonceré and the two of them boarded the kedger, pulling the main ship in the correct direction to begin sailing when they caught the wind. As they grabbed the oars and began rowing, however, they heard a grunt of exertion from behind them.

“Are you serious?” The Captain asked, exasperated, as he saw the same Paladin they’d heard of earlier in the week on his ship, his golden wings allowing him to fight with a distinct advantage against those on the ground, “We need to get up there first.”

When they climbed back up, they saw quite the sight. Roland, flying through the air and only occasionally descending to strike at one of the crew, was similarly advantaged by the rain, seeing as the guns were now less than effective. The only one with any ability to attack was Serpacinno, who had odd pieces of hardware and some throwing knives to launch at him, and Gareland, who could maneuver in the air.

“Careful!” The fairy shouted at the snakewoman, “You’re going to clip me with one of those things!”

Quickly doffing his jacket and turning it into a few bolas, he gave them to the aforementioned swordswoman, instructing, “Aim for his wings.”

“Got it!” She replied. A few seconds later, the distinctive splash of an object hitting the water was heard as she missed.

“Everyone take a few!” Paracelsus said, handing them out to the crew, who were similarly inept at hitting them. “Lonceré you don’t need anything to throw.”

“Oh, you’re right.” He crouched down, putting his hands into a cup and summoned a double. The doppelganger ran forward, using his original’s hands as a springboard to launch into the air. Was it a good idea? In theory, yes, but in practice, the angelic paladin was far too high and saw it coming, so the double missed his target by nearly ten yards and instead went careening into the quarterdeck, whereupon impact its neck snapped and it returned to dust.

Just as Paracelsus was about to complain about his cook’s idiocy, it seemed that the momentary distraction afforded by his pitiful display allowed another of them, probably Gareland all things considered, to land a rope around their assailant’s wing and ground him.

“Alright, big guy,” Paracelsus said, all of the crew backing him up in drawing their weapons, “How about you get off our ship, and we forget this ever happened? There are seven of us and one of you.”

“Nine?” Roland asked, moving his eyes from Paracelsus, to Serpacinno, to Gareland, to Sally, to Lonceré, and finally to the Shah “I only see six.”

“Now, Tariq!” Paracelsus shouted at the ladder on the mast.

“Aye, Captain!” Tariq launched off the pillar, deactivating his invisibility as he brought down his knife, managing to snag the Paladin’s helmet and cut him across the cheek, “Shit.”

Just before it seemed like the helmsman was to be cleft in twain, his Captain threw what was once nothing but a simple shirt (although now it was steel) which he used to barely deflect the blow and save his own life.

Serpacinno roared as she charged the hulking, giant man with the Shah, each taking a flank to lay blows down upon his side. She would absolutely not be allowing this, of all things, to stop them. And the only reason he was unable to deal with them was because Gareland was flying around his head, and even if the bullets were ultimately ineffective, seeing as she wasn’t aiming for his head, they provided enough of a dull aching and distraction to draw his attention.

This continued for a few seconds, but before anyone else could join the fray, it seemed his gaze had paralyzed the fairy, and he seized her by the waist before throwing her off into the distance.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-” She cried as she was hurled through the air.

Then, the Paladin began his assault a new, swinging in a wide, circular arc to knock Serpacinno’s sword out of her hands send her stumbling back to the gunwale, where she barely had time to roll out of the way of a vertical slice which cleanly cut through the structure.

“Take this!” Sally shouted as she managed to regain her bearings and attack with her own swordplay, using her superior speed to dodge in and out of his range and vision until she tripped over her own feet and went tumbling to the ground.

Before he could deliver the finishing blow, he felt his body grow heavy as a hand fell upon his back. It was the Captain, who had fused the metal in his armor to the deck, before manifesting a pair of metal gloves to box the Paladin. To add on to this, he wasn’t alone - the cook and his double had joined in, and the three of them were joined by Tariq, who had begun an assault with the crossbow he kept stashed.

“This is becoming tiresome!” Rolan said, using the side of his blade to bat away all the melee fighters, knocking the Captain into Tariq and sending all three of them tumbling in a groaning mess of limbs.

However, he found himself interrupted again when Serpacinno and Sally recovered and combined their with the Shah’s continuous attacks on his person. He got more frustrated as time went on, due to the constant pelting, and just as he’d secured the snakewoman, Paracelsus used a flail to drag her away and the Paladin finally cut himself loose from his binds to give chase.

“Thanks,” She said with a nod before redoubling her attacks. Surely, slowly, and bit by agonizing bit, his armor was giving way and he was starting to feel the attacks on his real, physical body, “Can you move?”

“Not very well,” He handed her a small metal hammer, “Take this. I’ll give you the other tool in a minute.”

Gareland had, at this point, made her way back to the Current and was now joining the fray, using her saber to contest against the massive broadsword the Paladin held. She felt somewhat conflicted, he was a good Orthodox Paacist like her, but needs be and all that. It only fuelled the crew’s morale when he started to grunt, even going as far as to drop to a knee with a powerful groan.

In the downtime between when he was able to flex his gift again, Paracelsus continued his long-ranged assault with the flail, even going as far as to form a crack in the shoulderplate.

“Keep it up!” He shouted, now having the whole crew surrounding him to deliver a walloping, “We’ve got him against the ropes!”

“The ropes?” Gareland remarked, having been the least rattled in the fight, she took the initiative to crack a remark.

“Never mind that!” He whooped, before creating a small, malleable, silvery stiletto before tossing it to Serpacinno, “Here! Use it like a chisel! Everyone else - clear out!”

Despite not receiving any instructions, Lonceré had the good sense to have his double cover the Paladin’s eyes to prevent him from trying to paralyze Serpacinno. A second later, and she jammed the stiletto into the shoulderplate of the knight and observed the sparks. Another second later and she used the hammer for its intended purpose, and the sparks became embers - the embers became an explosion, and when the dust settled Roland’s arm was mangled, though not beyond repair, with bones, muscle and skin all charred and damaged.

“Oh, shit,” Paracelsus put his hand over his mouth, ripping what remained of his vest to wrap around his shoulder, “That was a bit more powerful than I’d intended.”

“Fuck!” Serpacinno shouted, and Paracelsus immediately came to her side, tending to the burn on her left eye, “You did make it a bit too strong.”

“Shit, shit, sorry.” He ran to the officers’ cabin and grabbed some balm to rub over her eye, “Good news - it shouldn’t take too long to heal.” He turned to address his gawking crew, who were gawking at the tenderness he showed to his first mate, “What are you doing? Get him on a boat and start us off!”

“Aye, Captain!” They shouted in unison, although Sally was more or less useless. Having absolutely no experience in setting sail, she stood around pulling on ropes and tying, perhaps, the worst knots known to man.

“Wait! Wait!” They heard someone shouting from the pier, and saw Xenepol and Rian sprinting towards them, “We need a ride!”

“Jump or drown!” Paracelsus shouted, going back to dressing his partner’s wounds.

They did, in fact, jump, and rolled on their shoulders to land safely and without injury. Standing up, they revealed their light packings, only a suitcase each, and Xenepol shook the Captain’s hand, not waiting for him to offer a handshake.

“I’ll admit - I didn’t think you’d jump.” The Captain said, “Well, you two can sleep in the hold for two-fifty a night, and you’ll help with chores.”

Xenepol held a firm glare and strongly considered challenging him to a fight, but even if his crew was worn out, his own party was in no condition to challenge them, so, after a few seconds, he regretfully said “Fine.”

“Can you make room for a third?” LJ asked, walking up from the middle deck, hands behind his back.

“And who the -”

“Absolutely not!” Gareland interrupted her captain, drawing her sword, “Get the fuck off of this ship!”

“Come on, sister,” He walked over, and wrapped an arm around both Gunner and Captain, “Non ti sei mica rammollito, have you? I won’t hurt any of you, prometto.”

Gareland gritted her teeth. Even though she was trying to leave her life behind, her honor wouldn’t allow her to turn her back on him.

Chapter Text

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Tariq asked Lonceré by tugging on his sleeve.

“Huh?” Lonceré replied, pointing at himself, “Me? I’m eh… busy, cooking.”

“You’re waiting for the water to boil.” Tariq pointed out.

“Fine,” Lonceré always hated kids, “What do you need?”

“Paracelsus told me you’re good with women,” The younger man said, “I was hoping you might have some advice.”

“Oh?” The cook perked up, matters of the heart being the way to his, “Who do you have your eye on?”

“Gareland,” Tariq said shyly, rubbing the back of his head and averting his eyes, “After everything that happened in Cartesia - I just thought I might regret it if I never told her.”

“Can you play an instrument?” Tariq shook his head, “Ask Parace to teach you guitar. He’s quite good at it.”

“And you think she’ll like it if I can play guitar?” He asked.

“Women love instruments!” Lonceré said, cutting onions, “I’d teach you - but we don’t have a piano.”

“Alright, I’ll do that.” Tariq said with a toothy grin, “Thanks, Lonnie.”

“Don’t call me that!” The cook shouted but Tariq had already left.

—

“What the hell are you doing here?” Gareland snarled, clutching her sword, “No one came to pick you up, pup?”

“Oh please,” LJ rolled his eyes. Ironically, he was a much more competent sailor than his sister, “I know we’ve had our differences, but why the hostility?”

“Differences?” She shouted, “You’ve tried to kill me!”

“But you never died,” He argued earnestly, “And besides you’ve tried to kill me before.”

“Why were you looking for me anyway?” Gareland huffed, turning her cheek and pouting.

“Signore wanted me to deliver a message,” The fairy’s ears twitched involuntarily upon hearing that name, “We’ve got a date for the Black Night - the thirteenth of September.”

I completely forgot about that! Gareland blanched, her face still turned, before she realized she was stewing in her own thoughts for an awkward amount of time, “Right, then. September thirteenth, got it. But why not send a letter? And why you?”

“I volunteered - and he wanted to reduce the chance of your Captain seeing it.” LJ said casually, examining his nails. When he saw Gareland’s face turn back to him, shocked, he said, “What? You thought he didn’t know?”

“I suppose I should’ve seen it coming.” She muttered under her breath, “But I’ll have you know - Paracelsus has an ingenious new way to grow tobacco. He’s no threat.”

“I’m sure he does.” He replied, completely uninterested.

—

“Parace?” Serpacinno knocked on the door, an abashed look on her face, “Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course,” He looked up from his journal, “What do you need?”

“Well, it’s embarrassing to say,” She trailed off, tapping her chin, “But my snakes are molting. It’s always a pain to do it myself.”

“Sure, but I’m not quite abreast of the latest snake-molting techniques.” He warned, placing a chair behind the one she sat herself in, “And don’t worry - I won’t ruin the tough, independent image you curate.”

“Why do you talk like that?” She asked, wincing as he brought the alcohol rag on Curly.

“You’re not the only one who curates an image.” He replied cryptically.

“I guess I’m asking why you do.” The swordswoman replied, “And I guess I’d like to know what the real you is like.”

“The real me?” The Captain asked, “Perhaps this image is simply another facet of who I am, no less real than anything else. Take, for instance, your hard exterior - I doubt when you’re alone that you’re nearly this tough. But does that mean you aren’t strong?”

“I guess that’s fair.” She said, albeit with a soft, reserved, almost disappointed tone.

“How about this -” He started, “Ask me whatever you like, I’ll answer completely truthfully, as best as time will allow me.”

At that moment there were an almost infinite number of answers she wanted to ask. A million dodged questions, a thousand strange coincidences, but above all, there was one lingering doubt.

“What’s your endgame?” She asked, “With Kósmeidi?”

He paused at rubbing down her snakes, stopping at Shirley, presumably pondering, before responding, “Now, bear with me, this will sound like a lie, but I swear it’s the truth - I really don’t know. I don’t know much of it, except that the Union fears it. And this is the kicker - once I’ve collected it, I’ll release it to your custody.”

“What?” She whipped her head around, no doubt irritating her snakes who were quite enjoying the lavish treatment, “I thought I’d have to fight you for it.”

Her partner laughed good-heartedly at that, resuming his ministrations once she’d turned, “A fight I would no doubt lose. But no, it’s all yours. Of course, I do sincerely hope you’ll cooperate with me further, but it’s your choice.”

“And the crew?” She asked.

“That I’m unsure about,” He paused again, this time out of what Serpacinno assumed to be fear or trepidation, “I mean, Lonceré I anticipate riding until the end. Probably the same with Tariq, but Gareland and Sally I’m less sure of. And Gru’lya, well I don’t know how much you can trust the word of a mermaid. It hurts me to say,” He sucked in a deep, mournful breath, “But I’ll probably have to replace them at some point.”

Now, Serpacinno may not have been an educated woman, by any regards, but she was far from stupid. His tone, and the way his breath caught in his throat, suggested that this was a difficult topic. A silence hung over them, not awkward, but rather pleasant, as she was tenderly cared for, a sensation unfamiliar but welcome to the tough woman.

“All done.” Paracelsus informed with a smile on his face, “Any particular… ritual to dealing with the dead skin?”

“Just toss it in the ocean.” Serpacinno replied, patting her partner on the shoulder, “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime.” He said, after his partner had left the room. He was only vaguely aware of his eyes lingering on the door after she exited.

—

“All hands! To the main deck!” Paracelsus shouted, his crew leaving their posts to join him.

In particular, Lonceré had come up, carrying with his mind and his double, a feast and barrels of liquor. Everything set up, the Captain took his place on the quarterdeck, leaning on the railing, and bore a wide, merry smile on his face.

“What’s happening?” Gareland asked, looking around, “We’re not under attack, are we?”

“No!” He shouted, realizing it was unwise to shout rather than simply descend down the stairs, especially now that Gru’lya had joined them, “I’ve decided we could use a party. That, and I’d like to make an announcement, if I could have your ear for a little bit.

First - I’d like to acknowledge all that you’ve done for me, for the crew, all on faith. I truly, truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything you’ve given and all the sacrifices and risks you undertook for our sake.

Second, I’d like to give you a bit of clarity. There is a very specific reason I’ve assembled, and will continue into the foreseeable future to assemble, this crew. I’m hunting for a legendary sword of great value, known as Kósmeidi. I have it on good authority that at the center of each shell lies a fragment of this treasure, and that in gathering them, we may reforge it.

And last, but, as the old adage says, not least, I’d like to express why, I believe, we’ve all come together. We are, all of us, outcasts, dregs of society, losers, and the scorned. But I believe that none of us shall remain that way, I believe that all of us wish to find family, and connection where we’ve lost it, and I sincerely hope, and if you’re religious I hope you pray, that we all find it.

That being said, dig in!”

And so, the festivities began. They ate, digging voraciously into the meat, potatoes, soup, and other assorted foodstuffs Lonceré had been so kind to cook, and for most, save the ever-abstinent Serpacinno, the maraschino - a personal favorite of the Captain’s - they’d had in the kegs. The Captain even had the foresight to summon a guitar, strumming a tune to go with his sea-shanty.

“So, Tariq…” Gareland came up to him, brushing her hair behind her ear, “I was just wondering - do you have a girl waiting back in Ghazal?”

“Me?” He panicked, sputtering, “No, why -” He coughed into his hand to try and will his voice to deepen, “Why do you ask?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She was just as nervous as the younger man, she was simply better at hiding it, and less inhibited with the alcohol in her system, especially as she ran a finger over his collar, “I thought you might meet me at my hammock later tonight.”

“Really?” The helmsman dumbly asked, his cheeks growing flushed and his breath growing hot, “I mean - of course! It’s just, I had this whole plan -”

Gareland, before he could embarrass himself any further, pulled him in, kissing him on the lips, much to the hooting of the other crew, “You idiot! You’re not Parace, you don’t need a plan to ask a girl out. Just keep growing that mustache, I like it.”

“Of course!” He said excitedly, goofily feeling his mustache as Gareland floated away to rejoin the others.

“Excuse me! I’d like to say something!” She tapped her glass with a spoon, gathering everyone’s attention, “I’m no good at speeches, so I’ll make this quick. I just wanted to say that I’ve come to care about you all, and so, if you’ll have me, I’d like to stay on the crew more permanently. At least until we see my brother.”

Of course Paracelsus raised his glass in affirmation, causing her to tear up a little with joy. No longer abated by any news, the merriments continued, with notable highlights including Lonceré trying (and failing) to hit on the mermaid, who had only surfaced for the music and fish, and Sally coercing Serpacinno to share a surprisingly innocent dance.

Of course, all the festivity brought the married couple up from the hold, apparently having their “alone time” interrupted by all the noise. They were invited to eat as well, seeing as the only bits left were going uneaten otherwise. Eventually the topics of conversation became duller and more tired, until one-by-one, the crew began packing it in for the night. Except for Sally, due to her sleeplessness, who simply climbed up the crow’s nest with a comfortable jacket.

“That’s a nice sword.” Serpacinno, who was about to sleep, said, not implying anything.

“It is,” Xenepol agreed, “I’m something of a collector.”

“I’m sure it’s nice.” She replied, in a tone that said she was now very much implying something.

“Excuse me?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, splitting his sword and showing his collection to prove his point, “I’ll have you know, I’ve had all - err, most of these swords inspected. I have the certificates to prove their quality!”

“Interesting,” Serpacinno started laying swords, all conveniently and impossibly hidden in her pouch, on the ground, “Never been one to care for certificates, I suppose - but we can both agree I’ve got more.”

“I will admit - the size is impressive,” He argued, butting heads with her, “But mine are clearly of a higher quality! You know what? Let’s wager a sword each.”

“I get to pick yours when I win.” She stipulated.

“No - when I win, I’ll be picking one of yours.” He agreed, “First to touch?”

“First to touch.” She agreed.

“It’s rather silly, seeing them play with their toys like this.” Paracelsus said from the sidelines, “Endearing, in a way, but silly.”

“I find it lovely!” Rian argued, “I mean - it’s something he’s really passionate about.”

“To each their own.” He said, letting the issue drop.

Then, both the sword-fighters took their positions some ten feet away from each other, each with a wooden dummy sword, about three feet in length, held aloft. Serpacinno took the first step forward, closing the distance inch by inch, until they were just outside of each other’s range.

A thick, heavy silence hung over the deck, and Xenepol took the initiative in breaking it, aiming high and coming down to her shoulder, which Serpacinno blocked without much hassle. She returned with a thrust of her own, lower and aimed at his midsection which would’ve worked, had she not intended it as a bait for which her adversary fell. When he stepped back, he inadvertently gave the advantage to Serpacinno, who swept his leg, aiming her “blade” at his neck when he fell over.

“I can’t believe it,” He said, rising to his feet, “Who would think to aim for their opponent’s feet?”

“You never specified where I had to touch.” Serpacinno asked, looking at his reluctantly offered collection.

Her eyes passed over the group, and what a group it was, containing well over a dozen items, each with their own luster and allure. There were swords of all shapes and sizes, the smallest being a dagger and the largest being a rapier that measured nearly five feet, by her estimations. Eventually though, she settled on a gladius with a shimmering, prismatic finish.

“What’s the certification on this one?” She gloated.

“That, I call Circubeu,” He explained, closing up shop, “It’s a nice sword, small, light, but with enough reach to get the job done. Try using it after it rains, I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.”

Chapter Text

In a bar, on the same ring but opposite Tanendille, it was a normal Saturday. The regulars were in, drinking their regular drinks and eating their regular food. That is to say, it was a normal Saturday, until she walked in.

In general, Fleet Admirals are to be avoided. For criminals and ne’er-do-wells, it should be obvious that the highest flag-officer in the Union would be an unwise encounter. But, for the average, law-abiding citizen, the presence of a Fleet Admiral indicates that a threat of sufficient level is present to warrant their being sent.

And she was no different.

She was tall, easily standing over half a foot above six, with a thick, dense musculature that gave her the appearance of a gorilla. Her skin was fair, but weathered by the sun and scarred by all manner of weaponry, and her face, though traditionally handsome, was resting as a scowl that told others to steer clear. And the look was topped off with the signature of her rank, a deep purple jacket, with five golden rings emblazoned on the right sleeve near her cuff.

When she walked in with her commanding presence, the bar quieted down, all the patrons watching in silent trepidation for what this mountain of a woman would do. But it seemed she wasn’t there to cause trouble or stop it, at least not yet, as she quietly sat at the bar near an old man and ordered a whole bottle of maraschino.

Once it arrived, she slammed the jar down on the bar, popping the cork and catching it to replace it on the table, before she downed nearly half of it in one swig and turned around, resting her elbows on the bar.

“So, Karl,” She turned to address the older man, “How’ve you been?”

“Karl?” Put his hand over his heart with a sad, hurt expression, “Roserie, I thought I told you to call me dad.”

“Hahaha!” She bellowed, shaking the room and no doubt increasing the tension all the drinkers felt, “You piece of shit - You aren’t my dad any more than my brother’s.”

“Now, now,” Karl wagged his finger, “You might not love me, but don’t presume to speak for -”

“Shut up, old man.” Roserie said, seizing her dad by the neck and slamming his face into the bar. When she did so, she felt that he was not flesh and blood, but rather, the malleability of his head indicated he was some type of summon, perhaps clay, perhaps mud, but regardless not human, “Great. Let me guess - the summoner’s hiding somewhere, aren’t they?”

She thought for a little bit about how to best drag them out of hiding, before she saw the jar she drank from. So, with a brilliant idea now in her mind, she corked it and smashed it sideways against the bar to create an opening on the bottom. Then, she gave it a few swirls before swinging her arm in a wide arc to launch the liquor.

Then, she saw it, the alcohol didn’t fall to the ground in one spot, instead suspended on what she believed was some cloaked individual. Her legs and arms glowed with a red aura as she launched towards the unseen individual, letting loose a punch that very well may have caved their skull in, had she not stopped her fist and let the wind pressure serve as a message of her strength.

Before they could take off, they were grabbed, rather easily, by the scruff of the neck by Roserie, who dangled them in the air like a naughty cat, “Don’t try running now, let me see you.”

The boy (she realized he couldn’t have been any older than twelve), took off his cloak which hid him and dropped it to the ground, “Sorry, ma’am! He never told me he was running from you! Please, don’t arrest me!”

Roserie rolled her eyes, setting the boy down, “Whatever, kid, just tell me which way he went.” And when he relayed the information, she shouted again, “Jones! Get in here!”

Jones, a catfish man with only two fewer rings on his sleeve than her, came in and asked, “Yes, ma’am?”

“See to it that these fine people are paid for their clothes,” She pointed to the bar, “And see to it that the barman is paid for the trouble. I’ve got someone to catch.”

And so, the almost-peaceful encounter at the Cheval Blanc (named so because the country was once under Cartesian rule) ended with no blood shed.

—

“I’m warning you - I’m in no mood to deal with this,” The Admiral said, staring down a man larger than even here, “I’m not going to play around.”

“You’re a fleet admiral?” He asked in a cocky tone, “You don’t look so tough.”

“Alright then,” She set down the duffel she slung over her shoulder, letting it thud powerfully against the pier, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She started off by dashing forward, foregoing either of her weapons for the moment, and instead opting to raise her foot to kick him straight in the chin, before coming back down with an axe kick to the shoulder.

“That all?” He asked, unscathed.

“Wow!” She exclaimed, a look of genuine shock on her face, “You’re tough!” Her boot once again glowed with a red aura, “But let’s see if you can take this.” This time, she changed strategies, kicking into the pier itself to launch a chunk of rock which she slapped like a volleyball straight into her opponent’s bald head.

“Guess you couldn’t, huh?” She rhetorically asked, picking her duffel back up and charging in a random direction, hoping to find her father’s ship. She did, in fact, spot the Star, and took a cannonball from the dufflebag she carried. She tossed it in the air to get a feel for its weight. Then, with a great roar of effort and a great spot of aura, she bowled it much like her favorite cricket players, taking with it a great chunk of the ship.

Deciding then that it would be too inefficient to either continue her pelting or go and make preparations for her own ship to sail, she commandeered a small skiff and used her inhuman athleticism to start after the damaged vessel, taking about fifteen minutes before she was within an acceptable range.

“Get back here!” She screamed, launching from her boat to theirs with one leap, landing right next to the helmsman, who was summarily thrown into the drink. Wasting no time, she began on her rampage, brawling her way through a dozen deck-hands before the bosun stood in front of her.

“Long time no see, Roserie,” The bosun, a demon (so called because of their resemblance to the creatures in Paacist canon) by the name of Robert said, drawing his gun and firing, “Never thought you’d come back.”

The bullet seemed to hit her in the head, and everyone on the deck assumed she had died when she started falling back. Before long, though, she stomped her foot forward and revealed that she had caught the projectile between her teeth before spitting it out. Then, in a flash, she laid the bosun out with a haymaker to the ribs which sent him flying.

“Get out here, Karl!” She shouted, beginning the process of dismantling the deck, piece by piece, with nothing but her fists and the admittedly quite effective sack of cannonballs she carried around with her.

Any attack on her was ineffective, swords were easily deflected and bullets were simply dodged. What’s worse, any time someone managed to steel themselves enough to attack her, they were swiftly punished for their impudence with a punch or a kick or a clubbing from her sack that damn near shattered their spine.

“Come on, relax lady.” The first mate said. He was a younger man, with a handsome face, and one whom she didn’t recognize. He must’ve been new. Regardless, his control over the water around the ship didn’t matter much when he was still human - and just as susceptible to a strong blow to the head.

“Alright, alright,” Karl finally ascended the stairs, hands up in surrender, though he was flanked by two others, “What do you want, Roserie?”

“You know damn well who I’m here for,” She answered, glaring at him, “But seeing as you’ve given me all this trouble, I formally charge your entire crew with aiding and abetting a fugitive, and interference in an official investigation.”

“Come now, daughter,” The Captain laughed cockily, “Let’s not get ha -”

Before he could finish, she grabbed the weapon on her hip, what appeared to be a cat-o-nine, except for the strange look: it was pink, and fleshy and the individual strikers seemed to undulate and twitch as though alive, and finally they were adorned with club-like heads and suction cups all through the length. It was a weapon she called the Kraken Whip - supposedly, although the story was a fabrication, she ripped the tentacles right off of a kraken to braid together.

Continuing past that digression, Roserie used the whip, its tentacles expanding and lurching to grab Karl and latch on to him, slamming him against the ground. Once again, this was a body double, though not made of any material but mist that dissipated with sufficient force.

“Fine then, the hard way?” She asked, cracking her knuckles. It seemed the two accompanying Karl were just as ignorant as she was, given their shocked, frightened looks at realizing they’d be fighting the Admiral alone.

She blitzed the one of the left, sweeping his legs out from under him before punching him mid-air to knock him into the mast, cracking both the wood and his bones. Then, while the other was still stunned, she stomped on the plank he was standing on, at the opposite end, to launch him vertically. As he reached the apex of his flight, she ran below and did a standing back-flip, landing on her hands and lowering herself down the ground. Once her arms were at full contraction, she sprang back up and launched herself towards the airborne foe, kicking him at full-force into the distance.

“Now, let’s do this the smart way.” She said to no-one in particular, stretching the Kraken Whip over the ship, running its tentacles along the wooden hull, feeling for any signs of life. They were plenty, of course, but most of them were either too young, too inhuman, or just plain wrong to be her father. But then, she found it, the one bit of vitality that she thought matched her father enough to drag to the main deck.

“Who the fuck are you?” She asked, looking at the catwoman who was desperately holding her skirt aloft so as not to lose her modesty, “And why do you have the heart of a fifty year old man?”

“I’m Parknaaa -” She said, thudding on the deck, “I’ve always had this heart condition. I swear I just got mixed up with these people, you have to believe me!”

“Wait - I remember you!” The Admiral pointed accusatorily, “You were a prisoner on the Cannon!”

“Well, yes,” The catwoman’s ears drooped, “But I can help! I know where the captain is!”

Roserie followed her down the stairs, but the catwoman disappeared around a corner, out of sight. So, slowly, the Admiral crept around it, watching out for any ambushes.

“Kitty, where are you?” She asked. Before getting any response, the hairs on her neck stood up straight, and she turned around to see her father, hopefully the real one, standing there.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” She said, “Either you give up, or I’m gonna tear your ship apart, plank by plank.”

It was strange - there was no danger to her, as far as she could tell, but something was causing her anxiety to flair, almost as though caused artificially by some gift. For a second, just a second, she turned around to investigate. But, the momentary lapse was enough for another crewman to use his gift to lift her out of the ship and into the water.

“Dammit!” She roared, swinging her arms in the water. Her tantrum continued for a few minutes before she grumbled and started swimming back to her skiff.

Back on the ship, Karl, who was in fact the real one, congratulated the three who’d pulled the trick off, and they set sail, abandoning their lost crew members.