Miniarc-Bad Tidings 05

Miniarc-Bad Tidings 05

How does one explain the threat of a competent summoner?

The pirate captain wasn't daunted by the simple warning of danger. He knew danger intimately, walked hand-in-hand with it. Threats were things to be conquered, the stones he used to build the wall of his reputation.

As a native of Graywatch and a sailor, he also understood creatures beyond the means of mortal men. He'd survived a leviathan swallowing the ship he sailed on. Had helped evacuate the city when a storm brought in a thousand creatures of the deep with teeth tougher than steel and poisonous blood. When he was a young man, the captains were akin to gods, forces of nature with the will and whims of men. No matter how unfair or how unjust, there was nothing a runt could do but stand aside.

Those experiences worked against him in the worst ways as Maxine tried to explain Lou. Having risen to the loftiest heights along the shore, the pirate both understood the innate fallibility of anything of flesh yet also hung onto the childish awe that believed that the leaders of men were deities, he himself a deity now that he had achieved the same heights. He neither believed that a single person could rival the threat of a sea monster nor that a single person could rival him.

"There you go right there," Artor said as Maxine finished her explanation. He poured himself another glass of his liquor. Maxine's didn’t follow. She'd taken a small sip after it was passed to her, for appearances, but didn't plan to consume another drop. She'd barely licked it but even that amount was enough to set her gut aflame.

Whatever it was, it was strong and nasty. It was an exercise in control not to grimace as it lingered on her tongue. More importantly, she did not relish the idea of losing control around her current company. Sponsor or not, the man was a pirate. Not a group of people known for their upstanding morals or character.

"This woman isn't the threat. It's whatever creatures she's got tagging along with her."

"Does it matter? A captain's strength is his crew."

Artor tilted his glass in acknowledgment. "True, a captain doesn't have to be strong. But! Have you ever heard the saying that a boat is only as strong as its weakest plank?"

"A variation."

"Ye got iron ones, kid."

Maxine noted with some distress that he was a kid. His impressive beard did a lot to disguise his age, but the smooth skin of his face and his gangly limbs gave away the ruse. She doubted he'd seen his second decade.

Despite his youth, it didn't seem like poor judgment had brought him to Artor's office. Hollow Jack's reputation had spread far and wide along the shore. Even the hardest sailor would feel at least a little trepidation having him at their throat. Yet, the boy looked relieved of all things.

"Boss!" he shouted, turning toward Artor. "Ye got ta do somethin'! She's lost 'er—"

He was interrupted by several crashes, followed by muted shouting. Artor frowned as he turned toward the door. "What kind of mess did you bring to my door, runt?"

Jack, concluding that the threat was outside the office rather than in, dropped the boy and turned toward the door. His aborted victim stumbled after suddenly regaining his feet but didn't hesitate a moment in lurching toward Artor. Maxine shied away as the youth practically threw himself across the captain's desk.

"She's lost 'er mind, captain! Swears! We—"

The rest of his explanation was drowned out by the sound of breaking wood as the office door was kicked in. Not so much as a splinter got past Jack, the air forming a wall around him with a speed that spoke of great skill.

A nightmarish figure appeared in the shattered doorway. At a distance, the woman looked no different from the other natives of Graywatch; tanned skin from long days working under a hot sun, thick-soled boots, dark leather pants, a sleeveless off-white shirt with fraying ends, and a wide-brimmed leather hat. It took a closer look to notice the skin-crawling details. Her overly pronounced jaw, the chin wide and strong. The creases in the skin along both arms, easily ignored but hinting at startling secrets. The way her shoulders writhed, undulating sporadically.

Maxine fought the urge to back away as every instinct she had screamed that the person before her was wrong. The woman raised a hand, pointing a finger at the frightened youth. At first, Maxine thought the red was the fabric of a glove, but the longer she stared, the more certain she was that it was the woman's skin, pigmented by some strange means.

"That one's mine!"