Drink and the Devil (Shiva x Dr.Freon)

[Shiva the Cat]

If one disregarded the shrieking wind and the steady drumbeat on the inn's tile roof, it was a quiet night at The Sweet Harper, which was just how its mistress liked it.

Grace Harper wasn't actually the owner of the establishment; that honor belonged to her besotted Uncle Luke, currently snoring off a bottle of rum in one of the upstairs closets. But everyone on Noisome Rock knew that it was the stern-faced cook and barmaid with a kitchen knife stuck in her belt at all times that really ruled beneath the tavern roof. Regulars at the bar were for the most part respectful, except for when Luke was too liberal with the libations which usually resulted in a sharp rebuke from the woman, or in the worst case a speedy exile from the building. Strangers on the island who visited the Harper after finding out it was the only public house this side of the Straits occasionally made the mistake of letting a hand linger too long on the woman's round behind or hinting at a rude innuedo, and said strangers would then find a knife slashing dangerously close to the offending hand or mouth, before being sent away without any drink or supper. And Gods forbid anyone dare start a fight in her place, lest they wanted a crack across the skull from the heavy whaling oar that hung (ostensibly as decoration) over the bar.

Still, despite Grace's sharp tongue and sharper knife, the residents of the island--mostly sailors and fishermen, with the occasional smuggler here and there--still came back night after night, partially for the decent food and better drink, and partially to look over the pretty vixen darting between the tables doling out rations with a dancer's grace. What her right age was no one could be sure, but she'd arrived on the Rock five or six years ago from some place back east on the mainland, though she never did say where. Most guessed her to be around twenty-five, but no sober man was brave enough to ask her right out.

Even in a good mood she probably wouldn't have answered though; the only subjects Grace ever spoke about at length were recipes and whatever book she had gotten from the circulating library that week. Fashion didn't seem to appeal to her, considering she wore the same two blouses, skirts, and bodices during the week, and a plain black gown to go to Meeting on Sundays. Her loose chestnut curls were usually tied away from her face with any number of worn but colorful scarves, and she didn't appear to own a single piece of jewelry, not even a religious icon. But the most distinctive feature of the young barmaid was the large, vibrant tattoo of a lighthouse and a red rose climbing out of her bosom to the base of her graceful throat.

It wasn't unusual for men on the Rock to sport such modifications, but it was quite the scandal of the women on the island to see one of their own with such a garish mark upon her, and in such a prominent place. Like with everything else about her personal life, Grace refused to discuss the image or how it came to be there, and if pestered about it was likely to show the offender a smaller, yet no less distinct image of a seahorse tattooed on the middle finger of her left hand (it was quite easy to show off when she was making a fist). All of these though had started the rumor that the lady of the Sweet Harper actually had a large number of tattoos engraved on her body in areas usually hidden by clothing, but if any man on Noisome Rock had ever seen them he didn't live to tell the tale.

Thankfully, the tavern was almost completely empty this particular evening. Despite it still being relatively early, those men staying at the house had already retired to their rooms, leaving Grace to sit on a stool at the bar and polish silver, humming softly to herself in the process. Every now and then her violet eyes glanced at an antique clock on the far wall that was slowly ticking away the minutes to closing time, when she could finally lock the doors and tell any further comers to bugger off.

But at about quarter to nine, the woman's hopes were dashed as the heavy wooden door to the tavern opened sharply, aided by a powerful gust of wind.

“Kitchen's closed,” Grace said quickly and most unhospitably, setting aside the utensils and moving behind the bar. “I can pour you a drink, and maybe get you a little leftover bread, but that's all I have.” Hopefully at such a scanty offering the patron would decide to try his luck elsewhere, and leave her to close up in peace.

 

[Doctor December]

"Well, it seems we're both in luck," the entering customer retorted in an annoyed tone that tried its best to feign friendliness in the face of such a snappy and blunt greeting. "I'm only here for a drink and some bread." The figure's shoulders were not wearing his coat, but rather simply draped in it so that the sleeves swayed emptily at his sides. His back was still hunched in defense of the weather outside, scrunching in his neck so that from most any angle, his head was just about completely obscured by his black, feathery hat. From under his shell, however, he finally got a look at the barmaid's eye-friendly form, and straightened out a bit. Maybe this town wasn't completely miserable. "A pint of ale will do fine. With a splash of mead if you happen to have any."

Moving with the smoothness of an extravagant butter, he slid himself over to the wooden counter and planted himself in a seat. He jutted his elbows behind his back to expand his chest and tilt his shoulders downward, which slid his coat from his shoulders, causing it to flop downward and smack against the stool. Next, tipping his hat by the low fold at the front of the brim, he removed it from his head and spun it so that as he set it on the bar in front of him, it was facing him. Now, the gruff, dark mystery around him (if any existed in the first place) was removed, and sitting at the table was a young man of a rather merry, neighborly looking sort, sitting with one arm on the table and the side of one boot resting on the opposite knee while he waited for a drink. His demeanor did not serve him well in all situations, but it did fine here, he hoped. He was not confident that he blended in with the gloomy citizenry of a fishing town, but he was quite certain that no one would suspect his identity or reputation. For despite the almost foolishness of the stranger's chipper demeanor, he was actually a fugitive.

Though he had yet to give his name to any of the folk of Noisome Rock, this new visitor was born Percival Butcher, and had become known on poorly-drawn wanted posters by the equally unflattering mantle of "Brimstone Butch", wanted on charges of sneak-thievery, looting, and the hijacking of a royal ship back in the nation of Lusance. Through his exploits- originally for survival but mostly in search of fortune as of late, rumors and sensationalism had earned him the title of "Pirate." At first, he was rather insulted that his circumstantial odds with the law were grouped in with the (far more infamous) likes of Black Brom or the Delphino Sisters, but over time, he came to enjoy the reputation that being a lesser duke of Hell afforded him, so long as his celebrity status was given the occasional rest so he could enjoy a drink in peace and worry about where his next flow of funds were coming from.

"I'll have two associates meeting me shortly," Percival announced to the barkeep as he studied the tavern. "They're out loading some supplies." He stopped himself from shuddering at the thought. Their last bit of money, aside from just enough for a few pints, was being spent on those damned supplies.

"Not to worry, though, they'll only want a drink, too." His gaze finally settled on her, giving her a reassuring smile. Though she looked to be a bit worn from her busy days tending to the tavern and had clearly been out to prove the establishment was a tight ship through her greeting, Percival observed that she had a rather soft face beneath the soot and grease of a hard day's work, with sweet eyes that suggested a hidden but musical personality serving as the focal point. Perhaps if he could crack her oyster shell before she closed up shop, she might give him a room for the night for free. Hell, if he was particularly charming, maybe even her own room.

He drifted his gaze south a bit to her chest tattoo, and nodded in what he hoped was convincing admiration. He supposed a compliment was the best place as any to conjure some small talk. "Quite a collection of artwork you have there, Miss...?" As if his mind were now a nose that could smell ink, it led his eyes to her hand, where they went wide when he caught a brief glimpse of the much more rudimentary seahorse tattoo as she finished putting away the silverware.

"So then," he said, his back now rigid with a sliver of anxiety despite the friendly face he still put on. "Whomever was the talent behind your ink? Local artist, was it?"

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Mead? Sorry milord, I'm afraid we're fresh out," Grace replied with faux sweetness. "I sent the Lord Butler to Kingsburg to fetch some more than a week ago, and he still hasn't come back. Can you imagine that?" She sniffed sharply as she grabbed a tankard from behind the bar and began to fill it with a cask of clear, extremely frothy ale. Uncle Luke was not known for his skills as a brewer, and most of the patrons of the Harper tended to stick to hard liquor for that very reason. With foam cascading down the side of the mug, the barmaid sent it sliding down the length of the bar, fully expecting the stranger to catch it, and ready to curse him out if he didn't.

She had to admit though, he wasn't the usual sort to come into the inn. He was younger than most of the regulars, probably around her own age, though the cocky expression he wore was more common in the foolhardy young boys playing at men down at the harbor. His garish coat and hat too made it clear he wasn't afraid to be looked at. Hells, he probably enjoyed it, which made Grace frown at him all the more. And worst of all, there was no doubt the stranger was probably the best-looking man to come into the bar since she'd started working there. Not just because most of the men on the Rock tended to be gray, slouching, and about as exciting as the shit-covered breakwater on the north end, but even Grace had to admit there was a certain appeal in the stranger's strong jaw, lean frame, and sharp eyes. If any of the young girls on the Rock knew such a specimen had decided to call on them, they'd mob the place in five minutes flat.

He's going to be trouble, I know it Grace thought as she disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. Taking the last quarter-end of bread from the larder, she carried it back out on a plate and set it down before him. Locking her eyes with his, she pulled out her knife and began to slice the loaf almost savagely, only pausing at the mention of additional company soon to join them.

"Well, they'd better hurry," she grunted, shoving the platter of massacred bread towards him. "We're closing up soon." That wasn't exactly true, but she'd be damned if she let the fancy man and his probably shifty friends ruin her evening. She'd shut the whole damn place down early if she had to, her drunken uncle be damned. "Hopefully these friends of yours won't be wanting mead as well? We're not in the habit of entertaining royalty in our humble house, so they'll have to settle for ale or rum, if that pleases Your Lordship."

Grace had hoped once the stranger had food and drink before him he'd be content to consume both in silence, but it seemed that was not the case. She didn't really mind that his gaze was lingering on her chest, but when he mentioned the art spread across them she couldn't help but roll her eyes. Maybe the old fishwives had a point, and she should start wearing a kerchief to conceal herself more. But it was impossible for her to reign in her tongue and hide her assets at the same time; she'd be out of work in a week. So she only smiled back at the stranger as she resumed polishing her silver.

"Your mother," she replied in a voice dripping with honey. "Whomever was the talent behind your haircut? A nearsighted domovoi with a palsy, was it?"

*****
​

A few miles down the road from the bluff where the Sweet Harper perched like a vulture, the sleepy little village of Tisley was mostly shut up for the night. There wasn't much to it in the first place: a handful of houses, a dry goods store, a fish market down on the docks, and a Temple on the outskirts. These were, of course, only the legitimate businesses of the town. In several of the shacks and one large warehouse near the water, there were still plenty of lights and activity about as smugglers were busy trading their bounty. And through the midst of the shoppers moved a pair of strangers that made the man up at the inn look downright pedestrian in comparison.

The most noticeable of the two was a towering amazon of a woman with yellow-green skin and large, pointed ears. When she had first arrived at the black market whispers of "Augrim!" rippled through the crowds, but after she had approached the first trader and spoken with all the educated grace of a noblewoman, many were having second thoughts. For one, she lacked the lower tusks of the southern brutes, and while she was certainly taller than any of the human natives of Noisome Rock, those who had actually fought the Augrim could tell she wasn't quite as tall as a typical female of that species. She also lacked the bulging muscles that grew naturally on their thick bodies, though by the leather armor she wore and the trident strapped across her back it was obvious she wasn't afraid of a fight.

And she certainly needed it. For more than ten years now Urdith, as the woman was called, had been helmsman on any number of ships, and most recently had entered into the employ of Brimstone Butch as his chief pilot. Of course, with her prodigious strength she also handled much of the physical labor on board, and when necessary wasn't afraid to do a bit of poking with her fork if the situation called for it. But on the whole Urdith really was quite agreeable and mild-mannered, considering her mixed heritage and colorful employment history.

"Thank you very much," she replied to one of the smugglers after passing him a small bag of coin. Then lifting up a cask of salt pork as though it weighed no more than a loaf of bacon and shifting it onto shoulder, the green woman looked around the crowded warehouse for any sign of her shipmate. It was getting late; they needed to get the supplies back to the ship then head to the inn on the hill to meet up with Captain. Urdith considered it quite rude to be late.

 

[Doctor December]

Percival jerked back, surprised at the barmaid's hostility. Though, true, mead was an old-fashioned drink, and one more commonly associated with the upper crust, it wasn't such a novel idea that a more well-rounded and handsomely-stocked pub or watering hole would have it. Furthermore, though the request he had made was certainly not a frequent way to order ale, the two drinks made a lovely, faintly sweet combination so long as the ale was a lighter color and the mead wasn't too generously poured. Still, though, despite his shock at her tenacious belligerence, he was unflinching in his hand as he caught the sliding tankard, lest it glide too far and baste his hat in gobs of frothy foam.

"It was merely a request..." he told her blankly before gesturing a half-hearted toast to her with the tankard and taking a chug that he presumed would be much-needed if he was going to endure her company any longer. And indeed, it only grew worse as she served him bread. At first, her trick worked and he met her eyes, though if this was an intimidation tactic, it didn't work, only serving to amuse him a bit as his gaze slanted and his mouth curled into a toothless, facetious smile that then opened for another swig of ale. However, after a few seconds, his stare couldn't help but make its way back down to the fingers gripping the knife, and then more particularly, the middle finger bearing the ponyfish tattoo.

"Oh, I think they'll be along soon," he reassured her again as he looked back to her. "And they'll be more than happy with ale and rum. You're a couple hours too hasty to close a pub though, don't you think... m'lady?" He gave himself another grin as he took a sip of the ale. And even that was a generous closing time, though he noticed that not many barflies seemed to be buzzing in this place. It was probably due to a clear knowledge of the radiant warmth this wonderful barkeep was exuding. A shame, really, because if she brightened her demeanor a bit, a pretty face like hers might turn the barflies into moths for this place.

Though she was no doubt continuing her barrage of nastiness and sarcasm, he had tuned her out enough to register what she was saying at a delayed rate. His attention was back on her hand that was gripping the silver as she polished it. Unconsciously, he even began to squint to hone in on the base of her middle finger. Now that her fingers were wrapped around something in a fist again, her tattoo was in view, this time long enough and clear enough for him to confirm his suspicions about the black etching. After a moment, he realized she was expecting a retort - or at least some kind of reaction - to her remark. What a nasty, contemptuous woman she was. Unfortunately for her, it seemed fate was seeing to it that she'd cross a patron that had extra reason and (as soon as his cohorts arrived) means to make her regret her deplorable attitude.

"You know, lass," Percival sighed, setting his tankard down, "You'd do best not to treat your customers, the purveyors of your livelihood, with such disrespect. It may come to pass that you offend the wrong parties, and find the retribution... shall we say... unbalanced against you."

*****
​

Not far from Urdith, one of the underhanded merchants was piling a burlap sack of grain upon another of oats to present to the augrim as dry food stock. Slung over his back was also a sock-shaped satchel filled with spherical lumps: oranges, a wise food for any seafarer to keep in their pantry. The merchant was about to walk back to the green-skinned client to present her with these goods, when he was stopped dead in his track by the other figure, who had excited leaped in the man's path and caused him to gasp in fright; for where the augrim was taller and more immediately stood out, especially with the other crewmate usually following almost directly behind her, this latter deckhand's appearance might seem stranger yet. He was an orange-skinned, blue-bellied, enormous, upright frog standing about five feet in height, if slightly hunched due to his back curving straight into his scalp, and wearing a crude shirt and pants and armed at his side with a shortsword.

"Blie can take that!" the frog creature said in a helpful tone, his wide spanning lips ripping as he spoke. "Thlank you!" He held out his arms. His large eyes blinked nervously and his lips began to frown a bit. "It's alright, sir! Pluhlease don't take offlense to the slight of mlee. I'll not h'lurt you."

This was Samhandre, from a curious species known as the phibians, more commonly referred to simply as the "phibs." It was not uncommon for Samhandre to see this shocked reaction to his appearance from humans, or augrim, or other races, as it was rare to see a phibian in the civilizations of other folk. They were not social creatures, even with each other. After losing their tails and gaining legs, they only really spoke to other phibians they wished to court as a mate or warn off their territory. As such, they had no actual language, simply suitable clicks and chirps that conveyed their desires to each other well enough. Most had no names among each other, only those that their other-folk neighbors and associates bestowed upon them (Samhandre's own was given to him by an old pilot of a fishing riverboat he had hopped upon and found his first job in his freshmen year of owning legs.) Even the name "phibians" was merely the slang humans had dubbed them, as they had no word to call themselves. Due to their anatomy, they had no real need for clothes except as a nicety to other creatures when walking among them, and only wore a shirt or vest when in civilization. In fact, for all Samhandre knew, he was the first in history to wear pants. It should not be assumed, however, that their simplicity equated to stupidity. Their evolutionary ancestry gave them a capacity to be impressively perceptive and quick-witted. Even with no native tongue, it took them usually only several months to be fluent in a language spoken around them, maybe even less time if taught to speak outright. They were also precise, efficient hunters and as one might assume, had stretchy, adhesive tongues which meant great aim due to practice nabbing food with them, which in turn translated to excellent marksmanship with projectile weapons.

Samhandre's tenure on the riverboat, called Old Labelle, was cut short due to the Lusance navy accidentally sinking the freshwater vessel during a daring escape by Brimstone Butch at a port where the Groque River met the Arvian Ocean. Hoping to escape the misaimed onslaught of cannon fire, he had leaped blindly from his own former ship to Captain Butch's Hellions' Ferry and, impressed by Samhandre's natural acrobatics (and not terribly eager to turn around to drop him back off), Butch offered him a spot on the crew.

After a few more reassuring nods from Samhandre, the human loaded him up with the oats, grain, and oranges. After giving the weirded man another chipper "Thlank you!", he made his way back to Urdith, wobbling as he adjusted to the weight of all the items and worrying aloud, "Oh no, L'Urdith! Did you remembler the flire wood?" The man who had been assisting the augrim snapped fingers on both his hands, then turned to fish out two bundles of logs and kindling wrapped in cloth. Urdith took these in her free arm, then motioned to Samhaldre.

"That's very helpful of you Sammer, but I'll take one of those," Uldith offered, and awkwardly swiped up the sack of oats to toss upon the bundles of wood, carrying it with much more ease than her counterpart and giving him a better, more relieved footing as he followed behind her out of the storehouse like a nervous child in her care. After dropping the supplies in a corner of the hull of their ship, they made their way to the Sweet Harper, arriving to find their captain beckoning them to the bar, where they took a stool on either side of him.

"Good news, m'dears!" Percival announced, his jolly mood noticeably enhanced by the near-finished pint, "I wager we've got us a destination for sailin'."

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Grace's violet eyes narrowed sharply. "If you're going to threaten me, I'll ask you pay for your fare and get the hells out. I don't keep this place open for freeloaders." There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice though, and a barely-contained energy as she finished her task and locked the silver in its drawer behind the bar. The longer the man sat before her, the less she liked the look of him. She didn't care for strangers in the first place, especially those who went out on stormy nights when most sensible folk stayed home. Was he that badly in need of a drink? Her gaze fell upon his hands, which were rough but decidedly not shaking. And the ale was weak as water, it couldn't have put him right that quickly.

No, this man did not come here looking for a drink. So what had he come for?

A dark suspicion was starting to grow in her stomach. There had been other men like him (and a few women) who had come to the Sweet Harper for more than a drink. They spoke madness, looking for some kind of a map leading to a fabulous, enormous, and most likely legendary treasure. And for whatever godsdamned reason, all of these strangers were convinced that Grace Harper, purveyor of weak ale and stale bread, had first-hand knowledge of such a map. At least, that was the accusation commonly hurled at the young woman before the seekers inevitably pulled a weapon on her.

Of course, the idea Grace would know anything about treasure was laughable. She hadn't left the Rock once in the five years since she'd arrived on it, and had barely gone farther than Tisley in all that time. Her life prior to then hadn't been much more remarkable, just more kitchens and drunk sailors as far as she could remember. If any of them had known anything about a map they'd never said a word to her. Why would they? She hadn't been much more polite to any of those men than she was to her present company.

But when the others had come looking for a map, the barmaid hadn't been alone. Uncle Luke might have been a hopeless drunk, but he was a big hopeless drunk. So were many of the other patrons who had been in the bar when other seekers appeared. Now it was just Grace and the stranger, and friendly as his face might have been she didn't trust for one moment that he had stumbled into the Harper by accident.

"I'm...sorry," she managed to spit out, offering him a smile that might as well have been carved with a dull knife into a rock, for all the warmth it showed. "It's been a long day. Can I ask your name, sailor?" Her voice wasn't exactly friendly, but she'd at least managed to soften some of its edges, even though she still kept her hand on her knife.

Oh, if only she'd tried that tactic earlier. No sooner had Grace voiced her attempt at diplomacy than the door opened again, and two more patrons walked in. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of the larger one. "An augrim?" she gasped beneath her breath as a woman nearly seven feet tall ducked beneath the doorframe, followed by...a frog.

Phibian. The thought came unbidden from some hidden part of her memory. A phibian? Was that was the frog-thing was called? Why in the world would she know that? She'd never seen such a creature before in her life. Of course, everyone who lived near the sea knew about the augrim and their black ships that burned and pillaged everything in their path. Of course, no augrim had stepped foot on Noisome Rock in more than a hundred years, and when the female stepped before the bar she spoke in such a gentle tone Grace almost wondered if she was mistaken.

"That's wonderful, Captain," Urdith replied. "The supplies have been obtained and are loaded on the ship, and we can depart at your discretion. Though if we intend to linger here..." She turned her dark red eyes on the barmaid. "I don't suppose you carry wine in your establishment? I won't trouble you for a particular vintage, anything will do. And only a small glass, I do not wish to be impaired."

"Rlum for mlee!" the phibian chimed in, hopping onto the stool beside his captain. "And dlinner?" he added in a tone that Grace assumed was meant to be hopeful.

Rather than outright deny these requests, she looked back towards the man the augrim and phibian had called 'Captain.' "I take it these are your 'associates'?" she asked, looking skeptically at each member of the trio in turn. "Might I ask what line of business the three of you are in, and what brings you to Noisome Rock?"

 

[Doctor December]

Percival rested his free arm beneath the one holding his tankard as the barmaid read his advise as a threat. He wanted to pin his arm down to quell the temptation to at least place it on the hilt of his sword (which had been thus far obscured first by his coat, and now, hopefully, by the bar, but even so could be easily explained away as a precautionary protection in a cruel world) in response to her reaching for her own knife. However, his arm stayed put beneath the other, at least for now.

Once the barmaid's temperament fizzled back down from red coals to smoldering ash, she asked Percival's name, and he had one prepared. "Morris..." He set his drink down momentarily. "Morris Penndrake, at your service." Now that she was a little more at ease, he felt he might be able to further win her heavily fortified confidence with more small talk, now of a sympathetic sort. "No need for apologies, miss. I can tell that every day must be a long day for a diligent woman like yourself. Even only being here a few hours, I can tell this is a hardworking town. Hardworking fishermen and dock workers in turn call for a hard working barkeep, and I bet you deliver. And you, ma'am. What do you call yourself?"

After his duo of shiphands gravitated to him, he turned from the barkeep to widen his eyes and shift his gaze, as if to signal, I'm up to something, and it will involve this one here. He concluded by eyeing Urdith specifically, then darting his eyes to a fishing net strewn on the wall in decoration. he quickly resumed a normal demeanor and responded to Urdith. "Splendid! I had hoped to set sail at first dawn... but..." He gave the gaze again, trying to use his shifting, brown pupils to guide Samhandre's own eyes to the knife on the human woman's belt. ".. I find myself eager to move away from this gloom, even if the town it befalls is a charming one. So one drink perhaps, for courage, then we'll be on our way before we rest in tamer waters." As he spoke, Urdith, seemingly abandoning her request for wine, began pacing about the walls, scanning them up and down to admire the trophies and mementos of the patron fishermen.

He turned back to the barmaid and answered before either of the others could pipe up. "As you inferred earlier, we're sailors. We have a humbled but fully-rigged vessel to offer a ferry-for-hire between the continents, and we've run out of supplies, which brings us here to restock. As luck would have it, while in town, I've also found us another fare for transport." He lifted his tankard again for another sip before adding in conclusion, "You."

He tossed the tankard underhand, not hard enough to mean to strike her, but enough that she might have an impulse to catch it. Meanwhile, Samhandre leaned his entire torso forward and left the bottom jaw of his wide mouth drop like a heavy rock. Outward his adhesive phibian tongue unfurled toward the handle of barkeep's sheathed knife.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Penndrake, huh?" Grace repeated, more than a little skepticism in her life. In all the years she'd been on the Rock she'd never heard the name, and even though strangers weren't uncommon on the island, no one ever came to it without knowing someone already there. Either the man before her was using a fake name (which also wasn't uncommon, particularly among the smugglers), or he was there at someone else's behest. And who that "someone" might be was a matter of some concern for the barmaid. She'd often suspected that many of those who'd come into the Harper in search of the fictional map might have been part of a coordinated effort to hunt down the likely equally-fictional treasure, and she'd often wondered who was the so-called mastermind of the scheme. Of course, the fellow before her didn't look sharp enough to put together such an organized effort, but then again he had brought together two of the strangest crewmates she'd ever seen, so perhaps he did have a certain quality of leadership about him.

"Grace," she said finally as a matter of introduction. "Harper. My uncle owns this sorry place, but I'm afraid he's indisposed at the moment if you had business with him. You might try coming back tomorrow when he's sobered up some." Of course Luke would probably in a horrible mood then, but it might be worth a laugh to see the smug young man in front of her get a beating from the old drunk. Without a word she served the other two their requested drinks, although the wine was sour and the rum almost as watered down as the ale. The frog-looking one burbled out something that might have been a "thank you" but the Augrim was busy eying a dusty shark head mounted on the wall.

"Fascinating specimen," she commented, looking back at the barmaid. "Did your uncle catch him?"

The brunette shook her head and began to wipe down the bar. "No, some foreigner speared him off Redmin's Reef. Didn't feel like carrying him around, so he gave him to my uncle. We ate shark soup for weeks."

Clearly the captain didn't appreciate the barmaid's attention shifting to the only other female in the establishment, because he was much quicker to state his business in a loud and rather awkwardly-stilted manner. And Grace soon understood why; this too was a kidnapping attempt, though the sorriest one yet. She didn't even bother to grab at her knife, instead only leaning across the bar to laugh in Penndrake's face.

"Is that so? I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Plenty of other loudmouthed braggarts to ser--hey!" She nearly toppled over in her attempt to dodge the tankard that came flying at her head. With a growl she reached for her knife, only to brush against something wet and slimy near her hip. With horror, she realized the frog had shot his tongue--more than four feet of it!--at her knife. Like snatching a fly from the air, the frog's tongue ripped the sheathed knife out of her belt and into his own waiting paw, before he handed it over to the captain.

Not to be deterred, Grace whirled around to grab the oar resting on the back bar, intending to club both the man and the phibian across their heads. But the weapon was unwieldy, and she'd barely gotten a grip on it when sudden she felt it--and herself--lifted two feet in the air by the augrim. "Sorry miss, business is business, you understand," the green woman remarked, snapping the oar in half and tossing both ends in opposite directions. Before the barmaid could grab either of the splintery weapons, Urdith seized her the waist and clamped the woman's mouth with one of her large, neatly manicured hands.

"Sammer, will you please fetch some of that rope from outside?" she asked her crewmate while she tightened her grip on the wriggling tattooed woman.

"Aye-laye!" Samhandre replied cheerfully, disappearing out the door.

Urdith looked back towards her captain. "Would you like her gagged as well, Captain? The ship's a good way off yet, and there's still quite a few people in the town. I think she may scream if I uncover her mouth."

Indeed, Grace was already trying to scream behind the hand stifling her mouth, but the only others who might have heard her were all passed out upstairs. A few moments later, Samhandre returned with a coil of rope, which he began to wind around her kicking legs with all a sailor's deftness. It was quite a job for the two crewmembers to avoid the barmaid's blows while still securing her limbs, but between the augrim's raw strength and the phibian's quick reflexes, they somehow managed it, binding her arms behind her back and to her ankles.

"Anyling else, Cap'n?" Samhandre asked, glancing in satisfaction at his handiwork and leaving Urdith to handle the squirming bundle of limbs on her own.

 

[Doctor December]

Butch admired the knife for a moment, not paying much mind at all to anything else, even Grace arming herself with a massive oar, no doubt preparing to wallop the seemingly-unsuspecting captain. And she would have without his even preparing for the blow if his augrim crew member had been even a split second off, but her punctuality faltered as little as his faith in her, as indicated by the sounds of wood snapping and rattling on the floor. When he looked up again, she had Grace in her grip as if the smaller woman was a particularly light sack of foodstuff.

"You're right, Urdith," Butch admitted, lightly and quickly pointing the knife at her in a non-threatening manner, as if it was a commending point with his actual index finger. As Samhandre burst back through the door and hopped over to hogtie the hapless woman, Butch scanned the counter and relocated the dishrag that Grace had been using to wipe up utensils moments earlier. "Ah! That'll do!" He approached Grace's mouth, swiftly replacing Urdith's hand once it was removed with the rag in a tight wrap around Grace's soft cheeks. Though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, there was something thrilling in capturing this beauty as his own, though he denied, even to himself, any ulterior motives.

"That's that, but screaming only completes a portrait that would be suspicious even without it. We can't well just waltz through the town - three strangers, two of which not even all that conventionally handsome - with a local belle tied and gagged like the prize we're making her." He tucked the knife into his sash, then eyed the door leading to the kitchen behind the bar. He turned to Samhandre. "Find us a table cloth, blanket, anything that'll cover a wide area." Then, lifting himself by one hand, he hopped over the bar, disappeared into the kitchen, then out a back door, returning pushing a one-wheeled, wooden barrow, which Grace or this Uncle Luke no doubt used to haul supplies back to the kitchen from the town market.

In the meantime, Samhandre ran upstairs, returning with a wool blanket from one of the beds of the inn. "Splendid job, Sammers," the captain commended, and patted the bed of the wheelbarrow. "In with her, then." Urdith set their prisoner in the cramped wheelbarrow, which was quite small even for her dainty, giving her less room to struggle. Samhandre threw the blanket over the whole of the cart, Butch reclaimed his coat, and they were off into the howling night.

A short walk later, they were back at their ship. It was only about a fourth the size of the ideal vessel, but was still rigged with two masts and two sails to each of them. It took both Butch and Urdith to steadily carry each end of the wheelbarrow below deck, but once there, Butch finally grabbed the blanket. With perhaps a bit too much theatricality and enthusiasm, he pulled it off of the hogtied hostage. Ahead of them was the cavern of wooden planks that narrowed to the tip of the bow, with barrels, buckets, and other tools and supplies strewn about. Behind, a more homey living area with a few nooks in the walls for bunks and small tables for eating or other leisure. Beyond that was a door leading to the ship's galley.

"Welcome, Miss Harper, to the Hellions' Ferry," Butch proclaimed pridefully, waving his hands to present the surroundings.

"Might we finally learn the point of this chore, Captain?" Urdith asked. Butch beckoned her to lean closer to see the middle finger on Grace's hand. Once she was looking, she squinted in befuddlement. "A ponyfish?"

"A rather minimalist tattoo, certainly, but famous: 'From snout, ye start/up back, ye sail/til find yer ship/ at tip of tail.' It's a path. Sailors keep no maps of it, only ink it in their skin. A few have turned up over the years, passed down through the last decade or so from the crew of those who claim to have had their mitts on the chest of ol' Nurion, the sun himself. It's said the chest has a strange sigil etched on the bottom of the lid, which blesses it with an enchantment that keeps it full no matter how many gold pieces some greedy bastard can lift from it. And now its ours... Thanks to our new little stowaway here. Now, Sammer is tending to the gangplank. Let's go help him untie us so we can shove off."

An hour or so later, Butch returned to visit their captive again. He leaned down to meet Grace's eyes. "Now, I'm going to give you a choice, my dear, and now that we're in open water, we can finally let you speak to make it. You're currently our prisoner, and you can be treated as such. Or, you can earn your keep as a member of my crew. That entitles you to food, drink, and a proper bed. What do you say to that, Miss Harper?" He finally reached behind her head and undid the knot keeping the rag taught over her lips.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Grace never thought she would prefer to have her mouth stifled by the hand of an augrim versus a dishrag, but then again she never thought she would end up dumped in a wheelbarrow like a load of turnips either. She didn't make the transport easy; between her muffled grunts and her thrashing that sent the tablecloth flying on more than one occasion, it would have been very easy for the would-be abductors to be caught by the town sheriff, drunk as the old man usually was this time of night. It was only thanks to the storm outside that drowned out all other sounds and kept the other residents of the Rock safely indoors that the party made it to the ship relatively unscathed.

The barmaid was hardly surprised to see herself onboard a ship, but she was far from pleased about it either. She continued to writhe and thrash in her bonds, even as the cheap ropes chafed at her wrists and ankles to the point of bleeding. The augrim had lifted Grace from the wheelbarrow and laid her on one of the berths on her side as easily as if the young woman weighed no more than a rag doll, but despite the relative care the green woman had taken with her she only earned a venomous glare from those deep violet eyes. Urdith wasn't exactly offended at this--she could understand the inconvenience of being taken from one's home and workplace on such short notice--but the captain had given her the opportunity to come along peacefully after all.

For her part, Grace did not appreciate how closely the pair were leaning over her, though in her current position it was the only way for them to get a close look at the tattoo on her finger. She could feel, but not see, the fabric of someone's shirt (the captain's, she guessed) against her hand and clenched her fists blindingly in hopes of catching hold of him, but no such luck. Ignoring this, the pair continued to discuss their business as though she were nothing more than a dumb animal or some other useless cargo in their possession, which only made her thrash all the more violently in her fury.

Only one word made her suddenly stop and go absolutely still. Nurion. The man and the augrim didn't seem to notice, having business to attend to abovedecks, but all the same Grace's eyes rolled back in her head, and for a moment she stopped breathing.

It was as if she were somewhere else. She saw a sandy beach around her, and palm trees. A warm tropical sun was shining overhead, and shirtless men of all sizes and colors were laughing and drinking, all of them adorned with ridiculous-looking jewels that nonetheless must have been worth a fortune. A heavy gold necklace was weighing down her breasts, and a rough hand was holding hers, sliding ring after jeweled ring onto her fingers. A flash of red, and she felt a bearded face crushing against hers in a fierce kiss that tasted like rum.

"Ah Gracie my love...have ye had enough yet?"

"No," she laughed, reaching into a pile of gold coins at her feet and tossing them into the air. "I want more, all of it..."

Then the beach was gone. The men were gone. And the gold was gone. And all that was left was Morris Penndrake's stupid fucking face directly in front of hers, letting her know she'd been effectively press-ganged into his sorry little crew. When he finally undid the gag around her mouth, the first thing she attempted to do was bite his nasty kidnapping fingers off his greedy little hands. Failing that, Grace spat on the floor of the cabin and struggled to roll into a more upright position.

"I say you're a fucking pirate, 'Morris Penndrake.' I don't serve anyone who won't tell me their real name, and if you're smart you'll set me ashore at the next port you find. Because I'll kill you for this, you son of a bitch. That is a promise!" she shrieked, snapping her teeth at him again like a feral dog.

*****
​

Several hours later, back at the Sweet Harper, Lucario Harper awoke with his head in the second floor linen closet, aware of a sudden chill that had filled the establishment. And by the time he roused himself to stumble down the stairs, he could see why. In their hasty flight with the prisoner, the pirates had left the front door of the inn wide open, letting in enough wind and rain to soak the bearskin rug that welcomed patrons into the establishment. After helping himself to a tankard of ale and grumbling his way over to the door, the man began to look around for signs of his sole employee.

"Grace? Godsdamn that girl, hell's wrong with her? Leavin' the door open in a gale like that...Grace?" he shouted a little louder.

"S'not in here," one of the few guests called back groggily from upstairs. Luke shook his head and looked into the kitchen. Empty. Same with the cellar. And her room, along with all of the guest rooms.

Now a new chill was descending over the man. "Grace? Grace where are you?" he began to call more frantically, even going out into the storm to shout her name. Oh no...oh gods no. She can't be gone.

But she was, that much was clear. Run off? No, not in a million years. Ilfreus' magic was strong, and she was just a girl. But she was Bill's girl. And when Bill came back and found someone had taken her...

Well, he wouldn't find Lucario Harper waiting for his wrath, that much was sure. WIth a yelp, the innkeeper raced back into the building, and began to pack everything he owned in frantic flight. By dawn, he would be nothing more than a speck on the horizon in a rowboat, headed away from Noisome Rock as quickly as the tides could carry him.

 

[Doctor December]

His arm still reeled back into the air from dodging his hostage's snapping teeth, Butch bent his head to the side for a moment in confusion. "Pendr-? Oh, right. Pardon the pseudonym, but you can obviously see its necessity. Well, you're correct about the pirate bit, madame." He took an arrogant pose, waving his hands to present the rest of himself to her. He loved introductions (real ones, that is) such as this. "Brimstone Butch, captain of this humble rig, at your service." He took his hat off and bowed cordially, showing no fear or even consideration to her threat. True, he knew it wasn't an empty threat, but her means of carrying it out would only be granted after a careful, delicate extracting of any malice she had for him and his crew. "And as captain, I give the orders on this ship. I'm not inclined to take them in turn from passengers such as yourself. However, I can see that your ordeal has left you a little rattled, so, generous man that I am, I'll give you a bit of time for deliberating my proposal."

Butch stepped twice, his heel making loud thuds on the wooden floor. From overhead, above the two, the twin doors of the cargo hatch on deck opened up to reveal Samhamdre holding a rope that stretched down from the main mast. He was soaked by the still-lingering storm, and had invited rapidly falling raindrops below with him by opening the hatch. Despite the miserable weather, he still had an energetic, blissfully busy disposition. He leaped down and tied the rope in a knot around the stretches of rope binding Grace's wrists and ankles. He then snagged the discarded blanket that kept grace out of sight as they had brought her on board, then leaped back up to the deck. Giving another stretch of rope on the mast a pull, he activated a pulling that ripped Grace into a swift ascension. Butch gave a twirl of his finger, and Samhandre fiddled with the pulley a bit more, yanking the rope back, then giving some slack, over and over to violently bob the barmaid in the air. Butch, meanwhile, took the stairs to the deck, then signaled Samhandre to stop once he was in position. Sammers pulled the rope tight and tied it in place so that grave was dangling like a fish on a hook just a few feet above Butch's eyeline.

"This storm seems to be parting in the horizon, so you should be safe to spend the night right here," Butch told her. "Unless... you've already reconsidered?" He gave her a wide-eyed look of innocent optimism, though it was obviously feigned.

Samhandre, meanwhile, had bounced over to his augrim crewmate. Though he enjoyed the soggy weather, he couldn't imagine any other member of any other species shared his sentiment. "Claptain says we clan turn in, Urdith," he told her as he unfurled the blanket and offered it to her. "You should clome inslide before you clatch your dleath in this rain. L'it's almolst too wet even for me!" He hopped ahead to close the cargo hatches, then beckoned her from the top of the stairs that lead to the shelter below deck. "I thlink we have slome tea if you'd like slome?"

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Brimstone Butch..." Grace growled, ready to snap at him again if he brought his hands near her face. "I should have gutted you like a fish the instant you walked into my bar. Let me guess, you're looking for treasure?" The woman flashed a sardonic grin and gave a barking little laugh. "I don't know who in all the hells keeps sending you lot after me, but you're wasting your time. I don't know a damn thing about any treasure than the lockbox back at the Harper, but I'll give you the key to it if you turn this sorry brig around and take me back to the Rock immediately."

For one brief moment, the barmaid actually thought he was considering the offer. But then the roof overhead opened into a hatch, sending a shower of rain onto her already-disheveled head. Glancing upward she could see the slimy little frog-fellow tossing something down towards his captain, and Grace realized with horror it was yet another rope. "Are you mad? It's a damn hurricane up there!" she gasped as she saw Butch easily catching the line. The cold rain seemed to have quenched some of the fire inside her as it settled into a heavy pit of fear in her stomach, so frightening that she didn't even fight back while the captain fastened the line around her other bonds. Before she knew what was happening, the barmaid found herself lifting off of the berth and rising above the deck.

"Hey, let me down from here!" she shrieked, beginning to twist anew in her bonds. The rain was quickly turning her white blouse transparent and plastering it firmly against her breasts, and the chill of the air had hardened her nipples to such distinct points that they could be seen even by the dim deck light. While not the hurricane she had claimed, the wind was still blowing strong enough to catch at Grace's skirt and blow it up over her waist momentarily, exposing her stockinged legs and all the nude glory above them. Feeling the chill breeze on the parts that rarely ever experienced such a thing, the barmaid's face suddenly burned red as she realized not only the captain, but the entire crew was probably getting a full view of her rather voluptuous ass, though she quickly squeezed her thighs together to hide as much of the rest of her as she could. She also immediately quit her squirming, realizing that rather than doing anything to help shake herself free, she was just giving the crew a lewder show of her writhing, dripping body.

If Grace could have taken any comfort from her current situation, it was that at least one half of the crew didn't seem to be taking too much notice of the dangling barmaid. Urdith was busy furling the sails to ensure they wouldn't drift anywhere overnight, and was just about to start dropping the anchor (a task she could handle alone, with her prodigious physical strength) when Samhandre hopped good-naturedly over with a blanket in hand. "Oh, thank you, Sammer," the augrim replied, taking the offered item and draping it over her shoulders. "Let me just take care of THIS--" the word was punctuated with a heavy shove as she released the winch that would send the heavy iron anchor dropping into the water beneath them. This accomplished, Urdith daintily mopped at her rain-soaked face with the blanket, then laid a gentle hand on the phibian's shoulder. "Tea sounds lovely, though I'll admit I was hoping we might get a proper supper before we shoved off."

Listening to this conversation overhead, an idea suddenly struck Grace's mind. "I'll cook!" she shouted down towards Butch. "Fine, I'll join your crew. I can cook for you, I'll make anything you want. Chicken, beef, pork, fish...whatever! But let me down!" She began to wriggle in her bonds again, her chest jiggling heavily with her efforts as the wind yet again flipped her skirt, this time well over her dripping head.

Urdith paused and glanced up at the woman, then looked towards her captain. "We could use a real cook, Captain," she suggested with an apologetic glance to Samhandre. "No offense of course Sammer, but so many of your suppers come out rather, well soggy. And of course, I can barely fit in the galley, even if I could make anything more than tea and toast."

"I'm a great cook!" Grace pleaded overhead, her body now beginning to spin slowly and making her feel even more disoriented. All venom had disappeared from her voice, and the desperation seemed to be spreading through her entire body. "Ask anyone on the Rock...do you think they came to the Harper for Luke's shit rum and ale? No! It was my cooking! Please, just let me down and I can show you..."

 

[Doctor December]

"Of course, for the treasure," Butch retorted. "Certainly not for your cheery company. But that's the beauty of it, miss, you don't need to know anything about it. Your little tattoo will do the thinking for you."

When Grace interrupted in an offer to cook, Butch contemplated this new proposition. He was shocked that she had offered her services so soon. Admittedly, he was even a little disappointed in that it meant he would have to cut her out of her bondage despite how much he was beginning to enjoy watching her soaked, frightened form dangle and spin in a helpless position, the wind kicking up her skirt to reveal her cute bum and the cold sharpening her nipples. Perhaps he even pretended to think on Grace's offer a little longer even after he made his decision, just to make sure the delicious image of the cocky barmaid squirming in this humiliating predicament was thoroughly etched into his brain.

It was certainly a risk. There was fire in the stove and plenty of sharp cooking utensils for her to improvise into weapons. If she had a particularly devious imagination, she may even be able to fashion some kind of poison out of the contents of the ships' pantry and cabinets, though Butch couldn't fathom exactly how. He had eventually, however, decided in favor of letting her prepare them a supper, of course. Urdith made a good point, and Samhandre, while a little hurt, made no objection. A decent meal would be a rare treat. Butch himself was about as passionate of a cook as Urdith, and even less eager when the duty was his. The augrim was right about her phibian shipmate, too, in that while his enthusiasm was apparent - not just in cooking, but in nearly every task he was assigned - the galley was not his area of expertise. He was quite fond of boiling or simmering nearly any dish he cooked, even in recipes that traditionally didn't call for even a drop of water.

"Very well," Butch agreed, but with an eye of suspicion fixed on his prisoner. He glanced over to see Samhandre already scurrying back down below deck, presumably to make this so-called tea of his for the poor, soaked helmswoman. As such, he would have to lower Grace's ropes himself. And he did; or rather, he untied the rope on the pulley, and as he let it unravel and fall rapidly as it spun on the pulley's wheel, he noted "But..!" before gripping it again to cause a sudden stop. He tied the rope firmly back into place. Now Grace's heels were within reach of the deck, allowing her the ability to stand on solid ground. "...We'll be supervising the endeavor, so if you try any tricks with a knife, it'll go about as well as your reach for one back at your tavern. And if I were you, I wouldn't add any ingredients you wouldn't eat yourself, because you'll be taste-testing for us all to see. You try anything and..."

He withdrew his cutlass from the scabbard, and even in the storm its blade managed to find some light to dance along its sharp edge. Butch stepped beside Grace, and gave three swift slashes: one for the vertical rope, one for the binding of Grace's wrists, and one for her ankles. "Down to the galley with you then," Butch ordered, motioning toward the stairs leading below deck with his hand as it guided his sword back into its sheath.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Before she knew what was happening, Grace was plummeting back towards the deck in a freefall. So he's going to kill me after all she thought grimly, but it made sense. As Butch said, it was her skin he needed, not the rest of her. But just before she was about to crash face-first into the splintery wood beneath her, the fall immediately ceased. Indeed, the ropes jerked on her so sharply she let out a cry of pain, feeling the tug on her shoulders in their sockets, but still remaining in their place for now. Her chest shook a bit more dramatically beneath her, causing her to blush again at her humiliation, worsened by the close proximity of her tormenter.

Her first instinct when Butch brought her to eye level was to spit at him again, but she managed to resist the temptation and only nod vigorously. "Yes, I understand," she murmured, but inside she was seething. Of course she wanted to get her hands on a knife, and she knew more than a few tricks that would easily take out the sneering captain, along with the slimy little frog who'd tied her up in the first place. The augrim would be more difficult, but Grace was sure she was faster, and probably lighter on her own small feet than the big woman's heavy boots would be. If she could get aloft, maybe she could trick the dumb oaf into climbing up after her, cut the ropes, and then...

Then what? As far as Grace could tell, there were no other crewmembers on board. If by some miracle she could take out all three of her captors, she would still be alone on a ship in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. She didn't know the first thing about sailing, or if she'd overheard anything back at the inn it wasn't coming to mind at the moment. No, at the end of the day she was just a barmaid, if an occasionally violent and bad-tempered one. She would be just as likely to run aground or become lost at sea without the trio of pirates, so killing would be off the table.

The best bet, she decided as she felt the ropes being cut and dropping her those last few inches onto the deck, was to play along until they came into port, then make a run for it. She could always send someone else after Brimstone Butch, after all. There had to be a halfway decent bounty on his head already, and if there wasn't, she was seriously considering putting one up herself.

Groaning and grumbling as she rubbed at her sore and chafed appendages, Grace slowly rose to her feet and followed "her captain" belowdecks to the galley, where Samhandre was just taking a kettle of water off of the already-burning stove. "Move, frog," the barmaid growled, looking around for the nearest sharp object with which to threaten him. Before she could do so, however, she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"That was most rude, Miss Harper," Urdith's voice was calm, but there was a warning edge on it that clenched at the barmaid almost as hard as the augrim's hand. "As the newest member of the crew, every single one of us outranks you, and I must insist you address us appropriately. He--" The augrim turned the woman in the direction of the bewildered-looking phibian. "Is Mr. Samhandre, unless he gives you permission to to call him otherwise. To you, I am Mrs. Jermayne."

Mrs.? Grace couldn't hide the surprise on her face as the woman whirled her around so they could look at one another face to face. True, the augrim wasn't as hideous as some, but the idea that she might have a husband somewhere was downright laughable. Laughing did not seem like the best course of action at the moment, although when Mrs. Jermayne directed her attention towards Butch it was easy to guess that he was at least somewhat amused at the exchange. "And that is the Captain. Failure to obey his commands will result in punishment, Cook. Do you understand this?"

Urdith released her grip on her newest crewmate, who straightened her back with as much pride as she could muster, all things considered. "Yes," Grace replied shortly.

"Yes what?"

Luckily Grace's back was turned to Urdith, and she could easily hide her eye roll. "Yes ma'am."

"Very good. Now then, Captain," the helmswoman took a seat at the long table in the center of the room and graciously accepted a cup of tea from Samhandre. "What would you like for dinner?"

The entire time as she chopped, sliced, and sauteed, Grace could feel three pairs of eyes staring into the galley after her. The ship was better stocked than she had expected, and she was able to throw together a mix of salted meat, dried vegetables, and rice together with a rather nice rum sauce, all circumstances considering. As was ordered of her, the barmaid-turned-cook sat down at the table among her new crewmates and helped herself to a portion of the food before any of them took a bite, proving that unless anyone had a deadly allergy to blue peppers, there was nothing dangerous in the meal. But no sooner had she eaten a single small bowl (and she would have liked to have another; it turned out getting kidnapped and strung up from a mast worked up one's appetite) than she was dismissed from the table and ordered to set about cleaning up after the meal.

"Cook and maid all in one, how delightful. And I'm sure they'll pay me double for the work," she grumbled, portioning out a small amount of water that was reserved for cleaning purposes into a basin, and sitting down to wash dishes while the rest of the crew continued their merry chatter around the table. As she scrubbed, her eyes took in the cave-like room that was to serve as her primary domain. As Butch had mentioned, there were plenty of knives about, and she actually didn't mind being so near the fire in the stove. It had dried her clothes already and was well on its way to drying her chestnut curls as well, but beyond that the galley wasn't exactly a comfortable place. There wasn't even a bed for her to sleep on.

Probably expects me to sleep with him the cook frowned, scrubbing hard at one particular pot that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. It made sense, unless he was closer to the phibian than he appeared. The augrim looked like she would have crushed the captain in an amorous embrace, even if she wasn't a married woman. Besides, Grace had seen the way Butch looked at her back at the inn, and even when she was hanging above him. Son of a bitch pirate...I'd like to see him strung up...

Her hands paused. Well now, stringing him up--or at least stuffing a gag in his mouth and tying him to a chair--would certainly make her feel better about all of this. And as captain, Butch must have had the most comfortable bed on the ship, right? A small smile faded onto Grace's lips, and she continued her cleaning with renewed vigor, even humming a little under her breath as she did so.

When she was done, she stepped shyly back out to the table, keeping her violet eyes downcast and tugging ever so slightly at her blouse to expose a bit more of her white shoulder (and the top of what looked like a tattoo of a gull in the process). "I've finished all of the cleaning, Captain," Grace murmured demurely, glancing up through her long lashes and biting at her lower lip in a hint of fear. "Are...are there any other duties you would like me to attend to?" She clasped her hands on front of her, pushing her breasts together and upward slightly in the process to create a long line of cleavage. "Also I'd...I'd like to know where you would like me to sleep, sir."

 

[Doctor December]

The crew, though taking more time to chat among themselves, also finished their dinner at a quick pace, barely able to savor what they seemed to silently agree was the best meal they had had on board the Ferry in months. As he was taking the last delicious bites of beef flank, twirling his fork to collect as much of the rum sauce on the beef as he could, Butch glanced over to Grace, her work now merry enough that she was humming. He arched an eyebrow, but quickly got back to cleaning his enticing bowl.

It was only moments later that Grace seemed to return from her finished chores. All eyes turned to her, though she only addressed Butch. Samhandre, who had become much more skeptical of her since her calling him 'frog' and shoving him, even scowled a bit, and Urdith appeared much more reserved, but clearly very suspicious of the new crew member's intentions herself.
Butch was, of course, not fooled either, at least in that he could sense that she wasn't so blatantly seducing him in attempt to quell her own arousal. She could, he reasoned, have given in; this was her making a peace offering after realizing that she had been successfully shanghaied and would now have to win Butch's favor however she could. Yet, it also seemed to him to be a bit soon for that psychological defeat to have taken hold. It was also very, very likely that she was simply trying to get him alone to kill him.

Whatever the motive behind her game was, though, it was working. Butch had not been with a woman in ten months or so, and usually when he could find one, she was not half as charming as Grace was being in her bashful act. Though he was trying to keep a stoic and authoritative stare on her, his shifting, widening eyes betrayed him as he examined the way her tightened outfit enhanced her womanly features. Though it would not have been externally apparent yet, he could feel his blood beginning to rush south. Ten months.

His eyes began to slit playfully at the barmaid as he stood up. "I think," he told her, "That will be all for tonight, Miss Harper. As for where to sleep, perhaps my cabin will do until we can get you a proper bunk made."

Samhandre jolted up, shocked and ready for protest. "But capt'lin!" Before he could get his thoughts on the matter out, Butch tossed his own sword and Grace's knife on the table.

"It's quite alright. Keep those somewhere safe until morning, please," Butch ordered the two dumbfounded subordinates. "Until then, you are dismissed." He turned back to Grace and brushed his stare up and down her body once more. "Allow me to show you to bed, Miss Harper." He placed a hand on each of her shoulders and led her up the stairs. A plan was formulating. Her chances of killing him would be much slimmer without a weapon. Even if she got so lucky, they were dozens of miles from any shore now, and she would still be at the mercy of the other two crew members at best, and the sea itself at worst. Plus, he had another treat in store that would hopefully nullify any fight in her.

The scene outside was now illuminated by a spotty moonlight. Though there were still occasional rain drops, they were much thinner and softer than those of the storm from earlier. The two weren't outside long, though, taking the door to the cabin into Butch's office and sleeping quarters. Though it was much more private that the common room below deck, it was still a bit compact, if in a cozy sort of way. Situated directly above the galley, the room was contrasted from the chill outside by the rising heat of the furnace below. It was lit by a pair of candles on a small desk, and a bulkier candle on a night table in the center of the room. As soon as they entered, Butch began to loosen the buckle on his heavy baldric, then gave it a heave over his shoulder. He then unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a white cotton shirt underneath, parted in a "V" shape to expose the top half of his lean chest. He made his way over to his bed and slid back a wooden panel on the side of its frame to reveal a hidden cupboard.

"Here we are," he exclaimed with a double meaning, both presenting the quarters to Grace, and to indicate that he had found what he was looking for in the cupboard- two glasses and an ornate bottle with a clear but reddish-brown liquid. "Before it was, er, gifted to me, the Ferry was a small diplomat transport ship for the kingdom of Lusance. This brandy is one of the commodities I kept from before the transition." He poured each of them a drink, extended one of the glasses to his guest, then finished taking off his jacket by letting its sleeves slide off his arms and down to the floor. He collected his drink, took a swig (and found it much more potent than what Grace had been serving at her tavern), then had a seat on his bed. "Make yourself at home, my dear. I know you've had a busy day- much of which I realize is my doing -but if you're to get any rest, we're going to have to find a way to allow you to relax."

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Oh, thank you Captain," Grace replied demurely, trying with all her might to keep from smiling at the other two. She didn't even mind that Samhandre had taken her knife (it was nicer than the one she'd had back at the Harper, that was true, but a bit large for her taste), though she did panic for a moment wondering what she could possibly use to restrain Butch once she got him alone. She had her scarf of course, and the lacings of her waist-cincher, and maybe she could use her stockings in a pinch, but she doubted that would hardly be enough to subdue a ruffian like him. Maybe if she was lucky, he'd keep a coil of rope in his cabin, although if he did that raised some serious questions about what a man like him would do with it in such a setting.

Meanwhile, Urdith and Samhandre were busy exchanging skeptical looks as their captain led the woman up the stairs as though she were no more dangerous than a kitten. "I think, Sammer," the augrim began, rising to her feet. "We ought to keep a watch tonight, just to make sure nothing goes amiss. Do you agree?"

"Yles, I thlink that lould be a glood lidea," the phibian agreed, gathering up the weapons from the table and carrying them off towards his own berth. There was a compartment beneath each crewmember's bed that could be locked with a key, and this seemed like the wisest place to store the sword and knife for now.

"Very good. I'll take first watch then, I don't think I can sleep for now anyway," Urdith sighed, gathering a small basket of yarn and knitting needles from her own berth and heading up to the deck. "I'll wake you in a few hours. Good night, Sammer."

"Glood night l'Urdith!"

Inside the captain's cabin, Grace had to admit she was impressed with the quality of the furnishings in the room, though she would have bet every penny she ever owned that not a single thing inside it hadn't been stolen. But it was warm and comfortable, and when she sat down on the curious lifeboat-bed she felt reassured that it wouldn't be too difficult to get Butch to drop his guard, especially not when the brandy came out. He'd already given up his sword after all, and was in the process of removing his baldric as well. Oh if only she had her knife, it would be so easy to slice through that shirt of his and carve her name on the smooth planes of muscle she could see beneath it, then cut his throat to finish it off.

She had to remind herself though that killing him was not the goal, at least not at the moment. Just a little revenge, that was all. Reaching up, she untied the violet scarf that kept her thick brown tangles out of her face, letting waves fall loose over her bare shoulders as she began to idly slide the silky fabric through her fingers. With her free hand she took the offered glass of brandy, but didn't take a drink until she had watched Butch do the same (after all, one good taste-test deserves another). It was good, but stronger than she was used to, and she would need to take care she didn't lose her wits in the process.

"Gifted, you say?" Grace mused softly, glancing around the room as though she were taking in the splendor of the different decorations. In reality, she was beginning to note that several items of furniture had curious little eyebolts on them, and one piece in particular--the table in the center of the room--seemed to be tied to the floor. In case of storms she realized, just as her eyes fell upon the object of her desire: a small coil of rope, stored beneath the bureau. Close at hand in case the furniture needed to be tied down quickly, but otherwise out of the way. This time she couldn't hide the smile.

"You know, Captain..." the woman continued, turning to face the man on the bed beside her. "I have to say, you've impressed me quite a bit. A lot of people have come after me looking for treasure, but you're the only one who's ever succeeded in taking me out of that damned tavern. I might not appreciate your methods, but there's something to be said for your...skill?" It was the best word she could think of that wouldn't seem like a blatant lie. She quickly raised her glass to him and took another minuscule drink, in hopes of distracting him further. "And your crew certainly has a way with knots. I can still feel those knots on me...so tight..."

Shivering a little, Grace began to rub her wrists gently with her scarf. "It certainly does make one feel helpless to be bound up like that. But if I'm being candid, Captain--" a blush darkened her cheeks. "I found it rather, well, rather exciting." She dropped her gaze immediately and turned her face away. "You probably can't imagine how it feels, to be exposed like that in front of strangers, in the dripping cold, blowing about like a kite on the wind. Or...do you know?" Setting aside her glass, Grace stretched the scarf between her hands until it was taught, then began to tease it gently against his hand.

"It's so shameful, isn't it?" she whispered, her face flushing as she brought it closer to his. "But it makes everything feel so much better after you get that release. It's almost worth it, isn't it?" With a snap of her wrist, the scarf was suddenly around Butch's neck and her mouth seemed to be a hair's breadth from his. "Forgive me," Grace breathed. "It seems I'm a bit more wound up than I thought. But you're right, it is your fault. Won't you help me now, Captain?" One hand dropped and began to undo the laces of her corset, while the other held both ends of the scarf loosely around his neck, her knuckles brushing against his bare chest.

 

[Doctor December]

"Well," Butch shrugged with a prideful smile, "You know... Gifted after a bit of persuasion." In truth, most of the more luxurious items in the cabin were left over from its former ownership by the Lusancian government. Originally, when its purpose was transporting dignitaries to meet with foreign powers and lesser members of the royal family on holiday, the cabin was for said people of importance, and not the ship's captain as is the traditional case on such vessels. After Butch frightened the former crew off (which at the time was only one man swabbing the deck while the ship was in port), he was sure to right this classist wrong by appointing the cabin his own sleeping quarters.

"Excited, you say?" As Grace confessed her sordid enjoyment of her experience earlier, Butch went back and forth his his better judgement on how genuine her feelings were. He knew, knew she was just trying to win his favor for reasons other than her own pleasure. Still, she wouldn't be the first woman he had met that had a preference for more eclectic situations to inspire intimacy. And indeed, it was his own memories of the image of her bound and hanging, mixed with her graceful anguish in reliving the incident now, that had him so flustered and torn. He hoped the light was dim enough to mask how much he was starting to blush. While he still had a chance, before she closed in on him, he swiped another big gulp of brandy right from the bottle to ease himself.

"Well, I, heh, it wasn't really worth it the last time I was bound," he shrugged, but no sooner did his shoulders relax again than he felt Grace's violet scarf snake around his neck and pull him closer. He observed that felt a little more relaxed somehow, though he was having trouble pin-pointing at what point he made the transition to this new, more tranquil mood. Maybe it was that first drink of brandy, maybe it was Grace's change of heart, but either way, he was now looking her square in her lovely eyes. He gave her a flirty grin. "Though I must admit, I did enjoy seeing you that way. Forgive me for saying so, but your predicament was a bit, er, titillating."

"Oh, I'm obliged to help you now," he noted, "Being your captain and all. Allow me to start with this." His arms slid forward to her midsection, both hands forming a tent shape over her lone, busy hand as it undid the laces of the corset. He held them there a minute to gently stop her, and as he made contact with her soft knuckles and palm, he also closed his eyes and leaned in, his mouth opening slightly before both closing softly and slowly with her top lip between both of his own. He repeated the entrapment, gently brushing his lips all about her mouth as his own hands began to work at the laces of her corset. Once it was open, his fingers crept in and danced teasingly over her shirted abdomen, sliding along her naval before traveling to her side, pulling her closer in the embrace of a lonely soul reveling in this long-craved contact. His other hand, meanwhile, raised to the side of her head, just behind her ear, fingers digging through her milky chocolate hair before trapping a lock of it and twirling it like a thief with a strand of freshly acquired pearls. Those ten months were starting to seem worth the wait.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

She could taste the brandy on his lips as he kissed her, and although she would have rather jumped overboard than admit it, Grace didn't dislike the sensation. Indeed, it was a good thing they were seated instead of standing; she wasn't sure her shaking knees would have supported her. What a pity Butch had to go and kidnap her. If he'd politely asked her for a fuck and kissed her like that back on the Rock, they'd probably be on their third or fourth round by now. After all, she wasn't a nun. But if she gave him what he wanted now she knew exactly what the rest of the voyage would be like: cook and clean all day and on her back all night, without a penny to show for any of it. She'd practically be a wife.

Stick to the plan she told herself, dropping her one hand from her laces while the other released the scarf and let it fall around his shoulders, the silky fabric contrasting brightly against his skin. When her corset was loosened enough to allow his hand to slip in, Grace suddenly leaned forward, allowing him to grasp her fully while she returned his kisses with even greater fervor. She even went so far as to slip her tongue into his mouth and run her fingers through his messy hair...all the while her free hand continue to pull at the laces of her bodice. Within a minute, the tough leather cording was completely freed from the garment and concealed in her left palm.

As the corset fell away and left her with only the thin fabric of her tunic separating her from him, Grace finally pulled back and looked him deeply in the eyes. She was panting softly and her blouse had opened sightly at the throat, allowing him a generous glimpse at her flushed and heaving breasts. Her long fingers slid fluidly down the side of his face and neck (brushing her scarf slightly to the side in the process) until they were pressing directly in the center of his chest.

"I'm sure the captain is used to giving orders, but maybe I might ask a favor?" she murmured, leaning forward to brush her lips over his neck. "Lie down for me? I like being on top." She nipped gently at the base of his throat, then pushed all of her weight against him and forced him onto his back. It didn't take much effort to hike up her skirt, and none at all to straddle him. No, the hard work would come in a series of flawlessly executed moves that, if performed correctly, would ensure Brimstone Butch would think twice before kidnapping another bartender.

Once she was firmly on top of him, she kept her mouth locked on his and tossed her hair until it hung down over the sides of his face, obscuring his vision should he be so ungentlemanly as to open his eyes. After dropping her corset lacings to the side, she ran her hands slowly from his shoulders down to his wrists and raised them up until they were over his head. Grace's pinky finger caught one of the lacings, and with all the deftness of an expert sailor they were suddenly wrapped tightly around Butch's wrists, secured with as fine a knot as could be found on the ropes on the deck above. His hands secured, the woman caught him under the arms and clenched her thighs tightly around him before rolling his body off of the bed and sending them crashing to the floor in a heap.

Without a word she stretched her foot to hook it into the nearby coil of rope and pulled it towards her. Now would come the most difficult part. When she finally broke the kiss that had been securing him as much as the bonds on his wrist, she slipped him a wink and a grin then turned on top of him and pulled up her skirt, revealing her bare ass for him the second time that night. Anything for a distraction she thought, bending over and tying the rope firmly around his ankles. Satisfied with her work, she let out a deep, contented sigh and rolled off of him entirely.

"Exhilarating, isn't it?" she remarked, her eyes wandering in more than a little appreciation at his form stretched out on the floor. "Want to try it on the deck?" Before he could answer though, Grace clapped a hand to her forehead in mock disappointment. "By the gods, I forgot the best part."

Once again she climbed on top of him, her chest and hips pressed firmly against him as her hands reached for the scarf around his neck. She tugged it gently as if to take it back, but instead of pulling it straight towards her it suddenly moved upward, and in the blink of an eye she had firmly jammed the scarf into his mouth and her knee into his stomach. All sweetness from her expression immediately evaporated and was replaced by a vicious glee as the gag was secured. "That's for leaving me tied up in the rain, you thieving son of a bitch." Sliding off of him, she sharply rolled him onto his front, and much as he had hogtied her earlier, she used the last bit of rope to secure his ankles to his wrists, leaving him tied helplessly on the floor.

"Well now, Butch," Grace sighed, brushing her hands on her skirt. "Lovely as your quarters are, I think I'd prefer to sleep alone tonight. You look quite settled in however, so I'll help myself to your bedding." She gathered up the pillow and blankets from the bed, along with the now rather useless corset lying on the side. The cook was about to leave him alone in the room when it occurred to her that she wouldn't care to be awakened too early. Searching through his discarded clothing and the few articles nearby, she managed to locate the key to the room and tuck it into the pocket of her skirt. "I think that will be all then. Good night," the woman stated, exiting the room and locking the door behind her.

Now came the matter of where to sleep. She wasn't too concerned about Butch making noise; after all the other crewmembers would probably expect a good amount of bumping, moaning, and muffled shouts to be coming from the captain's quarters. But the big green ogress and the ugly little frog would probably be concerned if they realized their leader was making the noises all on his own. Not wanting to risk being caught by either, Grace decided to settle in down in the hold behind some good-sized crates of gods-only-knew-what (but probably stolen nonetheless). Conveniently enough there seemed to be plenty of spare rope and sailcloth stored down there in the darkness as well, and the bed she fashioned for herself was only slightly less comfortable than her pallet back at the inn.

So it was within minutes that Grace feel into the sweet sleep of the avenged, rocked by the gentle waves of the sea beneath her.