A/N: Again, thanks for the reviews and favs, guys.

Over the days, my resolve to leave the pirates and make a difference in the world strengthens. I clean and mop consistently, determined to make a good impression while I can. Anything to make it easier to get away when the time comes.

The sky is clear this evening. I'm chewing on some sea biscuits. They're so dry I have to take a sip of rum to soften them. I'm still not used to it. The rum burns, but the hard tack dilutes the effect.

I never had alcohol back on Earth. As much as I'd love to maintain my straight-edged status, I can't afford to stand out. It's like that feeling you get when you're the only one who won't drink at a party. It doesn't really matter on Earth, because everyone respects free will and it's easy to turn a conversation around on someone pressuring you to drink. On a pirate ship, though?

I trust my instincts. When Garm first offered me a drink, they warned me to shut up and take it.

Speaking of whom. "Oi, swabbie, ye coming?" I hear Garm's voice calling me from above deck.

"Oi yourself, Garm," I steal Garm's usual retort as I finish eating. "Raven won't clean herself."

"Har! Yer loss, lad," I can imagine the beefy berserker shaking his head.

We've dropped anchor on a tiny, uninhabited island. Most of the crew is taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch their legs on solid land, and bathe with seawater. Some of the progressive ones are even washing their clothes of all the grime and blood they picked up a few nights back.

There's supposed to be no rest for the wicked, but here we are, just relaxing. Well, most of us.

I eye the captives of our latest raid, cleaning slowly and silently. They don't have the option of going ashore yet, since they're effectively slaves. I can see the hate and fear in their gazes whenever they lay eyes on any of the crew, or even myself, since I'm here by choice. But they're powerless to do anything.

One of them snapped and tried to knock our quartermaster overboard yesterday. That particular villager is now hundreds of feet under the water's surface.

The islanders are cowed, for now. I want to remind them to fight smart, not hard, but I'm not going to risk anything that could reveal my intentions. They're on their own.

I tune out the voices of sailors who've remained on ship. I tune out the roaring quietness of the captive islanders. I do my work, and a few hours pass.

Perhaps I should go clean myself up. Tomorrow, we're finally going to be hitting Plegia, and I know water will be limited there. Asking around, I find a few crewmates who are willing to go ashore with me. I commandeer a few cloths to help me bathe before I go. It's useful to be the one in charge of cleaning, sometimes.

It's nice to get away from the constant creaking of the Raven. Pirates are resting and drinking and cleaning themselves wherever I look. I walk along the coastline until I'm secluded enough, and then take off my clothes. My jeans are passable, although the bottoms of the legs are ruined from all the water damage. My shirt smells to high hell and back, and it's accumulated a lot of dirt. I consider washing it, but I don't have anything else to wear, and I'll freeze if I put it back on afterwards. Sighing, I go stand in the seawater.

It's icy. Praying that I don't get sick from this, I splash some water over myself and scrub myself clean with the cloth I brought along for just this purpose. I wish I had soap.

When I'm done, I use the second cloth to pat myself dry before putting my clothes back on. A cold wind with cold water on my body makes for a terrible combination, and I rush back to the Raven to go below deck, shivering.

We're going to stay anchored on this island overnight for the sake of timing. If we cast off tomorrow morning, we'll be able to reach our target as night falls again.

Tomorrow's my chance. I can't screw this up.

Another dawn, another day. I'm filled with nervous energy as I clean.

We haven't sold or traded any of the loot from our first raid, yet. I guess we're going to build it up a little bit more, first. That's fine by me.

Everyone's been drinking more than usual, since we'll be raiding again tonight. I'm keeping a bit of hard tack with me. Whenever someone passes me a drink, I show them that I'm preoccupied with snacking on the biscuits, and only take a small sip. I need to keep my head clear, tonight, because I've discovered that I have a weak resistance to alcohol. Compared to the pirates, at least.

Garm and Reid are arguing over something fiercely, but I ignore them as Roll walks up to me.

"Alright, swabbie?" he asks.

"Aye," I say. "What's up?"

"You took more tack today than normal," Roll says. As usual, his eyes don't leave mine when he addresses me. Combined with his relatively proper way of speaking, it makes for a formidable impression. "Why?"

My heart beats a little faster. I haven't taken any Estus today, just in case, so I've had to rely on the tack to curb my hunger.

"I barely did nothin' last time we raided," I point out. "And cap'n said ain't no one goes far just bein' a healer. Gotta keep up some strength."

Roll eyes me for a few seconds longer, then nods briefly. "It's fine. You don't eat enough, anyway."

… Is he expressing concern? In any case, I'm glad he doesn't point out the alternative that we're both considering: that I might be hoarding and hiding tack in preparation for escape, now that we're approaching a big enough continent.

I am preparing for escape by eating more tack, but that's because it lets me indirectly hoard Estus, and he can't gauge that. I bet Roll already had his eye on me to make sure I wasn't trying to squirrel away supplies.

"How's your healing staff?" the quartermaster asks.

"Probably gonna die soon," I say. In 6 uses, to be exact. "Nothin' for it, though."

"Aye, don't think I've got a spare for you," he says. "You takin' a weapon this time?"

Holy hell, I hope he's offering one. "Only if you got a spare bow I can use," I say.

Roll almost smiles. "That I do, swabbie," he says. He gestures for me to follow him as he walks to his own tiny quarters, next to the captain's cabin. Roll and the captain are the only two people on the ship with their own dedicated spaces. "You used to usin' bows, then?"

His tone is conversational as he unwraps a small bundle of cloth, revealing a bow partially worked with iron. It looks well-used.

"Er, you got that in bronze?" I ask off-handedly. My weapon rank is still E, after all.

Roll pauses in his unwrapping and raises an eyebrow. "A nay to bow experience, I see," he says, sounding amused. He re-wraps the iron bow and unwraps a second bundle, revealing a solid-looking bronze bow. He's got a whole bunch of bundled cloths, and I realize that they're all different bows. Right, he's a Sniper. "Honestly, bronze weapons aren't easier to handle than iron. That's just a myth."

He's probably right, but I don't think I run on normal logic. I run on game mechanics, and if my character page tells me I can only use bronze bows, I'll trust it.

I wonder what would happen if I tried using a bronze-worked bow alongside iron-tipped arrows. What does weapon rank limit, the bow or arrow type? Or both?

And where do standard wooden bows fit in? Ah, never mind. I need to focus on the conversation.

"Do well with her tonight, and I might let you hold on to her," Roll continues, starting to string the bow. He stops when he notices me staring. "… What, you never seen a bow strung before?"

I hesitate, which probably gives me away. Roll sighs, looking disappointed. "Look, it's easy," he says. "Just put your foot here, and grab this part…" Surprisingly, he walks me through the process, step-by-step.

"Wait, can you show me that part again?"

"What, this? Sure."

"Thanks."

Roll shows me how to properly string and handle his bow. It's an interesting experience.

"Hey, stop!" I freeze. Roll sounds angry. "Don't grab at it like that. You'll damage the string!"

"Sorry!"

"I'll show you again," Roll says. "See, at this step you've got to hold it like this."

"I don't see the difference," I admit honestly.

A sigh. "Give me your hand. This is what you were doing. This is what you're supposed to do."

"… Hm. Ah! I can see the difference now."

As we work, Roll talks about the subtleties of handling different kinds of bows.

"… so obviously, you don't want to leave it strung like this all the time," he says casually, unstringing the bronze bow and handing it to me. "Not for a quality bow like this. Shoddy bows, sure, leave 'em strung. It's dangerous to keep stringin' and unstringin' bad bows, never know what'll damage 'em or when they'll blow up in your face. Ol' mate of mine lost an eye re-stringing a bow his son made."

"You showed me a method of stringing that could take out my eye?" I ask in disbelief.

Roll snorts. "If you screw it up and you're using a bad bow, yeah. Don't be a baby."

"I'm not," I protest, and hurriedly continue when I realize I sound a bit childish. "I'm surprised, s'all. But I appreciate you showing me this."

Roll just shrugs. "No trouble," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "You're a fast learner."

"So are all of these your bows?" I ask, gesturing to the bundles of cloth Roll has stashed about his quarters.

"Bows and arrows and other equipment, aye," he answers, bending down and passing me an arrow-bag to hang from my belt. He sorts out a few arrows to go with it. I notice they're all bronze-tipped.

"In case you actually believe bronze is the easiest to use," Roll says with a wry grin when he notices my expression.

"Shut up," I mutter, embarrassed. It's not my fault. It's the game mechanics, damnit! I don't actually think bronze arrows are any easier to fire than other arrows.

I change the subject and heft the bronze bow he gave me. "Anyway, Roll," I say. "Where'd you get this from?"

Roll examines the bow. "Port Ferox, near on 15 years ago."

I eye the bow with newfound respect. "15 years? It must'a barely been used, then."

Seriously, this bow looks fine. The bronze shines, and the wood is polished nicely. It feels compact and powerful.

"Hah, nay!" Roll looks at his weapon with pride. "She's been used plenty. I just maintained her well."

"Her?" I ask. "By any chance, did you give this bow a name?"

Roll nods. "Aye, and the fish'll have my cold, dead body before I ever tell you."

I find myself laughing at his tone. "Something embarrassing, I bet," I prod. "You name all your bows, or is she special?"

Roll looks like he wants to say 3 different things at once. "Shut it, swabbie," he finally says, smacking me on the arm. "I used to name all of my bows, back when…"

From there, the conversation meanders. He tells me about the time he acquired his favourite bow, and I give all the right non-verbal cues to show my interest. Roll's a pretty good storyteller. He's also amazingly passionate when it comes to archery, which I'd never really have expected of a pirate. He seems like such a practical person, so I assumed he'd view archery as nothing more than a tool.

The conversation switches into how Roll started collecting bows in the first place, and whether or not I have anything I like to collect. I don't, but I can still appreciate Roll's hobby.

Sometimes, though, I have to fight off a grimace. Obviously, most of Roll's bows aren't obtained legally. He gets second-pick of any loot from raids.

That's right. As interesting as he is to talk to, Roll is still a pirate. One that condones everything that this crew does. He's certainly got a fair share of blood on his hands, if he's made it all the way up to quartermaster.

When our eyes meet, I think Roll knows what I'm thinking. But he doesn't say anything.

There's a lull as we lapse into comfortable silence. It'd be a good time for me to thank him and leave, but I can't. There's something I'm wondering, and my curiosity won't shut up.

"… Why?"

Roll raises an eyebrow. "Hm?"

I consider my words carefully before I speak. "I'm grateful, Roll. For everything. But why?"

I don't understand where this conversation and bow came from. No, even before that, Roll lent me a heal staff for our first raid. The pirates didn't really need a healer, though. And even if they did, it's not normal for any swabbie to join a battle so early on. It doesn't add up, even accounting for the fact that I willingly joined the pirates.

Roll seems to understand what I'm asking. He steeples his fingers. "What do you think?" he asks.

I've got no clue. Is he expecting to gain personal loyalty? No, pirates don't work like that, and it doesn't seem to fit what I know of him. For the hell of it? No, Roll doesn't strike me as a whimsical man. He's methodical. You have to be, in order to be a quartermaster. What am I missing?

"I can't think of anything I actually believe," I admit honestly.

Roll's nods silently.

"You've heard about me, haven't you? From the crew."

"Not much," I say, and it's true. The crew respects Roll, because he keeps the ship running and because he's a God with his bow. That aside, they don't interact with him much. Rather, he interacts with them. He tells them what to eat, what weapons to take, and how much loot they're allowed. They accept his orders. It's one-way communication.

It strikes me as a bit lonely. I blink at the errant thought. Where did that come from?

"Nothing?" he presses, seemingly curious. "Perhaps about how I rose to be the quartermaster here?"

"Ah, there is something," I say, remembering when I first walked aboard the Raven. It feels like it was months ago. Then I pause, because it isn't really the most flattering thing to say about someone.

"… Aye?" Roll prompts.

"Just, uh, that you used to be a cabin boy for a while before you went up in rank," I say.

Roll snorts. "Aye, a while. A long, long while." The quartermaster pauses for a moment before he speaks again, quietly. "You came aboard willingly to be a swabbie, yeah? To find a new life, even if others might call it dishonest?"

I nod but don't speak.

"Ain't a lot of people who do that, y'know," he says. "But it happens."

It's a vague statement, but I know what he's implying.

"Sentiment?" I say jokingly, but my heart isn't really in it. "Didn't take you for the type."

Roll smiles faintly. "You're a sharp one. Aye, you remind me of myself. You work hard. You're consistent. And when you went out on our last raid, you used your healing staff on some of the villagers, didn't you?"

How the hell did he know? Wait, maybe he's fishing for a reaction. I adjust my body language to give a non-denial denial, shrugging and looking at him as if the answer doesn't matter. Roll doesn't seem to mind.

"You've got no experience, and you're soft," he continues. I resent that! I've got a whopping 55 EXP right now, thank you very much. "But you've got drive, and I see that you can think fast. I want to see what you can make of yourself."

"… Well, I'll try not to let you down, then," I say.

Roll nods. I sense that this is the end of our conversation, so I incline my head to him in a final thanks and leave his quarters.

I head down a short set of steps to the main deck to rejoin the rest of the crew. I re-wrap the bronze bow in cloth to protect it from the salty air.

So, that happened. My conversation with Roll hasn't changed my mind at all. I'm still planning on leaving the pirates. But I'm surprised to find that I'm feeling a little bit of regret at the thought.

There's a faint impression, a tiny nudge in my mind. I close my eyes to check my character screen. Has something changed?

Ess'ai and Roll attained support level C.

Oh what the actual fuck –

I can support people. I can support non-Shepherd characters. I'm trying to figure out how that's significant when I hear someone walking up behind me.

"There she is," Garm gives one of his patented, bone-crushing thumps on my shoulder to declare himself. "Jus' waitin' for us to come 'n take 'er."

The coastal town of Loa is illuminated by faint lights. The Raven, in contrast, is shrouded by the night's fog.

"You're not drunk," I observe mildly as Garm stands next to me. We watch the small town grow larger as we approach. We're probably no more than 15 minutes away from landing.

"Nay," he says. I can smell alcohol on his breath, but at least his speech isn't slurred. "But close enough, gar har har!"

"What've you done with the real Garm, huh?"

"Stow it, lad," Garm scowls, shoving me lightly. "You heard the cap'n."

The captain shut off access to alcohol a little while back. The crew needs to be at least a little sober, since this town will put up more of a fight than the small village we attacked before. Everyone's buzzed, but not completely wasted.

The captain rouses the men with a brief speech that I barely notice. I'm steeling myself for the horrors to come.

Okay, final check. Items?

Hush 50/50 (E): Inexpensive, but low in power.
Rank: E, Mt: 4, Hit: 100, Crit: 0, Rng: 2, Eff: Pegasi

A forged bronze bow. I couldn't ask for anything better. Also, hah! You can't hide your weapon names from me, Roll!

Kara: A steel bracelet. No effect, but offers memories of a past life. Your starting gift.

Estus Flask 5/5: A Risen favourite. Recovers HP. Restored upon a full night's rest.

Heal 6/30:Restores an adjacent ally's HP.
Rank: E, Rng: 1

Items are a go. Now that I actually have a weapon, my combat stats have appeared.

Ess'ai
Outrealmer

LV: 3. EXP: 55.
HP: 19/19

Atk: 7
Hit: 105
Crit: 1
Avo: 9

They're acceptable. On the upside, my weapon rank for staves is D, now that I've used Heal 15 times.

It looks like our raid style is mostly unchanged. We drop anchor offshore, and use row-boats to approach from a distance. The Raven itself will wait a while before drawing closer to the town.

I'm sitting in the same row-boat as Garm. There's a sense of anticipation as we draw close to the town, oars paddling quietly. Even this late at night, there are people on the coast of Loa, visible with the illumination of stray torches stuck into the sandy shore. Civilians?

We're barely 100 feet away when a horn suddenly blares out from the town. I look up, startled, for the source of the noise. There's a wooden sentry tower overlooking the coast. We've been spotted. We've probably been recognized as pirates, too. Who else would approach a town in the dead of night with row-boats?

Noise erupts around me as the crew begins rowing furiously to cover the last stretch of distance between us and the town. I'll give the team credit. They don't panic, and they control their rowing to make sure we move in a straight line. When we draw close enough, the crew seems to act on an unspoken signal and hops out into the water, dashing onto the sands and drawing their weapons.

Another horn blares out from the sentry tower. Dozens of pirates roar as they charge onto solid land. There isn't anyone there to stop them yet. I see fleeing civilians knocked out in the opening salvo of our attack. I follow the crew, holding my bronze bow tightly.

500 meters until we enter the town proper. Don't let us get in, I pray. So long as we're all dashing together, we're an easy target. As soon as we disperse into that town and start raiding individual homes, it'll become a hundred times harder to stop us.

I feel a jolt of adrenaline as the people of Loa finally start fighting back. Already, huh? I hear the whiz of arrows, coming forth from rooftops, and a few from behind us.

Behind us? Oh, we passed the sentry tower. Shit. A few of my crewmates glance behind as well, realizing the danger that tower poses. Not a single one of us went to disable it.

"To the town, boys!" I hear the captain's voice as he roars orders. "Roll, take the tower!"

What the – Roll's fighting, too? Right, of course. He's not needed for small raids, but for something of this scale –

I see the quartermaster only by the gleam of moonlight off of his steel-tipped arrows. He can't possibly be trying to shoot the archers on the sentry tower, can he?

Roll hoists his longbow, turns around and takes his stance, even as the rest of us run past him. He looses 2 arrows, one after another, and then runs back to join us without even watching to see if he hit his marks.

The arrows peppering our backs disappear. Goddamn, Roll. I guess that 50 SKL isn't just for show.

I'm breathing hard as I run towards the town. As soon as I get in, I can probably make a break for it and slip away in the chaos. I can't believe I'm risking the fate of the world on a mad dash like this, though.

I let out a high-pitched scream as an arrow whizzes by a foot to my right, but don't let up. The townsfolk must be used to pirate attacks, and probably have shifts of people ready to fight in the night. It's the only reasonable explanation I can come up with for why there are so many of them with bows, peppering us safely from their rooftops with such little notice.

If they had a gated wall, their defense would've been much more effective. Still, it's not over yet. I feel a curious mix of adrenaline, fear and elation as we close with the town. 100 feet… 50 feet…

A handful of men stand with torches and bows and clubs at the entrance of the town, but they break and scatter when the pirates close with them.

"Let 'em have it, boys!" the captain bellows.

And then we're through, and anarchy reigns.

I run through the shadows of the town, in between stone houses. Torches cast light intermittently through the dark, guiding my way.

"Gragh!"

I stop and hang back, while in front of my eyes, a pair of sailors hack at a wooden door with their axes. I can hear screams from inside the home.

The door shatters and scatters, and the pirates break through. I hear a surprised, "The hell-" from one of them, and see a man inside wielding a mighty broadsword. The townsfolk aren't taking this attack lying down.

When it's clear, I run past the house. I keep on running forward, opposite the direction of the sea, trying to distance myself from the Raven as much as I can. All around me are the sounds of violence as the crew kills and loots.

This is a big job, I realize. Violence on this scale isn't sustainable. Town defenders are dying, but so are some of the pirates. The crew must be expecting to make some massive profit off of this raid if they're willing to keep fighting. Or they're just crazy.

"Fuck!" I curse as an arrow whizzes past me. Who's shooting at me? In my jeans and white shirt, I shouldn't be easily identifiable as a pirate. I duck past another house and the arrows stop.

I pass by scores of skirmishes. Turning a corner, I see an archer with an arrow nocked standing on a rooftop. He notices me but doesn't target me. I guess this guy doesn't consider me in league with the pirates, seeing as I'm running frantically away from the battle.

"Hey!" he calls. "Bowman with 'em blue pants! Ya can fight from up here!"

I slow down to actually consider it. My priority is survival, but maybe I could help these guys out a little, first. Take a few potshots at the pirates, gain some EXP, and fight the good fight for once. If I'm careful, none of the pirates will realize I turned against them.

A chance to make things right, Humanity murmurs as it wakes up. Take it.

A chance to get yourself killed, Logic answers. Don't be stupidly sentimental so close to your victory. Just escape.

I'm hesitating. For some reason, I'm reminded of the prologue to Awakening. The whole reason Chrom asks Robin to join up with him is because Robin does the right thing, and fights against the bandits in Southtown.

Bandits at land, pirates at sea.

I'm in a pretty similar situation to Robin, right now.

But… I guess I'm just not as good as person as Robin or Chrom would be.

I shake my head. "I ain't gonna be a part of this. I'm outta here."

The archer curses. "Fuckin' craven. Run, then."

I run.

I almost freeze when I turn the next corner and see Garm hammering at the door of a run-down building. It doesn't look like a home, but there are definitely people inside.

How the hell did Garm get so deep into the town already? I've been avoiding combat completely and running like a madman, and I barely made it here.

"Bitch!" Garm roars. "Takin' my axe? I'll fuckin' kill ya!"

Holy hell he's in a berserker rage and shit he just noticed me –

"Swabbie!" he bellows. "C'mere, now! We're takin' down the fuckin' door!"

Fuck! I should've stayed with the archer. In his current mood, if Garm gets through that door he's going to kill everyone inside.

"Leave us be!" a feminine voice pleads through the door. I'm glad to see that, even if the rest of the building looks worn, the door looks sturdy. "Please, we have nothing for you to pillage. This is a simple-"

"Shut yer mouth, whore!" Garm's shoulder slams into the door again and again. Blood is running down his leg and side. Someone actually managed to injure him? I notice there's an arrow sticking out of his side, too. "Should'a thought of that 'fore you took my axe!"

I check Garm's health.

Garm
Berserker

LV: 8. EXP: -.
HP: 33/72

He's taken a lot of damage. I wonder if his fury is the result of his Wrath skill activating. I don't think it's a good idea to heal him just to remove the buff, though.

"That's because you-" The woman on the other side of the door cuts off as Garm delivers a particularly mighty blow with his shoulder. She must be strong to keep the door shut against Garm. "Please, the children…!"

"Swabbie, the fuck you doin'?" Garm asks, gesturing sharply for me to hurry up and help him.

Oh gods. I really, really don't want to be in this kind of situation. Garm's crazy, and the woman on the other side of that door just mentioned children.

I should've just run and pretended I was busy. It's a bit too late for that now. Do I cover my own ass, or help the woman who's probably looking out for a bunch of kids? I'm sure there's a third option somewhere, but events are moving too fast and I can't think well enough under this pressure.

Maybe I can just straight-up run? The crew hates traitors, so Garm will probably forget about the woman and hunt me down. The only problem is he's way faster and stronger than me. He'll kill me for sure.

Garm's stronger, Logic says. Help the stronger one, and survive.

If you help Garm, we're dead to each other, Humanity says flatly.

This isn't any worse than Rena, Logic says.

Objectively? No, Humanity agrees. But this time you're going to be pushing on the door. You'll actively be a part of what kills that woman. Can you do that?

Yes. We're cowards. We're wretches, Logic says. But the world is still depending on our knowledge. And we run on game mechanics. We'll probably have absurd combat potential if we figure out how to exploit this world. Don't die before that.

Can someone like you even save the world? Humanity asks doubtfully. Or will you keep on coming up with excuses to save yourself any time something dangerous happens? For the greater good, of course.

Logic is quiet. I wilfully ignore humanity's last barb. This is just another scar on my conscious. I can deal with it.

Slowly, I walk to the door. Realistically, this is the last act of evil I'll commit with the pirates. It's not worse than abandoning Rena. So why I do I feel like I'm making a terrible mistake?

If I could just have a few minutes to sit down and think…!

"On 3," Garm says, oblivious to my moral dilemma. "3… 2… 1… NOW!"

The animal fury in Garm's voice hits me on an instinctual level, and adrenaline fuels my shoulder ram where I meant only to put in a token effort.

The door bursts open, and I hear a startled cry as whoever was holding the door against us falls back.

"Time t' pay, bitch," Garm growls, stalking in behind me and closing the door.

I stoop down and quickly pick up Garm's axe before I take in the scene. There are a bunch of children here, huddled in the corner. And back-pedalling rapidly to shield them is the woman –

Oh. Oh no.

Not a woman. A man.

I close my eyes to double-check, but I already know what I'm going to see. There's no mistaking those robes and that hair.

Libra
War Monk

LV: 3. EX: -.
HP: 20/43

I just brought an endgame enemy to one of the heroes that could end up saving the world. While he's injured, unarmed and distracted by a bunch of children he's trying to protect.

Fuck.

A/N: Our first potentially game-changing roll! The protagonist got 78/100 during the dash-to-the-town scene (where 40 or below equals death). The second roll is obviously coming up.

Also, our first Shepherd! 5 seconds of screen-time and he's already protecting little kids. If only I could be so gloriously incandescent...