The Uprising

Oenia Seneia

She glared at him through the dark strands of her hair, thinking of at least four ways to cause this seaman enough pain to leave him incapacitated for a few days. Arguing with herself she decided that if he didn’t do as he said and only that she would have to implement something, but at this point she needed his help more than she was willing to admit.

Holding out her shackled wrists the chain attached to the wall clattering noisily on the floor, she ignored his question, “Tiernan has the key… is he dead?”

The man’s mouth twisted in a snotty smile as he said, "Don't you worry about that now sweet-cheeks. All that matters is I have it now." Oenai’s face turned red as she choked back a flood of words. She would teach him a lesson as soon as she was free of the wrist chapping restraints.
“Will you be freeing me then? Or are you going to keep eyeing me like a piece of meat?” She asked tilting her head slightly. His grey eyes were devoid of emotion, she wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad thing.

Silently he stepped behind her and worked free the chain from the wall. A loud thunk sounded as the chain hit the floor unceremoniously. Oenai wiggled her arms jingling the chain linking the iron cuffed around her. “I will need these to be unlocked as well Sir,” she said turning her head over her shoulder to see what he was doing behind her still.

Markali Kelemore

Markali stepped around her eyeing the shackles with annoyance. Could nothing be simple these days? Ah well, if he were going to win her over at all he would have to follow through on his word completely. He stepped around her once more, choosing to don silence rather than respond to her word. He bent over the shackles, his head and hair now blocking them from her view as he muttered under his breath once more. A rattling of the shackles would indicated they were being unlocked and they fell away, into his hands. He tossed them aside and looked to the girl.

“It sounds like the fighting is done with for now. Shall we go see who won?” He asked, all traces of the smile he held earlier gone. “Or would you rather I bring you food just in case first? You’ll need strength if you are to live out the day, after all.”

He stood between her and the door, preventing her from leaving without his consent. His eyes flickered tothe welts on her wrists as she responded. “I can manage on my own just fine!"

“Because you’ve done so well before this,” He shrugged as she took a few steps, quick but shaky none-the-less, and then began to wobble. She chose a table to support her, but that wouldn’t last past the next wave that decided to rock the boat a bit. He offered his arm. “At least if you let me support you, I can catch you before the boat tosses you about, no? You can always kill once you’ve other slaves to help you. They’ve all eaten already, it seems.” Everything came out in a matter-of-fact tone. Not arrogant or rude, just simply saying this is the way things are whether we like them or not.

He nodded as she took his arm, no doubt that it was only because she had little choice in the matter and acting as her support, Markali lead her silently out of Tiernan’s cabin. He moved cautiously, dodging out of sight and pulling her with him whenever he heard someone approaching. Finally he got to an area where he could see the carnage from the battle, or what little hadn’t quite been cleaned up yet, and the slaves moving about or dropping and resting and Eamon among them, unharmed it seemed. He stepped into view with Oenia still on his arm. “It seems you missed one, my friend.” He gestured with his other hand to the elf. “I’m afraid she’s awfully weak.”

Shirin Bedros

Shirin watched the gargoyle without really seeing him, or hearing a word of his speech. Her head was beginning to feel most curiously both heavy and light, and her stomach clenched painfully; it felt as though her organs were trying to gnaw her spine in their desperation for filling. She touched her spinning head with one hand; the fingers were cold and clammy, and she jerked them away from her, remembering that they’d recently touched dead flesh.

“Pardon, shadow of Bob.” Shirin looked up, startled, heart racing. The traitor stood before her; the gargoyle was beyond them, toying with his mace. “But you appear to be missing your man.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your man. Bob. You are his shadow, yes?” His tone was light, and seemed as out of place as the current general quiet.

“Oh.” She exhaled quietly through her nose, grabbing one arm with the other hand and hugging herself. Until now, she had forgotten his comment about her looks, before the battle, before she’d killed a man. Two men. Two men just like this one, from whom she had—she told herself—nothing to fear. “I am not his, that I know of. Unless.” She stopped short.

“Unless what?” The traitor picked up the thread she’d dropped as though it had never been hers to begin with; his apparent cool eagerness disconcerted her. He smiled wryly at her. “Unless you are to remain in the possession of amoral men?”

She narrowed her eyes briefly before attempting to compose herself again. The mention of what she’d been brought her for—of what had been visited on her before, and would, probably, be visited on her again—quickened her pulse again. “Perhaps.”

Eamon laughed, mocking her; despite that, it was a surprisingly easy, amiable sound. “Your shackles are gone, are they not? And so they shall remain, so long as you remain on this ship.”

Shirin rubbed her wrists instinctively before catching herself and turning half away from this treacherous man. “On this ship, forsooth.” The words, now that she released them, came more easily than she would have expected, spurred on by a hungry giddiness and the blood staining her hem. Despite the defiant tip of her chin, however, her lips shook with the effort. “You do not say what you will do with us when we land.”

“What I will do?” he asked. “Why, good lady, I do not even know if I will survive the night! Your group suffered terrible pain at the hands of those that I aligned myself with, and I did nothing to stop them! I would not be surprised to find a dagger in my back when I awake in the morning.”

“Nor would I,” Shirin said. Treacherous was right. There was a smoothness to his words that was not quite sincere, not quite honest, though he was very convincing. She studied his handsome face without meeting his eyes as he laughed at her response.

“Then we are mutually suspicious of one another! Greetings—I am Eamon D’Arnise, defender of slaves, betrayer of slavers, and conqueror of women’s beds.”

And abuser of rhetoric, she thought. He had extended his hand to her, but she neither looked at it nor touched it. “An unlucky conqueror. I have no bed,” she said, her voice cracking harshly.

He bowed to her instead, removing his hat. What a fool, this one was! “A pleasure to meet you as well, Shadow of Bob.”

She suppressed the unwonted and uncomfortable urge to see blood again, and pressed her lips tightly before responding. “Call me—” she hesitated for half a second. Shirin? What a name for a killer! “—Bedros.”

“Well, Bedros—I was about to partake of one of the finest of meals Captain Raynor had to offer us! Would you, perhaps, be interested in joining me?” he asked.

She hesitated. She needed food, but this man—was just a man. He would bleed like the rest of them, she was sure. She picked up the sword where she had left it; there was no scabbard—it had gone overboard with the body of the slaver—but she felt better with it at hand. “I am interested in food, forsooth.”

When she looked up, there was a mocking light in his eyes, and a slight upturn to his lips. “You’ll not be needing that, miss. Why—there are many carving implements available in the galley.” He turned abruptly, striding away from her without a second glance back, and, feeling suddenly both very foolish and very small, Shirin followed, still holding her sword.

Eamon D'Arnise

"And thank you for the grub and those weapons, I must say this is a rather interesting instrument, much more polite than using your hands, eh? Rather like eating I suppose." The gargoyle shook the mace dangerously close to Eamon's head, and it took all his mettle just to keep from flinching away from the spiked head. Fortunately, the gargoyle's handshake was much less threatening.

"Ah, yes indeed--it is far more polite to bash someone's head in than to shred them with claws. I often find myself in the same predicament." The gargoyle looked perfectly confused, even going so far as to look down at Eamon's gloved hands to confirm that he did not have claws.

"I bet you do," he rumbled. Eamon smiled despite himself, letting go of the gargoyle's hand and turning to one of the many women aboard the ship, this one rather small and--Eamon noted--rather pretty. She had been shadowing Dijon much like a rogue would tail a bulging purse. By the look of her, she probably had not had a decent meal in ages, and had likely lost what little she'd eaten somewhere during the course of the battle.

"Pardon, shadow of Bob, but you appear to be missing your man."

She blinked and frowned. "What?"

"Your man. Bob. You are his shadow, yes?"

"I am not his, that I am aware of," she said. "Unless..." Eamon let a wry smile work its way onto his face.

"Unless what? Unless you are to remain in the possession of amoral men?" She tensed, her eyes narrowing.

"Perhaps."

Eamon only laughed at her. "Your shackles are gone, are they not? And so they shall remain, so long as you remain on this ship."

The girl rubber her wrists at the mention of shackles, letting her weight fall onto her back foot. "On this ship, forsooth. You do not say what you will do with us when we land." She lifted her chin in defiance of the perceived threat.

"What I will do? Why, good lady, I do not even know if I will survive the night! Your group suffered terrible pain at the hands of those that I aligned myself with, and I did nothing to stop them! I would not be surprised to find a dagger in my back when I awake in the morning!"

She looked at him coolly. "Nor would I."

He laughed again, this time extending his hand to her, palm up. "Then we are mutually suspicious of one another! Greetings--I am Eamon D'Arnise, defender of slaves, betrayer of slavers, and conqueror of women's beds."

"An unlucky conqueror. I have no bed."

She stared at him a moment, obviously not impressed. She stared at his face but not into his eyes, ignoring his hand completely. He turned that extended appendage into a flourish, sweeping the beret off his head and down into a low bow. "A pleasure to meet you as well, Shadow of Bob."

Her eyes flashed dangerously at the title. "Call me--" She hesitated a moment, as if searching for her own name. Eamon fought back a condescending grin. "--Bedros." Eamon considered making a remark about the fact that she did not, in fact, lack a bed, that it was contained in her name, but decided against it. He smiled inwardly.

She bent down and picked up her fallen sword--as blatant a threat as Eamon had ever seen--and he brought his hand up to his lips to stifle a laugh. When he let his hand fall back into place across his chest, his lips were pursed in their customary pout.

"I am interested in food, forsooth," she said, hefting the small blade.

"You'll not be needing that, miss. Why--there are many carving implements available in the galley." He turned on his heel and headed toward the mess hall, rather pleased with himself. He plopped his beret back on his head and adjusted it accordingly, for only Eamon D'Arnise would care about the position of his beret so soon after ending the lives of--by his count--more than a dozen men in a single night.

Dijon

Dijon watched the slow, lazy swells of the blue dunes.

The ship wallowed without the expert seamanship it had become accustomed to. The sun’s light, all orange gold, played over his ebony skin. Thick fingers reflexively gripped the rails, yearning to clutch and sift through moist soil, to be surrounded by the fragrance of green growth. He was enjoying the relative quiet; aside from the gentle murmur of conversation, all was quiet. Once that idiot, cheering amidst slaughter – a sacrilege of such proportions Dijon had had to restrain himself from braining the fool on the spot – had passed out of sight, staggering and no doubt near-dead from his injuries, some measure of peace had descended.

Blood and guts were hardening, crusting all over his bodies like hungry scabs ever growing. Flies would descend soon enough; an unpleasant reality of war but one that he nonetheless wished to avoid. The gargoyle was nearby, still staring into the depths, though the sharks had mostly finished with their meals, the remains still remained. He seemed hopeful of their return. Dijon had been watching Shirin, at his sides – the delicate, bloodied flower. Some strands of golden-hued brown, burnished ever more in the sun, gleamed red.

He felt a curious trembling take a hold within, a certain dread that left a leaden taste in his mouth – she had killed. He drifted closer to the gargoyle; his presence had been distantly felt on the battlefield, a roving, erratic presence. It was possible he’d seen something. Dijon cast his mind back – it had been a matter of hours only but it seemed an age ago, an age covered in a red mist – but finally, he recalled the gargoyle’s name. “Tell me something, Elias. Is the girl hurt?”

Elias started, visibly surprised to be addressed no doubt and by the question too. “Who, the miss?” he said, looking with large innocent-seeming eyes at Shirin. “Pshaw, not at all! She took of those men, real nice. Barely a scratch on her, I’d say.”

He turned back to the waters, unaware of the despair that had taken a hold of Dijon. He had failed to protect her, she had been beset, trussed by his command to stay out of the fray perhaps – and what if she had died? What if Veera had died? He swayed…No, no she is not your daughter. Even so…

How would this affect her? The innocence there, so bruised already, would it wither and die, turning her into a shell? A woman that walked and talked but with an impregnable armour…he knew the type well. He couldn’t let that happen. But there was so much else to do and consider – they sat unprotected, under-provisioned and sorely undermanned on one of the most dangerous seas in the known world. All manner of beasts, pirates and raiders of disparate and degenerate origins prowled it – they would need to dock somewhere and soon. More, suspicious talk and underhand glances still brewed amongst the surly rabble that as yet failed to appreciate their freedom – and the fact they’d done almost nothing to contribute to it.

They’d had the simple, astonishing stupidity to raise questions on Eamon’s character – the man that had just fought tooth and nail to free them. Were his motivations questionable? Absolutely. Did that matter in the present situation? Not in the slightest. He’d had to step in, before the idiot rabble – could this be Deaven’s stupidity? Was it in fact contagious? -- could get themselves killed and plainly and slowly asked them:

Do you know where we are?

No.

Do you have any idea of where we are going or how to get there?

No.

Can you possibly overcome the other half of irritable, no-doubt edgy warriors below decks? Is it in your power to sway and bind them to a course of action? No and no, with each question a more miserable look descending upon their faces. He hadn’t stopped there, however.

And yet you want to kill the one man with those answers and with that power? The same man who just killed a dozen men in your defence? Without whom, I would not have succeeded and we would all be dead this day. He stared at them with complete disgust.

“He helped us, yes, we can’t deny that. But do we exchange one set of chains for another?” Well spoken, clipped civilised lilt and the distinct but apparent edge of pain and paranoia resting beneath it all – Machavell.

“We enjoy the freedom from one, without creating another to shackle ourselves to. There will be real enough problems to deal with soon enough. Be wary but not stupid.“ He gave one last look at the rest of the rabble.

“I’d brain you all right now if I thought the exercise would bear any fruit,” Dijon said in parting and strode off to his present position, admiring the rise of the sun and the play of light on the waters of the world. He had been angered, far more so than he had expected in truth. To so slander a warrior’s honour after such a display of fighting skill was insanity at the very least – a warrior, who had with that skill, saved their lives, Dijon included. Eamon’s sly cockiness put most on edge but his blatant actions and words displayed an honesty of self not even half of the others could lay a claim to.

As though Dijon’s thoughts had conjured him, Eamon appeared only a few feet away, exchanging words with Shirin. He watched the tilt of her head, the defiance no deeper than the surface, the shaky legs on which she stood and finally, the retrieval of the sword – ah, the bloody instrument itself. Therein lay her possible damnation and that simply would not do – better for the already cursed to bear such burdens. As they began to walk away, Dijon moved to follow, laying one beefy hand atop Eamon’s shoulder casually. Without obviously stopping, he nonetheless slowed his footsteps, allowing Shirin to draw away. She didn’t look back, curiously unwilling to meet his eyes it seemed.

“Chuckles, you would leave without me? I am crushed.” Dijon kept the words brief and light, displaying brevity only for untoward listeners.

Eamon blinked up at him with wide eyed innocence (not unlike Elias’, he noted inwardly with a mental to note to keep an eye on the gargoyle). “Bob! Have you become a shadow of your shadow? My, my, that’s bound to be confusing.”

“Best to keep one’s affairs tightly bound, lest they unravel. A detached shadow would be disturbing, I think.”

A delighted smile flickered over the man’s face. “Why--since when is young Bedros an affair of he who is Bob? Surely you would not lay claim to one so recently freed.”

“How else to keep her from other, unsavoury hands? She does not belong here, Eamon. I would have it remain that way.” They had passed out of earshot now, as they approached the captain’s cabin. Eamon’s feet casually shifted wider, feet turned inward. A defensive stance – so he mistrusted Dijon. No matter, Dijon doubted the man trusted anyone but himself.

“I would not see her stay here, Bob—else, I would not have freed you.”

“There is a difference between staying and belonging; some warriors leave a battlefield behind and all that occurred on it. Others take it with them, unable to escape its grasp and become forever changed. Marked. This is one flower you shall not trample, that I promise.”

His hand, a constant presence that never shifted in weight or strength of grip, betraying a steadiness of nerves most would find remarkable, fell away and returned to his side. He strode into the cabin. Behind him, soft spoken words followed:

“The greatest aspect of a flower is to view its beauty and to smell it's scent--not to destroy it. Flowers do not burn well, nor is there a satisfying crunch when crushed beneath one's heel.”

Finally, he was within four walls, away from the beetle black eyes of the dead. There was more than one reason he had sought to follow Eamon and Shirin as more and more of the shades of the fallen began to recollect their beings and so form, invisible to the oblivious fools around them, and coalesce once more. The Styrians knew, of course; the ancient lore was still passed down and soon, someone would have to perform the Singing. Shivering, he cast it from his mind. He had until nightfall, after all.
Inside, Shirin was already at the table, stuffing food inside her gullet. Around her, stools lay scattered alongside the remains of a plate and goblet, contents sprawled awry. The food did indeed look tempting and Dijon’s belly growled in a truly monstrous fashion; Shirin, for the barest moment, froze like a startled animal. She quickly returned to eating after a quick survey of the room. Sparing only the briefest glance for the singed charts and chests, Dijon strode deeper into the cabin, into the captain’s cabin, hoping against hope to find what he sought.

A very small groan of happiness slipped out as he saw the object of his desire – a bathtub, bolted down to the floor. Beside it, lodged between the bath and the wall so as to be held immobile, was a barrel. Striding over to it, he tore of the lid, giddy with pleasure at seeing it filled with water. He dipped an experimental hand into the water, mouth forming an ‘O’ of amazement; it was still lukewarm. Obviously, a mage had his uses. Dijon poured into the tub and without further ado, cast off his clothes, revealing his massively muscled, scarred frame, still bearing the slight notches and cuts from the fight.

Gingerly, he slipped into the water feeling a layer of filth and blood slough off as he vigorously scrubbed with the nearby cake of soap, rough and hard though it was. Whether the others were watching, or cared, he didn’t know nor did he spare a thought for them if they did. He was, quite simply in his own, very cramped, personal heaven. Slowly, he began to hum.

Elias

Fixated on the remaining crumbs of defiled flesh, the gargoyle lay in wait of the sharks. They did not return. He stood patiently long after the deck had cleared of all but one lost soul who lay moaning, cradling half an arm and a wounded mind. And then he went in search.

It was a wide room, crammed with many a useless item, all of them momentarily distracting the gargoyle from his self allotted task. He shook feathered dusters, swished his tail at stacks of wooden planks and then he grabbed for them, breaking them into halves, two at a time, with a destructive thwack of his tail. He grinned as he moved, steadily clearing a space in the middle where he stacked the boards like lego bricks, forming a steady structure with narrow window spaces and an open door. A sheet of white material (probably for patching a broken sail) served to be draped over the entrance, fastened in place by un-broken boards on the top for his roof.

Standing back, Elias was delighted. The shelter was wide but short, only fit for kneeling or standing but it served well enough the sole purpose of entertaining the gargoyle and once completed was swiftly forgotten. The original sought for broom became a much more interesting conquest and Elias shut the room hastily, whistling his way back to the deck.

That one human was there, his tears all dried up but the rocking motion constant as he gazed out across the tarnished deck. The gargoyle's whistling did not appear to register in his mind. Elias moved slowly, the broom in his hand as unfamiliar as the mace had been but he soon got into the rhythm of it, sweeping the carnage of blood and twisted scraps of muscle towards the edge. But not over. Not yet. How much would he need to make one meal for a shark?

Kester

Kester looked around the mess hall. The others were still eating, but a small meal had satisfied his cravings. Strange, he thought. I was locked up for so long. I thought I’d be hungrier.

The others didn't even turn around to look at him as he walked from the mess hall. He breathed in the air as it hit his face. It had the most beautiful scent after weeks of captivity. Staying in one room was nothing he wasn’t used to, but never had he been in such close quarters with so many others.

He saw the pale grey skin of the gargoyle and approached. His footsteps made almost no noise, and the gargoyle did not turn to face him. It was looking over the edge of the ship, a broom clutched awkwardly in his hand. “Need any help?” Kester asked, stepping beside the gargoyle and offering him a smile.

"Will this be enough to bait a shark?" The gargoyle pointed down at the pile of blood, guts and torn muscle he had swept together.

Kester glanced down at it and frowned. “I’m not sure. I have no knowledge of the creatures. It could never hurt to try, though.”

He grinned and brandished the broom in Kester’s face. “Well, there's a slight chance that the sharks will jump high enough to bite our heads off while we stick them out over the side but that's a chance I'm willing to take.” He brushes the pile into the water.

Kester took a step away from the edge of the ship. A sound came from the gargoyle that might have been a laugh. “I’m Kester. What’s your name?” he asked.

He nodded to himself. The show over. He directed his full attention to Kester. “My name's Elias, friend. You don't happen to like gambling by any chance?”

Kester grinned. “I have to admit, I’ve never tried. Would it try your patience to teach me?”

"Say, you don’t know much about gargoyles do you? We'll make it a double lesson but only if you're willing to meet my price."

Kester bit his lip. “I am sorely uneducated about a lot of things. Name your price. I’ll tell you if I can meet it.”

Markali Kelemore

Markali watched as Eamon attempted to charm one of the ladies. A slight smirk touched his lips as his fellow slaver walked towards them, a snide comment ready on his lips, but Eamon didn’t even look in their direction. He slipped back, deeper in the shadow as a darkly colored man approached, catching up to Eamon quickly. He fell in step behind the pair, guiding the elf along with him as he followed them back the way they had just come. “Should’ve just waited here then,” He mumbled silently to himself as he ducked into more shadows, watching as they disappeared into the Captain’s cabin. He heard the slosh of water being poured into the Captain’s tub and shook his head. Markali walked to the open doorway and positioned Oenia slightly in front of him as he watched to trio for a moment.

When it seemed that Eamon’s attention was no longer being demanded by one or both of the others, he cleared his throat, drawing the man’s attention. Eamon turned him, a wide smile on his face.

“Ah, Mars--I'd wondered where you'd gotten to--how are the others, below deck?”

"All settled in and quiet for the time being. I'd gotten to releasing the one you forgot,” Markali respond, a small gesture of his hand indicating the elf.

"Forgotten? Why, I'd never! I simply like the look of a woman in chains, is all,” Eamon’s words were accompanied by a feigned look of hurt.

“How DARE you?!" The elf practically spat,

Markali watched the man for a moment as he moved about the room, apparently looking for something. “The goal was to free them all” Markali said, not a hint of amusement present in his voice or features as he spoke right over the girl. “Or were you afraid Tiernan would return for you if you released his property?”

"If I were afraid of Tiernan, mate, I never would have placed the coup of a slave ship in the hands of the slaves aboard it."

Markali simply nodded in response, ignoring the wink and grin sent his way as Eamon turned to the large man occupying the tub. “No offense, Bob.”

“So is she allowed to join the other slaves in their freedom or shall I return her to the chains I found her in?"

“I will NOT be returned to the chains I was formely in. Kill me if you like, but I refuse to be chained to a wall again." Oenia elbowed Markali hard in the chest, but even this received little acknowledgment as he gripped her elbow to prevent a reoccurrence.

Markali waited, the perfect image of patience, as Eamon put on a show of thinking through the question presented to him. “I suppose she can go free.”

“Good. Then we shall join your feast if there are no objections,” Markali said, moving around the elf and setting himself near Shirin, clearly not actually caring if there were objections. He left Oenia to her own devices.

As Eamon was kneeling down to examine a particularly fine seachest he vaguely introduced those around the table. “Why, that's what it's here for, yes? Bedros, this is Mars and his lady-friend, Mars, ladyfriend, this is Bedros--slayer of pirates and feaster of fine foods."

"I am no one's lady friend! What the hell is going on here?"

The elf’s comment went ignored as Markali’s attention shifted momentarily to the girl, Shirin, Eamon had said. “Pleasure, I’m sure,” His attention shifted back to his partner, “What do ya suppose you’ll find in there, mate?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as Eamon worked at the lock to the chest.

The man mumbled, clearly more interested in picking the lock at that moment. "Some of the Captain's Finest, I'm sure...whatever that may be."

“I’m sure,” Markali responded and then fell silent. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the singed charts on the desk. Tiernan’s work, no doubt. That must’ve been what he’d heard and felt earlier. No big surprise. He listened to the others, more interested in observing than interacting.

Lissa, Exotic Slave

She stood watching the waves roll past, quietly lapping at the worn wood of the ship. Breathing in the salty sea air and scent of blood, she gripped the railing and tilted her head back. Her vision blurred, her mind buried in the bloodshed of the night before. Her thoughts became hazy and she swayed back and forth with the ship, trying not to lose her grip, though her trembling fingers made the task difficult. Her legs gave way under her; she landed on her knees in a soft “thump”. Her hands continued to grip the railing in desperation as she bowed her head in utter defeat, despite the triumph of their battle. Her limbs ached; her body craving the world she knew. Once again her mind sought happier times, as her body begged to touch solid ground again.

She stood in the shadow of a tall elder, watching her girl fetch water. Such a good little girl, always doing what she was told; so submissive. Her features were not uncommonly pretty, her eyes were dark and plain, her skin pale, and she wore an unflattering brown dress. Lissa was utterly fascinated by her.

Her figure was not pleasing as she hadn’t the curves Lissa was so accustomed to seeing on women. Still something interested Lissa, she was so young and fresh, an apple just plucked from the tree. Delectable and crisp, and so sweetly forbidden.

Unable to stop herself, Lissa summoned her energies and changed her form. It was an act she had done many times in order to enter human society unnoticed. Her hair became the pale blonde of a mortal woman, and the pretty blooms she loved so much were no longer seen. Her body appeared to be covered in a basic dress, her exotic legs hidden from view.

Lissa sauntered over to her girl, brushing her hair from her face as she walked. She had watched for months, entranced by the girls’ lack of beauty. Now, perhaps it was time for her to speak to the object of her affection.

Elias

Taking the human's appearance in with one long, scoping swallow, the gargoyle decided that he'd never get used to the peculiarity of eyes and hair. This one was blond in a short, male sort of style and his eyes were almost like the sea, that blue shade that many humans valued. Elias couldn't comprehend what the use of such colour was, did it define personality? Was a blue eyed man more treacherous than a brown? Kester bit his lip, still dwelling on the gargoyle's words.

“I am sorely uneducated about a lot of things," he admitted. "Name your price. I’ll tell you if I can meet it.”

"I didn't say I'd name my price now, did I? Are you in or out friend?" Elias cocked his head to one side, his eyes straying toward the closed door of the galley from which the sounds of voices rattled out. He appeared to be losing interest. The human in front of him frowned and then nodded slowly, his head bobbing like a buoy in the ocean.

"All right, then. We'll play."

"I do love a good game," Elias chortled. He laughed for a while, waiting until Kester smiled before he stopped. And then his features slotted back into place, becoming hard and serious. "Okay. The rules are simple. Every time I teach you something, you answer a question. We'll begin with Poker."

"That sounds fair to me," Kester said but a slight lilt to his voice suggested otherwise. This, however, went unnoticed by Elias who was already leading the way toward the captain's cabin, sparing only a brief glance for the disgraceful heap of human in the chair before rummaging through the drawers. He requisitioned a pack of cards and a purse of gold.

"You can't just take stuff!" Deaven complained, glaring at them, clearly irritated by their intrusion into his rest.

"I think we'll have the table too... and that chair." Elias looked pointedly at the human, casually flexing his claws against the table. He winked at Kester and bared his teeth at Deaven. "You think he's got enough sense to move before I sit down?" he asked in a stage whisper.

Kester matched the gargoyle's grin and turned to Deaven. "I suspect he does." Deaven frowned and looked about to retort but seemed to change his mind.

"I'm hungry anyway," he claimed. Elias waited, grinning as the human stumbled to his feet and in the direction of the door. Kester laughed as Deaven left, the sound echoing in the room.

"You can be very persuasive, can't you?"

"Me?" Elias asked in mock innocence as he cleared soot and crispy parchment from the smoldered table and emptied the coins across its surface. They spilled their harmony of clinks and thuds, settling on a ringing note. Elias jigged happily across to the side opposite the chair and settled back on his haunches, shuffling the cards expertly between his claws.

Kester hesitated for a moment before taking the chair. "Yes, you. I admit, I admire you for that."

Elias accepted this with a grin and he began to explain the rules of poker and the many variations, ending with the simple observation that, 'It's not a whole lot of fun with just two. But that's where Gargoyle Poker comes in." Kester's brow arched like the curve of a dancer's foot.

"Gargoyle Poker? Now I'm interested."

"In a moment. Your turn now: I have a question."

Kester froze for just a second, his tongue darting across his lips. "What's your question?" The gargoyle took his time in answering, steadily thinking on the list that filled his head. He selected the first, the one that interested him most.

"Why do some species have coloured eyes and what does it mean?"

Blinking, Kester leaned back in his seat. He studied the gargoyle and blinked again. "That was a surprising question. I wasn't expecting it. I suppose it has to do with the conditions the species live in. Different amounts of sunlight, maybe?"

For a moment the gargoyle thought about this and he decided that later he would have to ask each of the humans where they were from. But for now he was satisfied.

"I have no interest in asking about your background," he admitted with a sly grin. "That's a game I've seen you human's play but I'm a gargoyle and we play a different game entirely." He paused for a moment, a ripple of muscle tightening traveling through his face. "Few humans know the rules though I suspect there's one aboard who does. Now, Gargoyle Poker. Are you ready?"

"We probably seem petty to you." Kestre leaned forward, studying Elias. "Sometimes, it seems to be the only way to survive. But yes, I'm ready."

The gargoyle spread half the cards across the table, each of them face up and then divided what remained in half again and placed a pile in front of each player.

"Choose one of the face up cards," he said. "And replace it with one from somewhere within your pile but you can't look at those cards. Only the ones face up." He explained the other rules enthusiastically, waving his hands about, occasionally coming close to desecrating Kester's face. But what he did not explain was how to win.

"The winner isn't acknowledged," Elias said. "That's the secret of the game."

"What's the point of a game that one cannot win? Where is the satisfaction?"

"I did not say there was no winner."

"Only that the winner isn't acknowledged? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? I suppose gargoyles get their enjoyment in different ways to humans."

Galea

She watched the exchange of the Gargoyle and Blondie, a headache almost preventing her from paying attention. Almost. As it was, she got the gist. Gambling, and gargoyle poker. She allowed herself a smirk as they walked off the way Deaven had, the gargoyle rather enthusiastically, and laid her head back against the wall, rubbing her neck. Gargoyle poker.

That sounded potentially interesting to watch. Not quite enough to make her follow, but interesting to see. At the moment, though, she didn’t want to watch a game. What she wanted was a drink. Her throat was dry and her head hurt. She glanced at the railing, where the gargoyle had stood feeding the sharks. Sharks. Big fish that eat people. Almost as interesting as gargoyle poker sounded. She looked at the railing a moment more, doubting its effectiveness for someone of her height. Finally, curiosity won over and she went over for a look.

No sharks. A flick of a fin, a shadow in the water, but no clear views of sharks bodies. She heard the grumbling before the footsteps, which were more like scuffles than anything. She turned around to see Deaven, slightly slumped and muttering a jumble of slurred curses shamble around the same corner he had turned just minutes – an hour? – before.

Minutes or an hour? Time was not one of her strong points, she decided as he approached, taking notice of her. He looked around.

“Where are the others?” he asked. She shrugged and motioned toward the door they had slowly filed through.

“Where ever that goes to.”

He rubbed his head and nodded, apparently sporting a hurting head himself. Not surprising. By all rights, he should be out of touch with the world, lost in sleep while his body took care of itself. He should have been in that state when she first saw him dragged back to the hold. Definitely after the club. After the fight? There must be a mixing in his blood, she decided. Something that contributed to his endurance levels. She frowned. The idea of another dead body, this one from over work, didn’t appeal to her much, though.

She again jerked her head in direction of the door. “Are you for seeing what they’re up to down there?”

“I’m up for bed.” He mumbled, one hand still on his head.

“Don’t blame you.” she mumbled back. Then, more clearly, “Do you know where that goes to?”

Of course he didn’t. Why would he? Would he? Maybe that door was one of the several she had been dragged through during the battle, and she had lost track. But he shook his head and shrugged. She mentally returned the shrug and started walking for it.

“I’m curious, at least. Maybe they’ll have something to drink. If not, we can go back to the kitchen.” Just a peek, she told herself, just a peek to see what and where they’d gone off too. If there was water or any other drinkable liquid, she’d stay. If not, well, she knew where the kitchen was. Unless they were planning something down there. She mentally kicked herself for that. Letting them all scatter from her sight, from her hearing. The idea of being in the dark didn’t appeal to her in the least. What if she’d already lost important information thanks to her sitting around? Idiot.

She let out her breath through her teeth and pushed the thought from her head, focusing instead on the situation at hand. Drink, plans, reorienting. Maybe kitchens. She slinked through the mess hall door to see a girl at the table as well as a scattering of others, most eating, others drinking, others simply resting. Food, she didn’t need. Drink she did. Content with the lack of huddled groups whispering in corners, she moved off to find some water.

Deaven was tired, “I dunno where it leads.” He yawned. “I’m going to look for our friend “the man”.”
He slumped toward the place where he had seen “the man” going, last time he had seen “the man”.
He walked into the place where “the man,” was in. Shirin was there also with the elf girl (whose name always escaped Deaven,) Deaven also heard splashing from somewhere.
He straightened up, it is better not to let people see that you are weak.
“The man was sitting in front of something, Deaven took a chair and sat besides him, he saw a chest.
“You know I never caught your name.” He said
"Eamon D'Arnise; picker of locks, drinker of fine wine, and schemer extraordinaire." Eamon was still seated in front of the sea chest that he's working on picking the lock
Deaven looked with interest on what Eamon was doing.

"What are you doing there Mr. extraordinaire?"

Eamon smiled, "Why-- nothing extraordinary about picking a lock, though I do appreciate the title."

"What's in the chest?"

"I won't know until I finish unlocking it? If I knew, I probably would have had it open already." Eamon had an expression on his face that represented the combination of smiling and extreme concentration. This expression was such a funny looking one that even Deaven had to smile.

"I didn't think that knowing the intents of a chest helps you to open it faster. What an interesting theory." He said nonchalantly.

"It certainly creates a sense of urgency, if the contents of a treasure hest are known to be of great importance. The blood pounding in your temples is a daisy of a trip--certainly puts the world in a new perspective." Eamon answered.

"Aah. I see." Deaven smiles, he continued "Why don't you try and hit it open?"

Lock clicks open. "Because this, good sir, is much more entertaining." He opens the chest and peers inside "It is a simple task to destroy as fine a piece of craftsmanship as this chest. It is a much more complex and gratifying task to open it without permission, and without damaging it."

Deaven laughs “So you are a friend of good craftsmanship. Are you not?”
Eamon grinned and shrugged.

"So what is in it?" Deaven bends closer to look.

Eamon rummages about before withdrawing a very expensive looking bottle of wine "The prize."

"Wine?" Deaven looks a bit disappointed. "I was waiting for something, more glittery" He continued.

"I'm sure there are more spoils to be had." Shuts the chest and relocks it "However, they are not terribly pertinent at the moment; for now, we celebrate your victory.”

"My victory? Well how nice of you."

"The collective 'you,' my dear sir. Not your personal victory...but the triumph of good over evil."

"Then wouldn't it be 'our' victory? Why not include yourself?"

Eamon opens the wine and pours two glasses, "Because if one deigns to label himself 'good,' then he is forever expected to do that which is 'good.' I, however, prefer to do that which is RIGHT, be it good," raises his glass in a toast. "Or evil."

"Aah, I see your point. So what is Right, when we get to shore?" He asks and takes a sip of his wine.

"Assuming we get to shore, of course. The navigational equipment" gestures vaguely at the charred remains laying on the Captain's Desk "as you can see--is useless."

"Ah but there is land everywhere, we will be bound to get to shore someday. Besides, if we just head towards one direction we will eventually hit something or see another ship."

Eamon laughs and takes a sip of wine "There may be land everywhere, sir, but the ocean is a bigger place by far! And we are but a speck in it. The likelihood of you finding land in the middle of an ocean is...well, nil." His expression was more serious than before. But it gave Deaven the feeling that Eamon wasn’t telling everything he knew. Deaven had to ask him a few questions when they got to a dock or shore in general.

Deaven stayed quiet and takes a sip of the wine. "Maybe so, but even a small speck finds its way home with the help of the wind does it not?"

"True enough! And while the ship itself may very well reach land at some point in the future...you lot will be nothing but husks, dead of starvation or dehydration."

"Starvation isn't worrying me; we can always fish for food. It's the dehydration. I didn’t think about that before." Looks up from his wine glass, "But then again we do have a compass. A compass that always points to land. Or even more accurately, a compass that points to a forest."

“What do you mean?” Eamon asked, he was puzzled but he didn’t show it.

“The forest nymph.” Deaven took a sip and re-filled his glass.

“The collar stops her from using her powers.”

“Then we take the collar off.”

“In which case she looses her “forest” and withers and dies.”

Deaven was silent; he drank his whole glass in one sip.
“What were our last coordinates, before the storm?”

“We were somewhere in the north-western seas.” Eamon answered

Deaven re-filled his glass again, “I have a need to travel to the east, I want to get to the city of Greln.”

“Why is that?”

“I want to find my son.” He said and took another sip.

Lissa, Exotic Slave

She walked forward with purpose, her destination a fine young woman that had become such an interesting specimen for Lissa. Perhaps studying the human species was not the best way to spend her time, but Lissa had found that their company was more often than not far more interesting than that of her sisters. Of course, they were beautiful, they were chosen because they were beautiful. Sexual. They were also vapid, shallow, and uninteresting. They had very little to say, and when they did speak, it was hardly worth listening to.

Humans however, though so beneath her in poise and appearance, had something she did not. They had the ability to truly live for something. Although the hunts and games were good entertainment, there was no purpose in her life. She saw purpose in mortals, a true reason for living; she was envious.

The first time she realized her own jealousy, she was watching a girl holding an infant. Perhaps only a few months into its life. In watching the girl, probably no more than 15 years of age, and her child she made a rather startling realization. This girl had more to live for than she did. The child in her arms gave her life meaning and hope, two things Lissa would surly never experience.

Perhaps that was the moment her fascination with humans took a strong hold on her existence, perhaps it was already started before the sight of the women changed her perspective. Perhaps she could have continued on in her quest for something more, without ever realizing she was questing, had it not been for the sight of a women and her child. But in truth that day had changed her; she had since been searching for more.

And until she had seen the girl with no beauty, the submissive little creature why shy fluttering eyes, until she saw her she thought she may never have a purpose. But in seeing this girl, her girl, she saw her future and her purpose. In this girl, Lissa saw everything she would never, could never be. And upon seeing everything she wasn’t she saw everything she wanted. She saw her purpose.

Elias

Though his answers were sometimes vague and unsatisfactory, the human was turning out to be an interesting study. A part of him seemed to strain towards quiet. When Elias shuffled the cards or they played a round, a silence descended, a crack opened up and the gargoyle willingly filled it with a cheery whistle or a stolen tune hummed loudly, with an artisan's craft. Perhaps it was that the man naturally adhered to quiet but, forced to talk in a two-man situation, was taking a temporary leave from his senses.

"When do you think the discussions will begin?" Elias ventured.

"Discussions?" Elias tipped his head to the side. Kester seemed suddenly reluctant to relinquish too much information, perhaps wondering what his gain for this latest question had been. For they had grown subtle and indefinite, lurking in the depths of conversations, only to be revealed at his request.

"Gargoyles can be observant too," Elias explained. "And we can not float around on the ocean forever. There must be rowing and steering and the searching for land. That's the way you humans do it."

"And you would do it differently?" Kester wondered. Elias nodded but said no more. He dropped the cards in a sudden burst of inspiration and darted out of the room, pattering across the deck and bursting in on everyone else. They were sitting around a table or standing in spaces or... bathing? Of course that was just the one person and the minority did not count for the majority but with such a large and imposing figure as the minority...

"Here to watch me juggle again, my exotic friend? Or shall it be the trapese this time?" Eamon asked with a sweeping, jestful bow. He held a brimming wine glass extended in his right hand but it came back up without any quantity of liquid being lost. Elias paused, almost ashamed by his sudden haste as his body clogged back to slow but when enthusiasm battled with what he considered intellect, the former always seemed to win.

"Alas, those tricks only suffice when the only other means of entertainment is beating one's head against the bars of a cell. But should I ever find myself returned to that circumstance, I shall call on you. However, my reason for being here was simply to inform you that I have graciously decided to take up the position of look out aboard this ship and will promptly be climbing that there mast."

Kester

Kester watched as Elias jumped up from the chair and left the room in a burst of haste, quite unlike his usual gait. He didn't do anything for a few moments, wondering what could have caused the gargoyle to leave so quickly. I couldn't have offended him, could I? he thought, but rejected the notion. The gargoyle had seemed amiable enough, whistling and humming during their game.

Kester stood, then glanced back to the chair. Maybe he'll be back soon. I'll look a fool if I chase after him like a lackey. Why is it that I feel such an urge to be around others? I've never had it before, although I haven't had the opportunity.

Shaking his head, he walked from the room. He walked towards the sound of the others to see Elias talking to Eamon. As he approached the group, Elias said, "However, my reason for being here was simply to inform you that I have graciously decided to take up the position of look out aboard this ship and will promptly be climbing that there mast."

He took a step forward until he was beside Elias. "I'll join him, if nobody has any objections." Elias turned to stare at Kester and the human coughed. "Especially you."

"Objections?" Elias rolled word in mouth and grinned while cupping his chin with one hand, tapping the claw against his cheek. He patted Kester on the shoulder. "None at all. No one in here has any objections, do they?" He grinned at the others in the room. Kester looked to Eamon.

"What a fine example my good gentlemen, splendid. Would anyone else like to - volunteer?"

No one spoke up. Elias turned his gaze over all of them before turning and walking towards the mast. Kester turned and followed. "I wasn't saying you needed help, of course," he said. "I just thought you might like so company. And I'm - not so sure of some of the people on board this ship." He amazed himself with the things he confided in the gargoyle. Maybe it was because he seemed so detached from everything he knew.

Elias hesitated for a few seconds. "Yes, company. Always... appreciated. Have you ever climbed a mast then?"

Kester froze. "No, I haven't. Have you?"

"Never. This is my first time on a ship!" Elias said, almost proudly. He looks towards the crow's nest. Kester glances at the bones of his wings as they twitch but the gargoyle pays them no attention.

"This will be the first time for both of us, then." Kester squinted as he looked up too. The crow's nest seemed a long way up. And a long way down, he thought, but put a smile on his face.

Elias jumped at the mast and scrabbled up quickly, both sets of claws leaving grooves in the wood-work. When he was halfway up, he looked down to Kester, who was struggling not to gape.

"I don't think I can do that," Kester said with a grin.

"Oh? Then would you like a lift?"

Kester looked at the base of the mast again, and back to Elias. "I'll at least try," he said. He took hold of the pole and began to shimmy upwards, trying to dig his fingers into the grooves that Elias had left. His progress was painfully slow.

Elias waited where he was. Kester tried to ignore everything but the mast. He closed his eyes and continued his ascent. Soon after, he was close to halfway.

Kester opened his eyes when Elias began to speak. "You'd make a good monkey... but not as good as me." He winked.

Kester managed a strained smile. "The only thing keeping me going is that if I stop, I'll fall."

Elias nodded and climbed a little further. He leans out and waits, grinning into the wind before looking back down.

Kester sped his pace, climbing as quickly as he could. The mast scraped against his arms, leaving them raw. Blood began to well.

"Must be hard without claws... I wonder..." He retracted his claws and moves upwards a little.

"What are you doing?" Kester called.

"Trying it your way. I used to watch humans climb trees, never saw the fun in that but this I get it! This is great!"

Kester sighed. "I never did get to do anything like that when I was a kid. I have to admit, this isn't as bad as I thought it was going to be." He looked down to the blood that was dripping onto the mast and tried to ignore it.

Elias looked down again. "Oh lookie, an audience. How lovely." He grinned.

Kester looked down to see a number of people gathering, craning their necks to watch the two of them climbing. "Surely we're not that entertaining," he said.

"Well not right now but if one of us were to slip..."

"I don't intend to provide that sort of enjoyment," Kester said. He continued up the mast. The two of them were three quarters of the way up. Kester looked down at the crowd of people once more. At the heights he had reached, he couldn't make out any distinct words from their conversation. He looked back upwards. His goal wasn't far away.