AmongHeroes

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Thanks tirg!

Sounds good, Dot. And Grainy, a wonderful post as always.

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas had been walking along with a look of detached interest, one hand clasped behind his back, and the other tending the glass of wine. When Commander Murray spoke however, Thomas could not maintain his guise of indifference. He froze in his tracks, and a bit of wine sloshed across his hand.

Copper eyes burned into the face of Robert Murray, and Thomas’ mouth became a grim line. His mind reeled, wondering at just how this man knew of Antonia being among his crew, and just where the Commander’s inquiry could possibly lead. A final thought ran through his mind, and it brought ice to his veins.

How many others know of Antonia? How can she ever be safe again?

“What game do you play at, Robert?” Thomas said, his voice venomous.

"Isn't that rich?" The Commander could not help but laugh, softly, just under his breath, shaking his head incredulously. "Oh come now Thomas, that was a touch humorous. Just think for a moment on the words you spoke. The game that I am supposedly playing - considering the lady of whom we speak?"

He laughed once more, as if he simply could not stop himself. "I am well aware you think me a stiff, overly-regimented dullard - or perhaps a besotted fool?"

"The latter might be closer to the truth, but no, I am playing no game - or rather not one that would harm a hair on her head. But I see I have made my point, hit my mark." His dark eyes turned meaningfully toward the ruby beads of wine just drying on Thomas' hand before returning to that intent copper gaze with a small, smug smile.

Thomas found no humor in the Commander’s response, and his features did not soften in rejoinder to the man’s assurances and mirth.

“I have never thought you a fool, Robert,” Thomas spat out the Commander’s name, “but what I can assure you is that you are indeed playing a game, and a deadly one at that. No matter your good intentions, if any harm befalls that woman, I will hold you personally responsible.”

Thomas stepped forward and pressed a finger firmly into the Commander’s chest. “If that should occur, old friend or no, I will make it my life’s work to make you suffer. I give you my solemn word.”

Confusion and anger boiled within him, and his jaw clenched with painful tightness. Thomas knew that he had been allowing his emotion to steer his action thus far, and he was now woefully behind the Commander in this exchange. Subterfuge was not his strong suit. Plain speech and direct action was Thomas’ forte, and against a man like Robert Murray, he was not about to stray from that path.

“Speak plainly. One gentleman to another. What is your interest in her, truly?

"Save your threats for a man not in command of the guns of Fort Charles, Thomas," Robert snorted his derision with a sardonic twist of his lips. Some quick riposte about 'gentlemen' flashed through his thoughts, but he let the moment pass. "My interest in her, is only ever her best interest."

"Take a look around you, Thomas. A good, long look... " He held his arms wide, encompassing the immaculate grounds, the grand plantation style home with its sweeping double staircase to the veranda, its immense stables. "I would give her this, to the very last. That is my intent. Can you say the same, Thomas? Can you, or a single 'privateer' in your crew, offer her anything to match the grandeur? The security or the life such a brilliant, magnificent woman deserves?"

"And even if her devotion does not rest with me exactly, not yet, her heart most certainly lies here in Port Royal. Have I been plain enough for you, Captain Lightfoot?"

Thomas veritably shook with rage. It was rage of impotence, and of poignant hatred. For a long moment he could only stand there, his eyes alight like stoked embers, impaled upon the Commander’s words. The apparent truth in the man’s speech, coupled with his abundant and smug confidence dominated Thomas’ mind, and he could not but stare.

Then, slowly, like the graceful dawning of the sun over the horizon, Thomas’ face began to soften. His gaze became confident, and the corners of his mouth curled upward into a smile that was cruel and poised. He removed his finger from the Commander’s chest, and pulled it behind his back to clasp the other.

“Your status is not lost to me, Commander. Your coin, your prestige—I am keenly aware of it all. But…” Thomas cocked his head fractionally to the side, “…perhaps you forget our past? Perhaps you forget how you came to know me? I shall remind you of something that you should fully recognize. You indeed command all the bronze of Fort Charles. You can order me clapped in irons, send me to the gallows, have me rot at the blocks, burn my ship, ad infinitum.

Thomas moved even closer to the Commander, his voice dropping to an even whisper. “But what you forget is that I do not command soldiers, I command pirates, and loyal ones at that. They are not men that fear the roar or your cannon, nor the muskets of your soldiers. They are not deterred by stone walls and the promised vengeance of some monarch from across the line. Honor is not their master. Kill me, cull my existence from this earth, and the last thing you will feel is the blood pooling in your throat as you choke upon it in your bed, lying alone and unloved.”

“For you see,” Thomas said, his voice now hard and icy, “when it comes to her, you will always be found wanting.”

Something dark, feral and eminently dangerous flashed across the Commander's face, contorting those stern features for a single, blazing instant to a mask of wild fury - a visage shadowed in a moment, manacled and caged by years of iron, unrelenting discipline as a dawning realization overcame him.

"You truly do not know, do you Thomas?" he growled with a throaty laugh, shaking his head with unfettered amusement. "You have no idea, why I have no need of a single cannon in my arsenal, no need to sink your precious Skate - not even to have you arrested or executed - to keep her here forever, one fine day to come. Oh, I was only ever vying for a little extra time this past day... "

The Commander's laugh grew, louder and longer, truly jovial now as his dark eyes crinkled at the corners with malevolent merriment, all at the expense of the pirate captain. "How Antonia does love her secrets. Like little else in all the world... " He turned on his heel, his back to Thomas now, waving one hand dismissively over his shoulder without a backward glance.

"Enjoy the party, Thomas!" he called, "The red is truly delicious, but it does stain horribly, splashed about in shaky hands. Perhaps best to stick with the white tonight... "

Thomas stood there, watching the retreating back of the red-coated Commander with all the seething turbulence of an autumn tempest in his veins. His rage and astonishment were a potent elixir, stinging and burning like acid as Thomas struggled to react. It took every ounce of restraint, every vestige of will, to stay his own hand from unsheathing the dagger at his flank, and burying it to the hilt in the Commander’s spine.

There was something strangely comforting in the very idea of such violent and rash action. The feral simplicity of it fed Thomas’ inner pirate like flames stoked by a bellows. For all of this violent pondering, in the end Thomas allowed himself only the riposte of a grim smile and a raised salute of his half-filled glass of red before draining it empty.

With a sharp breath drawn through his teeth as he swallowed the wine, Thomas turned on his heels and began to march towards the closest bar table. Wine was not the vital spirit at this point; it lacked the gravity, the weight, and the potency to accompany the night’s revelations. He needed something stronger to lubricate his thoughts, for at this moment Captain Thomas Lightfoot found himself staring into the face of the worst quandary he had yet known.

He had literally danced his way into a deadly chess match, and against a man he never fathomed would be sitting across the board. Worse yet was that Thomas was playing with his Queen’s intentions revealed, and she was left exposed and vulnerable beneath the obsessed gaze of a king named Robert Murray.

Damn the bastard! Damn that man and his desires!

“Gunfire,” Thomas barked to the servant behind the bar, “and sharply too.”

The young man saw the look upon Thomas’ face, and set to making the traditional drink of the King’s Army without so much as a whisper of pleasantries. In short order Thomas had a tumbler of cold black tea, and a tall shot of rum set before him.

“Here you are, sir.”

Thomas said nothing. He took the rum and dropped the shot glass into the tumbler of tea. In one large gulp he drank the inky black liquid, and thudded the tumbler back upon the bar top. The taste was horrid, and it curled Thomas’ mouth into a scowl, but the liquor had its desired effect. With the Gunfire still burning in his throat, Thomas felt his mind clearing, and the scowl eased off his face. In its place was left the mask of a cool and confident privateer captain that had not a burdensome care in the world.

Time for the next move.

With chin aloft, Thomas set out across the lawn, weaving through the guests on his way to where Antonia, Nicolette, and Jax stood in conversation with Commander Murray. Thomas caught the soldier’s eye as he approached, and he nodded to the Commander. The man nodded back, a slight but unmistakable smile of satisfaction upon his face.

“Good evening,” he said, offering a slight bow and nod to Nicolette and Jax. “What a pleasant night, wouldn’t you all say? I see you have met Commander Murray. Among His Majesty’s finest in the New World, if you appreciate the soldiering type.” He added with an easy chuckle.

Thomas kept his voice light and natural as he teased. It was not the easiest of feats, but he did his best to channel Antonia’s roguish essence.

“Though I’m no angler,” Thomas continued with a smile, “I should say that it would be a fine evening for catching silverfish wouldn’t you all agree?”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Zakhar was a warrior. He was a werewolf forged of the iron of tragedy, death, hatred, and vengeance. In the face of his own demise he scoffed, and of fear, he knew little. Yet, beneath the terrible shadow of the wolf-god, he quaked like a common cur. Fenris’ howl seemed to reverberate into Zakhar’s very bones, and all steel drained from the white-wolf’s veins.

Still lying upon the black, frozen lake, his breaths came in rapid and ragged pants. The whites of his eyes ringed his amber iris’, and he felt trapped in the own ivory strands of his thick fur.

As Fenris dropped his massive head, his howl completed, he turned his obsidian gaze to where Zakhar lay. The eyes of the wolf-god seemed to have a palpable presence as they alighted upon the werewolf. A new wave of fearful shivers coursed across Zakhar’s body, and at this Fenris lifted the cracked lips of his maw into a wicked smirk.

Your fear is pleasing, child, came the booming voice inside of Zakhar’s head. A whimper escaped the werewolf’s lips.

With slow and booming steps, Fenris turned to face Zakhar. Every press of the wolf-god’s paws crunched the stone beneath them, sending clouds of dust and granite shards flying into the air.

Oh, child, I am forever in your debt. Be not afraid, for you are a herald of a new age…

Fenris’ voice had started in a low and thinly veiled note of calm, as if he were a butcher soothing a calf being led to slaughter. But in that last instant, his words ceased abruptly, and the wolf-god spun to face an area just to the right of Zakhar. Sword-like fangs gleamed blue in the strange cave, and somehow even the inky black of Fenris’ eyes seemed to emit a strange and terrible light as they focused.

Zakhar, still shaking, slowly turned his head to follow the god’s gaze. What he saw drew his attention from the moment, and his brows knit in confusion.

There, floating just inches above the icy lake’s surface was a roaring flame.

Puzzled, Zakhar rolled towards the fire, and his eyes squinted at the strange apparition. Within the dancing tongues or orange and yellow, he could make out shapes, organic and obscure, as if they were being viewed through frosted glass.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Zakhar peered harder, trying to focus upon the shapes that eluded distinction. Slowly, the light of the flames seemed to become more transparent, and with it, the shapes. Recognition dawned upon him, and the unmistakable stones of Ardgroom became visible. Within the ring of the stones, figures appeared. Zakhar’s jaw dropped with stunned dismay.

How…?

His thought was interrupted by Fenris’ voice, thundering between Zakhar’s ears.

It will be them!

Zakhar flinched and looked over his shoulder to Fenris. The wolf-god stood there, and a broad grin somehow curled his wolfish muzzle.

They will be the first to witness my return, and the beginning of the end.

---

Atticus had been listening to the discussion, his hand stroking with contemplative concern upon his beard. His tail swished behind him in anxious arcs as he took in the words of those gathered, and attempted to comprehend the terrible reality that he once again found himself and his team. The world’s most dire affliction was falling into the Bain & Hoyle Company’s collective lap, just as it had scant months ago.

Are we to be forever cursed with this burden, until it ultimately destroys us?

With a rough sigh in answer to his own posit, he looked into the growing fire of Jay-Jay’s spell. At first he saw nothing but the dance of flames, and then like dew being wiped free of a window, images suddenly came into sharp focus.

He saw a blue cave, a black lake, and the enormous form of a massive wolf staring with obsidian eyes from its banks. Atticus breath caught in his throat, disbelief stayed his tail in midair.

The incubus had no time to think upon what looked back through the light of those magical flames, for in that very moment a shining bolt of green lightning erupted from within the stone circle. Thunder followed instantly, and Atticus felt himself flying backwards. Stunned, he could make out only more successive flashes of green, and the booming report of thunder as his flight took him out of the ring of stones.

With a rush of air from his lungs, Atticus landed hard upon the cool earth, and skidded across the grass. His wings folded and splayed at odd angles, and Atticus came to rest in a heap of his own red limbs. Pain did not yet register to his mind, as thunderclap after thunderclap continued to buffet him, and the green flashes of lightning grew in frequency. The whole of his senses were overwhelmed by the display.

Then, through the burst of green, a silhouette could be seen. At first Atticus could not comprehend what it was. It was so large that the night sky was obscured from view, and the emerald lightning became an aurora around its rough edges.

Blinking hard, Atticus stood. Upon his feet he labored to focus upon the haloed shadow, and recognize its nature. For several long moments he stood in this manner, rigid with confusion and frozen with the futility of his discernment. Then, with all the force of the lightning that had flung him, Atticus saw, truly saw.

It was a wolf. The god-wolf.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Good morning everyone,
I hope the weekend treated you all well. I sent another PM to LimeyPanda, because his post was waiting on me, and somehow my last PM disappeared into the internet never to be seen again (ok maybe it was operator error, but don't tell anyone ). Anyway, I'm primed to post and move on with our lovely tale, but I will wait for LP to post first, since he has been waiting on me. Shesh, I tell you, GM's these days can't keep their shit strait...

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Hey LP, I sent back a PM to you just a moment ago. Thanks for all the wonderful posts everyone. I'm really excited for this next portion of the RP.

Hope you all are having a wonderful weekend thus far, and if any of you happen to be dads, well happy early Father's Day.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Woohoo a post! Thanks for that, Dot.

How's everyone doing today? I'm waking up to a rainy morning, with nothing much to do. Anyone else planning on posting soon-ish?

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas had been in the middle of wiping himself clean with a rag soaked in spring water, when the knock came at his door. With a grumble he hurried through drying himself off and throwing on a pair of loose linen pants and a dingy old shirt. Dressed, if somewhat ridiculously, Thomas walked on bare feet to the door and began to pull it open. He was immediately met with the pleading and supplicating Jax, down on both knees, wailing at him for mercy and assistance.

A good natured chuckle was Thomas’ first response. “No dress for the dance, my friend?”

Thomas waved the sea artist up from the deck, and gestured for him to follow him inside the cabin. “Let’s see what we can do, shall we? I would be a scoundrel indeed to leave a crewmate of mine bereft of a means to strike some lucky lady’s fancy.”

With a smile upon his face, Thomas moved to the large sea chest that served to hold his clothing. Though certainly not a man given often to fine dress, Thomas realized the value of such garments when it came to becoming an accepted member of society, and thusly he kept a handful of ensembles for such occasions. Sifting through his clothing, Thomas spoke to Jax over his shoulder.

“I trust she said yes?”

His voice was even and pleasant, and he listened to Jax’s response with a broad grin. It did his heart well to hear the news, and Thomas enjoyed the thought of the helmsman cracking through the thick and shining armor of the First Mate.

If anyone has the salt and the tenacity to navigate that harbor, it would be Jax. Thomas thought with a playful, yet hidden, roll of his eyes.

“Ah, here we are,” Thomas said, pulling a bundle of crisply folded clothing from the chest. The bundle was wrapped in sail cloth to prevent it from being soiled, and tied with twine. He handed this to Jax. “And here’s the footwear,” Thomas turned back to the chest to withdraw a pair of knee-high black leather boots. These he placed carefully atop the clothing in Jax’s arms.

Thomas eyed the sea artist for a moment, and then nodded with satisfaction. “It should fit you, I wager. There should be a matching ribbon in there as well to tie your hair back with, if you should so desire.”

Stepping forward, Thomas reached up to clap Jax about the shoulders. He smiled to the man.

“Now, I must finish getting my own aspect as pretty as a Spring butterfly, so if you please…” Thomas raised an arm towards the open door to his cabin.

* * * * *

The coach pulled up along the broad, coral-pebble drive, and came to a stop before the white-washed mansion of Commander Robert Murray. Placed inland from Port Royal, the Commander’s plantation sprawled in the lush green countryside, surrounded by acres of sugarcane and lime trees. The two-story structure stood with broad and bright windows that faced inland, while the expansive back lawn stretched towards the ocean, not but a mile away. Two fully grown avocado trees buttressed the corners of the mansion, and the large kitchen house was visible through the foliage to the left.

Oil lamps alight with small dancing flames, perched on wooden poles, lit the drive and likewise created a wide pathway that led behind the mansion, and to the rear lawn. It was before this pathway that the coach at last stopped, and a servant rushed forward to tend the door for the two gentlemen inside.

Captain Thomas Lightfoot stepped free of the coach, and out into the lingering heat of the Jamaican countryside. His copper eyes reflected the flickering glow of the lamps that were the only light on this early, and as of yet, moonless night. Idly he brushed a hand across his coat, and reached up to reposition the black velvet tricorn hat atop his head. Thomas once again pressed at the nonexistent wrinkles in his outfit. It was his finest clothing, and a set he had only used once before.

The justacorps coat he wore was of a dark silver silk, fashionably cut with broad French cuffs, and tailored with the buttons ending at his waist. Ebony filigree danced in elegant embroidery across the coat, and gleamed pleasantly in accompaniment with the silver adornments. Beneath the jacket was a silk vest of the same pattern, though this was instead black with silver thread for its needlework. Upon his legs he wore black velvet breeches, fastened at the knees with glossy obsidian ribbon, and ending in simple black hose to feet encased in square-toed, black leather shoes.

His hair, too short to tie or braid, was slicked back over his head with beeswax, and the length of stubble normally found along his jaw had been freshly shaven. Around his waist, hidden by a gray sash and the tails of his coat was the ever present dagger, cinched firmly and within easy grasp at his left hip.

Thomas turned back towards the coach, and the disembarking Jax. With a twinkle in his eye, he gave the sea artist a low whistle.

“My goodness, you do strike quite the figure, my friend. You had best watch yourself tonight or you’ll come back to the Skate minus your purse, and with some wide-eyed beauty upon your arm, whispering of marriage.”

He chuckled, and gave Jax a genuine smile. “I will leave you to wait upon your escort,” he said, referring to the First Mate that had opted to travel separately of the two men. With a slight bow, Thomas left Jax to his waiting, and turned along the lamp-lit pathway towards the rear lawn.

As he walked beneath the avocado tree, the splendid lilt of a string quartet met his ears, accompanied by the low buzz of conversation, the rustle of silk, and the tinkling of flatware. When he at last made the rearmost corner of the mansion, Thomas was met with the sight of the most opulent party he had ever attended.

The expanse of the exquisitely manicured lawn swept to the shadowed edges of the heavy Jamaican night, dotted all along its expansive borders with the same torches that illuminated the drive. Arbors had been erected over several tables along the periphery, their graceful wooden columns and arches plaited with all manner of vines and climbing greenery. Centerpieces of still dewy hibiscus and bougainvillea graced the lace-covered tables, their heavy, generous blooms scenting the night air with the most subtle of floral notes - though these were merely the least of the temptations to draw the senses.

The tables themselves were near to groaning beneath their tempting burdens, lavishly piled with all manner of delicate sweetmeats on silver terraced trays, pastries thick with coconut, pineapple and a seemingly endless variety of sugared, exotic fruits. Dark bottles of wine beckoned to the partygoers, inviting any passerby to pour themselves a generous portion of sparkling gold or ruby drink in cut crystal goblets.

But the vast swath of the lawn had been left open entirely, all the better to display the true lights of this evening.

Resplendent in sharply pressed dress uniforms, the officers of the garrison of the Jamaica colony mingled amidst a sea of silk and satin. High born gentleman rubbed shoulders with their martial counterparts, adorned in ostentatious powdered wigs and stiff suits of fine fabric. Upon their arms, ladies of fair skin and rich adornment laughed and tittered in pleasant charade. Their warmly colored dresses accentuated the party’s own rich appointments, and from afar they appeared like the blooms of the centerpieces come to life, and moving among the crowd. In the center of the colorful throng, the tune of the quartet led many to dance. With practiced and formal steps the pairs moved across the lawn, smiling with faces lubricated by flowing wine and bellies full of rich fare.

It was amongst those that danced that a particularly splendid flash of color caught his eye, and Thomas smiled in spite of himself. There, flowing gracefully through the crowd, was the rogue. Her dancing partner was none other than Commander Robert Murray himself.

Ah, Antonia, ever the puppeteer.

A sudden idea came to his mind, and erasing the smile from his face, Thomas set out across the lawn with a confident lift to his chin, and a detached look in his copper eyes.

Around him the party goers swirled in elaborate loops of dance, and the swish of bustled fabric blended harmoniously with the songs of the string quartet seated upon their dais.

His gaze followed Antonia, disguised beautifully as some exotic lady, as she moved gracefully along with the ever rigid Commander Murray. It took conscious thought for Thomas to not smile openly at the depth of the rogue's adherence to her character, as she not once cast her eyes away from the dashing British gentleman before her.

Thomas positioned himself so that the lilting path of the Commander and Antonia would cross where he stood. As the two spun about, Thomas deftly leaned forward and tapped the Commander firmly upon the shoulder. With a slight bow as the startled Murray turned his head, Thomas removed his tricorn hat.

"Commander," he said, "I beg your pardon, but I simply must avail myself a dance with this most striking of ladies." Thomas paused to look up into the glowering eyes of his old friend. "By your leave, of course?" he added with a smile.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

I am doing well, LT. Thanks for asking! A wonderful post to hopefully begin another splendid round of RP.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Atticus returned Siya’s embrace, holding her close with a red arm and a gentle wrap of his long tail. Her natural accent was augmented with frustration, and even the petite vampire was only draped in his discarded dress shirt, Atticus thought she looked no less the formidable predator.

“I am glad you’re alright, but Siya, you are not a bad friend.”

He reached down to encircle her hand that held the white fur in his own. The clump of pearl-white hair was nothing in itself fascinating, but its potential brought a slight curl to Atticus’ lips.

“Veti would’ve wanted you to go after the white-wolf, and unless we’re both mistaken, Thad can make hay with this.”

Atticus used the tip of his tail to lift Siya’s chin, and he kissed her gently. He swore he could taste the blood of Reginald Hoyle upon her lips, and he stifled a shudder. The lingering bite of iron and musk brought the gravity of all that had just taken place come starkly into focus. Zakhar had just escaped with the key to the release of a major god of destruction, and Atticus couldn’t begin to fathom all the terrible tidings that would bring upon both the realm of man and the Veiled World alike. If the late Aislinn Hoyle had been correct, it would start a bastardization of the end of times, Ragnarök. At this notion, Atticus did shudder.

His brief moment alone with Siya ended abruptly with Semyon entering the stone circle, followed closely by the angelic man he had seen help kill one of the assassin-wolfs moments ago. Gabe, if Atticus recalled correctly. As Atticus began to respond, the others followed in quick succession through the shade gate, until the rip in space-time collapsed with only a lilting puff of smoke to mark where it had stood.

Atticus unfurled his tail from Siya so he could face the group, but he did not move away from her.

“The white-wolf took the Solas Na Gelaí, an artifact made from the canine of the Norse god Fenris. It was an object that Reginald Hoyle’s clan, the Teachglach Mac Tire, had kept safe as a totem for thousands of years. Though I cannot say exactly how, Aislinn Hoyle envisioned that with the Solas Na Gelaí a white-wolf would break the bonds that held Fenris, and thusly allow the god-wolf to be freed to bring about Ragnarök.”

Atticus let out a long sigh before looking down to indicate the tuft of white fur that Siya held clutched in her hand. “It appears that everything Aislinn prophesized is coming true.”

He looked about the circle, his eyes drifting between the menagerie of creatures. “I am no magician of diviner, but we have the fucking assassin’s hair. Between the lot of us, I know we have the means to track him and follow him. The faster the better...”Atticus’ face soured, “I don’t really want to try and put a god-wolf back into his cage.”

“Ideas, anyone?” He cast his gaze first to Thad, and then to Jay-Jay. Atticus found Henry next, leaning against one of the stones. “Henry, you’re in tune with that realm. If the white-wolf succeeds, can Fenris be bound again? Killed?”

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas deflated visibly, and his smile waned. His hidden insinuation that the helmsman should attend the dance with the First Mate had either gone wholly unnoticed or dutifully ignored. On top of that the First Mate herself remained as mercurial as ever. Thomas saw her expression glimmer through emotions like the shadow of a fast moving cloud flying before the sun, and he found himself nonplused by her reaction.

He had thought that after the moment of candor that the two of them had shared earlier that she would be more receptive to sharing the company of those with whom, while perhaps trust was out of the question, in the very least she respected. It was becoming starkly clear to Thomas that he had gained a loyal, and stout officer at his right hand, but without waves beneath her feet and men to command she was out of place. The haunts of her past were too raw to allow her the social pleasantries of friendship, and Thomas felt a twinge of sadness for the scarred woman.

With a nod Thomas returned his attention from his own thoughts to the two that stood before him. He met the eyes of the sea artist first, and nodded sagely.

“Your analysis of the Feather is surely valuable, and I sincerely trust your judgment. I have all faith that once we are wholly prepared ourselves, and with you at the helm, that we can catch that ship of bilge-drinkers, or bypass them entirely, without much fuss. I have already instructed Dujo to continue on with the outfitting of the Skate as was planned. We won’t be going before the wind half-cocked, I can assure you.”

He looked to the First Mate. “If you wish to remain with the ship, then by all means do so. I am sure Dujo would appreciate the assistance. As for the number of ears, and their efficacy, while the venture tonight might prove fruitless, an informant for our enemies that dwells inside of the Governor’s Mansion is of grave concern to me. I shall attend if for no other reason than to enlighten Antonia of this potential threat, and she can thusly begin to do what she does best.”

Thomas took a half step back, and bowed his head slightly to the helmsman. “With regard to my offer a moment ago, I was presumptuous in my speech. I did not mean to suggest that you required my assistance, and I apologize. As I think on it now, the lady I had in mind may be unavailable in any case.” His eyes did not look to Nicolette, though they surely wanted to.

With a step back, Thomas looked down at his sweat-stained shirt and ruddy appearance. He looked up to the pair with a smile. “I shall leave you both to your own devices then. I must be off to make myself presentable for this evening’s festivities. I bid you both farewell.”

Thomas nodded before turning and walking off across the deck towards his cabin, the sound of his boots echoing dully in the hot, thick, Jamaican afternoon.