streetlight swag

[streetlights as stars]

The barge pushed through the Indian Ocean, slicing through the water like a knife through butter. Deep blue water churned into a white color as it was circulated along the side of the ship. It was under management of Kosan Radich, known slave trader and owner around these parts. One of his reluctant slaves stood on the top of the ship, near makeshift railing that had been created by the crew. The wind and salt water bit at her mouth, nose and cheeks. She blinked to keep her eyes from drying, chocolate colored hair flowing behind her.

“Naila, Kosan wishes to see you.” One of her new friends, Senay, stood near the stairs that disappeared to the interior of the barge. Naila turned, the wind pushing her hair forwards, a personal whip on her caramel colored skin. Nodding obediently, even though Senay was just like her, she let out a shaky breath and descended into the underground portion of the barge.

Young boys and girls, like herself, sat around the perimeter of walls, knees either pulled to their chests or stretched out straight ahead of them. They were all upon the barge for the same reason, to be bought or traded. She thought the idea was ridiculous, but she did remember a few servants and slaves at her castle where she was to be queen. The thought of what had happened to her fiancé, King Tapio Kitane, brought a metallic taste to her mouth. Wiping at her mouth with the tattered sleeve on her dress, (which was more so a bed sheet with places cut for her head and arms), Naila knocked on Kosan’s door. It was thick, made of steel, and located at the end of a barren hallway. From her spot, she could see out the circular window, the waves crashing up against the outer body of the barge. What she would give to know how to swim, to be able to dive from the railing and swim to safety. Of course, she didn’t know where they were and would be eaten by sharks before finding any evidence of civilization.

“Come in,” A thick voice spoke, almost like a Scotland brogue mixed with molasses. Straightening her posture, Naila twisted the handle and applied her own body weight to move the door. She stood in the doorway, hair hanging limply below her breasts, feet bare, wearing a makeshift dress the color of mud.

“You called for me… Master?” The word stuck in her mouth like honey, trying its best to not escape past her lips until it had to. There was no way to become comfortable with the word, but as she was educated by a few of the younger individuals outside, that was the way to address Kosan Radich. He turned, wearing a black shirt and tan pants, eyebrows as thick as the beard that hung from below his lower lip. For the most part, Kosan had body large for his personality, a gentle face with too many worry lines for his apparent age.

“Yes, yes, close the door.” Pressing her back against it, Naila forced it close and stood, trying to keep her gaze up when all she wanted to do was stare at the floor. Behind Kosan was a desk in the corner, a bed on the opposite wall, a stack of clothes on a broken chair. He approached her, hand beneath her chin to pull her focus directly to him. His eyes were the colors of emeralds, hers the color of the water surrounding the boat. She felt embarrassed and dirty; her skin was freckled with dirt and dried sweat. Naila was sure she smelled also, there had not been any chance to bathe during the few days they had been aboard the vessel. Callous and experienced hands took to her waist, feeling her petite frame from beneath the oversized garment.

Senay had told her that none of the slaves went long before Kosan got them into his bed. It was easy to say that she was afraid, holding her shaking legs still. There was nothing she knew about pleasing a man; she had not once spread her legs for anyone. Tapio had spoken to her about it, telling her how special it would be once they were married, how he would love her like no one else did. Thinking of her perished fiancé, Naila choked back a sob as Kosan’s hands traveled down, pulling the dress above her head. Once she was standing naked, she felt, well…naked, exposed and her hands went to cover her breasts. He looked at her body as if he was an animal, hands roaming along her skin, pulling her hands free from her attempt at maintaining an inch of modesty.

“The bed,” Bright green eyes flickered towards the pile of blankets, gesturing towards the mattress with an outstretched hand. Her master had not seemed to notice the pained expression on her face, and if he had, Kosan Radich must have been enjoying it. She crossed the small room, hands hanging pathetically by her side, itching to cover her exposed womanhood again. But, she didn’t want to make Kosan any angrier than he possibly could. Crawling onto the mattress, Naila sat in the middle, only to have her master grab her roughly by the hips, yanking her rear towards his pelvis.

“P...Please,” A soft murmur escaped her lips, a plead, head hanging in shame. His rough hands ran over her vagina as if he were petting a horse, fingers delving inside. He shoved her head towards the mattress, pressing her face into the mound of blankets, ass sticking straight in the air.

“Pirates!” The cry from the top of the ship, and it sounded as if an army was running around the place. Kosan growled and paused, holding their bodies together, listening to the rampant happenings on the upper deck. Naila gripped the sheets, worrying more about the pirates finding the two in various states of undress than actually the action of having sex was Kosan.

"My boys will kill them," He spoke, lowly, as if it were a promise between them. There were more sounds of screaming and weighted objects landing in the water just outside of Kosan's bedroom.

"Kosan, please!" Naila cried, her head raised to see faceless bodies floating in the water. The slave owner merely shoved her forward on the mattress and stood, admiring the scene from inside the room. He may have just figured that his own crew was taking care of business, not that he was losing them minute by minute.

----
 
On a usual day, the kingdom of Miribar was bustling and booming, thousands of events and things going on at once. Today, on this fateful day, the workers in the castle were off from work, encouraged to mourn the death of their prior king. Six days had passed since King Tapio Kitane's slaying, his body had been preserved in a wooden casket lined with silk. A place for him had been prepared in the cemetery, a cross erected beneath a leaning willow tree.
 
This was certainly not his time to pass, he was meant to rule the country for years to come, creating heirs with his soon-to-be wife, Naila Makani. Nor he or Naila had been given the chance or opportunity to born heirs before his untimely death. Many citizens in Miribar blamed Naila for her fiancé’s death, saying that she had plotted the murder from the day they met. She had fled, and Troen Johari stated that her escape was based around the fact that she had killed their king. At first, the people of Miribar wished not to believe the words that filled their ears. They did not understand why such a sweet and polite girl could house such an evil demon beneath her skin. After she left the kingdom and the death was announced, the citizens chanted that Naila was a witch. Everyone wanted her to be burned, to be set aflame or at least punished in the way that she had killed her own love.
 
The ending was unfortunate, but the outcome of everything that had happened was spectacular. Pieces were falling into place, uncharacteristically, and Troen had managed to off his own brother without a single person finding out. Well, except for Naila, but that was soon to be in the past now. If she set foot in Miribar again, Troen was sure that her own people would kill her before his men were able to. Hopefully, because he had sent his men to kill her in the first place, after seeing her in the doorway, a bloody knife in his hand, her eyes wide and scared. He couldn't risk her running her mouth, telling her maids and advisors what she had witnessed. At that point, Troen had ordered his men to find her and kill her, or at least cut out her tongue and slice off her fingers. She would be left mute and stupid, able to be made a mockery of by Miribar's own.
 
To his displeasment, his hounds had returned to inform him that she had disappeared into the forest. As much as he had preferred to have her returned to him so he could take his anger out on her body like a real man, or at least put her head on stake, Troen was pleased to not have to deal with her any longer. The wretched whore would no longer be a cause of stress in his life and he could work towards being the king that his brother could never be. That started with him gaining a wife. He wished not to put the work forward, and simply requested that any girl be brought to him for marriage. His hounds did as they were asked, this time, and produced a woman, one that was more than displeased to be in his company. The two were set to wed a few days after Tapio’s service, (Troen wanted to give his people time to mourn before celebrating their new King and Queen), and the new king was more than impatient with the entire deal. It was a very tedious process of pretending he was actually affected by his brother’s death. But, truthfully, each time he stared out at the spot where his brother had been recently buried, a smile crept onto his face in secret.
 
The color scheme in his feasting hall was the darkest of colors, blacks and grays. The women wore blackened veils over their faces, dark gloves covering their slim fingers. The males, on the other hand, were dressed in the finest garbs, as if they were always ready for a funeral opportunity to arise. They donned hats, shined shoes and even canes that clicked on the floor as they roamed around from grieving person to person. Troen was doing the same, wearing a cloak the color of coal, gray breeches and a black tunic. His left arm was tied to his torso with a cast (his story was that Naila had snapped his arm when he had attempted to help his brother), along with a long scratch on his face, also supposedly from Naila’s anger. The injuries permitted even more empathy from the patrons at his hosted mourning service. On the other arm was his beautiful fiancé, Samosa. Seeing the two of them in each other’s arms gave the feeling that even the royal families were capable of feeling.
 
Standing alongside Samosa, hand resting possessively on her hip, he chatted easily with one of the more important males attending the service.
 
“I am very sorry about your brother’s passing.” His voice was light, almost cocky and entirely British.
 
Troen was surprised to not see the male sporting a female on his arm. Knowledgable, quick with words and educated, that's who the other was, and he was deemingly by himself. "Yes, yes. I do not understand why my brother had to be taken from this world so quickly." He spoke solemnly, trying to play the part of the mourning brother and not the murderous king. "I do promise to be the best King possible." Patting the male on the shoulder, Troen pulled Samosa closer to him and brushing her hair from her face. Murmuring in her ear, he kept his eyes on the party around them, "I wish to attire to my sleeping quarters and for you to join me." Releasing her almost as quickly, he spoke his goodbyes with the males that lingered around the grand ballroom, speaking to each other about the terrible event that had occured. "I am sorry to say, but I am dreadfully exhausted and must get myself to sleep before I do so on this very floor." Biding them the night, he announced that they were all free to do as they wished, stay as long as they wanted, eat the food they desired. The night was quickly approaching, so his random leave for bed would go unnoticed.
 
The hallways were empty as he walked along them, the sounds of footsteps echoing down the abandoned corridor. Candles were lit and lined the pathway, ending in front of his room. He let himself inside, and removed his cloak, leaving it to lay upon the back of the nearest chair. His arm was throbbing, a wound that he had inflicted upon himself and blamed on Naila's doing. Leaving the bandages that pinned his arm to his torso, Troen laid down on the mattress and barely acknowledged Samosa as she entered their shared bedroom. "I would like you to pleasure me," His voice sounded calm, almost tired, as he was very ready for bed. At least, until Samosa was able to get him excited.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  Starless nights were when Behemoth crept most silently upon the waves, veiled within a shroud of eerie fog that was said to herald the ghosts of sailors lost at sea. When the galley's prow parted through the miasma, vessels knew that doom was upon them. Like phantoms, Behemoth's children stole through the darkness with their scabbards and swords and scimitars, plunging into the briny depths below only to scale the prows of their victims' vessel ship. This particular night was no different than any other; Behemoth's sons were starving having lost their rations during a dreadful sea storm. Some grew irate, shoving and hollering at their brothers while others honed their scabbards with whetstones. That most fearsome of the crew was Yeaman Un Rusko, a man who shared similarities with his ship's title. He was broad of shoulder and long of limb with eyes black as smouldering hot coals.
  
  "Captain." One of the sailors emerged from Behemoth's lower deck sporting a russet beard that had grown frayed and unkempt over the weeks. His hair laid limp; flat against his hollow cheekbones, yet his eyes were as loyal as a hound's. "The barge is virtually unmanned. It's a slave ship, most like." Most pirates held vendettas against slave galleys and attacked them on sight - mercenaries and owners were slaughtered without remorse whereas the slaves were often left free to command their late master's ship. From time to time Rusko would allow his crew free reign to share beds with bodyslaves; the women were oft more than willing to express gratitude by parting their legs, but Rusko seldom partook. Instead he'd hole himself away in his quarters with a quart of spiced rum and make a silver stag walk across his knuckles as per his nightly ritual.
  
  "Our brothers are ready. We await your command-"
  
  "Take it."
  
  The middle-age man nodded then gestured towards a throng of pirates nearly bobbing up and down in excitement. With their scabbards at their hips and dirks clenched between their teeth, a fraction of the mob dove into the depths while others borrowed skiffs from Behemoth's belly and rowed them to the slave vessel with the steady thrum of the waves. They scaled the barge's prow like a nest of venomous spiders until until the first mercenary took notice. "Pirates!" he screamed. His call alerted the other sellswords but by the time they managed to clamber to the deck, Rusko's men had carved half their corpses and left a mess of blood and gore. With the moon ensconced beyond the fog one could not differentiate seawater from blood, but Rusko appeared quite supercilious as he shepherded Behemoth aside the slave barge.
  
  "This ship is far too extravagant to have so little arms," commented one of the pirates. Rusko circuited around him, observing the stairs which disappeared into the barge's belly. From there he could hear the melody of his cheerful brothers, each plucking locks and latches from the slaves' cages in the hold. He traversed the gallery, an atrium carpeted in vair, when weeping filled his ears. He knew the consonance of fear like a whore knew a cock, except, fear couldn't be culled by stroking it. Inside the chamber at the foot of the hall was a man primped and preened to perfection and a woman near nude as her nameday. Slave merchents were obvious, exploiting their wealth; flaunting it at every turn. Rusko knew well enough the title this man bore, and, with little to no hestitation, he drove his scabbard into the man's back. He croaked, gargling his last pleas until he slumped over, dead, on the blankets.
  
  
  
  
  Miribaran funeral rituals were the queerest of the many Quaz'cacial del Samosa had witnessed in her all her twenty-four years. Noble men of high birth; foreign dignitaries and rich socialites all gathered in her future husband's palace to mourn the loss of his brother, and, their late king. Women garbed themselves in wan black raiments while the men clasped their cloaks with sigils to represent their respective houses. A feast soon followed the service, but the food was as bland as the moon was pale. There was not a dash of spice; no curry or saffron or parsley, just trenchers of beef stew embellished with red potatoes. When the cook observed Samosa's empty plate, he meandered over and questioned her appetite with unfailing politeness. She declined his request to bake her something "extraordinary" and vanished, defeated.
  
  Lady Tanda of house Blackmarsh was the first to congratulate Samosa on her engagement. She was known to be a merry woman in her cups, but when sober, she was as sour as her lord husband. The entire night she ogled Samosa with little to no prudence, drinking in the width of her hips and swell of her breasts. Everything about the woman screamed exotic; her features were roguish and eyes ginger in hue, but it was her mane that was the most ravishing. It was long, thick and starless, framing her pert cheekbones as if she were some painting of a tropical goddess. "You will give Troen a strong, handsome heir," Lady Blackmarsh quipped as Samosa sipped her hipporcras. Unbeknownst to Lady Blackmarsh, Samosa hadn't even fathomed spreading her legs for Troen. Palans were a matriarchal race that adopted paramours, concubines and lovers. Marriage was a sacred unison, rare in practice among her people, but it was not entirely unheard of.
  
  Come the eve's culmination three quarters of Troen's company were near drunk or tipsy enough to sing dirges of King Tapio's passing. Samosa had the misfortune of being subjected to her fiancee's debauched whispers. A man whose strength lied in political prowess and not within a sword and shield did no more to arouse her than jowly Lord Cummond and his rotund belly that appeared to jiggle when he laughed. Despite her misgivings, Samosa was a calculating vixen if ever one breathed. In front of Troen's affiliates she assumed the role of the extrinsic sovereign who spoke few words of the common tongue when in retrospect, she was a venomous cobra who struck only when convenient. "Of course, lord husband," she sang almost mellifluously. Her accent was thick and laden with a vernacular rhythm, though she embellished if only a smidgen.
  
  When they are alone in their marital chambers, Samosa hastily began unlacing her bodice. It exaggerated the swell of her bosom and narrowed her hips until she nearly lost her image of nubility. Underneath she wore a linen bandeau dyed in kohl; her arms and midsection all bear, revealing the ritual tattoos her people had branded her with when she was six years old. "I am sure you would like many things, labi," she replied flatly, yet, almost mockingly, "I, for example, would like our marriage to be annulled. Yet ... fate dictates otherwise."

 

[streetlights as stars]

Drawing a sheep hide blanket around her shoulders, Naila whimpered, her legs numb. There was a ball the size of a fist in her throat, an empty hollow feeling in her stomach. She felt sick, sick to the point she could simply throw up the entire contents of her gut. Kosan stood, watching the window as more and more of his men disappeared into the depths of the Indian Ocean. What would a man be without his ship, without his crew? Naila watched the naked slave owner in all his glory, wearing a stoic expression.

It was at that moment when there was a slicing sound in the air. Kosan’s face contorted and he collapsed on the bed, lying like a pillowcase filled with alfalfa. “Kosan?” Her voice was quiet in her own mind, and she didn’t know why she was reaching out to check on Kosan. Touching his shoulder gently, the pads on her fingertips pressed against his skin as she shifted cautiously to her knees. She turned his body and he slopped onto his back, the stoic expression having transformed into glazed eye and limp mouth.

Blood soaked the blankets and sheets, flowing from his lips and down his sides.

Looking up, as to not be pinned as the reason for his death, Naila noticed a figure standing but a foot or two from her. The blade used to kill Kosan remained in his grip, gleaming with blood that had long since dripped to the floor in a peaceful rain. “Why did you kill him?” Fingers tightening to secure the blanket around her frame, she eyed the dress abandoned by his feet.

Naila kept mixed emotions, she was pleased that Kosan’s chance of harming her was extinguished, yet she did not believe he deserved to die.

All people die in the end, as her mother had told her when she was younger, some people just leave in better ways than most. Kosan’s way of death was not comparable to dying during slumber or because of old age.

Standing up from the bed, she, if only for a moment, was level height with him, before she stepped onto the wooden floor. “Wha…What is your name?” Truthfully, it did not matter what the stranger’s name was, Naila’s attempts were simply to keep him from running his blade into her back. She did not know if he had a personal vendetta against Kosan and his crew or was housing a hunger for blood. From there, she kept to the perimeter of the room, working her way towards the door.

He looked to be an interesting fellow, piercing eyes and hair that was nearly longer than hers. The differences between Kosan and this monster of a man were stark, obviously their sizes. Naila thought Kosan to be a mouse whereas this fellow may have been a lion or water beast. She would not accept dying as a result of being ran through by this man's blade, it was not in her plans. This man was free to murder her as soon as she had revenge on her King's murderer, his brother.

----

Resting on a bed of blankets made from bear skin, thick quilts sewn together from pieces of the finest silken fabrics, Troen merely chuckled at his fiancé’s response. “You would dare defy me?” He countered, using his strength, for the most part, to push himself up and off the mattress. “I have given you shelter, a roof over your head, blankets to lie under, a fireplace to keep you warm. You know I would give you anything you ask for, within reason, of course.” Hari spoke simply, his voice throwing out promises as if they were warm breath on a cold night.

“I merely ask that you give me what I want in return. I do not wish to take anything from you, or to force you to lie with me.” Approaching her, he walked slowly, removing the thin black tunic from his torso, revealing a finely chiseled body, colored from his summers in Greece. Dropping the garment to the ground, Troen pulled a smile onto his face. Surely Samosa would be inclined to have sex with him just because they are to be wed.

In Miribar and in all the countries Troen has visited in his life, heirs were what gave you power. If you were not quick to bear a child, your spot in the future and as a holder of power were somewhat relinquished. Your name and family were swept under metaphorical rug, forever forgotten. Troen Johari refused to be forgotten, especially after the crime he had to commit to simply be King. And now that his fiancé chose to not do as he pleased…Troen would not have any problem with riding his kingdom of her.

“I do understand that you may be an exotic woman elsewhere, but in Miribar, my land, you are whatever I chose you to be. Tonight, my love, you are to please me better than any of the whores could.” They were standing face to face now, Hari having but a few inches over this woman. His eyes were sullen, tired and angry that he had to put so much work into just having to get sex from Samosa. It wasn’t even that he wanted sex at this time. He just wanted her wet mouth on his cock, maybe even a small period of just lying together.

But, he realized, if just getting her to suck him off was going to be this much work, sex would be worth it in the end. Letting out a breath, Troen admired her body, even covered with some pieces of fabric. She was a beautiful creature, he had to admit, but her attitude as a horse needing training was perpetually frustrating for him. Admittedly, he was used to being given what he wanted, as he was born into royalty, and expected it even more so now that he was King.

Hands moving forward, they pulled the fabric over her head, breasts exposed and tantalizing, even if he had seen their true beauty before. “Would you like me to pleasure you instead, my love?” Questioning slowly, he captured a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and pinching until it was a hard nub.

 

[Osheaga]

• Below deck there was a literal miasma of exotic perfumes and incenses, likely imported at the behest of the dead slave merchant lying at Rusko's feet. He lurched over and wrenched his scabbard from the corpse with relative ease, careful not to besmirch the blade’s sheath with blood and gore.
  
  Overhead his crew broke into a tumult, sacking the galley’s cabins and siphoning every last drop of wine and water they found stored. He could hear the muffled cries of slatterns being fucked; their mouths agape and breasts likely swinging as they dutifully responded to freedom by spreading their legs. Rusko's crew often inquired as to why he never partook, but he'd respond with silence and entreat himself with a bottle of rum as a reward instead of some slave girl’s filthy cunt. That wasn't to say, however, that he didn't possess some degree of desire.
  Eventually Rusko came to observe the woman before him. He wasn't all too pleased with her interrogation as made evident by the chagrin scarring his handsome features. In fact, he chose to withhold his name instead of petitioning the woman with obsequence.
  
  “Captain, we –” There was a longer lapse of silence as Rusko's first mate cantered into the room. He was weary from battle and sullied from sweat and blood, but that did not deter him from confirming his captain’s safety. For a blink, he glimpsed the half nude slave woman but was quick to feed his attention to Rusko. "We've secured a healthy amount of rations. But the lasses ... they've expressed interest in commandeering the ship."
  
  "Is that so," Rusko responded ingenuously. As he spoke he knelt to collect Naila’s dress, laying it before her with queer grace, something thought absent in a man of his size. “Get dressed,” he commanded. His first mate continued his tirade regardless of Rusko’s discourtesy. “’Aye, ‘tis,” the first mate responded, “One’s a sailor’s daughter, so she claims. I told the lasses we could take them in land, but most agreed that they'd prefer to have the ship. It’s like that they’ll be raped and maimed by other pirates come the waxing moon.”
  
  “Their fate is their own,” Rusko said, “And what of yours?” He eyed Naila, sniffing, feeling the incense sting his eyes with more agony than the sea spewing its salt, “I assume you’ll be joining your slave-sisters as well?”
  
  
  
  
  As usual, Samosa chose not to entertain her Troen’s repletion. Instead she quite literally gazed through him as she had many times before with her soulless, opal-hued eyes. She began braiding the tail of her mane with quick, nimble fingers until Troen approached with his nefarious casual yet suave canter. If there was one thing the future couple had in common, it was their stoicism and their swagger, likely a trait their children would adopt if Samosa chose to spread her legs.
  
  “Charity does not merit reward,” she responded flatly, “Nor does your newly discovered altruism merit a fuck.” She reached for her shawl but Troen advanced with his feline grace, unraveling her bandeau and disdaining it without a care to thwart him. Her breasts bounced free, each heavy and supple and nubile, but the sudden swell of cold sent her skin prickling.
  
  Suddenly, she began reminiscing on the balmy summer eves in the desert, where her and her very first lover made love in the sand. His hands were hot and rough-hewn like the salt flats baking in the sun, so large that they could nearly grope both breasts in their entirety. But Troen wasn’t that man. She made a futile attempt to fantasize, but feeling Troen rub and squeeze her nipple to erection made her shiver even more.
  
  With lightning fast reflexes, Samosa reached for her betrothed’s throat. She brought him spiraling into an adjacent wall with her supernal strength, indifferent to whether or not she disturbed his injured arm. She gave his gullet a testing squeeze, leering at him with her cat eyes. With little to no notice she extended her tongue, long and pink and wet and pierced, tasting his skin from his collarbone to his ear in one long, seductive lick. It was a red herring for death, a trait her people were oft to do before stealing a life, albeit messily.
  
  “Don’t ever touch me, labi,” she purred. Her voice was thick with contempt and her eyes glowered as if she were a panther about to tear an elk’s throat to ribbons. “Or you may lose more than your brother.”

 

[streetlights as stars]

Compared to the giant before her, Naila felt small. She felt more than vulnerable, especially when her barren state was taken into account. The man did not answer either of her inquiries and Naila understood, to each their own. To be truthful, she was subtly amazed that he did not take over Kosan’s doing once the slave lord was killed. Naila wasn’t ugly, nor was she fat like some of the other women on board. If she were a man, Naila was sure she would have taken the opportunity to get her dick wet. Though, appreciation sprouted from the fact that he hadn’t touched her when he had the chance. He was surely different than most men.

Standing along the wall, she kept quiet, watching as another male entered the room, blocking her chance to flee. He had updated her savior, after eying her for a moment, on the happenings upstairs. The other slaves were thinking about running the ship themselves? That was the genius thinking of stupid women in its finest state. What were they thinking? Just as the man had said, they would be killed as soon as they happened upon another ship. Naila was not going to subject herself to that type of torture. Plus, if this man’s crew were to take everything off of their ship, what would the women be left with? They would simply resort to feasting upon each other once the sun was hot enough.

The dress was laid before her, on the bed, and she took it gladly. As her body had already been exposed to the likes of Kosan, Naila was quick to remove the blanket and exchange the cover with her dress. Pulling her hair free from beneath the fabric, she shook her head and simply looked at the dead body on the floor. “They are not my sisters. I have been aboard this ship for merely a week,” Righting her gaze, Naila licked her lips and stepped towards the men. “I would be grateful for the chance to go to land aboard your vessel.” Even if they were not destined for Miribar, she was sure there would be someone that would take her there.

----

Troen was sure that Samosa would cave once he offered to give her pleasure instead. But, before he knew it, she had him pressed to the wall like some foul-mouthed whore. Rolling his eyes at her threat and licking, Troen threw up his hands in a sort of surrender. This was not over, of course, but he was growing more and more tired by the minute. “Forgive me, my love. But, I do hope you remember those words when the time comes around that you do wish for me to touch you.” Narrowing his eyes, he stalked away from the women and carefully removed his tunic around his bandaged and slung arm.

They were, hopefully, going to be married for quite some time, and Troen took a new oath to not touch his fiancé until she begged it of him. But, knowing her and even her culture, the fact that she must ask for something was not to come easy. “Come to bed,” He cooed, going around to his side of the mattress, the covers pulled back in preparation for his slumber. “I promise I will not touch you, I will even sleep near the edge of the bed,” Troen promised, patting her side with his good hand. The thoughts in his heads were that of sex and fucking, but he did not want Samosa to take her anger out on his dick. There had been too many close calls in the past.

Laying his head upon the pillow, he arranged the blankets over his nearly nude body, save for undergarments covering his genitals. “Tell me something about yourself.” He requested, addressing her from his place on the bed. “If we are to marry, though you do not wish it, I must know something about Miribar’s future queen. What is your home like?” Troen was careful to tread lightly on the subject of family, if not avoiding it completely. She was already a tough egg to crack and he wished not to make her hate him more for taking her away from her people. At that rate, Troen would never have any heirs to rule his country when he was gone.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  "Quick to abandon her ilk, this one," first mate Edmure noted, "I'd wager they were like your baseborn sisters when your master forced himself upon you. Cap'n, if I may be so bold ... this one wreaks of treachery. Havin' a woman on board is omen enough, but to allow a treasonable one pilgrimage? Unwise."
  
  Edmure leered hatefully at Naila with his sea green eyes as if he were assessing her vigilance. The first mate was the saltiest sailor that ever battened Behemoth's sails. He was once a revered knight, honoured with a vermillion badge that detailed his exploits in efficiency which he still wore to this very day. However, his kingdom fell and he fled, fearful that the gods would smite him because he failed to fulfil his duties. To repent he devoted himself to Rusko, a man who reminded him heavily of the knight-commander.
  
  Suddenly, Rusko brandished his weapon. He forced Naila to meet his gaze by lifting her chin with his scimitar. "Pray tell you know of the nine circles, woman," he began, "For treacherous little whores die frozen in ice, with skin as blue as sapphires." He sheathed his blade, circuiting to the door with Edmure in close pursuit. By then Rusko could hear the heavy patter of rain beating against the galley's deck and his men scuffling to collect the last few barrels of rice they found.
  
  "Come then, woman. But know that I won't suffer treachery or disobedience. You do as you're told, as a reward, you may eat. Any sign of resistance from you ..." He paused, glimpsing her with his winsome black eyes, "... then may the Drowned God have mercy. Because I do not."
  
  
  
  If Samosa had her way, her marriage to Troen would be a most abstinent one. She plotted to manipulate his diplomatic immunities and exploit his dynamisms in his courts. Though she was hundreds of miles from her empire, she sought to support them as best she could from the palace's balustrade with her husband looming menacingly behind her. Samosa may have been an exotic empress with a penchant for mayhem, but she was not unwise.
  
  As Troen beckoned for her, she hiked her bandeau around her chest, positioning each breast so they filled the linens and kept them ensconced from his hungering eyes. For a blink she balked as her ears drank in his request. Their nuptials were seldom discussed in private let alone the open, so naturally Samosa feared spilling details.
  
  Warily, she made her rounds towards the bed, gently lifting her weight onto the mattress that began to sink under her weight, like a mare who'd wandered into a mire only to be drawn into its sinkhole. "Pala," Samosa mused allowed, obscenely pacified as she rested aside her future husband, "Emqiz i'Pala. The Palan empire." It visually pained her to speak of her home. "I'd prefer that we not speak of it. Pala's name has been stigmatized enough these past moons."

 

[streetlights as stars]

Taking in a courageous breath, Naila straightened her spine and narrowed her pretty eyes. “They were never my sisters, sir. They were simply my friends, nay, one was my friend.” She would have brought up the fact that Kosan had hordes of women on his ship, but, they had been overtaken by pirates. A bad sign. “I am not treasonable, my lord.” Naila spoke carefully, twisting her hands in front of her now clothed body. What was so treacherous about her, what gave off the aura that she was a bad person? “I am just trying to travel home, you must understand. These women do not have homes any longer. Their parents had disowned them when they became whores to earn money. One told me.” She promised.

Locking eyes with the shorter fellow, Naila murmured “My…family…they do not believe this is the life I have chosen.” The next moment was truly frightening; there was a sharp blade beneath her chin, fixing her eyes upward. She sucked in her breath, as to make sure her throat was not cut by accident. “I am not treacherous!” Naila spoke, exasperated, her shoulders sinking. It would just be her duty to show these men that she was someone to trust. Letting out a breath finally, Naila tucked a knotted lock of hair behind her ear, abandoning the idea of fixing her appearance. The pirates have probably seen worse, and she was sure there would not be a chance for her to bathe. Maybe her womanly scent would override the stench of piss and shit.

Naila nodded, hooking her arms over her torso, holding tightly to the opposite forearm. As the boys left the room, she gave it a quick glance, thinking of the worse things that could have happened if the pirates had not commandeered their ship. “You are not merciful, my lord? Then what is this?” The small group had reached the top of the barge, where the rain was washing away the blood, bodies spread around like new decoration. “You are being merciful right as we speak.” Naila was careful to not give the male the chance to leave her behind and slipped onto his ship which was tied off to the barge. “You are allowing me to travel with your crew; you did not rape or maim me when you had the chance. That’s called mercy, lord.”

Men bordered the perimeter of the ship, some squaring away the items they had taken from the barge, others wiping sweat from their brows. They were all eyeing her, both obviously and not, whistling and speaking low under their breath. “Ye brought a wench wit’ you?” A grimy, portly man called out, missing a front tooth and wearing pants that barely covered his stomach. “Someone for ye to fuck a’ nigh’ or is she free fo’ us?” He stood up and leaned against the railing near him, and instantly Naila felt like she needed more clothing to cover herself. Though a majority of these men had gotten their fill from the women on board, they were watching her like hawks. Some licked their lips; others made lazy pelvic thrusts in the air. She turned and looked at the two men for support or protection.

----

It amazed him that Samosa had done as he requested; she had made her way over to the bed. He shifted roughly, wiggling his body around until he was leaning on his good elbow, body angled to watch her. “Pala,” Troen repeated, testing the word on his tongue. He had never heard of it before, which was hard to believe because he was supposed to be knowledgeable on the entire world. The word sounded weird, almost as exotic as a place where Samosa should be from. “How do you figure we are to become comfortable around each other if you do not indulge me in your life?” Troen questioned, sighing before plopping onto his back. He didn’t understand why Samosa had to be so fucking difficult. She was like a stallion that refused to be tamed.

“I will tell you about my life. Give you a few ideas on whom you are marrying.” Raking his strong hand through his hair, the black locks flopped over his forehead and he stared at the ceiling. “My brother, Tapio, was nearly three years older than me. He never wanted to be the king when we were growing up, which makes it nearly coincidental that he is no longer king. See, Tapio wished to be a ranger, he wanted to be in the forest as much as he could, hunting, living off what he could find. He became king because he was the eldest, though the Lord knows I would have preferred the title more than he.” Shrugging, Troen struggled onto his side once more and gave a faint smile to Samosa. “It seems to be that fate does dictate correctly in some instances.”

Their eyes locked for several seconds before he dropped his gaze to her darkened shoulder. “Perhaps tomorrow we shall do what you choose, my love. I would love to find out what pleases you.” In the opposite corner, the fire that had blazed earlier was now dying down to embers, creating an orange glow on Samosa’s side of the bed. “We could go riding or take a walk in the market.” Shrugging, Troen leaned forward a few inches and pressed his lips to her shoulder, his eyelashes kissing her jaw. “Goodnight, my love.” Sinking down to his back, he leaned on his other side, cradling his slung arm against his stomach. He figured that giving Samosa a chance to get comfortable around him would allow for their marriage to come that more smoothly. It would just take a while of convincing.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  Both Rusko and Edmure were thrown aback by their passenger's intrepidity. Edmure advanced, mouth parted and eyes wild, but Rusko intervened. He resembled a demon in the rainfall; his surcoat was oversized, its hood limned with teased wolf fur and thatched with threadbare linen. Cold rain was sluiced over his mane, flattening it against his cheeks. A monster, many called him - his men, however, called him a saviour.
  
  "This? This is not mercy. This is convenience." The very instant the cadence slipped from his lips, a handful of Rusko's crew curcuited closer. Some were handsome underneath the layers of grime and facial hair, others slovenly and made sallow by years at sea. If Rusko allowed it, his crew would drag the woman into Behemoth's belly and each take turns viciously raping her while the others watched on with fire in their eyes, eagerly stroking their cocks to erection as they awaited their turns. If it gladdened his brothers, Rusko would see to it.
  
  "Mercy would be throwing you to the depths. You use the term 'lord' as if you are in Miribar. But look around you!" He raised his arms and gestured to the salty expanse stretching out to meet the horizon's zenith, all slick and black and disturbed by the rain. His men all chuckled, some being brazen enough to smack their hands on their chests and cup their balls. "There are no lords here, whore. There is the sea, the sky, and us. You think some primped and preened lord in Miribar will want you after you've been spoiled? Gods know how many bastards have had their cock in you."
  
  Thunder drummed overhead and lightening cracked at the clouds like a whip. Behemoth was momentarily ignited by light but fell to silent darkness as they clouds thickened. For a moment Edmure swore that he saw his captain smile, a thing rarer than a whale sighting in those waters. "Tell me, woman, what is your name? So we may properly mourn upon your passing."
  
  
  
  Comfort was something a Palan emperor or empress was not permitted to have. Unlike the hedonists dwelling within the civilized kingdoms across the Sandsea, most inhabiting the cities across its shores sacrificed extravagance for their people. Before being abducted, Samosa ruled Pala with altruism and cunning. She eschewed her beliefs for them; forfeited her freedom to marry and bare children all for her people to live peacefully.
  
  When Troen mentioned fate, Samosa lifted her head. As a Palan, she was a firm believer in destiny and its sister fate. In fact, her religion revolved around the ideal that lives were sewn by destiny's thread, predestining each life. Perhaps someday she'd elaborate on the verity of his statement. She watched, mesmerized, as the flames danced like a troupe of writhing red ribbons. She glimpsed Troen as he kissed her shoulder and withdrew to his side of their bed; surprisingly, Samosa found herself spurred to converse. Opporunity to chat was infrequent, she deemed, and Troen was to be her husband under every circumstance.
  
  "Pala," she exhaled, eyes sullen, "It's an archipelago, wrought by summer all throughout the year. It's an indescribably resplendent place ... the waters are blue as sapphires and clear as glass." She swept a few arrant locks from her view, watching as the last embers in the hearth began to wane. "We do not have lords or ladies. Men and women are equal in Pala. Those of note earn their roles; their blood has naught to do with inheritance. Alas, words would not do Pala justice. One would have to drink the sight to know its rapture."

 

[streetlights as stars]

Naila stood like a feather in the wind and rain, fighting to not be blown over, hair wiping around her face. A few members of the crew were working to separate the boats from each other. Above, the sides of the barge were lined with the women she had abandoned, who were watching the scene unfold. She was better off on this vessel, Naila assured herself. If she had chosen to stay with the women, they would have surely turned to ravens come the next sunrise. She was given such a grand opportunity to travel to Miribar and slay her fiancé’s killer; Naila was not going to let her be killed. There was too much at stake and revenge was far too sweet. Licking her salt lined lips, she wiped water from her cheeks where her skin stung from the wind.

Swallowing slowly, Naila eyed the men that were doing the same to her. She could only imagine the looks on their faces as they humped her, getting their thrill from fucking her mercilessly. They would have eyes closed, mouth open, and knuckles white from gripping her thin body tightly. The men frightened her, and she was sure they realized that. Some continued to thrust into the air, hands clenched into fists, eyes closed with their tongues hanging out. It appeared that they were ignoring the words their captain was speaking, and with good reason. She pulled the fabric on her dress closer to her arms, trying to ward away the cold. Hopefully she would be allowed to huddle on the bottom floor of the ship with a blanket.

The man who had been her rescuer was now being crueler to her than he was when he had slain Kosan. Naila had thought him to be a sensible man, someone who was a protector, not some monster who found pleasure in being a donkey’s ass. Her hands curled into fists, similar to the crew’s, and she resisted the urge to hit him. If she had dared strike him, Naila was sure she would be killed right on the spot. He still had his sword on him and was probably a quick draw. “You are wrong. I have not once spread my legs for a man, for anyone, for that matter. I am from Miribar, we speak with intelligence, whereas you sea…sea vermin do not!” Her gray eyes darkened, brow furrowing as she became like a bottle of champagne right before the cork popped out.

“I do believe that I questioned about your name first. Tell me yours and I will tell you mine, it is only fair.” Breathing heavily, Naila pressed her hair away from her eyes. The man standing next to the captain looked as if he wanted to rip her to shreds given the chance.

--

Moments before he was able to doze off, lulled to sleep by the sound of Samosa’s breathing and the crackling of wood in the fire pit, his fiancé began speaking. He gave a small smile, lazily lifting his head to listen to her. “That sounds like Greece,” Troen commented slowly, brain and speech lagging by his desire for slumber. He felt like he was drunk on the night, his body beginning to shut down limb by limb. “Have you been?” Twisting, he spoke with his eyes closed, hand drawing a picture in the air. “The water is the color of turquoise, perhaps made of glass, like you have stated. Houses the sizes of shacks are built into the cliffs, a winding staircase of stone down the mountain. It is a grand place.” Troen paused for a few seconds, waiting to think of what he would say next.

“I try to make it there at least once every few moons. Perhaps I will bring you there on our honeymoon. Greece would be a lovely place to create our child.” What if they went to Pala for their wedding and then Greece for their honeymoon? It would be definitely uncharacteristic for a Miribarian to have a celebrated wedding anywhere but Miribar. But, he was the ruler now and would bend and shape the rules to fit his liking. That way, if the couple did have their merging in Pala, they would be able to connect the two kingdoms, maybe rule as a larger force. Troen, in his sleepy stupor, attempted to remind himself to look into the idea. He doubted he would remember come morning, but the fact would be brought up again later in time.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, as his earlier state of tiredness had been pulled from him, Troen sat up in bed. His eyes lazily latched onto the dancing fire, waiting as the red and yellow embers settled into black and light brown stone. “I think that wine has given my mind too much to think about. My arm is smarting,” Troen crossed his legs beneath the blanket, tenderly rubbing the healing portions of his arm, kneading the bandage into the cuts. The physician would have to give him a seed of poppy mixture for breakfast and perhaps he could stay in bed for the morning. “Tell me more about your home, love.” He beckoned, looking at her with lusty and lazy eyes. “It calms me and my wounds seem to be numbed by your words.”

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  Boisterous laughter infected Rusko's crew like a disease. It was difficult to antithesize the thunder from their howls and eventually, both fell silent under Rusko's intimidating presence. "A maiden, the lass!" japed one of the pirates, "One with a mouth like barracuda! Wonder if 'er cunt is as sharp." He cupped his groin and gave it a vulgar shake, inspiring his brothers to do the very same. "Enough," Rusko boomed. Suddenly, an eerie silence washed over his crew, the only ambience left to fill their ears being that of the rain, elements and the sea spewing forth its spume.
  
  "I apologize, milady," Rusko grunted through a tightened jaw, "We are a barbaric people, us Palans, for abstaining from corrupt politics. The game of thrones is not ours to take part in, Miribaran; there is nothing intelligent about plotting to kill your brother because he possesses more land than you. If, however, you deem this as intelligent, then we as a people are indeed sea vermin." The rain bled through his oversized surcoat, beating against his bare chest as it would stone. His hood, limned with a teased lion's mane, was flattened about his shoulders and his breeches were cemented to his rough-hewn thighs.
  
  "I am named Yeaman Un Rusko. Captain of this vessel, Behemoth, one of Pala's most revered galleys; barbarian and sea vermin."
  
  "We'll show the lass how sea vermin fuck!" cried one of the men. His outburst would have merrited punishment from Rusko given any other circumstance, but having his brothers preach felt infinitely more reassuring. "I tire of these fucking trivialties," Rusko spat, "Prepare to sail. Not one cask of wine or draught of ale will be opened until the barracks are spotless. Is that under stood?"
  
  "'Aye, cap'n!"
  
  
  
  
  "I have not," Samosa replied tranquilly, "Before I was chosen to be Neferset Yule's successor, I was a merchant. I travelled the Sandsea's nations, but those across its waters are unfamiliar to me." Like her fiance, Samosa, too, was plagued by fatigue. Her eyes laid half-lidded as she rested against Troen's ocean of exotic throw pillows, cradled by his absurdly oversized mattress. At a glance, Troen wasn't altogether monstrous; Samosa was a spiritual entity, one that sensed a tyrant leagues away. Underneath Troen's smug mien she was all too cognizant of his despotic plots. Totalitarians virtually oozed autocracy and, as Samosa perceived, his speeches were eerily nonchalant.
  
  Samosa did her best to avoid reaction when Troen mentioned a child. As per Palan customs, baring a child was a sacred thing. As monarchs the mother played a crucial role; the fathers were often relieved of parental obligations at birth, unless both parents shared mutual affection for one another. Since Samosa could remember she was uninterested in having children. When she was vagrant she drank moon tea to keep her womb empty if she chose to lay with a man, though her trysts were few and far between. "You needn't mollify your words with exaggerated, non-existent affections," Samosa said, "Let us expose this betrothal for what it is: a diplomatic scheme."
  
  She gazed at him with heavy eyes, laying her body upon the pillows. They hugged every curve and framed her hips like her mane framed her cheeks. "Although I find it impressive that you've chosen to reconcile, plying me with honeyed words is no more useful than tits on a bull. In public, assume the role of loving husband, but in our bedroom you needn't be so attentive. Fuck your whores until your hips are bruised; curse as you desire, sputter profanities about your affiliates as you see fit. But please ... do not feign love. It is treachery."

 

[streetlights as stars]

Had Naila been living in Miribar with her fiancé, the men who chose to speak to her in that tongue would be hanged in the kingdom’s square. The royal family had no tolerance for being spoken to any other way but as if they were gods. But now, as she stood upon a pirate’s ship, having asked for transportation, Naila felt out of her element. The men were extremely vulgar and though her tongue was quick, their words circulated around the same topic. As they continued to prove their manliness by grabbing themselves, Naila rolled her eyes and squinted, watching the captain. He soon gathered the attention of the masses, even the women on the barge leaned over the railing to listen.

Naila bit back a smile when the captain altered his words. That was the way she was comfortable with being talked to, addressed like the queen she was born to be. His words dripped with sarcasm, perhaps using her own statement against her and Naila didn’t mind. All she knew was the game of thrones, and it was her life to be a participant. If she had returned to Miribar in search of shelter, Troen’s men would have beheaded her right as she passed through the gates. She did not dare to retreat to her old home, for her death was easier done than said. Once she did make it back, though, there was no chance on her being caught for Troen’s death was her only wish.

“I did not say our actions were intelligent, sir, I stated that our way of speaking is such.” She murmured, finding it hopeless in making herself clear to this man. His words were nearly as strong as his sword and Naila wished to stay on his good side. Acknowledging already that she may be getting herself a ticket for a bed underground, she would now have to watch her tongue. He introduced himself and Naila was quick to keep herself quiet. Her death would only be only more imminent if he found her to be the murderer of Miribar’s late King. Well, that was if this man and his crew supported the country, which it appeared he was against anything that any other land did.

The order resounded in her ears and Naila bowed her head, folding her hands together. “We ‘ill show the lass ‘round, cap’n!” One man called as the others began to file below deck, taking a squeaky set of stairs to the underground. Swallowing, Naila fell in line and crossed her arms over her torso, finding that they were staring at her once she appeared in the barracks. “Yer no’ safe tonigh’, lass,” They cooed, laughter spreading like wildfire as they retrieved makeshift brooms and mops from behind a half broken door. “There are enough beds fer the men, an’ it looks like yer gonna be sleepin’ on tha’ floor.”

The fellow that claimed her upstairs had pointed to the open corner where a single blanket rested. On the opposite corner was a hole that had been placed in the elbow of the wall, the surface of the water only feet below. “Tha’ is the loo, lass. Ye squat over it and shit or piss and then yer done. When the water is rough, the barracks can flood, ya hear? Good thing we ain’t got nothin’ of particular importance!” Her mouth fell into a tight line and she stood near the wall as the crew filled a bucket with water by dropping it through the toilet hole. They began mopping the floor as others spread the blankets over the makeshift mattresses. “Well, get ta work!” She was ordered and jumped, working on sweeping the ground ahead of the fellow mopping.

----

Her words were like a lullaby in his ears, though he struggled to stay awake to hear them. Samosa was surprisingly easy to listen to, though her words aggravated him, like fingernails digging into his skin. As much as he wanted to love her, to actually accept the marriage to be between them, Troen found his attempts futile. The words slipped from his mouth like molasses and even though he did not mean them, not yet, he still attempted to comfort his fiancé. He knew her home was preferable to her, but this was her new life and Troen was not going to bare living with a woman who made him feel entirely inferior. He was the man, not she.

“I would think you to be a man, but with breasts upon your chest and a cunt between your legs.” Troen spoke surely, angered that Samosa was not assuming the role of doting wife, even in the bedroom. “As per your request, my love, I will do as I choose and our kingdom will be reprimanded for your decisions.” It was her choice to not bed him, to not want to be with child the night after their marriage. That was Miribarian tradition, at least in the royal family, to be impregnated before the second moon after you are wed. He understood that a ring was not yet upon her finger, but Troen now realized that a child may not be in their cards ever.

Samosa would not give a chance for them to be in love. She was harboring a grudge or a negative emotion in her soul for the fact that Troen’s men had abducted her from her Palan home. The job was not his fault, though he had instructed the successful abduction, he needed a woman to rule Miribar alongside him. His fiancé could be quick to blame Miribarian traditions over him, for he was just following the guidelines set before him. Had his poor brother’s death not been pinned on Tapio’s runaway fiancé, Troen may have taken her hand in marriage instead. She was certainly perfect for the role and would surely love her fiancé’s brother for he was nearly the spitting image of Tapio.

Brushing his bangs from his forehead and near his eyes, Troen let out a breath and rolled onto his other side, holding in the pain. “I bid you a peaceful sloom,” Halting from speaking ‘my love’, he pulled the blanket over his injured arm, as a makeshift shield during his slumber. The rise of the sun would signify a new day, time would be given to see Miribar’s physician and then work on royal matters until lunch. The disappearance of the moon towards the oncoming morning would also proclaim the permanent burial of his murdered brother and hopefully the suspicions of his Miribar’s late King came upon his fateful death.

Troen was awoken, in what seemed to be minutes later, by the sun painting a shine over half of the shared bedroom. It appeared Samosa’s body was still besides his, resting beneath the blankets like a hibernating bear. He had a right mind to place a pillow over her head and smother her for being so insolent, but he simply gathered his robe from the back of the chair and addressed the fireplace. The coals were blackened, what was left of them, and ash created a line from where some of the cinders had floated onto the ground. Maids would be in later to make the bed, arrange pillows, wash clothes, change coal, sweep and dust. For now, Troen tightened the silk belt around his robe and sat near the window, body curled inside itself as if he was an older man.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  That night even Rusko found himself drowned in alcohol. His crew all gathered beneath the deck after their respective labours were seen to completion, each with a flagon, horn or flask in their hands as they crooned on about the Drowned God and his consecration. Rusko, however, was noy a jolly fellow, not even in his cups. He sat at the head of a long, oval table marked with foreign regalia, virtually inhaling what little of his drink remained. His rum was as dark as the midnight sea and spiced with a posset and curdled wine to diloute its potency. Falling victim to intoxication on a stormy night such as this was unwise for a captain, but Rusko wasn't all to thrilled to watch his crew enjoy their spoils without him.
  
  As they sang, the captain admired his plunder. The barracks were stacked to the rafters with barrels of white rice. Sacks of potatoes and corn were neatly piled off in the corners next to the beams that kept the deck aloft. Rusko's lounge, or the ship's heart as the crew coined it, was where the entire crew collected for a meal. The wood was mahogany, varnished with pricey Palan lacquer and each beam was gilded with thick, obsidian bands that shone like dragon glass. There was an ornate golden hind strung up on the walls with various paintings, each gifts given by men and women at port when they saw Behemoth's great black sails. Gold, treasures and other spoils were a means to show acquiesence. In return, Behemoth's crew chose not to ransack local towns.
  
  But the gold and jewels weren't among the only spoils Rusko and his men happened upon. The woman Naila was quite a prize, nubile enough to be fucked from Pala to Miribar. With his crew in their cups they'd likely turn their attention to Rusko's guest. He was half in his right mind to let them have her, but it would be a bittersweet means to show slaves that they were protected under Behemoth's sails. As he pondered, Edmure circuited around the table, an ornate spy glass tucked in his palms. "We'll pass the Maelstrom on morrow," he explained, "Might be that we should shack up somewhere inland 'til the storm passes, though." Rusko remembered the Maelstrom quite clearly - they were a series of enormous whirlpools reaching out miles in diameter. They swallowed ships whole and drew them into the abyss. Some sailors claimed the void was at the bottom while others believed that a lost city was beyond its maw.
  
  "Stay the course," Rusko said firmly in reply as he leaned upon his throne throne with its immaculate ivory inlay, downing the remainder of his rum. His eyes were like hard, black stones aglitter after being polished and his chest reflected the dance of adjacent flames through its sweat and grime. There was no doubt that Yeaman Un Rusko was a strikingly handsome man, but all the years at sea made him care little for his appearance. "And bring me that woman. I would have words."
  
  
  The entire night Samosa was haunted by nightmares. They often plagued her even in Pala; to cull them, she lit incense in her quarters and meditated under their haze. Come morning she was like an entirely new woman, but such luxuries were costly here. Troen's maester was as restless as she, making his rounds about the palace when even the moon grew tired. He was perturbed by Samosa - her mournful yet proud eyes wounded him; he envisioned a proud, vigilant lion trapped in a cage. Like all beasts, domestication would creep in slowly like a disease until it festered and turned to rot. That defiant smoulder in her eyes would die with the passing days, and she, too, would wane.
  
  "Perhaps the poppy's milk would give you rest," he suggested when Troen slept. Samosa politely declined, but he had none of it. "My dear, you are just like your father. Those same defiant eyes and majestic black mane. Oh yes, you are of the Quaz'cacia through and through. But I know the Quaz'cacia like I know the Jahari, I do indeed. The Quaz'cacia are survivors! They adapt! Yet you fight fate. You combat destiny." Samosa gazed at the stoop-backed octogenarian as he whipped the poppy milk in his mortar. She felt mortally ashamamed, but most of all, she was curious as to how this strange yet soft old man came to know her father. "Come, child. Drink this."
  
  "How did you know my aegis? I mean, my fa-"
  
  "Father, yes. I know your language quite well, I wrote many books in Palan. But, that is a story for another time. Come, drink, then to bed. If the gods are good they'll pacify you enough to lay with our young lord." If Samosa was some virginal lady from one of Miribar's castes she would have blushed redder than a tomato, but instead she swallowed the knot in her thoart and the mortar of poppy milk, then slid back into bed. Morning came quick after that and even when Samosa opened her eyes the maesters words boomed in her head.
  
  Rather than flee to break her fast, Samosa, too, donned her robe and cantered over to the window-side with her trademark sashay. "Troen." She whispered his voice in the sweetest song, placing her hands lovingly upon each shoulder. "You hurt," she nearly winced. It was as if the maester's observations had re-birthed her. "I ... I can remedy that."

 

[streetlights as stars]

Work still needed doing as the crew faltered, sinking down onto the ground, chests rising and falling with labored breaths. Alone she stood, like a shepherd watching over his sheep, or a father watching over his children. They were amusing her, these men. She found it fascinating how they could go from a horde of men that were willing to fuck her given the chance but then dissolve into a mass of tired individuals. Rolling her eyes, Naila retrieved the broom from the hand of one of the males resting and finished the few boards that were left to be cleaned. “The lass will clean an’ spread ‘er legs!” One hollered, his voice raspy.

Turning, Naila stared down at them with eyes liked daggers, taking in their pitiful state without remorse. It was their faults that they were so easily winded, whereas she was limber and could probably clean for hours. Now she understood why the captain only gave them the command of cleaning the barracks, for he would be short an entire crew if he had asked for anything else. “It does not appear that you would be able to get it up, for you can hardly stand!” Letting out a huffed breath, as a bull would, Naila returned the mop and broom to the small storage space. At that moment, they pulled themselves onto their feet and wavered, wiping sweat from their foreheads.

“Really, it is amazing how the captain picked such an excellent lot.” She murmured, tying her hair into a quick braid on the right side of her face. They stood, out of things to do, while their eyes surveyed the barracks for something else to do. There was no reason for them to break into the alcohol stash until they were certain the room was spotless. While they saved their own skins, Naila placed her hands on her narrow hips and looked at the space where she was to sleep. “Are there any…other blankets?” She tried, watching as the men seemed to bloom now that they had gotten a rest. “Tha blankets on our beds are tha only ones, lass. Ye are welcome to share ‘em, fer a price.”

Naila shook her head and looked at her makeshift bed. Compared to the pile of sodden hay on the ground, she longed for a pile of mattresses stuffed to the brim with down feathers. Perhaps a few comforters and silken sheets to slip away into. Her bedroom in Miribar smelled like candles always, or whichever oils were dribbled into her washing bowl. This place, this hell hole meant for thieves and liars, had a permanent stench of piss and occasionally shit when the wind blew through the toilet hole. She could never imagine living here simply as a lifestyle and now wished she could return to Miribar more than ever, even with a bounty on her head.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor above their heads, growing louder as they stomped down the stairs and into the barracks. The source of the noise came from the man, the captain’s friend with a face like a rat. His eyes found hers instantly and he stepped closer, grabbing her by the shoulder. Naila winced and struggled to pull away but was, in turn, yanked up the stairs as if she was being led to the guillotine. As soon as they reached the upper deck, the man threw her forward and she stumbled, catching herself before falling onto the floorboards. “Compose yourself.” He threatened, storming towards her, a raised hand to strike her.

“The captain wants to speak with you. You will do what he says when he says it. Do not speak until spoken to. If he tells you to lie with him, you will spread your legs and stick your ass in the air. No crude remarks, no attitude, no nothing. I will personally throw you off this vessel and make it look like an accident. Do I make myself clear?” Nodding stiffly, Edmure grabbed her again and sent her towards the door where the captain was stationed. “I can accompany myself, thank you.” Stabilizing herself and gathering her bearings, Naila fixed the sleeve on her dress and stepped inside the man’s room. She looked at the ground and mentally repeated the orders Edmure had given her.

----

Sitting by the northern window, Troen rested his forearm on his knee, leaning forward. Looking straight down and even directly outwards towards the buildings in town, the community was bustling around. From the closeness of the window, Troen could tell that the morning sun was not quick to warm the town below. Many rushed around with shawls spread over their shoulders and tucked into their armpits, while others tried to warm up by blowing air into closed hands. Parts of him wished he could bring some of them inside and offer them warm broth or tea to sip on, but that wasn’t a characteristic he possessed.

See, if his brother was still ruler, Tapio would have beaten the crowds out to the corners and would be helping them with their jobs. Tapio would be lugging chickens over his shoulders, not worried about feathers sticking to his garb or blood running down his sleeves. The male was a natural-born helper and Troen was satisfied to say that he was not the same. Even though the two Johari boys were similar in appearance, they were nearly polar opposites in attitudes and personalities. While they were growing up, Tapio had always been treated between the brothers, even though their parents promised that they refused to pick favorites.

Pinching the bridge of his nose before running his hands over his eyes, Troen groaned softly and hoped that his memories would find themselves a new body to make a vessel out of. If he was going to be the best ruler that Miribar has ever seen, he could not afford to be reminiscent over his dead brother. Especially because the death was his own fault, perhaps it was Tapio’s fault for securing his spot on the throne while being the younger brother. Outcomes would have been different if the real rules had been set forth when it came time for the newest king to be crowned. Age and birth was always prominent, the oldest son was always the one to get the throne first.

Tapio had managed to weasel himself past the obvious. Their parents were proud of both their boys, especially their new royal son because he was royalty, and the frustrated and envious Troen sat in the background. So, truthfully, he had done the correct thing for his family, he had helped them abide by the rules since he had gotten rid of his brother. Things would have been easier if Tapio would have just waited until Troen himself was dead or two old to rule, then his younger brother would have his chance to finally be the king of Miribar. Pushing the thoughts into the back of his mind again, he continued to stare out the frosted windows, waiting for Miribar’s doctor to come pay him a visit.

At that moment, hands found themselves on his shoulders and he would have jumped if he had not gazed down to see the hands themselves. They were the same hands that had grabbed him by the neck the night before, the same hands that belonged to the wife that didn’t want him. “You are fairly observant,” He spoke to Samosa, though keeping his eyes from her body behind him. “Did you suck on sugar cane through the night? You seem sweeter than you were when you were telling me to keep my hands from you.” Troen placed his well hand over hers on his shoulder and squeezed gently before shooing them away.

He stood slowly, his joints seemingly cemented in place from the cold and immediate sitting. “I do not understand, my love, have you had a sudden epiphany? It was only before the rising sun that you spoke of feigning love and treachery.” Bringing her closer, Troen locked their eyes and pressed his lips to her clothed shoulder, the same spot he had kissed the night before. “How do you wish to take away my pain, my love? Enlighten me, for even the physician cannot think up a cure.” His wounds would heal, as sure as rain, but the pain was deep and coursing through his entire being. The feelings were almost like a disease that affected him and he needed it gone.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  When Naila was escorted into Rusko's lair, his entire crew fell silent. Their salty eyes lay trained on the girl as Edmure ushered her forward. Truthfully, they were all eager to hear what degree of words Rusko was looking to exchange with her - by the murderous gleam in his eye, they were likely going to be uncivil. He rested his hand on the forearm of his cathedra, fingers flexing and coiling about empty air. "You've been defiant," he began, his eyes as stormy as the seas outside, "You've been audacious, impudent ... and ungrateful. I should throw you to the sea."
  
  The men shared hushed whispers until Rusko's deep voice shattered their concentration. "Quite frankly, I'm unsettled with the notion of your presence. The Drowned God has often taught as that women are a blessing, yet, they are quite the opposite upon a vessel. I was taught to treat them with respect regardless. Yet ... I cannot have respect for a woman who shows no gratitude." Murmurs of agreement rippled through Rusko's crew like the plague. Some nodded, others discreetly noshed on their meals. It was evident that Rusko craved dominance - in more aspects than one - and having one insolent mare among a herd of obedient stallions urged him to break her.
  
  "I will feed you," he continued, "I will give you shelter, I will oversee your safety, even. In return, you obey. You listen and adhere to orders given to you, absent lippy bilks." His fingers furled into a tight fist, one he slammed into the arm of his chair. "What is so fucking hard to understand! Obedience! You're on my ship, woman. I built this vessel with my own bare hands. I carved the keel, I shaped the planks, I erected the mast ... my blood is in this galley. But I will gladly spill that of those who defy me on my own fucking vessel. Tell me why I shouldn't let the Drowned God have you."
  
  
  
  An epiphany was precisely what it was. Samosa stood still as a statue while Troen began feeding her his observations. Even her buttery soft robe couldn't quite compare to his mellifluous tone, no matter how many times she stroked the fabric. "Forgive me for not being forthcoming," she replied solemnly, "But your physicians do not understand true rot of the flesh like our shamans do. They study herbs and roots and unguents, yes, but not ... other unmentionable things." Troen wasn't altogether too uncomely. He was handsome, albeit a diplomat with "soft hands", or how Samosa had perceived them, and he smelled of earth and autumn and cloves.
  
  As he stood, Samosa nearly winced; she could hear his joints snap and crack as he rose, likely in response to the the torture inflicted on his body when his palace was sacked. She felt surprisingly at ease when his lips grazed her shoulder, equally so when he drew her closer to his chest. "My people know sacred things ... impermissible things, things your people would coin taboo or disgraceful. Yet, our practices are sought after by your most accomplished physicians." She rested her hand upon his shoulder, reaching to the crown of his neck to unfasten the sling supporting his arm. The material and gauze all unwravelled as she cradled the injury.
  
  The queer markings on her fingers, knuckles and palms began to thrum; she could feel her bones nearly rattling as if being shaken, but the vibrations were welcomed. "You ... call this magic. We call it something else entirely." She raced his skin with the utmost care, watching as the veins in his arms - as blue as sapphires - began to rise into view. "The bone is near shattered," she grimaced, "I could remedy this, Troen, but it will be painful, and it will take time. But as your injury remains ... your arm will heal improperly."

 

[streetlights as stars]

Standing in front of the captain while being scolded felt as if she were being done so by her own mother. His words were crude and Naila was furious. Clenching her hands into fists, the words Edmure had fed to her were running like a train through her mind. Do not speak until spoken to, do not speak until spoken to. If this had been any other normal conversation, Naila would have spoken her mind tenfold by now. But, she needed to stay upon the ship if she ever wanted to make it back to Miribar. Yeaman Un Rusko continued to chatter, visually and vocally becoming more and more upset with how she had been acting.

When she was finally addressed, Naila licked her lips and unclenched her hands. She did not want to be given the chance to strike him, for she was frightened that she just might. “For I am exactly that, a woman.” Connecting their gazes, the woman stared at him with gray eyes the color of the sky above the ship. Continuing, her posture was righted, chin set, eyes never leaving his. “I was taught many things in Miribar. I know how to clean, sew, mend wounds…I was taught some things in medicine, though I was taken before my course was finalized. I can cook, which it looks as if you might need if you do not wish to be the scraggly captain of a scurvy-ridden crew.”

Mouth perking up into a satisfied smile, Naila figured she may have saved herself, but she could do nothing more than make sure. “Plus, brilliant captain, you will be seen as the best captain throughout the world for having a woman aboard your vessel. Other men will quiver in their boots at the prospect, but you, sir, will be seen as magnificent, more than you are, I assume, because you were not afraid to have a bad omen among your men.” Cocking a brow as she finished, she felt Edmure’s eyes like daggers on the back of her head. “But, to gain all these accomplishments, you must do a few things for me.” There was always a way to turn the tables.

Taking several steps forward, she stepped around his throne as if she was surveying livestock. Dropping her hand down, she pulled a dirk free of its casing and stood to his right. “You must allow your hair to be cut. I can see no man trembling at the site of you, no matter how fearsome you might be. As of right now, I can easily say that you may just be a pirate king speaking through violence and swords over a staggering appearance.” She let the blade kiss the skin over his neck, near where his lengthy hair rested, ignoring the men who watched with frightened eyes, hands on their own weapons.

Edmure stood still, as Naila hoped he would, for she would be too quick to kill Yeaman than the other male would be to stop her. Returning the knife to where it was resting, in order to calm the captain’s men, she returned to her spot before him. “Also, I wish to be treated like a woman. I want to be respected. Tell me, how could you possibly ensure my safety if you were to allow your men to fuck me like a whore?” That was one of the bigger things she was worried about, having her body be used as something for the men to stick their cocks into. “I will make sure none of your men die from scurvy or festering wounds if you promise that I will remain a virgin around them.”

----

Letting out a breath, Troen’s eyes searched her face for any signs of compassion, but she simply continued to break apart his loyal servants. Who was to say that they were not as knowledgeable in fields of medicine as the Palans? His eyes fluttered close as nimble fingers loosened the protective fabric keeping his wounded arm to him. Pain had never been a friend of his, not once, and he even scolded himself for allowing this type of injury to come over him. In all reality, neither Naila nor any of her helpers had touched him. This game was all from his mind, he needed a way to make the girl look as guilty as she was.

A pursed groan escaped through his lips, and his eyes shot open to see what was happening. He watched in amazement as his arm exploded with color, and she called it something other than magic. Troen was used to people with these abilities being burnt at the stake. “Are you a witch?” He spoke quietly, hoping he was not to marry someone who could do more things than a simple man could. “Perhaps I should make you my wife and physician.” The male teased, biting down on his lower lip when she mentioned pain and the state at which his arm would heal at this point in time.

“Of course I want you to heal it, my love. I cannot be a great King with a gimp arm.” Taking his broken arm from her, he held it gently against his chest and took the few steps to the bed. Before approaching it fully, Troen slithered out of his robe, fighting to keep his pained expression away from his fiancé. He was a strong man, that was true, and he hadn’t wished for her to see his moments of weakness. Weakness was something to be used against the greatest of men. Dropping the garment to hang on the bedpost, he faced the bed, one hand pressed against the mattress. It appeared to be a mountain, something entirely too massive for him to conquer in this state.

Gripping the bed sheet, Troen pulled himself onto it and collapsed onto his back, pulling himself against the pillows. Sinking into the masses, he spoke after getting a few deep breaths in. If he was already winded at this point, Troen wasn’t sure he would make it through the healing process. “Why the change of heart, my love?” His good hand continued to shield any inflictions from happening upon his arm. “I would think that since you bid me to not touch you, you would have been reclusive towards me. You are not a hermit, as I had figured. Did you have good dreams, a resting sleep?”

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  Rusko found it amusing that this maid, Naila, was attempting to bargain her way out of being fucked halfway around the Maelstrom and back. He had no interest in negotiating with her nor did he find her reasoning to be sound. He swallowed his anger with a swig of rum and merely observed as she preached. "Many women have shared a similar position as you," Edmure chimed in, "And many have been far more convincing. We have men who were taught to mend wounds; men that can fillet a tuna as well as your Miribaran chefs. The only bargaining tool you have is what's between your legs, and I suggest you use it. We do not suffer mutiny on this ship, woman ... nor do you make attempt to negotiate with our captain."
  
  Rusko merely laughed. It was a hearty laugh that shook the mahogany pillars and nearly split fissures in Behemoth's keel. His men all exchanged whispers, bewildered, wondering if their captain had lost his mind during their many months at sea. "I'm Palan, not craven," he boomed, slapping his stomach as the fury of laughter stole him, "I care not for how other crews regard me, yet when they see Behemoth's black sails they sail in the direction from whence they came." His crew nodded in agreement, however panicked they may have been when Naila approached with a dirk in hand. Rusko was unintimidated, but Edmure was poised to strike. The entire brotherhood had their hands on their weapons and drunken archers flanking the barracks had their yews brandished and quarrels knocked.
  
  With lightening-fast reflexes Rusko snatched her wrist. He didn't favour the shiv kissing his Adam's apple nor did he particularly enjoy her japes. "You know," he began, his voice deep and gravely, "Palans believe in synergy. Balance is what sustains life. Did you know that Pala is a shortened word? It's originally Palaa'weq Yewpugway ... 'People of Balance'. Knowing this, you'll now understand that I am a firm believer in fair trade, woman, and I give respect where it is earned. If you submit ... if you adhere to my commands, then your maidenhood will be yours to do with as you wish. Thus ... synergy."
  
  He threw her hand away from his mane, gesturing to his brothers to sheath their weapons. They did as they were bid and retook their haunts where they warily continued noshing on their meals and glimpsed Nail and Rusko through narrowed eyes. "What I will promise you is a warm bed, food in your belly and safe return to Miribar if you listen. I am young, but I'm in no hurry to squander my youth on arguing with some lord's spoiled little girl." His marvellously light eyes began to glower as if they were two olive hued opals left to glimmer in the desert sun. His mouth drew in at the corners and he scratched his chin, nearly perturbed by the new growth sprouting from his jawline. "However ..." He stopped and gazed at her again, with a new mien this time, "I am in dire needs of a trim, gods tell it true. 'Aye ..." He laughed, and his crew along with him.
  
  
  Are you a witch? Samosa had heard similar accusations before, but they held no truth. Palans were a tribal people, often adopting roles such as shamans and soothsayers; their magics were sacred, taboo to the inlanders, but certainly not what Miribarans perceived as witchcraft. As far as Samosa knew, the covens dwelt within the quagmires some miles off the coast, in the opposite direction of her motherland. "No, I am not a witch," she said almost bitterly, "Witches cannot heal. They practice entropy ... I have dabbled, but seldom had use for it." She watched, nearly dishevelled, as her fiancée struggled to conquer their bed. His pain was almost palpable and she could sense his discomfort by simply observing his movements.
  
  "I find the notion of your offence amusing," Samosa said flatly as she knelt aside him, "I am not a hermit, no. But I am a recluse. I find social interaction ..." She paused. Though Samosa was a skilled orator in regards to the common tongue, some words still escaped her. Palan was such a verbose dialect that some words had only one meaning, not several. " ... what you would call awkward. I suppose." As he eased back, her fingers glided over his exposed forearm, gently testing the elasticity of the flesh. Underneath she felt the fragments of bone laying loose, absent taut muscle to fasten them in place. "What will transpire here ... I ask that you do not speak of it to anyone. If my people were to learn that I've been abusing their practices, I'll forever be an exile."
  
  The strange markings on her forearm began thrumming; on her palm was a sigil similar to an alchemist's transmutation circle, but it was larger and several times more intricate. She flexed her fingers and touched his skin, feeling as his flesh prickled hot like warm sands. Underneath his flesh; underneath the tendon and muscle and sinew his bones began trembling. She squeezed his arm tight with no warning, likely inflicting astronomical pain. To distract Troen from crying out Samosa leaned in, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss, one that was only shared between a loving husband and wife. His mouth was hot and the sensation of his facial hair tickled her chink, but it was altogether no where near as vulgar as she originally fathomed. In fact, the embrace was enjoyable, but she'd take that secret to her grave.
  
  When the bone was set and her brands resembled dull black ink again, Samosa eased herself from their wedding bed and meandered to a wardrobe were several of her Palan gowns and outfits were hung. She tore one garb from its haunt, draped it over her forearm and faced her future husband with that traditional stoic gaze. "Rest," she said surprisingly softly, "I will send for the maester and bring you a meal to break your fast." Ammon ate her breakfast in the gardens among a sea of willow trees and big, ripe pumpkins as orange as the twilight. It was a hiding place, but she knew Troen would find here there soon - part of her, against her better judgement, half wanted him to find it.