Not even a few days out from the port of Sintra and the '[i]Burned Bitch[/i]', as Stefano later found out it was named, was already being harried by enemies. Stefano had guessed it might happen after a look at the grizzled captain and his accomplices, yet the thought of potential danger had not possessed his mind to the extent that his mythos-based Renaissance had. The learned Cretan held both his painting and his sack of currency on top of one another, as the ship and his susceptible body rocked concurrently with the wind. Stefano was positioned up the forecastle, away from the conflicts about the stern end of the '[i]Burned Bitch[/i]', so he had to squint against the darkness and the rushing bodies of the crew to eventually spot the vibrant colours and flashes that encompassed the fighting. Stefano heard shouts consisting of:

"[i]Deus nos salvar![/i]" And, "We're all going to die!" 
He heard desperate cries of a macabre suit of armour, alive and active but also without a living body to guide it. 

"Magic - Witchcraft!" Stefano cried to the runners around him, "It must be so. Perhaps another life-changing opportunity for myself and the arts..." Nobody payed any attention to his remark, they were likely too preoccupied with saving their own lives. Yet perhaps that was for the best, Stefano had known of certain discreet groups - in Catholic Italian territory - to preach and rave against all legends of magic and mythos so vehemently one would think they were in constant physical battle against them. If such a group were present during these times of creatures walking the earth, and Stefano having a new-found obsession with them - he might run into some trouble in his quest of ostentatiousness. 

Stefano eyed the battle ahead as he struggled along the ship towards the stern. He had abandoned the sack of reais behind a hastily clumped together group of crates and boxes, the weight would have slowed Stefano down too much and he was confident of it's safety provided he reclaimed it after journeying up the boat. However he still fervently clutched the canvas, the art to his chest. He brushed past a young woman and a younger boy squabbling near the steps while some men and women urged at him to turn back. He ignored them with intent, grappling onto barrels and the suchlike as the deck attempted to floor him with slick wet water and debris. He had been moving forward for a short while, as fast as his not entirely fit frame could take him, when a blinding effusive light erupted high up on the stern. The colours seized Stefano's attention, distracting him from his epic battle with a crate full of salted fish (half of which were inanimately fleeing their prison) as they swirled and expanded in contact with the 'armour's' crimson aura. The light-show was profound yet it did not equal the otherworldly flame of the dragon from days past. Nevertheless, it was not a spectacle you would see commonly. Then, as soon as it had reached it's apex, it vanished with a large implosion.
Stefano paused as the commotion died away, then proceeded to the damage about the deck's stern, looking down on the rubble beneath. The purported armour was nowhere to be seen, though the evidence of it's existence remained in the utterly destroyed navigation and captain quarters, and the bloodied hand of a young body rising up out of the debris.


[center] --- [/center]
"[i]Vlamenos![/i]" Stefano cursed. "[i]Vlamenos, vlamenos, vlamenos![/i]"
His modest corner on the gun deck had been ransacked. The goat-skin blanket was gone with the linen sheets, and his wooden partition was lying wounded on the floor. Someone had clearly been searching through his belongings for the money, finally settling for the expensive blanket Stefano frankly [i]needed[/i] to sustain his comfort. He cursed himself for thinking the painting and money were the only things needing surveillance. However, he already suspected the perpetrator: an ambitious thief / partition guard from earlier in the day. Stefano spun, a vigorous fury powering his body, and he barrelled down the deck - scanning faces and hammocks for his target. 

"There!" Stefano, with only half a minute of effort this time, budged aside a box separating him and the Sintran thief. "[i]Bastarde![/i] I suspected you of treachery from the beginning, young man! Nobody bests Stefano Morosini! Not for long, at least!" He did not wait for an answer from the thief, though the man did look strangely desperate and apologetic. He grabbed the goat-skin blanket and the linen underneath it that lay over the hammock and tugged it away. But then he noticed something else, an assortment of dolls and wooden gladiators strewn on the floor beside the hammock. Stefano regretted the whole fiasco as soon as a twin pair of child's cries filled the deck. Four tiny hands clutched onto the sheets, and Stefano didn't know whether to sacrifice his precious luxuries or attempt to remove the children from the sheets.
Stefano tugged with decreasing effort, mumbling 'swines' underneath his breath. The twins' assumed father stood by awkwardly, looking incredibly embarrassed. Stefano turned to him, equally embarrassed, and almost asked him for help before cursing and trudging off towards his wrecked corner just as fast as he had left there, with no soft goat-skin sheets or obscuring partition to hide his chagrin.

A depressing half hour later, he remembered he had forgotten to retrieve his sack of reais from the top deck.

"[i][b]Vlamenos![/b][/i]"


[center]---[/center]
A bright morning graced the '[i]Burned Bitch[/i]' just as Stefano managed to drift off to sleep, after repossessing his thankfully untouched riches and degrading himself by hanging up a spare hammock from the rafters. He had not seen nor heard further from the Sintran thief or his two cursed offspring, and he hoped he would never have to see them again. Stefano rose after realising he would not be able to sleep in the circumstances, and instead stretched his legs outside in the fresh air. Refurbishment endeavours were well under way, and Stefano watched the workers with a content but apathetic expression of his face. He had always been a morning person, and despite his lack of rest and lack of resting equipment, he felt happy as the sun's rays visited his skin. He stood for a handful of minutes, blissfully ignoring a growing number of aggravated looks and murmurs directed at him. Eventually a lean woman with ginger hair shaped like the sprout of a carrot approached him.

"Are you not going to help?" She spoke in Portuguese with a heavy Angevin accent.

"It appears you are all doing a splendid job." Stefano retorted. The woman muttered to herself in French, ostensibly not noticing that Stefano could understand every word she said.

"You... you'll help." She struggled with the language, frequently going over synonymic sentences in French to match to her Portuguese.

"Allow me to relieve you." Stefano mused in fluent French. The carrot-haired woman had been muttering for a good half a minute, and looked furious that Stefano had not revealed his bilingualism earlier.

"You pompous oaf," She hissed, "Here we are, repairing this serious damage after an attack and you think you can sit idly by..."

"My lineage forbids this deprecating work. People of my calibre are more suited to supervising or directing..."

"Your lineage does not mean shit on this boat. I'll have you -"

"Excuse me." One of the Captain's men interjected. "The Captain wants all non-vital personnel on deck." He departed immediately after, presumably not wanting to take part in the argument.

"[i]Bom![/i] It seems your presence is required away from me." The Cretan said off-handedly.

The woman shot him a deadly stare as Stefano quickly hurried off towards the stairs, to make sure no further thieves stole the money that separated Stefano from the common rabble of the ship. He shuddered at the thought of the manual labour and social inequity that would come with it.