When the night had begun to rain fire from the sky, followed by the horrible, horrible screams of the dying, and of the beast. Artemisia spent the evening dancing in the townsquare, her movements were bright and fluid as she moved about under the full moon and the firelight of the torches, tapping her tambourine against her hip all the while. Few coins had reached her hat when the screaming of the terror began. Immediately, the tower bells of Sintra palace had begun to toll, calling for all townspeople to evacuate to the palace for safety. Artemisia sped through the streets, her heart pounding in her chest as she feared that the very gates that promised protection would soon shut on her. Hundreds of others rushed with her towards the castle, she could have sworn that she had felt the very wind off the Dragon’s wings as it flew overhead. People cried out in terror as they made it inside the palace as the doors were bolted shut. Quickly, Artemisia went to the nearest corner and knelt down in fear, her hands clasped in prayer, though not to any Christian/Catholic or Muslim figure, but rather to Gaia, the very Earth Mother, the one that breathed life into this world. To others, she would simply pass as any Catholic believer in devout prayer during a time of strife. 

	For hours the villagers of Sintra, or those that were lucky enough to make it, got to enjoy the screams of the dying as gouts of fire were spewed from the sky. And it wasn’t the threat had passed that they were released. As Artemisia explored the remains of the city, or much rather, from what she could, she noted that her tavern had burnt to the ground. 
	As she stood mournfully outside, Artemisia fell to her knees in the street, the smell of burning flesh and charred wood hanging in the air. She truly had nothing left, and just as she was about to let the tears come forward, the town crier began to call out, for all able minded men and women, who wish to travel on a voyage and be paid handsomely, to report to the Palace Courtyard. 
	Dressed in nothing more than a red silk skirt with a belt made of discoloured silk scraps and bells and beads, with simple black leather boots, a loose white blouse, with a black waist cincher and hand embroidered with roses, Artemisia decided that she could be of some use for once and made her way with other volunteers and thrill-seekers to the courtyard.

	Upon arrival, a decent sized crowd had already gathered in the courtyard. Artemisia slipped between others and moved to the front so that she could see who exactly was in charge of this expedition. Suddenly, a brown-skinned man with black hair pulled back into a bun gave a loud and shrill whistle that pierced the air, commanding everyone’s attention.
 He yelled at a group of seamen that had congregated at the rear of the group, “You bunch! Go with these men moving boxes, help them get the supplies from the dock onto the ship, then join the crew.”
Immediately, the men dispersed and began to assist the men moving boxes down to the docks. Then the swarthy man turned his attention back to the crowd and addressed them, “We need people for an expedition into the Berber coast. If you’ve never been on a boat, or have a weak stomach, I recommend you stay behind. It’s a risky mission but nevertheless lucrative. We’re working on Portugal’s bankroll.” When he finished, he certainly had captured Artemisia’s interest.

“I’ll be happy to answer questions now, but I recommend that everyone follow these men and get to the ship if you’re satisfied. We should set sail by nightfall.” Artemisia only stayed after to hear that the expedition pertained to a relief effort on Sintra’s part to and that it didn’t pertain to the “dragon attack” and that they were specifically going to Morocco. That was good enough for her, and she departed for the docks. 

    Surprisingly, the docks hadn’t suffered much during the attack. Other citizens were calling it the apocalypse, or the hand of god had come down to smite the wicked. She smiled at their foolishness for their innocent understanding on life, for they lived in fear of what they did not understand, but she did not judge them, no. That was not her area, for others had judged her as well. But that was never the matter. She was here to serve a purpose. Immediately as she arrived on deck a large burly man wearing a stained rough-cloth apron pointed at her and said, “[i]Tu. Ven aqui.[/i]” He spoke to her in basic Spanish, she understood it, but wasn’t sure what he would have her do.
	
	As soon enough, Artemisia was set to helping the cook prepare the night’s evening meal. The kitchen quarters were cramped. There were two large tables, one for cutting meats and vegetables, the other used for rolling flour to make bread and pies. Her hands worked quickly as she cut the meat up and in threw it all into the pot. It wasn’t until she had prepared several simple pastry pies before she was dismissed from the galley. She darted out of the room, bells tinkling as she walked up to the main deck. Here, she could see the true size of the ship, the masts of The Burning Bitch loomed of her as the sails were slowly unfurled. She turned once more to gaze upon Sintra, the city still blackened from fire. 

	In truth, Artemisia had nothing to lose, but all the more to gain. It wasn’t until they set out that that the food had been brought up from the galley to be served on the open. Tables, crates and chairs were assembled to accommodate those gathered. Yet, she hadn’t the appetite for food just yet. Instead she decided that a little song and dance would be of good entertainment. One of the only things that survived the fire of hers, was the tambourine that she had used that night to entertain passersby. 
	Here, Artemisia wandered out to the center of the deck and began to bang the tambourine against her hip, voraciously swinging her hips in a circle. 
“I’ve got a chanty to share and sing with ye, join in if you know the words!” She called out in mixed Spanish and Portuguese, hearing her talk however indicated that she was not a native either. 

“[i]Oh well there’s a señorita I know,
Her name is Maria, don’t make me tell you so!
And she does gander and swagger with all the men
At the tavern! O Maria, me!
O Maria, me!

She is but the fairest lady,
With all of her splendid kisses!
She’ll have you ensnared in her tresses!
O Maria, me!
All the sailors do love her,
But never should you touch her!

O Maria, me!
A fine maiden with buxom bosoms,
And fine apple mounds to go with them!
It’s what lies, betwixt her thighs,
That is of the devil’s making![/i]” 

	As she sang, some of the sailors that were familiar with the chanty joined in, crying out, “O Maria, me!” which actually sounded like, “Oh marry me!”, that was the point of the chanty at least. As sailors oftened visited brothels to relieve themselves of their manly business, most concocted syphllis, or known to Artemisia as the seeping disease. Heaven forbid if the sailor impregnated one of these infected women, the proper thing would be to marry the lass, but most flee back to the sea or move to another ship in a different port. 
	Artemisia’s voice was velvety, enchanting and smooth like dark red wine. At the end, she simply went in search of food after a round of applause from the sailors.