by Kell Inkston
“One of my hands has been kidnapped on the deck of our ship. This is the only island in a hundred kilometers. The kidnapper must have taken her here.”
The men exchange a few glances and the front one looks back to The Captain. “This kidnapper. Did it seem like he could, fly? Teleport, even?”
He nods in response. “Why yes, he seemed to appear and disappear in the surrounding mist at will.”
Some of the patrons get back to their seats, and the front man gives a knowing look of sympathy. “Ahh, a victim of the Kalamests, then.”
The bar slouches into a gloomy aura, the musicians taking their time before their next set, and the patrons intently listening in.
“Now just what do you mean? Who, or what are these Kalamests?” The Captain asks.
The man shakes his head. “Tell you what, you buy and I’ll fill you in on the story.”
The Captain nods. “Sounds fair,” he says as he goes to the man’s table, all seats but his empty, and sits down. Colette follows along, but Boris is rarely a simple person to take along.
“ARE WE OF THE SITTING?”
“The sitting is of us,” The Captain says calmly. Boris slams his giant body into a chair, shattering instantly and sending long splinters into the openings of his shell.
The Captain nods again and waves over the waitress. “Excellent, Boris and our friend here will have something that won’t kill them, but would still be considered alcoholic. Our female on the other hand will take something fruity and far less intoxicating; such is the manner of women, of course,” he says, nodding over to Colette, who is immediately offended that the waitress doesn’t seem to care.
“As if I couldn’t handle it,” she says under her breath with a clear spite.
The Captain glances to her. “Oh, could it be you’re willing to take control of the situation rather than have me dictate things for you?”
She shakes her head lightly with a look of confusion. “And just what would that look like, Captain?”
“Tell me, I haven’t ordered my drink yet. Are you willing to trade drinks with me? Are you so confident that you hold your own fate?” The Captain asks, pressing his glasses to the bridge of his nose.
Colette slams her fist on the table. “Of course! I can deal with anything!”
“Ahh, color me impressed, Miss Ketiere!” He curtly turns to the waitress. “Very well, I’ll have a pint of vinegar,” The Captain says. Colette’s jaw drops as the waitress slowly puts down the order, cringing at the thought of it.
Colette stares into nothingness. “W-what? Don’t you drink like… liquor?”
“Only when I don’t have a job to do. Vinegar keeps my nerves high and ready for action! I hope you enjoy,” he says as the waitress turns away. Colette has nothing to say, and instead looks on blankly as the sailor leans in and begins his story.
“Alright you three. For generations there have been two families that hold the land rights to about ninety percent of our port: the Ganasteres and the Kalamests. They’ve been more or less at war against each other the whole time – usually in the shadows, but this is a whole new level. Ya’ see, the Kalamests have an heirloom, a powerful witch relic: The Gauntlet of Mist.” As the man speaks, The Captain lowers his head in thought. It all sounds so familiar. “At midnight every night it can be used for one hour, shrouding the user in mist and making him one with it. For decades the gauntlet’s been largely unused, until two weeks ago. It all started when the head heir of the Ganasteres mysteriously disappeared into the mists of the night. There was a wide search for him until one morning four days later. He was nev-”
“Here are your… drinks,” the waitress says with an uneven tone, handing out the drinks and delivering a tall pint of vinegar to Colette. She is thanked, the three men enjoy their first gulps, and Colette just takes deep breaths as she composes herself.
“Right. The dude was never found again, except for a bloody scrap of his clothing found days later. Every day after that, another piece of clothing belonging to one of the disappeared people would appear somewhere in town, drenched in blood. ‘Course, the Kalamests denied having perpetrated the crimes, but that’s obviously a load of shit. The first victim was a Ganastere, and the kidnapper hasn’t exactly been subtle about using those mist powers to kidnap folks… They’re boarded up in their mansion now. We’ve actually been waiting for ‘em to come out to bring them to justice, though some folks have tried to break in. It’s a right fortress that Kalamest estate: barred outside, trapped inside. You look like some hard sailors tho-”
“Oh, shit!” Colette says after taking her first gulp of vinegar, slapping her hand against her mouth to fight the urge to spit it out. The Captain swishes the pink drink around in his hand chipperly, taking, savoring sips.
“You were saying?” The Captain nods his head.
The man takes a breath of the salt-scented bar, and nods. “Right. I was thinkin’ if you’re looking to get your friend back, you might try the Ganastere estate. I hear they’ve been planning to help the town break into the Kalamest house, and they need as much muscle as we can get, especially if the assault takes longer than a day.” He says this with a covert glance, suggesting that he is, in fact, part of this resistance.
Colette wipes a look of disgust from her face. “Why just a day?”
The man leans in with a spark in his eye. “Cuz’ if they know we’re trying to oust them at midnight, the hour the gauntlet operates, we’ll be in deep shit. The gauntlet user is fast as a blink, and hits like a whale’s tail. Saw a guy pick a fight with the freak, was just trying to save his wife; he’s still in the hospital… you got me?”
Colette raises a brow, wondering about just how The Captain could take a full barrage of hits, plus a bullet through his shoulder, and still be alright the minute after. “I got ya’.”
The man nods. “Hope that helped you mates well enough.”
The Captain reaches over and shakes the man’s hand. “It was perfectly helpful, my good man. We’ll take up the Gainstare home ne-”
“Ganastere, Cap,” Colette says lightly, taking deep breaths and nursing off the vinegar slowly.
The Captain nods. “Right, my dear bialy. So at that I feel it best we keep you on a steady pace to captain-hood and send you to the Krillesque estate to perform some reconnaissance; but first you must finish my drink.”
Colette winces. “Uh, but Captain. Boris hasn’t finished his drink yet! Do you expect me to rush my cr-”
“DRINK IS OF ME?” Boris asks, looking surprised.
The Captain nods. “Boris, you know the drink is of yo-”
The Captain barely finishing his sentence, Boris slams his head face down into the glass, shattering completely and sucking up all the delicious moisture and broken glass. The helpful man and Colette just stare for a moment as Boris gargles in euphoria. “THE DRINKING IS TO THE LIKE OF ME!”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Boris.” The Captain pats Boris on the head, and then turns to Colette. “Now, Miss Ketiere, if you please,” he says as he gestures to the pint-glass of vinegar, three-fourths still remaining.
Colette snuffs out contemptuous air, takes one more deep breath, and then raises it to her lips. Each gulp is straddled with pain and disgust, as if it were poison, and the breath she releases once she finishes has all the elements of a person who nearly drowned, only to reach the salvation of air at the very last second of consciousness. She presses her hand firmly against her face in misery, but her lips are curved up in a smile. She did succeed, even though it cost her a bit of her mind. Colette looks up seconds later, and sees a rare, almost fatherly smile on The Captain’s face.
“Well done, Miss Ketiere,” he says in a voice more tender than his usual. “Now stop wasting our time and get your ass to the Krillemolest estate,” he says in a sudden shift of tone.
Colette nods, gets up from the table and starts out of the bar with a slight gait, like she’s about to throw up.
Boris looks to The Captain, his
black, dreamless, crustacean eyes locking on with impunity. “ARE WE OF THE GOING NOW?”
The Captain nods, ushers up Boris and gives his goodbye to the helpful man. On the way out The Captain chuckles under his breath and mutters to himself. “Drinking vinegar. She really doesn’t know me at all....”
At that, the uniformed Captain and the towering red fortress of Boris make their way down the rain-soaked cobble of the cove to the Ganastere estate, glowing red against the gloomy forest surrounding the town.
Boris Ends up Being Useful and Colette has a Less-Vinegary Night
The Captain and Boris step through the salty, chilly streets just past the midnight hour. They approach the fortress-like Ganastere estate and The Captain gives a sensible tap upon the large steel-enforced wooden doors. A dog barks in the distance, and the two moons bend slowly through the sky— no answer.
The Captain gracefully motions Boris to the door. “Good chap?”
With the force of a battering ram Boris slams his claw into the door, the sound reverberating out through the entire town. “WE ARE OF THE BEING HERE. MUCH THANKING FOR THE OPEN DOORING,” Boris says with a polite, delicate tone, such a shame only another monstrous lobster would see it that way.
A rush of steps approach from the other end and the doors shift open via a mechanism to reveal the lavish interior of the home, and a man pointing a loaded crossbow right at Boris. “So it’s come to this, ha-” the man stops once he sees them clearly. He puts aside the weapon. “Terribly sorry. I thought you were someone else. Who might the two of you be?” The well-dressed, balding man says with an inquisitive raise of the brow as he takes up the cup of coffee he has on a side table just behind the doors.
The Captain steps up. “I’m The Captain, captain of the M.S. Nocturna. We’ve come t-”
The man, in the shock of realization, promptly spits his coffee in The Captain’s face, says a very nasty word and shuts the door. The Captain and Boris listen to the man lock the door and then frantically pace off somewhere.
“Quite a peculiar fellow, that one,” The Captain says. Boris nods.
“HE IS PROBABLY OF THE KNOWING WHO YOU ARE OF THE BEING,” Boris notes helpfully.
Just before The Captain decides to give the order to break in and strap everyone inside to tables for some delicious interrogation, the man returns and opens the door with an apologetic look about him. “Eh, terribly sorry about that. It turns out the master would quite like to see you,” the embarrassed servant says, bowing for entry.
“Thank you for the warm welcome.” The Captain steps in with the gigantic Boris lumbering behind him on his many, shelled legs.
The two are led through long halls of gold and rose. Suits of armor, paintings of snooty-looking ancestors, and trophies of “the hunt” all line the walls on both sides, providing a much-needed artistic sound for the otherwise silent hall. They approach a set of fancy doors, and a pair of maids open them to reveal the office of the current head of the Ganastere line.
He’s really quite plump, and this excites Boris more than most people would be upon noticing a plump person—much much more excited.
“Why hello there!” the graying, short-bearded man says between sips of wine. “The name’s Varr Ganastere.” He presents his hand to The Captain and the two shake hands. “How can I help The prestigious Reaper this fine evening?”
The Captain adjusts his cap to perfect straightness: a sure sign he’s been successfully flattered. “Well, Your Legacy, we wanted to look into the disappearance of one of our crew members- captured by an assailant made of mist, it appeared.”
Varr squints an eye. “I suppose you’ve heard of the recent upsets with the Kalamests, then?”
The Captain nods as Boris starts smelling the air. “We have. I suppose it was not misinformation that they’ve been suspected with the kidnappings, and have not dealt with the matter publicly?” The Captain asks, looking about the room to spot paintings, birchwood furnishing, and an old grandfather clock.
“I AM OF THE SMELLING,” Boris states in a tone he considers a whisper, but in fact is a bold decibel to any common ear.
The old, red-cheeked Varr laughs. “It’s quite true; and by all means my friend, go to the kitchen if you’re hungry. Is it true, dear Captain, that this is the one and only Boris?”
The Captain shoos Boris away, and turns back to Varr as the giant lobster seasort lumbers away on his massive bright red legs. “He is. I suppose you’ve heard the rumors?”
“That you were betrayed by the Duke of Whales and abandoned in that Vuru-forsaken reef?”
The Captain helps himself to a chair and kicks his leg up upon the other. “That’s right.”
Varr draws back in repose as he takes another sip. “Oh my. I’ve heard stories. I’m just shocked they were true. I must apologize for my doorman’s rude demeanor earlier. A man o-… commander of your caliber would of course have all sorts of distasteful rumors surrounding him. I am curious though, if I may pry.”
The Captain switches legs. “You may not.”
A breeze blows outside, whistling through the window, and then Varr laughs. “O-of course! Pardon me! Straight to business, then.”
The Captain nods. “Thank you. Are you certain that the kidnappings were by the Kalamests?”
Varr nods back, his eyebrows raised in a drunken attempt at composure. “Well, as there is only one gauntlet of mist, it is either them that have been doing it, or someone that stole it.”
The Captain caresses his bandaged chin. “I see. And you’re planning an assault on their manor?”
“It seems we have no choice in the matter. They refuse to discuss what’s been going on, and so we, with the townspeople’s help, must act in their stead. We could use some stalwart sea-folk like Boris and yourself. What say you. Will you help us?”
The Owner of The Nocturna delivers a suave hum and then nods. “Yes, I feel we can be of some use,” he says as Boris storms in, sausage links strung around his neck festively as he crunches down his fourth raw chicken breast.
“MISTAKEN, I WAS,” Boris says after chewing down the chicken.
The Captain turns to Boris with the utmost of poise. “Is that so?”
“I AM FEELING OF THE YES. I WAS OF THE THINKING I WAS OF THE SMELLING ANOTHER FOOD, BUT NO, JUST THE FOOD OF THIS.”
The Captain squints an eye as Varr makes a wide, uncomfortable grin. “Well, you win some and you lose some,” The Captain says.
Varr nods with an awkward smile. “Yes, well, we’re just about to start the assault. I suppose you would be the finest to lead considering your… reputation as a person of… action. Will you have the honor?”
A smile crosses the Captain’s bandages. “I’d be happy to.”
“E-excellent… But there’s something I suppose you need to be told before we go ahead.”
“Don’t worry, my dear sir. I’m already quite aware of the situation. Would you mind if I got some food from the kitchen?”
Varr’s breathing picks up in decibel.
Meanwhile, a far less comfortable Colette has reached the far side of town and overlooks the Kalamest estate in front of her. It is a tall, solid, elegant building: windows, doors, and all points of entry hatched down with metal. The sailorette scowls, sighs, and stretches a moment before she leaps for one of the windows, latching onto the bars. The weeks of jobbing on the Nocturna, though proven unpleasant and soring the first few days, have developed a rather competitive set of muscles for her in comparison to other ladies her age.
She scales the bars with gymnastic ease, pulling up ledges, other bars, and any outcropping she can grasp to pull her way up to the top of the roof. A cold, ocean-bound wind blows freely up top. She shivers but once before she buttons up her long peacoat and puts on her brown gloves made from the leather of some monstrous beast the crew encountered on the island of U’ellawat.
U’ellawat definitely left an impression on her, as not only were the locals incredibly unhelpful, it was almost her skin as
someone’s gloves. The locals had the colorful quirk of tearing off people’s skin while alive and then wearing them at their various articles of clothing. They almost got the best of the landing party, until they tried to pull off The Captain’s bandages, and that definitely ruined their day.
Colette checks for any sort of entrance into the manor but finds nothing. She goes to the back of the manor’s roof to check for a balcony she could drop down on, but instead finds something much more interesting.
A suspicious looking figure steps out from the first floor backyard door, locks it behind him, and starts off into the backwoods. She snuffs in the cool air and quiets her breath, then descends the keep and enters the forest.
It is a dark, tombstone gray in the wood, only the light of the two moons providing any light to travel by. Colette sneaks with light steps across the moist ground, following the clear trail of the figure’s clumsy, frantic footwork. She spots that the tracks are consistently deep, as if the person were very heavy, or just very tired. In only minutes of walking, she finds a silhouette slumped over, panting in exhaustion.
She cocks her revolver, an obvious tell to the person in front of her that he’s under suspicion. “Good day,” she says as if she met him down a street at noon.
The wind howls. “Y-you… shit. You’re with that crew that arrived.” His voice is young, pure; about her age, actually.
She squints an eye. “How would you know that?”
He scoffs, “We’ve banned guns here.”
She clears her throat. “Ahh… My turn. You’re a Kalamest.”
His smile sparks in the sharp moonlight. “What’s left of one.”
Colette reasserts her posture; straighter, as if she owns the place- like The Captain’s continuous, physical expression of superiority. “Am I to believe that you just decided to abandon your fortress at a time when the whole town is raring for your head?”
The figure gets to his feet, trained perfectly under Colette’s sights. “The manor’s defenses won’t hold. Didn’t hold last time, won’t hold when they decide to come, either.”