Troubled Voyage: A Tale of The Scarlet Mistress

By: Shirszae Posted on: December 29, 2015

~I~

The wind blew in, bringing about the overpowering scent of the sea.

The lass had dozed off just a short distance from the harbour, near the base of the cliff that led from the Garden of the Sacred Sea in Tasur'ke down to the hidden bay. They were relatively secret steps, or so she must have thought, for she had leaned against the rocky walls, a naked sword on her lap and her gaze on the moored ship not so far off until at last her eye had reluctantly drifted shut.

Now the smell of brine and sun roused her, just a little more bleary-eyed than usual, grimacing as her old wound formally submitted a complaint in the form of a jolt of pain in protest for the dreadful sleeping place. Slowly, she managed to crawl onto her feet while looking to the sea.

It had been a month or so since the lengthy process to turn her Windcutter-class vessel into a Seastrider-class one had started. A month full of idle agony, for the lass, who had grown very used to the rolling of a deck beneath her feet, and so found the firmness of land thoroughly disconcerting.

It had also been a month full of petty annoyances, for she had soon discovered that though sailors would put up and accept a female hand, or even a female captain on deck when high on the sea, they were monstrously superstitious when it came to accepting such help when it came to building or renovating a ship, and not even her furious, insidious swearing or her earnest promises of keelhauling every last one of them had availed her much. In the end she had been turned away, the bells wound around her feet jangling morosely with every step of hers.

Subsequently, they had taken to jeering and doing signs of warding or simply shooing her off like some stray cat every time she had wandered close to the beach. They had laughed good-naturedly all the while, but her temper had grown so dark she had given it up for fear she would otherwise end with one of them on the tip of her blade.

Looking out now, however, it seemed as if the efforts were finally at an end. The ship was, for all intents and purposes, barely recognisable, with three tall masts now towering over the expanded deck and reinforced hull, the crimson of her new sails stark against the dazzling blue of the Eusian ocean. Only the weathered figurehead remained a constant, the familiar predatory smile on its wooden features anchoring what had been and what was together into a seamless whole.

Satisfied, the lass loosened her jacket some in an effort to fend the morning heat, while simultaneously stretching her Atavian wings forward to preen some of her ruffled feathers into a passably presentable state. Sheathing her sword then, she began to make the trek down, briskly stepping past the decrepit, rowdy tavern and the smirking Captain Maelstrom. "Ahoy lads," she called out as she came to the end of the pier, passing a few scattered seamen along the way. For a brief moment, it seemed like one of them had addressed her-

"Ahoy, Cap'n!" a dozen or so voices from the vessel hailed in return just then, a few coming out to the railings to watch her board, some of them wearing smiles at a time both sheepish and gleeful that they endeavoured to try and reign under control, though most failed quite miserably.

The white-haired captain allowed herself a small smile- "They look quite lost on that big ship, don't they?" called out just then the voice she had thought to hear before. She hesitated, the smile slowly dying on her lips. She made to turn, to address her speaker, but shrugged it at the last moment, and carried on to the ship. Or meant to.

"Though, I suppose it is no wonder... Their captain seems a little... Daft, too," insisted the voice once more, louder now. The words elicited a few dismissive chuckles from the men about the pier, and for the second time, the captain hesitated, her hands subtly coiling into fists.

For their part, her shipmates had scattered about the deck again, the words reaching but the closest few who barely seemed to muster a mild interest. The rest went about their duties, and those she considered almost despite herself. If she looked closely, she could certainly detect flickers of hesitation in most of them as they went about, though she mostly chalked that to essentially being on a completely different ship to the one they were accustomed. They were still able seamen. -Her- able seamen.

She was about to shrug off for the second time when a hand came to rest upon her shoulder, unceremoniously yanking and turning her around so that she found herself looking up to a lean Tsol'aa (Why must it always be a Tsol'aa?) a head or so taller than her, his features feminine in a weathered kind of way. On his forehead, despite the ample unbound hair that framed his face, were visible two thin, parallel scars- The infamous Mark of the Twins.

A shudder passed through her, but she glared up at him while her hand found the hilt of her sword. "Watch your words, wretch," she mumbled, batting his hand off her shoulder with her own.

"It is so unseemly for a captain to be a coward in front of his men," he sneered, sizing her up with horridly bloodshot eyes. Noticing her hand on the hilt of her sword, he scoffed, stepping past her with a deft motion and striding up to the Mistress with self-assured steps. Dumbfounded, the lass could not help but watch as his eyes swept over the vessel from bow to stern. He then turned to her and smiled, a deeply insincere smile that reminded her of herself.

"Men of the Scarlet Mistress," he called, his voice booming without him needing to shout as he faced the vessel once more.

To hear such a powerful voice from ethereal creatures as most Tsol'aa were surprised her, but his next words caused a shiver to settle onto her heart," I have conversed with your captain, and so now must unfortunately communicate to you her lack of faith in your handling such a handsome vessel, and her designs to appoint better-regarded men to operate her. Truly, had I insulted anyone else as I have insulted you, I'd boast a case of sword-in-the-belly already, but your beloved captain is content with shrugging and restraining a smile. Clearly, you should all be prepared to be replaced soon."

~II~

Perched high up on the Crow's Nest of the Mistress, the captain peered out restlessly, her long, windswept hair trailing like foam on the whims of the wind.

And there was certainly a lot of wind. The captain could not quite decide whether it was a small mercy or if it, like so many other things, concealed a secret edge yet to be revealed.

It had all started badly enough at Tasur'ke's harbour. She had meant to strike at the Tsol'aa the moment the words were out of his mouth, but the man had vanished with a mocking bow and a glint in his lined eyes like a secret dare. Shallowed by a vortex of rainbow lights, leaving the captain alone with a deep unease and her predicament.

"That. Man is an. Infamous pirate!" her first mate would bellow later, his voice shaking with rage and perhaps fear, long after she had at last scrambled aboard, doing her best to ignore the all-too-loud whispers as the men filled the details in each other's accounts of what had transpired and the Tsol'aa's words.

"Loop off the ropes and man the oars! Cast off!" She had cried, and the men had set to it with a scrambling zeal, but she had not remained on deck to appreciate it, dragged off into the spacious cabin by her officer, not a word said until the door was shut and no soul but them and the young serving boy confirmed inside.

"You have to belay that order!" He had insisted, pacing back and forth, "you are playing into the hands of a bloody dangerous man!"

"Whoever walks trough that door to belay the order is going to cause a riot and get the three of us murdered, and you know that as well as I do," she retorted with as much calm as she could muster, though his agitation was slowly creeping into her as well. She leaned against the wooden wall and took a deep breath, "But if that is your desire, then by all means go right along."

Her words got him to stop pacing, and they looked at each other. On the back, Emeric busied himself with a rag, but she was sure he looked at both of them when he thought it safe to. "What do you propose then?" Her first mate pressed.

"The only thing we can do, truly," she shrugged, pushing herself onto a stool near the counter and crossing her legs. Tapping the wood, she gestured at the small serving boy for a drink, but her gaze never strayed from her first mate, "We head to Zanzibaar, deliver our cargo, and broach the news of recruitment after dousing the crew with about as much rum as they can take."

She saw her mate open his mouth to argue again, "Now get out there and be sure to keep us on course. And don't get any funny ideas, or by the Gods, you will regret it," she added, cutting him off while gesturing at the door with her head. He stood defiantly for a moment, glaring at her, but eventually turned around and strode out to the deck.

"Do you really think we can make it to Zanzibaar, Ma'am?" A small voice asked not long after, breaking the uneasy silence. She looked up and found herself eye-to-eye with Emeric, the boy having left all pretence with the rag to regard her intently with his cerulean eyes.

"I don't think we have a choice," she said at length, internally cringing at the defeatist tone in her voice. She cleared her throat, took a swallow of rum, "The ship really is frightfully undermanned, you see? But any talk of hiring hands at the harbour, after those words, would have made them truth in their eyes. They'd lose their faith in me, or worse, start plotting. Now they can't quit, but they can mutiny just as easily. They have to come upon the realisation that they need new mates on their own."

The boy nodded slowly, his hand passing through his tousled locks while his youthful visage adopted a thoughtful expression. He did not look terribly convinced, but unlike her first mate, he did not seem too keen to provoke her either, for which she was grateful.

"So it is like a game, then," Emeric mused, "like we are competing at chess, and the man you met at the harbour is certain he has us check-mated."

A mirthless chuckle escaped her in response to his words, but the boy continued, to her surprise growing visibly excited "Thats convenient, though, don't you think, Ma'am? Overconfident people are the easiest to surprise, after all!"

That had been over two days ago. Tasur'ke, along with the entirety of the eastern coast of Sapience, had since vanished entirely from the horizon, replaced by the endless blue and white of the Scyrian Reaches.

There was not a smidgen of land to be seen all. Not much of anything else, really, not even the occasional glimpses of suspicious Tritons that had often accompanied her travels. But the captain knew this meant nothing when any half-learned sailor could bid the sea spirits to hide their ship amidst the blue of the waves.

For a moment, she felt an overpowering urge to focus her senses, to see past the paltry trick that could conceal a ship at sea- But no. If they were to have any chance of success, they would have to play ineptitude until the very last moment. So she jumped off her perch, her black wings unfurling, holding her aloof just before she hit the deck, "Sheer to the south, lads! We are halfway there now!" Right on cue, the whole ship groaned as it began to turn. It was not the brief, rhythmic groans of a Cutter, but a slow, prolongated wail as the men came and went about that to her sounded as if the Mistress herself had become aware of the danger surely lurking on the waters ahead.

***

The cry came as the captain stood near the bow, having caught the first glimpse of Zanzibaar's northern coast. It was punctuated soon after by the resounding thunder of an arcanian throwing arm delivering its charge, and then afterwards by a gush of water and spray as the wardisc narrowly missed the mark.

"I dearly hope you are right, Emeric," she muttered, thoroughly soaked but unmoved, her gaze drifting from the distant boughs to the ship quickly gaining on them on starboard, a Windcutter obviously meaning to cut them off from the tropical island.

Loosening the sword on her baldric, she made past the scattered, fevered sailors who now tried to squeeze as much speed as they could from their sails while the rest took to rowing. She knew it would not do. The wind, favourable still for the Cutter due to the nature of its rig and sails, would catch and impede the swift progress of the far bigger Strider.

With a grave nod to her first mate, she entered her cabin, closed the door behind her, and waited.

The crash came almost immediately, the whole ship shuddering for what seemed like an eternity, the abrupt movement accompanied by the timbers' frightful groan. In its wake she heard the myriad grappling hooks from the other vessel find their marks, halting their already meagre advance. She heard her men try to undo them, the ship rocking each time they succeeded. But for each one felled, two more took their place.

And then the boom of the Arcanian arm filled the air again, reducing everything else to a indistinct din. She heard as another wardisc skidded against each mast, each impact tearing ropes and cloth and sails and shaking the Mistress to its very core. Closing her eye, she braced herself for the worst.

Sure enough, the Arcanian arm boomed again, its roar eager to fill the air. There was a hard, solid thud as something landed on deck and caused the ship to lean noticeably more to starboard and remain that way. A boarding deck.

Drawing her crimson sword fully, the lass waited still. She could hear the cries and sheers from the pirate ship, but no steps rushing in. No one hurrying to take possession.

And then she felt it. She had not heard him come across, but she was certain he was onboad now. Alone, but for a feeling of utter wrongness that permeated him.

"I see I was right about the coward part," the Tsol'aa's called out from close about with hateful, mocking triumph in his voice.

She caught Emeric's eyes. He was deathly pale. "Now," he mouthed.

With a nod, the lass knelt, focusing on the inscribed runes all about the main deck. Willing her power into them.

All at once the air grew cold, the bright sun abruptly hidden by dark clouds. And then hail began to fall, shredding everything in its path.

"You were wrong!" she heard herself scream as in one swift movement she threw the door ajar, slamming herself into the Tsol'aa with a flap of her wings and barging him out into the open, fully intending to impale him against the mast.

But the Tsol'aa's surprise only lasted a second. Recovering quickly, he grasped her arms with a sneer, his very touch sending a wave of nauseating pain through her cracking bones. All of a sudden tears welled in her eye and her focus faltered, and she found herself thrown alone against the mast, the wind knocked out of her lungs.

She coughed, a wave of dizziness assaulting her, and she barely resisted the urge to heave. Instead, she lunged again at him, only to have a veritable number of tentacles sprout from his sides, shooting each and every last one at her, two coiling easily about her legs, though she managed to slash away the ones going for her mauled arms.

"I am going to have sooo much fun on this fine ship after I dispose of you and these useless sacks of meat you call sailors," the Tsol'aa tittered, displaying his rotten teeth.

"Will you? Well lets have you a better look at it," she retorted through gritted teeth, crouching and firmly grabbing one of the slimy tentacles coiled about her legs and shooting up into the sky, wings flapping powerfully to drag him in her wake, up and up, into the very maelstrom of hail that even now still rained over the ship.

Higher and quicker she rose, the hail pummelling the flailing Tsol'aa with increasing intensity, until at last she came to a gliding halt just before the dark clouds, turning and straddling the man even as she was driving the sword deep into his gut, pining him beneath her as they both descended now with the wind whistling on her ear, her intention to slam him squarely into the rapidly approaching deck below. The Tsol'aa screeched at her, and for the briefest of moments something like panic set into his bloodshot eyes. His hands grabbed at her again, but this time she slammed his forehead with her own while her hands tightened the grip on her sword and twisted.

The Tsol'aa screamed, frustration and pain thoroughly mixed, and for the second time she saw him shallowed by a mass of swirling lights, disappearing moments before the deck finally rushed up to meet her.

"My win," she smiled with satisfaction, moments before the thunderous impact rendered her unconscious.