1: the foundling

(((-)))

The boy tightened his grip on the thin walking stick, leaning heavily on it as he staggered to take another step. His skin was slick with sweat and the air was saturated with sickly sweet heat. The rainwater collecting on the forest floor was clouded with plants and dirt. Frogs' croaks echoed off the trees.

He tore a thin piece of bark off of a nearby tree, not sure if it was edible or poisonous like every other godforsaken thing of the jungle. Pushing it into his mouth, he chewed the leathery strip lethargically. When it became pliable and lost its flavor, he dropped it to the ground and tore off a new piece. His eyes darted about in an effort to stay open with the heavy heat. He could feel the mud on the back of his legs through the cloth of his thinning pants. The tree loomed over him mockingly; the leaves rippled in too-dark, too-vivid colors. The sun overhead was a lazy halo lagging behind the coconuts that he couldn't reach.

((*))

It was subtle, but experienced eyes could see them. Glowing blue marks lined the inside of protruding roots of the territory they were invading. Suspiciously young-looking leaves covered certain areas by the edge of the island, and smooth-ended logs were strewn over the ground.

Captain Avery, noting the sudden presence of flying barrels exploding alarmingly close to his island, decided to take action against the things that dared try to harm his island. He also found that barrels of gunpowder he himself had stolen had gone missing. By his orders, all pirates living on the land he owned were to venture into Troggy territory and teach the savages a lesson.

The bulging eyes and wide mouths were set in grim, round faces. They wore heavy war paint on their faces and hands. There was a dark red line slicked from the bottom of their lips to their chins as a tribute to their amphibious war god. Dressed in little more than dried grass, leaves, and rope, the savages held their spears at the ready.

Accompanying the Troggies were the Cutthroats, sharks of men with cruel habits. They were armored to the teeth. The Troggies didn't look the slightest bit trustful of their companions, but it was obvious that a recent truce had formed an alliance between the two groups.

Ulysses growled under his breath as he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The leader of the hunting party stepped forward.

"On behalf of the pirate Captain Avery, we will exterminate the Troggies' threat," the man said, not a hint of doubt in his voice. Pete was his name, Ulysses thought. His thick body was corded with muscle and he made for an intimidating silhouette. "Surrender your gunpowder or we'll be forced to take extreme measures."

"We'll see about that. Get 'em, boys!" With an unholy warcry, the Cutthroats and Troggies charged forward in an ununited scramble across the battlefield. Pete fell back, and immediately musketeers stepped forward, positioning their guns. The roar of gunfire drummed the air. As soon as the men fired once, a new row of musketeers took their place, giving them time to reload without pausing the assault.

When they were sufficiently confident in winning through personal arms, the pirates charged forward. Musketeers fell back as their comrades surged forward. They made sure their bayonets were attached justly before running in with their own yells. Ulysses grinned, sprinting forward in the exhilaration of overpowering his enemy.

Ulysses' sword was drawn. Though the number of adversaries had thinned, the opponents were still outnumbering them. Around him, others were slaughtering the Troggies. The scent of copper was thick in the humid air, making it hard to breathe, but this was what he lived for. He inhaled and exalted in the atmosphere. The wind stopped. His hand was slashing, stabbing at the savage islanders. It met resistance in a Troggy shaman, who gasped at the sudden slice to his belly. His eyes flew frantically to Ulysses as he tried to cast a defensive spell, a healing spell, or any powerful attack spell he knew. Before he finished choking out the incantation, Ulysses pulled his sword back and stabbed him straight through, coating his sword with blood halfway to the hilt. The thick red blossomed across the man's chest as his knees buckled, body going limp and heavy. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he clutched his hand over his wound, trying to staunch the flow. But it was too late. Ulysses grinned, taking a final stab and pulling out the sword. He flicked off the blood with a professional switch of his arm.

Turning to the next available opponent, the buccaneer saw a Cutthroat staring at him without fear. They moved towards each other simultaneously. The Cutthroat drew his own blade, a cutlass that would surely glance off his armor. Ulysses' grin was bloodthirsty, and any pirates who knew him moved their own fights away. They weren't stupid enough to stand in the way of Merciless Ulysses Spinnaker's unbridled thirst for violence. Anticipation curled the man's stomach.

The Cutthroats thin eyes narrowed in glee, making sure his grin bared his sharpened teeth. Readying his sword, Ulysses charged forward. He who strikes first strikes twice, he remembered learning from Mordekai. He closed in with a swift jab, and then a slash, but both were deflected by the curved blade. He growled in challenge, studying his opponent. The heavyset Cutthroat would be less agile than sturdy. He tended to shift his weight to his heel when stepping. Ulysses aimed for the man's weak point, his left leg. Even when he caught the man by surprise, he was barely able to make a shallow cut in the man's meaty thigh. The man started moving on the balls of his feet slowly, not making any sudden movements. They were fluid but amateur, and that was just what Ulysses needed.

(*)

By the end of the battle (massacre), Ulysses was grinning wildly. He looked like a starved man who'd eaten a feast. His comrades thumped him on the back as they surveyed the damage; about ninety percent of the enemy forces had been slaughtered, and the rest had surrendered. As of the moment, Avery's men began to loot the territory, through which bitter tribal people stalked and watched their conquerors.

The lights in the hollows of tree roots had become dimmer with the battle. Ulysses watched as pirates, mainly witch doctors, ducked into the ditches. They returned with bulging sacks, probably filled with ingredients or something. Jenna, one of the most prominent witch doctors, shoved one of the sacks into Ulysses' hands.

"Hold this for a second, will you?" she asked. However, before he could respond, she was squeezing back under the tree. Shortly thereafter, she returned with another full bag. "Thanks." she said abruptly. She pulled the burlap from his hands. Jenna was a plucky woman, always ready to finish whatever she started. She barely reached Ulysses' chest, and she could easily defeat him and any other pirate with her hands tied.

As she briskly strode off accompanied by her admiring crew, Ulysses called out, "You're welcome!" Her first mate, an old but fit man likely of Mooshu origin, levelled him with a calm gaze. His walking stick seemed more like a weapon than an aid at that moment.

Ulysses watched their decessus with a raised brow. He glanced to one of the tribal warriors, who averted his eyes. The man's slight limp was almost unnoticeable with the wounded pride in his gait. He seemed restless. His fingers were twitching and he seemed in a hurry to rush Ulysses to the next area of the community. Might as well play around a little, Ulysses thought to himself. This is your punishment for trying to vandalize our island. He started to look around, his gaze dropping on a group of trees Jenna had dismissed as residential rooms. As Ulysses approached the knoll, the guide seemed to become more nervous. Ulysses thought it was only fair to inspect their homes, seeing as the natives had attacked his own.

Suddenly, the short, gritty man stepped in front of him. "You not go that place-" he commanded in thickly accented, broken vernacular. Though he already looked to be in his late 20s, his voice was high pitched. Nervously, he began to twitch away from the Ulysses, who had pinned him with a withering gaze. The man flinched. The birds were silent, but the trees rustled overhead. Ulysses could feel hundreds of apprehensive people surrounding them.

"I'm going to that place now." Ulysses said slowly, narrowing his stare. Hah, we already won the battle, you frog-worshipping freak. He purposely pushed the shorter man aside and marched to the towering trees. Before he could duck into the nearest hole, the man pulled him back again.

"Please, no this." he pleaded. Ulysses could practically smell his fear. The Troggy snatched his hand away from Ulysses arm as if it had burned him, still twitching fearfully. This guy probably saw him fighting. Ulysses ignored him, turning back. The panic of the guide was seeping through his skin in waves.

It was surprisingly clean inside. Jars filled with foods and common herbs were neatly stacked on shelves. A rag was folded over a bucket half-filled with clear water sitting on the floor beside a stack of blankets. Scurrying in front of the blankets, the Troggy began shaking violently. Staring directly at the blankets, he saw what the young man was trying to conceal.

There was a hand, and it wasn't a course, thick Troggy hand. It was slim and smooth, barely there. The fingers were still. It was small and vulnerable all at once.

(*)

"He isn't in critical condition anymore," Mitch said as he straightened, raising his hand from the forehead of a prone form. "But he needs a lot of rest. And I do mean a lot," he eyed Ulysses' folded figure leaning against a wall in the corner of the room. "He will also need an attendant. The wet rag needs to be replaced about every three hours, and he must be force-fed at least three potions…" Ulysses listened to the snappy physician ramble on. He seemed to have caught the most capable "doctor" in a bad mood.

"Aren't you supposed to be Miracle Mitch?" he asked playfully. He gave a weary grin, folding his arms.

"Something this light does not merit a miracle," the older man grumbled, unamused. His oblong nose twitched as he hobbled away to the other room of his operational quarters. The must of a mystery potion bubbled from the far corner of the other room. The boy from the battlefield was lain on one of the uncomfortable wooden pallets when he was brought back by Ulysses, remaining sickly-looking. His breath came in short, soft puffs, and his eyes convulsed behind their lids. "I must say, though, that this is a somewhat strange case." He ran his calloused fingertips over the side of his face before he wandered over to a cabinet to find a relaxant for the restless patient.

Ulysses pursed his lip before grimly pushing himself away from the wall. The shadows under his eyes were deep and dark. Approaching the bed, he wondered, "Where are his parents?" Then, to no one in particular, "He's just the same age as Damien. They must be worried about him." The lantern light flickered gently, light dancing sporadically across the room. Mitch put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

"Don't be worried like that, kiddo. I'm a professional here," He pushed Ulysses out of the house gently. "Get out of here. Your son is waiting for you." Ulysses straightened as a young boy only as tall as his knee ran from the dormitories.

"Hey there, little champ," Ulysses lifted his son on to the crook of his elbow. Gleefully he petted the soft hair, which had been freshly washed in celebration of the hunt. "How's school?"

"Boring. Bad," Damien listed off at least ten more negative adjectives before Ulysses stopped him.

"You done anything with the axe?"

"The shitty shark wouldn't let me." Damien sniffed as he puffed his chest. At this Ulysses quirked a brow.

"Where did you learn to talk like that? Respect your elders; his name is Mordekai, and that's Mister Mordekai unless he says otherwise." Ulysses reprimanded, beginning the short walk back to the dorms. Thank whatever deity was watching over him that Mordekai was usually asleep by then, or else his sharp ears would pick up on their conversation.

"But Pops, he really is-"

"Damien."

"Fine."

"Promise?" Ulysses insisted, levelling the boy with a heavy stare.

"...no…" Damien trailed off, choosing to look at the moonlight-spattered sand instead of his father's face.

"Damien." Ulysses pinched the boy's cheek, eliciting an indignant shriek. They entered the dormitory. His son could be so stubborn.

"I promise."

"To what?"

"I promise to not call anyone a shitty shark,"

"And?" Damien was silent. "You won't curse again, will you?" They were standing outside the door, and Damien wanted to sleep. Despite convincing the dorm mother that he was very energetic (in a way that made her wince and retreat to her room) and set on awaiting his father's return from the Miracle Shack, the boy was tired. He was in his second year of schooling, after all. He needed his sleep as it came.

"...maybe." Ulysses' hand stilled. Damien still avoided the question. "Didn't you tell me not to make promises I can't keep?"

Ulysses sighed. "Will you at least try?"

"I can compromise." said Damien, a fox-like grin crawling on his face. "But only for a certain...price." He held up his hand, looking up at Ulysses through his arrogant eyes. Ulysses grimaced at the gesture, dropping Damien into one of two cots in the small room.

Who the hell has he been hanging out with?What happened to my sweet, innocent boy? Settling a blanket over Damien, he tucked the boy in. "Good night, champ. Sweet dreams." Kissing his forehead, Ulysses moved to the other cot. He felt the stand dip considerably under his weight, but it had never collapsed, and wasn't about to. Damien's breathing had slowed, and Ulysses repeated the quiet prayer he said every night.

(*)

A woman in white, homely and nurturing, appeared in his dreams. She was thick but soft, in a motherly way. A boy was floating in darkness when her figure approached him. She cradled his face in her arms, bringing him into a warm hug. It felt nice. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. How long had it been? Was he still asleep or dead? The woman lifted his face, and placed a kiss on his forehead. Then she was gone, and everything was a dark sleep.

As he slowly awoke, there was a cheerful humming. Behind his stuck eyelids he saw a dim light burning unsteadily. Where am I? The scent of sharp medicine aromatized the air unpleasantly, like vinegar. His drift back into consciousness did not go unnoticed by whichever presence had replaced the tribal healers. His eyes peeled open and immediately widened.

There, not two centimeters away, was an enormous, orange, cucumber-esque nose hanging in his face. It was wrinkly and gross.

"I see you're awake." He scanned the strange, ruddy face of the old man. Squinty, beady eyes on either side of the nose studied him from underneath caterpillar eyebrows. A thin mouth that was barely visible tightened. As he talked, the proboscis moved. Noticing the rude staring, the creature snorted before pulling away.

"Wh-Where am I?" he asked.

"Miracle Mitch's Miracle Shack. Welcome, kid," he answered, critically eyeing the still roving gaze. "Surely you know who I am."

"Er. No, sorry," the boy stuttered, averting his gaze to the wall on his other side.

"Miracle Mitch."

"I...ah...see," he glanced back to the face, only to see past it. "That makes sense." There was a second-long pause.

"You can thank me now, you know."

"Er. Yeah. Um...Thanks. For…"

"Breaking your fever, sheltering you until you were well, and letting you sleep on my bed." The boy was beginning to understand that sleeping on Mitch's bed was not a huge favor given. It was more a loss than a gain. His tailbone was aching like there was no tomorrow.

"That, yes. Of course."

A couple of minutes of stuttering and Mitch was frustrated. What sort of blubbering idiot was this?

Mitch grumbled before stalking off.

(*)

"How're you feeling, buddy?" a man asked. He was corded with thick muscle, and a barely-there layer of blonde hair. If his posture's anything to go by, then he's probably not a productive member of society, the boy thought. Though upright and proud, there was an air about him that made him weary. Addressing him so familiarly, too.

"Buddy?"

"Sure."

"I'm fine, thank you, sir. Who are you?" The man blinked, then chuckled.

"Straight to the point, aren't you? I wouldn't blame you. Ulysses Spinnaker's my name." He stretched a hand towards the boy, who took it awkwardly.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Spinnaker." he annunciated carefully. He gave the hand a tentative shake before retracting his and laying it over his stomach. Noon light was breaking through the window. How long had he been asleep?

"You're very polite." Mitch snorted from where he was gathering jars from a shelf in another room. "I'm sure my son could learn a thing or two from you. He's about your age, I should think. What's your name?" There was a boy wandering around the room behind Ulysses. He neared a pot of a boiling green liquid. "Damien, come over here." The other boy obediently looked up before nearing the wooden pallet.

"I'm Isa-" he began before going into a coughing fit. Ulysses looked ready to get Mitch, but honestly, the boy didn't want to see the proboscis creature again. "Isaac." he continued, the words slipping through his lips like water. Ulysses lowered an eye to Isaac.

(*)

"Hey, I'll be your first friend, right? Isaac. Hey, are you listening to me?" Damien asked insistently. Isaac paused for a second, his hands stilling where they had been splitting blades of grass near the fountain.

"No. I've had many friends before you, rest assured." he mumbled, looking back down at his lap. While Mr. Spinnaker discussed something with Mr. Mitch, Isaac was to wait outside with Damien. He busied himself with plucking more pieces of grass from the sandy soil.

The clothes that were given to him seemed to be hand-me-downs from the boy. They were much too big; the long sleeves hung over his thumbs and the shirt alone came halfway down his thigh. The pants had to be rolled five times at the waist to fit correctly, and the bottoms rolled twice. The boots were two sizes too large, and that made Isaac grumpy. A bobble hat shoved over his hair had to be taken off because it kept falling in his eyes.

It had taken some convincing to get Mitch to retrieve a brush from the attic, but Isaac had done it. The unruly hair that was sticking up in every way possible was now brushed into sleek black waves. However, when he had asked to take a bath, Mitch had scoffed and turned away, laughing under his breath.

"Well, I'm your brother anyway. I'm your best friend by default," He smiled cheekily.

"Being my brother doesn't automatically grant you a ticket onto the friendship boat." Isaac immediately replied, turning his head. He didn't feel guilty when Damien looked as if he had been thrown into the middle of a blizzard. Not at all.

"Oh, don't be cold! It does, it does. In fact, since I'm such a forgiving friend, I'll let you be my first mate when we grow up." he laughed, patting his 'brother' on the shoulder awkwardly. He still hadn't recovered from that verbal barb.

"Who decided we were brothers, anyway?" Isaac asked. He stood from the spot where he knelt and walked about the flagstones, observing the courtyard.

"Me. The moment Pops introduced us, you were auto-drafted into my family." he grinned.

"What if I don't want to be?"

"Doesn't matter if you don't wanna. Even if you run away, you'll always be my brother, so says me."

"That sounds creepy, to be honest." Isaac said, blinking at the suddenness of Damien's conclusion.

"No, it doesn't."

"It does."

"Does not."

"I'm not having this conversation." Isaac muttered as he wandered further. On the other side of the court was a man peddling something from a colorful cart. As he analyzed the man, the man stared down at him cryptically. Isaac found himself averting his eyes from the intimidating man. The courtyard was silent except for the gulls on the beach below. Damien, trailing behind him persistently, pouted as he tugged on Isaac's sleeve.

"C'mon Isaac, I know you wanna. Silence means you give up." Damien grinned cunningly.

"No."

"Fine then." Damien poked Isaac. Then poked him again. And again. And again, and again, and again. "I'm gonna keep bothering you until you call me 'brother.'"

"I will beat you."

"You can't do that," Damien smirked. "Pops rescued you, so you can't beat me up."

"Watch me." Isaac brought a fist down on Damien, who eyed it readily, not flinching as it neared the tip of his nose. His arm paused when it was an inch away.

"Told'ja so." Damien's eyes twinkled playfully. He poked Isaac in the ribs and watched amusedly as he weasled away. "So, are we brothers or what?"

"What. Definitely what." Isaac gritted out. Annoyance crept into his voice.

"Aw. Bummer," Damien jabbed the pressure point in Isaac's neck.

"Brothers. Brothers. I give up already." Isaac winced. Damien's eyes sparkled as his face took on an expression of elation.

"I win, heheh! So where do you want to go first?"

"What do you mean?" Damien exhausted Isaac so much that he couldn't think of doing anything but sitting down. Alone, preferably. Why was this even such a big deal?

"Obviously I have to give you a tour."

"How about later?"

"You're not getting out of this one, Isaac!" Will I ever get out of anything with you? he wondered. Even though he'd just met the boy, he could tell that he was persistence incarnate.

"Some place you're not."

"That's mean. Well, let's just sit in the court for now. Nothing exciting's going on anywhere, anyways." Damien sighed before leading the both of them back down to the fountain, where Isaac rested his head against the cool, wet stone. Damien studied Isaac's round, peaceful face as he breathed softly in a poor resemblance of sleep. "Why's your hair so long?"

One of Isaac's eyes, stormy with irritation, cracked open. "Because that's how I wear it."

"But it's so...girly."

"There's nothing girly about long hair." he shot back defensively. His eyebrows furrowed at the thought. Was it girly? No one had ever said so.

"Boys, boys. I have a surprise!" announced a deep voice. Mr. Spinnaker, bounding up behind them and looking ridiculous, beamed at them. The intensity of his gaze made Isaac shudder in a vague fear of what this man had in store. Somehow, he resembled his son. The wariness must've been obvious for someone who looked as dense as Mr. Spinnaker to pick up on it; he aimed his smile directly at Isaac. "Don't worry, it's nothing bad!"

Isaac pursed his lips in suspicion.

"We're visiting the Buccaneer's Den!" he grinned.

(*)

The classroom was small and cramped with sharp-looking weapons. Axes crossed on the walls, curved swords hung proudly, daggers lying idly on tables or in the hands of adolescents, spears leaning against mysterious crates, round wooden shields with spikes hung on the scratched, curling wallpaper-the place had it all. The instructor, Mordekai, was a heavily built man. His body was corded with muscle, and his voice was low and gruff as he instructed the students, who looked to be a few years older than Isaac and Damien. His flat nose was perched on a face scarred to oblivion, and his dark hair was cropped high on his forehead. His teeth were almost shark-like, and his frame swayed with a fighters grace as he demonstrated. His jacket looked a size too small from the way it stretched across his shoulders.

Mr. Spinnaker beamed proudly as Mordekai took notice of them. "Nice to see you, old friend." he said, and the teacher's eyes narrowed playfully.

"I am your teacher," Mordekai replied, narrow eyes becoming friendly half-moons. "Not your friend. Good to see you, pup," He cast his eyes down on the two boys. "And how old are they?"

"Damien's nine, and…" he rubbed his chin. It was clear he'd forgotten the other boy's name. "Isaac here is-how old are you, buddy?" he asked, bending over.

"Seven." Isaac answered.

"Isaac's seven." he repeated.

"Ah, not old enough yet, I see."

"Don't worry, they'll be all grown up before I know it," Mr. Spinnaker grumbled resignedly. "Damien's already got his axe ready and everything. He's ready for battle" he laughed.

"I saw yesterday. You shouldn't give kids weapons when they're so young, pup. They're starting earlier every decade already." Mordekai frowned critically. "Avery's wound up. He's really serious about this 'pirate democracy,' or whatever he calls it."

"Well, with the Armada going at the rate it has, there's not much we can do but start early," Mr. Spinnaker sighed. "But that's aside from the point. Damien wanted to see the classroom while you were instructing."

"Of course," Mordekai knelt on one knee before Damien and Isaac. "You seek to learn? All I know is fighting."

Damien nodded eagerly as Mordekai spoke, but Isaac looked past Mordekai's thick shoulder into the actual instruction room. There were six students inside, each looking bored and tired. One looked back at Isaac and grinned, waving a hand. However, in his hand was a sword, which waved with his hand. His neighbor, who was standing unfortunately close, was tapped on the head by the broad side of the sword and shrieked.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he squealed, voice still a little high.

"Whoops, my bad. You alright?" the still-smiling boy asked, patting his friend on the shoulder. His friend slapped his hand away irately, grumbling angrily.

"Eliezer, Benjamin. What seems to be the problem?" Mordekai growled, turning sharply back to his students. They stiffened immediately, standing ramrod straight at the burly man's attention. Mr. Spinnaker hid a chuckle behind a hand.

"Nothing, sir." gritted the still-angry boy. He slapped his friend's back and turned back to his practice dummy. "We're all pals in the Den." As soon as Mordekai turned back with an stifled groan at the fluffy phrase, the grin fell from the waver's face. He hunched over and held his arms to his upper back, shooting an indignant glare at the other.

(*)

"Wasn't that fun?" Ulysses asked, steering Damien and Isaac back into a building across from the Buccaneer's Den. A swinging wooden sign painted with a cozy-looking bed hung above the doorway. The sand was purpley-white under the moon. The air was calmer than in the day; it was cooler, stiller. After the students had filed out at sunset, the teacher and father spoke for a lengthy amount of time, and when they were finally done, the trio walked hushedly to the building across the court.

"He was a lot cooler than he was yesterday!" Damien yelled, tugging on his father's pants. "Hey Isaac! We'll be learning there soon!"

"Oh. That's...interesting." Isaac said.

"Gee, you don't have to sound so excited." Ulysses replied, squeezing Isaac's shoulder playfully. His eyes twinkled and Isaac looked at the ground. Standing around and learning how to hold and fight with a sword didn't sound that interesting to him. Even as strict and blatantly rude as Professor Drake was, he'd prefer lessons in Myth to lessons with a sword and shield.

Damien rounded on him, hands on his hips. "You can't not be excited about lessons! That's the border between boy and man!"

"That's right, Isaac!" Ulysses grinned, mussing his hair. "Listen to your brother."

"It's the border between Boy and slightly older, stronger Boy." Isaac shot back. He was bored and irritated inside the Den, and now this? After leaving the fighters' school, Mr. Spinnaker demanded to be called 'Papa' the same way Damien demanded to be called 'Brother.'

The father's eyes darted between them, amused and concerned at the same time. Isaac hadn't denied his brotherhood, though that was probably out of exasperation rather than acceptance. One large hand yanked the door open, pulling it from the stuck door frame. Down the sand-floored hallways, all the doors were shut in an eerie, abandoned quiet. Damien reached up and tugged the man's arm. Ulysses hoisted the boy into a one-arm cradle with a gentle smile. Then he glanced at Isaac. He was starting to look sleepy.

"C'mon," he said, holding out one hand. Isaac looked at it blearily. Probably tired out from all that arguing.

"Wha'?"

"Grab it." Isaac looked at him dubiously before tentatively placing his small hand in the man's.

"Up we go." Ulysses snickered, pulling the other boy into his other arm. Damien shifted and giggled at Isaac's shocked face.

"Don't manhandle me…" he muttered even as he shifted closer to the warmth of his body.

"Light as a feather, you are." Ulysses smiled, ignoring the comment. Isaac's nose twitched as he fell asleep, Damien soon following. When he reached their room near the end of the hall, he eased it open with a soft squeak. He gently put Isaac and Damien in one of two hammocks hung in the room and moved towards a desk under the window. As soon as they were asleep, he lit a soft candle. The moonlight wasn't bright enough to read under.

However, as soon as he cracked open the thick, leather-bound journal, he became aware of another presence in the room. Heavy, guttural breathing echoed off the walls. Turning slowly, he came face-to-face with an dark green shoulder.

"What...who are you?" Ulysses slowly asked, eyes roving a tall, poorly dressed, hunched figure.

"Troll." was the simple answer he got. The ogre turned back, dismissing Ulysses for something else. When he followed the gaze, Ulysses jumped, his chair hitting the creature's hip with a loud thud. He ran in front of the ogre, throwing his arms out in front of the children's hammock.

"Get away from my son." Ulysses snarled. Curse the sword resting on the other side of the room, by his own hammock. The troll's face was a grotesque green slathered in oil and stringy hair stuck up from a few spots of the porous skin. A severe underbite revealed small, pointed teeth, some sticking out over its thick upper lip. The forehead stretched over half its face, and its yellow eyes narrowed at Ulysses' interference. It was clad only in an over-the shoulder tattered tunic. At least one head taller, the troll cut an imposing figure. In one hand was a spiked club.

"Puny human," the troll said, not bothering to lower his gravelly, bass voice. A hand larger than his face pushed him away. "Master need me."

"Go to your master, then. Stay away from the kids." He crowded closer to the troll. Step back.

"Move, human," the troll said irately. "Master not want me use violence, but I happy use violence," the troll threatened, pushing Ulysses aside effortlessly before plucking one of the children from the hammock by the back of his shirt-Isaac. Blinking sleepily, the boy yawned before opening his eyes.

"Oh, Yolik. It's just you." he mumbles before falling back asleep. Ulysses, wide-eyed, hurriedly yells for Isaac to wake up.

((*))

Cyrus Drake was not happy. Not that he ever was. But especially in that moment, he was displeased. While on a mission, one of his younger students had managed to get lost. The boy's student teacher, who was supposed to monitor the boy on the mission, claimed that while in battle, the boy had teleported away without rhyme or reason, but Cyrus knew better. The monitor had been lazing around and lost track of the boy.

"What is your name, boy?" he spat.

"Joaquim, sir! Sorry, sir!" the boy said, fidgeting in the desk. The classroom was empty except for he and the instructor. Cyrus, standing imposingly in front of him, clicked his tongue.

"Apology not accepted. I will be the one who has to answer for your mistakes. Obviously, there will be repercussions." he growled.

"Of course, sir!"

"Oh, shut up." Cyrus shot back, disgusted at the negligence of the alumni.

((*))

"So this is Yolik." Isaac said, patting the now-calm troll's bicep pleasantly. They leaned against each other like old friends.

Nodding, Isaac's eyes began to droop again. The troll shot Ulysses a glare, awkwardly rubbing the boy's back. Damien was miraculously sound asleep, having shifted away as far as possible in a hammock as possible (which was not very far, according to gravity).

"And you summoned him?"

Isaac looked bored. "It would be sad if I couldn't." He leaned onto the troll.

Ulysses put his head in his hands.

"I think I need to see Mitch. And after that, we'll go see Vadima. She knows a lot about wizards."

"Who's she?"

"She teaches aspiring witch doctors."

"Underground wizards?" Isaac yawned, raising a brow. His hands drummed lazily where the rested on the rotted floorboards.

"Never say that in front of Vadima. She gets very angry." Ulysses returned slowly. Sternly, patted Isaac's shoulder.

"Alright." Isaac mumbled. His head was beginning to loll.

"Go to sleep, champ. We'll talk more tomorrow."

(((-)))

A/N: So this is my first (published) fanfiction. I'm not that confident in my writing as it seems to drone instead of jump, but it'll have to do for now. After all, I've already written most of the plot...orz. If you have any advice/feedback (longer/shorter, more details, less details, etc. etc.), feel free to leave a review, or just favorite/follow to show your support!

Also...I have no idea how to write families. Whoops...

Additionally, note that this will VERY VAGUELY follow the main storyline of P101-as in, some plot points are mentioned, but the story doesn't revolve around it.

Oh yeah, Ulysses is kind of an asshole when he's not being a good Dad :P But he'll (probably) get better.

Thanks for reading!