MF - Ruler of Seas - #2 Discovery

(Josie Sayz: This is the other part of my duology story Moonstone Fortress: Saviour of Ships that I shared a while back. It is very special to me and is tied to a point in my life where I was the happiest I have ever been. It is based off a MERP_UK game that an old friend (Kevin) and I started working on together. The game got lost very early on and will never be revived. This is the alternative route to the story. It isn’t finished yet; I am only halfway in writing the story. I figured that if I shared this, it would force me to keep at it, as I hate sharing unfinished work.

This is my Mary Shelley piece - he will be the most hated man to ever exist, after I am through with him.

If you are interested in checking out Saviour of Ships, , you can find the prologue here: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2021/11/mf-saviour-of-ships-1-blackout.html

 

Part 1: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2022/08/mf-ruler-of-seas-1-charleston-mistake.html).

 

 

Moonstone Fortress

Ruler of Seas

Discovery

Slime squelched his palms. Water washed over him. His hands sank deeper. Rolling his head, he groaned as pain stabbed him in the neck. His eyes pierced open. Letting out a breath, his chest shook. Darkness. Something covered him. The grains scratched against his stubbled face. Roaring loudened. His skin dampened. He flinched, his right elbow jabbing into his side. Ramming his elbows into the ground, he threw himself up to sit. Light stabbed at his eyes. Throwing a hand in front of his face, he squinted. The fabric flopped to his lap. A breeze swept up his back. His damp shirt clung to his spine. He shuddered. Wrinkling his nose, he snapped his wrists out at his sides. Sodden sand clung to him. Grabbing the fabric, he scrunched his hands into it, scraping away the grained gunk. Shaking his head, he clambered to his feet. ‘Calico,’ he scorned, throwing the sheet to the ground. ‘I was left for dead.’

The distant roaring returned. His heart leapt. Shooting his head up, he scanned his surroundings. Sea. He staggered back. Sweeping towards him, the sea splashed at his ankles, before gripping the calico, yanking it back on its return. As he arched his head over his left shoulder, a seagull cawed overhead. He stared, balling his hands into fists. Perching on a cluster of rocks nearby, the seagull pecked its head towards the sand. A lump formed in his throat. He staggered forwards. A feathered flock swooped by. He shuddered. As they landed, he watched their heads bob up and down over the rock’s edge. Shaking his head, his stomach spiralled. “Poor guy,” he muttered, spotting a fleshed hand poking out of the debris. A shudder crept up his spine. Clawing a hand through his curled hair, he arched his head further left. Weight tugged at his legs. He growled. Glaring down as his feet, water washed towards him. He sank deeper. Sand gripped him between his toes. Kicking his ankles about, the pulse pounded in his ears. Ramming his fists into his pockets, he let out a sigh. They were empty. Scratching a hand to his stubble, his shirt sleeves were torn. Blood blotched his arm.

Leaping away from the sinking sand, he staggered onto a rock. Staring ahead, his eyes widened. His heart gave a fierce thud, before dropping to his stomach. Lodged on the rocky shore lay a ship. His brow lined, as the breeze swept at his face. Cracked through the centre, two halves of a wooden vessel protruded out of the sand. Pointing out in different directions, the stern and bow of the ship angled towards the sky. Waves lashed, crashing water over the cracked craft. Seeping through the ship, water dragged fragments of the framework further inland. Staggering forwards, he shook his head. Images flashed before his eyes. The storm. His pulse pounded. Cannons. He swallowed hard. A ship. His stomach spiralled. A wolf’s head. His chest heaved. The black flag. Fog. Rocks. He gasped. Long Tom. The mast. His heart leapt to his throat.

Leaping down from the rocks, he splashed into the shallows surrounding the wreckage. Wooden chippings washed around his feet. Clambering into the middle of the two halves, his eyes scanned the debris for signs of whether the wreckage was the ship that he had been held captive on. He stretched his neck, as he arched his head over bobbing barrels and drifting wood. Sloshing through the shallows, something scraped against his shin. He crouched down, scooping a plank out of water. Tossing it into the air, a little, and catching it, he tested its weight. He let out a gentle hum, as he rocked the plank back and forth in his left hand. Flipping it over, his eyes widened. The name ‘Charleston’ was etched into the plank. Scratching his thumbnail against the wood, he hummed again. “King’s ship,” he muttered under his breath. A powdered, white wig of curls flashed before him. The billowed navy justacorps. The rosy cheeks of the captain’s pale face. Snarling his nose, he spat at the plank. ‘The ship…’ he grumbled. ‘Stupid captain,’ he growled. ‘Shoulda listened t’ me. Now look.’ Lowering the plank to his side, his eyes scanned over the vessel. Double decked. A single mast. Rolling his eyes at the debris and destruction, he shook his head. ‘It’ll do as a weapon,’ he decided, swinging the plank at his side. ‘Until I find something else.’

Scraping a hand through his hair, he turned around. The waves had washed over his footsteps. Glancing down the shore, water had washed over any sign of his existence. As he arched his head around the island, his eyes lay upon the mossed, mounded mountain and the forest of trees that clung to its side. Clinging a hand to his blooded arm, he winced. ‘There’d better be spare armour or clothing in this junk,’ he grumbled, turning on his heels to face the shipwreck. Sloshing through the shallows, he kicked at cracked planks, damaged hinges and fragments of wood. Nearing the hull of the stern’s half of the ship, his eyes scanned over the portholes and the ship’s levels. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose, as he neared what appeared to be a manmade hole in the side of the ship. Fragments of wood splintered the ground, at his feet.

Heaving himself over the hacked at hole, crates lay scattered inside the body of the ship. Throwing his legs over the entranceway, he lowered himself inside. As his feet pressed into the ground, he seeped a breath through gritted teeth. Shards of glass stabbed him in the heel. He winced, staggering forwards. Flopping onto a crate, he peered inside. Empty. Staggering down the room, he gripped a hand to each crate as he passed. Iron nails littered the ground. Every crate had all been forced open and their contents swiped. Kicking at a spoon on the floor, he growled, throwing himself into the crate at the end of the room. Heaving his weight into it, something rustled inside. With a sharp inhale through his nose, he straightened his back. He stretched up on his tiptoes and dipped his head inside. Balls of scrunched paper lay on top of a lump of cloth. Reaching his hand inside, he kicked his toes off the ground, as he tipped himself towards the depth of the crate. He swayed, kicking his legs out behind him. Sliding deeper into the crate, he clawed his hands out at the cloth. The tip of his nails scratched the surface. With a grunt, he switched hands. Pressing his right hand into the edge of the crate, he prodded his weight onto his elbow. Stretching forwards with his left hand, he swiped a swing at the fabric. Digging his stomach into the crate’s rim, he kicked his legs back. His face scrunched, as she strained the stretch of his arm further. Grunting, he took one last swipe. His nails scratched against the material. With a murmuring groan, he spiked out his fingers and clawed the fabric into his palm. A gasp escaped him. Jabbing both hands into the crate’s frame, he lowered his legs back to the ground. Blood pounded at his temples. He swayed, toppling to his left, as the heat drained from his face.

Shaking the cloth out in front of him, two sleeves flapped at his sides. His brow furrowed. Wide enough to fit three of him inside, a baggy, greyed, calico shirt wafted out in front of him. Tugging it over his head, it draped over him, like a dress. He puffed out a breath, as he scrunched up the shirt fabric and yanked at his belt, freeing it from his stirrups. Wrapping the leather strap around his waist, he puckered the excess shirt under his ribcage.

Clambering out from inside the ship, with his ‘Charleston’ plank in hand, he made his way towards the divide in the ship. The main mast of the ship lay in the sand, between the two halves of the Charleston. Engulfed by the sludge of the sand, the ship’s mast has begun to sink. Stepping onto the mast, he staggered forwards, as the pole sunk deeper. His arms flapped at his sides, as he leapt towards the main deck. Cracked wooden planks, with splintered, jiggered edges spiked out towards him. Kicking at the cracked decking, a beam bounced back towards him. He gasped, ducking. His heart leapt. Swallowing, he threw his head over his shoulder, towards the other half of the ship. A bundle of broken barrels and crate lids bobbed as the wind grew fierce. Waves thundered behind him. Leaping into the shallowed waters, he fumbled towards the wooden debris. As the hissing of a storm swirled in his ears, he grabbed out for an open barrel and poked his head inside. Swiping a rag from the barrel’s depth, he scrunched his nose, before heaving the container to the side and trudging onto the next. Empty. His shoulder blades stiffened. His heart thumped. Empty. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as he lunged for the ned barrel. Grabbing the next barrel, his brows daggered, as he looked inside. Light glimmered off the surface of an object. His eyes widened. Diving his arm into inside, his hand gripped the neck of a bottle. Swiping it from the container, he yanked its cork. Wafting his nose to the lip of the bottle, he gave a whiff. He let out a hum as a smile stretched across his face. “Rum,” he beamed. Pressing the bottle to his lips, his tossed his head back.

Wind gushed through his hair. He puffed his chest out, letting the gusts dry out his sodden locks. As he took another swig of his rum, something thudded into his foot. Scrunching up his face, he splashed a fist into the water. A frown fixed upon his brow, as he fished out another bottle. Tilting his head to the right, he squinted. There was no liquid inside, instead a roll of parchment replaced the expected nectar. Gripping the cork between his teeth, he yanked his head to the right, swinging the bottle away from him. With a pop, the cork sprung free. Wedging his bottle of nectar between his right arm and his ribcage, he shook the other bottle upside down. As the parchment edged towards the lip of the bottle, he pinched it tight and gave a swift yank. Dropping the empty bottle, he unravelled the message. “Ha!” he laughed aloud, with scorn, as he read the inscription: “Attacked by pirates. Send help.” Snarling his nose, he shook his head. ‘Those stupid privateers thought this could save them?’ Scrunching up the piece of paper, he threw it over his shoulder. ‘They reached their end before the bottle even got here,’ he scoffed. ‘Bunch of useless landlubbers.’

Wading through the waters, he clambered onto a cluster of rocks. Rising from the wave’s ripples, he kicked droplets of water from his feet. Flopping down to sit, his stomach growled. Thumping it, he doubled up on the mound, gazing over the debris, being dragged along the sandbanks. Fragments of plank chippings floated to his right, as the current dragged them towards a towering rock formation. Tilting his head to the left, he gazed on at the rocked area, scratching a hand to his stubble. Thump. The ground vibrated. Twisting his head to the right, he lowered his sight to the shallowed waters. Thump. A wooden plank crashed into the rock he was perched upon. He cocked up an eyebrow, as he noticed a sheet of calico wrapped around something rectangular. Shifting his weight to his knees, he stretched down towards the calico pile. With a grunt, he clasped his fingers around the packaged and dragged it towards him. Shuffling around, he crossed his legs, lying the packaged in his lap. As he tugged the calico casing back, his brow furrowed. ‘A book?’ he frowned, as a dark, dampened, leathered book flopped into his hands. Stroking a hand across the cover, the leather crumbled upon his touch. Flipping the book over, four tarnished, metal squares fastened against the fabric – one near each of the corners. ‘Why would someone wrap a book up in calico?’ he wondered, as he fanned the pages. They were dry. Lines deepened on his brow. ‘How is the book dry?’ he wondered, as he flicked open a random page. ‘And the ink hasn’t run. How peculiar.’ He stooped his neck, as he skimmed over the pages and let out a long, slow hum. ‘Trying to hide something are we?’ he mused, as he flipped open the front cover. “Property of Captain H. Halakan,” he read aloud, stroking a hand to his stubble. ‘The privateer captain… this could be interesting.’ Raising an eyebrow, he propped his elbow upon his left knee, balled his hand into a fist and leant his cheek against it, as he skimmed through the captain’s book.

His stomach spiralled. His heart rattled against his ribcage, as his eyes raced across another page. Feeling a lump lodge in his throat, he swiped the next page over. ‘This is madness,’ he declared, as the pulse pounded in his temples. ‘They weren’t privateers…’ Dancing his eyes across the page, he came upon the words, ‘kill,’ ‘defeat,’ and ‘destroy.’ A shudder crept up his back. ‘They don’t deserve to fly the Castellus flag,’ he shook his head. ‘They’re no better than a brutal band of buccaneers.’ Snarling his nose, he glared at Captain Halaken’s swirly writing. ‘I’d have been dead if I stayed on their ship and that’s before docking in the king’s harbour. That captain was going to get us all killed.’

His nose wrinkled. Sniffing, an ashen, damp pine stench seeped into his nostrils. His face scrunched up, as he lunged forwards, letting out a whooping cough. Clambering to his feet, the gunpowder, clouded scent clung to the back of his throat. His eyes darted from right to left, as he cupped a hand to his forehead and scanned his surroundings. Smoke billowed out from a cluster of rocks, off to his right. Scratching a hand to the back of his neck, his heart leapt to his throat. He snapped Captain Halaken’s journal shut and stuffed it down the back of his trousers and threw his shirt over the book. Swiping his Charleston plank, he took one final scan around at his surroundings, before leaping onto the water.

Sloshing through the shallows, he staggered towards the rock formation. He arched his back, scrunched his nose scrunched and threw his right arm across his face, as the smoke danced towards him. Thud-thud. His heart rapped in his chest. A lump leapt into this throat as he neared to cave entrance billowing with smoke. Sweat dripped from his brow. Swallowing hard, his chest shuddered. The smoke thickened. Creeping one foot in front of the other, he peered his head around the opening within the rocks. His stomach swirled. An amber glow hissed ahead. His eyes pierced wide. Retreating from the mouth of the cave, he pressed himself back against the rocks, as his heart hammered. His grip around the ‘Charleston’ plank of wood tightened, as he crossed it over his body. ‘You’d better work.’ The lines around his nose and mouth crumpled, as he glared at the thick chunk of wood in his hands. Gritting his teeth, he seeped in a deep breath. ‘This is it,’ he told himself, as his intestines knotted.

Hunched over his weapon, he ducked his head below the smoke level. Squinting his eyes towards the light, he shuffled forwards. His heart raced. His chest trembled. Swallowing hard, he snarled his expression, stepping deeper into the cave. Footsteps thundered towards him. He held his breath. “Aaarrrrrrgh!” came a war-cry to his right. Piercing his eyes wide, he tightened the grip around his wooden plank. Twisting his body, he swung the plank back, ready to lunge. “Wait!” cried a voice, as a glint of light shimmered off the blade of a meat cleaver, hovering over his head. Crouching, he jabbed his ship fragment at the towering man before him. “Easy! Easy!” cried the man, lowering his weapon. “Aye,” he beamed. “I know you.” Swallowing, he let out a shaky breath, lowering his wooden plank. “Yer the kid who saved me life, back on the Charleston.” Wafting the smoke from his face, he squinted towards the booming man before him. “Name’s Brandon,” he grinned, extending a hand out towards him. Prodding the left corner of his mouth up, the former prisoner of the Charleston clapped his hand into his acquaintance’s and shook it.

“Pete,” he nodded.

“Come ‘ere Petey,” beamed Brandon, pulling Pete into an embrace, thumping a hand upon the lad’s back.

“It’s Pete,” he mumbled, squeaking a breath, as his face plunged into the podgy man’s stained pits. Leaning out of their embrace, Pete twisted his head around to catch a glimpse of the face of his acquaintance. The man’s thick, dark hair scruffed out like a mane around his face. Pete’s eyes widened. ‘The man from the Long Tom,’ he realised, seeping a breath. Pete had seen him, back on the Charleston; he had helped him and another of Halaken’s crew with firing at the attacking wolf-headed pirate ship. As Brandon released Pete from their tight embrace, Pete glanced the man up and down. Puckering his brow, Pete observed that he, himself, was not the only member of the ship to suffer. His bellied companion had been stripped of the navy jacket that he had been wearing upon the Charleston. His white shirt was now yellowed, torn in several places and the buttons fastening the cloth at his bulging belly were missing. Mud blotched his face and his bare forearms.

The glowing ambers of the fire crackled and hissed beside them. Arching his head around his chubby companion, Pete’s eyes flickered from the dancing flames of the campfire in the cave’s centre, to the rocked edges surrounding him. He shuddered. A droplet of water trickled down the back of his neck. Rolling his shoulders, he shifted his sights to the shimmering stalactites above. Skimming his eyes around, moss crept across every crevice. Water glistened, swaying around the stalagmites cracking up from the ground.

Something sparkled. With a gasp, he flung his head around. Shifting his eyes from the campfire to his companion, his heart leapt to his throat. His eyes bulged as they fixated upon the cleaver that hung from Brandon’s hand. “Sorry I scared ya,” beamed Brandon with a shrug. “I was defendin’ meself, like,” he added, with a shrug. “I didn’t know if yer were one a them pirates.”

“They’re here?” gasped Pete, as his brow puckered. His heart raced. Tightening the grip of his ‘Charleston’ plank, he flung his head over his shoulder, eyes darting from right to left.

“Not too sure, like,” Brandon told him. “I ain’t seen ‘em, but that’s not t’ say they’re not hidin’ around these parts. They must ‘ave seen our ship crash. You must ‘ave seen the sight of it.” Pete nodded. “If I was them pirates, I’d be snoopin’ around… seein’ if there’s anythin’ of value ta loot. Dare say you’ve already had a look, ain’t ya?” Brandon asked. Shrugging his shoulders, Pete nodded.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t find anything,” mumbled Pete, rolling his eyes.

“Me either,” Brandon confessed. “Nothing except this choppin’ knife anyways.” Beefing out his chest, Brandon swung the cleaver about, slashing at the air. Staggering back, Pete shuddered. “Sorry lad,” Brandon muttered, lowering his blade. “Knew I needed a weapon,” he added. “The chef’s choppin’ knife’s all I could find,” he confessed with a shrug.

“Beats this,” Pete muttered, waving his ‘Charleston’ plank at Brandon.

“Woulda done ya better than no weapon, had ya been attacked,” Brandon told him. “Good on ya fer protectin’ yerself, like.”

Scratching his head, Pete paced around the cave. “So, are you the only survivor?” he asked Brandon, as the larger man tossed three more planks of wood onto the fire. Crackling under the heat, the wood snapped. Ash fluttered into the air. Wavering a hand in front of his face, Brandon let out a breathy cough.

“Dunno,” Brandon confessed with a shrug. “If you’re askin’ if I’ve seen anyone else, I’m afraid you’re the first I’ve ran inta.” Holding his hands over the blaze, Brandon rubbed his palms together. “I dare say Captain Halaken, along wiv some a the crew, made their way t’ the village, like, ya know, safety in numbers.”

“There’s a village!” Pete gasped.

“Yup,” nodded Brandon.

“Do you know how t’ get there?” asked Pete, nearing the fire.

“We j’st need ta follow the path through the forest,” Brandon told him. “Now that there’s two a us, should be a cinch.”

“You were waiting for me?” Pete frowned, turning towards his companion.

“Not you exactly,” Brandon confessed, running a hand across the back of his neck. “J’st a companion of sorts. I ‘ad hopes I wasn’t the only lost soul Halaken an’ the crew left behind.” Stretching his left leg over a cluster of stalagmites, Brandon waded through the rockpools to the farthest, dark corner of the cave. “Yer can’t go a wonderin’ strange grounds alone,” Brandon told Pete, arching his head over his shoulder. “Who knows what’ll jump out at ya.” Crouching, Brandon scooped up a handful of water. Splashing it in his face, the privateer vibrated his lips, as he shook his head. “Besides,” he muttered, as he scrubbed his face against his shirt. “With a weapon like that,” looking up, Brandon jabbed a thumb at Pete’s plank. “Yer gonna need all the help you can get.”

With the glow in the campfire fading, Brandon led the way out from the cave. As Brandon hunched over his blade, Pete rolled his stiffened shoulders. Returning to daylight, Pete squinted his eyes, as they adjusted to the brightness. Arching his head over his shoulder, Pete glanced back towards the protruding shipwreck. His eyes fixed upon the flock of seagulls feasting. He shuddered. A hand thumped him on the back. “Some a us weren’t so lucky, like,” muttered Brandon, as he caught sight of the seagulls’ feast. Pete’s shoulders sunk, as he lowered his sight to his feet. “Keep ya spirits up,” Brandon beamed. “It’s all a parta this game. The game a life. Some win. Others lose. You mister, ‘ave been given a second chance.” Looking up at Brandon, Pete smirked. “I suggest ya use it wisely.”

Arching around the sanded shoreline, Brandon led them towards the foliaged boarder. A forest of trees mounted over them. “Keep yer ears open f’ the sound a streamin’ water,” Brandon told him. “The river’ll lead us right t’ the village.” As they ventured deeper into the forest, Pete straightened his posture and arched his head around at his surroundings. Gazing up at the tree-topped skyline Pete let out a whistle.

‘A guy could get lost out here,’ he mused, prodding the left corner of his mouth into his cheek. ‘Might make a good hideaway.’ His smirk dropped. ‘Could also mean we’re being watched,’ he realised, feeling his insides knot. He snapped his eyes shut and seeped a breath, as something scratched his foot. Dropping his sight to the sanded ground, Pete wrinkled his nose at the cracked shells and chippings of rocks that littered the ground at his feet. Toppling to his right, Pete wavered his arms out for balance.

“We’d better find ya some shoes, boy,” Brandon observed.

“I’m okay,” Pete muttered. Pulse pounded up his leg. “I’m okay,” he repeated with a shrug. His stare hardened. “It’s only a cut,” he muttered to his companion. “Worse could happen,” he added with another shrug. “And probably will,” he mumbled, flickering a glance over his shoulder.

Slashing his blade through branches and bushes, Brandon led them deeper into the forest. As the rhythmical rocking and seaweed stench of the sea faded, Pete’s shoulders relaxed. Fluttering his lids, he took a long, slow breath. Dampen, musky barks and sweet dew grasses wafted up his nostrils. A soothing buzz of bees hovered from a nearby birch tree. Striding deeper through the forest, Pete’s eyes flickered from tree to tree, examining the barks, as the black and grey birches faded into golden maples and blossoming oaks.

Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Pete held his breath. His eyes widened, as his ears pricked up. Gushing hissed to his right. Twitching his head, he nudged Brandon’s side. “The river,” Pete announced, straying from the path. “I can hear it.” Pete raced towards a mound of rocks and began clambering over them.

“Careful!” Brandon called, as he stumbled after him. “Careful!” he projected again, watching as Pete staggered down the other side of the rocks.

Parting the privet that lined their path, Pete arched his head back towards his companion and nodded. As the larger man passed through the parting, his eyes widened. “Aye, we were right,” Brandon muttered. “Should lead us straight ta the village,” he told Pete, as he crouched down at the stony strand. Passing through the privet, Pete perched alongside his companion, at the pebbled edge of the riverbank.

“So what’s at the village?” Pete asked, as he gazed ahead at the thickened bushes that they were yet to traverse. “What good will it do us?”

“Well, there’s an inn,” Brandon told him, as he plonked himself down on a rock. “It’s a called the Wreck-Age. When Halaken came to, he woulda gathered any survivors an’ headed straight there.” Pressing a hand to the captain’s journal tucked down the back of his shirt, the pulse pounded at Pete’s temple. “If he ain’t there, we’ve gots Garrin we can rely on – he’s the innkeeper. Lovely fella, Garrin. He’ll lend us a room an’ let us send message t’ the king about what happened,” Brandon continued. Seeing Pete’s eyes widen and his brows slant together at the mention of the king, Brandon added, “Don’t you worry none, Petey. I’ll make sure t’ put in a good word fer yer wiv King Charleston, like. You saved me life, Petey. Fer that I’m eternally grateful.”

“It was nothin’,” Pete shrugged, sinking his palms into the pebbles, as he stretched his arms back behind himself. “So, you’ve been here before?”

“Aye,” Brandon nodded. “As a matter a fact, I have. There weren’t no pirates, no shipwreck or the like,” he assured Pete, giving him a nudge. “We docked in the village harbour. ‘Ad t’ pass on information a do with smugglers an’ the likes. Pirates ‘ad been stealin’ the isle’s supplies an’ passin’ ‘em off as their own once they docked inta Castellus.”

“You knew?” Pete raged, snarling his nose, as he spun his head towards Brandon. “About the pirates, about the captain’s orders to kill, defeat and destroy anything that crossed path – without a second thought.”

“N-n-now how’d you know ‘bout that?” stuttered Brandon, scratching a hand to his neck.

“You’re not privateers,” spat Pete, jabbing a finger at Brandon. “The lot of you are no better than the band a pirates that were hoping to blast you outta the sea,” he raged. “You’re not king’s men. You’re blood thirsty, heartless killers.”

“Aye,” Brandon sighed, deflating his shoulders. “Cap’in Halaken may ‘ave got carried away wiv his orders, like,” he confessed, lowering his head. Sifting his hands through the pebbles, Brandon let out a long sigh, before continuing on with his confession, “He was under strict word from King Charleston not t’ let word slip what we were up to – didn’t want Castellus panickin’ over pirates.” Having scooped up a pile of stones, Brandon clambered to his feet. Lunging his right foot forwards, the large man snapped his wrist back and flung one of the stones into the river. It bounced twice before sploshing into the depths of the riverbed. “Truth is,” Brandon went on, as he skimmed another stone. “We were off ta Barkton Versulin with trade, ‘cept it was more information for protection, like – we tell them about the pirates, they help us defend tradesmen… only we never made it.” Punching his fists into the ground, Pete bounced up, gabbing a palmful of pebbles.

“What now?” asked Pete, stretching his arm back. Flinging a pebble forwards, it bounced once, before plopping down to the bottom of the river.

“Gotta give it a little more wrist,” Brandon told him. “Like this.” Taking another stone in his right hand, Brandon snapped his wrist back. As he flung his arm forwards, Brandon’s wrist flicked the shingle towards the river. Scraping the skin of the water, the shingle hopped against the surface twice before sinking. Pete nodded at Brandon as he placed a pebble into his left hand, before shifting is weight forwards onto his left leg. Stretching his wrist back, Pete held his breath before snapping the stone forwards. Brandon exhaled a whistle, as Pete’s pebble shot through the air, skipping over the surface of the river three times, before making a splosh. “Impressive,” Brandon beamed. Slapping a hand to Pete’s back, Brandon chuckled, “Yer a natural.” The smile drained from Brandon’s face, as he glanced down at the pile of pebbles in his hand. His shoulders drooped, as he let out a sigh. “What’s next?” Brandon muttered, continuing with their conversation. “Who knows,” he shrugged. “Guess we find out when we get there.” With a nod, Pete sprinkled his assortment of stones back to the sanded bank and shot his head upstream. Humming, Brandon nodded. Swiping his blade from the ground, the large man grunted, as he plodded one foot in front of the other.

Traversing along the river’s edge, Pete poked a finger towards a line of coloured fabric flapping in the distance. “We could do with swiping some new clothes,” Pete announced.

“New clothes, yes,” Brandon nodded, pulling at his slashed shirt. “Stealin’, no,” he added, flashing his companion a firm glare.

“It’s not stealing if there’s no one there,” Pete smirked. “Besides,” he added with a shrug. “We’ve got no coin. We can’t trade anything.”

“True,” Brandon muttered. “But that doesn’t justify stealin’.”

Further upstream, a collection of coloured fabric flapped in the breeze. Stretching from the golden maple in the distance, three strands of string stretched across the river and knotted around a grand oak. An array of admiral blue, ash and boysenberry capes, jackets, dresses, shirts and stockings shuddered against the wind. As Pete and Brandon neared the coloured clothing display, Pete’s eyes flickered between the fabric, eyeing up what would best suit him and his companion. “That black jacket might fit you,” Pete suggested, jabbing a finger up at a padded, coal-coloured, tailed jacket.

“True,” agreed Brandon, tilting his head to one side. “Still doesn’t justify stealing it,” Brandon warned, as he stood in front of the jacket, eyeing up the embroidery details on the cuffs.

“No one’s here,” Pete told him, with a shrug, turning back to Brandon, as he neared a large oak tree. “It’s not stealing if no one sees ya. Besides, who keeps such a vast array of clothes, all in different sizes, way out here, in the middle of nowhere? For all we know it’s free for any lost adventurer to take, when they’re in great need and right now, we are those lost adventurers in great need.”

“I guess,” Brandon muttered, as his hands hesitated towards the garment. Retracting his arm, Brandon ran a hand to the back of his neck, feeling is intestines spiral in a circumbendibus.

Whilst Brandon fought with his conscience, Pete strode towards a pile of sacks slumped against a large oak tree. Flickering a glance up at the tree’s bark, Pete’s eyes widened. His lips parted. Etched into the centre of the bark was a circle, with five lines scratched across it, forming a star. To the left, a crescent moon clung to the edge of the arch. Staring, his vision blurred. Reeds rustled beside him. Shuddering, he broke his gaze with the bark and spun around towards the rustling reeds. His eyes widened. His lips parted. Perched on the top of a cluster of calico sacks, sat a pair of black, leather, soled shoes. “Wow,” he breathed, feeling a smiled poke into the corner of his mouth. ‘Just the thing I need,’ he thought, swiping them. “Hey Brandon!” Pete called, turning to his companion. “Look what I-” A branch cracked behind him. Flinging his head over his right shoulder, Pete’s eyes shot wide open.

“Oi!” croaked a wrinkled man, with grey hair, crouched over a wooden cane. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Run!” Pete yelled. Throwing one foot in front of the other, Pete raced towards Brandon, who was already wearing the charcoal, claw-hammer tailed jacket. A smirk prodded into Pete’s cheek, as he spotted Brandon. Throwing his head over his right shoulder, Pete glanced back at the frail man.

“You’ll rue the day you stole from me, sonny,” raged the elder, jabbing his walking stick in Pete’s direction. “You’ll rue it.”

Having clambered over a mound of rocks, to escape the wrath of the man they stole from, the pair scrambled further upstream, before stopping to rest along another pebbled patch of the riverbank. “I knew we shouldn’t a stole ‘em,” Brandon wailed, shaking his head, as he paced back and forth.

“What does a frail, old man need an oversized jacket for?” asked Pete, as he sat on the ground, lacing up his new shoes. “You could fit three of him in it easily – no offence,” he added, flicking a sheepish glance up at Brandon. “It suits you, by the way,” Pete told his companion, as he leapt to his feet.

“Thanks,” grumbled Brandon, prodding the right of his mouth into his cheek, with a failed smile. “I, er, I got yer this,” mumbled Brandon, holding out a navy-coloured cape. “Afore I knew we were actually stealin’, like.”

“Wow, thanks,” Pete breathed.

With his new cape on his shoulders and his leather shoes laced on his feet, Pete took the lead, as the pair strode along a grassy path. A smirk swept across Pete’s face and he chuckled to himself, as the image of the raging old man flickered to the front of his mind. Glancing down at his shoes, his smile stretched across his face. “You know,” Pete began, as he wiggled his toes. “I think these are the comfiest shoes I’ve ever owned,” he declared to his companion.

“Shame they’re stole,” Brandon scoffed.

“Hey! It worked in your favour too,” professed Pete. “You got yourself some new threads.”

“Yeah,” Brandon grumbled, rolling his eyes. Stretching his arms out, the larger man tugged at the sleeves of his new jacket. “And they don’t fit.” Yanking at the front of his jacket, Brandon held his breath, as he tried to pull the button towards the buttonhole. “Serves me right,” Brandon grumbled under his breath.

“Cheer up,” chuckled Pete, hiding a snigger at Brandon’s expense.  “Would you rather turn up to the village all scraped up and draw attention to yourself?” Scrunching his nose, Brandon shrugged.

The pair trudged on in silence. Pressing a hand to his knee, Pete’s footsteps steepened. Gravel crunched beneath the soles of his new shoes. Inhaling a slow, deep breath, Pete belched out a whooping cough, as a thick sooty-ash scent clung to the back of his throat. Thumping a hand to Pete’s back, Brandon let out a chuckle. “Yer alright?” asked Brandon.

“Yer,” Pete wheezed, thumping a fist at his chest. Wrinkling his nose, he arched his head towards the tops of the treeline. “Smoke?!” he gasped, jabbing a finger up as wisps of sooty smoke swirled into the sky.

“Bet it’s a chimney,” Brandon told him. Cupping a hand around his right ear, Brandon eased forward. His eyes widened. “Can you hear it?” he hissed.

“Hear what?” Pete shrugged.

“The sea,” Brandon gasped. Pete’s brow furrowed. “We made it.”

“The sea?” Pete repeated, scraping a hand through his hair. “You mean we’re back where we started? We’ve come full loop?” he cried, clawing a hand at his curls.

“No,” Brandon breathed, as a grin prodded into the corners of his mouth. “It’s the harbour… the village…” Racing on, Brandon parted a bramble of bushes. Scrambling through them, a breath escaped Pete as his lips parted.

- Josie -