Endangered Hope

765 Hippocampus Rush

Manuk’s home rose above the horizon, painting a yellow hue as thick as the sea. A well-trained eye can make out the silhouettes of a sea dog pod breaching the water’s surface. The gullians swoop in the clouds and around the sails of cruising ships.

The waters were exceptionally calm last night, and now this charred elderwood brig had ended its journey at exceptional speed. Her sails are large, white with glittery maroon edgings, and will swell with Chemuk’s winds. No matter how few masts this ship carries, it still moves as if powered by immense magic. The shape of the ship aids in cutting through the waves with a long bow strip and is dark in color. The hull is smaller at the tip end. Another unique feature is the figurehead, a sculpture of a skeletal mermaid glued against the wood with one hand wielding a flask in one skeletal hand while wearing tattered clothing and seaweed.

All the signs of the ship that practices alchemy, the only thing is this ship dons a black flag. Everyone and anyone knew what a black flag meant around the seas, and the ship that bastardized the Chimera Empire’s rule of the ocean will don a black flag to renounce it. The sixty-eight sailors on this ship are nothing more than pirates, criminals of the seas, and murderers of laws and social expectancies.

And the life they all chose without a second thought. At least all the crewmates on this ship seem to believe their life is better than pirates than being just poor civilians groveling in the streets. They all had many reasons why they joined the captain of the Nightmare Maiden, the pirate ship that anchors Renuo’s piers. All the crew members that this captain meticulously handpicked had one thing in common. It is this undying loyalty towards their captain.

This captain is a lone man, with twenty-four years aging him into these seventy-two inches of authority-riddled muscles and the face of pure, cool confidence. His shoulders are broad, filling the Draken red coat that was passed down to him from the last captain, and he did not have any strain from the equipment he dons on himself. With the red coat, he had strapped a tan utility belt diagonally on his bloused chest, each pocket having an alchemy miracle in a bottle. His thick pant belt hoists his brown trousers with a few carefully placed patchworks around his knees. A pistol and holster snapped onto his belt loop; it is his eight-alchemy-laced bullet-filled silver pistol that rests in his holster. A sword is set on his right side while the pistol stays on his left. This captain is ambidextrous, so it didn’t truly matter how he wears his weapons. Black boots to his calves, serving him many sea battles to earn his fourth boot sole replacement. His brown hair sways with the wind, long to the point that it can get brushed behind his ear but short on the back side for his own hygienic reasons. In fact, his face is very clean-shaven unlike to his peers on this swaying ship.

This captain watches the growing land ahead with fierce, copper eyes, using a spyglass to scan the port side from the helm’s deck. Docking without checking for other enemy ships is a foolish misstep he will never allow. Although he had plenty of people that he can trust to keep an eye out, he finds it a type of task he enjoys behind that heavy scowl on his face.

Being a captain takes away a lot of tasks from him, tasks he felt empty giving up. After all, he joined a pirate crew to sail the channels of the Angoran seas. To feel freedom in the winds Chemuk provides and experience the power of the sea. Magnificent at any point of the day and yet he still wants more from the world given. Nothing can truly satiate the thirst of a scoundrel pirate.

One gruff Quartermaster cuts in his fierce focus. This is the captain’s right-hand-man, “Capt’n Connor. Nightmare Maiden shall reach the portside in moments. Renuo is free of the tail snakes.”

They call anybody that works for the Empire a tail snake. There is nothing better to call them. Especially when all they do is slither into their business then run to their chimeric leonus head to complain about them. All it takes is something hungry and dangerous to feast on these pests, but it always seems more will appear in its place. They multiply faster than any bile rat infestation.

“I can see that...” He answers absentmindedly, still peering for something out of the land’s silhouette. Anything to help with his goals. This always happens, him seeing the land as an obstacle to his goals. Damn the land to keep his greatest desires in their earthly clutches, the sea seems more welcoming than the islands littered on them.

"Capt’n…It would be good for the crew to use this time to rest. ” His quartermaster leans on the railing, finally getting in Connor’s range of vision.

Gash is an older seadog in his forties, with graying brown hair and kind brown eyes. Scars mark his knuckles, disproving that shimmer of kindness in those eyes. This old man lived a life of a brawler; he still had the muscles of one and his prefer choice of weapon is fist metal gauntlets that shake on his hip. Next to those was a big pistol with two barrels instead of one, but Connor only really recalls seeing Gash use his pistol once.

His right-hand man really likes to keep his battles close and personal. And he is as personal as he gets, losing his professionalism whenever Connor is swallowed up by his duty-bound nature. Rest isn’t the captain’s priority, sometimes going days without sleep to find their next heist. The quartermaster’s comment might as well be a personal attack towards Connor, even though that is never the intention.

“They will get their REST until the next path is laid out for us.” Connor’s heartless correction is his level of mood today, meaning he isn’t going to allow even idle chatter with someone that knew him as a child.

"Capt′ that means yersulf too.” Gash sighs, brushing away the bit of hostility like it is simply rain. There is a reason Connor kept this man around as his quartermaster, a man that can keep his wits to himself even during Connor’s worst of moods, is helpful in making sure Connor didn’t stray from his lane. It kept Connor grounded, “Like yer should’ve been doing instead of taking over as watch. Where did yer even send that poor lad?”

“To clean the lusk pimples off the mortars...” Connor shoots Gash with a glare just in case he questions him again about his eccentric task ordaining. Those still need to be done, has nothing about being cruel.

Still Gash kept silent, but his face betrays him. Connor didn’t truly need those things done today; it won’t impede his goal if left untreated. His mood must’ve made him unreasonable to earn that kind of reaction from the seadog.

It is a blessing to have a crew still loyal to him, otherwise he didn’t earn their loyalty because of his kind and understanding aura. It is beyond something so simple as that anyway. Everyone on this ship had their own personal reasons why they joined, and Connor had full knowledge of it before ever allowing them to set foot on his Nightmare Maiden.

“Well, Capt’n...what do yer plan to do during yer rest at Renuo?”

Good that Gash is smart enough to change the subject. Connor gave the increasing shoreline one very long look. There must be something within this cursed harbor town. Not even the thick layer of disgrace that takes ownership of this place can hide everything from an opportunistic scoundrel like Connor. He can feel it in his bones that he will find what he needs from this town. Whatever that can be, he isn’t going to leave without it. The Death Twisters Gang had some dealings with their next target. Rumor had it is that they gathered Blue Dust for their buyer.

Blue dust is a rather rare and rich material, versatile in all alchemy projects, making it the most illegal sought-after part. The Chimera Empire tries to regulate it, but it is hard enough to even make it, let alone find the blue sands that come up from a certain range of events. Manuk’s house must perfectly provide its rays down on sand, and with just enough heat and concentration to change the sand into this blue variation. The blue sand is later pulverized into powder. Blue sand takes months to evolve, and the sun must be behind one of the moons for this to even happen. The moon acts like a seeing glass and hyper fixates the rays into a point, a rare occurrence during the Weeping Siren solstice. Connor will call himself and his master lucky once for even finding the birth of the blue sands. However, even if they came across it in one location it didn’t mean it will be the same place next year.

This is why he must get some clues as to who the last buyer is, that way he can get the blue dust in his clutches. Anyone who had the blue dust becomes a big proprietor in this society, and blue dust is a terribly powerful material.

“I’m going to visit the landlords of Renuo.” Connor admits without any worry that Gash will get in the way. The only worse thing that can happen is that Gash will join along with him in the venture. There is no stopping Connor now.

This time the old man didn’t, shaking his head. “Make sure to bring all the ale, capt’n. Heard they are a bunch of children and dun’t like to make dealin’ sober.”

It is a sound suggestion; one he will consider in the future if there isn’t one glaring issue. “It would work if they weren’t so quick to shoot down the next stranger.”

“Aye. Last heard, a dumb bloke gets himsulf murked when he tried sellin′ them boot shine. Just be careful, capt."

The last town they docked had all these insane rumors painting the gang in a very undesirable light. But Connor is going to test their level of tolerance. No one can suspect Connor of anything when he is a master of deflecting suspicion with just words. He just needs a way to get into that mansion.

Despite the small concerns, Connor had a goal set for Renuo, and he intends to keep it till he succeeds. Then they can all move on to the next heist. The crew docks Nightmare Maiden as soon as she is safely tuck in for however long they will be there, he dismisses most of them. They can all take advantage of the market, the pubs, and inns rumored to be a great recreational pastime. Connor will even ignore them going into the wenchhouse just if they stay careful not to leave more than their saliva, money, and their pride. Even so much as to provide his crews with methods to sterilize their genetic drop off. Last, he needs is to find out about the bastard children that his crew left behind. The few that staying are his most trusted on the whole ship. Trevor the ex-executioner with a bad case of sleep insomnia, Cid the happy-go-lucky half-giant, Iggy the ever-diligent ship repairer, and Ruffin the cabin boy with the knack of conning people.

He remembers seeing Gash following Jerold to the market, saying how they will look for ship provision and anything else they can take back home. Home...

Connor knew the home they speak of, but it hadn’t been a home for him since the passing of his master some odd four years ago. It had been a long time already, and he can feel the strain still. But instead of wallowing in his own grief, he had to work, work to rebuild what is lost from his master’s death. There is never time for him to mourn. There is nothing else he can add to those thoughts. He must keep pushing on. That is the only expectancy from his long dead master.

Connor takes the streets, Manuk’s throne home sank about halfway through the day by the time he successfully removes himself from the ship. It takes longer than he likes, but he isn’t entirely certain why he must rush himself. The gang is out of his reach until he can find some way in. Thankfully, Anukrin did not alter his luck today. For he had the near perfect arrangement of events. He isn’t going to see it right away; his attention is slightly stronghold by a persistent wench right now. She ambles over his line of sight, all the way from her little post at the street juncture. Her appearance screams slum wench, the type that you will get sick just by looking at them.

Dress in tatters, the white hemming of her skirt is now black from all the successful takers. Hair soiled and dastardly swept into an upright mess, makeup thick to hide the bruising and the loss of youthfulness from whoring to survive. Her arms wrap around one of his biceps, planting him still in the section of the street. A street awfully empty of any onlookers. Graceful cordialness is never in his nature, already allowing the disgust to bubble up on his face. Some of his crew may have whispered behind his back that Chemuk graces him with the features of a suitable lover if it isn’t for Anukrin’s sick sense of humor to gift Connor a difficult personality. Connor can care less about the opposite sex. Falling for such temptations while in the middle of work is just ridiculous to him. Already the insult sat right at the tip of his tongue, ready to send the dopey lady crying if he had to.

“Cutie! Why dun’t ya take a few moments to have some gud fun-” Croons the female, her corseted chest presses hard on him. He can feel the pert mounds on him. Breasts might weaken a male meek to his desires, Connor is not that type of male. His focus is on how the dirt transfers from her clothes to his, or how he can see the little glimmer of orange powder beneath one of her noses. Alchemy is not just for medicinal, or war uses, some even make drugs to sell them in mass. This lady is high off her rocker.

Explains how she braves to touch him; he isn’t exactly the walking saintly face. Connor can be drunk to his eyeballs, and he will still spout, “Not even Anukrin would touch a soul as sickly as you.”

“A face like that shouldn’t have such a putrid personality!” Whines the wench, losing any of her charms, whatever she can gather with sickness like that. She harrumphs, stomping her heels away, freeing Connor.

Thank the gods! He will never lower himself to kill a wench, but he can’t hold back any hostility. It just isn’t him, besides, the prostit he sees are just as conniving as the pick pocketers. He already start to check his pockets; everything is where it should be. Maybe the doped-up wench truly just wanted to take her chances?

A stray shiver ran up his spine, any further speculations about the wench will just slow him down. Ignoring his wild imagination of his quartermaster laughing at his general disgust toward promiscuous people.

His booted heel twists to face towards the street juncture, what froze him to place is the sounds of stray bullets flying to his left. His hand reaches tentatively for his pistol, but there really isn’t a lot of time to react. Because whoever ran away from the bullets had speeds unmatched by anyone he ever met.