Ahoy!

The skies were overcast, and at mid-day it looked like twilight was already descending. Shots rang out down the street, and already the foul stench of gunpowder wafted in clouds behind the bard as he ran.

He probably shouldn't have done that.

What had started as a nearly honest poker game at the tables of the Swampy Toad, had turned into a downright cutthroat affair, filled with backhanded bets and high stakes. Someone also died. Stabbed, right in the chest over a single misplaced card, in front of everyone. It wasn't the bard's fault the man couldn't take a joke.

Sea-Gods-Twisted-Crotch-Hairs, he still had blood on the tattered end of his sleeve.

Ugh.

Frankly, he was lucky he and his guitar made it out in one piece. Well, were he to be honest, he was more lucky to have sent a secret wink in the direction of the flirty barmaid earlier that evening. Had he not, he'd probably be in bloody pieces on the tavern floor. Or strung up by his ankles. Or trapped under a table somewhere. But as luck would have it, the lovely flirty barmaid had spirited him out the back door with a kiss and a bottle of rum to remember her by, followed by a slap on his bum.

Now, the bard dashed down the ever-uproarious streets of Tavalier, the pirate capital of the world. The bottle was tied to his belt beside his cutlass, his guitar was in one hand, and his winnings were in the other.

A ship. He won himself a whole blasted ship! And not some shady-end sloop, either! The Fool's Errand was a fine vessel. In fact, he'd served on her once before as a mere swab. She'd been his first venture out to the vast oceans.

Granted, he'd hated every moment of it. The crew had been a bunch of vile goat-sucking cretins with no regard for the vessel itself. To his memory, they were a bunch of sour old criminals who hadn't a drop of mercy or humor in their dried up old bones. Oh ho, he'd love to hold the writ up over their heads now, and proclaim himself their master!

Ooh, it'll be glorious! And there she is!

A cannon resounded behind him - a bloody cannon. He ducked impulsively, along with the half dozen other bystanders he passed. They exchanged a similar look of -Seriously?! In the middle of port!? Daft idiots- before he rushed up onto the gangplank.

An unfamiliar man tried to stop the bard, but he was too quick. The bard ducked low and shoulder checked the poor sod off of the plank, then bolted up the side. He didn't have enough hands to draw his weapon, so he had to make do with dodging. (A severely underrated skill in the pirate world, if you asked him.)

The Bard wasn't a big, broad shouldered man, and he couldn't muscle his way out of danger. No, he had to rely on his quick reflexes and his God Given Silvered tongue to get himself out of trouble. However, he wouldn't be able to utilize that particular skill set until he could get somewhere.... higher.

He cast his eyes about the deck. Huh, cleaner then I remember.  He had to spin out of the way of a particularly vicious swing of a blade mid-turn. He used that momentum to hurl himself up onto the poop deck, right above where the Captain's quarters would be. The poor Helmsman was lounging on a barrel by the railing, and looked up with shock.

No matter. The bard held up the writ and cleared his voice for a quick speech, which he belted with all due bardic expertise:

"Good Sailors of the Fool's Errand! Here in my hand I have the signed, professed, legitimate and undeniable WRIT of ownership for this fine vessel!" He waved it once, snapping the parchment open so the writing was visible. "I proclaim myself Captain of this vessel, and as such you are now my crew!"

Several individuals stopped their advances and exchanged glances. Upon closer inspection, the bard realized he did not recognize a single face on board this vessel. Craggy Grey was gone, there was no Old Piper and his funny boys, no Jerry Green and no Mad Bill.

Triton's-Filthy-Man-Bun, this is a whole new crew. Blast it all.

"Oi! You claimin' Captaincy?" One of the new faces called from the main deck. They had all their teeth, and dressed rather well for a pirate, all things considered.

The bard lowered the writ, shoving it safely into the front pocket of his britches. "Yes, I suppose - "

"GRIMEY! CHALLENGER!" That same seaman shouted. Arsehole.

The bard looked about, catching the eye of the Helmsman, who gave him a brief, amiable grin. He returned the grin before resuming his look-about. Then he saw Grimey.

No slimier individual had ever crossed his path. Oily, slick hair was pressed to the man's forehead in twisted lengths. Grimey had one pale eye with a set of fingernail scars through his bow, and he was missing several teeth. The ones that remained were black with rot. Grimey was rail thin and hunched over himself. He had a cutlass out in browned, over-tanned hands, and he grinned with a particular kind of gross malice.

Nope. He shouldn't have done that. Tch, why couldn't I just keep my damn loud mouth shut? HAD to say I was going for the captaincy. HAD to come rushing onto the ship with my cock out, all full of myself....

"Ya wanna leave the ship, you fight Grimey. You beat Grimey you get he ship. Easy." That one same arsehole said, hands on hips as if they'd won something.

Like that one. Sassy. Not bad lookin' either.

"Fine." The Bard agreed. He turned and carefully held his guitar out to the helmsman. "Hold that for me, would ye? I die, you can keep it. Treat 'er well."

The helmsman reverently accepted the instrument with a silent smile. The timid crewman nodded vigorously before taking a place beside others who had started to make their way on deck. News of a fight traveled at lightning speed, and soon enough everyone was out, forming a nice little ring on the main deck for this epic performance.

All types here - still no familiar faces. Oh well. There goes rubbing his victory in their faces, wherever they were. He hoped they were all dead, slogging corpses on the bottom of the sea. Blackhearts.

The Bard drew his cutlass, and spun it in hand as he descended the stairs to the main deck. The good-lookin' arsehole who had summoned Grimey looked like they were taking bets. Hoped his odds were fair. Would be a side bonus if he made the right crew members a bit of change with this fight.

Grimey spat on the deck. The Bard winced, as did the swab who saw it. He offered the swab sympathetic nod, trying to convey to the lad that he would do his best to avenge that disgusting display.

"Right. Then whenever you're ready-"

"FIGHT!" The arsehole called.

Grimey took the lead, coming in with a ferocious shout. His cutlass sliced through the air towards The Bard; but the bard had already moved, taking a simple step to the side, and bringing his own cutlass down to deflect Grimey's assault. Grimey came right back around, all lithe limbs and graceless action. Particularly easy to predict, fortunately enough.

The Bard dodged two more similar blows, the crowd ooh-ing and aah-ing with interest as Grimey's face got redder and redder with frustration. To the bard's surprise, Grimey then executed a rather deft feint. When the Bard hastily blocked the following swing, he realized that his opponent's lean stature was deceptive. The blow rang pins and needles up through to the bard's elbow, and he pulled back to get his bearings.

Grimey was stronger then he looked.

"Go Get 'em, you slimey bastard!'
"I hope he guts you!"
"That's one way to get 'im off the ship!"
A round of laughter and cheering peeled out around them.

The Bard glanced around, at first taking the calls in stride. Obviously, he accepted the barbs as part of him claim for captaincy. However, he realized very quickly that they weren't throwing barbs at him - they were throwing them at Grimey.

Interesting.

Grimey was relentless. It was as if he could sense the obvious disdain his crew mates had for him, and he knew that this was his last chance to remain on board. His swings grew vicious and unmitigated. The Bard thought about letting him win.

He obviously wants to stay on board, and all I really wanted was to rub victory in some old bastards' faces. What right did I have to take this from good ol' Grimey?

The thoughts distracted him, and this made him sloppy. Grimey saw an opening, and his cutlass sliced through the side of his shirt, biting briefly (and bloody painfully) into the flesh on his ribs. The Bard danced back, his free hand clapping over the wound. He was bleeding now, bleeding over his only pair of cleanish clothes. As if that random poker player's blood wasn't bad enough.

"....Damnit." He muttered, glaring over at Grimey.

What he saw there shook him for a moment. Grimey was grinning, all seven gnarly teeth bared in a snarl. In those dullard eyes the bard saw a particular glee that he recognized from his early days aboard this vessel - the eyes of a cold blooded, filthy murderer. Sadist. He was clearly enjoying the fact that he'd made the bard bleed.

Well, now I HAVE to win.

The soon-to-be-Captain of the Fool's Errand swung himself into high gear. This meant going on the offensive. His speed increased, throwing Grimey hopelessly off guard. He dove in for an attack and feinted up, knocking the other mans chin with the bell-guard of his cutlass. Then he swung down, taking his own first blood on the meat of Grimey's thigh.

Grimey started cursing, vulgarities thrown hastily into the wind. The bard didn't try to block any more swings, vouching instead to utilize his size and speed, ducking and weaving around his flailing swings and spittle-flinging curses.

It was when Grimey mentioned something particularly tasteless about the Bard's mother that the duel tightened up. One deflection, a parry, slip to the side, and then the bard's cutlass found it's home, snugly wedged between two of Grimey's protruding ribs. The bard pushed his blade in as far as it would go, bearing Grimey back into the Main Mast.

Grimey's cutlass clattered to the deck, his eyes wide in surprise, a gurgle bubbling up from his throat.

The Bard leaned in. "Never insult a man's mother."

Then he withdrew his cutlass in a clean, quick pull, and Grimey's corpse slumped to the ground.

When he turned about, the bard was greeted by more cheers than he expected. The whole slew of crew men came right up to him for hearty congratulations. When he glanced back around, the body of Grimey was being unceremoniously tossed overboard, and the swab was scrubbing up the offended spots on the deck and mast.

"Uh -" The bard began.

Arsehole broke through the crowd and clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Fool's Errand. Mighty grateful you took care of that idiot fer us. Held seniority and was a dirty sort, couldn't get rid of him while the old captain was 'round."

Several murmurs of agreement chorused around them. The Bard slowly started to clean off his cutlass and tuck it back and away. "Right, of course, no problem. Here to help."

"So what do we call you then, Captain?" Arsehole asked.

The eyes of the crew turned on him, and this was his moment. He should have said, call me yer friend and wish me fare winds, goodbye! But he didn't. Instead the Bard put on his most winning smile, the victory fresh and the adrenaline still ripping through his veins. With one hand pressed over his wound and the other resting on the hilt of his cutlass, he addressed his new crew.

"You can call me Captain. Captain Jay Flint."

Names have Power

"She walks in beauty, like the night." Recited from memory, a mortal's poem.

Autumn colors painted the landscape around her, hues of burnt sienna, pumpkin, old blood, green olives, dry clay, umber, tarnished gold, and charcoal. Leaves, all of these colors and more, crunched beneath her bare feet, and every-so-often tumbled lazily from the skeletal branches up above. This, her season, was her favorite, and it was always her favorite here.

"...Of cloudless climes and starry skies. Hm." She looked up through the latticework of boughs to see the crystal clear night sky above. Each star was a diamond-edged pinprick, harsh against the midnight backdrop. A chill wind pulled at her hair and tugged at the bottom of her gown. The Lady held her arms out to her side and let out an elated sigh, grinning widely from ear to ear.

Then the heard it.

The sound of running footsteps.

A Visitor? She tilted her head into the breeze, eyes narrowed. Inhaling slowly, she rolled around the scents of the wood in her breath; detritus from crushed leaves and dying things, the foreboding ice in the wind, the lingering aroma of distant wood smoke, the musk of someone's fear clinging to young skin.

A lost! Giddy with the thought, she bolted like a doe through the scattered underbrush.

These woods were not mortal woods, no. They could only be visited by very particular people, or stumbled upon by innocent, unknowing younglings. Arcadia was very particular with their guests, and it always cost something to cross her dangerous borders. For the Lost, it seemed free at first - until they tried to get back home, of course. Then Arcadia pulled pieces off for itself, exacting a toll of sorts, one could say.

The Lady, and other Lords like her, Fae beings of great mysterious power and beauty, often used these Lost as bargaining chips. For what could be more expensive and desirable than something the realm itself desired above all else?

If she got to this Lost first, it would be hers! Though the earth was dry and cracking around her, she was as quiet as the still, cold evening air, and as quick as the first creeping frost.This was a spot of entertainment she had not expected! What fun!

On the other hand, many of the Lost were rather droll. Insipid, arrogant things, snot-nosed and greedy. Not unlike cats. The Lady paused in her pursuit, leaning speculatively against the nearest gnarled tree. The Lost she had managed to collect, she'd traded off just as quickly, and she never really needed anything badly enough to use them as effective pawns.

That wasn't her strong suit. Mainly she liked sucking the fear out of things, eating it, and then making them more afraid so she could grow more powerful. Anyway.

The aroma caught in her nostrils again, and just as she was about to turn and walk away from such a prestigious catch, being as fickle as the tides herself, something tapped her on the elbow.

Oh drat. She turned. She looked down. And there he was. A small human boy. She was rubbish at guessing mortal ages, so she settled on height instead. Hip level with messy blonde hair and green eyes, fairly sun-kissed, although not entirely well-fed.

"....Yes?" She asked, tilting her head at him.

The boy looked up at her with trusting eyes - they always had trusting eyes. Foolish of them, really.

""scuse me, but I think I'm lost, miss."

Her eyebrows lifted, and her mouth quirked into a smile. She had no glamour here, in her home. Arcadia did not allow for true disguise of one's natural form, oh no! One must be proud to wear the skin that magic stretched upon you! And she was, indeed, quite magical. The fresh, deep green of the wick of a sapling graced her brow, and delicate vining branches, chocolate brown, framed her face and curled down her neck, weaving between and through segments of her flesh. White fawn-freckles dotted her high set cheekbones, and her slit nostrils flared, blackened nose trembling at the scent.

Or rather; lack there of.

For this boy was not afraid anymore. There was the remnant of fear, there in the sweat of his palms, but nothing fresh.

"Oh yes, boy, you are quite lost." She crouched before him, now curious. "Aren't you afraid?"

The boy smiled. "Oh no."

"Don't you want to go home?" She asked.

A whiff of it. Pungent in the air as his expression changed. He sucked tightly on his bottom lip and glanced around, as if expecting pursuit. "No."

She narrowed her eyes. New details were plucked from the child's flimsy attire - the bruises on his neck. A black eye. The faint smell of old blood, hidden beneath the fresh linen smell of a bandage.

Humans. Disgusting. She curled her lip in disgust. That a breed would so abuse their own offspring was insulting. A least most animals would just eat them.

"....Can you tell me where the bus station is?" The boy continued, red in the roundness of his cheeks.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. He was fidgeting now, with his belt loops.

"Well." She straightened her back, still crouched in the leaves before him, and sighed. "And all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes."

The boy looked at her. "That was pretty."

"It's a poem." She smiled. "Do you like poetry?"

"Yes." He nodded, smiling now.

She could see the faintness of old tear tracks on his sweet face. She reached out and touched them. "Come with me then." And she took his hand.

The boy did not question, did not ask her where they were going, and did not resist her gentle tugging through the darkened wood. He was unafraid of her, which was, quite frankly, foolish. She was a Fae of the Autumnal Court, those who thrive in fear. And yet...

And yet this boy.

"What is your name?" She asked, looking back down at him.

"Timothy Franklin." He said back.

She stopped and swooped down, catching the spoken name as it escaped his breath, cupping it in one hand and then clapping it over her heart. The boy looked surprised at the sudden gesture, and she bent down to him.

"That name is mine now, and I will hold it so that no one else can use it against you. Your new name is Monk, and you will live with me here, for a time." At LEAST until those marks fade away, at LEAST until he is old enough to go back on his own, at LEAST until I tire of him..... The excuses poured into her mind and she offered him a toothy smile.

Again. No fear, just another smile. "Thank you."

She tugged his hand along, further and further they went. Jack'o'lanterns propped, lit and waiting on lightning-shattered tree trunks, candles burned forlornly at forgotten shrines, strange creatures mewled and howled in the distance. Bats squealed in the air, and twigs snapped in the shadows, red, slitted eyes watched them....

And still, only a smile.

They arrived at the great oaken gate of her keep, nestled into a jagged, impenetrable cliff side. She rapped once on the door and it slowly creaked open.

The boy hesitated outside the door. "Miss?"

She turned to smile down at him.

"What's your name?"

She giggled. "Oh I can't give you that, silly."

"Can't I watch it for you, like you'e watching mine?"

She ruffled his hair. "No, no, there's no need, Monk. My name is safe as long as I don't say it."

The boy nodded. Then he asked, "Well, then what can I call you?"

Precocious little thing. Smart. Sweet. Oh so unlike the denizens of her realm, normally. With their jagged teeth and boney arms, they made poor company. She found herself visiting the Spring court more often of late; perhaps this was just what she needed.

"You may call me Thicket."