Berlin strode to where Pieter was prepping the one cannon the Borealis had, which the man kept in tip-top shape, as well as the rest of the ship. The old salt always did like a clean ship, and it was something Berlin appreciated about the man. They’d spent many, many years together, and he was an easy choice for first mate. Experienced and steady tempered. 

“Hold fire until something goes south. It’s a pretty ship, I’d hate to ruin it. I’d like to see if the captain will just...gift us some guns and powder. They won’t have much coin on board, but they will have weapons. Not to mention rum and coffee.” Berlin grinned. Many times, he’d been able to charm his way out of a battle and have another captain just haul over some goods and sail away, due to his unique abilities. But it didn’t always work. In order to maintain control of a person, or exert influence, Berlin needed physical contact with the person, and his influence faded a few minutes after breaking contact, especially if the person was very strong willed (he learned this the hard way with Rohaan, who had all the fortitude of a bear and the stubbornness of a cat).

“Alright lads,” he said to everyone. “The captain and I are going to...chat. If anything goes wrong, then we show them why it’s folly to attack the Borealis. Pieter and Wheel, you know what you do best. Pieter mans the guns and Wheel will give them a taste of steel.” Berlin spoke more out of habit than instruction, as the two men were very good at their roles and needed no guidance from him. Uban and Rohaan, however, were generally more flexible in their roles, whether it be defense, offense, or sabotage. “Uban, stay on board and repel any attempts to board. Rheoaan, I want to make sure they don’t blow holes in my pretty ship. Destroy their cannons before they have a chance to fire. Once you’ve done that, set fire to the sails. Half those men are likely pressed into service so no sense in killing them all. Just enough to bring the sharks ‘round, and enough to survive to tell the tale of the woe we cast. If you can make off with a barrel of powder, I’ll let you have a taste of rum, eh lad?”

Rohaan pumped his calloused little fist in the air. If there was anything the boy loved more than theft, it was arson. Berlin wondered briefly, and not for the first time,  how his mother, rest her soul, had ever handled him.  By the stars, what a terror he would be without someone to raise him. Hell, he already was a terror sometimes. 

“Good. Standby then.”

Rohaan scrambled about halfway up to his hammock nest atop the main mast and waited, one bare foot hooked over a section of rope while one hand held another, the opposite half of him dangled free in the wind. From here, an aerial attack would be fast and effortless. Or at least, as effortless as it could be to shape his body from a scrappy lad to a sleek black dragon-like creature called a cyradan—his favorite form. They were smaller and much less armored than the standard mountain variety dragons depicted in most children’s tales, but extremely agile, fast, and difficult to detect in the dark. They also had less firepower than their larger kin, and instead of a vast wash of fire that would paint its target with wide destruction, cyradan spat small jets. And their cry, much more shrill than a dragon, was bone chilling. It took lots of effort to maintain the form and usually left him exhausted afterwards, but it was well worth it.

Uban went down to the crews quarters and from his locker produced two large knives and a sharpening stone. On his hips, he already had both his flintlocks, but for cutting lines, his blades would do better. He even gave them a quick sharpening as the military ship drew closer and their flag became apparent to the naked eye. He waited, occasionally testing his swing and the weight of his knives, though he tucked them behind his back when the ship came closer. 

Thankfully, it was not a dreadnought, though it was still a warship. The deck was impeccably clean, excess rope dressed and coiled neatly, and the green and gold flag whipped in the wind above amidst their cream colored sails. Their men were also standing by, though they seemed to be puzzled by the meager numbers of the Borealis’ crew. The men had crisp uniforms, each accented with green or gold, and shiny brass buttons on their jackets. As a single rope came over the rail and a little gangplank followed, Berlin smiled warmly at the approaching captain. 

“Ahoy. A fine ship you got, sir. What can I do for you this fine day?” He asked, immediately reaching a hand out to shake the other captain’s. 
The man did not return the gesture. “So. You must be the infamous Berlin...?” The man asked, searching a little.
“Just Berlin,” he supplied. 
The man gave a small snort of disapproval. “How uncivilized. I’ve heard of your ship. It, and you, have a bounty. A large one.”

Berlin chuckled, a sound full of mirth but also mischief. He moved beside the other captain, reaching up to put an arm around him like an old chum. The other man’s face went sour and he actively removed himself from Berlin before he could get his arm all the way around him. “Hands to yourself, pirate! I’ve heard tales about you...you and your devilry.”
“Oh, that’s just hearsay...” Berlin chided, still smiling. But Uban could see the tension in his brow. The pirate glanced to his crew, a silent signal to ready themselves, as it was not going as he had hoped.

The enemy captain balked at that. “I didn’t come aboard to bandy words with a criminal. I came to accept your surrender. If you won’t see the wisdom in that,” he said, eyeing the single cannon and sparse crew. “Then we will be forced to take down your vessel. What’s your choice? Come quietly and live? Or die?”

Berlin gave a disappointed sigh. “You’re right. Alright, alright. Master Wheel, come here for a moment would you?” Berlin’s shoulders were slumped, his face downcast and defeated. Little did their opponent know, it was all part of his plan. As soon as Wheel came within striking range, Berlin simultaneously took a step back and gave one sharp, short whistle to unleash his crew. It was a familiar signal and everyone knew their roles well. Leaving the captain to Wheel, Berlin shoved the gangplank into the churning blue sea between the two ships to prevent any more of the (very startled, now) enemy crew from boarding easily. 

Rohaan was a blur. Perched in the rigging one moment and a dangerous black streak the next, a bone rattling cry echoed out into the air, cutting through the sound of blades and wind and spray. If the crew had any kind of hopes of winning the fight, they were squashed then as someone called out in warning, “silverblood!” And that was the last thing he ever did. He swept down, aiming for Wheel in a practiced, well rehearsed maneuver in which he wrapped his talons around the man’s thick arms and banked right sharply, closing the distance between them and the enemy ship, where he dropped the warrior into a waiting rank of victims like bowling pins for Wheel to pummel down in a bloody crash.

He angled upward, pumping his wings hard to get altitude and momentum before turning as fast as a hammerhead shark back the way he came, black tail whipping behind him. Rohaan descended, velvety wings folded halfway to missile down towards the impressive lineup of cannons, which he either smashed upon collision or scooped up in his graphite talons and dropped into the sea with a deep thundering splash. He gained speed and altitude, circling back once more for another sweep.

Uban had already fired off both his pistols, his bullets finding their mark quite well considering the distance, before he began hacking at ropes and pushing away rope ladders of those attempting to board. Several began to swing from ropes, but they were either intercepted by Berlin, who, between managing the helm to now steer the ship clear of the other vessel, merely took hold of their arm and commanded them to turn around and leap into the water (which they all did), or by Uban, who wielded a knife in one hand. The other he kept free, so that when he would come to a man just on the cusp of climbing over the rail, he would reach his hand out and give them a little tap in the chest with his open palm as a bright blue arc leapt and writhed between him and his prey, who then made a “hurghhh” sound as the air was forced from their constricting lungs and their stunned bodies dropped numbly to the water. 

Another cry ripped through the air as the enemy cannons were destroyed. It was answered by terrified screams of men, some of which threw themselves in the water voluntarily to avoid being skewered by the beast’s talons or whipped hard with his tail. Then the mainsail caught fire, and chaos descended upon the military ship. Trained men, once so confident, now scrambled in panic and abject fear as orders were shouted and unheeded. Two more jets of flame, and the fore and aft sails went up in bright light like a harvest bonfire. Rohaan swept around again in another great arc, pumping his wings to gain more height for another attack. He turned, glided for a moment, then—

CRACK.

The sound of a powder rifle preceded another cry from the beast, but this one was high, shrill, and pained. Berlin’s eyes turned skyward at the noise, his heart already sinking into his stomach. “Rheoaan!”

The cyradan was gone. Twenty feet in the air at least, was the limp figure of a boy plummeting at worrying speeds towards the ocean. In the half seconds during his fall, Berlin cursed himself for calling for an aerial attack. He knew Rohaan would pick a cyradan. He knew they were not heavily armored, and Rohaan generally did not know how to defend against guns as well as he did arrows. He could run or hide, but not defend, and he hadn’t yet the experience to know when to be on the offensive and when to retreat. He was too eager, Berlin should have known. He’d never forgive himself if Rohaan didn’t survive. Though he never guaranteed his safety when he adopted him into the crew,  he felt more responsible for him than he did the others. 

SLAP.

Rohaan hit the water with a sharp crack and a burst of white spray, plunging down so deep that Berlin could only see the churn of white that turned the water turquoise where he hit. “Surface....c’mon boy, come up.....” his anxiety was visible, palpable. He veered the helm hard over, making a tighter turn than the much larger military vessel could manage, towards the white froth. “Surface, damn you!” He hissed between his teeth. Berlin did not know he was holding his breath until he saw a little blonde head pop up from the depths and he let out the air in his lungs.

Rohaan was alive. His head was above water, and that was all the reassurance Berlin needed. Rohaan had once told him that, growing up as an islander, he could swim before he could walk, and the many times Berlin had seen him swim, even without shifting, he believed it. But Rohaan was weak. The cyradan form took a lot of energy to hold, and then he’d exerted himself physically on top of that. He was always wiped out when he came out of that form, but the wound he sustained made it all worse. Rohaan didn’t try to swim back. Instead, he focused what little energy he had on floating on his back, one hand paddling feebly at his side, his feet fluttering slowly, and the other hand wrapped around to his left side. A reddish silver sheen pooled around him as he bobbed. 

The other ship, once a grand vessel named Brightstar, was now in chaos. The hull had not caught fire yet, but the rigging, sails, and masts were in ruins. The men aboard realized that trying to commandeer the Borealis was futile, and they stopped attempting altogether. The battle was won, and now they needed to flee the scene.

“Wheel! Abandon that rathole and come back aboard any way you can! We have to move, NOW.” Berlin’s tone was harsh and strong, as he knew it had to be in order to get through to the Berserker in his fury. But this time it held an edge that normally was not there, a note of worry. 

Uban, now freed from the task of repelling boarders, found a length of rope, secured one end to a cleat on the rail, the other to his waist, and leapt in the water even as Berlin steered the ship towards their overboard companion. He reached the boy, wrapping one arm under his armpits. “Hey bud. I gotcha.”
“I...I think I...I...g-got shot...” Rohaan said, his eyes a little glassy and his voice and body shaking as it went nearly limp in Uban’s grasp.
“I know, I know,” he said softly, swimming back towards the ship even as the rope was reeled in. “But look, we got em. We got em and everything’s gonna be fine now, yeah?”
“T-t-ta.”
“You gotta stay with me though, Kay? Rohaan?”
“Ta.”
“Atta boy.”

They were hauled up and Uban lay Rohaan on the deck, soaking it with water and inhuman silver-red blood that glimmered in the sunlight. Berlin was there, abandoning the helm. Uban, without being spoken to, left Rohaan in his care and took Berlin’s place at the wheel. The captain slipped Rohaan’s white shirt over his head and tossed it aside to inspect the injury. The little ball dug into Rohaan’s left side, though it hadn’t come through the other side. “This is going to hurt, Rheoaan. I’ve gotta see how far in it went. Stars above, please don’t bite me,” Berlin said with the kind of exhausted tone of a man who’d made that mistake before. Carefully, Berlin prodded the area to feel for the ball, and out came a fount of words in the Vokurian language from the boy in a pained rage. Berlin finished and a small, worried smile touched his lips. “Gracious, boy, if you ain’t got a mouth on you. The lad’s saying things that would make a seasoned soldier blush,” he explained, though he wasn’t about to translate directly. “You’re gonna be alright though, Rheoaan. It didn’t go too deep, and doesn’t look like there’s anything too important there to damage. You tough sonovabitch,” he said softly, wiping Rohaan’s wet, matted curls out of his face. “We’ll stitch you up, get a little stiff drink in you, and before you know it, you’ll be driving me crazy in no time. How’s that sound, lad?” The boy just gave a kind of acknowledging whimper, as he was in too much shock to really say much. With all the tenderness and care of a breath of wind, Berlin lifted the boy in his arms. “Pieter, help me fix him up down below, would you? The rest of you, set a course East. We need to resupply anyway, and some time ashore might be good for the lad.”