Its Snowing

The drive was deathly quiet.

Ouch, she winced from the passenger seat. Perhaps that isn't the best phrase to use, considering... but Grandpa probably would have laughed.

She had her hands in her lap, and was anxiously picking at a loose knit end of her finger-less rainbow gloves. Her matching hat was securely pulled down over her ears, and her black hair curled under her chin and into the collar of her big green sweater.

The scenery passed by in one long continuous blur of white and gray, and her hazel eyes could barely make out the street signs as they flitted by. Waves of snowflakes made it seem like they were flying through space if she looked out the front window, and it made her dizzy.

"I can't believe it," were the first words out of the driver's mouth.

Andrew. He was her brother.

Ever since they had met at the airport, he'd been quiet and withdrawn, brow knotted in thought. There had been no hug or 'how are you?' to greet her. There had been no warm, heart-felt family reunion. It had always been that way between them, ever since she'd been small and their mother left. Cold acceptance followed by benign indifference.

"Believe what?" She asked.

Her voice sounded alien to her. With the pillowing whiteness that enveloped them as they drove, and the eerie hum of the radio, her words were muffled and disembodied.

Andrew glanced over at her. She tried to smile at him, but he didn't return the gesture. He was older than her by four years, but looked twice that age. He had gray at his temples already, and his face was lean with too-thin skin stretched over thick bone.

She wondered if her brother took drugs. It was the 80's. She knew a lot of people who did drugs.

"I can't believe the old man is dead." Andrew scoffed.

She looks back out the window. The old man was Grandpa, on their mother's side. He'd been a sassy ex-naval officer with a penchant for storytelling, and he had always been kind to her when her own father had not.

"I'm surprised he had a will. I thought he'd live forever." Andrew muttered.

She smiled. She remembered his immortal energy, the fire in his speeches and the bounce in his step. But then she had moved to the city, and between holiday visits, something had changed. She had begun to notice the wrinkles, and the knotted hands and the stooped posture.

Silence stretched between them again. The engine hummed and the chatter from the radio was interspersed with the soothing rumble of white noise.

"...You both always got along though, didn't you?" Andrew asked.

She looked back at him with another small smile. "I think so."

Andrew held her gaze long enough for her to break first and look towards the road. It was snowing too much on these back roads for him not to pay attention.

"...Me too." Andrew said.

She looked back out her window. The snow made everything look so different. She didn't know where she was; the nursing home had been a lovely place, but she'd only been able to visit once in the summer before Grandpa's swift decline. It wasn't even in the same town as her grandfather's old house was.

"...I bet you got the house." Andrew murmured.

She shrugged. She didn't want to think of it. That house without his barrel-chested laughter in it was just a big empty building. She was almost hoping she didn't get the old place.

"He was loaded. You know that, right?"

"Shut up, Andrew." She groaned. She rubbed her eyes with her bare fingertips and shivered. She should put her coat back on, the heat in this mini-van sucked.

"Of course you know. It was obvious. Son-of-a-bitch wouldn't fork any of it over when mom as around, so we had to wait for him to die to get a handout, huh?"

She winced at the anger, the pure bitterness in her brother's words. She cast a sidelong look at him. There was a vein pulsing in his forehead, and a flush crept up his neck. What was he so angry about? If he hated their grandfather so much, he should be happy the man was dead.

"And I bet it's all going to you." He sneered. The words flew like spittle from his lips, and she leaned on the door as if that would put her far enough away from him.

Andrew hadn't always been like this. She had vague memories of playing with him as a little girl, splashing in a creek behind their Grandfather's house, making cookies. But after mom left them, he got edgier, started hanging out with a rough crowd. He'd never been angry at her, not really, but he'd never gone out of his way to be nice.

This was new though. This was directed anger, and she didn't like it. "Shut up, Andrew."

"No, YOU shut up! You've just been sitting there, doing whatever it is you do in the city, and you're barely even around anymore and the old man STILL liked you better then me. HATED Dad, you remember that, right? What, is it because you look like his little girl? Is it because you look like mom?"

"I don't know, Andrew." She grasped the door handle.

He was taking his turns a bit faster now.

"Slow down." She looked towards the road, past the shooting stars flowing past the windshield.

"Christ, he never cared about what our family needed." Andrew hissed.

"Andrew -"

"High and mighty mister veteran, judging everyone else like they were lesser creatures."

She felt bird wings violently slapping the inside of her chest as they drifted in the road. She slammed a hand on the dashboard. "Andrew!"

"What?" He shouted.

"Its SNOWING." She blurted.

Andrew blinked at the road, and his face twisted. Such a myriad of emotions blitzed across his face that she couldn't pick all of them out. And then, like a maniac, Andrew slammed on the brakes.

She oofed forward, bracing her hands on the dashboard as the seat belt went taught across her chest. Their bags shifted violently behind them, and then slammed into the backs of their seats before  scattering.

The Mini Van listed right and then left and then slid slowly before rocking to a halt in the middle of the snowy road.

She gasped, hands clutching at her rainbow striped hat fr comfort. She turned her head to look at Andrew.

He was a mess. What happened to him? Where had those wrinkles come from, those circles under his eyes? Where had all of this aggression come from? Should she have stayed in closer contact over the years?

"Fuck." Andrew punched the steering wheel, setting off the blaring horn. She eeped, clinging to her seat belt for dear life.

"...Andrew?" She whispered, very much disturbed.

Her brother cast her a wary glance and then barked a laugh. He fumbled with his seat belt and threw open the door, stumbling out into the snow.

She stared at the open door for a long moment. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she watched him pace back and forth, and then circle around to her door. Cleo tightened her hold on the seat belt just as Andrew yanked her door open. The dead-winter wind blasted her with a face full of icy flakes.

"Get out." Andrew snapped, a lopsided grin on his lips.

"What? No! Why?" She glared at him. Why was he smiling? Why was he acting so weird?

"Just get out of the car."

"No!"

Andrew ran a trembling hand through his hair and sucked in a breath. "Just - I need you to help me check the mini van. I think I fucked something up in the front when I stopped. I'm - I'm sorry."

She watched his face. Her brother stepped away from the door, holding it open for her.
When Andrew smiled like that, he looked so much more like himself - like the angsty teenager that had stood up for her once in grade school, and got himself a bloody nose. He looked like the kid who came home drunk one night and told her blonde jokes in return for her not telling Dad about it. He didn't look like the unhinged, malnourished man who had been driving the mini van moments before.

Besides, he HAD stopped pretty hard. She remembered his legendary temper. One day, a girl broke up with him in high school and he punched a hole in the wall. Didn't realize until the next day that he'd broken a finger in the process.

She clicked off her seat belt and pulled her sweater close around her before sliding out the door.

Her feet crunched in the snow. She shuffled towards the front of the mini van and Andrew shut the door behind her.

Dang it was cold! She pulled her hat down on her head and rubbed her hands together as she bent to look at the front of the car.

Suddenly, arms grabbed her around the middle. She yelped. "Hey!"

Andrew heaved her right off her feet - it wasn't hard, she was pretty small, especially compared to him - and started pulling her off the road.

"I can walk myself, thank you!" She laughed. She actually laughed. If he dropped her, she was going to amass a snowball the likes of which he had never seen, and she was going to pelt him in the face with it. They would laugh until they cried, he would apologize, and they would get back into the car and blast the heat. She laughed again with the thought of it.

Andrew heaved her up and to the side, depositing her into a righteous snow bank.
She sputtered with a face full of snowflakes, and hastily brushed them out of her face. "Not fair! You're bigger then me!"

She heard crunching footsteps as she bent to gather her snow ball, grin plastered onto her face. No doubt he was on his way to push her back into the snow, but he'd get a surprise this time!

Then a door closed.

She hefted the snowball, only to see Andrew in the driver's seat, putting the mini-van in reverse.

"Andrew?" She blinked, baffled.

The Mini van withdrew from the snow drift and then straightened. By the time She had clawed herself out of the powdery embankment, Andrew had the mini-van in drive and was plowing ahead down the road.

"ANDREW!?"

The snow swallowed the sound. Eddies whirled around her, tickling her nose, sending a frigid chill up her spine. The rear lights were fading quickly, and She couldn't move fast enough to keep up, but she tried. She stumbled down the road in Andrew's wake, even when she could no longer see the tire marks.

Her fingertips were blue. She could see crystals forming on her eyelashes as she trudged onward. Ice was starting to cling to the ends of her black hair.

Where were the road signs? Was she even on the road? How long had she been walking? There were an awful lot of trees around. Had there been this many trees when she went to visit in the summer? She didn't think so.

She stopped. No. No there hadn't been this many trees. The nursing home had been in a nice suburban neighborhood. Organized cul de sacs and neat street signs and small decorative hedges. There hadn't been tall, ominous pines, densely packed around like soldiers in a line...

Andrew had done this on purpose. Andrew. Her brother.

She looked up at the sky - nothing but more grey. She had no idea where she was, where Andrew had dropped her. The snow was still coming down, faster and faster, and the longer she looked up at the sky the dizzier she became. The next step she took sent her right into the snow face first.

She pushed herself up. Her fingertips burned, her toes burned, her cheeks and nose and chin all burned. Her sweater wasn't thick enough to keep her warm, and her shoes weren't made for tromping through snow.

She tromped on anyway. She didn't know how long she did. She only knew that when her hands went numb, she decided to take a break. And when that break turned into a nap, she didn't realize the danger of shutting her eyes and letting it all slip away into a dream.

It wasn't until she opened her eyes to see the Grim Reaper before her that she realized her mistake.

"Oh. No... no..." She sniffled, covering her face.

"Do not fear." The Grim Reaper said. Cool bone touched her hand and pulled her fingers away from her face. "No more harm will come to you."

She looked up into the deep, darkened hood to a pair of chilled blue eyes; a thin layer of frost over a blue lagoon. "...I'm dead. Aren't I."

The Grim Reaper nodded.

"...That sucks."

The Grim Reaper chuckled. "I suppose it does."

"What now?" She asked, looking around. It had stopped snowing. 

"I come offering you a choice." The Grim Reaper's voice was strangely soothing, like water in one of those bamboo fountains.

"A choice?"

"You may pass on - or you can help me with my work. Collect for me the souls of those passing and lead them to where they belong. For this work, you shall be rewarded. When you assist one thousand souls in passing, I shall grant you any one wish you desire."

She blinked. She understood as they spoke. It was a strange sensation, knowledge just appearing in her brain as if it had always been there. She chewed her lip, trying not to look in the direction the mini-van had gone off in hours ago. 

She realized she was afraid. Of dying. She looked up at The Grim Reaper and smiled, tugging her hat down on her head. 

"...When do I start?"

The Grim Reaper extended a long, bony hand. "Right now, Cleo Tanderfel. Right now."

The First Little Cracks

Jack was different. 

It wasn’t just the broken, flat flesh around his one blazing red eye. It wasn’t just the seemingly endless, slight trickles of blood that oozed from the cracks, either. It was Jack.

He knew that was what she was thinking. 

Jack leaned on the high cocktail table, fingers drumming idly on the surface. He had his shoulders rolled forward as he stood there, one leg crossed at the ankle and the toe of his shoe tapping on the floor. He was relaxed, naturally poised like a predator. 

She took a sip from her glass across from him. Her eyes drifted around the room. It had taken some convincing to get her to come out with him. 

She had been concerned. He could see it in her eyes, and he was torn in half. Part of him was touched, craved it, loved her all the more for her care, wanted to tell her it was all right.

The other part of him was angry, callous, amused, pitied her concern and wanted her to just stop looking. Stop feeling sorry for him and what happened, stop looking at the cracks in his facade, wondering if he was still him.

The honest answer was that he didn’t know. The serum had broken him in half, torn away whatever he had put there to protect himself, and this old, dark thing surged to the surface, snarling and wicked. Jack was not Jack anymore, not really. He had another name, something powerful enough that he didn’t say it out loud. Something evil, perhaps.

Trapped in his own head, two sides of him argued, noisy, constantly bickering semantics about good and evil… It was exhausting.

The music in the bar was deep. It had a lot of bass and a catchy trembling rhythm that tickled at the back of your knees, urging you to dance. Jack looked back at Her. 

He caught her eyes. He felt himself smile, that new half smile that tugged at he broken skin under his eye. 

She looked away. 

“Glad you came out tonight.” Jack leaned in closer to be heard. “It’s fun. Drinking, talking. You know.”

She looked back. He could see recognition in Her eyes. As her eyes lingered longer, Jack saw that She could sense both sides of him. 

“Sometimes it is nice to go out.” She ceded. She took another sip of her drink - it was green and fizzled a little bit, with a slice of lime twisted in it. 

Jack hadn’t touched his drink yet, but he was itching to down it. Blood and whiskey. Drop of rose liqueur and a twist of Lime. 

Jack’s smirk lingered and he tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing over at the dancers on the floor nearby. “Sometimes it’s nice to dance, too.”

He looked back at her, and she looked away. “Sometimes, sure.”

She didn’t want to be here with him. The thought irritated and terrified him. He grimaced down into his drink. Thoughts crashed around in his head.

You’re not a real person, Jack, I’m in charge, this is MY body. How DARE you soften this vessel with your naive, boyish nonsense? Ugh, what part of me was ever that much of a pu-

Shut up, shut up! I don’t care who you were, it doesn’t matter, I’m here now. I won’t let you spoil this.

Spoil this? Me? You coyly sit here like some juvenile lovesick puppy dog. All I want to do is make a move.

Don’t you touch her. 

Jack took the glass and downed it in one great swallow, grinning with his teeth as it slid down his throat.

But we want to. Why? What’s so special about her?

Don’t play dumb. You know. You see it too, you feel it, you can’t hide that from me.

The voices quieted, and Jack looked up. She was watching him. 

He chuckled, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She asked.

“It’s a bit noisy in here.” He smirked again, tapping his temple with two fingers. 

Her eyebrows came together. 

Dread rose in the pit of Jack’s stomach and he pushed back from the table. She was going to say something, and he didn’t want to hear it.

“Jack, I -” She started.

Jack took two steps around the small table, movements prowling and intense. He put one hand on the table again to wedge himself between it and Her, and leaned towards her with purpose. 

Jack held out his other hand and interrupted her. “Dance with me.”

She stopped. Whatever sad words, or consolations she was going to utter on his behalf were silenced. She looked down at his hand and then up at his face.

“And who would I be dancing with?” She asked cooly. 

Jack winced, his hazel eye cringing beneath his expressive eyebrow. But the red eye was unflinching. His lip turned up, like a grin and a snarl combined, confident and intensely focused. This eye blazed like the red hot end of a poker.

“You would be dancing with me.” He moved his hand a little closer, an inch, urging.

She looked around. She was uncertain. 

Jack knew now why his heart never pounded, why he couldn’t feel his blood rushing through his veins. He had no heart. It was hidden somewhere secret to keep him in a half-life state forever. But in the hollowness of his chest he felt other things, moving things, coils of colorful snakes writhing about in there when she looked at him. Both halves of him couldn’t deny the feeling. Neither one wanted to.

“Dance with me. What do you have to lose, here?” Jack insisted. He tilted his head forward, the sandy hair dropping just enough to cover one part of the gruesome crack in his cheekbone. 

“Jack, I don’t -” 

Jack took her hand. His other one reached up, and with strange delicateness of gesture, he took her chin and turned her face towards him.

“Please. Dance with me.” Jack asked. Unanimous desire, unconflicted, in his eyes, voice a playful growling rumble, but beneath that…

Beneath that...

She didn’t say anything. She paused, and then she reached out and accepted his hand.

Jack’s expression didn’t waver as he led her from their table to the dance floor. As the rhythm slowed and deepened like a nocturnal current around them, he moved his free hand to her waist. He kept her other hand close to his chest, turning them so her palm was pressed on his sternum, and his hand was holding it there.

Had he a heartbeat, she would have felt it thrumming under her palm.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Jack murmured, still locked onto her eyes. They were beautiful. Like the green of the world just before the autumn frost. He could feel the darkness in her now, not like before. It was like cool bed sheets on a hot summer night, silken and surrounding. 

She smiled at the comment. 

There was a moment of silence between them as the music progressed, thrumming up from the soles of their feet.

“Are you still… you, Jack?” She asked. 

Her expression hadn’t changed, but Jack pulled his eyes away from hers as he contemplated the question. 

“No.” The red eye answered, automatically. A moment later the hazel eye returned, coming back to Her gaze “... and yes.”

Jack moved his hand to the small of her back, as if to make sure she couldn’t escape. He leaned his head towards hers, eyes cast again to the side. “I’ve always been this. Inside. Like you.” 

She didn’t respond, so Jack tilted his face back towards hers. “Evil is relative. I was evil. Still am I suppose. But everyone is. I’m no different at all. If anything, I’m better now. I remember. I know things. I can feel things.”

“You are different. I see it.” She insisted. “Tell me that you’re alright, Jack.”

Jack laughed, his smile curling sharply, knifing up his face in a sudden manic gesture before settling in it’s new, casual grin. Then it faded, shifted sides, his hazel eye leveled at her. “Don’t I look alright?” 

His grin was tinted feral. His eyes roamed over her face. He could see the shadows just beneath her skin. They looked delicious.

“No.” She stated.

Jack winced, playfully scowling at her. “It’s the blood, isn’t it? Tsk, I’ve tried to clean it up, but honestly, some vessels these days -”

“Stop that.” She snapped. “Answer me, Jack.”

Jack felt his mood shifting again, twisting around on itself. “Please…”

“What?” She pleaded, her tone gently prying.

He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against gleaming, dagger like thoughts. “I’m fine. I did what I had to do, I did it…. I’m…. I need….”

“What can I do to help, Jack, what do you need?” She searched his face, he could feel her eyes on him. 

Jack pulled her in, her hand still pinned to his chest. Her voice was breaking him apart, and neither half of him understood why. So he pressed his lips against hers to stop the concern, stop the worried words and the pleading. He pressed his lips there so he couldn’t feel softened by her care, or wounded by her feelings.

But.

But he left them there as his eyes closed. There was a summer rain on her lips, and it revived him. A heart in a jar thousands of thousands of miles away trembled. Wherever his soul had gone, it shivered, surprised. Jack tasted her darkness, tempered by warm sunlight, like a grove whose morning-dew grass is suddenly touched by the mid-day sun. Inexplicable. Intoxicating. Irresistible, overwhelming emotions, turbulent desire and a crushing unfamiliar hope flooded him and his first kiss with feeling.

Jack broke the kiss. 

Her expression was stunned, when he dared open his eyes again. They had stopped dancing there, rooted to the spot like a pair of deer in the road.

She didn't say anything, but she was staring, staring hard at his face.

Not so bad. Could have been worse. But there's still time, she could still tear you in half. Oh, oh, or maybe she could start crying. THAT would be something, wouldn't it?

Shut up.

Jack dropped his hands quickly, stepping away from her. She made no move to stop him, and no words of protest. Her eyes were even, glued from his face. His face, his broken face, his bleeding, torn, stained face...

Beautiful face. We have a beautiful face. Have you ever seen such delicious dichotomy? Come on, Jack. Stop fighting me.

Shut up.

Jack swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I should go. Thanks for - That's for coming out..." He tossed the words around as he turned to leave, not waiting for a response or a call of his name. He wondered if she would call him back, standing there alone on the meager dance floor. Would she ask him to stay? Recite more sympathetic words? Tell him that his feelings weren't...

But Jack didn't stay. He would never know.

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."

"Mine"

She was so hungry.

Dazed, blurry vision flashed around the room as jumbled memories glinted in the darkness of her mind like knives.

My lunch, where's my lunch, I know I brought one -

Knots twisted painfully in her neck and belly, and one leg buckled. She braced herself against the break-room counter, shutting her eyes against the swimming lights and surfaces. She felt like her insides were on fire, like her innards had become two battling octopus, strangling each other. She had never been this hungry in her LIFE.

She pushed herself away from the counter and her heel slipped. Rubber sole squealed against sterile tile and she stumbled forward to careen into the break room table. She opened her eyes as she steadied herself there, but something was wrong. She lifted her hands off of the table surface, and found that she had left hand-prints on the blue marbled tabletop.

Red hand prints.

What...?

Another glinting steel memory, and her hand flew to her neck - she felt the blood there, she could feel the torn skin - it had not been gentle. There weren't two delicate holes like in the movies. She should be dead right now. She was an excellent student, and from what she was feeling on her neck, and saw on her hands, she should be dead, not walking around not -

So Hungry. Oh God, I'm dying.

Her insides heaved again, and she let out a startled cry, bending in half with her arms wrapped about her middle.

"It will pass. Go on. Have a nibble." A voice, velvet lined with arsenic, the gleam before the angler's sharpened maw, the madness of a torturer's gentle touch. It was in her mind as well as her ears, it was everywhere around her, in her heart like an ice-pick.

She spun, bumping her hip into the table. A mug shook, spun and fell, breaking on the floor. He stood there, smiling, her blood still on his chin. Though her memories were in the dark - she couldn't shake it, couldn't reach past them - one thing remained, and it was that she hated. This. Man.

But she could make no move against him.

"What - what did you do to me?" She asked, throat tight, eyes burning, teeth aching.

He shrugged, licking a fingertip clean. "I made some improvements. Enough questions, pet."

Her mouth sealed shut. She felt panicked. I can't move. I can't speak. I can't do anything!  It was like his voice was a vice, and her free will was clamped within it.

He stepped aside, and gestured out the door.  There was the hallway. She could hear footsteps. Night crew. David and his radio playing Devo all the time, Tiffany with her collection of pocket-sized poetry books left around the place. Diego the custodian with the wallet full of family photos and the handlebar mustache -

She could smell his mustache wax. She could smell the rose scented pages of Shakespeare's love sonnets volume 2, she could smell the half eaten bag of chips.

She could hear their heartbeats. Delicious rhythms pounding through their thick veins, roaring like a river of life, calling her to sip from it deeply -

No!

Her stomach roared. Her fingertips reached back and curled around the edge of he table.

That Man tilted his head at her. "You don't eat, you become useless. You become useless, I need to put you down." He shrugged. "But honestly, you don't have a choice, and I don't have time to baby you, so - Go. Eat."

She didn't understand. She couldn't grasp what he was saying until she let go of the table. She felt the howling in her stomach and she stumbled as she felt the teeth inside of her head crack and split open, sending shock-waves of pain into her eyes. When her hands investigated she found the fangs here, long and yearning. Her jaw ached.

I am so hungry. Eat, eat, EAT. 

No. No, this isn't what I think it is, I'm not going to do that - Her thoughts were the only will she had, it seemed, as she moved out of the room and down the hall. They screamed in her darkened mind as her hands reached for Tiffany, glasses clattering to the floor. They howled in protest as Tiffany asked her why - what was going on - help me, help me, help me. Her thoughts could barely process how she ripped into her friend's throat with a bare hand to stop the noise, how her eyes marked the page of Sonnet number 97 as it lay open on the floor.

Then her thoughts could do no more, rallied as they were against her own body's unwilling actions. But they watched. They watched and heard as brave Diego came with a mop and died to it, broken ends in his sternum, blood mingling with Tiffany's on the floor. Snarls, hissing, foreign noises came from her own throat as David started to run down the hall. She watched, detached, as she leaped upon him and tore his throat out with his teeth -

And secretly wept when his blood poured down her throat, and how good it felt, and how revived she was, and how the pain in her chest instantly receded, and she was so lost in that glory, that blood, that blood of her friend, that her thoughts could make no more noise but silent hatred, and then it was over.

He patted her on the head. "Aw, good doggie."

"Fuck you." She said. She could say it, she said it. She tried to reach out, to take hold of his throat, but her hand raised an inch before He lifted one finger.

"Tut tut tut, little mutt." He bent at the hip to be eye to eye with her. He smelled like... he smelled like master. She felt bile in her throat and then tasted blood.  "Smile, little doggie."

She smiled. She hated him.

"You're mine now. And your pet name is Emira."

"I'll show you what a fucking 'pet' can do -" She started, spitting anger, body vibrating in the attempt to defy him.

He raised his hand again and made a fist. Her heart clenched, seizing in her chest and she gasped, the pain unreal, worse then her hunger, worse then anything, and she clawed at her own chest to get it to stop.

"Watch your mouth, Dog." He warned. "I own you. You will do as I say, when I say it. Nod your head."

She nodded.

"Your name is Emira now. And you are Mine. Understand that?" He grinned, eyes mad, face contorted with cruelty. "Mine. Now say it. What. Is. Your. Name?"

She gasped, pain released. Her hand left a bloody print on the wall of the hallway. Something dripped nearby, a slow bloody dribble. The darkness of her mind was swimming with razor blades. She hated this man. She would end him. She would end him if it took millennia.

She locked eyes with him. "My name is Emira."

And you are going to regret this.