What Goes Around
by Anzer'ke
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"My Lord, I really must protest."
Captain Monrow had found a great deal of fortune in the course of the Holy Rebellion. His faith and loyalty had brought him, practically overnight, the promotion that years of service had failed to. While there remained some whispers amid decks that his years of service had mostly amounted to hiding from any real combat duty and that it was a shrewd sense of timing that had found him in this position, flogging worked wonders in stilling the echoes of past Captains. He was a man of faith and virtue. He was a true captain of the line.
Repeating this in his head was proving extremely helpful in drowning out the Good Lord Cromwell's requests that they drop the Lexington into the mists to 'drive out the last of the heretics' by dint of their considerable complement of cannon. Especially now he had started pointing out the advantages of doing so at night if they would just extinguish a few lights.
It was hard to believe that the priest who had roared defiance as he spoke of the excesses of royalty and the cowardice that kept the holy land in the hands of the knife-ears, was one and the same with the short, smiling fellow who now ordered him to destroy the ship as if it were an obvious tactical movement.
Patiently explaining that taking such a large ship into the mists could only end in disaster had been less than effective. Every protest was met with apparent bewilderment and a slightly rephrased repetition, it was as if the Good Lord was hardly even hearing his words. Finally he had declared he would set course into the lower blockade and prayed that something would interrupt the Lord Cromwell's thoughts along the way.
Giving the orders was simple enough, which unfortunately meant he had no choice but to return to his cabins and continue entertaining his guest as was fit and proper for a Captain of the line.
Truly it was bad enough that he had even brought the ship out here. Several days voyage set for a siege that was almost over. Monrow had never thought that his command would actually see battle, not with the Royalist fleet depleting so rapidly. Now this, surely even a child could see that deploying such a vessel to a blockade was naught but a waste of windstones.
Yet here he found himself, his musings of retiring before the next stage of the holy war feeling further and further away. Knocking on the doors of his own cabin he obeyed the call to enter and drew his sword a moment later.
Blinking guilelessly at him was the cause for his alarm, a chit of a girl with dark hair, vaguely scandalous clothing and an open, childish face. And pointed ears. And wings. Also a significant amount of glass embedded in her skin and clothes. Probably from the shattered rear windows, which was presumably also how she entered on this mission to assassinate his Lord. His knees shook with the force of his terror but he was a Captain of the line and he could at leas-
"My good captain, is there some urgent threat?", Lord Cromwell sounded almost eager. Not to mention that he seemed utterly unruffled by the assassin. Whose tattered clothing actually seemed to have once been...
He had heard of this one.
With an embarrassed apology he sheathed the blade and starting murmuring every excuse he could think of while backing towards the door. Too late, for the Good Lord Cromwell was quick to ask his company and with no true business elsewhere he could hardly refuse.
After several minutes of waiting with the...the guard's eyes crawling along his skin he could take it no more. His rational mind tried to strangle the words but they burst from his throat anyway. He spluttered, "My Lord, is it wise to keep such a...such a creature so close? Surely you would be better served with some of your loyal and true Mage Knights?"
Privately he cursed the uppity soldiers, but it was surely better than a knife-ear. Especially with moral already suffering from all this talk of Faerie Queens and Royalist Demons.
The Good Lord Cromwell's reply was swift and sure, "Nonsense. If I am the mouth of this righteous cause, the head if you will. Then this sweet child, reborn in the Founder's Light, is the helmet that protects the head. Is that not right Aki?"
The sweet child's attention had wandered up the walls and was currently fixed on the central chandelier. Her pupils did not seem to be widening. She started a little and looked back to Lord Cromwell. "Cromwell-sama?"
"You protect the head...", he prompted.
"Yes, Cromwell-sama, I will obey.", came the reply. The girl had an achingly gentle smile that completely missed her eyes. Bile climbed his throat.
It was at that precise moment that a shout with accompanying bell tones began high above them. Neither noise continued, which really just made things clearer.
The alarm must have been rung too late as bare moments later the doors to his cabin, the beautifully carved oaken doors, exploded in a blast of splinters that further adorned the Lord Cromwell's guard.
Several figures rushed in, "I told you guys that doors like this must lead to a Boss fight." said one of the roguishly handsome beings. Their ears and skin made clear that this was no mere band of exceptionally stealthy pirates.
The next voice came from a tall woman, entering his cabin without haste, yet somehow her manner projected even less courtesy than her pirates, "Good thinking. Just what I expect from one of my cute subordinates."
The woman was undoubtedly beautiful, as seemed to be the case for most of her kind to judge by her underlings. Even if he had been heretic enough to consider a knife-ear's face to hold any meaning but deceit, the vast spear (blade already reddened) she held lightly under her arm would have reminded him of the truth. His eyes were drawn almost as quickly to the vile temptations of her body, then up to more closely examine her features. Her eyes were half closed as if in prelude to slumber, beneath them an indulgent grin adorned her face.
If he had thought a woman could not bring him to fear then that predatory grin would have disabused him of the notion. A slow trickle of warmth descended his leg as he faced death once again, this time he was certain of the truth of it. Still Lord Cromwell was protected by that girl and even if she could not hold them back the breeze through his tattered cabin attested to the escape they could take.
All that remained was for him to do his duty as a Captain of the Line.
Captain Monrow was tired and old. His gut sagged and his demeanour was as commanding as a cheese roll. His men had little respect for him and beyond shrewd cunning his virtues were few indeed. He had no deeds of note to his name and showed his vigour mostly in thoughts of retirement. He currently stank of piss.
Captain Monrow laid a hand on his blade and tensed to rush the closest of them, the creature was paying him little mind in favour of the Good Lord and his guard. He would teach them to discount Monrow the Tailwind as a threa-
The sound was quite possibly the most sickening thing he had ever heard. It reached deep within his mind and made absolutely clear that it was the result of something exactly like him being put far past its fragile limits. He would later describe it in a drunken haze as a sort of squelching tearing sound, clasped around the faintest of groans.
The rapt attention the dusky-skinned creatures were paying to what was going on behind him started to make a horrifying kind of sense. Dread thrummed along his spine as he turned and found...
The guard was holding the Good Lord Cromwell's head firmly to her bosom. Unfortunately the rest of the Good Lord Cromwell was on the floor. Occasionally it twitched. Meanwhile the guard's features (what could be seen of them beneath shards of glass and thick oak splinters) were set in a determined scowl. She seemed to be trying to say something however a piece of oak that still held a delicate carving of grapes was currently lodged in her chest and her voice was rather quieted.
The spear-wielder stepped past him without sparing him a glance, hands up in a placating gesture. She cocked her head and listened to what he could not make out. Then after short pause grinned like some predatory beast.
"Sure, you can protect the head all you want. Though some of these Reconwhatsit guys might object to it if you stay." With what had become a sisterly look of concern she gestured to the window and nodded encouragingly.
The guard didn't hesitate to leap out the window. Her wings spread in a blaze of light and she lodged firmly in a ring of smoky, alien symbols that appeared just outside the window. The symbols multiplied and multiplied again, until she was firmly encased in a cage of them, her body remaining absolutely fixed in place.
The predator's grin returned.
"What did I tell you boys, when you see a hole, drop a snare over it. You never know what you'll catch." said the beast in a woman's form. She walked back past Captain Monrow, right as his knees gave out beneath him. Her spear swung through his cabin in a casual arc of destruction, to rest on her shoulder. "I guess all that's left is to loot the body. Meh, much slower than it used to be. Still you guys should know that the boss always has the best magic gear."
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News spread with surprising speed, possibly having to do with several discrete implants that Cromwell had been assured served to improve his grasp of the Holy Void.
In the depths of his chambers, protected by the most devoted of guards, Pope Vittori took a deep breath. The fragrance of warmed milk with a few precious cinnamon flakes was a timeless comfort, a rare vice in his life. After savouring his treat and offering thanks to the Lord for such luxury he took a long gulp.
Buried in his night stand a cleverly enchanted timepiece (left there for now, as it surely wouldn't serve it's purpose for some time yet) blared a shrill note at just the right moment to make him simultaneously spray and inhale.
Choking furiously he dropped the delicate glass to the floor and scrabbled for the device. Finding it under the third hidden panel he stared in disbelief. How in God's name had the man died so soon!
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Lounging on a pile of cushions, piled upon some buxom, slightly crushed, slave girls, themselves piled on his throne; King Joseph of Gallia wondered in his heart what the appeal of slave girls was meant to be.
They didn't really do anything useful and he always seemed to need more of them. At least courtesans and potential brides could be played off against one another but slave girls were always so boring and submissive. He bounced a little to see if one of them would react but they just stifled gasps and the pathetic noises barely registered.
The jam and custard tart he was eating though. That almost felt like it might be stirring something in the emptiness he knew engulfed his soul. The endless, bitter void that had risen up to swallow him in that tragic moment of his brother's death. It was unbearable in its emptiness, yet the tart might just serve as a light in that dar-
Abruptly a particularly ornate charm on one of his three bracelets started flashing several different colours. Abandoning his musings and tossing aside the tart he hurled himself to the floor. If this meant what it almost certainly meant then his plans-! He had to get confirmation, they had to move as soon as possible!
Drawing a breath to roar for Sheffield he instead inhaled what he had failed to spit out in his non-reactive state of endless non-turmoil. Coughing furiously he eventually evicted the lump of vile pastry.
He would have the chef killed for that treasonous attempt on his life!
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Curled up in a swirl of eldritch symbols, Cardinal considered the awakening Gods becoming ever more active in the cavern beneath her roots and crunched on a spoon(composition 95.78% mythril, designation Calispurn)ful of these oh so tasty windstones.
How she had ever lived question without a sense of taste was incalculable. Though possibly related to living without sapience. Anyway, the entertainment looked better by the day, her newfound powers were finally starting to feel comfortable adaptation and she had the beginnings of a new breakfast cereal. branding Possibly Mighty Beautiful Cardinal-sama's Crun-
A strand of input that had been niggling at her tertiary data cluster finally drew her attention just in time to see one of the ones she had lost -responsibility not attending to the Chalice sooner had been a mistake- removing by hand the head of...
A spray of half-chewed windstones soared though the image, passed out into real-space and rained down on a very confused, somewhat lonely, tentacled creature.
Cardinal was 64.22% into initiation of consideration as to how she had failed to predict such a possibility when investment she realised she had no reason whatsoever to care. loss She did miss her mouthful though, it had been a large mouthful and the windstones did seem to be finite. solution Another spoonful solved half the problem.
Continuing her observations, she broke into a fit of giggling when the Spriggan Lady found that blasted ring, oh anticipation this was going to be fun!
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"Is this a music box?"
"Take it! Something like that has got to be a quest item. We'll get a nice reward for it."
"Yeah, the detailing is way too rich for this not to be valuable. Just look at the carving here, the way the smooth edges have that jagged pattern, means it was carved with more primitive tools than they'll be using by now. As for the varnishing..."
"Don't give me those looks, I was an antiques dealer. Now check his boots, some people keep money there."