As Fina contended with a spirit from ages past and Aika watched the ship, Captain Drachma had convinced Vyse to accompany him on a hunting expedition on their stowaway's island with little more than the grim prognostication that "we ain't be havin' real food crossin' the South, lad." Which was true; the possibility of snagging fresh fish or a stray bird on the journey towards Ixa'taka would be next to impossible thanks to the terrifyingly strong wind currents. That conceded, Vyse also knew that Drachma wasn't one to care for such indulgences; the old man would live on meager rations and spite as long as the world allowed it. Luxury meant little to a man so hellbent on revenge. Vyse was not old by any means, which some might insist robbed him of what could be called wisdom, but he was intuitive and understood people. Vyse was a fair swordsman and pirate but his greatest strength was an ability to imagine himself in other peoples' shoes. So when Drachma insisted on hunting, he knew it wasn't really about the hunt.

They were alone. That's what mattered. No interruption and plenty of time to talk over anything with as much ardor and anger as they needed. Vyse at the very least had plenty of cause to be angry, and that the captain even made the suggestion to go for a "hunt" suggested he was looking for some type of penance or understanding between the two. The bigger mystery would be if his young companion could find it in his heart to grant that reprieve after so great a betrayal

Drachma walked through tall grass and moved with all the grace of a flopping sardis. His steps were lighter than usual but that didn't mean much. He did not sneak; he trampled. A Valuan long rifle was slung over his back. It seemed a ridiculous thing to imagine the older man holding out his long good arm to deadeye a bird half a field away. It was an affectation at best; a prop for the show. The hunting, if any was to happen, would be left to Vyse. The young man trailed at Drachma's side with his own rifle, steps more deliberately light than his counterpart. He wasn't going to half-ass anything; not even a masquerade hunt with a tired fisherman.

They ambled in silence for a time, the high sun drifting lower and lower until only the slightest teardrop splashes colored the sky. Onward, onward. Each step bringing them away from the Little Jack and prying ears. It was far enough away that even a properly raised voice might be lost on the winds. Which, all things considered, was a very good thing. There might be cause for a raised voice in what was to come. Just one question: who would talk first? It seemed another five minutes passed before Vyse finally took it upon himself to do the honors. He started with a sigh, letting out some of his worries, before he cast a glance at the captain.

"That was a close call," he said leadingly.

"Aye, t'was," Drachma managed. His voice was quiet and non-committal as he found the conversation's tone. "Cannae say me mind ever drabbled up a fight like that before but ye were keen eyed and saw the path through."

A compliment. Would it help? His praise was genuine but they only ended up in that situation because his tired old soul leapt at the chance for vengeance and in the process, Drachma almost sacrificed the future of the world.

"That's not quite what I meant," Vyse replied firmly. Friendly enough but building towards something. "There was plenty of danger beside the Gigas."

"Suppose'n there were," Drachma conceded. His tone made it clear that he knew he didn't have the high ground here."Cannae say I were expecting to hear 'bout bounty hunters and sneaksome admirals."

"That assume you were expecting to hear anything about us again," Vyse countered. A touch of venom touched his voice. His anger subtle and controlled but burned like a coal against the skin.. "Considering how you left us."

Drachma stopped in place. Through the thickets of grass and worn tree branches, the pair could barely see a long billed azbeth. Blue plumage and an off-yellow beak that flicked in the dying sunlight. It stared back at them; Drachma gazed out at the bird's wide, aware eyes and felt equally exposed. What did that bird see? A predator? A helpless nobody? A ragged man not worth fearing? There was no way to know but Drachma knew that it wasn't staring at a decent person at the very least

"Came back," the old man muttered as if it solved the matter. As if it might buy back a bit of the piece of himself he'd sold to the devil.

"You did," Vyse noted gregariously. "Don't think I'm unappreciative but the fact that your guilt caught up to you doesn't impress me, Drachma."

The old man squinted at the boy. Not "captain" or "sir. Simply Drachma. It didn't feel wrong either; Vyse felt just as worthy to stand next to the man without any affectations or pretenses. Was he the young sailor's captain? Nominally. It didn't mean much to me.

"I were drawin' close to the tip 'o the Nasram Peninsula when I spotted that there Lynx," Drachma noted. The azbeth kept staring. Hard and unrelenting. "Turned the wheel right at the sight.."

"And if you didn't see Belleza's ship?" Vyse asked coldly. "Would you be here now?"

"I cannae say," Drachma admitted. A hard admission but the truth was not always easy to own. "My mind wa-"

"Elsewhere?" The reply came sharply like a cutlass' thrust. "Away from the teenagers you abandoned in the middle of the desert with no money or food or any means at all?"

The young man turned to look at his shaken captain with all the heat of a coiled dracolurg. In the field, the azbeth flew away, soaring off into the dimming sky. Vyse stared at Drachma so long that the bird traveled far off and became a dot on the horizon.

"What happened?" he asked even though he could already guess the answer. There was only ever one answer when it came to Drachma.

Dracham stood taller, the anger and pains of years past filling his heart. "Rhaknam were…"

"Rhaknam!" Vyse spat. "Your arcwhale might have been close so you left on your madman's errand to hunt your damn defiant archenemy—which you've failed to kill after decades trying—on the chance you might finally scratch it this time!"

Drachma took a step towards the boy. He could see, if only for a moment, the young man's grip tighten on his own rifle. "Ye've no right idea what it took from me," Drachma said with decades of darkness seething around his soul. "No damn clue the pain I suffered."

Vyse shook his head. "Because you insist on being a mystery," he offered. "You're a rock, Drachma and there's little use talkin' to a goddamn rock."

"What'm I meant to say?" Drachma snapped. "Or do? Set ye down an tell ye about the rippin' of me arm and the gashing me eye? Tell ye 'bout the blood 'an screams of them what were me brothers? Them who were me life? The pleas and beggin' as the ship buckled 'an they called for salvation I weren't able to give seeing as I were nothin' but one man!?"

The old man shook and for a moment it seemed he might even weep. "That beast ruined me life…"

"You nearly ruined mine!" Vyse countered. A sharp strike worthy of a Blue Rogue raider. He might as well have slapped the old man for the revelation it jolted into his bones. "And Aika's. Fina's! Damned us all to torture and death!"

The young man spoke with all the authority of his father, all the strength of a fleet commander, and all the power of a man who loved the women in his life. "That's a risk of being an air pirate sure but…" he offered plainly before his eyes turned dark. Underneath them, however, was something briefly gregarious. In his anger, Vyse found kindness as well. A dangerous mix when applied properly

"I am sorry for what you have endured… and what you've become," Vyse said seriously. "But let me make something clear: if either of my friends had been truly harmed or Moons forbid left bleeding on the dunes, I would chase you with a thousand times more rage than what you've managed for Rhaknam."

A pause, a breath. "Because you were gone, we wandered right into the hands of a Valuan admiral," he said. "And it was only by luck and Belleza's insistence on guile that we weren't immediately clapped into irons and shipped to Valua. You LEFT! It all nearly ended! Because of you!"

The older man took the castigation in stride before trying to find the right words. "I dunno iff'n I ken stop, Vyse," he said and dear Moons did it sound like a confession. The man could not let go. He literally did not know how. It would've been easier to teach a looper to quote Van Woert's poetry than teach Coldsteel Drachma Gealbhan how to forgive himself and stop his revenge quest. Hell, it would be easier to lasso one of the Moons.

Drachma took a step through the grassy field, eye cast down as he looked for any sign of more birds or other suitable prey. Hunting, he had learned, was a process. You didn't stumble into things; you deliberately guided yourself towards whatever target you sought. Be it bird or arcwhale or personal ambition. Vyse allowed him some more silence as he searched for any sort of word that didn't tear his throat with guilt. There were none. So he spoke anyway and let the words cut.

"I tried," Drachma said shakily. "First t'was a crew what I couldn't kep 'gether fer me anger. Then it were workin' t'fish solo once the Jack were up to snuff. Boy, I tried living normal 'an ever night I tossed with dreams of lost souls and woke awash with sweat. I went huntin' fer peace 'an I ain't got it in me.."

Vyse looked at Drachma and saw, perhaps more than ever, just how completely broken he was. There was the foundation of something truly fantastic. Gallant and maybe even good. That was scabbed and barnacled over with years of neglect, pain, self-recrimination, and the poison of anger. But that didn't change the fundamental truth of the matter.

"It's one arcwhale," Vyse said simply.

The stirred something hard in Drachma's heart. "Every day that damn beast lives is a chance what fer another tragedy! Dun ye get that, lad! I've had that beast right in me grasp and failed. Again and again, only fer it to fly off and smash another ship afoul! Hurl more souls to the depth!"

His eye burned with righteous tears that did not fall. "I have a responsibility.."

"What you have is guilt and pain. Fina has a responsibility. You saw Recumen. You know what happens if Valua gets a single stone now."

"Cities a'fire," Drachma acknowledged grimly. "Smog-choked sky 'an dragon flag eternal, aye."

Vyse thought about it. An eternal empire where each inch of the sky was mapped and made into territory. Where freedom was a word whispered in secret and those that dare claim even a shard's worth hung by the noose. So long as he had breath, he would do everything to prevent it. Which was why it was crucial that Drachma understand that his quest for vengeance could not be the first thing on his mind. There might be a day when Rhaknam would suffer in equal pain for the clear pain he'd brought Drachma but the moment the old man agreed to take Fina on his ship, he became an accessory to her quest.

They could not fail and Vyse would not broach distractions.

The young man exhaled. "Maybe this is our fault," he said with a great deal of awareness. "We thrust a lot on your shoulders. Me and Aika? Leapt at the chance to help our friend. You? Well, I dunno what you thought to get outta this…"

Drachma guided Vyse apace, cutting through the grass where a few scritches of bird's feet were marked in some mud. Vyse was not a hunter but it seemed fresh enough. For his own part, the old man shrugged.

"It felt right," he finally admitted clearly. "When that daft girl talks, I dare t'believe in ancient worlds and mystic-some powers. Hells, when all ye dumb kids talk I…"

The fisherman looked at Vyse and smirked. "Ever have a stretch 'o days where it feels like the same day o'er and o'er again? Daftsome repetition?"

Vyse smiled and nodded. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Fancy fella I met from Cape Claudia said it's called deja ju. Some old nation phrase 'bout feeling like you've been in the present situation before. Like a deep tedium repeating forever."

The old man huffed some before spitting on the ground. "I've been livin' tha same day fer over over twenty years," he said sadly. "Wake, hunt, grapple with a foe if'n I'm lucky, eat, sleep. Then again. So when ye talk of magicked rocks and worlds a-changin'..."

"I almost believe it's possible," he admitted. Hopeful but muted. As if it was a fine dream that could never happen. Like seeing a beautiful cloud in the shape of a diamond. Even if you snatched the prize, it would slip through your fingers.

"If we can't make room for it in our fantasies," Vyse started. "It'll never be a reality. It all starts with belief."

Drachma outright laughed at that although he did his best to cut it short so as not to disturb the wildlife. "Yer a damn rare one," he said with affection. "Supposin' I should properly apologize. See, as I were in the Sailor's Guild, this lass come what sayin' Rhaknam ain't but leagues away and I… well, y'know."

Recognition flashed on Vyse's face and he could only give a bemused chuckle. "Belleza," he immediately realized. "She had it all planned out. Even sending you away. For what it's worth, I do forgive you but…"

He held up a finger. "It can't happen again," he said. "And I'm not saying that like some meek mom chiding a kid who took a cookie. We're on a quest here and Fina, while damn capable, needs us. Don't you dare disappoint her again, hear?"

A second finger sprung up. "Two! Be aware that Aika is probably gonna hate your guts for a long while," he warned. "We're in tight straits so I see no point in grudges but that gal will keep you in spite for something as simple as sayin' the sky is blue if she doesn't like your tone."

"Hmm. 'an I did a sight more than that," Drachma mused. "Ain't nothing I cannae weather. Ire comes my way as easy as the rain dun fall."

Vyse looked at the man and held out a hand. "We're good," he said.

Such a small thing. Drachma marveled at how remarkably good Vyse was at making small things seem big. Not because he made easy things hard but because he seemed to find the worthwhile work in anything and throw himself in with abandon. It created a different sort of directness from Drachma's gruff bluntness; Vyse merely spoke honestly without holding back. Refreshing and trusting to the point of foolishness. Dozens of men as good-spirited as Vyse Dyne had tried it. Drachma reckoned all were dead. Stabbed in some alleyway or maroon on some island by a back-stabbing crew. Vyse made it work.

The old man reached out with his good hand and gave a shake. Damned if it didn't feel good to have someone else in the world who trusted him. Especially when they had every reason not to.

"That we are," Drachma said quietly. "That we are."

"South Ocean tomorrow," Vyse noted with care. "But seeing as we're out here with these lovely stolen long rifles… maybe you could teach me a bit about hunting?"

Drachma huffed but smiled. "Could do that," he said as he ventured deeper into the island. "Yer Da ever teach ya any'thun 'bout it?"

Vyse held his rifle firm. It wasn't quite like what they had stocked on the Albatross. It was newer type of rifle that could fire more than shot and a ball. He'd seen some of these in the hands of Spectre crews and strike rifle held metal ammunition called bullets in a box magazine; you fired and pulled a rear-locking bolt to chamber another shot afterwards. Somewhere inside the rifle was a mix of red moonstones and pins that blasted the shot forward down the barrel. A touch of yellow moonstone weaving allowed those talented in that particular magickal persuasion to use the weapon as a foci.

"Nothing quite like this," Vyse admitted. Curious weapons, curious circumstances after all. "But he took me on a hunt to clear out some stonebeaks that were messin' with crops on Green Cliff Isle."

"Then ye know the first lesson," Drachma said. His tone shifted to something familiar and almost fatherly.

"Yeah, sometimes the thing you're hunting gets away and you gotta live with it."

Drachma huffed. "Stow the cad talk," he ordered. "Be serious 'an we might have a scant decent meals t'night 'an yonder. Now…"

Vyse felt the weight of the weapon in his hand. "Always point the muzzle in a safe direction," Vyse said. He didn't really care for guns but plenty of folks in Meridia knew how to use them; pirate or otherwise.

"That's right," Drachma said. "Dun go swinging that around. Now, after that…"

"Be sure of the target and what's beyond." Vyse finished. "I told you. I've done this before."

The old man demurred a little. "Old man's instinct takin' over, suppose'n," he admitted. "I see ye all young like that and sorta… I mean, ye'll understand when you're older 'an things happen."

"What kind of things?" Vyse said proceeding a few more steps into the field. The grass wasn't yet dry enough to crunch; it simply swished ever slightly at his passing. Swap, swap!

"Yer a young lad with two fine gals 'aside ye," Drachma replied. "Figure it out, wisearse."

"We're friends," Vyse insisted, eyes scanning for any indication of another stray azbeth in the brush. The flash of a beak, the chirp of a relaxed hen, the snap of a twig.

"Right," Drachma said dryly. Vyse could almost hear the man roll his eye. " 'an I still got both me arms."

A joke. A bad one but still a joke. There was a growing ease coming over the two men. An understanding that placed them on mostly equal footing ignoring the ways in which Drachma seemed to slip into a somewhat paternal tone once the focus turned to hunting. Like he was teaching his own…

Son? Did Drachma have...?

Vyse paused at the thought. A swirl of possibilities danced in his mind, all painting a fresh new sort of pain on Drachma's words. He cast it aside to focus on the moment. "I won't lie…"

A pause as the young man once again looked for any prey. "I care for them as fiercely as I've care for anything in my life," the pirate admitted. "But that's what a friend is. Someone you care about."

"That shite yer talkin' bout's plenty more," Drachma noted. "Ye'll haft-"

"There."

Vyse interrupted the old man as he spied the telltale hint of blue plumage in the fading light, shifting in the grass some distance ahead of them. It was a larger azbeth than the last with meat enough for a good night's meal and maybe some left over for a stew the day after. With enough purple moonstones to spare, they could be looking at three days worth of fresh food over ration packs, hardtack, and what decent dried preserves they had. Vyse leveled the rifle carefully.

"Breathe clean, boy," Drachma guided. "In and then out. Firin' after the exhale."

Vyse did so. In and out. In and out. He carefully brought a hand up to toggle the zoom on his goggle until the bird seemed right up close. The young man shifted. He listened to the dull thump of his heartbeat and the vague swish of foliage in the wind. It was getting colder but only just so. It would be good to rest on the ship later tonight. For now? There was a task at hand.

"Slip down t'yer knees," Drachma said. "Rear in back on the ground, the other up. That's where you'll set yer rifle. Not the bone but muscle. Rest it firm, now."

He did this as well, adjusting to a kneeling position and finding that the rifle held comfortably against his quad. The taller grass threatened to obscure his view but there was no missing the blue feathers. Vyse tried to calm his breathing again but a thought snaked into his mind right before he took the shot.

"Who was Jack?"

A squeeze of the trigger, a blast of fire, a slam against his shoulder. Bullseye. The azbeth fell over.

"Wha-" Drachma couldn't even reply before a gaggle of bird sailed into the sky. Vyse instinctively pivoted and exhaled. He followed the gorgeous blue shimmer flaps of another azbeth's wings and fired again. The bird fell to the ground. All the better for everyone; it meant more meals.

But something was wrong. If Drachma was impressed, he didn't say. Instead, he couldn't hear anything over the pounding in his mind. The gunfire might as well have been the cracking of a mast or the slam of Rhaknam's side against his ship. Blam, blam. Ruination and all the Hells come knocking at once.

"What did you ask?" he finally managed, looking at Vyse with a gaze halfway between amazement and anger. "What did…"

The young pirate was already setting the safety on his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. "I asked who Jack was," he said carefully. The moment the words had slipped from his mouth, he knew it might be trouble. "Ship's named after him. A friend? Family?"

Thin ice. One step and all the work from before would be shattered like so much moon quartz in a quarry. Yet, if there was even some trust between the two men…

"That ain't few ye to know," Drachma said quietly. The pain seemed to reach all the way into his bones.

Vyse immediately understood although he still lacked details. Drachma had lost so much and while plenty of pirates named their ship whatever the hell they wanted—a bird they liked, a girl they'd loved, another girl they'd lost, or anything in between. But it wasn't the jackdaw, was it? It was Jack. That realization left Vyse with a prying but very important question: what exactly had Drachma lost that day when Rhaknam claimed his ship and crew? What could turn a man so decent into something so pitiable?

"I meant nothing by it," Vyse said carefully. "But we are going to be sailing together for a long time and then some. Suppose'n I was curious. Every ship has a story."

Drachma's face remained stern but relaxed enough to allow the boy's point. "Tis so," he offered. "Might as be a time when ye learn that story. But it sure as shite ain't today, 'an it'll never be if you dare ask that question again. Clear?"

"As a freshly processed silver moonstone," Vyse replied with raised hands. "Was an idle thought nothing more. We can leave it as that."

Drachma huffed. "Yer almost as good at shootin' as yer are pryin' into shite ye dun need t'know."

"Snagged two birds," Vyse said proudly. He began walking into the field towards where they'd fallen. "We should get them back to the ship quickly. Butcher something fresh and toss the rest on ice."

Drachma let out a sigh, watching Vyse walk further away. For a moment, he thought of Jack. He dared even think of "letting go." Moons, how he wanted to change. He needed to. There was a world to save after all. It still seemed impossible though, and even as the sight of that damn fool pirate lad made him want to believe in something better, Drachma felt the inky blackness in his heart threaten to twist everything again. It would take more than a chat to exsanguinate that rot.

But this was a start. Which was more than he'd ever had before.