Welcome to Gaia! ::

Things were steadily getting better and worse. The sharp movements of the vessel tossed him from side to side. If the fear of the sea monster was not still lingering Rem would have been getting sick. Right now all he could focus on was trying to wrap his mind around the events that had just taken place. It was amazing what the crew could do when they actually put forth the effort. It was a little tiny reminder of why he had chosen to fund this swash-buckling, drunken, rude, foul-mouthed crew. They were far perfect, but they managed to pull through basically anything.

A few of the crewmen shouted, "Brace Yourselves!" Before he has time to process the order the boat lunched forward. Rem tried to reach out to grab something, but the case in his hands restricted him from saving himself. It was either the box or him. Before the scientist had time to decide which was more precious his body slid about six feet across the deck before promptly slamming into one of the lifeboats. He tried to yell, but the air quickly escaped his lungs in a sharp gasp. A coughing fit soon followed as he tried to refill himself with oxygen. It was like he was a fish fresh out of water. The shock hurt more than the actual pain, but he was sure that he would be feeling something come tomorrow.

As he regained himself he noted the almost immediate calmness the ship seemed to take on. The danger was gone and they had actually managed to make it... somehow. With a bit of an effort he tried to stand up. His legs wobbled in protest, but he was able to stay standing. After a second he determined that walking might be possible. With almost a drunken style he maneuvered himself across the deck. One hand tucked the box of chemicals while the other was held out trying to keep balance.

He was somehow able to avoid crashing into anybody or anything. People were moving around everywhere. A few were securing the cannons. The battle was over so the weapons needed to be stored. Another group of men were busy assessing the damages. The ship had its shared of battle scars. When they docked the vessel would need to be repaired. Code for serious money out of his pocket. As he grumbled something about becoming broke before they even heard anything about the Particle Shift as several more men limped off past him towards the sickbay.

Rem quietly assessed the damages the men had. Several broken bones for sure, a few had punctures, and plenty of cuts and bruises. The medics would have their hands full. He was half tempted to help out. Medical treatment was not his specialty-most of his knowledge was in books, not in practice- but his knowledge would be better than most. It also would not hurt to try to offer a hand to those who just risked their lives for him. When he saw one particularly badly injured man being carried down that signed the deal. He sighed a bit as he sauntered off to the sickbay with his box of chemicals still in hand. Time to do my one act of kindness for the day...

On his way down he saw the eccentric redhead from earlier. He was quickly reminded that she was a doctor or nurse of some type. It was only natural for her to be heading to the sickbay. At first he was a bit hesitant. His earlier impressions were not that positive. It would be impossible to say unless he actually came out and said something. He jogged to catch up to her,"You need help?" It was more of a statement than a question. "I know a little bit about anatomy and first aid. I could lend a hand if you want."

Her resolve withered away far faster than she could have anticipated as the shock of the fall faded and left her writhing against her door, barely upright as the muscles around the join screamed in protest at their new placement. The swelling and odd jutting of the limb cemented her fears of an anterior dislocation. Belo cursed herself loudly. She could classify the injury just fine, but damned if she knew how to fix it. She'd always thought herself to be a hardy woman, tough as nails and devourer of lesser men, but the excruciating pain had her eyes rolling backwards until she saw only the backsides of her eyelids. The irony of the matter was they despite the agony, she simply couldn't drift into the unconsciousness that she longed for. A tiny voice emerged from the back of her mind, chiding her for avoiding the doctor, but she bade it away. She was true proud a creature to have such regrets, but this a brand new kind of hell; one that had her chasing away panic as memories returned to the surface after years of dormant silence.

This was a treatable injury, yes... but could it compromise the arm? Her last arm? No, it was a baseless fear. You didn't amputate a limb simply because it went awry. They could be returned to their sockets. But what if? What if she was the bizarre case? What if she was the specimen of a fluke? A dislocation so bad that muscle and bone had been damaged beyond repair? No, this was panic speaking; memories of old manifesting as fear in the present.

The doubt lingered and she briefly entertained the idea of luring Aleta out with the promise of an orthopedic encounter. But her stubbornness was a fierce creature and the only way she'd march herself down there was if she'd achieved a state of complete drunken belligerence. Perhaps then she'd even be able to forget the ordeal by morning. She pushed off the door, forcing her eyes to focus as she surveyed the room. Belo stumbled over to the oaken cabinet, throwing the door open. She shoved through her belongings, casting garments and pitiable keepsakes aside until she unearthed her prize. The unopened bottle had been intended for the day her contract terminated, but the present circumstances warranted a much earlier christening. She unscrewed the cap and upturned the whiskey, glass be damned as she choked past the burn of it. She gasped between gulps, eagerly awaited the coming numbness. By the time she cast the bottle aside, only a few servings remained.

She'd tested her limits many a time, but tonight was the night to tempt fate. Desperation compelled her this time and that meant all typical precautions were cast to the winds. The liquor worked fast, a testament to its proof, and the throbbing in her shoulder seemed to easy. The panic subsided and the urge to rush herself into Aleta's arms faded with a false bravado. Really, she was feeling much better. In fact, her condition improved with every passing minute and additional helping of whiskey. As confidence returned, reasoning fled. They'd always warned her that judgment was the first to go and she'd never heeded them properly.

S'not so bad... she mused drunkenly, half-baked ideas swimming their way to the forefront. She'd heard of simple solutions to her predicament. It had to be popped back in, of course. It was her arm, her problem, so why did she have to whimper and whine for help? She didn't need to bloody doctor. This was simple logic, beginners anatomy. Something pops out, pop it right back in. Bite the bullet and get it done! Why hadn't she thought of that in the first place?

It could be quick, virtually painless as she was. A good, swift blow ought to put everything to right. Nothing to it. She set her bottle down on what she assumed was the table, but happened to be air, then stepped a face paces back as she faced the door. By now, her sense of coherent self-preservation had abandoned her to destruction and she could see no holes in her plan. Simply run, brace, and pop. All better. Just to be safe, she back up a bit more till her calves brushed the edge of her bunk, unsettling her balance as she wobbled sideways. Bad arm angled door-wise, she burst into a wild sprint, covering the distance between bed and threshold quickly, not that there was much ground to cover.

She leapt up with reckless abandon, colliding with her door with such force that the very latching tore through the wood of the frame and gave way outward into the hallway, despite the protests of its hinges. Her eyes shot wide open as the impossible pain pierce through the haze of inebriation and she landed on her stomach, head knocking against the planks as she came to rest. Finally, her eyes rolled up in her head, gaze shifting from wood grains to blackness as unconsciousness finally claimed her. She dreamed of shooting stars, kittens and moonshine atop a bed of doorknobs and nails, awaiting the incredulous stares of the early morning crew.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hair stood on end as he swatted at his brother's hands. Liroy gave Colt a sound shove as he smoothed out the now-sore nubs, a sour pout plastered to his face. He backed into the bunk and kicked his feet up, the victorious grin returning as he claimed the bed as his own. Nurplin' was serious business and Liroy would give no ground. Colt could sleep in a nest of his own clothes on the floor for all he cared.

"All right, nut monkey. We'll stay the course. But you can get all comfy-cozy on the floor there n'think about what you've done... Cryin' bout buggerin' out." After all, Jedt would be a much more pleasant person to deal with after a proper, comfortable night's sleep. His partner in crime would have all day to nap and blow snot bubbles. The simple pleasures were fleeting.

"So what did we do today, Lux? Code for, 'what muck-ups will I be fixin' tomorrow?' The transition needed be seamless. The more holes they left unfilled, the greater the risk of discovery. They'd had many years to perfect the guise and had yet to fail in the middle of a gig, but there'd been enough close calls in the past for them to have examples to learn from. Details mattered; jokes shared, rapports built, chit chat and idle questions.

A gap in their stories could always be blamed on Jedt's occasional memory lapses, but an excess of excuses were excellent fodder for hungry suspicions. The seafarers were a superstitious, distrustful bunch and no expense could be spared in order to maintain their good favor. After all, their were dreams to be upheld. This was just one more road hump on the road to a life in a floating mansion staffed entirely by candied prostitutes.

So the routine continued. Colt would fill him in on the details, suggest activities of the day and prepare him for a schedule as Jedt while Liroy sprawled across the sheets as he prepared for a guiltless slumber. But of course, his stomach grumbled just as he began to grow accustomed to the under-stuffed pillow. His face furrowed in a frown as slitted eyes shifted Colt-ward.

"M'still hungry. And Liroy's hunger was not to be trifled with. The festivities brought to them by the night's leviathan had interrupted their previous plans to hoard whatever dinner stuffs were left upon the plates. His stomach had long since forgotten the dried meat of the past hours and now lusted for something far more sustaining. Baked goods would suffice, though their luck combined with their current location would probably make it difficult to obtain food that fresh. Still, it was early and they'd only just left port. This was as good as their selection was going to get. That wasn't saying much.

So his gaze transformed into the water pleading baubles of a starved puppy, a quivering lower lip added for extra sympathetic value. The ploy rarely worked on Colt and typically earned him a sound thrashing, but he never grew tired of how poorly his brother reacted to such a weak face.

Fortinbras Carlyle drew a slow, steadying breath through his nose and held it until he could hear the shuddering thunder of his heartbeat slow as the unspent adrenaline burned through his system. He let it out between his teeth as he brought the tumbler of whiskey to his lips.

Baurius 1144. Good year. Good product. Good people, those who sweat to grow the wheat and rye, tended it, cared for it; those who watched it malt, distilled it, barrelled it, and finally bottled the resulting liquid panacea and shipped it into the hands of men who needed it. Blessed be, by the Throne.

Fort set the glass down, the muffled clunk of glass against wood playing counterpoint to the tinkling of honest to god ice cubes. How he'd lived without the vacuum feed from the induction coils and the flash-frozen chunks of water which rimed it, he'd never know. But thank the powers that be, he'd never have to drink his liquor warm like a goddamn savage again. By all rights, he should be smiling.

Why wasn't he smiling?

Fort laid a hand on the familiar form of the bolter that was slowly becoming less and less "Da's" and more and more "Fort's." It was laid out on a grease-smeared swatch of tan oil-skin, the tools necessary to render proper service to the battle-worn Harlon Arms "Archangel" arrayed in tidy little lines beside it. With an affectionate caress which might be better lent to a pet...or a lover, Fort let his hand drift over the weapon until his hand found the beveled grip and lifted the heavy pistol. With a well-practiced motion, a pull and a wrench in equal proportion, he disengaged the slide at the back quarter of the weapon and laid it aside. Next, a depression of the catch which held the breech and cylinder together. With careful motions he pulled the spent casings of the heavy bolt rounds from the chambers and set them upright along the edge of his desk. When he'd cleared the last chamber, a quick flick of the wrist slid the eight-sided cylinder clear and Fort laid that beside the slide.

One of the things that had made Da swear by Harlon Bolters was the ease with which one stripped down. They were a breeze to clean...one of those things that forbore all excuses and demanded attention. With bolters, one had to be terribly careful. They slung a very heavy hypersonic bolt of magnesium-capped tungsten carbide downrange with enough kinetic energy to lift two full-grown men from their feet and set them very firmly on their asses ten feet downrange; enough thermal energy to slag solid steel. If something went wrong in their works, one would be lucky to survive the misfire with all of their bits intact. Which was why Da had gone for a model which prided itself on simplicity and ease of maintenance. Fort could appreciate that.

He saw to the breech and barrel first. With the a cleaning-rod and a swatch of gun-cotton, he scoured the rifled interior of the Harlon's barrel, lifting away the traces of burnt propellant and tungsten dust. The cotton only came out black once. A light day indeed. The cylinder got similar treatment, each chamber swabbed with meticulous care. The cylinder's exterior got a liberal coating in gun-oil, ensuring that it would rotate smoothly. The slide and exposed hammer assembly were inspected, grudgingly approved, and lubricated. Fort reassembled the weapon unhurriedly, taking time to dry-fire the weapon eight times at the bulkhead. Everything seemed to be in order.

Fort cycled the latch for the breech and cylinder and reloaded the weapon, sliding the finger-length bolts into the heavy pistol's chambers. With a flick of the wrist, the weapon snapped closed and the catches engaged. He slid the Archangel back into the holster at his right hip, snapping the safety strap closed and leaning back into his chair. He took up his whiskey once more.

Why the hell wasn't he smiling?

A contemplative silence held sway in his stateroom as he sipped and grappled with an ephemeral opponent. He'd never been one to scrutinize himself, his feelings. But something niggled at the back of his mind. They'd come through the day; they were still flying. They'd taken losses, certainly. But they'd fought clear. They'd always fought clear.

His gunnery crew had done good service, making the Long Nines sing like the choirs of archangels which knew only songs of vengeance. The Innate had funnelled enough magic through the aether to make demons quake. His femme fatale had placed her shots like a creature with the eyes of a hawk, the reflexes of a cat, and the calm of a freezing glacial tide. And the aeronaut...well, he'd damn near shaken them to pieces, but the gambit had paid off. All together a rousing display of daring heroics...

So what, by the Throne, had him so damnably grim? Shouldn't he be toasting their good fortune.

As Fort's glass became empty and his eyes heavy, the phantom of doubt clouded his mind, cutting through the pleasantly lurid amber whiskey burn. They were not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. The Stroud would not be their only obstacle. No. It was only an omen, a portent of what was to come. This was no milk-run, no day-trip for quick cash. He should have guessed that one by the sum that the young chemist, Rem, had agreed to pay to engage the Ardent's services. Far too high for something safe and sane.

Fort drifted into a fitful sort of half-sleep haunted by specters from his past and phantom-threats of the future. He had a bad feeling about this journey and where it might take them all next.

The clinic was probably overflowing with people by now. There were only so many people aboard the ship that had the knowledge to help her. And even still they didn’t have enough training to do everything that she did. So after a tragedy such as this, Aleta would be busy for hours on end. In fact…she probably wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. Damn, and she had been dreaming of her bed ever since she boarded the Ardent this morning. And then that bloody Stroude monster had to go and ruin EVERYTHING…it was just her luck. And after she was done tending to all the injured…THEN she was going to have to go and inspect the damage done to the ship. The monster had probably cracked a few planks, ruined the railing….easy things to fix. However Cain’s piloting on the other hand had probably created a whole slew of things for her and the rest of the mechanics to repair. At the rate things were going, she was going to end up dozing off while she was still standing. She could just see it now. She would be fixing the railing and then all of the sudden, her eyes would start to close. You know that feeling when your eyelids feel like they are being weighed down by a bunch of bricks? Well you can only fight it off for so long. And then….the next thing you know, she would be bending over to far, and then whoops. She falls over the side. Yep, what a way to die…


The sick bay was just a little ways up ahead. The hallway floor was already spotted with the blood of the passing injured men. She ahd seen a couple of men that had only some surperficial wounds. However she had also witnessed the crushed body of a man being rushed from the deck. He had probably gotten caught under the monsters flailing tail. There was really no tellinvg if the man would still be alive by the time she got to the clinic. Suddenly as she was walking Aleta heard a voice come from behind her "You need help?" it asked. The red head looked over her shoulder and saw none other then whiz kid staring up at her. She blinked a few times and in her moments of silence, the kid spoke up again. "I know a little bit about anatomy and first aid. I could lend a hand if you want." Well that was a bit of surprise. She knew he was smart…but she hadn’t expected him to know much about medical practices. I mean, Aleta still swore that the kid had to be like…fifteen or something.


“Ya ain’t squeamish are ya?” Aleta asked, looking down at the kid. He really wouldn’t be much use if he was tossin’ his cookies everytime he saw a gash. Aleta had seen some pretty horrific things during her years as doctor. Things that would probably send a grown battle worn man screaming from the room tearing out his eyes so he could forget what he had seen. Okay, maybe not that dramatic…but…basically she had dealt with a lot of gruesome things in her lifetime. “Cause laddie.. if ya are, I dun think that following me would be in yer best interest” She was still walking, and he was still following…he didn’t seem detoured by her warnings. Finally she reached the door to the clinic. Before she stepped inside she cast the boy a quick look…”Well….I’m hopin’ yer good with a needle and thread” she added with the very slightest of smiles. There would surely be plenty of men who needed a good stitching here and there. Aleta swung the door open, and the smell of blood and alcohol instantly assaulted her. However it was a pungent smell that she knew well, so it didn’t phase her much. Painful moans rose over the clamor of her busy assistants. Some of the men just had scratches…and were being babies. However there were others that were in dire need of immediate attention. “We’re going to be here fer awhile kid…”


She made a motion of her hand to follow her as she made her way to the room filled qith white cots. Nearly every single bed was filled. “Aleta! Aleta!” someone shouted once they probably spotted her red hair. Aleta found the source of the voice to be Tracy one of her medical assistants. He was a small jittery looking fellow, and he didn’t usually do well under pressure. Tracy was standing beside one of the beds, looking somewhat panicked. So Aleta made a bee line for him…and he immediately began babbling and pointing to the bed. “He was doing fine just a second ago…he only had some bruising an a couple of cuts!” geez….why was this guy working in the clinic again? Aleta just put a hand on the man’s shoulder “Tracy Calm down…just let me look” and with that she guided him off to the side and out of the way. Now that he was no longer blocking the bed, she could get a good look at the man laying in the bed. His breathing was to fast…Aleta quickly looked to Tracy who was just standing there wringing his hands together. “Was he complaining about any pains in either of his sides or chest?”

“I, Um…I don’t remember I wasn’t the first one to treat him”

Useless…..

Suddenly the man in the bed began to cough and Aleta noticed something more troubling. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that his trachea was beginning to deviate to the right. Aleta just grit her teeth… “His left lung is collapsing…” she said, her voice calm. “Tracy this man is going to need some drugs…” she said looking over at the small man. “…now” she urged and with that he scurried off. Aleta then looked at Rem “We are probably not going to have time to wait for the drugs to kick in fully….so your probably going to have to help hold him down…” She was going at have to cut open his chest, to release the air trapped inside that was keeping the mans lung from expanding. It defiantly wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience for the man. And after this, there were several more others she had to look at. She and Rem were going to be here for awhile. The sun was probably already getting ready to peek....Well at least by morning...everyone should be taken care of.

Cain was in a good mood as the sun peeked over the edge of the water. The idea of the future destination and a short but particularly entertaining dream of Belo in ancient, Kerrian ceremonial garb and two real arms had lifted his spirits and erased the thought of the silly copilot from his mind. He nodded at the crew members that passed by assessing damage. One even stopped and after staring at him like he was nuts, nodded in return. Stupid man had to ruin things by speaking.

“I heard you got some action last night.”

Cain turned and looked at him, quirking an eyebrow and frowning. It was a statement, not a question. That meant he was either a dumbass or had solid reason-enough to believe what he was saying was true. This meant that kid had blabbed, probably bragging about what he managed to do to him while he’d been passed out. Cain would have to deck the kid later. “I was molested,” Cain answered dryly.

The inspector let his arm fall to his side and twirled the pencil he was holding over his knuckles. “That explains quite a bit. I didn’t think you were crazy enough to want to be tied up with your own clothing just for a kiss.”

This killed any response Cain may have had. It blind-sided him, slapped him upside the head, and laughed in his blank, dumbstruck face. The drowsy fog he’d been in the night before and the severe pain from being rapped on the head twice must have blocked out the memory, because he was remembering something distinctly now. Cain straightened up, scratched his chin, and stared down towards the right. “Holy s**t.”

The man sighed and shook his head. “O come on. I knew you were a total ninny, but you didn’t even remember that? Where were you at the time?”

Unconscious, Cain thought but that wasn’t true. He could remember it had happened and he could remember the sharp clonk to his skull almost immediately after. The inspector took his leave after another snide comment and Cain turned back to the wheel. That had been on nasty chop he’d taken after the…what could he even call it? It wasn’t really an attack if he had gotten a kiss out of it. A damn interesting one if memory served him for once. There were so few girls on board and he was not going to admit to it being a man. Well s**t, now I’m curious.

Dropping his post, Cain wandered off in search of any possibilities. He scratched at his scruffy chin and looked at each crew member that passed him, sizing them up and either shrugging or grimacing. It was quite possibly the first time he had ever focused on the crew since either he or they were hired and, to say the least, he was unimpressed. He was starting to get rather disappointed. It had to be someone half-way decent or else he wouldn’t feel the need to bother. Maybe his mind was just screwing with him and he was really recalling some dream he’d forgotten upon waking. Of course, the two knots on his head said otherwise. Cain fingered them and winced slightly at the soreness. Gawdamn head injuries. He was going to be rendered stupid one of these days.

That’s when he tripped. He stumbled forward and braced himself against the wall. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the ankle of the resident drunk Belo that had hooked his toes. Cain held up his hands in defense and waited, but she didn’t move. He knelt in front of her and looked. She was absolutely gone. The stench of alcohol was stronger than usual. If the strength of the smell was anything to go by, she had shotgunned some nice stuff. For a brief moment, Cain contemplated getting someone to bring her to the infirmary. It went away as the sight of her arm distracted him. She could probably hit things pretty hard with that thing.

…o damn.

It really was the only option close to being logical and acceptable. He really only knew three girls on this ship. Aleta, Cas, and Belo. Aleta would sooner gut him, transfer his organs, and fill him full of knickknacks before laying her lips anywhere near his. Cas was more fond of the Captain than him and made good on pumping his limbs full of metal. He and Belo crossed patience every so often but not enough to constitute full-blown hatred. The flaming a** must have been one of those occasional moments of childish rebuttal.

In his twisted mind it made sense so Cain took Belo’s chin in his hand and kissed her. He stayed gentle in fear of waking her and getting some other swear word burned onto his forehead. When he pulled back, Cain let her go, turned to the side, and frowned. That wasn’t it and it tasted funny. Not the way he’d imagined things to be, but she usually wasn’t piss-a** drunk on the hallway floor in his fantasies. He would really have to try when she was awake and not fighting. And not bashed. Standing, Cain brushed off his pants and looked down at her again. “Rain check,” he said before walking off towards his post. He licked his lips and frowned again. Good grief, whatever she had passed out on felt like it had made him buzzed.

On the way back out, he tapped a passing crew member. He'd recognized him as helping Aleta out in the infirmary from time to time and figured he'd be the best option for now. The boy was staring at him in shock. "Did you just--" he started to say when Cain jerked his thumb at Belo. "Help the poor girl out." The boy squinted, his eyebrows shot up, and he ran over. Cain turned and left as he pulled Belo up, supporting her on his shoulder, and moved off down the hall. "And yes, yes I did!" Cain called after him with a smirk.



As the sun broke from the horizon and the silhouette of the islands came into view, Cain emerged and took a deep breath. He wandered back and actively took to the controls. The sound of the ship’s morning bells signaling the shift change for the lower crews was actually welcomed for once. Cain flexed his grip on the wheel and whistled an old Kerrian tavern tune. His adventure for the morning was over without incident and he was on the way to one of the most spectacular cities he’d even run across.

Cain loved Fort Rock. There really wasn’t any other way to describe the sheer pleasure he derived when he could dock the Ardent against the rocky cliffs. The area fascinated him, having lived on flat, green land the majority of his life. The stacking buildings and ancient, indestructible bridges that connected the pillars of rock, all of it amused him but that was not the reason he loved the coastal town so much. It wasn’t even for his usual reasons: booze, women, and the air. No. Cain loved Fort Rock because the people here were absolutely insane. The cheering and celebration that ensued at the Ardent’s arrival would make him laugh until it hurt. They were genuinely decent people and he was not, in any way, mocking them. Cain laughed at his own captain’s expense because he was the reason those people were nuts.

They absolutely worshipped Captain Fort.

As he slowed the speed of the Ardent and pulled closer towards the rocky pillars and the Ardent’s special dock, fireworks went up into the air and the faint sound of cheering and screaming could be heard even over the crashing ocean waves. The ship docked, it was tethered down, and Cain cut the engines. The roar of the crowd was deafening and the assortment of banners, streamers, and sparklers could only be described as blinding. A few people had even passed out.

“CAPTAIN FORT! WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN FORT!”

Cain leaned up against the controls and laughed.

Life was good.

Fortinbras Carlyle awoke with a start, jolted from the mists of Morpheus by some half-remembered phantasm. Something ominous and formless. It danced at the edges of his perception, even as his eyes opened, glinting in the first rosy hues of dawn. Blue-grey, they swept through the room, probing the corners and identifying the room as his own. He'd fallen asleep in his chair again.

The bed situated in the corner of the room had hardly been slept in since he'd owned the Ardent. Soft sheets, clean pillows...no match for the well-padded leather and the view through the aft window.

One couldn't watch the world slip away or come into focus from his bed. Not like this.

As the sun rose in the east, its rays filtered through the double-paned one-way glass and shattered into a thousand golden hues, scattering across the room and throwing the entire scene into a buttery wash of light. The water, rippling a scant fifty feet below the ship's hull, lapped against granite cliffs. Fort closed his eyes momentarily, dazzled, squinting into the glare and uttering a soft oath under his breath. They'd arrived, it seemed. Fort Rock.

Fort's history with the place went back. Way back.

Fort rose, stretching languidly. His joints creaked and popped unhealthily as he spun them through their range of motion. Shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees, ankles, neck, and even the place where his ribs met his sternum crackled from a life already hard-lived. Bracing his hands against the surface of the carved mahogany desk, he applied gentle pressure until every digit cracked loudly. He heaved a sigh. The old axiom was true. It wasn't the years that slowly killed you. It was the mileage. And Fort had more of it than most. Too much for his twenty-nine years, certainly.

He shed his clothes, stepping out of his customary sailing gear and looking toward the bureau set beside the unruffled bed. Without hurry, he rifled through the drawers, selecting a pair of laced leather breeches, a white silken shirt (Bursian) which billowed at the sleeves, and a long leather riding coat of Tyrisian leather. He stepped into his boots and fastened their silver buckles. With something like reverence, he reached for the brown leather length of his swordbelt. The comfortable weight settled around his hips, and the brass buckle closed.

Fort crossed back toward the table and reached for the bolter which laid over the swatch of oilskin, newly oiled and gleaming. And loaded. His fingers closed around the familiar grip and he lifted it. With a satisfying hiss of leather on steel, it slid back into the confines of its holster.

Arrayed to meet his public, the clamour of which was already drifting through the soarwood which made up his walls, Fort stepped to the door and drew a deep breath. Fort'd never quite gotten used to the presence of mobs, one of the reasons he'd retreated to a life at sky-level. When they were chanting his name, it was even less bearable. To be honest, he was damned ill at ease. Still, with his steadying breath he stepped through the door and into the limelight.

The fireworks were a little over the top...

Fort's features set into a mask of insouciant mirth as he cast a wary eye over the crowd. Bending at the waist he dipped into a little half bow toward the assembly, following up with a little three-fingered wave. This was certainly madness. Never in his life had he ever done a damned thing that warranted attention such as this. Noblesse, he might've been able to lay claim to. Civility? Certainly. He'd never shot a man in the back. Never stolen, nor cheated. Never made a promise he did not do everything in his power to keep. But he certainly hadn't slain any goddamn dragons.

The whole thing made him feel a mite uncomfortable.

Still he put on a little show, walking across the decking, doing captain-ly things. He made a slow circuit of the deck, offering orders in a hushed voice and paying little more attention to the crowd than he could possibly get away with. There'd be time to deal with that later. He saw to the mooring, the fixing of the stays, and oversaw the last of the grunt-work before taking his place at the center of the deck.

"Tallow Vance, you've got command while I'm away. First watch, at your leisure. Let's have a look at this town. What say?" Fort put some hearty volume into the order, turning on his heel to bend his steps in the direction of gangplank which led to Fort Rock's quay.

The crowd, to its credit, did not clutch and grab at him as it usually did. The clamour died into a hushed chorus of his name as they parted before the captain of the Ardent, their living legend. He turned to take in faces and offer wry little nods to the familiar ones. There were a lot of familiar ones. There was Martha Hillard, her matron's face set into an expression of motherly pride. And there, Tristan Thatcher, a face-splitting grin plastered over his lips as he nodded his head in excitement. Good people, these. For the most part.

"Where's the Badger?" Fort raised his voice again, turning a slow circle. "The old coot still kicking?"

"Aye, Cap'n," a wizened old man in a linen jump-suit of olive-drab fabric hollered from the midst of the crowd. "I'll be the one burying you."

Fort's lips split into a roguish smile as he turned in the direction of the familiar voice. The crowd parted once more, circling around the two as they drew nearer and enfolded each other in a backslapping embrace. "I don't doubt it. How goes, old man?"

"Not so bad, little pirate." The sixty-year-old mechanic broke the embrace and too a step back, letting his eyes scour the young swashbuckler, ensuring that all of his pieces were indeed intact.

Fort's chuckle was slow and sharp. The nickname was an old one. Nothing new, and yet still rankling. "We came under some trouble, Badger. Fish decided we looked like dinner rather than the other way 'round. Snapped some spars and shook us up mighty. We effected some repairs, but we'd appreciate you and your boys having a look and doing what you can. Think we might reach an accord?" His eyebrow raised with the question.

"Ah, hell, Fort." The Badger's wizened face collapsed in on itself as though the question itself were absurd. Fort's Rock was a little port, but not without a few decent ship-mechanics and a dry dock with which they might work...and the Ardent was much like a holy site in most of their eyes. "You know we'd be happy to help. Stay a couple of days and we'll set you right."

Fort sucked a breath through his teeth and hooked his thumbs through his belt. "We're on a time-table, Badger. Got a job to do. Just set the spars and ice the plating. We'll make do until we get a breather, square?"

"Keep running her hard and she'll suck dirt 'ere long."

"Run too soft, and we'll be without coin to keep her sailing anyway. We've got a job. We're going to see it done."

Badger scratched at the side of his nose and shrugged his shoulders. At the end of the day, it was the Captain's call, and he wasn't about to argue with him. "We'll see it done, then. Glad to have you back." He reached out and gave Fort's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "The usuals will want to be seeing you down at the Taphouse." No more words were bandied. Instead, Badger turned on his heel and whistled sharply. Seven brawny youths detatched from the crowd and began moving toward the Ardent.

Fort moved through the crowd with languid slowness, pausing to shake hands and nod deference to the fluttering eyed girls. Good natured reproof issued from the matrons...

He had business to attend to at the Taproom, but his feet moved him instead toward Rounce's shop. The squat little building was not much to look at from the outside, but the man who found his refuge there was a rare treasure. Fort opened the door and sketched a little bow. "Master Playfair?"

The thin lipped man behind the counter had a cast to his face which might've better befitted a preacher. He wore half-spectacles on the bridge of his hawk-nose and a measuring tape about his neck. "Fortinbras Carlyle." He pronounced the captain's full name with obvious relish.

Fort's lips drew back into a slow, spreading smile as he took his first unhurried steps into the tailor's shop. "Show me what's new."