Chapter 4: The House of Sticks
Summary: The second of the Pirate Kings is put to the test, the Wreckager is given a new resting place
Bloodstone was burning.
Greasy flames licked at the sky, consuming the dirty hovels that passed for lodgings near the bay. The crackle of the flames intertwined with the screams of horror, the cries of bloodthirsty men desperate to save what little they had in the world. The place was a dwelling for unsavory men, and women who sold themselves night after night. It hardly looked the kind of place ruled over by a King of Pirates, and yet here it was in all its dismal glory.
And soon, it would be nothing but a charred, skeletal blemish on the coast.
Reaver shuddered, oh-so-similar memories of Oakdale's burning surfacing unbidden to his mind.
"Do not lose sight of the task at hand, boy."
The thief stiffened, turning just enough to put the count within his line of vision. As usual he had appeared from the shadows, silent as a ghost and just as eerie. Stretched out lazily on a low overhang jutting from what had once been a store of some sort, he looked quite at ease amongst the hell that was spreading around them.
"Hardly. I was merely admiring your handiwork."
Stretching, Dracula slipped gracefully to the ground, chuckling softly. "Mmm, perhaps. Or perhaps you were comparing it to your own?"
Reaver felt his face follow suit as his mind went blank, watching silently as the king stalked towards his still form. The man's half lidded eyes reflected back at him the malicious flicker of the spreading flames, creating a thrilling spike of terror to rattle in his core.
The town of Bloodstone was still beyond the limits of his vision, but he knew they were close not by the affirmation of the quartermaster, but by the silhouette in the crow's nest. He knew instantly it was not the usual lookout, hastily making his way up the rigging to answer the unspoken summons. He'd seen neither hide nor hair of the count since the defeat of Dread, although he knew the man was on board.
Leaning against the short barrier that encircled the nest, the count watched the horizon, a town he couldn't yet see reflected in the man's eyes. "Set it aflame. Burn the pitiful place to the ground, and with it the memories you cling to. They weigh you down, Thief Prince. If you cannot be rid of them," Mauve orbs pinned him in place. "Make them as ash, and bury them in the dark."
The count tilted his head to look down at him, raising a hand to trace cool fingers along his jaw line.
"Make use of this opportunity I have given you; take to heart this lesson, Reaver, or else regret it in the centuries to come." He leaned closer, purr dropping to a whisper against the thief's ear. "Eternity is a long time to bear the weight of one's guilt. Wear your sins for the world to see, or find yourself at their mercy."
His mouth went dry, unable to formulate a proper reply. Dracula pulled away, knowing look scorching him just long enough for him to feel the burn before brushing past. Reaver looked on in continued silence as the count disappeared in the wavering shadows of the unkempt street. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, gaze sweeping to the mansion atop the crest of the hill. Dark windows reflected the mayhem unfolding below, making it seem as though the building bore the eyes of Skorm.
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The mansion was strangely unguarded, all too easy to access with its unlocked door. If it wasn't for the fact that Reaver knew Wicker was there, he would have thought the place deserted. If it was a trap, it was a fairly obvious one.
Hallways dark and suffocating, they smothered the din from outside into nothingness. It was like a sensory deprivation chamber, or a tomb. He rubbed at his arms absently, adrenaline spike causing the hair on them to stand on end. The faint pop and crackle of embers drew his gaze to the only door on the first floor, unsteady light spilling between the cracks. Hand on the dragonstomper, he pushed the door open enough to slip through, hinges oiled enough to give him a silent entry. A fire crackled merrily in the large hearth, bathing the cozy den in dancing light and swirling shadows.
"Ah, so my would-be assassin has arrived. I almost thought you'd gotten lost…"
The soft voice wafted from the depths of the large chair before the hearth, angle keeping Reaver from seeing its owner. A soft chuckle, the whisper of paper against paper, and a shift in the shadows: the speaker stood, moving gracefully around the chair to face the thief. He found himself taken back when the man moved into the light; were Captain Dread had been a beast of a man, face weathered and hardened by years of violence, this Pirate King was quite the opposite. Lithe and youthful, Wicker looked more a fairytale prince than pirate; elegantly dressed, long strands of sun spun hair tied back in a loose black ribbon, he regarded Reaver with the emerald eyes of a Fey, feral, cunning, and intoxicating.
"Hm, I must say the stories that have reached my rather remote little abode don't do you justice, Reaver." Wicker set the book in his grasp on an end table, slowly circling the thief as he raked his eyes over him. "I hardly expected a pretty little boy like yourself to be Dread's usurper."
He shifted to keep Wicker in his view as the pirate moved, wary of the ease in the man's movements. It was obvious Wicker didn't think him a threat. "Yes well, I suppose I could say the same of you. You hardly look the part of a bloodthirsty Pirate King. Why, I could easily mistake you for the son of a scholar, or a high end prostitute."
Wicker chuckled. "And you look like the son of a wealthy land barren, or a farm hand. Even so, it's all just semantics, is it not?"
He flinched despite himself, the screaming of Oakvale whispering in the back of his mind.
"As it were I find myself curious about you, Thief Prince. You ride the waves bearing the crest of a self-made demon, yet are obviously neither his slave, nor his kinsman. It begs the question of what made you seek him out."
"How are you so sure I sought him out?"
"Because he does not need to seek anyone out. Humans are drawn to him like a moth to flame, whether for good, or for evil. So tell me Prince, what great tragedy, what foolish ambition lured you to kneel before the throne of the No Life King?"
"I hardly see why it's any of your business."
"He sent you here to kill me for whatever fancy has taken hold of him this century, has he not? Ah, don't look at me so, I speak only the truth. In time you may find yourself in my position, when you can no longer amuse him and those demon eyes wander elsewhere." A small, bitter smile graced his face.
Reaver stiffened as Wicker came uncomfortably close, easily a head taller than he. "I'll make you an offer, little Prince of Thieves. Turn your back on the wasting king before he turns his to you; join me as a fellow King of Pirates, an equal as opposed to a pawn. I can take you places, show you wonders lost on a thing such as he…"
Vivid irises burned into his own, something swimming beneath their surface he couldn't quite comprehend. They drew him in, much as those of the count, promising things he could only guess at. Truly it was tempting.
They stood together in the captain's quarters, he preparing for the fight ahead, the count reclining on the bed, watching. Occasionally the sounds of the crew making ready for war reached them, but for the most part they lingered in pregnant silence, broken only by the crashing of waves and the hiss of the oil lamps. The king's presence was making him irrationally nervous, not knowing the reason the man chose to appear before him twice in the abnormally long night.
"My presence is making you uneasy."
He scoffed, but didn't directly refute the statement.
"I came to judge whether or not you would require the warning I bear." Dracula paused, eyes flashing as they flitted across Reaver. "It would seem I am correct in my assumption that it would prove useful to you…"
He frowned, not sure exactly how to take that. But when the Voivode motioned to the space next to him, Reaver accepted the invitation. Sitting across the bed, back against the wall, he gestured for the count to get on with it.
"I have watched you long, boy, have seen the flickers of capriciousness that dwell in your heart. Not so surprising, being that is what brought you to me. It is that conceited nature of yours, however, that may prove the problem. If you are not careful, you will fall into playing Narcissus to Wicker's reflective stream. Like the wick of these lamps, he will attempt to draw you to him as though you were kerosene, and light you a blaze."
Crimson eyes glanced sidelong at him, catching the peeved expression he couldn't smother in time.
"You prove my point once again, Thief Prince. Where you should be taking it with grace and using what I have given you to advantage, you take offense. Do not brush aside my words so lightly, to be narcissistic and fickle is not so bad, it is simply the inability to embrace it that is the undoing of most."
The skin of his face became uncomfortably hot, torn between wanting to look away in shame and holding his head high in defiance. He ended up settling somewhere in between, glaring at the door opposite.
The ghost of a chuckle tickled his ear. "Do not believe in bargains you yourself would make."
Glancing over at the slight shift of the bed, he found himself once again alone.
Blinking once in a slow, pointed way, Reaver leaned back to fix the man with a narrow eyed glance. Sly, self-assured grin slipping in place, he let slip the derisive noise forming in the back of his throat. "Join you? As tempting as that offer may be," He let his eyes dance over Wicker pointedly. "I think I'm going to have to decline."
The Pirate King smiled sadly, turning away to watch the burning of his city through the open door of the den. "Pity." He ran a thumb along the door's edge. "I think I really would have enjoyed your company." Hand dropping lightly to the handle Wicker closed the door with a light snap, effectively cutting them off from the outside world.
Reaver waited, hand on his pistol, for Wicker to make the next move.
Wicker spun smartly on his heel, fiery eyes catching on Reaver's hand before returning to the thief's face. With a strange air of calm, he drew his own ornate pistol, long fingers stroking it lovingly before swiftly cocking the hammer and pointing the barrel at the ceiling. "A dual then, as gentlemen."
Needless to say, Reaver was somewhat thrown off. The terms 'pirate' and 'gentleman' didn't equate in his head very well. Apparently the well-mannered exterior wasn't as much of a guise as he first assumed. Drawing his dragonstomper with the same amount of care Wicker had shown, Reaver wasted no time in proving just how ungentlemanly he himself was.
Wicker barely flinched as the well placed bullet tore through his hand, dislodging the Red Dragon from his fingers. The ancient pistol landed with a soft thud on the fine carpet, the Pirate King making no move to reclaim it. Wrapping his unmarred hand around his wrecked one, Wicker stared unflinchingly into the thief's eyes as Captain Dread's final words passed his own lips, verbatim. "Beware the mouth of Choleric."
Reaver held the ethereal emerald gaze with both his eyes, and the muzzle of his gun.
The force of the bullet snapped Wicker's head back, yet somehow the Pirate King managed to keep his gaze fixed on Reaver. The thief took note of the peculiar look that crossed the dying man's features. It lasted only seconds before Wicker's knees hit the floor and his torso fell back, body crumbling into nothing far faster than Dread's had; the former King of Pirates was dust before his body could come to rest on the ruined rug.
Reaver shivered, eyes roving over the mess before the door. He wasn't entirely sure, but he could swear for that split second Wicker had looked relieved.
Tearing his eyes from the former man, Reaver turned back to the hearth. Curiosity was gnawing at the back of his mind, along with the same foreboding that had come with the warning both times he'd been given it. He had no idea what 'Choleric' was, nor why he should 'beware its mouth', but it was fairly disturbing none the less.
The sound of voices reached his ears, his men calling for him.
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The water near the docks was dark despite the slow lightening of the sky. It would be dawn soon, the fires behind him dying with the night. His men had returned to the ship, sailing around to the private dock behind Wicker's mansion. Wrapped in layers of fur and silk, the Wreckager lay innocently at his feet. The ancient cutlass sat heavily in his mind, a prize that was untouchable.
He'd joined his men to return to the boat, only to stop in his tracks as they made the docks. The men bowed to the shadowed figure, boisterous merriment failing to reverent solemnity. Reaver waited in silence next to the Voivode, both watching in silence as the last of the men clambered into the ship.
"Do you know what lies below these waters?" Dracula motioned to the bay directly in front of where they stood.
He bit his tongue as the word 'sand' jumped unbidden into his mouth.
"There lies a tomb, untouched by man for centuries. It is the ruins of what came before, now swallowed by the uncaring sea."
Reaver eyed the unusually dark waters thoughtfully. He wasn't really interested in getting wet, at the moment. "I hope you're not expecting me to go down there."
"No. It holds nothing of interest for me."
"Then why-"
"It is a lost place, a truth that the sea acknowledges, and abides by. She allows few to enter, and fewer to leave." The Count turned to look at him, making a point Reaver just barely grasped.
The Voivode left before Reaver could ask him to cut to the chase, something solid nudging his foot as he turned to watch the man leave. Glancing down, his gaze was met with a long, familiar looking lump.
It had taken him a minute or five to put two and two together, and when it clicked, he found himself reluctant, even when he acknowledged the wisdom of the idea. There was, he figured, no better place to dispose of the cursed weapons than a place nearly unreachable. And not having to worry about some idiot getting their hands on the things was a plus. Yet still, he found himself reluctant to part with such unique items.
Of course realistically, he knew he didn't really have a choice. Though not a direct order, he was very aware what was expected of him. It was a test, both of his loyalty and his ability to let go of things that would only weigh him down.
Reaver gathered the Wreckager into his hands, the sword's aura present still even through the layers. He let the blade fall free from its prison, metal glinting nastily. He felt no love for the thing, only a sick fascination.
Holding tight to the furs and silks, Reaver let the cutlass fall from his hand into the waiting embrace of the cold water. The thief watched the glinting metal disappear into the murky depths, noting the way it seemed to float about in the current that should have had no effect on it.
He dropped the wrappings at his feet, attention turning to the Red Dragon. It was wrapped in the cloak Wicker had draped over a chair in the den, and had been stashed snugly on his person. Unlike the Wreckager, the Red Dragon was faintly warm, lacking the malice that seemed to linger in the cutlass. He couldn't use it, didn't need it, but still obstinately refused to release it into the bay.
With a last disdainful glance at the waters that had swallowed the Wreckager, Reaver retrieved the pile at his feet, subtly slipping the cloak and pistol in the folds before promptly banishing the entire thing from his mind.
Two down, one to go. Will Reaver succeed were the wolf failed?
deadpan_riot