Planks creaked with the rocking of the ship, as if the very foundations of the vessel were bemoaning the voyage she sailed. The massive ship cut through the early morning fog sitting lazily atop the surface of the water as she carried herself towards her final destination: the Fire Kingdom. Many months she had been at sea, her crew searching for the Treasure of the South, finding it, and loading the hull to the brim with it.
The skipper rose that morning, calculating to himself how many days he was to spend at sea before he returned home, roused the crew, and whisked himself off into the galley, where he grabbed the old burned and stale loaves of bread that sat on the counter for the animals in the hull. Only two loaves today. The damned things won't get much. With bread in tow, the skipper swaggered his way onto the main deck. He was greeted by the crisp salty air of the roaring ocean, and gave a small smile as he went about his next task: waking the working part of the livestock. Down the hatch he went, into the bowels of the ship where the precious cargo was stored. Immediately his nose was greeted by the foul smell of bodies pushed too closely together, laying beside, on top, and under one another, sitting in their own waste and filth. The stench of slaves. His mellow demeanor was suddenly stripped from his face as he snarled and tossed the hard loaves into the middle of the group, waking the captives from a night of fitful sleep.
"Wake up, you filthy beasts." He bellowed. Kicking those closest to him to rouse them from their positions on the floor. "Workers, on your feet. Get up!" His tirade continued as many of the prisoners hauled themselves off the grungy floor, the shackles binding their wrists jangling listlessly as they stood. The weary shells stumbled into a line before the scowling skipper, awaiting the verbal abuse and list of tasks they were to complete that day. The list was practically memorized by the slaves now: Remove the dead and toss the bodies into the sea, scrub the deck, work the lines and sails, the women would mend nets, clothing and sails, while others performed meaningless tasks of manual labour, and some of the unluckiest young women found themselves being dragged off to the Captain's quarters. Day after day these torments continued, the uprooted natives finding each day a struggle as they made their way towards a new "life" in a "More civilized world." They all longed to return to their lives back in the village, to the peaceful time before the cinnamon skinned strangers invaded and took the children and younger adults. Night after night, the group was haunted by the memory, but none more so than the only daughter of the tribe's Chief; Marceline Abadeer, known to the slaving crew as No. 297, evident by the number carved into the underside of her left forearm, marring the tattoo that distinguished her as not only royalty, but a warrior.
Bitter thoughts drifted through her head as she raised her dark gaze to meet that of the skipper, making an attempt to prove to him that she wasn't afraid. He merely sneered back, as he barked out the order to remove the dead and moved on down the line.
Three had died overnight: two men in their thirties, and a little girl no older than twelve. A few slaves had hefted the remains of the men, and began carrying them up onto the deck to toss the carcasses with what little dignity remained, but Marceline hesitated as she took in the sight of the girl before her; a portrait of all those who sat in the hull of that damned ship. Sun darkened skin stretched over a frame of bones, with little between the two, leaving the tailored sack that was uniform to all to hang loosely off the child's body. Biting back tears, Marceline remembered just a month ago when the rough cloth fit all the natives quite well, save for a few tears, hugging their bodies softly without showing too much skin. But now, the wretched souls could feel the damp air biting their skin through garments that barely stayed on; even the princess of the people had lost significant weight and tone, her only muscle definition coming from hours and hours of labour.
Marceline picked up the child's body and hugged it close to her chest, as she crouched on the floor and muttered a prayer to the Gods for the child's spirit. Sorrow gripped the young woman's heart, her knees finding the task of righting herself near impossible. What felt like an eternity passed, before the coarse voice of the skipper interrupted her thoughts. "Get up." He growled. But Marceline made no movement. "Get up, and toss it overboard." The skipper snarled again, but the woman made no indication of hearing him. Fed up with the lack of respect, the man reached out and took a handful of the wild black mane that adorned Marceline's head, and wrenched the girl onto her feet. "I said, get up." He barked, tobacco heavy breath invading the slave's nostrils. With a snarl of her own, Marceline looked back at the man, before turning on her heel and walking up the stairs to the main deck.
Harsh sunlight berated her eyes as Marceline stepped onto the deck, not having seen actual daylight for quite some time. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, head held high, and carried the child to the edge of the ship, all the while chanting under her breath a song traditionally sung at the burials of warriors, which is exactly what this little girl was. Along the way, some captives heard the voice of their princess and joined in with the durge, showing respect for the fallen, and an air of rebellion against their captors. But of course, the skipper would have none of it, shouting for the natives to stop, which was effective against all but their leader. The young woman's voice continued it's mission, until the small corpse had landed in the tide below, and the skipper's flail found purchase against the flesh of Marceline's back.
Her knees crumpled beneath her as the jagged leather bit and lashed deep into the muscles, and she barely caught herself on the railing of the ship, a cry of pain caught in her throat. Marceline shot a snarl at the skipper over her bloodied shoulder, the man returning the look with an icy glare as he raised the cat-o-nine-tails above his head and brought it down for another swift strike, wrapping around the forearm that was raised to block it. Seeing an opportunity for more damage, the skipper gave the whip a hearty tug and sent the girl flying into his knee, her stomach taking the brunt of the force. Marceline fell to the ground out of breath and cradling her sore belly, when the skipper spat on her and threw a mop down before her.
"Get to scrubbing." He sneered. "The whole ship, all by your lonesome. Now get to it." The girl pulled herself off the deck and took up the mop, resigning herself to work, however labouriously slow her injuries caused her to move.
Morning fog soon burned off to reveal the endless sea, and a lone ship off in the distance: an old looking Galleon, about the same size as the slaving vessel. Marceline absently noted the ship, overhearing one of the crewmen speaking to the navigator about the inbound ship. "It's a trade ship, apparently." The navigator had said, peering through his spyglass, "The flag's from the kingdom in the Canyon. Must be out trading wares. You think they got more tobacco?" He said to the sailor. Marceline just scoffed as she continued to make her way across the large ship, rolling her shoulders as sun dried blood flaked off, and needles of pain worked their way across the entirety of her back. The lashes were deeper this time, scoring rips in the flesh near an inch deep; twice as deep as the normal lashings she would receive for her rebellious spirit. But just as the sun kept beating down upon the young woman's shoulders, she kept mopping the deck, hissing to herself every time a sailor would come by and spit his tobacco onto the planks where she had just finished cleaning. Hours passed and her work continued, and the Canyon Kingdom's ship came nearer and nearer, the captain thinking of doing some business deal with the traders.
The ship finally began to draw close enough to start communication between the two vessels, and Marceline noticed something slightly off about it, but let the thought pass in a wave of apathy. A single young man stood on the foremost deck, just above the bowsprit. He was a clean looking young man, who spoke politely when the navigator called across to grab his attention. Indeed they were traders, and were willing to strike up a deal between the two ships, and both ship's captains were soon making their way to the side of the ships to negotiate prices.
Captain James Lich strode out of his cabin, a tall man with a hunched frame covered in yellowing skin. He was a rather sickly man, his weight had wasted away into the walking corpse we was now, much like the unfortunate souls he transported. The other captain was a bulky man, in his twenties, blond hair and scraggly beard making him look like more of a seaman than his young attendant.
"We got slaves." The captain said, his gaunt face twisting into a wry smirk. "just bits of meat we can spare." He offered.
"Not sure I'd want slaves," the Canyon Captain returned pensively, a slight look of disgust marring his youthful face. "How many barrels of ale you have aboard? And I would also be willing to exchange goods for money, gold specifically."
"I don't know about gold." Lich rasped, but their rations were running thin, and the hunger for more of the leaves ran rampant through the crew irritation and brawls sometimes taking over the better judgement of the men. "But we have many other things to offer…" he trailed off, hoping to spare his precious money.
"Mind if we come aboard and take a look?" The younger captain asked, ever polite.
"Well, I can't see the harm in that. See if you find something worth your time." Lich muttered, stepping aside to allow the captain aboard. With a slight grin, the blond man gave a single order to his crew.
"You heard 'im boys, the nice man invited us on his ship!" In the space of three seconds, the empty deck was crowded by scraggly looking sailors jumping the distance between the ships or dashing across planks that had been rapidly tossed across the breach. This could only mean one thing: Pirates.
Marceline had watched this all happen from afar, and was soon adrift in a sea of bodies shouting and waving around weapons. Immediately she launched into the combat style her father had spent years pounding into her body, for when she would lead the warriors of her tribe into battle, as was the custom of the Chief's firstborn. Her mop quickly became a dangerous weapon, much like the spear she would carry at home, but instead of obsidian lining the edges of one end, a sopping bludgeon adorned it. She took no sides, but instead struck at anyone who got too near for her comfort. Men were dropping around her, stunned that such a scrawny girl could hold so much power behind her strikes. Swords were knocked away, and blunderbuss muzzles slapped down before they could be fired, and the mop head made itself well acquainted with the guts of pirates and slavers alike. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an intimidating looking pirate, eyeing her with interest. Snarling, she knocked down all in her way, sending a message to the pirate who was watching. The scoundrel just smirked, grabbed one of his brethren by the shoulder, and made a small gesture, words lost over the shouting and chaos that surrounded the slave. Marceline's observer merely walked away, but the crewmate they had talked to, the polite young man from the deck, began making his way towards her, swerving around people as they fought with surprising speed. Making a small note of the boy's speed, she readied herself to defend against whatever attacks he may pull. What she wasn't expecting, was the shout he gave as he charged, and the blow that followed swiftly from behind, landing across the gashes across her back, freshly opened from the exertion of fighting. The pain was immediate and shocking, knocking Marceline off her balance enough to drop her defense in time for the boy to bash his skull into her chest, sending her reeling back into the arms of his partner. The grip was iron tight, and just under her arms, allowing her just enough room to maneuver her legs up and around her captor's neck, the shock of such a move weakening the hold on her arms enough to wrench them out of his grasp. She hauled herself up onto his shoulders, and absently noted on the way up that it was the storming captain who held her, before she righted herself on his shoulders just behind his head, thighs clamped tight around the man's neck. Arching backwards, she tipped the man back enough that his massive size pulled him the rest of the way towards the deck. Marceline detached just in time to drop to the deck and roll out from under the falling behemoth, but just as she thought she was in the clear, a boot met the back of her skull, slamming her into the deck. Dazed, Marceline felt herself being hefted up, and vaguely heard what sounded like a call to retreat. The world still spun as she kicked and flailed to escape the grasp of the burly blond that held her, but he never let her go as he crossed the gangplank back onto his own ship. She thrashed and snarled and foamed, but the man refused to budge, the grip becoming more and more constricting as she squirmed, much like a python.
"What'cha got there, Jake?" someone shouted, followed by a chorus of other jeers. "Take a little prize for yourself there, did ya?" The man called again. But the man carrying Marceline (Jake, apparently,) shook his head and kept walking.
"Where's the cap'n?" Jake boomed. Marceline for her part, had given up struggling, giving into the grasp of the fake captain, and surrendering to the burning sting lancing across the back.
"Here." Came an oddly feminine voice behind him. Jake turned to reveal the same pirate who had been eyeing Marceline during the fight, apparently the captain. But, they couldn't be the captain. The captain couldn't be a woman, could they? Apparently this one was.
She was moderately tall, but exuded a regal air that made her seem much bigger than she was. Small scars littered across a heart shaped face, which still retained a sense of beauty, framing a nose that had obviously been broken at least once, set between gunmetal blue eyes that commanded respect and fear. But what struck the captive slave the most was the flaming red hair that hung down past the woman's shoulders in dreadlocks. The woman was truly an intimidating presence before the warrior princess, but she still raised her gaze to meet that of the captain.
"Good work boys." The woman chimed, never taking her gaze from her captive's face as she sauntered over to where they stood, taking Marceline's jaw in a calloused hand. "A real pretty one we got here." She muttered, turning the face in her grasp to get a good look from every angle. Marceline would have none of that though, her nose curling up in a snarl as she bared her teeth to the woman, her canines filed into slight points when she came of age: a tradition of warriors in the tribe. This didn't deter the woman holding her face, as she just continued taking in the features of her lean and angular face and the brown eyes that winked with crimson when the light flashed across them, showing the courage, intelligence and strength that lied within the lithe woman. Her snarling warning having not been heeded, Marceline upped her threat and snapped her teeth at the hand holding her jaw, only to have the back of the same hand strike across her face, a gash forming below her left eye where the captain's rings bit into the skin and tore it. But the captain just laughed, as though some joke had just been told.
"Feisty!" She exclaimed, still laughing. "I like it. She'll fit in nicely, once she learns her place."
"You can go fuck yourself." Marceline spat at the woman. "I am not going to be your damned slave." But the other woman just chuckled again.
"She speaks!" The woman jeered, her crew around her laughing. "Now now, sweetheart. Who said anything about being a slave? You're part of my crew now, so you'd better get used to it, darling."
"I am not joining your crew." the slave snarled. "Just kill me already and get it over with."
"What a waste that would be! I saw the way you fought back there, and I decided that I simply must have you for myself. A good addition to the crew, and indeed you will be. We just have to break you in first. I promise you, eventually you'll see things my way, and soon you'll be honoured to sail under the name of Captain Bonnibel Bachmann, Queen of the High Seas." With that, she gave two quick pats to Marceline's cheeks, before barking out an order. "Earls! Take our friend here to the brig, and do make sure she's comfortable." Two identical, scrawny, bald men with dramatically long noses came scrambling forth at their captain's request. "I have a feeling she'll be there for quite some time. You know the rules: No killing, minimal maiming, and don't let her go 'til she says 'I do.'" With that, she turned from the slave and sauntered away, hips swinging as she walked, and Jake turned with her still in his arms, and followed the two bean-poles into the bowels of the ship to face her reckoning.