> Washed Up
>  by ambion
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Adrift
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

 
                There are those captains that come to ride the waves like other ponies navigate similarly massive, temperamental spouses. Day by day they court the tides with knowing looks, intuition and the experience of years. Such captains, always respected for their abilities, tend to keep to themselves, and in the strange, insular world of shipping take on the role of prophet as much as commander as they dance with a moody and rolling partner, one step ahead of her wrath and always ready to grasp the gifts given up by whimsy.
 
                Captain Nautica was not such a captain. Her head did not swim with the romanticism of the waves, and her method of courting the ocean came from the same mindset with which other ponies worked over the fine details of a well oiled machine. A means to an end. There was wind and wave to consider for making the best speeds, the charts and landfalls, the weather for distant storms. It was special and complicated, but nothing more.
 
On board her vessel there was more than enough to occupy a productive mind. The well being, and more importantly, subservience of the crew to her command, and a thousand quirks of shipboard life to balance out that would otherwise make a group of mares living aboard a floating box work efficiently rather than go off, as it ‘twere, the deep end.
 
On a boat in the wide blue sea, the deep end was always very close, and it was very deep.
 
When a commotion amongst the crew roused the Captain to her decks, she did not take the little raft off her bow to be a portent anything supernatural, only something to be addressed accordingly. It did, however, still put something of a damper on her day; the vague threat of interesting and disruptive new things that otherwise got in the way of the smoothly running routine of the ship’s life.
 
On as clear and calm a day as this, where the breeze could only be cajoled for so many knots and the going was steady, every crewmate somehow found a reason to be out in the sunshine’s warmth. The mares, unicorns, pegasi and earth ponies alike gathered at the foredeck.

This far out from anywhere, the little raft that caught their eye struggled through the slightest ripple of water. If it could be called so much as a raft. From the looks of it, the shipwright responsible for its sad existence had set upon making it with the sort of inspiration usually only accompanied by a delicate touch of froth about the lips and a certain wild, inattentive gleam to eye. It was flotsam, huddled together for company against the wide expanse of blue.
 
 With a firm swipe of her hoof, Nautica sent the ship’s filly to fetch her viewing scope, a task to which the little pony bounded off to hurriedly. The captain drifted to the front of the crew and in short order the excited little pony returned with the telescopic device, all polished wood and brass, now only slightly dampened with spittle along its length.
 
The time honoured ritual of extending the scope (amended slightly to brush off the worst of the saliva) brought the distinguished captain to the crew’s attention.
 
‘What dya see, Cap’in?’
 
‘Hmm.’ it was too fine a day to waste with some crew-mare overstepping her bounds, but none did. They crowded about, but kept well back from that invisible sphere known as The Captain’s personal space.
 
The looking glass filled Nautica’s eye with bright shimmers, dazzling and just a little painful, but she looked past them to the dull, twisted shape beyond.
 
Wreckage: the sort where water and rocks have bared toothy grins at one another one stormy night, crackled their joints and laid into an innocent ship to shake it upside for its small change. Bits of splintered planks stuck out at strange angles and only the sheerest coincidence seemed to allow it to float at all.
 
Ponies waited on The Captain’s assessment. Despite how it rankled her to see anything suggesting ship had been so abused, Nautica made sure to be thorough. Something useful might yet be clinging to the wreckage.
 
Not likely, she admitted to herself, unless some snarls of rope and shreds of canvas, stained to the shades of musty coffee took a sudden and unexpected value in more exotic ports. Just as she was about to dismiss the rubbish entirely, it flopped over in a wave.
 
In motion, what seemed bedraggled canvas reappeared to The Captain’s eye as stained pony, all the more bedraggled. The pony slipped into the ocean without struggle, almost peacefully, and it did not surface.
 
‘That’s a pony gone in the drink!’ Nautica shouted.
 
Through the gasp of the gathered mares, three pegasi flung themselves from the riggings, tearing along the length of it with amazing speed. Nopony breathed for the harrowing seconds, not even The Captain behind her looking glass. A pegasus dove head first into the water with a violent splash that capsized the raft and sent it to its watery doom.
 
Nothing happened, and the last of the ripples faded away into the calm rolling of the ocean as if nothing had happened at all. The ship’s filly tried to stifle a sniffle.

Then the pegasus burst from the water, the placid stranger held tightly to her bulky chest. The gasp from the ship bound ponies could have swelled the sails, had they but been facing them.
 
Everpony could see the action, but with distressing detail only Nautica witnessed helplessly to the struggles of her best pegasus, Harpoon, flapping her sodden wings for some purchase against the surface, struggling just to keep both their heads up. Determination burned across the glints of her eyes.

Harpoon couldn’t manage to keep the unconscious pony upright for long, but she didn’t need to. The other two pegasi descended on them like guardian angels. With uneven and harsh flares of their wings they forced the ocean to give up what it had taken. The water sleeted off the two drenched bodies as if they might never be dry again.
 
Nautica lowered her telescope as the pegasi made their way back, and the crew bristled with apprehension. Crew-mares rushed to take the limp body from Harpoon’s iron grip. As soon as she gave up her prize, whatever fierce energy had kept her hanging on broke and her soaking body collapsed to the deck with a wet thud, panting hard for breath.
 
The other pony was lost to sight for all the mares that crowded around, chattering and babbling back and forth. Cutting through the chaos came a horrendous, gurgling choke and a gasp for breath so hoarse it could have scoured barnacles from the hull itself.
 
‘He’s alive!’
 
Everypony breathed. The white unicorn male with the blue hair did so very fervently indeed.
	
> Flotsam
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	 
The white unicorn couldn’t remember where he was. Or, for that matter, who he was. His eyes were still shut and he was closer to being asleep than awake. He drifted between the two. Before thoughts could tangle up his head, the smells of food roused his stomach. Ever the pragmatic organ, it told the pony to just get up already.
 
If there was food, and warmth and dryness, then overall things had to be alright, it reasoned. A tray next to the bed drew the unicorn’s eye. The tinware he found there was tarnished with age and use, but the bread and dried fruit on it seemed good. Better than good, and the white unicorn tore into it with a gusto he’d only just realized was his own. He hunted down the little crumbs with precision, then turned to gaze about the room, licking absentmindedly at his lips.
 
From the walls to floor and table, everything of the room spoke of that same, tarnished wholesomeness. Old spills of various kinds and dried wax teased out interesting colours from the woodwork, and everywhere it was pocked by rough and frequent use. The solid wood construction bore the marks well, like marks of and history. It would probably look no worse in a decade as it did now, and despite the personality worked up and down across its grain, it was clear of any true dirtiness.
 
The slightest roll beneath his hooves whispered ship into his mind with a saccharine voice. So he was in a cabin on a ship. It was a slight improvement on his present knowledge, and though he still had no idea of how he had got here, at least ‘here’ was looking pretty good.
 
The hollowness of hunger still gnawed at his stomach and its insistence gave him some sense of purpose. Walking became a strange new experience on how feeble his legs felt, and all along his back and neck his skin felt stretched and itchy from sunburn.
 
After clambering his way up a stairwell he stepped out into glorious sunshine. In every direction light, sky and sea ran on into infinity, and for a fleeting second he wavered with a mixed sense of elation and dread.
 
A little brown filly scrubbed the deck with a thick rag, while another one tied around her head made for a lopsided bandanna. It hung over one eye. She worked with a jaunty sing-song voice, enjoying herself.
 
‘Thcrubbie thrcrubbie thrcubbie! Thcrub thcrub trcrub!’
                
Her simple pleasure was infectious and he called her from her task. ‘Hey, do you know who I am? I can’t seem to remember.’ He didn’t feel all that worried about this.
                
She eyeballed him, squinting with the exaggeration of a young mind, then shook her head. ‘You look funny,’ she concluded. She smiled a wide, gap toothed smile and leapt back to her task while sneaking glances at the stranger.
 
With nothing else to do, warm sunshine and equally warm company, the drudgery looked inviting and simple. ‘Can I help?’ the unicorn asked.
 
The filly’s eyes beamed wide. ‘Thure!’ With a flick the improvised bandanna returned to its natural state of being a rather sad, deeply stained rag of canvas. With no half measure the stallion took up scrubbing the deck, easily keeping up with the swabbie’s playful yet impressive pace.
 
Side by side they worked up the deck and back down again through sunshine and sea breeze. The wash water, hoisted straight from ocean, was a refreshing tingle of sensation that washed over deck and hooves alike. Various grown up ponies worked rigging and sail, and though none acknowledged him directly, the white stallion felt certain that they watched him.
 
He found out quickly that the ship’s filly’s name was Patches, and she liked the sunshine and her favourite colour was red and what’s you’re favourite colour do you prefer ship’s biscuits or the dried fruit what do you think of the soup have you had the soup what was it like on the wreckage did you meet a whale or probably not because it would have rescued you instead do whales do that what’s your name how do you not know your own name?
 
His replies, when he could find room for them, satisfied Patches greatly. Her running, stumbling and bounding narration brooked no signs of slowing. She did not so much carry the conversation as launch it to the stratosphere.
 
She bounced and wiggled with childish glee as she led on, while he hauled the bucket. The strength in his neck and legs surprised him and, even being full, it was no particular challenge to carry. He knew he looked scraggly enough from the ocean, but there were muscles underlying it all, and he wondered distractedly if he’d built them up by choice or necessity, in his life before waking up.
 
Something in the way hooves sounded on the deck made him turn, expecting to see a pony announcing her authority. Even as he wondered how he could tell this, he was proven correct. This mare was no doubt The Captain, standing tall and wearing a brimmed, three pointed hat. A few ponies above the rigging discreetly tuned in to watch whatever might unfold. And there seemed to be more than before, unobtrusively getting in on the show.
 
Patches carried on for another sentence with her verbal momentum, even as her expression turned sheepish. She scuttled away in embarrassment. Captain Nautica patiently waited for the ship’s filly to wind down, surveying the deck in the meantime.
 
‘I like to see initiative in a fresh face. It’s good to see that I didn’t drag out a sea rat instead of a pony. And you’re going to work to earn that, don’t worry. What’s your name?’
 
He turned away from the captain’s gaze. He tried forcing memories, and failing that he tried emptying his thoughts to let them surface gently. Neither worked. She seemed to understand his predicament.
 
‘Well then,’ Nautica said. ‘Since flotsam is what you were found as, that will do for now.’ She nodded the tiniest bit with satisfaction. ‘Patches, find Flotsam some work. I’ve got better things to do than show a green horn around.’

Flotsam hurriedly tried to look at his horn, worried there might be something wrong with it to warrant such a colour. Patches giggled unrepentantly.

‘It’th what you are, mither. You’re horn’th jutht fine. Come on now!’ she commanded with a happy little cry. ‘I’ll thow you around.’

Flotsam smiled with relief and followed after the filly. ‘That sounds good.’ 

From the nooks and crannies of the ship, eyes tracked him hungrily.
	

> Bilge Rat
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Below decks and in the gloom, Patches was no less cheerful than she had been above. If anything, her innocent enthusiasm was condensed by the narrow spaces. With her very own underling in tow—despite his towering over her—nothing, not the entire ocean itself could dampen Patches’ spirits. Or, as she would have said, ‘thpiritth’. A few baby teeth could make a world of difference where words were concerned.

And as those went, Flotsam used little. He found himself easily listening to the rambling little foal with half an ear, nodding along to this and that. Things were fairly straightforward; the galley, the hold, the bilges.

Ah, the bilges. That was their first true stop. Stink permeated the cloistered air, making each breath slimy in Flotsam’s mouth. He coughed as he made a light with his horn, glad to discover the ease with which the magic came to him. 

Two mares worked the main pump. For their efforts, there was merely a pervading dampness down here, and they turned to watch the new comer. They smiled, like fish with pointy teeth might do.

"ello love," said the nearest, a steely dark mare.

"Hi Hard Tack! Hi Thcuttle!” 

The mares hesitated, their steady pumping made uneasy for one precarious moment. They looked down to Patches. "Oh, hey you."
‘
The filly ahead, a lot of pride compacted down tight into the little body. "Thith is Flottham!’’ she announced with a sweeping gesture.

Flotsam bowed. "The pleasure is mine," he said, out of a habit he only now realized he had. He was as surprised as they were.

"Well lookie thar," said the one called what he presumed had to be “Thcuttle.” She dropped to her hooves from the pump and rolled her shoulders. "A right proparr courtier, on arr little ship to boot." She said the word like “court-ear.” Hard Tack whispered something in Scuttle’s ear. The pair laughed.

"He’th going to work the bilgeth. Do hith thare of work!”

"You take good care of him now, Patches. See you later, Flotsam." The mare’s voice cut through the dank air like a triangular fin. The pair’s whispers and giggles lingered in the woodwork.

Flotsam had no mind to consider certain things, nor did the “thwabbie” give him time to do so. 

"Thith ith the bilge!" she declared in her high, squeaking voice. "It keepth the water out!"

It was a simple matter, designed to have a pony at each end to work the lever back and forth. In the dancing lights of his horn the stallion could see the rust and slime of it. Flotsam took a side and waited dutifully on Patches lead. The irony escaped him.

At her full height, the ship’s filly could still stand quite comfortably under her half of the lever mechanism. "I’m too thmall to do it. But you’re not. Yay littleneth!" she cheered with unabashed delight. "Thee you later Flottham!"

The filly bounced away, hiding nothing of her joy at leaving the stinky bilge area. Flotsam circled the device, his hooves slapping wetly against the floorboards. He put his weight on the one end and pulled it down, causing the other half to lift back up. The machine gurgled and groaned. He circled around to the other side and pushed it down, again the gurgle and groan combo met his ears. It was tedious instantly, but the unicorn took to it with resolve.

In the stink and gloom, an idea struck. Flotsam focused his magic on the half opposite himself, grinning when he proved it was well within his power to manipulate it magically. Glowing in blue magic, the lever sank once more. Hefting his torso, he worked the nearer half. The sounds of pumping were irate and challenging. 

It took a few starts, but soon he had the rhythm going between magic and muscle. He settled into a pace he felt he could keep for a good while and, it being a fairly mindless task, let his wander elsewhere.

There wasn’t very far for it to go. The summation of his life experience was, for the moment, today. When worrying about it broke his stride, Flotsam decided to stop worrying. He couldn’t explain his overall calmness with the whole ordeal. He felt certain, even though he was not sure what of. Sooner or later he’d remember something, and deal with that then. In the meantime, the bilges weren’t going to work themselves, and it was the least he could do for being plucked out of the water.

Soon enough the groans of machinery were a backdrop to his thoughts. Maybe an hour had passed, or a little less, and Flotsam was again surprised with himself. Not only was he taking mundane work so well, but keeping a good sense of time as he did so. It seemed to stand at odds with the earlier “court-ear” remark, but another clue was another clue, even if he could make nothing of them yet. For now, his he was his own biggest mystery.

It never got any drier, but at least it never got any wetter either. The ripeness of the air hardly registered with him now, and his hunger reasserted itself. A glass of water wouldn’t be out of order either...

"You," came the sudden voice, making the stallion’s ears flick upwards, and his stance shift instantly to attention. The voice had the deep chested, booming quality that didn’t need to be loud at all to be imposing. It was as much a rumble as it a word, and only after the fact did Flotsam realize that this rough voice was, in fact, a mare’s. 

She walked in all muscle mass and thick, wind roughened, wine coloured coat, thickest and tufty at her prominent chest. She held her head upright and alert, with wings fitted neatly to her sides. She gave a cursory glance over Flotsam and his work, saying nothing further.

He cautiously took the silence as approval, or at the very least, tolerance. Her expression was of stern neutrality, one that seemed to be measuring him. Her statuesque stillness prompted him to buck the trend, and he reached out a hoof.

"They’ve taken to calling me—"

"Flotsam."

His hoof hung there. She made no move to take it. ‘Ah, right.’ Something niggled his thoughts. "Hey, did I see you before?"

"I pulled you out," The pegasus stated.

He could remember that much, if only vaguely. The formless swirl of the waves, then strength—not his—pulling him back. Holding him up. "Well, thank you," he said. "You saved my life."

She gave a nigh imperceptible nod, saying nothing, and left a moment later. Flotsam had the strangest feeling he’d passed some sort of test. He pondered it a minute and, with no answers forthcoming wiped his brow and set himself back to work on the bilge.

> In a Pickle
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Flotsam had never been so happy to bathe in his life. Or maybe he had been, he wasn’t to know one way or another with his wonky memory and all. Regardless, the tangy seawater that he poured over himself was crisp and strong, the salt a welcome remedy to the stink of the bilges. He scrubbed at himself, hoping to scour the scent from his hide, or at least subdue it. The water was cold but the sun was hot on his back making his sunburns tingle, but not painfully so. The sensation was a welcome change from the clamoured closeness of below decks.

Surely the mares of the crew agreed, all of them finding reasons and time to loiter, half at work in the sunlight. Flotsam hesitated then dumped another bucket over his head, pawing furiously at his mane. Salty water poured over his eyes and as he shook his mane a catcall or two teased him, but from who or where he could not be certain.

He was surprisingly tired. Proud as he was of his tandem physical-magical work, he hadn’t halved his workload in the bilges, he’d doubled it. It was an interesting idea though, and one he felt could be tried as a new training regime on the guards once he... 

Flotsam blinked, and the memory welling up in him popped like a soap bubble, sinking back down into him. Then it was gone, and Flotsam was...Flotsam.

Patches the ship’s filly stretched out her legs and back in the warmth. ‘I’m hungry. You hungry? Let’th get thomething to eat!’

She raced him to the galley, which was really the deft little thing maneuvering speedily through the belowdecks, with the stallion hastening just to keep up. The occasional mare poked their head from one doorway or another to look out at the passerby. Something in their eyes made him strangely self conscious, and he hastened to stay near the filly.

He was happy that the galley was empty. It was between meal times, and with the sun shining it drew the crew up to the surface like water from a well. For the moment at least, there was a chance to breathe easy, free of the feeling that he should bee looking over his shoulder every second step.

"I did all the wathing while you were down there!" 

She dragged Flotsam’s head around into the tiny, cramped space of the kitchen, and saw it filled with an landscape of dishes. Precarious mountains of cast iron pots and pans towered over plains of plates and borders of bowls, all tinking and clinking with a placid geological gentleness as the ship rocked in the water.

Flotsam had to stop just to regard how much dish there was, and how little filly there’d been to actually do it. He was downright impressed. When he’d been a filly he’d...Flotsam backtracked in his somewhat vapid head. When he’d been a foal, he’d...the rest of the thought didn’t come. It just wasn’t willing to surface yet. But it didn’t matter, because Patches had made stacks of dishes taller than herself. That was quite the something and, with an unexpected tinge of feeling, somehow saddening. Between the dishes and the walls, there was only just barely enough room left over for a filly, and not even a lanky one at that.

"I know thomething thpecial! I’ll get it from my bunk. Wait here!” she commanded, an order Flotsam felt happy to oblige with.

Not five seconds in his lonesome, a silky voice draped itself over Flotsam’s shoulders. "Well, hello." It was a voice to put his hair on end, the way those sultry tones tapered off like tongues of candle-flame. "So you’re the new pony everyone’s talking about. Mmm." 

She stood between him and the door, a high-tailed unicorn, one both slender and shapely. Her mane was rippling waves of scarlett cascading over her shoulders, her coat a dappled creamy white. She slid up next to him. "I’ve heard all sorts of things about you." She flicked her tail under his chin as she circled around him. "Charming Booty’s the name. Charmed, I’m sure." She laughed ironically at that; she probably said it to all the ponies she met.

The stallion scrutinized her every inch closely. There was a certain feline quality of predation about her that made him gulp involuntarily. "They’ve been calling me Flotsam."

She turned tail and cat-walked her way to the opposite wall. "Such an ill-fighting name for a fine figure such as yourself, don’t you think? Whatever was Nautica thinking?"

"The Captain?" he asked, feeling somewhere in the corner of his mind that Charming was leading a dance around him.

She smiled as she came back his way. "The one and only. What a shame that I wasn’t there, all the same." She leaned in close, raising her mouth to his ear. "To come up with something better, of course," she said, puckering her lips on the consonants.

Flotsam cleared his throat, or tried to, but somehow his voice had reverted to that of a cracked pitched teenager’s. "And what’s it you do?"

Her simper smoldered. "Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. Quartermaster for this fine vessel, but isn’t that title just so serious? Mostly I appraise the loot." She eyed him up and down, smacking her lips with an audible pop. "And whatever else happens to drift our way." She turned away again, but stopped. "You know," she began with a simmering heat in her voice—

"I’m back, Flottham. Hi Booty! You want one of my thcrumpthiouth pickled eggth too? I made them mythelf!" In an browned jar something vile and green floated ominously.

Charming Booty hesitated, and both her voice and manner visibly came down a couple of gears. "Uh, no. No thank you, Patches. No thank you," she reiterated as half-fossilized eggs bumped menacingly against the stained glass. She shuffled away from the stallion, suddenly mindful of bright young eyes. 

"Pleasure to meet you, miss," he said.

She flashed him a smirk. "The pleasure will be mine, I’m sure. Be seeing you." She tussled the filly’s mane as she eyed him, smiled, and left.

The noxious spheres looked utterly evil, but Flotsam was too distracted in thought to appreciate their quality or the filly’s chatter as she pried open the jar. There were strange tidings afoot he felt, stranger even than the frightful sloshing of the pickle juice.

	


> Main Course
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Dinner began as a tense affair. Flotsam expected there to be talk, banter of some sort, the casual jokes and humour of a working group at rest. One could not actually hear a pin drop—these were mares of the sea after all, they chewed and scraped and slugged drinks audibly. There was that same feeling though, tingling along just outside his periphery and along his ears. Somehow he’d ended up seated with Patches, which was a good thing, but the filly’s usual spot was in the centre of the benches, which was not quite so good.

It left Flotsam awash in a sea of watchful eyes. Even limpets usually had a corner to cling to. Harpoon had taken one end of his bench without a word, Charming Booty had slid herself along to the other. Patches sat across from him, cheerful as ever. Beyond them, the rest of the crew ate and watched. It was dinner and a show, really.

“Could I have another pickled egg, please?” he asked.

The ships’ filly looked up from her fumbling with the screw-cap jar. “You’re tho polite, Flottham. Okay,” she decided after a second’s deliberation. The filly fished around in the jar with her hoof, but the squidgy eggs slipped constantly around her grasp. He watched the spectacle in silent awe; the briny, vitriolic vinegar splashed about in the glass. He could almost hear the stuff at work as it sent untold thousands of bacteria to untimely doom. What it had wrought on innocent eggs was nothing short of eldritch. Otherwise, once the majority of taste buds stopped screaming and merely whimpered, it actually made for a distinct taste, one that etched itself into memory with only the faintest of acidic sizzles.

He inhaled. If his time in the ocean and bilge had conspired to give him a cold, such notions were burnt out now. It was like a menthol sensation, if menthol had an evil twin covered in warts whom tended to spit out teeth with ballistic force on occasion. It was heady, to say the least. Toothpaste would’ve melted on his tongue just then.

The actual meal was a lot less interesting and, after the dubious delicacy, entirely flavourless. But it was bountiful, and Flotsam’s stomach was not in a mind to care. It was mostly some kind of syrup accentuated biscuits, dipped heartily into a small bowl of stodgy stew made up from grains, tubers, anything that’d keep, really. Really, it was gruel. But it was a gruel that cared. All in all, it was good stuff.

If only their eyes would stop eating him in a similar manner.

“Hey, filly!” the cook called, the non-nonsense mare’s name forgotten to Flotsam. She hefted a slightly more presentable meal, for this one was on a wooden tray to the counter. “You know the drill,” she said not unkindly.

“Okay!” Patches called. “Captain’s dinner,” she explained hastily, leaving the stallion alone with the floating, tumbling eggs.

He felt the squeeze before he saw it; the two mares sliding along from either end, coming together like the vice of pincers. Flotsam tried not to look at either of them, not if it meant turning his back on the other. Then he caught up with his thoughts.

What was he thinking like this for? Sure, these crew were rough around the edges, but what did that matter? They’d pulled him from the brink and been nothing but decent to him. He put on his smile and decided to face them with civility and pleasantry.

“Heya Charming. Harpoon,” he said, nodding to each mare. A memory from his rather limited supply sprung up, and he blushed. “You know, I never properly thanked you for pulling me out—” she cut him off with a grunt. Slowly, as if great muscles strained to do so, she smiled a thin grimace.

“Harpoon,” said the quartermaster flatly before rolling her eyes, her voice rolled with it too. “Not much of a mare for—”

“You're welcome,” said the pegasus. Her grimace lowered its smile like other ponies might lower the bar of a bench-press: slow, controlled, with restrained intensity. Flotsam wasn’t meek by most measures, but he knew he balked a little with that. Charming Booty’s condescending huff brought him back to himself. 

“Well, yes, niceties and all, how nice. But I was just going to speak to this Charming stud, if you don’t mind. No offense dear—” she blinked and paused. “—well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? You’re hardly a dear, Harpoon. Dire, maybe. But not dear.” Charming Booty smiled and simpered. And Flotsam had thought the pickle juice was caustic. Yet it’d have been better to have that in his eyes than this in his ears, he felt.

“I fished him out,” the pegasus said gravely. 

Flotsam hunched his shoulders in, his head sank down upon his neck. “Ladies, if there’s—” He was interrupted by Charming, putting her knee up on the table. Hoof to the ceiling, her ankle was wearing a strange, compact device, all springs and swivels. There was an empty clasp in it, and when tricked open it swung forwards, brace and all, like an extension of her leg. 

“I do more than appraise and store the swords, Harpoon,” the unicorn growled softly. “I’m quite good with them, too.”

“Handle a lot of swords, do ya?” Harpoon’s hoof touched down on the table. Her muscles and tendons must have been irate, being packed in so tightly. Thin scars traced errant lines across her coat.

“A lot more than you, and proud of it. Finesse, not stab-stab and it’s all over, Harpoon.” She hissed  emphasis on the name. Flotsam wasn’t sure they were talking about weaponry anymore, but his doubt gave him no answers, just fear. The atmosphere could have been carved with a knife, provided neither mare got hold if it first and hencely and put it to more literal work on one another. The rest of the crew watched silently, not wanting to spoil the show or miss any nuance of it.

Harpoon was the first mate, wasn’t she? What kind of hierarchy did this ship even run on? Force of will and assertion? His suspicions were forming a dreadful, Flotsam shaped silhouette trapped in the middle, but he didn’t want to believe it. If he raised his head, their matched glares probably would have burned pinpoint holes clean through it, cauterizing his brain and all.

“Charming Booty? Harpoon?” For a delirious second, Flotsam thought the filly was his salvation. But her voice quivered, her brow creased with concern and uncertainty. The grown mares eyes’ flicked to her lick snakes’ tongues, deciding in an instant what the new presence factored. 

He’d never yet seen the ships filly less than cheerful. Whatever enigmatic presence she carried with her, it wasn’t cutting it this time, not here.

A heavy wing fell over his one shoulder, a unicorn’s hoof settled on the other. Flotsam stifled a gulp and tried to sink lower. If he wasn’t screwed right here, right now, he was certain he very soon would be. 

> Dessert
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	
Flotsam was less than amused. The invasion of his own space he could handle well enough, but knowing that the animosity between these mares was putting Patches in distress crossed a line. His hooves put themselves firmly to each mare beside him, shoving firmly away.

“Right,” he said with a huff, his breath a fetid dragon’s-belch of pickled egg. “Whatever this is, I’ve had enough of it. You and you, sort out whatever this is." A sort of instinct welled up in him, something gleaming of polish and training. He exhaled a foul tide of pickled egg fumes, a surge all but visible and all too palpable for Charming Booty. Her eyes widened, which was to say they were left abandoned because her eyelids were trying to crawl backwards into her head. The firmness of her grasp on him melted like wax, dribbling apart and falling to the woodwork.

“I’m more of a dessert mare anyway...” she stammered, forcing a smile quickly broken by a sudden retech. She stood, slid two steps away and took a clear draw of the pure air. More pure, at any rate. This was still the sweat and grease laden underbelly of a ship, after all. If she wanted to throw in a last persnickety word, her wits failed her the opportunity to do so.

Where other’s might smirk at the victory, Flotsam’s eyes only narrowed, and with one mare down he turned to the other. 

His hoof held to her chest kept her at bay, but there was no doubting the strength in there. Just beneath the thick, rough coat there were bands and cords of knotted muscle. It was quite impressive, and Flotsam was grateful she wasn’t really trying to regain ground. Harpoon merely watched, bar some resistance, seeing what the stallion would do.

Flotsam hesitated. The wind was gone from his sails, or to be more apt, the egg was gone from his breath. Harpoon was a hardy mare, bad breath....okay, atrocious breath wasn’t going to work the same wonders on her as it had done for the more self-conscious unicorn.

She withdrew her hoof of her own accord, giving him the barest and most unapologetic of dismissive shrugs, as if that now she was doing nothing wrong there was no point in holding anything from before against her.

“I can sit pretty,” she said simply. The pegasus watched the swishing tail of the colour drained Charming Booty leave the room and smiled, though one would be forgiven for missing it, so slight the expression was on her stoney face.

“Well...alright then,” he said, just a little insipidly. He turned back to his meal and tried to ignore her, realized his hoof was still pressed firmly to her chest, retracted said hoof, then failed spectacularly at resuming his previous cool. She too turned back fully to her meal, but her disdaining, amused little smile remained, a dark cloud growing in the distance, eating up the idyllic blue sky one bite at a time.

She was a black hole of conversation, everything that was fun and uncomplicated with Patches had him checking his words, refraining them from the ears of Harpoon. Her absolute ease with the situation in turn put him on his guard, and even Patches was dampened in her spirits for it.

“Want an egg, Harpoon?” she said woefully, proffering up one of her foul little treasures like a sacrifice.

“No. Thanks,” she added, with only one second too many spent in thought.

Slowly, Flotsam calmed. At least he’d gotten Patches her Smarty Pants doll back from those bullies...Flotsam blinked. Like a dream, once he realized it for what it was the memory slipped away and he could not recall it, only remembering that it had been there, fluttering at the forefront of his thoughts.

Hoof to forehead, he closed his eyes, but remembrance was not to be. “You alright?” asked the filly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Everything’s alright,” he replied, rubbing the brow of each eye in turn. Time, he promised himself. Give it time; it’ll come. He chewed slowly, but the impression didn’t come back. “So you pulled me up, Harpoon...” he mused aloud. “What was that like?”

Harpoon swept the crumbs and broth from her lips with the back of her hoof. “Heavy. Wet.”

Flotsam waited, but that was all she had to say. Succinct, at least. “I owe you one.”

“You do,” she said matter-of-factly. She said it like she fully intended to collect.

He looked up and away, and felt conspicuously warm, though it might just have been his stomach acids starting a great and terrible war upon the eldritch egg. “Right.”

Flotsam leaned back, leading the weight of his head hang on his neck. Stretched out to his satisfaction, he pulled himself back to an easy, attentive posture. “So what happened? You just found me?”

“Yes.”

Flotsam’s brow creased, ever so slightly. “Out in the water.”

“Yes.”

The crease bloomed into a full network of ridges, stretching down under his cheeks and forming a frown. “In the middle of the ocean.”

“Yes.” 

He leaned in over to the stoic mare. “And you have no idea who I am, or how I got there?”

“Yes.”

His eyes, his hair, his posture; it all shot up. Mares from other tables paused in there eating, even Patches. “You do?!”

“Yes, I have no idea who you are, or how you got there,” she repeated without any particular emotion, save a noticeable smidgen of amusement at his outburst, like salt on an otherwise stiff gruel.

Without word or ceremony, Harpoon stood up. Flotsam pushed forwards into his seat to make room, but she simply lifted herself on powerful wing strokes and leapt clear over him. Directly over him. Her hooves hit the floor with a heavy clopping. 

He felt strange feelings welling up in him from that.

 And other things, welling up from his stomach. The egg was fighting back, and what had been a perfectly flat room was beginning to feel more and more like a rickety, tumbling torment. Things sloshed inside him.

Flotsam belched the worst kind of belch; the kind that heralds the mighty volcano. “Deck, he muttered,” conserving his precious breath as he could. He slid from his seat, fumbled and ran, shoving his way past any and all. His shoulders hit the doorframe on the way out, but he didn’t even slow.

The evening wind slapped his face; his chest slammed the railing. It gave the necessary kick to get the chyme flowing.

Flotsam hurled. Oily torrents then shimmering droplets; it all fell through the half light of evening, catching sunlight and starlight alike, glinting in all the hues of a beautiful rainbow, one that painted itself on the gently rippling ocean below, rippling and dancing on the surface of the waters. Fungus cap yellow, bog slop green, ‘what the buck could that even be from’ blue, the vivid orange of ‘why is there always carrot’, like the flecks in a river that set pioneers to gold rushes.

Sufficed to say, the egg tasted even more memorable the second time around. Drained, exhausted and still heaving half-heartedly, Flotsam slumped to the deck. Steely-blue hooves came closer and closer.

Harpoon whistled through her teeth, putting a hoof on the miserable, trembling stallion’s shoulder. “I know something about you now,” she said. She turned away, and he thought it might end at that. A face full of seawater alleviated those suspicions. Spluttering, eyes, ears and nose full of salt water, he nonetheless relished the cleansing, the rinsing of bile from his lips. 

“You aren’t from the sea. Not originally. Maybe a bit stupid, but that’s normal. Stallion,” she said, shrugging by way of explanation. Even from his muddled heap of feeling terrible, Flotsam couldn’t help but be irked at that. The pegasus scooped him up like he was no more massive than Patches herself. She dropped him on his hooves, his legs shook with weakness, but his knees held. “That’s about it for you tonight. Get going,” the first mate ordered him. 

Dripping and worn, he was slow to move. A feathery smack to the rump and a snort had him marching more promptly.

At least he had a room to retreat to. He hoped sullenly there’d be a towel in there.

And mouthwash. Please let there be mouthwash, he thought, daring to hope.

> Rude Awakening
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Flotsam was sore all over. His stomach being sore went without saying, and he could understand why his neck was too. But for his legs and eyes and head to jump on that bandwagon...or ship...that was just uncalled for.

Even so, he heaved himself up out of the cot, just as the pickled eggs had heaved themselves up out of him the evening prior. The tiny cabin offered no mirror for him to look into, which was probably for the best, because there were such things as sights for sore eyes, and there were such things as sights to cause them.

Flotsam definitely felt like the latter.

A grimey, nasty gunk had settled along his lips in the night and he wiped it away, trying not to think too much about it. Thinking about it at all was, of course, too much.

Somepony, well, somemare had seen fit to leave a half filled bucket of water for him. He filled his mouth and rinsed but, having not thought to consider any further than this, suddenly found himself looking back and forth for a sink, or anything into which he could expel the water. Cheeks bulging, eyes flicking about, a certain daunting truth became apparent.

With no nice way to rinse and spit, Flotsam was found himself with no option but to swallow, flecks of unmentionable things and all. Again, and with greater fervour, he tried not to think about.

Nausea roiled through him, a feeling he immediately stifled with deep breaths and drowned in deeper draughts of water. It was cold, more or less, and fresh, more or less. Probably less, but still.

Feeling just a little bit better he opened the door and stepped out, just to get himself out of his sour mood. It was early; the water was quiet and stars dimming in that twilight that isn’t quite yet dawn.

Bucket in tow he dragged his hooves to the rail of the ship. Only the murmurings of waves and wood spoke to him. He rinsed his mouth, spat a fine spray of water to the wide abyss below, then did it again. 

Flotsam sighed. Each salty breath filled deeper into his lungs, and for all the feeling of cleansing and newness in them, there was a tightness that grew there, one that had nothing to do with breathing.

Dunking his head, face and all into the bucket he screamed, a long hearty exhalation of bubbles that tickled their way up along his jawline and under his ears. Spent, he slumped to the deck and sighed.

What was he doing here, who and what was he? Was the world spinning on just fine without him, whoever ‘him’ was? His stomach grumbled in firm manner, as if to say that it cared not in the slightest for his angst, but could be made more agreeable if he roused himself and filled it. With something actually edible this time, as well.

He turned away from the coming dawn, finding himself near face to face with the pegasus Harpoon. A tiny whinny of surprise escaped him, one that would not have happened had this been any other mare. In the quiet of this hour, it seemed awfully loud.

“You look rough,” she said with her usual stoic, neutral tone.

“I feel rough,” he answered back, his voice feeling steadier than his hooves. He made to press past her, but she shifted her weight side to side, her wings gyrating almost imperceptibly against her back, like caged things. The thick slabs of muscle that lined her legs and chest tensed and untensed, making her blue coat writhe like the ocean waves below. Her whole body was as a black cloud, crackling with barely restrained force.

Flotsam realized too late that he was staring, and when he met her eyes it was like they had already swallowed him whole, fixated and deadly still. One side of her lip was pulled back tightly into her teeth.

“I’m going in,” he said, reiterating his point with a stride forwards. Her body blocked most of the door, but not so much as to stop his passing, nor did she move to try. There was no choice but to press through her wing, still flexing restlessly, feathers and knobbly ridges of wingbone ran up and down his back and flank, over his cutie mark and tail.

Flotsam made sure not to hesitate, not to look back: his own feelings were turmoil. He felt sick, he felt elated. Tired, but also vivified. There was no mistaking her intent, and a sizeable —and rapidly growing—portion of his heart felt inclined to go for it. But more than that he felt challenged, and a tiny singing thing inside him said ‘wrong, wrong. This is wrong, go away from it. Don’t fall, don’t fail.’

So he left her there, unmoving yet so full of motion. He didn’t look back, but her hoary breathing filled his ears like tongues. Then there was a grunt, a blast of air that tussled his tail, and finally silence.

Or there would have been, but Flotsam’s own breath churned the cloistered air like something hot and heavy. His heady breathlessness followed him all down through the ship and into the mess, whereupon he finally battled it under some measure of control. He tried to sit and calm himself, but it was a long time coming; his own muscles clenched and unclenched before his very eyes. Coarse blue feathers and a thick, staunch coat would come to the forefront of his thoughts for him to banish them, only for them to come seeping back, oozing through the futile distractions he tried to make for himself.

It felt much hotter and much more confined down here than it had before.

He must have been stuck in his musings for half an hour or more when he was finally shaken from his lonesome. More dour than her usual self, Patches snuck into the kitchen and set herself the momentous task of clearing and cleaning the products of the night before. Perhaps she too had been lost in thoughts, for she did not notice Flotsam right away. She’d no reason to expect anypony at this hour, nor had he made any movement or sound to announce himself.

Remembering himself and his manners, except not literally of course, Flotsam greeted her with a smile and hello. He couldn’t have borne a grudge against the filly if he had wanted to, though how she survived, even thrived on her abominable pickled eggs would remain a mystery to him. It was probably better that way.

She looked remorseful, but she stood and held his gaze, her expression tempered by some defiance. 

“I’m thorry about making you thick,” she said, but even in that endearing lisp there was still a kernel of hardness, a willingness to fight her half of an argument if she had to. Flotsam wondered just how old she was exactly, and just how much of that short time was spent here.

“I’m not mad,” he said, and meant it genuinely. His smile widened of its own accord, and she relaxed and smiled back. That made him feel better like no amount of rinse water could have done so. “Tired, maybe,” he confessed, “and sore, sure. But not mad.”

“You thure you’re not feeling feverith?” the filly inquired with a motherly seriousness, like she might yet swat the back of his head for this or that. Otherwise, she filled a thick, stained mug with water, dropped something small and fizzing into it, and pressed it to him firmly.

Something in the tone made him worry. “No. Why?” He took a deep draught of the stuff. It was some kind of tangy salt, just on his tongue he could feel it perking him up, chasing the dredges of sickness out of him. He swished it side to side between his cheeks.

The filly shrugged, and went back to her self-appointed task. “It’th juth that Harpoon helped me get you to your cabin latht night, but tchee made thure to touch you all over. Harpoon thaid you were hot.”

It was not to be known to either pony, but it was a great shame that the lighting was so poor down in the galley. The force of Flotsam’s spitty outburst combined with the last vestiges of unmentionable biology and esoteric medicinal salts, along with good old fashioned saliva would have, with good lighting, made for a most bedazzling array of colours, ones that would have reflected most splendidly in the stallion’s wide eyes.

Paying this no mind, Patches sauntered up and put the flat of her hoof to the unicorn’s forehead. “I don’t think Harpoon knowth how to take a temperature properly,” she announced matter-of-factly. “I don’t think you’re hot at all.”  That said and done with, Patches prodded him into downing the rest of the restorative. 

Flotsam did as he was told, stunned and confused and desperately hoping not to make an embarrassment of himself. He remembered how forcefully the pegasus had lifted off, presumeably to the crow’s nest. The high crow’s nest. The lonely, secluded crow’s nest. Where she was bound to be this very instant.

Somewhere outside, the sun cracked opened its eye, wondering if it was morning already. With arguably the best vantage point of all, Harpoon nonetheless missed its coming.

“Oh my,” Flotsam said to nopony in particular, sipping at the last of his tonic in tiny sups like a unicorn ten times his age. Humming something half-remembered pieces of something jaunty, the ship’s filly set about cleaning up the kitchen. She wasn’t fussed for time: there was a whole lot of day ahead of them yet.
	

> Swords at D'aww...n
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Captain Nautica found herself faced this morning with an unusual problem. 

There was nothing going wrong, simply enough. She awoke knowing that the wind was steady and the ocean calm, she could feel it as if the ship were an extension of her own body. There was nothing to outrun, or chase, nothing in the hold to spoil and nothing of work to set before her crew. The ship was clean and tended in every possible way, and even the weather was being precisely everything they could have wanted of it.

It left the mare rather vexed, to tell the truth. Idle hooves annoyed her to no end, and to add to that there was an albatross of a stallion riling up her mares. It’d be bad form to truss up Flotsam and toss him back out in a dingy after taking him onboard, but Nautica toyed with the idea anyway, like a filly with no intention of eating her dinner. She made herself a bitter cup of tea from the shiny little decanter fastened to the table.

Restless tickled at even her, she could feel the energy hopping along in the back of her hoof. She glared at it sternly and willed it to stillness. 

The map which sprawled across the table was not the neatest of things, nor the prettiest. The edges were stained and curled in on themselves like dying spiders; notes and scrawls and corrections like little black veins popped up all over the parchment and in more than one place the compass had scored ragged grooves through it. The magnifying class with which she marked their position sat all on its own, glass and a rim of brass on a wide patch of empty blue, filled only with the fanciful depictions of turtles and serpents such maps so characterized themselves with.

There was sunshine and nothing but mares and waves. Nautica’s gaze hunted along the wall, her eyes falling to rest on the polished sabre that hung within her cabinet. She sipped her drink and mused. The sabre’s weight was familiar when she drew it and fitted it to her hoof. 

There was the heat, the warmth that stirred them all up. And the stallion, too, whom did even more to that effect. Well, she knew what to do about that anyway. She gave the blade a  cursory few flicks, slicing the air to little ribbons of sound and breeze.





Mares lined the railing, or at least their backsides did. Well into morning now, the sun blazed overhead as if it were keen to see the activity about the ship and what it saw therein made it just a little bit...heated

A little bit further aft and to the side, daylight shining off the sweat of his flank, Flotsam watched in much the same manner.

Patches leaned on him, into the breeze, her scratchy mane having its way with his chest. “It’th thparring practith!” she explained, giving a wiggle and little jump that put the crest of her head colliding with the stallion’s chin. He winced and tried to make no sound of it.

Three unicorns had already gone below decks, taking positions at intervals along the way. There was the feeling of magic, that familiar tickle of it, than a procession of weapons that drifted out from the dark and into the light. Mares helped themselves to anything and everything as it came out, butting butts and shoving hooves away from this or that piece, though there was no shortage of choice.

Flotsam’s lips scrunched together, as did his eyelids. “Patches?”

“Yeth?” The glint of her happy, innocent eyes was joined by the equally bright glint of steel she carried in her mouth. It was small enough, the little blade she carried, bouncing along with joy to have the one she wanted, even if it was only because the grown mares favoured the larger and heftier ones. It was like seeing My Little Filly’s First Edged Weapon, and Flotsam stopped and stared dumbly. “You’re not getting one?” she squeaked out past the pommel.

“What does this ship actually do”

The filly’s face went stony and flat. Her mouth clicked into gear like something rehearsed. “Entrepreneurial commodity import/export by predictive and preemptive thalvaging of goodth.”

Flotsam gave the rag she tied her mane back with a long hard glare of interrogation. “Right...” Something, or several of them were rousing in his head. He didn’t feel quite so comfortable with this ship as he had a second ago, but there was a call of excitement and a general shuffling about of mares, and the moment sat...if not forgotten, then shunted aside for the meantime.

The Captain moved like a shark through the shoals: slow and with utmost ease, her crewmares gently but insistently moving around to give her space. Her thin sabre flicked this way and that, a pointed dorsal thin ready to go slicing through the waves at the scent of blood.

“Sheath me,” she ordered, her voice rising over the general din of chatter and clatter. Before Flotsam could wonder what she meant, one of her unicorns jumped to the command, casting a thin veil of magic that wrapped around the blade. Nautica examined it for a moment before striking out against the railing. Rather than the thud of metal on wood and the carving out of chunks from it, there was only a sound like air going whoomph, as if stirred by pillow fighting. The Captain whipped about, slashing full length at a rope or tether of some sort. Rather than sever, it caught the blade and twanged back into place.

Nauticaa nodded. She withdrew her sabre and returned it to scabbard in a single flourish of steel. “Good. Bring up a roll of bandaging anyway. Don’t want this to be too tame now, do we girls?” 

A few mares cheered, a few more chuckled. Indeed, they did not want tame. From his corner, Flotsam noted that there was no fumbling of handles, no novice swinging of beatsticks. These mares were competent, and experienced.

A firm pressure against the stallion’s backside made his ears perk up and a whinny slip past his lips. “Go on,” Patches grunted as she pushed in futility against his mass, the short blade still clenched in her teeth. “Get one too! Practith ith fun!” She gasped, ceased her efforts and pushed out her chest. “I call dibth on Floththam!” 

Mares, spreading out and pairing off, looked to the filly and stallion. A few ears perked, and a few eyes squinted with interest and thought. The stallion gulped, then did so again when he caught sight of Charming Booty, grinning at him from across the deck. Nearer the prow. Harpoon flexed her wings and worked the length of a cudgel. As if psychic, the mare met his eye.

Suddenly, inexplicably, Flotsam felt the urge to arm himself, having no idea if he had any capacity at all to use anything amidst the assortment. He took the step forwards to the floating weapons presented and Patches stumbled from her attempts to push him. Even the Captain, Nautica herself paused to watch him face the daunting, floating flotilla of edges, points, corners and curves.

Likewise, the mares of the ship were watching his edges, points, corners and curves also.

“Yay!” Patches cried out happily, and wiggled a little jig in the sunlight.

> f.f.t.y.f.a.m.d.t.t.a.*
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Flotsam was feeling the strangest sense of dissonance. On the one side of it, he was being watched by dangerous and competent mares as he choose a weapon from those presented before him. That was undeniably serious. On the other side, however, he was choosing such a weapon to do mock battle with, of all possible opponents, a lanky, lisping filly who was all too eager for the fun of the fight. This was absurd, and ridiculous.

And also, if he were truly honest with himself, utterly adorable.

He wondered if the rough cut mares of unspecified maritime occupation saw it that way. Most of them had broken away from the centre group, dueling in a pretense of swatting one weakly at one another’s magically shielded weapons, their eyes captivated by a certain pony more in line with their ideas and ideals of thrusting weapons.

Ignoring them, Flotsam let his hoof creep along the hilt of a sword, one that looked plain and serviceable amidst the bronzed colours and contours of some more exotic attire. Even so, it felt uneven, a form and function at odds with Flotsam. He didn’t like it, and let it drift back into the fold. He tried another blade, then another, both to the same feeling of unease and unfamiliar.

The mare who’s magic kept the set floating ushered him on with a wave of her hoof and an insistent word. She rolled her eyes and muttered what might have been the word ‘stallions,’ but clearly said it in such a way to infer great deal about that subset of the species, with particulars given to her opinions upon them and the regrettable necessity of tolerating them for infrequent benefits, two out of three of these becoming obsolete just as soon as mares could chase mice from houses and open jars on their own. Somewhere he wasn’t looking, a crewmare jeered, just loud enough to be heard.

And on a ship such as this, with mares such as these, there was an absolute lack of need for him to do any mouse chasing or jar opening. He hastily grabbed the nearest, a well worn curved gray and silver thing of a blade and turned tail. He closed his eyes and breathed. It was just a bit of amusement for Patches, of course he was overstressing this whole thing.

Flotsam opened his eyes and discovered two things more or less simultaneously. A long legged filly flying full long at one’s face, trying to scream “Avast!” and mangling the word quite definitively was quite a traumatic experience. Almost as traumatising, for instance, as a legged filly flying full long at one’s face, trying to scream “Avast!” and mangling the word quite definitively because, in addition to her natural speech, her mouth was gripped firmly on the handle of a long knife.

One that, it bears repeating, was now flying towards his face. It might have been understandable, even forgivable that Flotsam, big stallion that he was, yelped and faltered in place, his hastily appropriated sword falling from the crook of his leg.

The mares, however, did not agree with this approach, and their raucous laughter filled the air as Patches’ blade smacked across his brow like a wet sock. Her momentum bowled right through Flotsam, tipping him right onto his back, with it all ending so that the filly stood on his hips and shoulders.

She jumped up and down in giddy fashion. There were blankets that weighed more than her and it hurt nothing but his pride for her to do so. “Come on Flottham, for real thith time!” she giggled as she leapt from him and he collected himself.

Innocent delight poured from Patches and, distilled by fresh air and sunshine, made for something quite high in proof. Flotsam smiled at the world in general, then smirked at the filly specifically. Flotsam braced himself, feeling the strength of his muscles and the confidence of his spirit. So she thought she could beat him so easily, did she?

One quite impressive barrel roll jump turned into an equally if not even more impressive slide-under-his-belly-laughing-ecstatically-strike and half a dozen other wet sock feeling attacks later, Flotsam realized that she was perfectly correct in her thinking. Yes, she could beat him that easily.

Patches, and plenty others, eyed the stallion. “You know you can really thwing at me, don’t you? Won’t hurt at all. All part of the thpell. Try it!”

Nodding slowly, Flotsam tried some basic swings, wide and uneasy arcs that churned air gracelessly. It still felt so wrong, but the filly was looking at him expectantly. A slash a snail could have strolled ahead of moved for her head, but stopped well before reaching her. Safe or no, the image of him striking a filly grated against his very being, and he lowered the glowing scimitar.

“Aww,” was all she said, perhaps hoping for more sport, more opportunity to play and be seen.

He turned away, but his eye settled on something most unexpected. Of all things, a humble mop, tucked away in a corner. He let the sword fall away and almost ensorceled, made for the tool. He picked it up and, falling into the crook of his elbow like something rediscovered, something dawned.

His mind whispered to him: Spear. 

His mind whispered to him: Guardspony. In a mop who’s greatest possible glory was good water retention, Flotsam the flotsam found a piece of himself, and found that it was pretty damn agreeable. He grinned and turned slowly back upon the filly.

“Rematch?”
	
	
	

> Mopped Up
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Flotsam’s horn surged with magical power. A bucket responded to his summons, flinging itself violently over the edge and down headlong into the watery abyss. Just as quickly it soared back upwards, overflowing with the salty brine of the drink below. The mop-head, none too clean, was thrust into this within an inch of inanimacy then wrung out so tightly that the water fled those fibres in terror and panic. Unsatisfied with his work and his lips drawn back in a grimace of concentration, Flotsam subjected his improvised weapon to the ill treatment once more. When the brushy-brushy part was a little more tolerably gray, he sizzled them dry with a final gout of magic. The steam of it rose up around him and, awesome as it looked, he instantly regretted not having the foresight to consider the smell it would produce. Even so, he endured firmly and presented himself a warrior, ready and waiting for his chance to redeem his dignity in the face of filly ridicule.

Everything that had felt alien and wrong in the sword felt fight and familiar in the what he now held, leaning easily in the crook of his leg. It wasn’t just a mop, nor was it just a spear at that: it was a stabby-pokey-thrusty-swingable beatstick with a pointy bit...or in this case a scrubby scrubby bit on the end. An elegant weapon from a more civilized time...well, place anyway, unless he’d been drifting in the ocean a lot longer than anypony expected.

Patches and the nearest mares seem duly impressed with the stallion’s renewed confidence. The last pretense about the others practicing dribbled away, mares of all colours leaned on their blades or any convenient surface to view the coming entertainment. While it wasn’t quite the coming entertainment an unspecified by significant portion of them wanted, they’d take what they could get where and when they could get it.

This is well and truly ridiculous, the more rational, boring part of the white stallion’s mind chided, but the filly’s enthusiasm and sense of fun were infections, and like any proper infection, Flotsam was just a little heated and delirious with it. “Well, come on then,” he said and grinned, lowering the dubiously ‘clean’ mop-head to stare down the filly on his behalf. At a flick of his horn the strands all extended and wavered of their own accord, like the ugliest anemone ever to bless the ocean with the sacrifice of making every other anemone around feel better about itself.

They circled one another, these two silly combatants. She had agility, but she’d played that card in the farce of a fight before. He knew to watch for it now, and she knew that he watched for just that. The lanky filly showed an unexpected patience for her age, feinting here and there, testing the little twists and jabs of his defence. Even the moppy bit at the end stretched this way and that like a thing alive, trying to snatch at the filly and give her a face-encompassing noogy the likes of which would not be soon forgotten.

Being a unicorn did come with that kind of perk. Flotsam flicked his mane, full of sweat, seawater and wind from his face, unknowingly putting a peculiar tingle in the chests of a substantial few mares that hungrily followed his motions. For his part though, there was only the fun of the game, a contest born of boredom and fun nudging ever further into the ridiculous.

Patches lunged, little hooves storming along the deck. In came the swing, mop-head and all, but she ducked and flicked it away with her short blade. She lifted her head to strike only to find the butt of the ‘spear’ had come all the way around, Flotsam had planted it at an angle it in front of her and she slid up it like a ramp, completely immobilizing herself atop it, her front legs waggling uselessly for contact against the too-far deck.

She was swift, but also light. The stallion heaved on his impromptu catapult, the poor filly’s eyes wide as she took her first screaming steps into aeronautics. It was a good flight, the sort to make every pair of eyes follow it like the ascent of a splendid bird, a sudden flight ended just as abruptly when Patches was caught in a sudden glow of magic. Flotsam righted her, turned the spinning filly about face and let her drop back onto firmer footing.

“Nice catch,” Harpoon grunted from her spot in the shadow of the rigging. The crewmares were really getting into this, jostling for the best views and chatting in much animation about all things pertaining to the match.

“Thanks,” Flotsam said and, in turning to face her for that one singular moment, dropped his guard. As quickly as he caught his mistake Patches caught it faster, her legs churning through the intervening distance with a vengeance. There was no clever trap, no showing off this time; only a pure mistake that nearly cost him. Flotsam only barely caught her assault on the edge of his mop, flicking the filly aside so that she slid past him, and even at that the peculiar wet-sock tingle of the protective spell around the weapon made itself known along the length of his flank.

She made to slide a one-eighty in that really cool but nearly impossible way that always kicks up a lot of dust regardless of how much dust there is present, discovered just why it was considered nearly impossible and toppled head over hooves. She sprung back up just as quickly, but all the fight was gone from her shoulders, even her mane seemed more relaxed somehow. 

Patches giggled, and once she got into the swing of it couldn’t stop, the really hearty kind that makes it nigh impossible to stand, let alone find. She even lisped her giggles, were it to be believed, and again her good humours proved utterly virulent. She sat on her haunches, dropped the knife to her side, panting and shaking with filly laughter.

Flotsam held to his guard for a moment, just in case it was some kind of ploy. Then the ridiculousness of it all caught up with him as well, and he too was struck down by a sudden fit of the giggles, an ailment of which there was no known cure, but time.

“That,” the filly huffed, “that wath thuper fun!” She made a sound like ‘wooooh!’ and threw her head back, letting herself fall right back onto the deck with a plume of wild hairs, relieving the flight in all its spectacle. She flung her hooves up to the skies. “Flottham ith the betht thtallion ever!”

The crew mares, for their part, seemed willing to concede the notion that yes, he was a pretty swell guy, but there were other ways to make a stallion sweaty and breathless, and it was these that they were more interested in for the judgement of his ‘bethtethtnethth.’

Blissfully ignorant, neither stallion nor filly noticed that underlying tension to the air and, leaning on one another (though really only she leaned on him, because of the obvious size differences) they wandered off together in search of a refreshing drink.

Left to their own devices, the crew picked up their armaments once more and got back into the swing of things. An instinct born of close quarters and hot heads meant that the rest of the crew, through no overt action, drifted well away from the First Mate and Quartermaster.

“Want to make this...a little more interesting?” Charming Booty’s hoof touched Harpoon’s shoulder, and the pegasus looked over her shoulder to the unicorn. Both glanced to the door Flotsam had passed into not a moment before, and an understanding flickered and fizzled between them. 

The pegasus’ lip curled up in something like a grin, but what was really a sneer. In one respect it was a total shame she’d been born a pony, perfect as she was for cracking knuckles ominously in moments exactly like this. Instead she cracked the kinks from her neck in two stiff movements. “Alright then,” she said, and the two mares turned for their preferred weapons.

From across the deck, Nauticaa watched over her crew, all of her errant crew, and her eyes narrowed, though nopony witnessed this.

> Thecret Identitieth
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam was both giddy from his antics and relieved that they were now over. Thirst lead him to his sparse cabin, his good spirits allowed Patches to follow him in.

She was wild, hooting her delight, spinning in dizzy reenactments of the battle. Ricochoeting off the bedside dresser the filly slammed into Flotsam, only to collapse in a heap of giggles. “Maybe you’re a janitor!”

Pleased as he was, there was still the niggling matter of memory to concern himeslf with, and between smiles his brow would pinch with thought, his gaze go distant. “I don’t think so,” he said, also hoping that to be the truth of it.

Made feeble by silliness, Patches sprung up only to slink down again in a sprawl of limbs and giggles. “A thuper janitor!” said she, who wasn’t about to be put off by reason and good sense. The swabby’s spirited attempts at mop-themed martial battle cries and accompanying poses had them both laughing wildly.

Wiping away a tear and fighting to breathe, Flotsam struggled to stifle his chuckles. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. No capes though. Maybe a mask, but no capes.”

The filly was a flurry of lanky limbs. “Capeth are cool!”

“And I’m not saying they’re not, but it’s my super costume were imagining here.”

“Remembering! We’re remembering it.”

Flotsam paused. “Well,” he said with more reservation, “I don’t remember a cape. I don’t remember much.”

Now the filly was on his bed. Halfways on at least, though the crown of her head was rooted firmly to the floorboards, her hooves far above. This is one of many typical poses for expressionable smallies. “Thtill gone?” She tapped her head and nearly lost her precarious balance.

“No, it’s there. Here, whatever. It’s here in my head, I know it is, but I just can’t seem to...no, not yet anyway. It’s like a book I can’t read, except I’m the book.”

Patches scrabbled upright, making a mess of Flotsam’s bedspread. “It’th okay,” she said with a smile, “I can’t read either.”

Flotsam eyed the filly. Not for the first time he wondered just how old she actually was. Surely old enough to be literate?

A moment of shut-eyed dizziness passed over him. Literate. It had been his thought, but the word was someone else? Patches? He looked at her. No, not wrong, but not the right...colour? He shook his head and the moment ended. Fumbling he found his water and drank it. Like it, the dregs of memory were strange and distracting; he decided not to chase after them. “So, how’d you learn to fight like that anyway? I think this ship isn’t big enough for two super janitors.”

The filly’s laugh was a balm for his troubled thoughts. “Janitorth don’t uthe kniveth, thilly!”

“We’ve definitly established something along those lines. Are all the fillies trained like that where you come from?”

Patches shrugged. Her indefatiguable good cheer seemed suddenly less so. “I dunno. Thometimeth I thee other fillieth when we make port, but I’m not thuppothed to go far from the thip. One time they puthhed me over and tried to thteal my banananda-” 

“Bandana-”

“Yeah, that, thteal my bandanana tho I hit her on the head. It wath thad. They didn’t thteal it,” the filly added, but going by her tone it was poor consolation.

“So where’s home for you?”

The filly looked at him as if he had asked what water was. “Here. The thhip.”

“But, you know, I mean...” Flotsam gestured helplessly. Maybe she lived on the ship, he wanted to say, but how could she be from the ship? Surely she was still a product of...biology? “Don’t you have any family?” he asked wretchedly, already wincing with dread of what answer he might receive.

“Oh yeah! Captain’th my mom! I’ve got lotth of momth except lotth are more like thithterh inthtead, but Captain ith like everyeoneth mom.” This she declared with a stern nod of certainty.

Flotsam could only blink. His ears were still reconciling ‘sisters’. 

“I thuppothe that maketh you a dad. Or a brother...” The filly scurtinzed him fiercly, her head ticking side to side, presumeably as she weighed the two perspectives. Flotsam could only grin nervously.

“Nah, you’re definitly a brother.” The filly’s eyes went wide. “I got a little brother now!”

“Wait, little brother?” Bells rang across the back of his mind, aching and fervent.

“Well duh!” Patches declared, oblivious to Flotsam’s mounting anxiety. She listed her points rigidly. “I wath here first. I thow you the ropeth of being on the thip. I beat you in fights. All that thayth I’m the big one.”

“You hardly beat me Twilight!” Flotsam laughed, though no sooner had the syllables gone beyond recall before he realized that he was arguing the point with a child. He smiled at the ironic hopelessness of his position. His smile faded by degrees. “Wait, did I say...something?” But it was gone, and Patches looked as confused as he felt. She flopped out of the way as Flotsam sat, rubbing at his head.

Then he turned his attention towards the door. “Is it just me or does practice seem to be getting a lot louder?”

The filly squinted and her ears picked up. “Uh oh.”

“I’ll go check, you stay here.” 

Patches replied with a quick hop to her hooves and a blown raspberry. The sudden brightness of daylight was blinding. Blinking his sight clear, Flotsam heard only ocean stillness.

There were mares tangled in rigging. Mares hanging precariously over the edge. Mares pinning mares and wrestling yet more mares, all still. At the centre of the still-picture femaelstrom were Charming Booty and Harpoon, their weapons mutually frozen mid-strike. All eyes - quite a few of them blackened and swollen - turned as one onto Flotsam. 

From the foredeck, four crewmares dazed and scattered at her hooves, Captain Nauticaa glared.

“Uh oh,” Patches whispered from the corner of her mouth, “thhe’th mad.”

“How mad?” Flotsam whispered back. 

“Piththed.”

“Pi...? Oh. Oh dear,” he whimpered quietly. 
> Mother of Mercy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Nauticaa was not in a good mood. She was not one given to ever having good moods, being more the type to feel that the stability of the ship beneath her, the crew around her and the weather above her was enough, if not for actual bona fide cheerfulness, than at least for satisfaction. Well, the sky and the sea had not reneged on their gift of fair winds, her ship did not so much sail the water as slide across it, but the crew...

Two out of three should not have been bad. Flotsam had still been a coughing lump dripping on her decks when she’d anticipated this trouble, that some of the more prone mares might agitate, that a few of the more tempestuous sort might variously heckle, harrass, even harrange the stallion.

This, she had decided, would have been tolerable. She was not his friend, his governess, or even his employer. Flotsam was to all intents and purposes a stowaway with a slightly better alibi than most. Beneath her notice.

Truely, the smooth running of the ship and the perfect weather, the very two things that should have made the third bearable were instead conspirators in making the situation the very worst it could be. The crew were getting idle in their work, and worse than that it was still faultless work. The foredeck was practically polished. They were getting bored. Empty headed and fanciful.

Eyes had wandered. Flotsam did clean up well, she admitted with a measured, uniterested factuality. His white coat caught the sunlight; Flotsam his name might be, but it didn’t do the shining seafoam projection of his colour justice.

It is not a Captain’s nature to blame themselves for bad judgement in the moment. After the fact, perhaps. In private reflection certainly. But this was not after the fact, nor was it private, and the foremost thought in Nauticaa’s mind was that this silliness - hedging onto obsession - with the danm male was getting out of hoof. 

She scrutinzed him. His gaze was held in hers, precarious between defiant and deferential. Like him she may not, obsess over him she may not, but even Nauticaa found Flotsam admittedly curious. He was the one thing in her kingdom she didn’t fully know. He made for a strange catalyst that had even the most familiar elements of her ship exhibiting strange chemistries. Even Harpoon, steady headed, humorless first mate Harpoon was getting restless about him, and while it was about time she knocked the pomp and pretense of the Quartermaster out through her ears, this was the wrong reason for which to do so.

His freedom, Nauticaa decided, had been too much of a liberty. Private quarters were not enough, no more than treasure left in an unlocked chest would have been. The Mother of Mercy sailed because everyone knew their place in the hierarchy of command. It was high time that the crew had that creed reinstated, branded anew across the forefront of their thoughts.

High time, she knew with distaste, to stake a claim on him and end this nonsense. She descended the foredeck. Stunned combatants hastened to remedy themselves of both conditions and hurry out of her way.

Before Nauticaa hung the overeager and underaccomplished crewmare tangled in the rigging. Hard Tack. Nauticaa advanced on her, sword drawn. If Flotsam caught the light like froth of the playful sea, the Captain’s saber shone with a cutting, painful brightness in the sunlight. Hard Tack caught her cold and furious gaze as the Captain advanced. Every effort was given to frantic wriggling, which did nothing to free the hapless mare and everything to further irritate the already peeved Nauticaa.

She thrusted the full stretch of her sword into the tangled mass, then slashed her blade free. The mess of knots opened like the gutted belly of a fish, spilling a mess of ropes and Hard Tack to the deck. That Hard Tack herself had not been split open or otherwise carved in any way whatsoever came as a great shock, one that was scrawled all over her face. The mare scrabbled out of Nauticaa’s way and was left as trivial.

The Captain had known which mares would shudder and which would not. This had not interested her. Flotsam had shuddered, and Patches very much so. To see that of the filly bothered her, but the Captain let none of it show. She passed through her crew like sharks through the reefs. Calm, slow, absolute in her authority.

Then it was only her and him. Nauticaa hoped until it twisted her insides that Patches wouldn’t say anything; the uncertainty writ plain in her ship’s filly was painful enough as it was. For the moment though, Patches said nothing.

Nauticaa stood eye to eye with Flotsam. Her private displeasure for what had to be done was transmuted into an expression of disdain. At least that she could use, sooner the better to be done with this.

“You will wait in my cabin,” she said, making a point to look him over. “Wash up before you do.”

It wasn’t loud. Volume would only have hindered the effect. The Captain didn’t linger. “Mend those ropes,” she growled to the nearest mare before stalking off. “And get back to work.”

Flotsam surrepitiously nudged Patches. “What just happened?” he whispered. All the eyes that had previously been eating him up were very quickly now spitting him out. His personal space was being...not respected, not exactly, but avoided. Hooves that had groped and wings that had lingered were fixed to bodies that now stringently curved around his position.

“What was that? Patches?”

The filly’s face was very slowly coming back from an ‘O’. She looked at him with worrying thought. “Thhe’th claimed you. You’re thwag,” the filly said with utmost severity. “You. Are. Thwag,” she stressed. 

Stomach knotting, skin crawling, Flotsam turned to his only friend. “What can I do?”

The filly thought on this for a torturously long moment. “Get watthed up,” she suggested tensely, “And wait in the Captain’th cabin. Thatth all you can do.”
> Take the Position
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam had been left to stew. He recognized the tactic, but even knowing that it did little to alleviate the anxiety. The Captain’s quarters were strangely silent, somehow distinct and apart from the rest of the Mother of Mercy, though in truth it was all around him. A window looked out on the calm ocean. He stared at the loose, chaotic, recurring patterns of light and swash and felt he could almost see the division in his own mind, almost see the blurred boundary where his newly acquired memories connected to the rest.

The cabin itself gave away little of the Captain’s personality. The main of it, where he stood now had a plush carpet under hoof, old as it was rich and meticulously maintained. A weapons cabinet held two impressive swords, each the twin of the other. They shone with their upkeep and looked absolutely like they were not to be crossed. 

Spread over and pinned to the Captain’s desk was a map. Daylight, cut into sections by the window laid itself in a series of rectangles across its surface. On the map lay small things: coins of a make and value unrecognizable to him. A small tool, made of brass, with sharp little nibs and an angle the use of which felt he could puzzle out given time with it. Various little tokens marked what he figured must be ports of call.

And, in the centre of it all: a compass. He brought up it in his magic. The glass covering was yellowed with age but, as he rocked the device the arrow inside righted itself diligently as ever.

“North,” he said aloud, almost transfixed as the needle teetered and tottered across the line finally to settle on it perfectly. Though, he realized, that wasn’t the direction they were sailing. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Something brushed past Flotsam. The compass fell in a clatter atop the coins below, chinking and scraping loudly amidst their own. 

Captain Nauticaa took her seat. First she stared down at the map; she could come to him after.

Then, after a sweltering time, she did. There was no smile. It’d be weird, on her. But there was an air of total control about the Captain. Relaxed and, if anything, bored. Or weary. “Flotsam.”

“Yes M’m.” The clicking of his hooves to attention was reflex. That it drew her gaze only left him feeling embarrassed. 

“Do you remember your true name?”

“No.”

“Do you remember how you came to be in the middle of the ocean?”

“No. I, uh, don’t. No.”

“Do you remember how it came to be that you needed rescue?”

Flotsam recalled his burning, shrivelling lungs. The plunge of water. But that had been the beginning of things, so to speak. Not the end of them. “Sorry. I don’t.”

“So,” Nauticaa put her hooves together under her chin, leaning forwards over the table slightly to do so, “just what can you tell me, exactly?”

Flotsam tried over a few things in his mind. None sounded very good. He tried to work up saliva in his dry mouth, then pressed on with it. “I’m very grateful to you and your crew and your ship for saving me.”

Nauticaa regarded him for a moment. “It’s a start.” The chair groaned under her as she slid it back. She went to the cabinet – its two shining weapons magnets to the eye – and opened a lower cupboard. Out of it came a decanter and two glasses, which she set between them. 

“Water?” she offered. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” He took a good, long draught of the stuff and a sighed a misty breath of satisfaction.

“There are some things I will tell you, Flotsam. Namely that this ship does not revolve around you and your mystery. As much of a curiosity as it is to us all, accommodating you and your doubtless need for answers will never be a priority with me. Do you understand?”

“Oh, uh, yes! Yes of course.”

Nauticaa nodded. “Good.” Here what might just have been a hint of something slipped into her voice, if one could imagine that. “As it is, Flotsam, you present certain difficulties to me. And while you’ve given me no cause to hold any personal sentiment against you, there’s no denying that you’re an unnecessary complication to the smooth running of this ship.”

The bewilderment must have been plain on his face. 

“Sex,” sighed Nauticaa. “I’m referring to sex. The male sex, presently. You understand where I’m going with this?”

Much to his anxious confusion, he did. 

The Captain indulged in another half-glass of water. “You are, from one way of looking at things, a commodity here. From another perspective, you’re a trophy. From another still, an indulgence. Worst of all: a status symbol. I can’t have that.

“The reality is this: without putting a hoof wrong you can’t not be a problem here. For that you have my sympathy. Truly, you do. But you will do every possible thing you can do to avoid actively or even passively enabling this situation to be messier than it is, understand?”  

Flotsam nodded before he could properly speak. “Yes, ma’am.” His mouth had gone dry again.

“I see that you do. Good.” She stood and brushed past him again. “Come here,” she ordered.

A curtain door separated the mainstay of the Captain’s quarter’s from her more private space. She slipped through with a whoosh of stirred air. Flotsam glimpsed, past the Captain’s dark colours, her bed. 

The curtain fell unceremoniously over his back as he stepped in.

And then he was right next to the bed. As was she. “Whatever you want to call the nature of it, the fact of the matter is you are indebted to me. And a crew expects a captain to collect on that, in full. To do anything else would give them cause to question me.

Relaxed, cool, in control, happy. Flotsam was none of these things. None whatsoever. He could feel the Captain’s critical eye roving over him critically, taking the full cut of his jib. 

All his jibs, whatever they were.

He was jolted by a sudden knock. Not to himself, thankfully, but to the wall of the Captain’s quarters. A flat and resounding and surely loud enough impact to be heard by any of the nearby crew, should they be listening.

It dawned on him that of course they would be. And one revelation deserved another: that was the point of it. The Mother of Mercy would hear what it expected to hear. Who would believe otherwise?

The Captain gave a few more intermittent knocks, some blush inducingly firm. Only for Flotsam though. Nauticaa’s emotion was never naught but serious and stoic. “Now, Flotsam, you’ll do pushups.”

The absurdity was overwhelming him. He obeyed from sheer bafflement. One. Two. “How many?” he grunted as he pressed out a third and settled more smoothly into his stride.

“We’ll see how you are after the first one hundred. I expect sweat and a certain degree of exhaustion. It doesn't hurt to impress the crew."

There was a definite flash of wry amusment in her features that time, all the worse for the sensibility of the plan. Flotsam grit his teeth and bore down for the long haul. Yo ho ho he muttered silently, and the first beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.



> Snitches be Crazy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam was not actually the Captain’s candy. They’d conspired and, at the Captain’s behest misled the crew into seeing the narrative they expected to see.

He’d blurted the truth, in part, the first instant he’d got.  Not intentionally, mind, but there’d been Patches, all concern for him and joy to see him; and there’d been the crew, inconspicuously filling the deck like the audience of a stage-play; Harpoon and her grim, steady poise; Charming Booty and Hard Tack and Scuttle, whispering in hisses and laughing louder than that between themselves; and others of the crew as well, the ones Flotsam hadn’t come to know the names of yet.

Patches had asked just what had gone on in there, and, well, he’d answered. “Pushups,” he’d said, in one part weariness, one part relief and one befuddlement. She pranced around him, surveying the damage almost. Flotsam for his part walked crookedly, in limps and stiff starts. 

Harpoon, stiff and firm and more than a little scary in her own right eyed him over. “Pushups, aye?”

Flotsam, caught in a truth, bit his tongue and nodded.

The pegasus glanced to the rest of the loosely assembled mares. She glanced to the full, shiny eyes of multi-hued Patches.

Then, in seeming slow motion, to Flotsam’s terror and horror and confusion, the pegasus winked at him, a wide and exaggerated gesture intended for everyone to see.

“Pushups it is.”

“Yeah,” sighed he, not knowing what else he could possibly say and now frightful to think of revealing the gambit. He shuddered and Patches, lanky and light tossed herself against him to lean on. “Lots and lots of pushups,” he mused tiredly.

Ponies laughed throatily. Patches laughed too in that manner of one struggling to keep up with the adults, but it was clear to all that in her furtive glimpses between Flotsam and Harpoon and others still that the context was lost on her innocence entirely and that only made the rest of the crew laugh all the more heartily.

The atmosphere, tense like he hadn’t realized seemed to clear cathartically in that drawn out, coarse and phglemmy moment. 

Only Harpoon didn’t laugh or snigger in some manner, but her smile was uncharacteristically impish and lingered there lazily. 

And the miraculous bit, as it was to Flotsam, was that the crew began to disperse with their own conversations. He felt…oddly accepted.

He’d got a few painful knocks to his back and shoulders, meant as affection, and more than a few tail-curling jokes at his expense, all exercise-themed. Consensus about the ship was that many marathons would be run come the Mother of Mercy’s next readily anticipated landfall. That, and the hefting of weights. That admittedly made him blush.

He was the very lowest rung on the ladder, of course, at the absolute bottom of the heap, but it was their proverbial heap and he was in it with them now. 

It was still an upgrade from being considered a trophy screw, at least.

The familiar pangs of a rumbling stomach were about the only thing that made sense to Flotsam. At least, he realized, the truth was his lie now. His and the Captain’s. But she still probably would be none too pleased with his blathering on.

> Thtorm
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks passed. A fantastic storm now battered at the Mother of Mercy. She met it in kind; her crew were possessed with a strange and frightful delight. At last, something to do!

Water sheeted off wet mares hard at work. Waves washed the deck. Eruptions of spray and wind slapped Flotsam silly. His heartbeat pounded, his eyes blinked, and he clung to the tossing and turning ship for dear life.

He faced the onslaught in terror and bravery. 

The whole display was a great sight to uplift the mares’ good spirits, that. Cackles and cat-calls as to where he might better suited for were thankfully lost to the gale, if not the implicit meaning. 

None were more frightfully possessed by gleeful madness than long-legged lanky Patches. She stayed to the Captain’s side (for she grappled with the great and temperamental wheel in solitary combat) relaying Nauticaa’s orders. In this manner the filly was the unexpected extension of Nauticaa’s own voicebox.

“Batten the hatcheth!”

“Aye!”

“Lift the mainthtay!

“Aye!”

“Keel-haul the main thailth!”

“Aye!”

“Port the starboard!” 

“AYE!”

“That sounds made up!” Flotsam cried out. This got him a few looks from various rushing-past crew mares. Various expressions of Are you simple? and Well duh and more than one You’re a real cutie when your dumb were lobbed his way.

Lightning struck the water some mile or two away. Its zig-zagging sharpness was slow to fade from Flotsam’s eyes.

The world heaved like an upset stomach. When he could make sense of it again he saw Nauticaa rip on the huge many bespoked wheel in the direction opposite that which the lightning had struck at. 

Flotsam, it must be interjected into the narrative here, was not the simpleton he might have seemed. Indeed, the lateness of the hour (for it was midnight, or well past that, or not, for in a tempest such as this there was no knowing) the suddenness with which it had been sprung on his awareness and this indeed being the sea-going storm to pop Flotsam’s sea-going storm cherry needed to be given credit in bewildering and baffling him. Addled as he was, his overexcited mind made the connection with the sudden lurching turn of the Mother, steep and harsh enough that even the seasoned crew mares cried their belays to one another and gripped tightly whatever they had to hoof for it.

His summation was thusly: Lightning is bad.

He wasn’t wrong.

Another bolt speared across the sky. Wickedly forked, it reached out with electric fingers. 

The tone changed. Patches still relayed orders, jaunting to the left, to the right, to the fore and rear of the Captain, and the words to Flotsam’s ears were still as interchangeable and unknown as the games before, but the silliness went out of them.

“Ah”, the Mother of Mercy seemed to say, the manner of its words being the mood and manner of its crew. In the clenching of ropes and the gritting of teeth. “Now that we’re done with the foreplay, let’s get down to it. That being, if you’re game?”

Gale winds howled, lightning flashed and an arm of rigging from the mast came hurtling down.

It smashed barely a pony’s height above the deck, on a glittering shield of magical light. The armature, wide as the whole of the ship or near enough, slid along the curvature of the shield, made as if to slip into the sea and was jerked to a halt that rocked the Mother.

“Cut the ropes. Do it, now!”

This time, the order came straight from the horse’s mouth. The Captain’s voice seemed to insert itself directly into body via the spine. It was a good voice for commanding. Herself and three other mares now piled-up on the quivering wheel. The ship was listing now, its main mast damaged and unbalanced. The ship lurched left at every provocation while only grudgingly giving back to the right.

Flotsam had no idea how much damage it must take to capsize a ship. There was already a definite tilt he could feel in his hooves. He had unhappy flashbacks to his first sodden memories. He would rather not would revisit them.

“Aye aye, thir!”

Fast as the raindrops falling up went Patches, her trusted little knife in mouth. The rigging was staunch, soaked through and stretched taut by the shattered beam. Patches struggled up the shield, not hesitating at all on the ethereal, new and temporary deck. She set about sawing in a sort of rodent-like frenzy. Below her the stricken beam dangled like an evil anchor.

All this had happened of an instant. Patches was quick. 

One rope snapped away. The beam fell lower. It hit the choppy seas and tore at the ship with such sudden drag that the mares fighting the great wheel cried out and redoubled their efforts.

Patches was a rain-blurred speck in the dark.

The second rope – the final rope – gave way with a snap of water and air. Patches was knocked backwards, head over hooves over head over hooves out over the water. Instantly Flotsam let his spell fizzle out; the beam fell with a splash and vanished instantly into the stormy night. He whipped his horn about.

The falling, shrieking filly stopped dead some feet above the churning ocean surface. Flotsam smiled. 

Then a wave washed completely over the filly so that she disappeared from sight. A scream snuffed out.

“No!” Flotsam screamed, his heart bursting into hundreds of pieces.

The wave passed into the night. The filly remained exactly where she had been, held aloft on the magical tether, only know she was even more thoroughly soaked then before. 

Flotsam stalled for thought. His heart unexploded back into the regular allotment of tubercles and pumpy parts. Quite sensibly he brought her back to deck.

Then he hugged Patches.

With the dead-weight cut away, the crew were winning their battle for control of ship and storm alike. Already the ferocity of the gale was giving way to a more impotent raging.

“I…” exclaimed the filly. She was shaking, more than that she was positively thrumming. Flotsam held her close. “I…” she repeated, and looked up at the unicorn.

The Captain’s voice was fury. Not furious, but fury itself. She heaved the wheel. Crew mares jumped to safety. It spun like it were running for its very life from the Captain. She caught it with one jarring hoof that brought it to a dead stillness. Her glare was decidedly unhappy.

“You. Below Decks. Now.”

Filly and stallion both nodded dumbly, their limbs scrambling faster than their brains.

“C-come on, Flottham. It’th like you n-never b-b-been through a tht-tht-thtorm before.” She laughed…or was trying to laugh, at any rate. What came out of her was a strained, crazed cackle.

Now Flotsam was completely lost. He shepherded the filly into the ship – or she him – and just as soon as they were hid away from it all Patches the Pirate broke down and had a really good cry, burying herself deeply into Flotsam the poor, confused, anxious flotsam’s shoulder.

He tried to comfort her. “Hey, hey, it’s ok. It’s ok. I’m the only pony that gets swept away in the ocean. That’s my gig.” 

Her sobs came more forcefully. Patches spread snot liberally on the unicorn’s coat. Flotsam wisely said no more that night.

> Thand
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The island wasn’t much. An errant pin-prick on the map. But it had trees, and that was enough for a ship in distress. They were palms, which the crew didn’t like on principle, but they’d be enough to affect something in lieu of the mast until the next port of call. Various mares felled, others hauled, still more did any number of strange little nautical rituals for work. Mostly those amounted to arguments, swearing and grumbling.

There was no getting lost here, any more than a pony could get lost in a bathroom. There wasn’t the space for it. It hadn’t bothered them much to give Flotsam his leave of the island which was, he thought, a nice consideration to his circumstance. Even this small token of land, surely the Captain had considered, was a welcome respite in the trials of a lost and wayward stallion.

He stopped lying to himself: he was cluelessly inept with their ship-righting shipwright-ing and therefore allowed to get out from under their collective hooves.

At present he was under one of the hapless palms, curled up on his legs and feeling rather humbled by the sea and the sky and the baffling big world that in no small part was excluded from his head. 

Patches, actually competent with some of the tasks, was given a similar free ride.

She wasn’t as happy with this change of things – albeit only temporary – as he’d hoped. She’d stopped crying, yes, eaten and slept and all such things. Now she was fine. Only it was fine said like this in low wistful montone monosyllable.

The crew, he’d realized with an unexpected jaundice didn’t do very well by her. Since the filly wasn’t actively starving, drowning or bleeding they regarded her as fine, and left it at that.

Patches was fine. Fine and terribly disinterested in goings-on. She was off making sandcastles with a sort of quiet, joyless purpose.

“Oi! Creampuff, yer looking well, ‘aven’t ye, love!” called a voice in as strange an accent as Flotsam could imagine.

This was the front half of two mares shouldering between them a length of timber.

“Oh! Pay her no mind,” said the rear of the two, kicking sand ineffectually forwards. “This is why you never ‘old onto a colt more’n a night’s worth.”

“Wide I want to? Eyes always use ‘em up by morning!”  

They laughed and drifted away. Flotsam had never heard laughter that warm and filthy before, but this was it.

He decided on shade, excusing himself from the shoreline. Even amidst the trees and rakish grass the sand never really went away. What soil there was seemed to be made entirely of what had been trees and grasses in former lives, laid unconvincingly over the island. Sunlight was cut to pretty ribbons in the fronds. He had a few minutes relative silence. Insects made friendly with his eyes and ears.

And just like that… the far side of the island. That was it. Any lurking tigers or forgotten civilizations would have to be quite small ones.

Patches was sitting on the hot sand patting a mound together. At the water’s white edge an early effort was almost completely dissolved.

“Hey, Patches,” said Flotsam in that voice of brittle optimism reserved for inexperienced adults when dealing with children’s emotions.

“Hey.”

“Still making sand castles I see?”

Pat-pat. Scoop. “ ’m.”

“Want to…go get something to eat? Or go in the water?”

Pat. Pat-pat-pat. “ ‘n.”

“Oh. Okay.” Flotsam’s eyes had that pinched-tightness from the shimmering light on the water, and his back itched with precursor to sunburn. He sat down stoically to take it.

Pat-pat. Pat-pat.

“It’s a very nice castle,” he hazarded.

Pat-pat. Swipe. The filly gave him the glare of an angry scrunchie. 

It said, and is paraphrased here: 

I might be smaller and younger than you and by extension of that fact it follows that you must therefore be older and bigger then me, and I take it (with a pinch of salt, of course) that those bigger and older then me are possibly wiser, but I would have to be so young as to have been born during this paragraph and so small as to be microscopic for you to have any hope at all of me accepting the statement as truth that the castle, this castle here, is, in fact, very nice. 

It is not. 

That is what we might call the literary essence of that look. It was accompanied with a sigh and sudden departure.

Flotsam felt a bit rooted to the spot. The castle really wasn’t really nice, it really wasn’t. He felt dumb for having said it. It was one of those efforts that got the architectural title of castle purely on the merit that it had been assembled from sand and had a general hopeful concept of going upwards. 

It was a lump, with slightly varied lumps on top. It was in fact the very heap to be dismantled one grain at a time by a philosopher (to determine at which point it ceases to be a heap) so that said pony might realize just what a stupid and pedantic exercise that would be.

It did not inspire.

He pushed his hoof slowly into the mound and hummed aloud in caricature of thought.

He carefully levelled the top smooth, tangently aware that his thinking was operating on a level largely unconscious. Strange, yes, but you had to see where it would take you. What it might reveal.

A castle should look like a castle, he mused for starters…

> Thee Thells Thee Thells...
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blue sky had given away to orange and purple and still Flotsam worked on his castle. Stars came out by ones and twos, like party guests whom were that little bit embarrassed to realize they’d come so early.

It was no small thing, his castle, with outer walls that could ostensibly be called West and East, North and South. It took several strides to walk the length of one. Not that Flotsam knew which would be which, he was the last pony to have a sense of direction. He’d simply shoved sand with hoof and leg and chest and given it a shape. Magic helped, but for all that his mane was thick with sand and his body was strongly exfoliated with every motion.

He’d dug a channel for his work, bringing seawater up to him. It was a long, deep gorge in the beach that cut through the surface and into the brown grit of the underneath. As his castle expanded it, he’d split the channel, scraping away at the sand, sometimes with hooves, sometimes with a sledge of magic.

Patches had watched him for a while. Somewhere along the way she’d come in to help, wordless, toting a bucket and pat pat patting at the knee-high outer walls. She scooched along, working on the walls. At times she went to the shoreline.

Flotsam hadn’t addressed her and she seemed to prefer it that way for now.  Flotsam pushed stones and shells into the beach where the wall was left open, marking the gate to his castle, whatever it was. 

Two ponies working out some inexpressible frustration, he wondered.

This is important

He crossed the threshold. It was about two pony lengths from the walls to the castle proper, and was quite large enough – were it completely hollow – to comfortably fit a seated pony inside.

He was in two minds about the whole thing. Some urging kept him at it; some discomfort that was only satiated by constant motion and effort. Nothing in the design seemed right, when part of a fragment of a suggestion floated up, another one came along only to contradict it. It bothered him, bothered him more than he would have admitted, then he’d check himself, smiling in some confusion wondering why he was getting worked up about such a thing as this all.  He hadn’t lost that much of his mind, surely! Sand castles were supposed to be play. There were balustrades (tricky to do; need magic) and battlements (not tricky), a plaza of sticks around the side (rather simple), and even a grand entrance, which was really just two bits of toughened old bark pressed gently into the mound. They didn't lead anywhere, sadly. It was a castle only to external apperances.

Some of the taller towers stood taller than he did. That had been a challenge. Magic had helped. He’d started on the windows using more seashells, the wide palms of bleached-white clams and the minted design of sand-dollars to find he had none. 

Patches put more down beside him. Whelks and limpet and clam shells in all the whites and browns and mysterious glossy purples they could muster.

A few of the crew mares came and went, mostly standing to the side. Some called to him, a little bit teasing, mostly curious. He’d politely declined to engage with their jaunty antics. That’d spoilt the fun and they’d gone away grumbling.

A little while passed and the compulsion to built this…whatever this was blunted. As the sun set so did his drive. Overhead the silent, expansive, twinkling interstellar party was really getting underway. Stars drifted in and out of cloud cover to socialize with one another.

Flotsam sat down in the lee of his sand castle, mindful not to besiege upper terrace with his horn. His tail swished out behind him and didn’t quite reach the outer wall. The work was done. Or as done as it was going to be. He felt something needed to be said.

“This is a sand castle,” he said. The stars politely ignored his iteration of the obvious. The water continued it’s delicate orchestration of the shore.

“Yeah,” said Patches, still embedding shells, leaves, and sticks in such a way as to have dubious architectural reasoning other than ‘it looked nice’.

Then they were down to one last impressive cockle, red like none of the other shells had been.

“It’th a heart.”

“Here,” Flotsam gestured a spot, together they built up a little dais and ensconced the charming red shell atop it there.  “We have heart,” he observed lamely. But it was satisfying piece to have added.

Patches curled between that and Flotsam. Her breathing quieted and her body relaxed a little more into his. Flotsam mused on the pleasant, distant, mysterious twinkles of light high above and far away. He wondered if he could ever find it so easy to fall asleep under the stars.

He didn’t feel ready for sleep. 

Coming from between the trees were the occasional snatches of voices. Laughter, song, even the occasional shout. In the peacefulness of night Flotsam’s senses drifted, came apart, expanded in a mist. For a while he felt more aware of the crew’s revelry, of the starlight and the glinting of it on water, sand and shell, and the steady warmth of the filly tucked in against him than he was of himself.

Why’d I build this? he wondered. But there was no answer waiting, and more questions rushed in to fill the space. Where are we even going, what am I even doing, will I stay with the Mother of Mercy?

They came faster now, an anxiety clambering up out of each wave as it wrote it’s lines in the shore. He looked at himself, his white coat lit only dimly by the night, he was wraith-like, hardly there, insubstantial and as shifting as the air, the sand, the water. Now he was spinning, each question was a spoke on the wheel – how was Patches not waking with the calamity of this? - and at the centre of the wheel, the one throbbing question all the others stemmed from:

Who am I?

It gripped him by the throat. Nothing was going to make sense and nothing was going to free him. 

Patches whinnied softly in her sleep. That did it. Flotsam’s consciousness slammed back into normality. He sighed. Wiping his face only left gritty sand all over his face, forcing him to squint in one eye.

The moment was passed. The night came at you in funny ways, he knew. The castle walls hadn’t been high enough to keep that out, he supposed.

“I’m glad you know who you are,” he whispered to the lanky little skewbald pony. 

He felt more than heard a disturbance in the air.

The pegasus was little more than a textured darkness, distinguished only by flecks of shine. Flotsam recognized the low, husky voice of Harpoon. “You’re awake.” It wasn’t a question. “Nice place.” It wasn’t sarcasm. 

He felt lost for anything to say. “Thanks.” Flotsam had the feeling that Harpoon was judging him. Patches huffed, pawed her nose, shifted and settled down again. They had both stopped to watch that, he noticed. She was judging him favourably, he hoped.

“We’re ready to push off in the morning.”

“Okay.”

If it were daytime, the pauses would’ve been awkward. At night they were…surreal. The pegasus lived with a poker face, it seemed to Flotsam. 

“There’s barrels out,” she said. Flotsam was almost certain that there’d been the tiniest little question mark in her voice, the slightest hint of a softening in the inflection. Like a pony who has caught the barest glimmer of a lighthouse and cannot blink or else he’ll lose it, he navigated the unchartered waters meticulously.

“You mean...”

“Drinks. And food,” she added, almost as an afterthought. 

She’d come to invite him over.

Understanding bloomed in Flotsam like a delicate seashore flower. The nearby crew was louder and brighter in his mind. Shoving off tomorrow, which meant the repairs had been finished tonight, which meant their remaining night on this little spit of land was – it could be argued, had been argued and cheered and then cheered with a toast just the other side of the island – shore leave.

Going over there was a bad idea. The mares were rowdy even when they weren’t free to have fun.

It was a bad idea. He considered the stillness and the quiet and the questions like sharks circling in the darkness.

It was definitely a bad idea, but right now a bad idea was a great idea.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, dissembling a little bit. He eased himself away from Patches, navigated his hooves carefully over the shells and the sand castle walls. 

It was a warm night, but still…

His horn light up. Sand scooped itself neatly away from the main body of the castle. The little gates opened and slid aside. A hollow place was dug out, a small cave into the castle’s heart. With a bit of glow about her undercarriage and legs, Patches slid obliviously into the castle.

Harpoon watched and said nothing, but he liked to think she approved.

Keeping a glow about his horn to light the way, they made an easy walk up the beach. 

Flotsam felt pleasantly amenable. “So, when you say drinks and food do you mean, like, beer?”

Harpoon was slow to answer, for a moment the only sound were hooves shifting sand. 

“Yeah. Something like that.”

> ...by the seashore
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crewmares of the Mother of Mercy had spread themselves out along the beach with a series of bonfires. The night air was warm, lukewarm at worst and still, but the occasional shifting of the wind brought a misty cool in from the water. The bonfires burned loud and bright like beacons, with rosy coal hearts making the air shimmer.

The seated ponies were lit up faces and hooves marked in sharp contrast with the extent of the night, which had settled over them all like a second ocean in depth and breadth. They cast strange shadows that stretched out far longer than any real pony, and once a pony stepped away from one – with everypony’s night vision shot – she all but vanished until appearing suddenly near another. 

The oily crackle of the fires made conversation and jokes indistinct, even pleasant. A concertina played a few uncertain notes, then added a slow, almost doleful melody to air. 

Some ponies cooked while they had the chance, as much to occupy their hooves or treat themselves than it was for food. Floury cakes topped with sweet treacle added their scent to the more universal smells of salt water and oily wood smoke. Over one fire was hunkered the ancient, pocked, familiar-to-all cauldron of the Mother of Mercy. There were still a few stodgy portions left in there to eke out, but the initial rush of dinner had been seen to while the sun was still up. 

The Captain had had the supplies sent down earlier, they were stockpiled a little ways further up by the trees. She, along with a few hooves stayed with the ship. With the cache – or at least, they’d started out with there – were the barrels that now were propped up here and there in the sand and becoming steadily less full of serviceable ale.

Overlooking them all was the Mother. Her rigging swatted stars out of the night sky, did just this at least until the tiniest shift in perspective brought them popping back into sight.

Harpoon had left a few minutes ago. She knew it would be a sedate night, all things considered. A nameless spit of land was hardly a proper shore-leave, and there’d be only the one evening of it before they were away again.

Besides, depending on how the improvised mast held up they could be at Rivaplút within the week. Best not to spoil a good thing coming.

Harpoon navigated the sandy detritus of the island interior easily. She watched Flotsam as he lagged behind her. Even without his little cast-light on, his white coat would likely all but glow in the night.

He was noisy going, hoofing through withered leaves and drifts fo sand, but neither did he seem to make any effort at passing for quiet. His eyes were turned more often upwards than at where he was putting his hooves. He looked about often, not quite gawking but definitely…looking.

The fires were already visible from here, as were the indistinct forms of ponies. As they came upon the small cache of supplies the sounds both natural and pony-made opened to them.

A crackle made them both stop, pegasus and unicorn. Tailing that sharp, sudden sound were shushes and muffled whispers.

Harpoon wasn’t surprised. On a ship privacy was what you made it. A few crewmares no doubt had a little something more than idling about and light to moderate drinking in mind for the evening. 

She gestured with her wing, Lower it. Flotsam didn’t get it, and then, with a little widening about the eyes, he did.. She made a note about getting Flotsam into poker. With a face like that he’d be terrible at it. His horn dimmed to a tiny speckle, little more than a match or candle would provide. 

For a second he looked like he was going to say something, she was sure he had the urge to but nothing came of it other than a last, baffled, blinking glance at the shadow-hidden supplies. Thus they carried on, purposefully noisy enough to announce that they had come and, more importantly, gone again.

She wondered only in passing which of the two of crew it would be half-tucked away in behind there.  She didn’t particularly care; no doubt a few others would be conspicuously absent from the bonfires. As the drink continued to trickle out and in a few more would probably slip away. 

Captain Nauticaa’s policy on sex was straightforward. Keep it discrete, and never ever let it interfere with the running of the ship. The same applied with the various liquors and occasional intoxicants that some of the crew kept, or even made, for themselves. 

It was a decidedly easy rule to abide, especially when one considered the typical punishments involved for feathering it up. Harpoon respected that capacity for severity in her Captain. 

That policy was pretty tangible right here, almost like a ribbon tied around the unicorn’s neck

Stepping in the firelight came with a palpable wave of hotter, drier air.

Hard Tack gestured with the kind of limp, dazed eruption of hooves that only the drunk can really manage to pull off. ‘Shore, shore, but Scutts, scutts, yore not lis’nin to me,’ she said, nodding side to side as she patted the other pony’s shoulder, who bobbled nearly as much. ‘Course wheeze gun make it to Riva-plut this week. Wheeze did a gut job fixin up the big mather.’

Hard Tack squeezed the two cheeks of Scuttle giving her a fish-face, then brought that nearly to her own. "So you why you gotta-be-a cynic, huh? Jus’ tell me tha’. Tell me tha."

After a moment’s effort they managed to get their spinning eyes to meet. Scuttle for her part blew a raspberry – thick with spittle – and the two mares fell apart. "Bloody optimist, you are. Can’t stand to lookit you an yer bright-serp…side-of-life crap with-at ‘nuther drink enema hoof."

Scuttle got to her hooves, danced a little bit until she steadied herself, then nudged Hard Tack in the ribs. "Well come on then, Aich-Tee." Rolling her eyes and huffing, she worked a hoof under the mare’s shoulder and dragged her away to the nearest – still sloshy – barrel.

Hard Tack blinked as she her eyes finally settled on something. "Hey is Poon! Poon!" Hard Tack’s grin was both dirty and infectious: it was the sort that ponies surreptitiously went to clinics days after the fact to fret about.  "And…Sammy! Oh bells, Scuttlebug, nivermind me, I think he’s dry as a drop ah…drop a…get him a drink is what I’m sayin!"

Harpoon wordlessly passed a topped up mug to the unicorn. She didn’t let much of her smile show, but it was there. 

Hard Tack was sagging into the beach with a placated smile. Her voice came even more disconcerted and a lot softer. "Ah, yous a good pone, Poon. Ray mine me buya any three drinks you ca’ name wens wheeze in Rivuput…"

Scuttle seemed altogether less happy. "Oi! What she’s got to be smilin’ like that about?’ Then she laughed. "Aich-Tee, you’ll’se-singe the hooves there, so you will.” She hefted up the pony with a grunt and a sleepy rebuttal before dragging Hard Tack away.

That left Harpoon and Flotsam. She was actually rather curious about him. Everypony was, but being first-mate had its perks. Keeping him close was more about enforcing the Captain’s orders on him then circumnavigating them.

He sipped at his drink, regarded it for a moment, then knocked back a little more. Then his eyes were turned to grunting, affably cursing, slowly disappearing crew mares. "That’s normal?"

"Yes." 

“Oh.” The unicorn stared into his mug for a long moment. Harpoon had never minded quiet in her life. Awkward silences happened to other ponies. He flicked his gaze over to the other fires, where other ponies were nearer the food and music. Then he said, “Alright. Normal.” 

Then he knocked back a more respectable, friend-winning kind of slug.

> Story Time
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam hadn’t been counting his drinks. Maybe he should have been; it might have helped him out later to have a clear head. Or at least, clearer. It certainly didn’t help that the sailors never kept track of theirs. And, through no intent of their own, tended to forget or dismiss the idea that ale was alcoholic, in the same way that snacks have no calories and that ‘one more doesn't hurt.’

He regarded the half empty/full tin cup wedged in the sand, notching its own little flickering shadow out of firelight, taking a moment to steady his head. Every time he moved his awareness wobbled. He had the urge to fling himself back into the sand and yell, and to run into the ocean, or sing, not that he knew any songs. Maybe he did…? 

Flotsam pushed the thought down with another swallow. They’d definitely moved to a bigger fire at some point, Harpoon and he. She’d since left, but here he was, and the fire was a crackling, occasionally spitting pile of glowing coals, blackened sand and haze-warped starlight going upwards.

Charming Booty, gorgeous, snide Charming Booty was the one playing the concertina. It was like a smaller accordion, contracting and expanding as it hovered in the air. He tried to identify the song – a fruitless effort – and wondered if it even were a song she played, or just a vague melody of notes.

He wondered if that was her talent and only when she answered did he realize he’d spoken it aloud.

“This little thing?” she said, giving the instrument a wiggle. “No it never was. It flatters me that you think so, Mr. Flotsam. My talent is finding treasure. And getting the value of it.” She’d looked him right in the eye as she’d said it. A flick of her mane made it surge like fire. Flotsam’s heartbeat thump-thumped  more forcefully, and she smiled, knowing full well what she did, knowing that he knew…

A teenager interposed herself between mare and concertina, rather spoiling the moment. She grunted and huffed to make room where there really hadn’t been any, brushed the worst of the sand from her hooves and clutched expertly at the instrument.

“Sure, Charming’s alright. Good, even. But that’s only practice and patience. I’m the talent. Shanty.” A hoof shot out, Flotsam shook it ponderously. 

“If it makes music, I can play it.”

Charming looked amused. Or to be more exact, she looked like a pony that had narrowly made the choice between being amused or annoyed. “Yes,” she said, gracefully sidling back into prominence. “She is rather good. Livens up an evening.”

Shanty huffed. “Rather good. I’m the best there’s been since Siren herself.” 

“Except Siren sang and you’ve never done.”

“Whatever, I make music. So, Flotsam, any requests?”

“I…don’t know.” He looked around. The next fire over had a few quiet ponies. The opposite way there was Harpoon, and further on others still. “Who’s Siren? I don’t know everyone’s names yet.”

“Wow, you really are cast adrift,” she tapped her skull, “in here I mean.” So, she’d decided to pity him. Flotsam hadn’t wanted the reminder. He fumbled to get the rest of his ale into him, but he listened close. Maybe he should focus more on the present.

Charming Booty clicked the two empty cups together. They drifted away, dipped into an open-topped barrel and came back full.  She winked. Flotsam was still a little put out, and more than a little bit sodden with ale, but the fluster still got him. “Oh, thanks.”

Shanty didn’t notice or didn’t care about the exchange. She clasped the little concertina closed and set it gently down out of harm by hoof or errant sparks way. “Siren’s a legend,” she stated.

“She lived maybe a hundred years ago? Something like that? I dunno. Find a reading pony for that. There’s old ponies that’ll say they heard her, when they were small. They’ll say all sorts of things” Shanty seemed to consider her own diversion. “I believe them. Some of the really old ones go misty-eyed, really out of it, you know? Like you don’t that way get when you’re telling a yarn.”

Ponderously, Flotsam moved a piece of wood into the orange-glowing centre of the fire. and watched the edges blacken. “Like they’re remembering?” 

Shanty shrugged. “Yeah.”

Flotsam was making a conscious effort to not overbalance backwards. He blinked the brightness from his eyes and took a breath or two. “You was Siren about saying? About Siren?”

Shanty’s expression went soft, even childlike. She plopped down and let her legs stretch away from her. She fed a length of driftwood to the bonfire too. “Yeah. I wish I’d heard her. They say she could sing the storms in and sing them away again. And she would. Do both, I mean. Sometimes she’d call storms onto ponies – she’s supposed to have had a real temper – and she’d help others too. Love and fear, you know?”

Harpoon was a sudden apparition emerging from the night. The conversation stopped with her, and with no rush at all she settled into the sand, shifting and folding her wings into place. The wine-coloured pegasus grunted approval, and Shanty continued.

“She was the closest thing to a queen the Coral Coast ever had.”

“Or a goddess,” Harpoon rumbled.

“Then one day she just left for the shore and was never seen again.” Genuine sorrow managed to poke its head through Flotsam’s hazy state. 

Some ponies say that one day the sea wanted to become a pony, see what it was like, and that pony was Siren, and that, when she was satisfied she just…went back. I don’t know if I believe that part, about her being the sea. But, yeah everypony knows Siren.

“She was powerful and more or less unified the Coral Coast and now she’s gone.”

There was a general, respectful down-turning of heads.

Flotsam had an odd thought, namely that sometimes quiet can be more quiet than real silence. He couldn’t articulate the concept, drunk or otherwise, but it would have been reasoned something like this:

Silence was an actual absence of sound, and when you had that you really mostly just listened to yourself think, and that was pretty noisy really. Like right now, he realized. But quiet, proper quiet, wave-over-sand and crackling fire and low breathing quiet, those profound, indifferent sounds, those made a pony listen, really listen hard and maybe, just maybe, the slosh and drip of a figure walking out of the water; the ocean decided on being a pony again.

“T’ Siren! To whatever, whoever, wherever, she was.” 

It was as toasts go not the best. He hadn’t planned it. He slurred bad enough even he noticed it. His voice was going feeble and reedy from the drinking. He spilled ale on himself. 

They left him hanging for an awkward second. Then the drinks were hoisted.

“Yeah. To Siren.”

Flotsam had the urge to go to the water’s edge. Just to be sure. To indulge the little bit of superstition that lives in every soul. To chase the ‘but’ after every ‘impossible’. 

He stood up, or tried to, but he hadn’t moved for a while and it was such a sudden, spinning, dizzy mess with four legs on. He saw the world go careening across his vision… “Uh oh,” he moaned sickly-

…and collapsed into the fire's welcoming embrace.

> Night Lights
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



Flotsam stood up, or tried to, but he hadn’t moved for a while and it was such a sudden, spinning, dizzy mess with four legs on. He saw the world go careening across his vision… “Uh oh,” he moaned sickly-
…and collapsed into the fire's welcoming embrace.



Pause. Stop. Freeze the mental image. Zoom out the eye of imagination. The fire becomes a bed, becomes a bowl, becomes a distant speckle. Now we look down on the nameless island like a map on a table in a very dark room. Slide it to the side. Move the point of focus. Descend back into it, lower than low-hanging wisps of cloud, lower than tree tops. Approach at last an extensive sand-castle. Go close up. Let each grain be visible. Take a moment to appreciate the frozen shimmers of starlight and the patterns locked into the surface of the water in the background.

Now let time resume. Carefully.

Patches dozed peacefully.

She dozed peacefully and snug inside the hollowed out space of the sand castle. Infrequently she made little mew mew mew sounds. She turned and twisted and lolled in ways that nominally looked uncomfortable or strictly speaking, impossible, but in actual fact managed to convey total comfort. For years – most of her life at that – Patches' world had been one defined by tight space management, steerage and low ceilings. The only open spaces familiar to her were above decks or, failing that, overboard. The latter didn’t bear thinking about. There was the rigging of course, but as a pony went up there was less and less actually useful space – the great view was comprised in large parts of all the things a filly couldn’t stand on or hold to on account of not being there.

An early skill learned, so early as to not even be a skill, but a fundamental part of her perception had been unconsciously rewording the idea of ‘cramped’ into ‘cozy.’ Knowingly or not, Flotsam had done the filly a kindness in giving her a little hollow, a den of sorts to shell up in for the night. It was more like home that way.

Clams did whatever it was clams felt it necessary to do in the darkness. Even the sand fleas slept. A hermit waved threateningly at a nudist four times its size, but since they were both crabs there wasn’t really any more to make of it. It had seen something promising and was willing to stake a claim. It tried to climb, but the filly rolled and it would have to start over.

All was quiet. That was to be expected. The glowing, however; that deserved comment.

It was soft, a candlelight without the candle and the palest possible pink without actually being white. The light pulsed and glimmered ever so slightly, like a starfish doing patient calisthenics. It came from the red cockle shell, or to be more correct was coming from somewhere else completely, but was presently inhabiting the cockle.

The shell was standing. It was perched with unlikely balance on a single grain of sand at the very centre of the little podium and spinning very slowly as if all this were a completely irrelevant and forgettable occurrence. And if you were a clam or a sand flea or a crab that would have been very much the case. 

It was a different matter for Patches …and by some small extension the singular hermit crab trying to climb her mane after having taken a realtor’s investigative interest in Patches' ear.

The glow was pink – faintest, softest pink – but the thread that began to unspool from it could only be called silvery, snowy purity. It grew, waved like underwater forests, and then pressed gently to Patches forehead.

She sighed, frowned, shook her head and flicked her ears in sleep. The hermit crab, deciding that this was the false advertisement of a rough neighbourhood took its indignation and left, contributing no more to the story.

Patches woke up.

Well, no, truth be told she didn’t.

Her eyes were open and the expression presently on her face was one of keen alertness. But it wasn’t hers.

She spoke, and the words were hers only in so far as breath and vocal cords were concerned. There were two inflections, as might be created by a skilled actor rehearsing both halves of a dialogue.

“It’s steady,” said body-of-Patches. The esses were beautiful, uncanny, alien visitors to the filly’s voice.

“Can you hold it? We’re not…who is this?” 

Affronted pride flashed momentarily across Patches features. “Be assured that I can.”

“This is it. This time it’s real. I know it.”

“It is-”

“Shining! Shining!” Patches cried, half-croaking, making to stand with unnaturally sharp, knee-jerk reaction movements.

“Stop!” she then hissed, slumping again.

“But he’s here,” she pleaded with herself. “This is the strongest love-image we’ve found yet. It's real this time. I know it’s him. Shining is here!”

“As I, to, sincerely hope. But we do not steal a pony’s body and strain her mind just because we have an excuse. Good reasons open the door to bad reasons,” she reflected bitterly.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, we didn’t…?”

“No, Cadence, we did not. I understand your anxiety. You are forgiven. But you must be gentle.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. What…what are we looking at? I can’t make it out…”

“It is night.” Patches said with a touch of pride, “and this pony is on the beach.”

“Inside a tent, maybe?”

“Something like that, no doubt. For what I can see of the stars…yes, we are – that is to say, our host is – in the area of the Coral Coast. No more than several hundred leagues away, I am sure. I cannot be more exact.”

“So he didn’t run off,” Patches mused resolutely.

“Did you truly believe that he did?” 

“No! You know I don’t. But..."

“We might have discussed this in your dreams, free of judgement and ears, except you more or less have stopped sleeping entirely,” Patches chided, which was impressive in its own way because here was a filly in a hollow on a beach in the night with a glowing thread of magic rooted to her forehead, and still she managed it. 

“Don't remind me. Anyway we’re going off-topic. I need to talk to this pony. Can you get us into her dreams?”

“I can, yes.” There was an edge of uncertainty to the words.

“Luna, are you alright?”

“It is nothing. This unusual method you’ve designed is perhaps a little more taxing on me. That is all.”

“I need to be sure, Luna.”

“You would prefer to be the one to speak with her, I trust?”

“Yes. Wait, don’t I have to be asleep? I can try, but…”

“Do not worry about that, friend Cadence.”

“What do you – Ow! What was that for-Oohhhhh.” For the sake of narrative one might imagine, very distantly, the swaying of hooves and a crumpling. 

“Well. That was somewhat extreme,” said Patches to herself, but only in the literal sense. “I hope for her sake you do have an answer for us, little pony, that we may put this to bed at last.”

A mote of light coursed down the shining thread and disappeared into Patches’ head. A moment later, a second followed it.


> Hot Stuff
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three word sentences. Think about them. At the dawn of language when the first syllables oozed out of the primordial alphabet soup, three word sentences were among the first to evolve. Like sharks and turtles and crocodiles they’d evolved into relative perfection early on and had ever since made a hobby of watching more transient, complicated things come and go. Complication could be beautiful, but exacting simplicity could be beautiful and tended to be longer-lasting.

I love you. Please find me. Third degree burns. All good examples.

Three word sentences just work. A pony could say a lot in that.

This all meant that when Flotsam tumbled into the fire and wood crumpled and sparks exploded in a skywards torrent there was a lot of linguistic options for the ponies involved.

Disregarding the gasps and especially the expletives, the first three words were Flotsam’s. “Oh, I fell,” he grumbled,” sounding rather disenfranchised with the whole thing as the fire completely failed to do anything nastier than hiss and spit. He was slurring noticeably, groggy in more than one sense of the word and maybe hadn’t realized where he was yet. 

The flames were coursing along fixed, immobile lines in the air beneath him. They curled up cocooning him in fire. He lay not on the coals and embers, but the same invincible lines set somewhere above those, in what would nominally be prime roasting real estate. His head lay in its own little bowl shape. An isosceles triangle accommodated his horn.

And the sound of it! It was almost like rain smattering on thick glass, thousands and millions of separate little sounds all mixing down together into a constant. Like that, but with somepony going a bit mad on the faders and EQ as well, making an effect that was uncanny and a little off-putting. Better than sizzles and screams mind you, but still unnerving.

“Oh my stars,” said Charming Booty. Shanty had a hoof over her mouth. The eyes of both mares were wide and bright with reflected firelight.

Harpoon, who had closed a lot of ground very quickly in a lunge had clenched her jaw on an instinctual level. She struggled quietly to unlock it. Nopony moved, each feeling that unique and precarious big fall from a thin rope feeling that they might do the thing that broke Flotsam’s concentration and end the spell.

Except the pony himself didn’t seem to be concentrating. Laying there on air, blanketed in fire, he hardly seemed awake.

“How are you...?” Started an awed Shanty.

Harpoon, who was less curious and more pragmatic on general principles groweld “Don’t fall asleep,” in the low, authoritative rumble of hers that not only brokered no argument but went around to argument’s house during daylight hours and smashed its windows. 

“I don’t know.” He gave a lax and horizontal shrug. “Happened by itself.”

Charming Booty circled him in spectacle. “Can you keep doing it?”

“Or better yet, get off the fire? Shanty cried.

Flotsam wiggled and rolled to his other side, like a pony in a trough who was drunk might do if said things were also on fire.

“I…no. I don’t I can,” he answered with an audible tremor. “This isn’t me. I mean, it is, but I can't... I didn’t think this. It just did. If I try to change it I think I'll break it.” He cautiously prodded the magical barrier then offered up an embarrassed, apologetic look. 

Shanty fell in an increasingly shrill heap. “Well, that’s fine then. He’s just going to go into the fire and burn a little bit, no worries! Use your magic then, Charm.”

“No!” shouted Flotsam, who was getting caught up in the hype. “Do you know what happens when you try to move magic with magic?”

“-“ started somepony, but he cut her off.

“Me neither! Don’t do it!”

“Well…move the fire!”

Charming Booty’s horn flickered, spat a few pitiful sparks and faltered. She strained, a burning log wobbled hopefully then stopped. Charming Booty gasped, the magic broken.

“What was that?”

“Shut up you, I’m drunk!”

“I’m drunk too!”

They squared off, face to face in that imminent fight or kiss manner. “Music mare, don’t you even.”

Shanty kept on until they pressed foreheads belligerently. “What . Was. That?” she challenged. The teen blinked revelation then dropped her face into her hooves. “Oh sweet waters…you’ve got whiskey prick.* Pony’s going to burn to death because you can’t get a spell off!”

Charming scorned her. “He won't die!”

“No,” Shanty snapped back, “he’ll just be on the fire burning alive. But he won’t die so that’s okay! No worries, we can all just sail on to Rivaplút! Have a great laugh about it on the wharf!

“Unicorns,” she grumbled under her breath before snatching up a mug, slashing the dregs into the night air and in one long cry shouted through clenched teeth, ran in a doppler-effect to the water’s edge, filled the mug, ran back and flung the water with a Kee-yah!

The fire sizzled and spat and, had it been a monster, would have left somepony obligated to say the tried and true cliché, “You’ve gone and made it mad now...”

“Shanty, just stop.”

“I did better than you,” she huffed. “He’s drunker off his face than you and he’s casting a kick-flank spell.”

The mare shrugged. “He’s a savant.” She tasted the word, pleased with herself for choosing it. “Hot savant,” she tried. 

“I see what you did there,” Flotsam said wretchedly. “Because I’m still trapped on fire,” he stressed, hoping to remind them of this fairly important fact.

“He’s an idiot,”  growled Harpoon, who had spent the last minute or so carefully watching the flames, where they curled and where they didn’t, constructing an image in her mind of  the shape and extent of Flotsam’s invisible cage.

To nopony in particular she then said, “Okay,” and sprang into the air.

“Where’s she-” They heard a deep splash. Something dark, fast and trailing streamers of water shot past Charming Booty and Shanty.  It skimmed the fire, whipping the flames into a caged frenzy. Harpoon’s wine red hooves shot out and like her namesake and, with a yelp from Flotsam, the unicorn was snatched up.

The sound of the magic ended with a merry Poi!, leaving a vacuum that sucked the flames upwards into the disturbed air.

Impact, motion, bewilderment and physical intimacy all stole into Flotsam’s awareness. Light exploded into dark. Pain unfurled like a red carpet down his back legs, while the rest of him was wrapped in cool rushing ocean air and an unflinching grip.

“That’s twice now.” Harpoon stated as they came to ground at the trees’ edge.

Glancing back they could see the fire – sans hostage – getting enthusiastically ultra-murdered with water and sand and mean words while other crew mares at last wandered nearer, wondering what all the fuss had been about.

“Yeah,” Flotsam said as he took his hooves. The skin of his back legs stretched taut with the motion and blistered. He faltered and hissed to breathe. “Ah, that hurts.”

Saying nothing but a sort of grunt in the affirmative, Harpoon simply lifted him back up and ferried him deeper into the trees, back towards the supply cache. “Hang in there,” she suggested not unkindly.

It was certainly better than “Walk if off,” in any case.


> Digging Deeper - OR - Are you a-Freud of the dark?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patches dreamed.

In her dream she climbed a hill, threading her way through sandy mulch and around tree trunks. At the top of the hill was an open place, quite wide given the size of the hill and the trees came to the edge of this space in a tight ring but would not intrude on it. 

She found Flotsam standing in the sunlight. He had a shovel with him. He was digging, but as she watched, Patches realized something was wrong. The blade struck earth again and again, jolting the unicorn each time. Where he hit there was a glassy shine that flashed, like a comet shooting past a mirror. The shovel would ricochet or just stop, but what it would not do was break ground. Grains of sand resisted like iron and the same unnatural flash flared briefly as Flotsam went on trying.

Patches wanted the shovel. Flotsam didn’t stop, or look at her, or speak. When the filly tried there was nothing, and even the memory of speech seemed distant and fuzzy. When she tried to take it, Flotsam shuffled away. When she pushed her slight weight against him he resisted with the minimum of force and all the while would not acknowledge her.

Patches got mad, but also playful. She wanted the shovel. She’d take it, Flotsam willing or no.

She circled around once. To her mind’s eye he shrunk, became less a giant and she threw herself at him. It was a grown, slim, long-limbed pony that grappled with Flotsam. As they tangled hooves the shovel fell aside. 

Patches tangled, she flipped, she grabbed and spun and pushed. Flotsam was slow. Even as he turned to face her newest attack she was pressing another. Flotsam went down in silent distress. Patches was grinning as she pinned him. Easing a hoof back the nape of his neck, she forced his head forward enough to sheath the unicorn’s horn in a melon. Watery, pinkish juices spilled down his face. He struggled limply under her, but whatever little bit of fight had been in him was gone now entirely.

Patches regarded Flotsam, folded up on his limbs as he was beneath her. She was pleased. Why had she..?

Oh, yes.

She stepped off Flotsam and turning away, took up the shovel from where it had fallen, forgotten. When she turned back – filly sized once more, shovel near enough twice her height – he wasn’t there. Gone. Not escaped, not flying or running or invisible. Simply…not.

So Flotsam was gone. The freshly martyred horn-sheathing melon had stayed. That, and the signs of their struggle. The scuffed hoofprints, where Flotsam…had…fallen?

Patches realized that for all their wrestling, Flotsam had made not a single impression on the ground. A pony who could read trail-sign would have thought a lone, maddened mare had had some kind of crazed dancing fit here. Had little magic lights flared under his hooves with each step while she wrestled? Lit up under his ribs as she toppled the unicorn and held him down?

Oh, and the red X splayed across the ground was new. Stretching she could not reach from end to end of it. Gripping the handle firmly, Patches dug.

In no time at all she had a large, metal studded chest on the ground before her. Literally no time. One instant she had broken open the earth with her first swing of the shovel (no trouble there at all, thank you very much) and the next, well, this here was the next. Something had gone blip and time had reorganized.

Patches had seen chests like this before. She’d been very small. Back then she was usually looked away somewhere snug and quiet and only allowed after the all the shouting and fighting had died down and somepony, sometimes bleeding, sometimes not – usually grinning – remembered to let her out just in time to shout taunts and make baffling, arcane gestures at the bruised and battered strangers she’d never met before as they and their ship – riding considerably higher in the water – limped away into the horizon. 

She glowed rosy with memory. She hadn’t really understood a lot of what it meant at the time, but it’d always felt like a great fun adventure and shared bonding experience.

The lock on the chest was old, rusted, and more than thick. It fell away, sheared open with one clean strike from the business edge of the shovel. Patches let both fall. The domed lid sprung back of its own accord and though the chest was on flat ground treasure surged out of it, perhaps for the look of the thing.

Rubies, emeralds. Jewellery, gold, money, power. It was a heady song of colour and light that sang under the sun. Patches ran her hooves through it. It was heavy.

No, it was pulling. And what it did was pull together. The mound was already tall as she was and growing. Patches leapt back and watched it grow.

Now the gems and coins were all together they started to take on shape. There was a definite suggestion of legs forming. Two pink sapphires floated up into the approximation of a face. A shiny horn of many parts rose up. Wings of gold and gem flared open, blinding Patches. She stepped backwards hurriedly, rubbing hastily at her eyes to clear them.

Curthe! Curthed Treathure! 

Unsteadily the golem tested its step, entirely fixated on its own progress, its body still polishing – so to speak – and refining its shape until it was as perfect a pony as could, at least in silhouette. It walked with poise equal to its lithe, shapely beauty. 

All the better to run her down with, Patches fretted.

The treasure golem turned its two lovely pink sapphires on the filly. Eventually Patches bumped her bottom into a tree.* Gold coins rattled and flowed, and to her horror Patches realized it was working its mouth. Open and close, open and close. 

All the better to eat her with, Patches feared.

The filly gritted her teeth. She bared them in a grimace. She didn’t think about where the sword came from, only that she hadn’t one, and now she had one and it was a marked improvement on life. She recognized the mechanism that kept it to her hoof, the springs and pivots very much the same as what Captain Nauticaa used; allowing for earth ponies to wield not from their mouths, but from their hooves. 

The golem came on, gnashing its mouth still. Patches caught a glimpse inside it, a press of gems and gold pieces all sliding over one another.

She raised her guard, shifting slightly on her hooves.

The resplendent spectre had the body, the poise, even the expression of a very pretty and now confused pony. It stalled at the sight of the sword. Patches did not.

She rushed the treasure golem and whacked at it gracelessly. The jolt of impact shot through the blade and up into Patches. The mechanism rattled and pinched her hoof. She hit it a few more times to little effect. The golem was metal and stone from end to end. 

The shining armoured thing looked hurt and shied away. Not hurt hurt, but…upset. Distressed.

Patches was feeling pretty distressed too. She glanced about. How did a pony fight something like this? She needed Flotsam’s magic, or the Captain’s impeccable bladework, hit some kind of vital point maybe, but if there were any Patches’ saw no hint of them on the golem. It had simply spilled out of the treasure chest and assembled itself from every last gem, jewel, ornament and bit.

Patches glanced about hurriedly, trying to back away while still holding some semblance of a guarded position. Wait, the shine there…it hadn’t used every piece?

There, sitting in the lee of the chest, a mirror-smooth, silver chalice. Every other piece was golem, but not this one? And it was glowing, a glow obscured by the sunshine, but glowing nonetheless with a light that could only be called could silvery, snowy purity.

The golem’s wings flared open. It raised its hooves in a threatening manner.

Dropping the damaged, pinchy, otherwise-very-nice-but-quite-useless-in-this-context sword Patches made ready to dash for it. 

Running fast as she could and then some because of fear she planted her front hooves on the last step, swung her back legs with all the momentum she could carry and booted the silvery chalice so hard it flew up, and up, and still up, ricocheting off a tree** and disappearing into the undergrowth. 

The golem, which had been nearly atop Patches, shook apart violently. Gems and gold poured down and buried the filly.





Patches awoke with muffled screaming jolt – her hollowed out place had proven too much and the sand castle had collapsed on her. It wasn’t hard to pull herself from the heap, and she simply nestled herself in on top collapse-soft sand to drift away again.

She didn’t notice (but we can, by the power of narrative) that the lovely red cockle near to her had crumbled into many little pieces. In the morning she would assume she had stepped on it, and feel bad for a moment without really knowing why before forgetting all about it.





Far away, two alicorns got their bearings and pulled themselves to shaky hooves.

“Your dream just tried to chop my head off,” Mi Amore Cadenza observed calmly. Her brief stint asleep had only awakened her body to how utterly, totally, haven’t-stopped-to-rest-for-days-on-end exhausted she was. Much too tired for shock or outrage. “Does that happen a lot?”

Luna had the scowl of an authority figure very recently kicked up the bottom. She  walked stiffly.  “Not it does not. And that was not my dream. Ponies rejoice to receive my visitations.”

She propped up the smaller alicorn on her shoulder and gently urged her towards bed.

“I couldn’t speak,” pondered Cadence. “There was no sound at all.” 

“Some ponies do not dream with sound. This filly is apparently one of them. For others it is colour. Normally these things are no impedance to me, but, this is hardly my normal method.” 

Cadence murmured agreement. “It’s new magic. We have to…” she yawned, “figure it out as we go.”

There was a couch just across the room. She’d get Cadence there, push her up onto it if needs be and let the poor, desperate pony sleep – properly sleep. Luna hoped to get her there before she realized what the plan was.

Cadence’s hooves scraped and slid across the crystalline floors. “I owe you so much thanks,” she murmured. “You helped me devise magic. New magic. And we found him with it. We found Shining Armor.”

“Indeed we have done.” Luna didn’t point out that what they’d actually found was a lot less than that. But it was a start. And while she doubted she was as entirely drained as Cadence, carrying an alicorn’s presence around the world and squeezing them both safely into a filly’s mind had been no mean feat. “Now put your head down.”

The good news – slight as it was – seemed to placate Cadence and she did. “I hope he’s having a good night,” she whispered sleepily.

“I am sure that he is. Now sleep,” Luna insisted, putting magic into the command. 

Luna walked  away, quickly losing herself to thought. Carrying a pony into another’s dream wasn’t not something Luna enjoyed doing. She alone was the warder of dreams, another pony would not know the risks and the nuances. 

It worried her that neither of them had manifested fully in the dream. They’d become props as it were to the filly’s narrative, as her mind took the foreign bodies and squished them into roles that, for her, made sense. Other limitations had applied. The lack of sound, for instance, made it that much harder to communicate.  Cadence need not know how fortunate she had been to manifest as something so indestructible as metal and mineral.

Luna, instead being the cup that held Cadence had had no such defences. She walked stiffly to her own chambers, granted to her indefinitely in the Crystal Empire’s palace.

There were no guards about. Luna took the opportunity to rub her tender behind in privacy. “Whoever she is, that filly can kick.”




> The late hour at which reasonable ponies should be in bed:
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’d been two ponies being rather intimate amidst the crates before. Flotsam was pretty sure on that. There was no sign of them now, except from a certain perspective, there were still two ponies here, just not the same two ponies; now it was Harpoon and himself in a world made up of outlines in the dark and little else. 

They, too, were being intimate. Flotsam winced and made the funny expressions of one having involuntary bodily spasms. 

“Careful,” he cautioned. Harpoon worked at him under his back legs. She’d been direct going straight for the point and making a quick, prompt job of it.

He winced as she gave a last tug with her jaw. The pegasus came up and stepped away, she was done.

“You’re good at this,” said Flotsam breathily.

Harpoon propped herself up on the crate opposite. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hoof and grunted acknowledgment. 

Flotsam slipped gingerly to his hooves. The bandages she’d tied around his back legs were tight, not constricting, but tight. The tautness added a softer note to the nagging, stinging hurt of his burns. He felt the prickle of seeping fluid which promised, sooner or later, that they’d itch maddeningly. For now though, the alcohol kept Flotsam detached from the sensations in all but the intellectual capacity.

Here in the trees tiny insects buzzed like dust-motes given rather inconsequential promotions. They made ears flick, eyes blink, tails toss and noses huff. That was it. They didn’t bite, and probably couldn’t. Flotsam didn’t recall there being any birds here either.

Flotsam lay down and closed his eyes, his back to the same crate Harpoon was on. It was unfeasibly late of the hour, he’d drunk more than he ever had in waking memory (ha, ha-ha, ha!) and felt strangely liberated by his circumstance. If tiny, nameless, harmless insects went exploring his mane – let them. If they went far adrift in his coat and lost their way, it would be on them.

Sleepily, he nibbled a few fronds of coarse, sallow, tasteless grass. “Are you from River…?” It was on the tip of his tongue. Except this one he could fish up, with some effort. “…Rivaplút,” he said defiantly, all but spitting the ú in overcompensation. Take that, memory.

For a time Harpoon didn’t answer. Flotsam thought she might have been asleep, but then, “I’ve spent time there.”

“And that’s where we’re headed?”

Again, the pause. He wondered if she were tired, or annoyed that he wanted to talk, or cautious about saying the wrong thing. Then he wondered if there was a wrong thing, what could it be? “Yeah. Everypony goes to Rivaplút, eventually.” It sounded like an expression the way she said it.

“What’s it like?” 

This time the delay ended, not with Harpoon’s voice, but the sound of her hooves hitting the sand. “It’s oily.” She came very close. “How did you cast that magic?”

“I don’t know.”

“You did it before, during the storm.”

“I don’t know how. It came from…” he trailed off, bopping his temple with a gesture as if to say “it came from in here, in the darkness inside, but hey, it saved Patches that one time, same goes for myself, so that’s got to be good, right? Right?”

It was a complicated sort of gesture to say the least.

“Where’d you come from with that raft you had?”

He could smell her feathers and the salty tang of her earlier dive. He grumbled, “Do you think I don’t want to know myself?” 

In spite of his flash of hostility, or perhaps because of it, Harpoon seemed satisfied. “Maybe you’ll find something in Rivaplút,” she said generously.

He realized that for all their exchange her breath had been a tangible thing, heat and motion in air. How dark had it gotten, he couldn’t even see…

Something that he hadn’t even realized was bugging him bobbled up now of all times. “Wait, is the port literally named River’s Plot?”

A wing on his back tugged him forwards and suddenly they were kissing. The answer to his question, he rationed with a diminishing consciousness, could wait.

“The Captain said…” he said in the hush between hungry, needy lips.

Harpoon somehow conveyed through kiss and moan and embrace that, yes, that was important, because the ship was their yesterday and was their tomorrow, but it was not, for once in actual fact, their tonight. Their Right Now.

It was an effective piece of body language to say the least.

We will spare the gentle reader further sensual, explicit, immodest description of their kissy-kissy. Of the hoof that familiarized itself with Harpoon’s wing and made the pegasus shiver we will only tut-tut, likewise to the one that wrapped around Flotsam’s back and pulled him closer. It might be worthy of note that the world seems a very different sort of place when one is in that position.* After the very long time of a few minutes, Flotsam dragged himself free, though what it really meant was he struggled and only nominally overpowered his own want, or give it its other name: need. Physically speaking, it was a gentle, insistent, slow pushing separation.

Flotsam stood and stepped and looked mostly-blind about with wide eyes and ran a hoof through his mane. His head was awash with the cloying pink and crimson of passion which for all practical purposes is a hell of a stronger potion than any old drink and comes from the inside anyway.

He was also smiling. “You know the Captain only makes me pretend? It’s-”

Still hard, Harpoon’s voice had a softer quality to it somehow. A voice – still stone – but polished. “I know.” The pegasus languidly came forwards, pressed lips to Flotsam’s again, his brain resumed its pleasant warm fluffiness. “I know the Captain. I’ve followed the Captain since before she was a captain. She’s always been…singular.”

Flotsam felt himself being eased onto his back. The little compartment in Flotsam’s mind that was still whirring away** noted that words had been spoken with genuine respect. Not the bought and paid for kind, as he’d presumed but of years spent together, even friendship after a sorts. “Then why…?”

The kisses were intoxicating. “Because I’m not,” Harpoon answered brusquely.

“This is whole thing is a bad idea,” thought the rational vestige of Flotsam, which was actively being shushed by the rest of him. If it was a bad idea, then it was one wrapped in yearning and tied with the ribbon of sex appeal. 

Which, on the whole, made it a very enticing present to have.

They continued with the kissy-kissy for a time. The sharp – not loud, but sharp – crackle of a stick some paces behind them had the most curious effect on poor Flotsam. It combined the worst aspects of icewater-down-the-pants-shock and the imagination and helplessness of a metallic prod in the back and a stranger’s voice just over your shoulder insisting that you turn around slowly.

Some impossible abstract quality to the sound filled Flotsam with dread and certainty that it was only going to be one pony.

“I had thrange dreamth,” Patches said wearily. “There wath a hill, and it wath…?” The filly pouted with half-forgotten confusion. She trudged her way to the two ponies, now carefully disengaged from one another and nestled her way into the gap between them. She latched onto Flotsam with what a cynical reader might interpret as a subconscious “you left me alone earlier, you jerk, but you’ll not be leaving again, har-har” sort of grasp.

Harpoon gave a sort of semi-audible shrug. She seemed to relax into the new, vastly changed reality a lot easier than Flotsam. Living on a ship and all, he presumed. And with the filly having stolen a wing for a blanket, the mare wasn’t going anywhere.

Flotsam, very still, very much awake, very much aware stayed that way for a long time. 
Eventually, by tiny measures Flotsam relaxed and even dozed fitfully. Patches mumbled in her sleep next to him. He’d never noticed that as a trait of hers before. If he’d paid attention to it now, it might have done him good. But we can forgive him, for he had other things on his mind just then. 

Like his burns, which began to tickle and itch and tormented him through the rest of the night, just as they’d promised*** they would.


> Underway
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though he was unconscious to the fact, Flotsam fell quite naturally – if rigidly – into the eyes forwards, attentive vacancy of a subordinate under scrutiny. It suggested everything of tactful obeisance and gave absolutely nothing away and if asked about what the implied metaphorical something was would meet it with uncomprehending obstinance. His head had the cloudy, choppy-weather ache of a hangover, his bandaged back legs itched something terrible and the presence of the First Mate at the edge of his periphery made for confusing, butterflies-in-stomach sensations. The butterflies had a mind to kick and slap and be generally rather thuggish with everything they could get at in there, but on his face none of it would have shown. He refused to recognize the agitated lust for the pegasus and very privately in his head wished the butterflies would go skirmish with that instead and spare him the turmoil. Images of last night flashed hotly, darkly behind his vision.

Captain Nauticaa sat at her desk with the appropriate counter-expression to complement his own, which is to say she wore the authoritative, slightly imposed upon, formal, displeased-on-general-principles, hard-about-the-eyes expression of any individual who deals with subordinates on a regular basis.

It was a time-honoured tango.

The words hung in the air still, though several moments had passed. The actual chair Nauticaa kept was forgettable, the short-coming of someone truly spartan in their stylings, but the broad, scored desk more than sufficed as a trapping of her office. Charts were rolled out under paperweights, delicately inked and inked over with nonsensical notations and symbols from where Flotsam stood. Some of the marks in the wood itself could have been the scars of swordplay, half-tucked away down there.

The words still hung in the air. Flotsam could feel the Captain’s scrutiny bearing down on him. Not unkindly, but terribly, woefully exacting, like measuring scales that he sat inside of being swung about with.

Her eyes flicked down to his legs in the only motion anyone had made for a while. “Curious,” she said. Just that. Nothing else. 

Flotsam broke the spell. Or perhaps fell into it. “Captain?” he hazarded.

Nauticaa was a dark, dark piebald, green and grey-black blurring together, a vision of colours that might be found by diving into the ocean, deep as one’s lungs could hold then staring down deeper still. It was the colours of ghostly kelp forests and silent things.

“You got yourself into trouble and out of it again. End of story.” She waved a dismissive hoof. “The ship’s filly will tell you what to do today. Tommorow we’ll discuss your arrangements.”

The words jumped. “Arrangements, sir?”

Now the Captain just look put-upon. “Have you put any thought about what you’ll do when we come into port?” Flotsam’s face had been perfect instinctive schooled ignorance* before, now it must have become easy to read because Nauticaa continued, saying, “I suggest you consider it now. I mean to have us in port within three days. We’ll speak about your situation tomorrow.”

The Captain softened by minute degrees. “Do you remember anything, yet?”

Flotsam let his eye rove the charts. Somewhere in there was a tiny theoretical point that could be called Us here in the ship and another one, equally abstract called Where we’re going. If there was some clue as to the position of either, he couldn’t see it.

“No, sir.” Feeling that wasn’t enough, that she didn’t deserve stubbornness and the conversation had moved on he added, “Sometimes there are moments, a second where I nearly do, but it doesn’t stay. Everything I remember is here.”

Only then did Nauticaa seem genuinely at a loss for words. Flotsam hadn’t met the Captain all that much in his limited time aboard her ship, didn’t feel he’d really gotten to know her, but for the impressions she tended to give one this seemed a rare enough event for her.

“The filly will find you when I send her. Have some coffee in the meantime.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

And that was that. Flotsam bowed out and blinked into the glittering, twinkling-ocean sunlight. If he’d been antsy going in, antsy about his teaser of a tryst with Harpoon, well…that didn’t bother him so much now. 

What was the Captain going to do, put him off the ship? The thought put things in perspective.

Around him a smattering of ponies worked at arcane things, checking lines, scuttling above and below decks. A few danced about the, stunted, out of place, ugly improvised mast. Not danced danced, it went without saying,** but rather checking this, considering that, three-quarters complaining that this was what they were stuck with and one-quarter grateful that the damage hadn’t been worse.

He tended to stand well back from ponies at work. He knew most of the crews’ by now, now that he thought about it. There was Moon Tide, an earth pony, water-at-night blue with a paler mane and tail to match, she made a better effort at hygiene than most of the crew himself included, if the block of yellowed soap she guarded jealously was anything to go by. She’d made a big deal of giving him the loan of it after the storm, to “scrub up nice,” then managed to be moody that he used “too much.” She’d been in prime position to speculate on the matter, as she’d insisted she watched the whole thing, and even that hadn’t put a damper on her sulk for long. There’d been a too much shine on tooth and in eye as he, as she had put it, “scrubbed up.” Granted, it’d been a bit of scrubbing on the decks with a bucket and age-browned brush, hardly privacy, but still.

Above in the riggings was Parrot, jungle-green with exotic flashes of blue and yellow stripes along her barrel and on the edges of her wings. A crimson bandana hung loosely around her neck, showing off an easy smile. Like her namesake she seemed to prefer climbing to actual flight. She nodded her head earnestly as Moon Tide directed her on knots and things. One that preferred to go along with the others and follow orders, Flotsam thought. 

Then there was Sea Bed, a blue-black unicorn. He didn’t know much about her – she tended to be below decks more than most. She’d never given him grief, by lewdness or otherwise, but something was chilly about her. She and another pony were tying down a load of timber, some of it salvaged from the damage, some of it the reedy, thin banana-curved stuff they’d harvested on the island. 

The other one took a moment’s thinking to remember the name of: Hop Scotch. Another earth pony, this one a pale brown. Now that he thought about it, he’d only ever seen her at night before, maintaining watch with a little oil lantern. She was slight, wore a cap and a ridiculously cliché eye patch precisely because it was cliché and had once told him there was a trick to it, but what that was he couldn’t remember. A fair enough one to talk to, she seemed to give a token of thought to what he had to say and would make some conversation when it was otherwise quiet and dark, but he preferred not to be caught alone, in part due to the filthy innuendos she occasionally seeded the conversation with.

Flotsam thought about “getting caught alone,” with Harpoon and quickly shook the thought aside. Not so quickly that he didn’t relish the pleasant tingle for a second, mind you.

At the wheel and having a fairly easy job of it for the moment was the last pony working in sight. Windlass, who was big and staunch and had oddly gentle, attentive eyes for someone otherwise so mean-looking. She stared forwards with the look of a pony capable of keeping attentive to a dreary task for hours on end. 

He brushed his way below deck, met the rush of disconcerting darkness – it would be twinned by the blinding rush of light when he came up again – determined to get a decent meal into himself before he was called for anything. He suspected, head and hoof be damned, he was going to find himself with more work than usual today. 

Surprising himself, agreed with the idea, even welcomed his recompense. He’d do the same, nothing official, but a light punishment of sorts, a chance for whatever hapless recruit that had made the mistake to have a few unhappy hours to really learn the lesson of it.

Flotsam startled in the dark. He recognized the moment for what it was. He strained, groped after it, but he might as well have tried to grab water in his hooves and lost it. When he came back from it he felt a little woozy, took a second to blink his eyes and head a little clearer and remembered what was certain.

If there’d been another pony in that exact spot with him, and if they’d had their night vision in full swing already and if they had good eyes at that and if been looking for it, they might just have seen strange little flashes, like mirrors flickering, for an instant catching the light of very tiny – or very distant – comets.

But that was a lot of ifs and not one of them had been realized and so the entire moment passed without the slightest bit of awareness on anyone’s part.

What a shame. It might have helped them to notice that, later on.

For the moment though, Flotsam walked, half-feeling, half-remembering his way along the narrow walls to the galley, possessed of a simpler, more tangible concern. Well, that and the whole Rivaplút thing.

“Food,” he mused to no one under his breath. “Food and coffee.”





> In the galley
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Mother of Mercy’s galley existed in perpetual gloom. Two brass lamps affixed to the walls did their best to light it. Their coppery sheen had long gone tarnished and the glass bulbs were burned brown and black. Small motions kept the flames perpetually flickering, making the shadows quiver like excited puppies under the tables and in the corners, and it was always a little warm and a little stuffy. A row of tiny glass windows, all parts equal, round, very thick, admitted dusty beams of sunlight making for lighter and darker places throughout.

It was quiet, but then it would be, this time of day. That was how he heard Shanty humming; just under her breath, not really meaning to be heard. Flotsam moved passed the mares. They seemed to take Shanty’s doleful little tune as a matter of course. Charming Booty’s head was down on the table. She might have been asleep, but an ear half-seen in shadow flicked his way and Flotsam knew the unicorn merely nursed the residue of last night’s excess, but she was aware. This he understood, being in the same boat himself.

The galley was large enough for the purposes of the ship and no more. Tight benches and narrow tables – both mounted into place – leaving enough of an aisle that a pony might squeeze past another, or manoeuvre with care a large pot or cauldron to and from the decks.

The aisle didn’t end like the rest of the rectangular space did. It carried on, becoming a chokepoint of ever-clattering tinware: ladles and spoons and knives, pots, pans and strainers; over-head drawers and hoof-height drawers; a row of drawers for eclectic arrangements of bowls: pewter, wood, chipped and cracked ceramic; a whole drawer of wiry-headed scrubby-brushes for cleaning up: a monsterous, evening-eating task in its own right; the whole of it making a chokepoint of stuff. If a pony could go through a narrow mineshaft, remove the rock and leave the metal and struts and things exactly in place, it might have resembled this. 

The things all translated the sea’s every motion into constant sound. On today’s gentle waves there was only a suggestion, a hint of clitter-clinker-CLATTER-clinker-clitter, going on and on and mutable in every way. 

The actual space didn’t end there either, to the very back the space opened up again, but only Cook regularly went there on pain of hard-eyed, squinty staring. Whether that was her actual name or honoured title/job description/both Flotsam didn’t know. In either case, it was her tiny kingdom back there and everypony – including the Captain – respected that. 

It was two-fold reinforced. Back there was the stove that cooked all meals, and a ship that doesn’t respect fire and said fire’s keeper doesn’t remain a tiptop shipshape ship-shaped ship for very long. The second aspect was that it is always unwise to make an enemy of the one who prepares your food. Flotsam had in fact been back there despite the preamble, but then so had most every pony at one point or another

They went to do the Washing Up. Or more exactly, they were sent to do it. Nopony wanted to go: getting stuck the tab for the gritty, greasy, gratuitous pile-up of dishes was a mainstay of the not-punishments that Nauticaa dished out for various minor infractions on her ship. Patches, to whom the task typically fell to outside of such circumstances, didn’t mind as much. The ship’s filly took it in stride, treating the cramped, half-blind, elbow-creaking work as a sort of stay-at-home pilgrimage. The times Flotsam had worked alongside her she’d seemed content. He tried to adopt the same mindset those times he worked alone and found that he could, more or less.

Fortunately, Flotsam had no need to go so far in today. Everything a pony needed for snacks and light meals was much more accessible than that. The fireless kettle (just add magic!) was a communal treasure, and some of the mugs were so old and well-used that they could make quite a strong cup of coffee - or at least something resembling coffee - all on their own. 

He took a lesser, merely-mortal mug and made his coffee the more conventional way.

There was the box of cookies as well. A very faded vestige of flaky paint suggested that once there’d been a widely smiling pony, dressed outlandishly and holding up a long-gone cookie, winking as he bit into it. It could have simply been a sturdy tin bought in some town years ago and used as the ship’s cookie-hoarding place, being roughly and frequently loved for the years ever since, but a much more believable answer was that it had been dredged from the pits of darkness, little smiling foreigner and all. It was rusty. It was old. 

Flotsam took one and ate it. Custard cream. Stale, as was to be expected, but not bad. The ancient painted caricature smiled at him, as it did to all cookie-comers. Giving in  to his darkest, damndest desires Flotsam fished about quickly – daring not to glance at the other ponies behind him – and fished out two more. One custard, one bourbon. 

He felt in his soul the tangled guilt-thrill of a sneak-thief.

Charming Booty grumbled. Even in this poor light her mane was like banked fire. She gave an agonized little wave from her catnap place. She hadn’t raised her head that he had seen. “Make me one too, handsome Sammy.” 

“Mmpph.” Scalding his tongue to wash away the pasty crumbs, he reiterated, “alright.”

“Same.”

“Yeah.” Other voices mumbled in accordance.

One whistling kettle and two minutes later Flotsam came to the table levitating near half a dozen mugs. Head still down on the table and hidden in her leg, Charming Booty patted the seat next to her. He took the seat and up she came, her mane spilling about her shoulders.

Treasuring it in her hoofs she breathed in the steam. She moaned appreciatively. “Oh, yes.”

Flotsam was a little abashed. Partly about the whole seat-patting sexual patronisation thing, partly because he suspected the word deviant had been coined with ponies like her in mind, partly because he had to remind himself she was one of the higher-most ranking members of the crew just shy of the First-Mate and Captain themselves, and partly because she was cultured.

But also not.

No, that wasn’t quite right. The Quartermaster and self-acclaimed finder of treasures was cultured, after a fashion. But hers was a manner and style that had been pieced together from snippets of a dozen different places.

She turned and caught the ghostly sunbeam arcing between them and Flotsam almost lurched. He’d expected her to look hung over. Which she was. His mistake was expecting her to look it

Charming Booty was stunning, which was to say she literally and not figuratively stunned Flotsam. Her mane hung down with only its slight natural waviness about it – she hadn’t done anything with it yet today – and honestly it looked striking, although this time it was figurative. This was it, the fabled, the mythical, the much-falsified ‘just out of bed’ look and Charming Booty had not only caught it and nailed it and killed it, she’d  left its head on a proverbial pike in the middle of town for everpony to see.

Except, you know, pretty. She looked more vital. Less crass.

It was a look to make one think about getting back into bed. A week ago Flotsam might have blown it off, better yet not even thought this way at all, but his growing familiarity with the crew and with a certain First Mate had tugged off that scab of indifference and distance, leaving him a little more inflamed for it.

She caught his eye and must have caught his general gobsmackery because her eyes caught his. Just below his focus her lips did something, a whisper maybe, or the motions of one and then the light sunbeams lighting the galley shafted them all and vanished.

Three things passed through Flotsam’s mind almost instantly. The first was an impression: this being that it was a pegasus flying outside the hull. Harpoon or Parrot or someone. Pegasi flitted above and about the ship all the time. The second was an observation. A pegasus would have been a quick and fleeting blur, not a lasting darkness and not on every window at the same time.

The third and final thing was a sensation: a sensation of cold – a very peculiar, particular chill. Not freezing at all, only a slightly lesser warm, but somehow always sidling to the forefront of awareness.

Flotsam recognized it for what it was. It was the cold a pony felt when they were suddenly standing in shade. Like a cloud passing overhead, but thicker. More solid.

There were already hooves and voices from the deck, loud and fast and coming this way.



> Unexpected Guest Callers - Part 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crew mares surged from the galley and Flotsam was carried along in the current.

“We’re under attack!” someone shouted as the lone stallion fought to keep legs beneath him.

Shouts reached them from the deck above. Shanty shouted over the growing din. “Attack? Us? Don’t they know who we are?”

Charming Booty lead the rush, all trace of her earlier weakness vanished. “It has been a something of a dry spell.” She sounded cheery and coy.

There were maybe ten ponies here in all, crammed in but well used to such conditions.

Exhilaration fired up the crew, jumping from mare to mare like a fever. Symptoms included a sudden outbreak of weaponry. A jolt through the planks of the ship left Flotsam reeling off somepony’s flank.

“Don’t lose your pretty head!” the firey-haired Quartermaster shouted. She winked at Flotsam. The glint in her eyes matched very well with the steel of her sword.

“It’s griffons!”

“A sky-frigate full of griffons!”

“More like a can full of chicken soup! Ha!”

“Friggin’ griffons!”

“I said frigate. Fri-Gate!”

“They spilled my coffee!”

“Frigate about it!”

“I will NOT forget about my coffee! That was my first cup of the day! I NEED MY FIX.”

“WE are the ones that raid!”

The shouts bled into one another. Heavily armed and shiny eyed mares rushed past Flotsam and shot out onto the deck.

“Where’s Patches?” he shouted. A hoof yanked his chin. It was Charming.

“She knows what to do for herself. You just keep your head down! Try to relax. Enjoy your first time.” The unicorn half-cackled. She locked her lips to his in a fierce smooch before that hit him like a bombshell. Her hooves grabbing his backside didn’t escape his notice either. “For luck.” The Quartermaster cackled, taking a playful flick at his horn before rushing out into the fray.

An angry squawk turned into desperate wing beats and a feathery slam against the decking. “This is what we do, birdbrains!”

“Bite me, pony!”

“You’re not nearly pretty enough!”

Something of the crew’s wild enthusiasm infected him. He wanted to fling himself wantonly into their high adventure, run with sea-wolves and engage in the witty repartee that all true skirmishes call for.

It was sorely tempting, but that wasn’t Flotsam, not really. His own true calling was to protect. It called him now. Patches. He recalled everything he could of her today. Captain’s Quarters. That’s what Nauticaa had said. She’d send the filly to fetch him after to discuss the future.

Well, now he’d seen the future and it had griffons. Lots and lots of griffons. Griffons were famously strong, were more naturally aggressive than ponies, came equipped with weapons built-in and had the advantage of flight.

The pirates (he had to distinguish these as the ‘not my pirates’ set) battled across the deck. An unlikely duel was perched atop the ship’s wheel, as if some pony (or griffon, or both…) had the insane idea to make log-rolling even more ridiculous and extreme. Pegasi and griffons zoomed, dodged, dived, flitted through ropes and ricocheted off rigging.

The cacophony filtered through Flotsam quickly. The MoM had the advantage on her own decks. In the air the griffons had the advantage: all of them could fly, far lesser so were the ponies that could.

Even the griffon ship was flying.

It was long and slender and was perched in the air some hundred feet or so above them. Sails sprouted like petals from it on all four sides.

Flotsam’s eyes were yanked from the skies – quite literally yanked – by a rough grip on his horn.

Forced off his balance and painfully jarred at an angle, he managed to sidestep enough to keep himself from toppling. Flotsam shook free, cringing as talons raked along his horn, nails on chalkboard style except said board being hard mounted directly onto his head. It was not nice. “Not for grabbing!” he shouted before throwing a punch into the griffon’s face that sent it sprawling. Even as he rushed away he stifled a shudder. “Honestly, don’t grab that,” he muttered, a little bit amazed with his own strength.

He flung the doors open to the Captain’s Quarters, heard the slam of damaged hinges and winced, then doubly berated himself for having singly berated himself about breaking Nauticaa’s doors when griffons were currently storming the ship.

“Patches?” She wasn’t here, lest she had hid herself away behind the curtain near the Captain’s own bed. Thoughts of embarrassing push ups and overly noisy, sweaty exercise rattled his attention.

Something kicked him squarely in the butt. A millisecond later the planks exploded. Flotsam hit the Captain’s floor hard and wood splinters fell about like liberally-applied sprinkles.

Free cannons: just add gravity he thought dizzily. That kick had hurt. And it had saved his figurative donkey.

“Get up,” Captain Nauticaa growled. She spat out a mouthful of feathers and strode over him like so much obstacle and in the same graceful movement flicked her slender blade into the cabinet door. She flicked the latch open. There was a click of metal clasps and suddenly she had two swords, the pommels fixed to the curious spring-and-lever hoofshoe mechanisms Flotsam had seen her wear before. In the resting position, hoof planted squarely to the ground the sword attached rose upwards and outwards, not unlike wings. Rearing up made them flick forwards for slashing and thrusting.

“My ship,” she muttered darkly. “Mine.” Swords splayed like a vengeful alicorn about to knock seven colours of a rainbow out of some fools, she strode for the fray.

Flotsam hurried to his hooves, as much to obey as to just get out of her way. “Where’s Patches?”

That gave Nauticaa pause. “She went looking for you.”

The tone carried more than some accusation. It brokered no argument and that was without the twinned swords shining at him.

Another cannonball crashed into the deck nearby. “I’ll get her,” he promised. 

“Do that.”




A second cannonball crashed into the deck nearby. Nauticaa wasn’t mad, which was to say she didn’t raise her voice and her lines of thinking were cool and collected. “I’ll get her,” Flotsam said, shaken and stumbling on his hooves through the impact. His eyes, though; they were sincere and unshaken.

Nauticaa didn’t wait around. She’d taken his measure these last weeks and found him capable. Not very bright – she suspected even restored this would be the case – but his heart she found no fault with. Not natural to a place such as this. Too genuine.

An image of the squall flashed through her mind. A shield spell; turning aside danger. Patches pulled from the storm-tossed water. Flotsam had saved the child. Whatever doubts she had of the stranger were blown out of the water.

“Do that,” she stressed. With any luck the two most inexperienced members of her crew would keep together and their foolishness would cancel one another out.

Not likely, she thought and surged into the fray, bounding over the shiny new gaping hole in her ship’s deck and locking swords with the first griffon she saw. Two more came at her from the sides and none of her crew were near her. This was a good thing: she preferred having room to work. Her mares knew her habits and tended to clear the area.

Nauticaa knew the pirates of these waters. She knew the pirates, the freebooters, the sea dogs, the corsairs and even a steadily increasing number of – rarity of rarities – honest sailors. Pirate crews tended to got along as amicably as cats in a sack, and Nauticaa’s recent career goals hadn’t won her any new friends in that lot. She’d never seen these blue-black, almost crow-looking griffons before. New-comers, then. Silvery steel gauntlets adorned their talons and matching helms gave their beaks a spear’s strength and edge.

Sloppy pirates! Insultingly so. Her mast was a slap job and they weren’t even trying to destroy it. Hop Scotch and some fool griffon were engaged in hilarious and witty repartee sword play atop the wheel, spinning it madly back and forth, but – and this was important – not destroying it. If Nauticaa was theoretically mad – hypothetically furious, then that sort of silliness only stoked it further. Hop Scotch would be getting words from her after this fracas. Nauticaa blocked out the urge to make these newcomer, two-bit griffons take note and do piracy properly.

Her current partner’s beaky thrust out at her right on cue (about time, too, she had her next actions and reactions lined up and considered, it was less than pointless to stand their with locked swords and spit at one another, after all) and ducked her head under his. Jarring upwards, headbutting his chin, Nauticaa pulled herself forwards on her swords. The Captain swung her back legs forwards, planted them squarely in the griffon’s tufty, muscled chest and completed the motion with her standing hindlegs on the grounded foe, the air of his lungs squashed out of him in an ugly hoot. From there it was a simple step to launch herself and become a twirling pinwheel of unpleasantness for the other two.

She spun and nearly took Flotsam’s head off. She jerked hard to pull the strike. Even as it threw her balance she managed to the catch the blade enough; she caught a glimpse of blue hairs falling and the charging stallion rammed headlong into the exposed side of a griffon, lifting her from her talons and carrying through.

That was exactly the kind foolishness that annoyed Nauticaa. She wasn’t going to land on her hooves after that. She might as well adapt her fall into an attack and land on an elbow. Griffon spittle from her conveniently placed landing pad spattered the Captain and she rolled, swords to her sides, under a groping attempt at a bear hug from her last, still standing foe.

Her attempt to lop off a back foot ended with a metallic clang. Earth pony sword-shoes allowed for unparalleled control, but they punished bad handling. A firm enough shock could shatter the mechanism and disarm her, or worse, leave a dangling sharp edge she no longer controlled flailing from her leg.

This hit did neither, but making a mistake was enough to bother her. Forced to roll again she caught a white glimpse; Flotsam, tossing his opponent like she were a hoofball. It was a considerable throw, the floundering griffon hen went out and up and over the side of the ship before dropping out of sight. Nauticaa wanted to cuff the pony upside the head. Griffons fly. He seemed to have forgotten that detail.

That was his problem. The steel-taloned gauntlet driving itself half an inch deep into the planks where the Captain’s head had just been was hers. It reminded her of her younger days.

A wide slash from her was easy to evade. With a gust of air her opponent pulled himself clear of the strike. Room to work with. Exactly what she’d intended to acquire.

Nauticaa rolled to her hooves and rushed him again. You tried to wean a ship off piracy but it had a way of dragging you right back in. You’re having fun though stressed an oft ignored dimension of her thoughts.

Worried about that blood on the sword though, that same, detached part of her mind not concerned with the actual fighting mused. She hadn’t scored hits on any griffons…

It was only a little speckle anyway. She caught the damage to Flotsam with the corner of her eye. It was about time that baby-faced stallion started looking credible anyway.





Flotsam was in the Captain’s Quarters and he had to go find Patches. Everything else could be ignored or avoided. He fixed the premise singularly in his thoughts. Then the captain sped away, from standing to quickness without actually seeming to go through the usual degrees of acceleration between. The shadow of the frigate above made everything dangerous and uncanny. Or at least managed the uncanny element. The marauding griffons handled the ‘dangerous’ aspect.

The Captain knew everything she did and he knew that he knew very little. Flotsam clambered across the chasm of splintered, toothy wood thinking he must check below decks again. He hadn’t seen the filly when he’d come this way, but if he’d come along the port side (or starboard, he didn’t know) and she’d rushed along the opposite (whichever that was)… they could have swapped places without meeting at all.

She couldn’t be mad-fool enough to be anywhere up here.

He made to go, but there was the Captain, trapped between griffons, three on one without any kind of help. He had to save her!

Flotsam was two galloping strides from the griffon on her left when Nauticaa felled Mr. Centre-piece griffon. He felt air gush as the griffon wheezed and then Nauticaa jumped and glittery steel twirled. The air stung sharply but that sensation fell into the others – impact, rolling, wood and feather and smelly griffon smells aplenty.

He should have levelled a simple spell and blasted the griffon. That would have been the smarter option, but Flotsam privately suspected he wasn’t a walking-and-chewing-bubblegum sort of pony. Action tended to preclude thought.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t puzzle things out, merely that he found it a somewhat more challenging when he was neck-deep into griffon plumage. Most of the hen was pinned under him. A clenched fist worked pneumatically against his ribs.

“Ow, ow! OW! Stop it!” He caught the offending limb in magic, then dragged the other forelimb so that they were shackled together. The hen very emphatically and loudly taught Flotsam a few choice descriptor words in her native tongue. He swung his hindquarters away, keeping his belly away from the cat-kicking frenzy of the griffon’s back legs. A member of the crew probably would have stomped the griffon in the gut somewhat, just to quieten her down a bit. Flotsam, however, was not a pragmatic fighter/vicious bastard and his instinct regarding combat might have stunk a little bit of genuinely honourable intentions.

He risked a glance to the Captain, who was not only holding her own but taking a lot of everyone else’s also. His only other thought was to get the pirate off the ship (the afore inferred viciousness-unto-submission thing not really factoring into this concept for him).

So he hefted the hen, balanced her best he could and heaved. The griffon dropped over the side and vanished from sight.

His back was turned when the poofy-with-embarrassment-and-rage hen returned the tackling favour with a vengeance and the both of them went tumbling down through the gaping hole in the deck.





Battle raged the breadth and length of the Mother of Mercy while cannon balls were dropped onto the deck from such a height as to make cannons redundant. The ship lurched forward, swerving left and right and the griffon sky-frigate mirrored her movements like a dance partner.

Harpoon had knocked unconscious two griffons already. Her method was simple and effective. She flew swift and low to the deck and watched the various duels beneath her unfold. When one opened up or the crew-mare there needed some help, Harpoon came spearing down like a thunderbolt, driving the invader into the deck or along it until they slammed together into a gunwale.

It was a bad habit for a griffon to forget that they weren’t the only ones in the skies.

It was getting harder to keep ahead of her pursuers though. She made to dive on Griffon No. 3 only to be yanked painfully from the assault by her tail. Sea and sky blurred around in a huge, fast arc and Harpoon was walloped against the mast of the ship.

Stars flared across her vision. Something heavy and dark rushed past her and punched another hole into the deck. They weren’t even trying to sink the ship, she noticed angrily. Just beating the tar out of it for kicks, it seemed.

The cannonball had forced whatever griffon had caught hold of her tail out of the way. It was almost enough time to get a new breath into herself before another pull sent her flailing around, slamming into the opposite side of the mast. Her vision swam. New stars exploded into being to mingle with the rest.

She was cogent enough to know that she was going to be sent for another spin. That, or let fall onto the deck. Either way was going to hurt bad. Despite herself, she couldn’t bring the presence of mind to do anything about it.

Two hits she remembered roughly. Two hits to daze her like this. These griffons fought mean. Harpoon could respect that.

Magic zipped past her in a burst of bright bolts and feathers that weren’t hers flew up into the air. The tension on her tail was released.

Harpoon spun her head fuzzily about, settled her eyes on the dark shape under her, ponderously raised her two hooves together as if begging divine intercession, then brought the package down wholesale on the griffon’s armoured head. The resonant clang! and distressed squeak therein satisfied her and together they went tumbling down towards the decks.

She knew in a calm, detached sort of way that she would have to flare her wings, pull her chest and angle herself sharp as she could to pull out of a fall like this. She also knew that she hadn’t a hope of pulling any of that off just now. She felt drunk in her movements and very heavy; gravity seemed to agree with her.

Someone shouted Windlass! and Harpoon found herself caught like a sack on the outstretched leg of that giant of a mare.

“Sorry,” Windlass said shyly. The dazed griffon she tucked away behind her. Harpoon was handled gently until she was back on her hooves. The big pony’s lips were puckered with worried thought. “Sorry, ma’am,” the pony stressed.

The ship was erupting with battle, curses, battle-curses and wood splinters, and Windlass was flustered about a lapse in respectful deference. But that was her just her way. Problems that were bigger than her understanding she trusted completely to her higher-ups.

Harpoon nodded dizzily, forcing her hooves to not shake under her. Her role in this battle was over, at least as a combatant. She glanced at her adversary. Tongue lolling, eyes rolled, and tucked discreetly aside by Windlass. It’d do.

The Captain was across the deck, several rolling duels between here and there. Nauticaa was spiralling towards her latest opponent like some dread love-child inheriting the metal unstoppability of a mining bore and the precision of a spinning ballerina. A pair of griffon toes flew up into the air amidst the clamour. A slap with the flat of Nautica's blade knocked them spinning away into the water. A furious griffon screech met the Captain’s advance.

Harpoon had suspected for some time that the Captain liked to show off, just a little bit. She would never voice the thought aloud though.

She’d seen enough. The Captain had things well in hoof for herself and, Harpoon privately surmised, didn’t want to be interrupted in her rare chance at cutting loose. “I’m taking the wheel.”

Then she ducked just in time to not be swept away with Windlass’ tree-trunk of a leg, which whirled past overhead like a comet.

A terror-shrieking pair of griffons were pinned by sheer inertia to the hoof and as Windlass completed the arc they accelerated away, tumbling a trail of feathers through the air as they shot overboard and out of sight. The looming tan earth pony smiled with self-conscious hopefulness, looking to Harpoon for approval.

“That’a girl. Good job.” Harpoon had since learned to work with the tools she was given, and Windlass was the sort of pony that had on her first day aboard pulled up the anchor, chain and all, by hoof because nopony had told her that wasn’t how it was supposed to be done. She paid attention and thought hard about what she was instructed with and once she learned something it stayed learned. And the pony had a thirst for validation, which for the most part was well deserved. Positive reinforcement training, Charming Booty had called it.

“Push through,” Harpoon ordered.

“Aye.” There were numerous small gashes where the griffons had raked at the mare’s leg.

They bulled through the skirmish, friendlies and enemies alike and found the wheel already occupied.

Parrot’s jungle-hued plumage stood on end. Her coat was equally standing on end and her mane was frizzy. Her wings were so stiffly pronounced they might have flown away of their own accord entirely. Presently a griffon’s head was lodged in the spokes of the wheel. By pulling with her body weight behind it she managed to lock the griffon into a choking vice.

“SAY MY NAME!” the teen shrieked. Her pupils were hellish pinpricks in a whirling golden iris reflecting the griffon’s own shocked expression back to himself two-fold. “Say it!”

By the blueness about the griffon’s face, they’d been at this for some time.

Harpoon wasn’t one to enjoy interrupting ponies and avoided doing such where she could, especially when they were so clearly enjoying themselves, but the MoM needed its keel in the grasp of somepony a little less fixated on expressing her feelings just now.

Parrot leapt about with a snarl, blinked rapidly and shrunk noticeably as her various hairs, feathers and extremities lowered themselves back to her body. Her expression softened considerably to one that might have been seen on a housewife who’d just received an unexpected guest caller and wished she’d done more tidying up first.  “Oh, First Mate.”

“Keep them off me,” Harpoon stated simply, dragging the gasping griffon clear then giving the wheel a hefty toss that sent the ship pulling them all sideways. Her battered back and sides protested the strain but she ignored it.

Daylight crept over the port gunwale and inched its blazing way back onto the deck. A cannonball veered into open water and vanished with a splash. The instant the light faltered in its advance – the griffons above moved their frigate to match the maneuver – Harpoon sent the wheel rocketing the other way. Ponies and griffons alike lurched across the deck.

For now, it was all she could do to shake loose of as many of the falling cannonballs as she could. A hundred feet overhead griffons shouted and worked to bring their frigate over them again. There were too few pegasi on the crew to make a move on it and the unicorns of the crew lacked the kind of magic power to challenge the ship from here. Harpoon grit her teeth as she fought her best to keep the already mast-hobbled ship out of the bath of falling cannonballs. Windlass and Parrot fended off griffons, but she gave her only thought to the wheel. Her wings promised pain tomorrow, then she flung it hard enough to tilt the ship and send half the combatants staggering about.

Another cannon ball splashed harmless into the ocean. Slowly, with much in the way of distant shouting, the sky-frigate began to come closer... 

“That’s right,” the First Mate growled, “that’s right.”





Flotsam and the griffon hen fell through the hole. Flotsam fell in tangle of hair and limbs, some of which weren’t his. His ribs were organizing a protest march against his brain. He blinked against the double twilight of the below-decks. Their new hole let in only enough light to really emphasize the shadows. 

He groaned. Wood debris slipped and slurped under his hoof as he made to pick himself up. Weakly he had to scrape it away when it followed with him. Flotsam felt sticky and heavy. The unmistakeable, lung-clogging smell of pitch filled his awareness. A barrel of tar had broken his fall.

More specifically, his fall had broken a barrel of tar. He’d still hit the deck beneath it pretty hard. The griffon’s hens moans behind him suggested that she was a) conscious and b) regretting some very recent life choices.  Wood and heavy things rustled behind Flotsam. He needed to take his own hooves before he could even think to turn and look.

It was harder than he liked. He was stunned, with the feebleness that comes of it, and he was drenched in viscous tar. He had enough of his face to see and breath and little else. He felt like gum: the really old, chewed-until-it’s-gray kind that invariably gets stuck to the undersides of seats. It was heavy.

Life seemed very unkind and bizarre until he remembered something of what he’d been doing. “Patches,” the stallion croaked. 

It was an idea he could rebuild his dizzy thoughts around, like the first lump of rock that accretes with dust and ice to make a world. “Patches.”

Barrels and crates met his gaze at every turn. The hold, then. It looked very different when one entered it through the ceiling. Did boats have ceilings? Decks? And what separated a boat from a ship anyway?

He was looking for Patches. Patches liked barrels and buckets and jars and things... things that a pony could put other things into. Her remembered the pickles. His stomach was neither  forgiving nor forgetting of those. Behind him something slid and fell heavily to crash on the floor and grumbles he didn’t recognize echoed from the mess.

Flotsam’s hoof bumped against cold metal. It was strange to see this of all things just sitting there, embedded in a section of flooring half-caved in. That’s a cannonball he mused dumbly, and more dizzy pieces clipped back together in his head.

“Unicorn...thinks...she can just...beat me!” 

“What?”

Some less dazed, less conscious part of Flotsam possibly recalled the recent notes it had taken quite recently on getting tackled from behind. He lurched to the side drunkenly and a charge that should have lifted up his back legs and put his head through a wall instead ended up with him skittering three-legged behind an enraged to almost spherical poofiness blue-black griffon hen jealously bear-hugging his remaining leg.

He kicked to shake her loose of his back leg and found some success in making hoof-to-beak contact. Then something sharp and triangular clamped down on his hoof and a pony equivalent of a knee-jerk reaction made his knees drop out from under him. 

This of course brought them both down, which mean he now had everything he had before, now on the ground, now between his legs and with a very recently actualized bite force. With tar on.

It wasn’t a great time to be Flotsam just then. Existentially dreadful and all. On the whole though, dread can be such a catalyst for decisive action.

Flotsam acted. A magical wall shot out from him, peeled the griffon from him and splayed her flat to the far wall in all of a second.

The griffon gave the wheeze-groan of one having had the fight well and truly knocked out of her. He judged her incapacitated and let the spell fall. Whipping his horn with unthinking inspiration he sent the scraps of wood, plank and barrel pieces alike coalescing around the griffon, at first a wooden harness of sorts and then a cage, enough to keep her wings shut and her neck cramped.

The hen only really came back to her senses as the ruined metal rim curled itself around her beak into a muzzle of sorts.

“No, no damnit no! I’ll-” she squawked before it cinched shut. The griffon struggled angrily, but boxed in tight as she was there was no leverage with which to truly bring her strength to bear and tear the impromptu prison apart.

Shadows still flickered with light overhead. The battle wasn’t let up yet. Patches, Flotsam thought sullenly. He hoped the filly was tucked away somewhere snug and quiet, and the fact that, where that the case  his whole quest to find her would be redundant he didn’t really care about.

When you went rescuing princesses you weren’t in it for the adventure. At least, you weren’t supposed to be. What mattered was that she was safe, and Flotsam fixed that goal in mind.

Taking a last moment to consider his glaring prisoner, he added an artist’s finishing touches and dropped her, griffon and cage and all into a random barrell and slammed the lid back onto it.

In that moment to breath he noticed to nagging heat in his ear. But he had a lot of bruises-to-be and rushed away on his quest ignoring them all best he knew how and trailing sticky tar behind him.

If he’d stayed for a while – just long enough for the griffon’s tantrum pass – he’d might have heard a young griffon hen exclaim – double-muffled and lisping by way of an improvised metal muzzle – “Food? Fweet!”

But Flotsam didn’t stay, because as heroes went he was of the fairly shiny variety and had ponies to rescue.





Patches did not need rescuing presently.

Her mount, on the other hoof, needed some help about now.

Patches was small with long lanky limbs and very light and favoured equally small and weightless weaponry. These were all disadvantages from a certain and well established point of view, and it was one that Patches was well aware of being predominant in most things in her life. From another point of view, namely Patches’ own – being small and light was an absolute advantage when it came to jumping on a griffon’s back, rodeo-style.

“Stop! Stop! Stop poking me! Ok, I’ll stop! I’ll - OW! WHY?! I SAID I’LL - OW!”

Patches clung like a scarf to the griffon’s neck. Her back legs windmilled wildly and she let them. She hadn’t the leverage to jab particularly hard at the griffon’s back and the feathers were taking most of the blade, but success was just a matter of diligence.

Patches knew that realistically she was supposed to go to one of her quiet spots on the Mother of Mercy and wait this out. But she had some great reasons the Captain would very clearly understand why she done that and was instead out here in the thick of it on the biggest, meanest griffon she could find, if only Patches could put them into words and remember them for later after the adrenaline fell away. These reasons, given word-form for your benefit, humble reader, were:

Reason P - She’d been a little kid before, so of course way back then waiting it out was the right thing to do. But now she was practically grown up. She even had underlings now! One underling. Sort of. Flotsam. But still.

Reason A  - Hiding had always been meant for when the crew went and raided other ships. She’d never been told nothing about having to do anything particular if pirates ever stepped onto this one.

Reason T  - She was helping, seriously! She’d done this really cool run-up-the-wall and back flip behind the enemy trick, and slashed a rope, and a net had fallen onto some griffons, and pretty miss Charming Booty had said something that sounded like a joke and Hop Scotch had laughed really hard and then both mares had pulled it tight and she’d said “Not with the kid around!” and CB had said “She wouldn’t understand yet anyway,” and shot some magic into the trapped griffons but Patches totally really did understand it and then sulked because they wouldn’t explain to check if they understood it the same way as she did and she wanted to know what the joke was at least until the next griffons came at them.

Reason C - It of course went without saying that repelling invaders was a valuable, neigh, essential experience in her development and learning as a valued and contribution-making member of the crew. In fact, not letting her join the fray would really be the real act of piracy here, it’d be robbing her blind of essential life lessons and education, well and truly it would be. ...although this wasn’t so much a reason of Patches’ as an angle she’d try to spin to the Captain after the fact, if it came to that. She didn’t really understand all the terminology involved but there was a very convincing sound to it.

Reason H (which was essentially the truth buried under Reason C) - She really, really, really wanted to do this.

Reason E - Did she mention the wall-run-backflip-rope-slice-net-drop? It was really cool. Where was Flotsam to gawk when a pony needed him?

and lastly... 

Reason S, although this was a private reason and not for sharing, barely even with her own psyche - Filly needed to express some rage.

“Get it off!” The griffon-mount shrieked.

“But it’s just a-”

“NOW!”

Patches was plucked from the blood-prickled back of her target like a flea.

She was given roughly the same degree of empathy. She slammed into the gunwale and dropped with a thud, her short knife clattering loudly beside her. 

Then she was picked up by the throat. From the front the griffon she’d first jumped on – the biggest, angriest one she could find, naturally – looked way scarier. The griffon’s eyes swirled with red fury. Two toes were missing from the grip that held her throat. Patches could tell it was a new injury; the warm dribbles falling down onto her chest gave it away. 

“Evil...little...thing!” the griffon hissed. Though sheared of two talons, enough remained there to begin crunching down on the filly’s neck.

She squirmed, but against the griffon’s strength her own forelegs were useless.

Patches cried. Not heroically, not defiantly, but hot, blubbery, furiously ashamed tears. She’d been doing really good with all the other crew-mares so far.

Then she planted her other knife an inch deep into the griffon’s foreleg. (Because honestly, who carries just one knife?)

The griffon’s howl of outrage was loud enough to blast through all the other sounds of struggle. Two Toes swatted the small blade away and then Patches was flying, then she was falling, then she was hitting the water hard enough to give the filly whiplash. 

Frothy water bubbled over her, direction spun out of her control and then waves spat her back to the surface.

It needs to be known that the ocean looks a whole lot different when you’re actually in it. You don’t see horizons. You just see the next swell, and it’s bigger than you are, and it’s going to roll right through you and so is the next one after that. Not violent, not evil, just apathetic and remorseless and punctual.

Patches went breathless and tumbling through the first. She arose too late to snatch any air for the second. The third only brushed past her legs.

She was halfway back to the Mother when she saw the magical glow surrounding her limbs and connected that dot to the rigidly stiff figure of Charming Booty. 

The filly plopped down onto the deck and didn’t do much of anything. She was sopping wet and everything confused her. The Quartermaster pulled her chin to face her.

“You okay?”

Patches regarded Charming Booty. She remembered that she rather liked the flashy pony. She thought about what it was she had asked her. She remembered how to express her answer. 

Patches nodded.

“Good,” the unicorn said. She was shuddering and shaky now. Unicorns got like that sometimes, Patches knew. “Shanty! Hop Scotch!” Two more ponies she knew. “Keep her safe. We’re winning the deck back. Go. Captain’s Cabin.”

“Uh, right!”

“Patches, can you walk? Come on!”

Griffons were lifting by ones and twos into the air as they lost ground. Here and there a few tried landing again to rejoin the fight, but the initial rush of their attack was broken. 

Charming Booty drew her sword with magic and swished it experimentally. Slow. Sloppy. Tension unfolded between her eyes. But she expected this. Her magic was suited for the soft touch, not at all for what she’d just needed of it. She glared at the rising figure of Two Toes, lifting back towards the frigate that shadowed them still. Other griffons rose and fell as they plucked their comrades from the water.

“Going after children,” Charming muttered darkly. Now was a time of lull in the battle; whether for the griffons to retreat fully or simply regroup, she didn’t know. She expected the latter. Whoever these new-comers to the Coral Coast waters were, they hadn’t learned to play by the rules. Or by any rules at all.

The cannonballs had stopped raining down on them, at least for now. If these griffons had any sense of strategy, though; it was time to redouble their bombardment efforts, now that the decks were clear of their own. 

This fight wasn't over. This lull was just a chance for everyone involved to catch their breath.

> Unexpected Guest Callers - Part 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam hadn’t realized what gloom really was until he stepped from the thin circle of light. He had yet to truly learn his way about the narrow corridors in the ship and with it lurching at turns he stumbled forwards blindly. The light of his horn was bright enough that he focused it ahead of him like a search-light. It dragged things from the dark without warning and jumbled them around before his eyes. He dismissed whatever wasn’t roughly filly-shaped.

“Patches!” he called out hoarsely. Here was hold, hold, more hold; now rows of swinging, musty blankets on hammocks. The ship tossed and the stallion caught himself on a corner. A tucked-away alcove here with a bench and table, playing cards scattered about and a candle knocked over and sealed in place with its own stiffened wax.

She wasn’t here. Turning back on his path Flotsam took the hold, tossed the hatch and dropped down the ladder to the lower levels. Down here was the bilge and, as he understood it, the things they stored that weren’t perishable or for trade. Rattling lengths of chain and such.

“Flotsam?” came a voice. It wasn’t the filly. He met two eyes in the darkness. “It’s me. It’s Sea Bed.”

When he turned his spotlight to her the mare winced away. He lowered his horn and the intensity, until the unicorn was like a patch of oil on midnight oceans. No wonder he couldn’t see her. The attacking griffons were a blue-black, tinted in various shades between crows and basalt rock, but Sea Bed was darker still. 

Cold air pooled around Flotsam’s hooves. His ear started to itch more fiercely for attention. “I’m looking for Patches. There’s a battle going on!”

“I noticed. They’re getting daylight below deck,” she accused with quiet venom. “She hasn’t been here,” she added.

As Flotsam’s eyes adjusted more he noticed the mare’s corona of dark magic. Not dark magic as such, but simply natural magic expressed in a somewhat similar hue. Ropes and chains flitted dutifully in the air behind her like gorgon hairs. 

Flotsam imagined for a wild instant that they were for binding him; Sea Bed was reclusive and weird after all, then as if reading his mind and snubbed by the paranoid thought she said, cold and curtly, “You should go back up.”

“Er, right.”

“I have cargo to secure. Everything is being tossed about.” Then she was two unblinking eyes in the blackness once more. “If she comes down here, I’ll keep her safe,” the mare stated. “Keep the rest up there,” she said, with the suggestion not gone amiss from his ears that if it – that being the anarchy above – intruded any more down here into the quiet, never silent, weird sounding dark place of the below-decks she would personally be mad with him.

Flotsam was halfway up the ladder when his memory flinched. “Oh, uh, I’ve got one of the griffons trapped...” he felt an odd embarrassment about this fact. “She’s locked up.”

“Where?”

“The um, over there...hold?” he asked, pointing in the general up-and-forwards direction that he hoped marked the direction he’d come from. “There’s a hole in the roof there now...” 

He hung uncertainty in the chilly gloom for a moment. 

“I’ll handle it.”

“Right!” said he, popping up a level and that much closer to light and air again. He was glad that Sea Bed was going to help him, though that was really his way of spinning the gladness that he felt about leaving her lair.

It wasn’t like she’d been anything but civil and reserved, after all. But still.





When Flotsam regained the deck he found it in disarray. Half a dozen craters gave it the face of some embattled albeit wooden moon. Not one griffon still stood on the deck, though a few still engaged in shouting matches with various mares as they carted away their stunned and concussed comrades.

Somepony had quickly thrown down a length of wood bridging the space back to the Captain’s Quarters. It wobbled and bounced under his hooves and Flotsam was very mindful not to fall through the pit twice in the same day. It was full of sullen faces inside, standing about in a rough gathering around Nauticaa.

He’d never seen the Captain angry. He’d never seen her joyous for that matter, but for the weeks he’d been aboard the earth pony captain had always been a reserved, stoic figure.

Now she paced and bristled like a wolf in confinement. She hadn’t uncoupled the swords from her sword-shoes so that half of the space very definitely belonged to her. It belonged to her anyway, this being her ship and all, but the pointy swords had a way of articulating the fact much more succinctly. Crew mares pressed against one another and the walls to stay clear of the twinkling steel.

“Nobody knows who these guys are?” Nauticaa asked in a tone that suggested that she’d asked this a few times already and was decidedly not liking the answer she was getting.

“Could they be Lord Fullmane’s?” the pony named Moon Tide hazarded cautiously. “He’s a griffon.”

“No.” The Captain said it in such a way that Moon Tide recoiled, making a fervent eyes-to-lips gesture he had since come to recognize as the prayer-sign of the Siren followers. Sirenada, they were called, Shanty had explained. 

“Fullmane lets you know when it’s him. He struts and announces himself and doesn’t shut up about his own greatness. He’s a prima-donna dandy. He’s annoying but he’s got style. Finessese. A sickening amount of preening wax. These griffons are trying to smash and grab.”

“Maybe it’s the Snake-Empress Jade-Fang...? But no, I they haven’t seen any snakes...”

“Snakes is kind of her thing,” somepony murmured quietly. “That one always does snakes. Even her ships slither.”

“Is she actually a Snake-Empress, or like, a Snake themed Empress? I never actually found out...”

More names were considered and dismissed, all for the roughly the same reason. Everyone the crew could name had a thing going for them, some kind of motif that was not only happenstance but actively cultivated. It almost made a bizarre sort of sense to Flotsam. When you traded in notoriety and banked on infamy, you needed a memorable and distinct image. These griffons had nothing of the sort. They were just thugs on a boat, albeit heavily armoured ones.

“Patches!” Flotsam found the filly in a small lump quietly soaking in the corner. Shanty grudgingly let him pass and go to her. Patches had lost a lot of her colour and bore the empty, rattled expression that he’d first seen after the storm and hated to see ever since.

Somepony had draped a tough blanket over her shoulders. Flotsam hesitated as the child stared blankly at him. That was the Captain’s own blanket. He knew he wasn’t mistaken. He’d seen it well enough the times he’d been at Nauticaa’s bedside, doing ridiculous push-ups and making...sounds... purely to convey to the rest of the crew the notion that he’d been claimed as the Captain’s own bedmate.
.
Big brother, best friend...something to one pony and happenstance nuisance, circumstantial sailor-servant, and intentionally implied something else to the other. Only two piebald ponies on the ship and Flotsam was tangled uniquely to both of them.

He couldn’t think of anything to say and, and since his ear was blooming with renewed, hot ache sensations, he put a hoof to it. He touched and it twinged painfully as he discovered a slit in it, not far from his skull, an inch or maybe less of separated skin.

He didn’t want anyone mooning over him with sympathy. Nobody did, and a little part of him secretly felt cheated.

“I’m fine,” he said on general principles.

“Flotsam. How big a shield can you do? Big enough for the ship?”

“I think so? Yes.” He gauged his sense of his abilities and reiterated it with confidence. 

“Then do it now, quick as you please.”

The Captain’s voice was not loud, nor did it even target him with anger, but it had the weight of command to it and Flotsam moved to obey. He shot the filly in the corner a pleading look, hoping to convey his mix of emotions – happy that she was safe, unhappy that she was distressed, relieved to know whatever had happened, her crewmates had pulled her clear of it, remorseful that it hadn’t been him, that he’d failed to rescue her. 

Flotsam lightly focused on the task before him. He didn’t remember the use of magic, could quote not a whit of arcane teachings or recall if he’d even ever had such things to forget in the first place. Maybe for other unicorns that would have been crippling, but Flotsam prodded at his own gaping, dusky ignorance and realized that his abilities were somewhere else entirely. They’d never been exclusive to whatever life he’d lost. 

Flotsam had caught the weight and deflected the ship’s mast during the storm to save Patches out of pure, necessity induced reflex. He’d caught himself and turned aside a blazing bonfire from pure unthinking instinct to save himself. That little incident from one point of view made him look like quite the idiot for having fallen in the first place, but from the kinder view it also meant he’d been able to do protect himself on a whim when his brain had already been down for the count. 

The first point of view (had this been a debate between the two) could have snidely suggested that taking Flotsam’s brain down had not been all that difficult, nor had it very far down to go for that matter. The second point of view (continuing the hypothetically personified argument) could then have told the first to shut up and be nicer to the poor stallion; he had a good heart, that’s what mattered, and so what if he was a lightweight, that was the liver’s responsibility anyway.

To return to the important point and say it clearly: Flotsam’s magic worked out of an office in his head (which had since had the windows left open and the filing scattered about), but it had never actually lived there. 

Silly as it sounded, Flotsam’s magic came from the heart.

It was like breathing, or having a heartbeat. It did what he needed it to do all by itself. It needed only the direction of his general input every once in awhile.

And it needed conviction. That both surprised and didn’t surprise Flotsam to discover as he rooted about in his own thoughts like a pony exploring their teeth with their tongue. The spell began to take shape in his ideas. It wasn’t hard to be convicted...or convinced, or whatever the relevant word was. The deck had been pulverized – it was a miracle of fortune or griffon aiming that nobody had been struck directly and squished – and these ponies needed him to hold back whatever next attack would come.

It took effort to convince the spell to present itself. It needed to be long enough for the ship, wide enough for the ship, high enough for it. For a split-second he was convinced for no traceable reason that it was obviously beyond his ability, beyond anypony’s. But the anxiety popped in an instant as if it had never been his at all.

Flotsam was aware of in-drawn breaths, light-catching eyes and the closed in quarters glowing with the reflected shine of his magic, but just now his awareness of self wasn’t rooted in his senses. He took information from them and kept them fondly, but he wasn’t restrained to them either. He could not have given a name or number to it, but in that moment he was aware of the ship. Above and below, end to end.

The spell grew and reached critical mass, Flotsam took one sidelong glance to the expressions of the ponies around him and cast his spell. It felt like ears pop, from swimming or climbing high, but across his entire being. 

It was a moment of blinding brightness. 




Shining Armour saw a piece a paper. It was on a table so low to the ground that it could only have been meant for a small child. A foal’s play-set, meant to mimic the grown-up world, recreate it with softer edges, rounded corners and a well-thought out sippy-cup holder built in.

It was like that because it was exactly that. He was too big for it, even then; when adults were tall enough that their heads reached halfway to the clouds and were full of abstract, half-alien concepts and patterns. It hadn’t been meant for him though, this tiny student’s table. He wriggled uncomfortably on the too-small stool and Twilight Sparkle exhorted her student to pay attention in class. The other seats were occupied by Smarty Pants the ragdoll (such a teacher’s pet) and a deflated, long-since grass stained and worn-smooth hoofball Twilight had rescued from the back yard (transfer student).

“What’s this?” Twilight asked him rhetorically, smacking the drawing she’d left in front of him with her ruler.

“It’s a circle. There’s a dot at the centre.”

“Is it big?”

“The dot?”

“The whole thing.”

This was a strange line of questioning, but with Twilight Sparkle, what kind of baseline was there that determined a normal question? She would read a book, find an interesting term or name, drag in a book to follow that lead, find another lead therein, and in a matter of hours it was time to raid a book-fort when Mom called them for dinner. 

And this was Twilight’s game, on Twilight’s time, so Shining did his best to play along. He considered the circle and dot. It filled the page, mostly. As big as it could without running right off the edges, leaving a neat margin for comfort. It clearly hadn’t been meant to share the space with anything else. Even though almost the whole page was still blank, that space was inside the circle now. 

He chose his answer. “Yes,” Shining Armour, aged seven, answered. And because Twilight Sparkle liked concise answers, he added, “the circle is big.”

Twilight glowered with the glee of a teacher building up to a reveal. “And now?”

She had added dots to the circle, put them right onto the line as it ran around the page. But that hadn’t changed the size of the original circle. How could it? 

He didn’t understand. That didn’t bother him as much as it might’ve done some other seven years old. He was a big brother at heart even then, and caring, and understood that between them there were things the other couldn’t do. Twilight could cite complicated words and famous names. Shining Armour could talk to other ponies and make friends.

He felt she sensed his confusion and ducked in under his chin for a second. “Okay, what about now?”

She’d added a word.

MOLECULE.

“It says molecule,” she’d added helpfully. The little dots were each named electron in neat little writing and the middle dot had been called nucleus.

She muttered in the voice he recognized she used when she was talking to herself, “It’s really more of an atom there, but...”

Shining knew when Twilight’s voice went that way to gently redirect her focus to the moment. He couldn’t ask who cared if the drawing was one or the other, because he knew she did. But he knew it wasn’t important (but that it was, to her) and gently lead her thoughts away from fixating on it, for her own good. “So it’s not big: it’s small,” he said with some confidence.

“But is it?” she asked with overblown drama as she came back into the moment, as if she meant to be the curly, black and white italics at the end of the corny monster movies that Dad liked to see played at the cinema. Her mane blocked his view again and Shining Armour heard the quill scratch the page again. She came away, beaming.

He considered her work. She’d scratched out the word molecule (and added an asterisk to the word, then added atom in brackets, then scratched them both out again) and the new word was something else.

It was two words.

They were: SOLAR SYSTEM. 

Similarly, electron and nucleus had been scribbled over and replaced with planets and sun respectively. “What about now, Shiny?”

Shining Armour knew about the solar system. Canterlot had a planetarium, and an observatory. It was his sister’s favourite place, next to the library. “I guess that means it’s big?”

“But it was small?” she prompted.

“You changed it though...”

Twilight Sparkle was very happy. Sometimes she bounced for joy, like she’d been meant to have wings all along. He was glad of this turn to joy, but glad like a dog is glad, not sure what it had done to win affection just now. He had no idea what he’d done.

“But I didn’t change the size at all,” she announced in her most revealing voice. “I only changed how you looked at it!”

“Ooooh,” Shining pondered loudly, and continued to ponder over dinner, not really getting it and then forgetting their play-lesson of Twily-time entirely when one of his friends came around to go to the park with him, he didn’t remember who it had been though...




Flotsam slammed into the wall, his horn sizzling hotly with angry feedback. His back trailed sticky tar down the wall and left marks on the floor.

“Woah!” shouted ponies as they leapt out of the way.

“Something went wrong!”

Charming Booty had her head out the door. “Wait, the shield is up. It’s pink. Is Sammy ok?”

“Looks like that hurt.”

“Some kind of feedback from the spell it looks like. Hit him pretty hard.”

“Pink? I would not have guessed pink. I mean, he doesn’t look like a pink.”

“The whole ship? He did the whole ship? Who is this?”

“How long can he keep that up, do you think?”

“Wouldn’t have expected that. Now a shade of blue, maybe, like his hair, that I would have expected.”

“He’s already unconscious though...”

“Did he make it pink for our sakes, do you think? All mares like pink, is that what he’s doing?”

“What kind of unicorn are we dealing with here?”

“I like pink...are you saying I can’t be a strong, independent mare and like pink?”

“Good posture... good teeth...good manners... cute. Not very smart but you just know he’s going to have a great big-”

“-ship? Really, the whole ship? Oh wow, he really did the whole ship. Goes right over our crappy mast and everything.”

“No, but, well, that’s the cliché, isn’t it? Filly likes pink, panders to socio-political norms.”

“I’ll turn you into paper cliché!”

“Now you’re thinking maché.”

“Stop” This was the Captain’s voice. Again it was low, and direct, and not in any way overtly angry. A half-dozen tangent-meandering conversations dropped off instantly all the same. “Right now there are only two questions I want answered. Did it work and what happened to him?”

Charming Booty cleared her throat as attention was conceded to her. “It is up, Captain. I can’t tell for certain just how strong is or how long it’ll last. I’ve seen ponies put bubbles around chests and block doors and windows before, but I never did see anything like this. It feels like it’s strong, and that it’ll hold up.” The eyes of mares were on her as if she told the best of intriguing tales. “I can’t explain it, but any pony with a horn will know what I mean.” The unicorn turned her eyes to Flotsam, slumped in place against the wall where weather and work roughened hooves worked to pick him up. Patches had lunged from her stupor to assist him. Though she could do nothing against his weight, she shadowed around them, looking for something to do.

“We did not pull your average Pony Joe out of the ocean, that’s for certain.”

Charming privately wondered how many others watched the little drama play out: Patches seeing Flotsam’s sliced ear, Patches looking for something to fix it with, Patches tugging at her own, still-sopping bandana...

Harpoon’s low, gruff voice reached them from the wheel. “Cannon ball just hit the shield, Captain. Bounced right off. But it’s not blocking the air at all. We’ve still got the wind with us. Looks like the water flows right through it, too.”

Nauticaa considered. She knew the frigate had given up half its height, the better to hound Harpoon’s jarring evasive maneuvers. “They might go higher up again. Or they might not.” These griffons had not displayed intelligence thus far. She imagined what it must be like to be the griffon’s commander, to stand up there and look down on an already half-hobbled, seabound ship. The kind of ego that perspective would stroke to over-stuffed engorgement in such a figure. 

Even so, she disliked the idea of relying on anything so uncertain as Flotsam: the pony with secrets he himself did not know. Nauticaa had seen the wayward stallion turn aside the falling timber in the storm. That had been impressive, she knew most unicorns wouldn’t be able to match a feat like that. But she’d never seen nor heard of this. If this shield was everything Charming suggested it might be...a pirate captain could aspire to greater ambitions. The kind of ambitions with a crown on its head.

Captain Nauticaa decided then and there that the best course of action was to assume that a thing that seemed too good to be true simply was. She took the notion that the only reasonable belief to hold right now was that the shield would break – or fail of its own accord – at any instant.

That left one course of action. She gave her orders.

“Keep us steady on to Rivaplút, but give it enough wiggle to keep their wheelman busy if they still want to shade us like this. Try to make them think we’re struggling to keep it straight. Tell me of any change in their altitude or course. Don’t let them climb up again.”

Nauticaa could see the aching stiffness in her first mate. Harpoon wouldn’t fail.

“Aye, Captain.”

“Moon Tide. Hard Tack. Scuttle. You three gather up the cannon balls they dropped on us. Have them ready. I don’t intend to keep anything aboard that was used to attack the Mother.”

“You want us to toss them overboard?”

“No. Bring them to the centre of the deck.”

“Right!” 

“You Windlass. Hop Scotch. Start on repairing those pits in my ship. Get them covered good enough to walk over first, we’ll worry about the real thing after we deal with the griffons. Start there and work up the deck.”

“Yes, ma’am!” said the mare, stooping and shimmying to fit through the door.

Flotsam was an unconscious, unhappy-looking mess. “Shanty. In the first hold there’s at least one barrel of proofing-tar broken open. Bring as much of that up here as you can. Get Sea Bed to assist you.”

The youngster's face contorted with obvious questions, Nauticaa offered no answers and Shanty refrained from wasting time with asking. “Tar. Sea Bed. Right.”

“Parrot.”

“Er, yes?” The brightly-green pegasus chirped.

“Help me get Flotsam onto the bed.”

Nauticaa said nothing when Patches wordlessly inserted herself into the effort. The bedclothes would take some vigorous washing to get the sticky tar out, but that was why Nauticaa had ponies like Flotsam to do that sort of work. Later. For the moment he was breathing and wasn’t convulsing, and Nauticaa had to trust that this meant he was not in immediate danger – at least, nothing separate from the immediate danger they were all in.

The Captain allowed herself a wolfish grin “Now. Get the colours out. Put ‘em up high. They’re going to see what’s coming.”





Charming Booty had not been given specific instructions. She didn’t need them. She knew that, given this situation, and with Harpoon holding the wheel, until her Captain specified otherwise her task was to oversee all the other tasks that had been issued; to crack a few verbal whips as well as throwing herself into tasks that needed some speeding up.

She still didn’t know what the actual plan was. The Captain had laid out the pieces, but just how they fit together hadn’t revealed itself yet to her. As Charming Booty tugged ropes and directed the ponies around her, she worked on what she knew.

Flotsam had conjured up a spell of absurd proportions. Everything about it was untested, even the stallion himself. Charming stepped clear of work and turned her eye skywards. Three griffons had gathered overhead, hovering in place with powerful, broad wing strokes. Charming Booty saw the pantomime of an argument break out then. Eventually one came nearer. With one talon’d foot covering her eyes, a griffon reached out.

“You see this?” Harpoon asked her from her place at the wheel. More than a few mares were making cursory glances upwards.

“Mhmm.”

The griffon reached out one quivering talon-tip and touched the pink barrier.

It didn’t pop at any rate, like some world-sized party balloon. The talon’s tip became a flat palm, then the light blow of an experimental punch. Soon the others were running their claws over it and more were coming, winging their way down from the sky-frigate. The shield gave absolutely no sign of change, like it could withstand everything forever. That was what worried the Quartermaster. Hadn’t Neighpolean the Taller-Than-You-Realize-Thank-You-Very-Much warned about overconfidence in one’s own defences? Maybe if she’d read whatever book that was instead of bluffing her way through that conversation with the boring young fop (but wealthy and easily hoodwinked; oh, he’d been smitten, positively smitten with the mysterious, flame-haired stranger) she’d be certain on the point. It didn’t matter.

She raised her voice enough to clear the urgent work around her. “Is it two-way, do you think?” 

Harpoon had a fixed grimace. The wheel spun and the ship swerved decidedly once more towards sunlight. After a long moment the frigate corrected to match them. It lowered another tiny measure towards them. There was a thin sheen of sweat over her eyes as the pegasus gave her a look.

Charming Booty nodded, putting it to words. “Maybe it is. Or maybe we can go through it just fine. Or maybe we could go out through it fine and then be stuck outside with those louts. We have to have covered at least a mile by now. Is the field following the ship, or Flotsam specifically?”

This whole engagement had started bizarre and only gotten weirder since. It had gone so far off book that this situation, whatever it was, wasn’t even in the library anymore.

Harpoon just shrugged. It is what it is. The ship wandered off in the other direction and again the griffons matched it.

“Cannon balls are ready, sir.” 

Charming Booty spared the deck a glance. Hard Tack and Scuttle were busy bear-hugging the half dozen or so balls into place. “Don’t let them roll,” she said. “Have them ready.” As she said it Shanty struggled to the deck, the guttered remains of the tar barrel in a similar wide-legged grip. A dark glow over the deep-running fissure in the wood prevented what was left of the viscous tar – about a quarter, maybe a third of the whole – from spilling out. Charming Booty spared both Shanty and Sea Bed a quick acknowledgement. “Put it there, like the Captain said.”

Another cannonball bounced harmlessly from the dome and raised a substantial plume of spray as it disappeared into the ocean.

Plans were coming together. She wondered just what those plans were.





The Captain, the ship’s filly and the castaway were the only ponies in the cabin. Patches had tied off her bandana around Flotsam’s sliced ear. Maybe she’d put stitches through it later. Right now, it didn’t matter one whit. 

Nauticaa looked to all purposes calm and collected as she unclasped her swords. They would require proper maintenance to remain pristine and retain their razor edge, but they would have to go on the rack simply as they were. For now. Her sword shoes clinked as she drew open one of the lower drawers of her immense desk. Clever little hinges and springs unfolded so that several tiers of little trays lifted out, each full of the things that prudent captains kept personal stocks of.

The particular glass vial she sought now was stubby and tiny, about the same proportions as a glass eye, give or take.

“You alright?” she asked her filly, not lifting her eyes from the search. Nauticaa scanned the tidy levels quickly, taking the measure of each and moving on. Quills, stubs of coloured wax, ink. Not what she needed. “Speak up.”

“Yeth...I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay. You sound like a reckless little pony that went looking for trouble and didn’t know what to do when she found it.” 

“Are you going to punithh me?”

Nauticaa couldn’t decide if Patches was sulking or simply resigned to it. For a captain dealing with an infraction, it couldn’t be a matter that affected her decision-making. “Yes. You’re old enough to know better.”

“Okay.”

Ah, here it was. It’d been awhile since she’d needed this for anything. Nauticaa tossed the tiny stoppered vial to her wayward filly. “You know how to use salts? Pull the cork. Don’t touch it with your tongue and don’t breathe it. Hold it under Flotsam’s nose. Be ready to put the stopper in again.”

She watched the filly struggle to get a grip on the tiny, tightly inserted cork. She knew a hasty accounting of the filly’s antics with griffons, but not enough. Like the swords, that accounting would have to come later. With a soft grunt, the cork came free. The filly hadn’t used smelling salts before, at least to Nauticaa’s knowledge, but she seemed to grasp the concept readily enough.

“That’s right. Like that.”

Flotsam exploded into consciousness, choking and retching on the overpowering smell that pervaded his senses.

“Stopper it again, quick. Good.”

The instant he gained some air, the unicorn spent it on some hearty screaming. He was here, one pony aching, worryingly sticky, nasally invaded by a cloying burst of ammonia, but also he was someone else, somewhere else. Two conflicting images fought for the space behind his eyes.

Before, he had clutched at the fleeting memories and they had drained away like water or sand. 

Now they burned in his proverbial hoof, like mementos that had fallen into a fire – burning and burning his fervent effort to fish them out.

His dual awareness, his doubled-up perception was splintering down the middle. On the one side, darkening, falling away was a pony. One with a life, with... A name, there has to be a name! Let me keep a name! Something! Anything! There was something there, something shining and dear and precious – something he loved, something bright and beautiful and slipping away.

In the other awareness there was thrashing, shouting, and hooves pinning his chest. The one subsumed the other and Flotsam was himself again, chest heaving, eyes watering and wildly flitting between the two faces perched attentively over him. Whatever had distressed him so drained from his mind. It left him strangely empty and receptive.

Nauticaa whirled away, did something at her desk and came back to him again. She’d put away her swords. “Get up,” she ordered stiffly. It was a simple task to focus his scattered thoughts on and Flotsam was pitifully grateful for it.

Patches hugged his leg as if she meant to support him, regardless of the tar that was still smattered all over him. It was a silly notion, but one he was thankful for. In an instant, tar was all down the filly’s side as well. Whatever sea-legs he’d earned over the last few weeks, for the moment they had fled from him and every swaying motion of the deck left him noodle-legged and uncertain.

“Can you control the shield?”

The shield? There’d been... right. He nodded before the words found him, taking a moment to cautiously navigate the bouncing bit of wood bridging the Captain’s Quarters to the rest of the ship. “I can, a bit. I think. Yes.”

Each breath of vital sea-air left Flotsam feeling more himself. Crew mares regarded him with mixtures of concern and critique. He felt sure-hooved enough to not be at risk of stumbling or falling now. “What do you need?”

“When I give the word, open a hole. Directly between ships. I want a straight line of fire.”

Parrot was a voice on high. “Captain! The flag’s up!” 

“About time.” All heads turned. It was the classic pony skull and crossbones, ripped at by the wind and wearing its tattered damage like badges of honour. Nauticaa’s expression was a strange grimace. If he let his imagination run with it, Flotsam could almost see it as the face of one who concedes a grudging defeat to a long-standing opponent. Except a flag wasn’t an opponent, and it was her flag. Even so, that was the look she bore as she stared at it.

“Have to do it the right way,” the Captain muttered. Flotsam wondered if she’d meant to say that, or if anypony else had been near enough to hear it. It was baffling and Flotsam was confused enough already.

Then she was shouting orders.

Shanty, Hard Tack and Scuttle were to take each cannon ball and drop it on the tar, then to dollop on as much of the stuff as they could convince to stay on the rough, irregular metal.

Parrot and Harpoon were to get a wind-spout going. Narrow, as perfectly vertical as they could manage, as tight as they could manage. The First Mate grit her teeth, but if it hurt her to make the effort she displayed nothing but total commitment to the order. The two pegasi spun and spun in a widening gyre. Blue, green, blue-green bluegreebluegreen blur. The wind rose to become a pony-wide, hair-tugging, eye-watering constant spilling up from the deck. 

“Sea Bed. Put as much buoyancy as you can into our cannonballs. Make them float.” The unicorn nodded, focused her whorled, onyx coloured horn and one by one the smeared cannonballs that were offered up came unsettled and lifted into the air.

“Windlass. Grab the first cannonball and stand in our little tornado.” 

The giantess of a pony nodded shyly and wrapped one leg around the tar-smeared sphere. She stepped into the tiny, gusting funnel. The big pony’s soft voice was tattered in the wind. “I can’t see, Captain.”

“You don’t need to see. Just throw it straight up when I say, hard as you can.”

“Aye, sir.”

Charming Booty gave a little knicker of sound. She understood the plan now. “And I’ll add a certain little flare to it, will I? she asked, raising her voice a little more than was necessary to overcome the tugging wind.

The Captain might have grinned, ever so slightly. “When it’s clear from my mares, yes.”

Then Nauticaa turned to Flotsam. “You understand your part in this.” It wasn’t a question, more like an order. “Don’t screw it up,” she suggested, not unkindly.

Flotsam was rattled. Casting the shield had done...had done something to him. Jogged something loose in his head, and not necessarily in a good way. He still felt confident about a smaller manipulation of the shield though, and found both his conviction and his understanding.

“Everyone else – if any griffons come through, you keep them off us. We don’t stop throwing until we’ve sent back every last cannonball. Everyone understand?”

“AYE, CAPTAIN!” Chorused the voices of all. Flotsam felt himself swell with pride and exhilaration. He added his voice to theirs “Aye, Captain!”  

“Nobody comes after my ship. Now fire!”

Windlass heaved. The cannonball sped upwards, straightened on its course and accelerated by the wind-tunnel. Halfway to the sky it burst into fire with flames whipped to frenzied madness by the whirling winds. Tar spat and hissed and it trailed streaking fire behind it like a meteorite hellbent on returning to space. The tail was stretched out long, caught and twisted into a spiral of smoke and fire.

The shield slid open, griffons flung themselves clear in desperation and the fireball slammed explosively into the sky-frigate’s exposed underbelly.

“Get it while it’s hot!”

The next shot ripped through one of the sideways sails, tearing through cloth and strut, spreading oily fire to both. Burning cloth billowed and dropped upon the ocean.

The third shot struck true again, this time further aft. Splinters and timbers fell in a scatter down upon the shield. As Flotsam watched he could see first the black plume of impact, then the tumultuous grey of storm cloud spilling out, mixing with oil-smoke black as both bled out from the frigate.

The fourth flaming cannonball was a glancing hit, it punched a gash along the ship’s side and split the gunwale. By the fifth and penultimate shot the sky-frigate was listing so extensively as to careen clear of the Mothers attack. That cannonball whistled away into a bright speck, then vanished into a sizzle of nothingness on hitting the water.

The final attack curved – the pegasi’s work – found its apex and slammed down onto the the enemy’s forward deck from above.

A hundred small fires gorged on the damage from above and below. Lightning crackled and flashed inside the dark plumes that spilled out from the holds of the ship. Already its keel rose, pointed towards the horizon and tilted higher still. She was tipping.  A smattering of griffons flew about madly, pushing and pulling in a mad bid to steady her. None of those that had been hammering at the shield came forward to press an attack. How could they? They swarmed up to throw themselves into the efforts.

“There’s a storm cloud inside it. That’s how it flies!” 

The attack tornado dissolved as Harpoon came stumbling to a rest. The deck of the Mother of Mercy rejoined the rest of the world in daylight, unhindered by pesky cat-birds of prey. “Not any longer.”

Flotsam didn’t need to be a sailor to know the frigate was going down. A thing could not take impacts like that, could not have holes in it like that, could not be spilling out its insides like that – all whilst on fire – and not fall.

The frigate had careened well away from its original course, and fell further away and behind the Mother by the second. The fall looked slow, almost ponderous, but for the griffons it surely must have been all too much a screaming, flaming, plank-splitting plummet.

The ship hit water, sank half the hungry fires in the hungrier-still ocean and bobbed up again. An immense gout of stormy-grey cloud billowed up over the griffons, crackling as it dispersed thinner and thinner into the fair weather.

“What are they doing?” 

The crew raced as one excited pony to the ship’s edge. The griffons were tearing at their own ship; shearing off whole rows of planks from the embattled sides; collapsing in their sails and rending them clear from the collapsed and drooping masts.

Charming Booty’s voice was calm and clear. “Of course. It’s double-hulled.”

“What?”

“The outer hull looks like it was little more than an airtight shell. See how it just comes away like that? Probably it’s only meant to keep their storm-cloud penned in. The inner hull was inside that, I’d assume it’s where they actually kept their supplies, their bunks and things like that.”

Flotsam saw griffons diving below the surface, no doubt making desperate bids to clear their inner hull of whatever dead-weight now held it so low in the water. Other’s pulled struggling swimmers onto sloshed-over decking. The distant air was noisy with breaking wood, quenched fires and griffon shouts. “We should go over to them. They need help.”

The Captain’s eye was judicious and bereft of kindness as she took in the struggling griffons.  She turned and the mares moved quickly from her way. Nauticaa took the wheel of her ship and stared forwards. Behind them the griffons shrank smaller and smaller. “They’ll float.” 

By ones and twos the crew of the Mother took up their stations. Harpoon had to be assisted below decks. Whatever she’d had left after the battle, she’d given to the tornado. A few others were limping. Flotsam wanted to go with the First Mate. In a minute, he decided.

“Best possible speed to port,” Nauticaa ordered. “We will be seeing these griffons again. There’s no other port either of our ships can reach. The only thing we can do is make sure we get there first. We don’t stop and we don’t slow down until we’re tied into dock.”

“But-”

“They’ll. Float.” Flotsam shrank back from the harshness. When next she spoke, the severity was gone from her tone. “They’ll live, Flotsam.” 

“There’s-”

She cut him off with a glare, chastising him like he were a sulking child. Maybe he was. But he had something to say.

He started more slowly, hoping to show the Captain his calm, considered words. They need our help! he shouted internally, but didn’t let it show. Nauticaa was the Captain, not him. He disagreed with her decision on this but trusted her word when she judged the second hull of the griffon frigate still seaworthy. The griffons would limp into Rivaplút days from now. Hopefully days later than themselves. He spoke.

“There’s a griffon still on this ship. Below decks. I captured her. The one I tackled.” 

Nauticaa’s face was considered and impassive. “Very well. Good work, Mr. Flotsam.” He felt her scrutiny take his measure and wondered privately just what measure that was. “Go see to your needs. Mind the ship’s filly. See she’s alright.” 

Did her voice hitch just a little on those last words? But Nauticaa was once more staring forward to the horizon and her poise allowed no question on the subject.

“Yes, Captain,” said Flotsam. He went, aching, to a quieter corner of the deck. After a battle in the shade, he found himself craving a simple rest in the sun. 

He found Patches already there, with much the same plan.

He put a sore, tar-smeared hoof over the filly. She cradled herself against him. Afternoon was hanging lower into evening now, but the day was still very warm. If they were wise, they’d set about scrubbing the gunk away before they lost the heat. In a bit.

“You okay?”

“...yeah.”

“Me too.”

They watched the frigate become tinier and tinier in the ship’s glittering wake, until with a single swishing wave it vanished, too small to see. 

And that was that.

For now.

> Settle-ettling Down
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam was quite amazed at how readily things settled down amidst the crew. They simply didn’t dwell on the battle gone by, at least not in the usual sense of the term. They gloated, bragging their stories to one another. 

They were kept busy, and lent themselves to the work before them with an almost giddy air. Running the ship was a full job, even when it wasn’t punched full of holes with a mast improvised out of spindly island palm trunks. Even through all that, the crew mares were thoroughly satisfied with themselves. Flotsam felt it too, the almost manic exhilaration as all the scariness and danger drained away, leaving only the distillation of excitement and heightened awareness. Slowly, that too was coming back to normal. More than a few of the crewmares were standing shoulder to shoulder, measuring knicks. 

Flotsam was glad, at least, he was cautiously optimistic that this outcome had been one of the better ones. Work seemed to do Patches good, although the stallion privately wondered and worried if she used hard labour to dodge her own concerns. Regardless, the filly had attached herself to him – valet and limpet combined in one little frowning pony – and what she lacked in tools or delicacy she made up for with sheer single-mindedness and grit.

It was a slow, uncomfortable afternoon of scouring tar clear from Flotsam’s coat, and he wasn’t the only pony that needed it, but his case was undoubtedly the worst. Hard Tack, Scuttle and Shanty had tarry hooves, which they’d earned in preparing the fiery cannonballs. Windlass was in the same boat; only difference was she’d been throwing them like some kind of reverse lightning goddess. Or a mild-mannered volcano. Either or. She had a few unhappy looking gashes partially obstructed in the heavy, thick, increasingly frustrating, tartarus-spewed tar, but she seemed to accept both conditions with a degree of graceful acceptance that actually made her come across as just the littlest bit boring. The few times Flotsam saw anypony make any sort of fuss over her, Windlass would say she was fine and quietly shuffle away to some new task.

Flotsam was by far the worst for tar. He  had gone face-first through it in his fight with the griffon hen, and now Patches attacked the task of cleaning him. Her strategy was that of a glacier carving a valley: slow, relentless, and not to be turned aside. She had to hoof a flat piece of tin that she used to scrape at him with and a hoof brush that was so wizened with hard use and age that if it lost any more of its flattened, colour-faded bristles it’d actually just be a rather ugly clog.

Flotsam's impatience – if not his skin – was balmed by the many congratulations he was getting. Mostly these were slaps on the back; namely, the reddened, viciously scrubbed, tar-free portions of his back. A few made to kiss him. His evasive actions were nominally successful, but the chuckles he garnered from doing so embarrassed him more than just accepting them as they came. His shielding had put him in a lot of good books today. 

This time the well wishes came as a punch to the shoulder. He winced and tried not to make too big a show of recoiling. These mares did not go in for weak punches. “Hey, big guy.” 

“Oh, hey. Hop Scotch.” He smiled and it took some effort to keep his expression straight, seeing as Patches was using some kind of lesser known torture technique on his leg. She grumbled and insisted he keep still, and Flotsam did his best to comply with that. The last he’d seen of Hop Scotch, the light brown earth pony mare had been caught up in a duel with a griffon – a duel inexplicably perched, log-rollers style, atop the ship’s wheel. 

All things considered she seemed pretty intact and confidently self-respecting for having gone through that.

The mare tossed a cursory glance down to the bustling filly – who abjectly ignored her – and then treated Flotsam to a lazy half-smile. “Looks uncomfortable. She won’t stop, you know. Busy little bee.”

“I’ll put up with it if it gets me clean again. This stuff is actually evil.” For the past two hours he’d really gotten to know the stepped-on-freshly-spat-out-gum sensation, as his hooves held on a little too affectionately to the wooden planks. And it was with every single step they did that. It was maddening.

“Yep. And we use that to waterproof the ship. It’s supposed to last for months at a time, so, for all our sakes I hope you don’t get some kind of rash and lose half your coat. Be a real bummer, that. Who would entertain us?”

Flotsam glanced surreptitiously to Patches. She gave no sign she’d heard anything. As always, she reduced her world to the smallest possible size and that world, for the moment, consisted of tar, scraping, scrubbing and the occasional grumbled command to be still. Then he flashed Hop Scotch a dirty look. Not sexy-flirty dirty kind of look, but more the telling her off sort. The Come on, she’s right there sort.

The mare’s face lit up and she poked her tongue out for a second. Relax, she mouthed.

Flotsam glowered. After a moment, he decided to just let it go. “Not wearing your eye patch?” he asked.

Hop Scotch had never needed an eyepatch – both her eyes were absolutely fine. Even a little demure looking, given the long lashes and her little round mouth. She could have walked through almost any door and faked the sweet and innocent look easily enough, if she wanted to. She wouldn’t though, except to get a rise out of Flotsam. 

“I’m pretty sure I lost it. That was actually the spare. Dropped the first one overboard ages ago. I think this one might have snagged on the griffn’s talon when he was trying to put my head through the wall. He’s probably got it now, back on what’s left of his ship.” At Flotsam’s widened eyes she simply chuckled dismissively, “Oh don’t worry. Do I look like that happened? No, missus Harpoon dropped on him like an anchor. Ends a fight pretty quick, let me tell you.”

Flotsam kept getting caught up on the mare's appearance. He didn’t mean to keep falling for it (he was pretty certain she hadn’t noticed him doing it, but if she theoretically had noticed, it’d be suggesting the wrong things entirely and probably only encourage her). It was just that this slightly smaller than average, brown earth pony with brown eyes looked so un-weird as to become weird out of some sort of misplaced context. Hop Scotch looked like a foal’s first piano teacher, one that spoke only ever soft encouragement, had maybe had two colt friends in her entire life and had never deviated or splurged any bits from a very sensible savings plan. 

Her roughly cropped hair completely betrayed the look. It, like the rest of her, was another variation on the theme of warm, genial brown, except it looked like it had been simply hacked away with a sword. Given the number of swords here and the somewhat lax attitude about their handling, that actually was a more reasonable than was strictly-reasonable possibility. And the eyepatch? The eyepatch had been nothing less than transformative. No one, anywhere, ever had mistaken a patch-wearing-pirate for a children’s piano teacher.

It just wouldn't happen.

Flotsam did recall that the first time he’d met her. It'd been during the night watch, well before the storm had ever hit them. Before the whole thing with the island. Hop Scotch essentially lived at night, it seemed – where Hop Scotch prowled the deck, or more aptly, kept the wheel steady and occasionally ducked into a sheltered nook to suck at the wrinkly little roll-up cigarettes she made. 

Flotsam had been restive that night, unable to sleep for a tossing ship and his own churning worries. He’d bumped into her on the deck, one shadow and another, she'd offered a puff and he'd politely, awkwardly declined. There’d been small-talk, a few verbal prods of a flirtatious nature sent his way (which Flotsam had weathered with mixed appraisal) and then, out of the blue (or the black, all things considered) she’d pulled in real close to and dared him to move the black slip covering her eye and look inside.

She was missing that eye. Was there any other reason for a pony to wear a patch? That's what she'd asked him, but he was too rattled to even think about answering. She’d said there was a hole straight through where her eye should have been, and she said if he got a little closer, and came down to her height... and dared nudge it aside... (she’d let him, too, she promised she’d let him) he’d be able to see all the way through to her brain, crinkled, pink and glistening. 

Flotsam declined the invitation with all the grace he could muster. Which wasn't much, truth be told. He was wondering with some worry what her game was and if it were true about the missing eye, what kind of health issues that incited (this being before he know ‘twast all a jibe at his expense; her eyes were ordinary, lovely, in an amount equal to the proper plural and in every way fine). There was definitely a ploy to kiss in all that faces-together bit. Even Flotsam could spot that. And there was unquestionably some mirth to be had in his stirring up horror and imagination-conjured revulsion.

Both ideas made sense when they were alone. Putting them together had been a bit odd though. Horror-flirting wasn’t something Flotsam had ever considered existing before. Maybe she’d been testing him, gauging his reaction? 

Or maybe the night watch got boring and Hop Scotch just liked stirring the pot. Whatever the case, Flotsam had gotten to sleep at long last that night, for he was too full of bothered questions about his encounter to remember a whit about his own cares.

He dreamed the moon was an eye searching the world over for him and a heart beat-beat, going drip by drip into the ocean. He hid; awoke; lay awake in the pitch blackness, all the sounds of wood and water and sleeping bodies to crowd into bed with him. Eventually he fell asleep again and did not dream that time. The morning softened the details and he reasoned away the images that had haunted his night, with such talk as missing eyes and exposed brains enough to induce spirits into any troubled pony's mind. 

A hurtful tug at his mane twisted Flotsam’s head and brought it roughly to the mare’s chest. It jarred him into the present moment. Tar, Patches, Hop Scotch, him. Patches tore at his hair with a steel-toothed comb that felt like it was sooner going to remove the scalp from his skull than the thickened tar from his hair. 

“Ow, ow, stop. Patches, stop!” Flotsam said urgently, his neck cricking more by the second as he held the over-flexed, sideways posture. The other mares cleaning themselves from a shared bucket stopped and glanced his way.

Now Hop Scotch was gently lifting Flotsam’s chin back up. Patches held on for a confrontational second – he knew because the painful tension behind his ears grew worse for a moment, then the mare said, “baby, give him a break.” Her voice was sweet and patient, but with a noticeable hint of tart enjoyment. Then she reined it in. “There’s a bit of chocolate I’ve been saving in my locker. Why don’t you help yourself to a piece of it, Patches?”

Flotsam was quick to agree. “You’ve more than earned it.”

“Okay?” she said without confidence, looking between the two grown-ups. Despite her word she was yet to go take her reward.

Flotsam pulled her to his side (painfully sensitive, yet cleanish for the effort she’d put in) “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, giving a shake that rocked the filly side to side. She had to dance on her hooves to keep with the movements and a snatch of brief giggles and one girlish snort were rocked loose from her.

“Okay!” she said and this time it was a great deal more merry. Flotsam chin-nuzzled her forehead, improvised a chin-noogie from it and sent her on her way. “May I bring a piethe for Flottham, too?” 

Hop Scotch played at a curtsy. “You may.” She smiled and it was the sort of smile that really needed to the glimmer of a gold tooth to be complete. 

The filly started on the spot, but some loose and shaky concept of good manners reared its head and she hesitated. “Thank you,” she said formally before rushing two steps, hesitating self-consciously and changing herself mid-stride to a cool, aloof filly swagger.

Something niggled Flotsam’s thoughts as he watched the filly round the corner and disappear from sight.

“You keep your lock box unlocked? Doesn’t that make it just a box?”

The mare only shrugged. “Everyone knows everyone.” She turned a mischief-glinting eye on him. “Everyone except you, when you think about it. Should I be worried about a stallion, such as yourself, surprising me when I least expect it? That could be fun,” she admitted. She leaned close to his bandana-bandaged ear, standing up taller, chest out to whisper, “Do you want to open my box? I’m not saying no.” 

Flotsam internally bemoaned that his filly had left: she was a perpetual, protective wet blanket against this sort of behaviour.

Then, before Flotsam could think of any response at all Hop Scotch stole the iniative right out from under him. She pulled an about turn, throwing her hips in an arc and Flotsam felt tail hairs brush his face. He jumped; maybe whinnied under his breath.

“You need to relax.” Her voice was languid. She shot him a last look over her shoulder. “And to answer your first question: No. Patches picks locks.” The mare went tsk-tsk but somehow made it sound very approving. “Her and those little knives of hers. Excuse me one and all," she announced for everpony's hearing, "but it's way past my bedtime. It’s practically evening.” Hop Scotch yawned and Flotsam was quite certain she put an invitational lilt to it. Flotsam had never slept in a hammock, let alone tried for a two in one. He quashed the curiosity and Hop Scotch laughed quietly. She mouthed something silently and it might have been: See you tonight? 

Flotsam didn’t know what to answer and she didn’t leave him the time to. She left him dangling. He turned to the nearby others and his face must have said something funny because Hard Tack and Scuttle burst out in a round of raucous laughter, the sort old ladies belch out after they’ve been at the brandy (and gin). Shanty rolled her eyes, acting disgusted with their antics but obviously enjoying them. Windlass just looked pleased that everyone else was pleased. The big pony's soft, rumbling chuckles were lost in the more raucous noises.

These were so raucous in fact that Scuttle choked and Hard Tack had to give her a loving thump to the back that would have hobbled a lesser pony. She stumbled, tipped the washwater they'd been using and, falling into it, dragged down her friend as well.

“Think fast, pretty boy!” Shanty ducked in easily, snatched the bucket with its still-sloshing dregs and threw it in Flotsam’s face. The seawater was shocking and crisp – for a split-second he was frozen solid in the overwhelming sensation of it. Something twigged in Flotsam and suddenly it felt very good to join in, like a fresh flame catching on the embers of their earlier excitement. He laughed until his sides hurt more (because they already hurt from the day’s activities) and laughed because so many things hadn’t made sense at all and, for this moment, he was alright with that. A tension that he hadn’t even noticed that had been in his chest unravelled, leaving him giddy. He forgot about griffons, about tar in his hair, the cut in his ear and his own unexplained existence.

Flotsam took a well-earned break to take and enjoy some figurative chocolate. Maybe some literal chocholate, too.

Maybe the piano-teacher lookalike stand-in had been right about that. Maybe Flotsam did need to relax. The bucket of wash water was empty, yes, but Flotsam found himself in a playful mood just then and playfulness is by its very nature a creative force. He realized that sailing on the ocean, spontaneous water fights were never entirely out of the question, empty buckets be damned. He couldn’t leave the score in Shanty’s favour, now could he?

...and if he used his magic to add a bit of cold and slushy ice to his freshly-fetched water before he dunked it over the music pony, well, who was to know?

Shanty, for starters.

> Sodding Ponies
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Four sodding wet ponies sat together at the rear of the ship. There wasn’t enough heat in the remaining sunlight to get them dry. Shanty was cold, and Flotsam regretted taking advantage by magic, but he didn’t feel too bad about it either. She’d started the water-fight, after all – discounting the casual calamity of Hard Tack and Scuttle – and besides, even with the ocean breeze the air felt warm to him. She’d be alright, and seemed to still be enjoying herself.

Their burst of playful activity had been brief, but, like the proverbial breaking of the ice, it had opened up something in Flotsam’s demeanour and allowed it to move more freely. He did feel more relaxed, in a way he wouldn’t have been able to describe. Less guarded with himself. Damp ponies were leaning against him and he found himself not wanting it to end.

It would, he knew. This out of the way nook was hidden from sight, but sooner or later someone would uproot them. For the moment Hard Tack, Scuttle, Shanty and himself simply sat in the one area of the MoM’s top deck that had escaped damage and enjoyed the setting sun.

“I wonder what happened to the griffons?” he asked the evening.

Scuttle grabbed his head, pulled his cheek to hers and sighted him along an outstretched hoof reaching into the distance. “Dare flound’ring inner wake out dare, past arr whore-rye-son, spittin’ curses that day evarr crossed blades with da Mudder. Of. Merrr-Seaa!”*

Flotsam was jostled and Scuttle peeled away. She was chortling. Hard Tack gave her companion a thump and said, “Shore day arr, buttarr kind-harr-ta colt here was askin’ if day’ll be a’right.” She bobbed a toothy curtsy to the colt. “Day arr, eye tale ewe clarr as day that day arr. This ship ain’t da Mudder of Rooflessness, narr be it da Mudder of Cold Blood, dough we bring enough of those when way neighed to.”

This time, Scuttle thumped Hard Tack. “Oi!” she grunted. She tut-tutted to herself.

“She’s right dough, eye’m strayin’g from da point. Flotsam, she be the Mudder of Mercy, ewe hair? ‘tis da name, and the name is taken to harr-ta. Take it on may word’a on-arr that day’ll bay a’right. Batt-arr’d, Bait’n end hue-million-ate’d, but a’right all da same.”

Flotsam wasn’t at all sure what had just transpired, but whatever it was it felt profound. Hard Tack and Scuttle bantered amidst themselves endlessly and loved verbal cues, but he’d never heard such a long and serious speech of what were very likely to be words from them. He believed them. “…thanks.” 

He stared out into the orange and purple waters of evening and could almost imagine he saw the ship they left behind. What would the griffons do now? Same as themselves, he supposed. Lick their wounds and limp to port, arduously. Flotsam closed his eyes and saw fireballs.

It was Shanty who voiced the thought. “Maybe we should have sunk them for good. We’re going to run into them again, and they might not be so stupid next time. All things considered, we got off easy. We got lucky,” she said, and knocked wood doing it.

“Aye, Shanty, whale more’n likely meet arr griff’n friends egg in end aye, weighed not if weighed put damn down fur good. But put too many souls and-arr da what-arr and da weight of damn all is shore to bring ewe down too, mark may words. Win yarr’v bin on da ship long-arr ewe will un-darr stand.” 

Shanty made a fervent, fleeting, eyes-to-lips prayer sign of the Sirenada. “I think I understand already.”

Hard Tack and Scuttle, who usually looked like bad-side-of-town grandmothers, had hard, ungentle eyes now. They made the same prayer sign with less fervour, their eyes stayed open and on Shanty. “Shay-say grand ol’ one, that Siren, but eye dent bay leave shay pro ticks wanton killers from demselves.”

Then the expression softened to its usual puffy leatheriness. Scuttle patted the teen’s head. “Dent you worry none ‘bout that. Captain knows all dat, and ‘bout what to do should weigh mate day griff’ns egg in. Nauticaa is the captain of da Mercy and da Mercy is Nauticaa’s ship. Trust the Captain, she knows what shay’s doing.”

“Mercy isn’t weak,” Flotsam mused.

The old mares grinned. “E’ gets it!” said one and “So E’ can learn, this ‘un!” said the other. They shook him between them.

Flotsam accepted the gently teasing approval. His mood was gone sombre as the conversation. It surprised him to see Shanty more shaken then he felt. He would have said something, but nothing came to mind, and asking if she was alright would likely only get her back up. 

Then the Quartermaster stepped ‘round the corner, her fiery head of hair bobbing with each step. Shanty was on her hooves in a heartbeat. “Charm!”

The unicorn smiled curtly, nodding and dismissing her. “You and you,” she said to the incorrigible elders, “I expected to be here.”

“Ways hard ought work, ways is,” said Hard Tack with inscrutable, earnest honesty. 

“Ways keepin’ watch. Eye’s peeled end all that.”

“Eye’s watchin’ da what-arr for dare ship-”

“End Eye’s watchin’ da sky! Days got wings, aven’t ewe ‘eard?”

Flotsam wondered if this were a recurring game or performance enacted by the two. Charming Booty smiled and threw them a new obstacle. “And you’re soaking wet, because?”

“Tis sweat. Like ways said, bin hard at work.” Hard Tack didn’t miss a beat. She said it so straight that Flotsam, knowing it was a lie, still found that he almost believed her.

Charming Booty licked her lips in pleasure and flicked her horn his way. “What about him?”

Scuttle proved as quick as Hard Tack. She didn’t bat an eye. “Shore, way was train’n him to cape watch. Hard work, is cape-in watch. It taint his fault ay got all sweaty. Colts just taint got da stam’na like what day had in arr day.”

The unicorn mare seemed to consider this. She nodded with pantomime approval. There was no doubt for him now – Charming Booty loved this. “And her?” she asked innocently, flicking her horn to Shanty beside her, “is Shanty soaking wet because she’s been keeping watch as well? Four ponies keeping watch?” 

“I-” 

“Shay’s just glad to say ewe is all!” and “Oint it obvious?” the two said. The elder ponies burst into hooted laughter, slapping their sides and nudging one another. “Glad ta say ewe!” they hooted.

Poor Shanty. Poor, poor Shanty. The colour rose in her like the tide. She stood stiffly as if weathering a storm and her face was pinched tight, refusing to explode into expression. 

Charming sighed pleasantly and absent-mindedly patted Shanty on the back. The earth pony’s cheeks puffed tighter, fit to burst, and went even more brightly red. Charming said to Flotsam as the laughter bubbled around them, “You, at the least, can do some honest work. Unless you are sweaty and tired?” 

He took the hint.

Patches, he remembered, hadn’t come back with that bit of chocolate. She’d probably got caught up with something, and he was pretty sure she’d approve whatever help he could give. She’d seemed in a bit of a huff earlier. He remembered the bandana at his ear. That’d been kind of her, and she had scoured him clean, or at least, scoured him less dirty. Maybe some shared work would brighten the filly’s mood. He owed her that much.

He left the four mares to work whatever it was going on here out amidst themselves. He rounded the corner to the open deck and heard the thick throaty cough of one of the elders and the subsequent thump on her back. He recollected that that’s what had kicked off the water-fight to begin with.

Keeping watch, they’d said. Four ponies keeping watch. Or, if he kept strictly to the colourful version Scuttle and Hard Tack told, three ponies plus Shanty. The thing was, though; the thing was… they weren’t wrong. There were crazed griffons behind them and an unknown port and Captain’s decisions ahead of Flotsam. He’d have to keep watch, too; as much as the old timers had claimed to be. He glanced ahead, his eyes far as they could out into the darkening horizon. He saw water and the first of the stars for tonight and wondered what the future held for him.

> Corputh Callothum
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam stood outside the remains of his little deck cabin. A thin covering of clouds had overtaken the ship and a soft rain slowly began to fall. It was as much a mist in the air as raindrops, and made hardly any sound at all as it fell. Other than a minor flourishing of hats, nopony seemed to do or say anything much about it. Flotsam figured he’d be damp for a while longer and put the matter out of his mind.

He looked inside at what had been his room. The door was off its hinges. The ember red sky lit the place with a surreal, dreamlike quality. He prodded the door itself. It was missing a hip-high and narrow chunk of wood from the base from where something – or, more aptly, someone – had hit it, but it wouldn’t be too hard to return to the hinges.

The chasm in the roof would be more of a problem. In the last hour of twilight it gave Flotsam’s room a column of soft red, almost purple light. Motes of dust and water twirled inside it. The cannonball had also ripped a huge bite from his bunk and put a fatal split running through the rest of it. The blanket was in tatters. 

Flotsam wiggled the bunk gently and it held up. He tried a little more force and it suddenly split into halves, cracking sharply and falling in on itself. A spout of wood dust flew up into the air. Splinters and needles of wood littered the floor. The cannonball rolled out from under the bed and bumped insistently against the wall. The ship moved and with each gentle motion the cannonball rolled this way and that. It rolled Flotsam’s way and he caught it with his hoof.

“Looks like we missed one,” he mused. The splinters and wood dust were becoming a wet plaster in the rain, with faintly visible little trails already rolled through it. He could start with this. 

He propped the cannonball into the corner of the room and kept it there with one of the boards from his bunk. The mop was as good as a broom – well, no, it really wasn’t – but he made do and used it to sweep the debris together best he could, setting with the cannonball those pieces of wood he thought maybe could be salvaged, somehow. There weren’t many of those; things tended to be ‘smashed’ or ‘not smashed’ where cannonballs were concerned. He found what he thought might be the missing piece from the door and set it there as well.

By degrees the breeze became stronger and the rain fell more steadily. Each time he stepped under the hole his back prickled and tickled with raindrops. Flotsam could not look up without blinking his eyes against the cold, clean water, but for a minute or two he did just that, trying to see what was above them. Just clouds, it seemed. The peachy colours had gone from the sky, leaving it much more pallid. Gray clouds and, in the breaks between them, stars were what he saw. The mares would know better than he, but Flotsam had a feeling that the weather would keep on like this all through the night.

He found himself not minding it. A few voices complained as the rain increased, but even in those words there was a tone of acceptance. A full-time team of pegasi could likely keep a travelling ship in its in own micro-climate of perpetual sunshine, but the Mother of Mercy had neither the resources nor the inclination to apply to that triviality. The ship had few pegasi and they were kept as busy as every other mare. The rain softened the sounds around him and contributed its own sound. The complaints ceased and the rain continued.

When Flotsam had got as much of the scrap wood and splinters as he could, he clumped them into a ball with his magic, took it to the gunwale and dropped it overboard. There was a quiet splash and, no longer held together, the ball came apart again. The last he saw of it, it was coming apart, some pieces steadily sinking while others resolutely floating in a slowly expanding cloud. Returning to his room Flotsam took the useful pieces he had saved and piled them in the corner. The cannonball he was unsure of. 

“Here,” he said, taking it to Windlass, “can you take this?”

The big mare paused to consider him. Her hair was plaited with water and her coat – like his own, like everypony’s – shone with rain. She shook her head and fallen raindrops flew again. 

“Sure,” she said, scooping the weighty iron ball up against her chest with little difficulty. There were a few others, he could see now, further along the deck and she put it with those. It dropped into place with a heavy clang. Each and every one of them had arrived with speed and violent intent, busting up planks and rigging. He looked up and even at this last, darkening hour ponies crawled up in the air, patching the sails as they could and breaking away the pieces they couldn’t.

“Some day,” he said.

Windlass avoided eye contact, and mostly keeping her eyes to the decking she meekly asked, “Some day what?”

Flotsam hesitated. “I meant, it’s been quite a day.” 

“Ya.” 

A rope was tossed down from somewhere above and somepony called out, “Windlass!” She bit into it and pulled the rope until was so tight that it thrummed with vibration and bled out its soaked-in water. Something above creaked and scraped; there came a sudden jerk and a sharp crack! – Windlass stumbled – and the voice called again, “Okay that did it! Right, get the next one ready!” 

Windlass dutifully let the rope go. After a second, it jerkily started to ascend again.

“What can I do?” Flotsam asked. He wanted to help. He was also tired – quite spent, physically and mentally – but it wasn’t like he had somewhere to sleep anyhow.

The giantess of a pony shrugged and shied away. “I ‘unno,” she said. “Try somepony else.” The rope came dangling down again in another spot and Windlass left the conversation at that.

“Alright,” Flotsam said to empty air. Well, not empty: rain filled, but pony-less. 

He didn’t lack confidence, but Flotsam’s knowledge of ships and the working thereof had more holes than the Mother of Mercy presently did. 

Crossing the deck meant stepping around several. Planks had been laid and a pony could probably safely walk those planks, but Flotsam had already earned his bruises today and felt that discretion was the better part of – if not valour – then at least whatever it was that meant he wasn’t taking a second painful tumble. He heard a bang and a curse, peeked down into the below-decks and saw ponies hard at work, moving and removing cargo. He presumed it was to get it out from under the rain, but it could have been to rebalance the ship or to improve its feng shui. His ignorance teased him.

A mare looked up at him looking down and he felt suddenly out of place. He hadn’t seen her, he’d thought they’d all left already. Moon Tide was a deep blue colour and in the darkened hold and she’d blended right in. She made up for invisibility with noisiness, though. 

Moon Tide grunted and set down the crate she’d been hauling with a heavy thud. “How about some light down here, Flotsam?” she asked. He recognized her as the bump-and-curse pony of moments before. “Sea Bed’s being an ass. We can’t work if we can’t see. We can’t work: stuff gets ruined. But you’re good for it, yeah?”

Flotsam nodded. “Yeah, sure. No problem.” Light wasn’t difficult – most unicorns could make a bright candle of their horn. It was one of the more or less universal uses of magic, that and basic, small object levitation.

Moon Tide shivered as she stretched. The crackles along her spine were audible to Flotsam from his perch, as were the moans of obvious relief and pleasure Moon Tide took from it. “You know what Sea Bed said? She said, ‘the lighting’s fine’. That it was ‘hardly dark at all’. It’s practically pitch-black down here! I swear to Siren she goes around dimming the lights on purpose. The only time I can see the hoof in front of my face is when I’m getting rained on, and that’s because there’s a stupid hole in the deck, and it’s going to be night for real in a minute and we are not going to finish before that, not at all. Least another hour,” she huffed. “Feckless griffons.”

Flotsam cast his spell – it was hardly a spell at all – and the tip of his horn turned the blue-white of a star. He walked out onto the boards, went on his knees and shone the light down, casting the area beneath him in sharper relief of light and shadow. “How’s that?”

“A lot better. You should get down here… stand in the hall or something.”

“How about I just light it all up?”

“What? You can do that? That’s a thing?”

“What?”

“What?”

The two ponies eyed one another with some confusion. The impasse was, eventually, passed. Flotsam closed his eyes and focused. Lighting up one’s horn was the default nature of the light spell, but he felt it was obvious that one could coax the spell further. He hardly wanted to be everypony’s chandelier for an hour or more at any rate. 

Flotsam focused, saw how he envisioned the light – the hue, the brightness, the flowing magic – wrapped it all in on itself like a present, gave it a little charge all its own and, prodding a jutting piece of damaged decking with his horn, tethered the light there.

“That’ll be good for a while,” he said.

Moon Tide blinked and muttered.

“What?”

“I said, ‘I never saw it done that way before’.”

Flotsam frowned and his brows pinched. “Really?” He stood and, though wobbling on the less-than-certain boards, felt better than he had hunched down. He tried to think of an example of it being done this way before, but couldn’t. He still got bothered about that, but not surprised. “I don’t think it’s hard to do,” he said. He had the urge to explain why this was so, though; he wouldn’t have been able to explain it even to himself. It was something to intuit. 

Moon Tide scratched the back of her neck and yawned. “Suppose it wouldn’t be hard, not for a mister super-corn like yourself. This’ll make moving the rest of these crates much easier. Shame it’s only here.” The mare wrapped her hooves around her crate and grunted as she hoisted it once more to her back. She jostled and wriggled in place until she had it balanced to her satisfaction. “There it goes.”

It didn’t have to be just here. Flotsam considered it and something in his head echoed back, sure, why not? “Hold on a second,” he urged. He focused again, his horn lit up – he held the same light again in his awareness, light and hue and the other qualities that weren’t perceived with mundane senses. He held his little mage light in his magic and deftly plucked a part of it away, gaining something without diminishing what he’d taken it from. A procession of little faerie lights budded from the first; he gave each their own little charge and calling to mind what he remembered of the layout here, set them drifting towards the various places where they could perch.

Flotsam’s awareness returned to the usual spot – the spot behind his eyes – and he saw Moon Tide’s extended hoof trailing with reverential caution after the last little blue-white glow as it drifted past her. “Oh my. Flotsam, that’s-”

But Flotsam wasn’t listening. He’d turned, considered the mast receding into darker and darker gray; a pony could hardly see from one end of the Mother to the other, nor from deck to crows’ nest. He considered what he saw and the same ‘why not?’ echo bounced in his skull again.

He worked his spell faster; he was familiar with it now and had mastered the new basics. He understood what it felt like to split the lights, to shape them, charge them and direct them. He made the fey lights appear wherever he wanted, they bloomed from nothing into blue-white something over the course of a few seconds, like a candle wick catching its first flame. Flotsam heard ponies call out in surprise and wonder. He worked around them where he was able – he didn’t want to startle or distract them – and after perhaps a minute had gone by the lights were roosting like a swarm of moths on the mast, the rigging, around the deck cabins and there was even a larger, scintillating star. That one was not directly attached to the Mother anywhere, instead he’d simply affixed to the air itself, to a point in the air above the many-spoked wheel of the ship. 

It was a nice touch. Flotsam wobbled on his hooves. He was the teensiest bit breathless for his effort and chuckled under what breath he did have. The boards took his wobbles and amplified them, like double bouncing on a trampoline. 

“Flotsam?”

He shook and danced to steady himself until he was proudly upright. “I’m alright.” It was funny. He liked the lights he’d given the ship. He hoped the others would. They would. They’d be useful. “I’m alright."

Work was pausing all around as ponies were coming up on the deck to see them. It was cloudy tonight, so… why not have stars? Cadence loved stars. Their balcony had such a beautiful view, one of the empire’s very heart, and what felt like all the skies of the world above them. The stars were so much brighter, that far north. And now there was a guiding star here, glittering over the great spinny wheel. Shining, not glittering. That was his name, after all. Shining Armour strolled onto solid decking. He gazed into the bright glow of his creation. It made him smile, but it also made him sad. He knew Cadence would have liked it. 

The half-familiar ponies were swarming around him now. They were talking. At him, he knew, and he meant to be polite but he couldn’t really hear them. He decided he liked them, they seemed like good ponies in their way, but… Cadence. Mi Amore Cadenze.

He missed her.

He missed her.

He missed her so much.

He missed her so much that his heart was a chasm. Shining Armour was sitting. He was sinking. Rough, insistent hooves dragged him up. Sit over there? Sure, yeah, why not. The words the strangers spoke at him from many sides, they had an insistent tone. Urgent. The words washed over him and the rain flowed over him, but it meant very little. The water on Shining Armour’s skin felt far away as the horizon. Everything else was even farther.

Somepony grabbed his chin and forced his head front and forwards. Did this one mean to kiss him? He was flattered, but simply not interested. Cadence was his everything.

He didn’t recognize the face. He barely recognized that there was a face, very near his. Everything about it, the shape and colour, expression and texture, eluded him. Everything was blurring: there were lights and darks and dizzying shades flitting about between them. He found he could not support the weight of his head and was pathetically grateful when somepony else helped him with that. The touch was a comfort, even as it more acutely reminded him of his loss.

Cadence… Cadence…

Purpose crystallized within him. With it came strength, of a sort. He stared the nearest pony in the eye, smiled desperately and said levelly, “I have to go.”

Lights were flashing inside his eyes. The crew mares were all around him. Shining Armour made to stand but they resisted his effort. He tried to stand and when they wouldn’t let him move he realized it was entirely in his power to simply remove them. With his magic he gently, firmly pushed them all back a step. The lights flashed painfully bright, but the pain made him alert and helped him think.

It was so obvious now, ha! A raft! He had actually built a raft! The him that wasn’t himself. The memory dissolved even as he held it in his thoughts, like it were suspended in acid. How admirable! How desperate! 

What had been desperate? He couldn’t remember. The lights hurt his eyes, but closing them did nothing; it was coming from under his eyelids.

Shining Armour knew what he had to do. He threw his front hooves over the gunwale. The voices were loud, very loud, cheering him on, cheering him on for his quest home. Oh, he’d be home soon! He’d lain on fire, hadn’t he? What fire? Why was he thinking about fire? The answer was so much easier than he thought. He lovingly envied his sister her teleports right now – that particular spell was outside his skill set – but it was exactly as they said: everywhere was walking distance if you had the time! He’d lain on fire, now he’d walk on water. It’d taken him long enough to figure this out! Ha! He’d have so much explaining and apologizing to do when he got back! Ha! Ha ha! He wasn’t the smartest pony – he had no delusions there – but he could plod along… literally! Ha! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Shining Armour tried to leap off the ship only to have his back leg wrenched in its socket. A very large pony was holding him. He wasn’t upset, but he wasn’t going to accept this behaviour and with no more effort than it would take to move a pet cat he lifted the giant pony into the air and set her down with the others. The lights flashed inside his eyes like magnesium fire. He shut his left tightly – it was hot and stung sharply – and he was forced to squint through his right. That didn’t upset him. A pony didn’t need to see very much to be able to walk.

Shining Armour thanked all the ponies and happily flung himself overboard.

He tumbled in the air and hit the water. More aptly, the water hit him. It hit him hard. Bubbles pounded past his head and water choked him, but neither could bring down his elation. He was going home! After the lies, after the betrayals, after the despair… he was going home! Shining Armour was going home to his beautiful princess. 

He struggled to get his footing and then, his head throbbing with a pain that did nothing to curb his enthusiastic effort, he got it. Uncertainly at first, then with growing confidence, Shining Armour climbed up from the water and stood on top of it. 

The ocean directly beneath him was perfectly flat – the waves went around him, or simply ceased existing, the falling rain arced sharply around him – and where his hooves touched water they glowed and crackled as if electricity coursed through them. 

Something was cinched very tightly around Shining Armour’s throat.

“Flottham, pleathe!” A filly was weeping, spluttering and coughing, and she was clinging to him. Her ship was moving away and already fading. 

Shining Armour went rigid; his certainty was split straight down the middle as if he’d laid his head on a guillotine sideways. He tried to think and every thought came as halves and doubles.

I have / What am I / to get home! / doing?!

I’m / Who am / Patches! / I why don’t / I’m not
r / re / mem/ em / ber / er

The filly he’d never met before in his life cried, “Flottham, pleathe! We have to go!” cried the most precious pony he’d ever met in his short, insane life.

Contradictory memories burned across one another like lines of fire. Somewhere in the world, a cat existed and also did not exist, and it was inside his brain.

FSlhoitnsianmg ssccrreeaammeedd. 

“Hold on tight!” he/he yelled. She had to go back. She couldn’t be out here, not like this. This was insanity! He/he ran, legs pumping, heart pumping, magical light flashing from eyes and hooves, trailing lightning across the ocean’s surface. Ahead, distant and dark lay the ship’s silhouette, disappearing into the rain.

Bomf! A rear hoof plunged into the ocean, its magical light extinguished. He/he carried on in a three legged dash across the water, the fourth a dead weight that kicked and dragged uselessly.

Bomf! His/his back end collapsed into the water, as it was always meant to have done. Gritting his/his teeth, putting all the weight he/he could on his/his front legs, he/he held them up high as he/he could out of the water. The power burned twice as bright.

“We’re here!” the filly shouted frantically, “we’re here!”

Bomf! The wild magic collapsed with a bang, punching Flotsam down into the ocean. The surge left him and took everything with it. He hadn’t the energy to close his eyelids now, not even that. The painful brightness in his eyes was gone too, at least.

Patches, I’m sorry Flotsam thought as he floated gently downwards.


Cadence, I’m sorry.

> Shoulda Putta ring on it
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re awake.” 

The words were full of certainty and it was not a question. Flotsam was not at all certain and was about to have plenty of questions. For the moment, though, he could only get so far as: ‘?’. Bafflement and wonder without cognition. Things that were sort of like thoughts passed through his head. His senses ponderously began to take up their tasks. 

Flotsam accreted gradually from a cloud of his own proto-thoughts. He became aware of himself in a slow, meandering manner. His eyes were closed, but now he was conscious to the fact that he had eyes – even closed, they were still there, staring at his eyelids. Sensation was a complicated smorgasbord of texture, temperature, tension, tonsils, tendons and ten other things. He took a breath and felt a new wave of sensation, all acoustically accompanied with a groan.

Hearing was his first sense to really get up to speed. The mental afterimage – afterecho? – of the spoken words still rattled around in his loosely knit brain. Flotsam recalled the two words and decided they were rather persuasive. If they said he was awake, he was awake. Probably.

He thought maybe he could hear then the rhythm of hooves and felt a sudden change in the air. It fell over him colder, crisper; more blustery. Blustrier? He imagined he could here a low voice; there was a quiet, sustained creak ending with a click and then the influx of colder air ceased.

Somewhere under him a leg shifted – one of his, he thought – and textiles crinkled. He took three or four steady breaths and for them could and would do nothing at all but wait for himself to become aware of that process too. Another sound found his ears and netted his attention. 

Scrraape, scrraape. 

Flotsam thought it familiar and realized it was. He’d been hearing it for at least as long as he’d been awake, maybe longer. Scrraape, scrraape. It had been absent for a moment and then it was back again, and he wouldn’t have noticed it at all but for the break in its regularity. 

Flotsam eased his eyes open and quickly squeezed them shut again. A more groan-worthy moan climbed up from its cavern in his throat. He sent out a questing hoof – it met with resistance: soft, dry, warm resistance – and then crawled out into open air. He caught a pliant edge and pushed the blanket down from his body.

“Explain to me what happened.” 

Scrraape, scrraape. 

The voice had neither a trace of kindness nor cruelty in it. The voice was firmness, authority, and was pitched at the smack-dab room temperature of compassion.

Flotsam had enough pieces to the puzzle of his senses now. Next came the time for recognition. He recognized himself: Flotsam, and the various conglomerate of bits that were his. He recognized the ever-similar, ever-varying motions of the ship, The Mother of Mercy. It was very peaceful just then.

He recognized the voice as that of the Captain, Nauticaa, and he recognized the scraping sounds as that of a whet stone being slid down the length of her swords in long, unbroken movements. 

His eyes were tired and bleary. For the moment he had to squint to see just across the room. They adjusted slowly, but eventually he could make out the basics. An oil flame sat caged in off-coloured brass and burned glass, sputtering and guttering so that even while the room was still, its shadows all jittered as if they had to be restrained to their respective casters forcefully, wanting nothing more but to jump free and dance. The shadow of the Captain’s desk shuddered every half-second, silently contorting up and down again the wall floor, the wall and ceiling.

Flotsam struggled to prop himself up so that he was sitting in bed. The Captain’s own bed, he was surprised to learn; that surprise helped perk him up further. He recognized that a question had been posed to him, and that to fulfil the answer he needed to think, really, properly, cognitively think.

It proved too much, too soon. He tapped out. “What happened?” is what he meant to ask, only it came out as, “Your bed?”

Captain Nauticaa made a few more of the gliding motions with her whetstone, examined her work and laid both her blades soundlessly on her desk. When these things were done and only then did she show the faintest possibility of a crack in her patience. 

“I want you to explain what happened tonight.” She did not sound pleased. “Take your time.”

In his present state this proved difficult. Not impossible, though. He laboured to stitch the disparate images together again – he felt like a shattered thing.

There was a hollow knock, the Captain raised her voice to say “Enter,” and cold air and the clip-clop of hooves found Flotsam again. He turned his head and, through an effort of blinking and squinting, discerned a dim, ruddy red. It grew brighter as his eyes adjusted. Charming Booty. She said, “Here Sammy. Drink this.” Her voice had been soft, but in the next instant it was sharp. “Take it with your hooves,” she warned.

“There you go,” she said, and her voice was soft again. Something passed between them in the air.

Flotsam tried to follow the whispers, but they were fast, sleek little things, speeding along beneath a surface he couldn't clearly perceive. “What?”

“Just drink it,” Charming Booty urged, pressing the mug into Flotsam’s hooves. It was hot and aromatic. “It’ll do you good.”

It was hot – actually hot, shooting its heat right through Flotsam’s hooves and into his body. He sipped at it, first tasting only the heat on his tongue, then, awakening to flavour and thirst tipped it up and drank more greedily. The bite of citrus and a warming spiciness filled his mouth, and as he swallowed the heat was a welcome guest in his gut.

There was another knock and a gruff voice said, “I’m here.”

Harpoon’s hooves fell differently on the floor, Flotsam noticed. Instead of the normal rhythm, her movements were announced with a staggered clip, clop-clip, clop, clip-clop. It was only slightly there, the lighter and heavier hoof-falls, but having just heard Charming Booty walk in moments before, Flotsam was in a good place to notice the difference.

Harpoon was limping. 

A pony who was not limping was Patches, and she darted under the First Mate and around the Quartermaster to jump up onto the bed. “Flottham!” she yelled, and the only reason most of the hot drink was not spilled in this moment was by the grace that Flotsam had already drunk most of it. As it was, hot splashes fell onto him. He brushed quickly at them to do away with the burn.

“Patches!” complained Charming Booty and Harpoon moved to pick her up, but the Captain’s level voice quickly cut across any further action.

“She can stay. If she stays quiet.” If Patches had not heard the permission then definitily at least heard the condition thereof and promptly fell silent. What she could not express in sound she redoubled in articulation, for she hugged Flotsam’s leg tightly and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. With a grunt of acknowledgement Harpoon made no further move, save to knock the cabin door shut with a firm kick. The space outside was conspicuously crowded with crew mares, all working, or so was the image they presented.

Flotsam was properly awake now, so he was entirely and very much acutely aware that the upper brass of the entire command structure of the ship had their attention on him, as well as a great deal many others by means of eavesdropping. He didn’t worry about it, yet, instead brushing back the filly’s bushy and unkempt mane. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. What’s the matter?”

Patches shook her head in a sweep-sweep-sweep that rubbed at his shoulder. “You’re not okay. You’re not right.” 

What do you mean? he meant to ask, but he did know what she meant, and as more of the clues of his memory settled into place he liked less and less the big picture they suggested.

His face must have spoke of his distress, because the Captain took the floor with a firm hoof-fall, one that clapped across the cabin and silenced everypony else. “Now you need to tell us what happened.”

What did Flotsam remember? There was a seething, ugly mess of something balled up and lashing quite recently in his head. He steered clear of that and went to the far side, starting with the things he could – if not understand entirely – than at least put into words. “I remember the griffon attack,” he said. He remembered lots of little things, many of them enhanced with the ghostly aches he felt more prominently now. Something in particular snagged.

“I captured one!” Flotsam shifted on his hips and made to stand – the three mares bristled combatively and, from shock at the sudden change in their manner and instinct Flotsam eased himself back down. “I captured one,” he repeated, straining out any and all excitement from his voice. They did not want him excited, he realized, not in the slightest. Flotsam suspected he knew why and liked it less and less.

The mares relaxed. Slowly. “We know. Gadfly Griffon. I’ve spoken with her.”

“What did she say?”

“Tell us what you remember,” commanded the Captain, and this time it was an unmistakeable command. 

Flotsam met Nauticaa’s eye and nodded his obeisance. “We fought the griffons. I captured one, captured Gadfly, I was looking for Patches…”

Charming glanced and the Captain nodded. “Sammy, I found her, that part’s done with. Focus on when you put the shield around the entire ship. Do you remember doing that? 

“Yeah, of course I do. I was putting a stop to the cannonballs being dropped on top of us.” Flotsam finished the sour, sweet, spicy drink. He was distracted in thought as he gave it to Patches. She slunk away to set it down somewhere else, but when she tried to slink back the Captain’s hoof on her shoulder bid the ship’s filly stay right where she was. Patches chewed her lip and by no means looked please, but neither did she make any move to disobey Nauticaa, though the Captain’s hoof had only been a gentle suggestion on her shoulder and had no force behind it. At least, not a physical force.

“It’s good you remember. There was something else, though: a feedback effect of some kind? Do you remember anything about that?”

He did, and having been reminded of it reminded Flotsam of a half-forgotten ache in his lower back. He had channelled a great deal of magical power and then been tossed aside, quite literally. Being magically propelled into a wall had hurt. Flotsam shifted on his seat, easing what little he could of the discomfort.

He tried to explain what he felt in terms they could all understand, because he was explaining his use of magic as much to himself as to anyone. “It was a strong spell. With that much magic, it’s…hard to make sure that every bit of it goes exactly where it’s supposed to. There’s leaks, or…” he gestured vaguely with his hooves, “leftovers.”

Even as he said it and though he had been honest Flotsam still felt like a liar. He knew his own thought was echoed in every pony present. His so-called ‘leaks’ and ‘leftovers’ had had more power than most unicorns’ full potency.

“What else?”

Her tone made Flotsam think of the snarly, tangled, sore mess of confused thoughts. He tried to think of something – anything – else. A better word than ‘leftovers’, for starters… “I got hit with the recoil, then we went out on the deck and shot down the griffon sky-frigate. Everypony else shot it down, really, I just sort of watched.”

Charming Booty’s thoughtful stare fell on Patches. “What about the lights, Flotsam? Do you remember making the lights?”

The Captain spoke before he had the chance to reply. She glared into his eyes and hers were decidedly not nice. “I want to know why, last night a screaming, ranting, crying, laughing maniac tossed my crew about like toys and then decided to fling himself overboard, pulling my filly down with him. It leaves me wondering how concerned I need to be.”

When it was put like that… yeah. Nauticaa’s words didn’t allow him to shy around those bits he could recall. He remembered talking to the pony Moon Tide – shining his horn for her, so she could see as she worked – and then the next memory he could just about recall was being tugged up from the water, him and Patches. The worst words had been the last, though: …how concerned I need to be. It made him feel guilty, and a little bit afraid.

He couldn’t remember the whole of what the Captain described, but knew it had to be true, because normal forgetfulness didn’t sizzle into the melted gaps of a pony's memory like bad alchemy. Just thinking about it left a bad taste in his brain.

“I’m me,” he insisted, then sighed. “Whatever that means. I’d like to stand up now, if that’s alright?”

He was still trying to put himself in mind of, well, of himself. Himself, except raving mad. His eye fell on the Captain’s desk and the many arcane tools of sailing that rested there. “Who pulled me out anyway?”

Harpoon said, “I did.”

He remembered kissing this mare. Or she, kissing him. Who had been kissing whom, actually? Probably not the time to bring that up, he decided. “That’s…three? Three that I owe you now?”

The pegasus shrugged. “We’ll call it two.” 

Ocean, fire, hole in the deck, ocean again… “I guess I need to stop falling into things.” Flotsam chuckled without humour.

Charming Booty chuckled softly and relaxed a little. “It’s not a very good habit to have, is it?”

“Thelf dethtructive,” the ship’s filly whispered sadly. 

The assembled ponies fell silent for a time. Then, the Captain’s voice:

“You don’t remember, then? Why you did any of those things?”

“I don’t, no. At this point I don’t think I want to. I would tell you if I did,” he insisted in every honesty, “but I just don’t.”

They fell silent a second time.

Nauticaa went to her desk – for a terrifying instant Flotsam thought she was going for her swords – and reaching past the sword hilts, pulled open a drawer and grabbed something else.

It was small, round, and had a pebble-and-bubble kind of surface that reminded Flotsam of pumice. Unlike that useful stone, however; this object was dark and metal. It had been polished. 

“Do you know what this is?”

Flotsam shook his head. Patches, having again sidled to his side and wrapped her leg around his. He felt immensely grateful for that.

Charming Booty, usually abundant with swag and swagger alike, had gone pale. “You have a nullifier?”

“I have a lot of things,” the Captain said, and her tone said to all that she would not be challenged. “Flotsam, this is a magic nullification ring. It goes over a horn and, as the name says, it will nullify magic.

“It’s become clear to me and, I expect, to everyone, that your insanity is tied up with your magical potential.” 

She played the nullifier between her hooves and then clasped it firmly. “I would like you to put this on.”

Flotsam reached to take it and do so, only for Nauticaa to retract her hoof. 

“You first need to understand, the nullifier slides on, but it doesn’t slide off. There’s no taking it off if you change your mind. Only I can do that. And I don’t plan to. Not without exceedingly good reason.” 

Flotsam hesitated. Something bothered him about all this. “Then why didn’t I wake up wearing it already? If I did all those things-”

“You did.”

“…then why even risk having that wake up instead of me? Why not just put it on my head?”

“Because I want you to willingly choose this, Flotsam. Your conduct has been good aboard my ship, you have obeyed me…”  Flotsam desperately ignored Harpoon’s existence and their stolen kisses “…and done your best to keep order, and despite the severity of this situation, I haven’t forgotten that. For something we fished out of the water, you’ve proven…useful. You’ve proven good.

Nauticaa clapped her hoof down onto the desk. “Flotsam, I believe your magic triggers this problem, and I suspect that removing your ability to use the one will protect you from the effects of the other. And if that’s not the case, than you will still be a greatly reduced threat to my ship and my crew if you cannot use magic in such a condition.”

There was genuine sympathy in her voice and her eyes when she said, “Perhaps you were simply given more magic than any unicorn was meant to handle.”

Harpoon licked chapped lips, looking none too pleased. “With great power comes great irrationality.”

Charming Booty grumbled, “that’s not how that goes.”

Flotsam nodded. “I’ll do it.” He made to step forward and take it only to find resistance tugging at his hoof.

“No,” whined Patches, “don’t.”

He shot the Captain a quick look and turned to the filly. He could simply drag her or break free; she had no way to stop him enacting his will in this. He wouldn’t, though; he’d spotted the irony and wasn’t about to be a hypocrite. Even more, he simply wouldn’t. Not to Patches. He turned and stooped down to her height. “It’s alright.” He chewed his lips and thought. “You remember the game we were playing? When we were guessing at my past?”

Her eyes fell to the floor and she reluctantly said, “yeth…”

“Well…” and here lifted her chin and put on a brave smile, though he was the one afraid just then, “maybe that pony wasn’t the hero, or the prince, or even the janitor with his super-powered mop” – that made her smile the teeniest little smile and his own became a fraction more real for it– “…that pony I was before…maybe he wasn’t one of them. 

“Maybe he isn’t a very good pony. Maybe he’s sick, or confused.”

Patches let him go on the verge of tears. It was Harpoon who gentled her and held her back. Flotsam took the last step and picked up the nullifier. It was heavy for its size. Close up it really did have a resemblance to pumice with the bubbles and holes, except for being very dark, almost to the extent of obsidian.

Flotsam lowered his head, put the nullifier to his horn and fed it slowly downwards. It was a strange and disquieting sensation, but not painful. He had expected the nullifier to simply slide down like a ring, instead its body morphed with an unexpected plasticity and became a horn-encasing cone. White to black, just like that.

“Brave pony,” muttered Charming Booty. She looked like she was fending off nausea. 

It was done. Flotsam shook his head and, feeling nothing but the unaccustomed weight newly there, tossed it more firmly. There wasn’t the slightest motion. He tested it with a hoof and found still not the slightest hint of give. Nauticaa hadn’t been kidding about the staying-on part.

“How do you feel?” asked the unicorn mare, her voice quavering in a way Flotsam had never heard before. She stared at the thing above his eyes. “You’re okay with that? Really okay?”

That thing, the weight on his head was heavier than would easily be forgotten or adjusted to. Of sheer, irresistible, morbid curiosity he tried to cast a spell.

Nothing. He tried harder. Total nothingness. He might as well have tried to flap the wings he didn’t have. “I’ll just have to be, I guess.”

“We’re done here,” Nauticaa announced. “Charming, Harpoon, get some sleep. It’ll be morning soon enough.”

Charming Booty had to pry her eyes from Flotsam’s horn. “Er, right. Patches, you come along too.”

“Yeth ma’am,” said the filly sadly, and she was lead away.

The First Mate growled just as the door was closing; the eavesdropping crew mares scrambled; they were to get to their proper places, and the last one to do so would have her-

The door shut and the rest was lost.

Flotsam found himself standing, unsure of what to do next. He decided that he wouldn’t think about it, 

Nauticaa passed him by, and with a few squeaky turns on the gas lamp reduced the cabin’s lighting to a shadowy twilight of silhouettes.

“You’re staying here,” she said.

“My bunk-”

“Your bunk,” she said as she resolved her desk to some tidiness and put her blades in their cabinet, “the bunk I gave you to use was destroyed. So now I’m giving you this one.”

He opened his mouth and Nauticaa simply said, “don’t argue.”

“...yes, ma’am.”

“Get in and try to get some sleep. Don’t think that drama gets you out of working. It doesn’t. It might even do you good. And Flotsam?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to do anything crazy in bed. I’d prefer not to have to subdue you.”

The words parsed when he considered them, but the context proved insane, no matter how Flotsam looked at it. He hazarded, “Captain Nauticaa…was that a threat, or a joke?”

Captain Nauticaa rarely made threats, but he couldn’t recall ever having heard a joke from her.

“Go to sleep,” she urged wearily and he could imagine – but not confirm – perhaps the slightest ring of humour in her tone. Or perhaps it was pity.

Flotsam got into the Captain’s bed, and, though he absolutely could not sleep he was dutiful to Nauticaa's orders and faked it almost immediately, laying there vividly awake and confused. After a time of quiet – of waves rolling against the hull, quill scritch-scratching on paper, rustles, sigh of a drawer and a final kiss of air to extinguish the lamp – he felt the bunk shift, a warm body steal in under the blankets and mold itself against his back.

He believed the Captain fell asleep rather quickly. Flotsam didn’t.

He made no move and no sound. His eyes were resolutely shut, staring intently at his eyelids. He laid awake for a while longer, then he too eventually fell asleep.

He dreamed.

He stood on the deck of a ship. It was very large – or seemed that way – and it might have been a distorted vision of the Mother, but Flotsam didn’t think it was. Figures drifted in and out of sight, like the colours oil creates when it slides across water. The crew were griffons. Flotsam felt a pang of shock, he jumped and was ready to fight, but the griffons did nothing. A hefty and tufty griffon ambled around him, giving him a look as if to deride rim. “What’s your problem?” the face seemed to ask before sliding away.

Flotsam didn’t know what his problem was. He walked forwards and as he approached the very prow of the ship, the ship too came closer and closer to its destination. In a few short steps endless horizons of water had become a distant tracery of shoreline, then a bustling port city, near enough he could see the boardwalk and the molluscs blanketing the struts of the dock.

Docking. That was a thing ships did, wasn’t it? Flotsam didn’t know where to go or what to do, if anything – the griffons were not fettered in the slightest that they were a ship’s length – now less; now half that – from the dock. 

Flotsam watched the collision unfold with interest. 

It wasn’t a collision at all. The ship crashed through nothing, broke not one shell from the thousands clustered together. Instead – and he would not have been able to describe this awake, and would remember very little of the specifics – it was as if the ship melted into the landscape; it became somewhere else, a different setting. The griffons were blown out like candles even as they continued in their tasks, and the smoky residues expanded, hesitated, then came together again as something new.

In this manner Flotsam was delivered without himself moving from ship to surface. He found himself inside a house, of sorts. A mansion or small palace, he felt. It was not large from where he stood – the roof was not low but neither was it high. It was very empty.

The windows were large and blocky in their settings – made for the handling of hooves, not magic – and they looked out over the port city below. 

One window caught his eye. The moon's face was caught in the glass. Flotsam hesitated, then threw the latch and lifted the window. It looked like a reflection, but at the time and by the logic of dreams it was the moon itself, so that as he lifted the window so too did he try and lift the moon back into the sky. 

Instead of being lifted, it fell out from the glass, bounced from the window sill and onto the smooth wood flooring. It flashed brightly with a silvery, snowy purity then became something quite different.

A pony – tall, dark, mysterious, winged and horny – clambered upright. Defying every suggestion of grace and elegance, she rubbed her forehead and cricked her neck.

“You’re proving a harder and harder pony to find, Shining Armour.” She stopped and pouted. Her lips moved with concentrated effort. “Shining Armour. SHI-NING AR-MOUR. Hmm. How strange. I do not trust this dream. I am given the heebies and the jeebies by it. Quickly, tell me where you are.”

The pony was strangely lurid to Flotsam’s eyes. Where all else was tenuous as dust and suggestion, a stubborn, absolute definition suffused the tall pony. 

Flotsam didn’t really know how to answer that. He went from window to window, unlocking and opening each in turn. For each one he opened, the buildings in its view lit up with lights, yet, from the very next window they would be dark again. “I’m here, I think.”

“Shining Armour, harken to me now! Cadence is maddened with worry, some evil influence is upon you, you can’t hear a word I’m saying and you’re opening the windows!” The dark mare stamped her hoof, her wings went stiff to the very tips of her feathers and she clamped her mouth in a unhappy sneer.

“Oh? I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. I’ll close them.” Flotsam closed a window – the lights of the town below vanished – but he left the latch undone, just in case.

“It is not about the windows! You’re befuddled, and what is that incessant music?” 

Flotsam flinched. He put his head back - his horn up – and glanced about. “Music? What music?”

“The mus-” The mare blinked in surprise. Her manner changed. It became tighter. More wary, more alert. “Ah,” she said, “I make progress. I see now.” She walked – each hooffall a firm, intended hit against the floor – and examined seemingly trivial things in earnest detail. “This is not a thing done, but a thing perpetuating. Continuing and active. It does not want me here. It acts against me.

“Shining Armour, what was the last thing I said? The last question I asked you, just now?”

A window closed; a swathe of lights winked out. He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” she accused, then sat. Her voice softened considerably. “Why are you afraid of this music?”

He wouldn’t answer and she didn’t press the matter. “Well, perhaps this will remedy it. If nothing else, I will enjoy it.” The mare flicked her horn and a table appeared. On it lay a gramophone, but instead of the traditional trumpet-like horn, wires fed from the disc-player into an imposing pair of twinned speakers. A green light flickered to life – the speakers played out music and she bobbed her head. “The new Tavi-Scratch album is… …this too? That is just excessive, unusual and cruel. Well, it clears my head, at least. May you enjoy it also."

"It's very different."

The mare approached and Flotsam realized just how large she was. Not massive in the bulky manner of Windlass, instead she was slender, but greatly scaled up. At the shoulder this dark pony stood as tall as many ponies’ ears. They stared out the window for a time.

“Rivaplút. The river’s… the place on the river, in any case. Why dream of here? We know you are not there now. That you haven’t been, not for some time, and this, too, you do not hear. Such are the frustrations we face.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Luna tensed. Her head lowered and her eyes she held tightly shut. When she lunged, she blasted Flotsam’s face with hot air, her lips and teeth gnashed. “YOU ARE SHINING ARMOUR! I AM LUNA! MI AMORE CADENZE IS YOUR WIFE. TOGETHER YOU RULE THE CYRSTAL EMPIRE! TOGETHER MY SISTER – CELESTIA – AND I RULE EQUESTRIA AND MAINTAIN THE SKIES. YOU WERE HER GUARD CAPTAIN. YOU HAVE A SISTER, TWILIGHT SPARKLE, AND MANY FRIENDS WHO LOVE YOU AND FEAR FOR YOU. YOU CAME TO THIS PLACE-”

Flotsam vanished – a frantic, worried look on his face – in a cloud of hazy smoke.

“Scared him awake,” Luna mused wearily. The dream was crumbling around her already, for she had no interest in preserving it. She flicked her horn and the powerful music of DJ and cellist disappeared. The other music, the one Shining Armour had claimed no knowledge of, yet had been so anxious of had departed with him. Luna would not admit it – not to Shining, who had no means to understand, nor to Cadence, who had much to worry over as it was – that it had tested her own defences also. 

Very rarely had finding a single dreamer ever proven so difficult – the filly had proven an essential, uncorrupted backdoor in this pursuit – and few dreams had proven so distressing. Not for the content therein, which was highly mutable and very often symbolic but for the very substance from which it was made.

The city outside had ceased and already the walls were vanishing. Luna glowed with a final burst of silvery light, rent a way open and extradited herself from the dream, all the while worrying how to break this news to Cadence.





Flotsam shot awake in a cold sweat, and in the time it had taken him to do that Captain Nauticaa had also shot awake, snatched something small and pointy and held it gently to Flotsam’s neck. She yawned pleasently. “Crazy?” she asked softly. 

“Not crazy, not crazy!” he whispered urgently. He gulped; his bobbing apple brushed against the pointy bit. “Just a bad dream. There were… but…and then… drum and bass?”

“Oh.” The sharpness vanished and the Captain snuggled slightly. She was very warm against him. She yawned again. “I’m sorry to hear that. Go back to sleep.”

“O-kay…”

Flotsam was getting really confused about the Captain. If there was some sort of confusion critical mass to reach in life, Flotsam worried he was to be the one to find out. He must have nodded off again at some point, though he never saw it coming.

This time, he didn’t dream, and even managed to snatch a little bit of rest before dawn.

> As a Matter of Fact, She Did
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam woke up. He’d been sleeping deeply – better than he’d expected or hoped to – but now he woke up, alert and ready. The blankets rustled softly. In the pre-dawn dark Nauticaa was heat and serpentine motion at his back. Hers was a soft touch as she uncoiled herself from him. The pockets of warmth where their bodies had touched evaporated, and though Flotsam studiously feigned sleep, there was something entierly heartbreaking about the sensation of her going. Flotsam lay, his body lax, his mind rigid, hunting for any tacit sign of affection from the Captain, perhaps a sigh, perhaps a slow sweep of her hoof along his side, perhaps more, but no, she’d taken him to bed easily, without preamble, slept and then taken herself from that bed just as easily. An invitation without welcome.

He didn’t understand, but it was still sad in its way. Nauticaa had made the bed warm. A second body, folded with his, made it feel good and right. She smelled nice. Hints of sweat and salt, metal and wood, each component accented in its way an underlying, unwavering femininity.

Flotsam wondered if he had experience with this sort of thing, then figured it didn’t matter, not really. Past life or no, he’d never been here in this place, in this bed, in these circumstances. Certainly not with her.

Here was a mare who hovered somewhere in ambiguity between ‘Pirate’ and ‘not a pirate’, making a sliding scale of something that really wasn’t supposed to be one. Nauticaa was Captain. She’d certainly – Flotsam recalled somewhat flippantly – had him perform ridiculous, and worse, eavesdropper pleasingly noisy tasks, all for what seemed to be some sort of tacit suggestion that his booty – so to speak – was Nauticaa’s booty.

Apparently that was a part and parcel of the language ambigu-pirates understood, because, as Flotsam was beginning to understand, the world Nauticaa inhabited almost but not quite the same one as that of her crew. To be fair, Flotsam’s bones had not actually been jumped, per se, in the time since such particular undertakings. Maybe a little upwards motion, here or there, a few chance jumpettes, and certainly a little bit of looking skywards, but all his bones remained jumpless. More or less.

Unless he counted jumping overboard. But that was literal and so didn’t count, naturally.

Flotsam rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. He wondered if Nauticaa would say anything, he waited for her to, but she did not. Her hooves were soft taps across the floor – there was the sharp whisk of the bed curtain – then came a whispery sound Flotsam puzzled out as being a comb. 

She seemed a different pony out of bed. Aloof, more remote. Impassive, stoic. Of course, that was Nauticaa as he knew her to be. It wasn’t like she’d suddenly lightened up or anything last night. Had she smiled once? There hadn’t been much reason to, not much at all, but after, well, after all the stuff about him and his magical crazies, where had that left her? Unshakeably calm and reasonable, actually, thanks for asking. Maybe he’d just imagined something otherwise, when he’d been half-asleep, warm and held. Maybe he had confused being close with closeness.

Maybe Nauticaa had a hot spot for insanity. Flotsam tried to imagine that, and was quite relieved when he just couldn’t see it. Also, he didn’t want to be insane, that might have made him biased on the matter, but even so, just, no.

He liked the cuddles, at any rate. That’d been nice. He’d been asleep. It had been very late last night when that had happened; it was cracking dawn not quite yet now, but for all that it’d been nice while it lasted.

There’d been no coyness, and that confused Flotsam. She’d shared her bed with him – not ignoring him – but giving Flotsam the clear impression that she was acting the exact same as she did every night. That there was nothing different for his benefit going on.

For a few hours, spanning the darkest, quietest, loneliest portion of night, the second pony in her bed had simply been promoted to Captain’s Pillow. In fact, it made sense when Flotsam thought of it that way, at least a little bit. He’d been put in her bed without ceremony or fanfare, just like a pillow, been held and cuddled through the night – just like a pillow – and the strongest argument yet: he was soft, fluffy and cotton-bunny-white. All known qualities of the common pillow.

Flotsam stared at the ceiling, gently ignoring the oddness that was the extra weight on his horn. He let his leg fall across the pillow under him and compared colours, for what it was worth in the almost-dark. He felt oddly pleased to be a shinier white than the competition, which, for its part, really could not care.

Maybe Flotsam was insane. He was in a good mood, though. There was that to consider.

He made a point of stretching and yawning. It was mostly real, and partly exaggerated to announce himself. “Good morning.”

Nauticaa was at her desk. She worked the comb for a few more passes, then acknowledged him with a soft grunt. Wood slid open, then she paused and said, “Come over here.”

In the time it took Flotsam to hesitate, she cocked an eye and said, “Well? Come over here.”

Flotsam gave a single, deep nod. He rolled easily from the bed, fended off a small bout of shivers, and was acutely aware of his over-weighted, nullified horn. Not really knowing where else to go, he stood in front, like anyone would. He was a subordinate, after all, even if they had just gotten out of the same bed and the sun not yet up in the sky. It felt a little weird, because Flotsam had no idea if this meant he should be all the more reserved and formal with the Captain or just the opposite.

Nauticaa’s ears flicked and she gave him a tested look. “Here,” she said, pointing to her side of the desk. How’d the old saying go: business in the front…?

“Oh, right.”

Nauticaa put her hoof to the back of his head and nudged it lower. She didn’t use force, but she didn’t need to. He capitulated, feeling benign bafflement. It wasn’t dissimilar to the manner in which a barber ushers a pony’s head about the place. Not unkind, just professional. All the same, they were very close again, and Flotsam felt it acutely. The Captain asked, “How is it?”

“It’s…there,” he said, trying to start a real answer. He gingerly touched the oddly gritty material encasing his horn. Nullifier. Despite the texture, there never seemed to be any bit of grit that came away from it. The pillows would have been a mess, otherwise. That it had magical properties was obvious. What was disconcerting was not sharing in that fact.

“I mean, I feel it. There’s no pain, or anything like that” he urged quickly. It wasn’t an easy experience to communicate. The name didn’t really encompass the sensation. It was a little bit like numbness, this unfamiliar, total and unrelenting absence of magic, but somehow too different from numbness as he knew it to really work as an explanation. 

“It’s like I’ve got one eye closed, all the time, and I can’t open it. Like it’s just not there." He thought of Hop Scotch and her eye patch, and the tall tale she told: of a missing eye and a hole all the way through to her brain, if only a stallion would lean close enough to peek.

He frowned. It was too early in the day for maudlin thoughts. In fact, it was too early in the morning to say things like too early in the morning, because it was even earlier than that. Flotsam tried to dismiss it with a shrug. “I don’t have any urge to go in the water, so that’s a plus.” He said the last with a smile. An awkward smile. He knew it was awkward; he felt awkward, but it still helped, a little.

Nauticaa took it all in and it was that same professional detachment. Observant, but not necessarily invested. Even if, strictly speaking, Nauticaa was invested, at least practically speaking, in the most fundamental of ways. It was her ship, after all. Her ship and her crew. 

Her floating Flotsam, drawn up from the water. To an extent, at any rate.

After a time, she said, “You’re taking it well.” It might have been a compliment, and it might have been sympathy. With the Captain, it was hard to tell. Her manner hardly changed as she hoofed his torn ear. 

The light was poor, but with a white coat as crisp as Flotsam’s – confirmed whiter than pillows!* – it was workable. He’d forgotten about his ear, but to be aware of it now awakened the dull throb he’d had all along and pleasantly forgotten about. 

She turned his head and pushed him low enough to make Flotsam’s neck crick. In a minute it’d ache awfully, but he held the position. Like a barber again, Nauticaa simply nudged the motion through him and on that authority alone it was done. Flotsam couldn’t really see now, all things considered, but some impression of dismay on Nauticaa’s part lent itself to Flotsam’s mind. He would have expected the whole mess of magic and madness riding conical on his head to be the thing that scuffed Nauticaa’s stoic demeanour. But no, a little sliced open ear was what got her attention and put the thin line of her mouth to a distinct, if slight, frown. 

That was the measure of her personal investment: gentle and inexplicable disappointment.

Nauticaa worked the two sides of the fold experimentally. Flotsam bore the sting, drawing only a short, sharp breath at the start. It was already getting outstripped as discomforts went by the strained angle she had him holding his head at. Her hooves left him for a moment, and there was a brief and gentle clatter of items where he couldn’t see.

Flotsam’s eyes perked involuntarily as something wet and coarse ran over the two sides of the tear. The scab, which to this point had been surly but otherwise reserved to its own business, took affront and promptly itched very badly. It was all sorts of small twinges and stings – Flotsam listened to his own sharp-edged breaths and half-chuckles – but as Nauticaa softened and stripped the scab away Flotsam could only thank her, even though it hurt. A wheedling itch like this had to be scratched; no pony in a hundred had the bloody-minded resolve to endure it.

Nauticaa let him go then, and Flotsam was very relieved to ease the tension in his neck with a stretch. “I’ll sew it,” she said.

There hadn’t been many hurts after the battle with the griffons, thankfully, but there’d been a few. Crew mares had worked where they could, and for a brief time the galley had served. Windlass especially stood out in his memory. It wasn’t that the cut winding down her leg was distressingly bad, if the nonchalance and even congratulatory nature of her crewmates were something to go by, but a very definite something about a hooked needle and snaking black thread had made the giant pony keep very still and very tense, like she were actually a small filly putting on her brave big pony act. Scuttle and Hard Tack were something of an octet of old hooves for this sort of thing – the former especially – and had by turns supported and teased the stooped, unhappy giant through her ordeal. It wasn’t that it hurt too bad, he’d overheard Windlass say, it was the thread she didn’t like, and worse still the needle.

He’d stayed for that, from the vague sense of community and support, but he hadn’t enjoyed the experience.

Flotsam, sufficed to say, was not enthused of the idea here. He made to keep the cringe from his voice. “Does it need it?”

Nauticaa glowered, not much, but even subtle expressions coming from her spoke relative volumes. “Strictly speaking, no. But it might not heal smooth and flush otherwise."

There was a pause as she turned, struck a match in one sharp motion, filled the air with its hissing light than settled the flame on the stump of a candle. Its glow gave some light to the two ponies, this end of the desk and little else, though the shadows nesting throughout the room sat up, fluffed their feathers and took notice. 

“It’s the least I can do,” she said, and the way she said it left Flotsam wondering if he’d missed something. It sounded almost like an apology.

Flotsam deflated at that, but not in a bad way. Not resignation. It was a breath released; a willing submission. He felt better for it. “Okay,” he said. Nauticaa was probably right, after all. There was no point having an ear like a scrappy old tom cat if it could be avoided. 

Nauticaa opened her desk again, a drawer slid out with an almost artisan smoothness and the little tiers of shelving lifted up on their springs. There was the click of something small being set down, and the whisk of pulled thread.

“I expect we’ll make port tomorrow,” said the Captain, relaxed despite her clenched teeth. Flotsam didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. 

“But that wouldn’t mean much to you. Now keep still.”

He felt the prod and waited for the puncture. It didn’t come. The sharp tip of the needle went away.

“Hold still for a moment.” Nauticaa went delving through the compartmentalized drawers of her desk one more time. She seemed not to be looking. She was too neat and orderly a mare to need to look for things. Rather, she was choosing. Deciding. “Here. How do you feel about an earring?”

“An earring?” Flotsam said, feeling a bit sidestepped.

“Your cut. It’s in the right place for one. Look.”

Nauticaa inched away from Flotsam’s head and he was able to see. He hoofed his ear and looked to what she held. The earring was just that – a ring – an unblemished golden band. The candle fell in love with it and a thin line of firelight danced along the golden curve.

“Well, do you want it? I’d like to give it to you.”

Flotsam nodded before he knew what to think, and surprised himself with that. 

Nauticaa smiled tightly. “Keep still then,” she said, and Flotsam was prompt to obey. He fixed his eyes forward. The Captain’s hooves were a stinging touch at his ear and her breath made his neck prickle with sensitivity where it spilled warm and moist against him. He’d had that all night long before, it was heart-achingly familiar somehow. Flotsam couldn’t bring himself to admit how much he enjoyed the sensation. How much he’d sunk into it, even longed for it, without realizing.

“Don’t. Move,” warned Nauticaa, her voice skewed by the effort of grip. The sharp pinch came and Flotsam did his best not to flinch. Then another came and another; he stopped trying to count after the fourth – there sure seemed to be a lot more of these than one little slice warranted – and then, just like that, Nauticaa gently pushed him away. She propped up a little round mirror next to the candle and Flotsam got a look at himself.

At first he turned only slightly askew, just to get a look at it. The shining line of light was still there, parading its way along the golden band. Not able to help himself, he gave his head an experimental flick. The ring bobbled and swung in place. His ear tingled, and still hurt a little, but at the same time it was reassuring; the stichting was neat and tight. It felt like he could wiggle it back and forth for an hour and, besides the obvious discomfort and even more obvious silliness, not have to worry about any actual harm to himself.

“It’s…I like it,” he said. Flotsam smiled and turned, catching with the corner of his eye how the ring romanced the candle light. “Thank you.” He searched Nauticaa’s face for an answer. Like the charts pinned across the desk, details and features escaped any actual comprehension for him. Nauticaa returned his questioning stare and he knew deep inside that she gleaned much more of him than he would of her. He had to ask, all the same. “Why? If it’s all the same… I’d like to know.”

Time passed. Surely she’d heard him…?

The Captain was not a drinking mare, but if she were and had a glass to hoof, her gesture then would have been a world-weary sigh and sip. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t. But she would have done. If she were.

“Flotsam,” she said at last. “Tell me your name.”

His lips barely sculpted the first syllable when she waved dismissal. “Your real name. Not the one I gave you. Not the one I gave the half-drowned pony bobbing up from below and dropped on my deck. But you can’t say it. None of us can. None of us know.”

The smile she gave him then was wry and crooked, and without a doubt the kindest he’d ever seen her show him. Patches had a smile like this. “There is nothing here that you own, Flotsam. Nothing belongs to you, not even your name. The one thing that's entirely yours, I take away." Her eyes flicked to his horn and his, in futitilty, tried to follow.

Nauticaa frowned sharply. “I don’t like the idea of a pony owning nothing. Not on my ship. I’m not in the habit of keeping slaves.”

Flotsam started off with passion, with words of conviction, like “that’s not true,” but after that promising start he faltered. What examples could he argue otherwise? He never felt a captive here – maybe a captive of ignorance – but never a slave. Not here. Mostly he felt confused, like his brain were a cheese of confusion – full of holes and shot through with unpleasant veins of ignorance and uselessness.

His almost merry relations with the crew were one of the if not the highpoint to his world. He prayed they remained so inclined towards him, magical circumstances considering. What examples could he argue his feelings with? The things he possessed were not exactly tangible: the good will of a bright-eyed, too cunning-by-half filly, a newly budding and hopefully continued camaraderie with the crew. Certain lusty exchanges there upon… no, definitely no citing that one; absolutely scratch that one. 

And those were really more just experiences, anyhow.

The eyesore Nullifier, pinned to his head, wasn’t his either. It was hers. 

He was starting to see Nauticaa’s point. Flotsam knew it wasn’t really what his point would have been, but he didn’t have any other and little say in the matter besides. It’d have to do.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

Nauticaa started sorting the tools from her desk. This is a cue the world over that means: we will now return to professional, impersonal topics. The candle danced in the perturbed air. Maybe it was saying you’re welcome on her behalf. Flotsam caught himself yawning and fended it off.

The Captain dropped a book onto the cleared space. It was big, a right proper skull thumping-size ledge of a tome, with thick coverings and countless notations earmarked throughout. It opened with dry crackles and its cover slapped the wooden surface on the back like a notorious old friend.

“Civilization,” Nauticaa growled, biting down on a quill, “is paperwork. I hate paperwork.”

Flotsam peeked at the tightly writ columns; it might as well have been ancient arcane secrets for all his understanding of it. He felt like a fifth wheel, which was even more useless than usual, this being a ship and all.

Nauticaa saved him then from that embarrassment, though to her eyes it was probably about saving him from idleness. The quill waggled its tattered plume and scritch-scratched on the paper. She didn’t look up. “Get the coffee started. Send Charming Booty to me. Then mop the deck.”

She worked her way down, nose wrinkled with displeasured concentration. She marked neat strike-through of entire lines. Even in – or perhaps, especially because of – his incomprehension, he found the motions and their implications unsettling. To a few she added amendments. It dawned on him: she'd said they'd be arriving soon. This time tommorow, he could even be on dry land. This was the inventory, or whatever the sailor-word equivalent was. Cannon balls and commercial goods probably didn’t mix too well. From that realization, it was easier to go further. A damaged ship, inescapable expenses there, alongside damaged and reduced total trade goods.

All these insights lead to an equal sign, and it read like this: (all these things) = bigger expenses plus smaller returns. 

Flotsam could see why Nauticaa hated paperwork, especially when it only had nasty things to tell you. The Captain wrote a number, scowled, scratched it out and wrote another in the cramped space that remained. He knew when he couldn’t help. The big old book smelled strongly of big old book. It’s a very distinct smell. Flotsam found it very peculiar. It's not a bad smell, not at all. He whiffed it and decided not to hang around. He made for the door.

He recited the tasks in his head, cementing them in place. Just because he was the pony who had forgotten, that didn’t mean he wanted to be considered the pony who was forgetful. He paused at the door. “Anything else?”

“No, sugar."

Flotsam cocked an eye, mixed feelings of bashfulness and curiosity nudging him. He almost opened his mouth, but saved himself from shoving a hoof in it. 

She’d been referring to her coffee. It hadn’t been no, sugar it had been no sugar. He’d only imagined the comma.

The quiet still pulled at him. “I can do that,” he said, and affected a small bow of his head and took to the door, to humid morning air and the breeze blowing in from the sunrise.

The golden band dangled against his ear, falling in love with the sunlight. He tapped it gently to make it jiggle. 

He was more of a honey anyway, Flotsam decided.

> Who puts fish in a kettle, anyway?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam felt like a bit of a tit.

He squinted his eyes and pressed a hoof to his forehead, as if to force back down the throbbing pain there. It was brief and quickly fading down to something manageable, with the blunt force trauma hitting his pride almost as hard as his head. 

One instant, he’d been going to the galley; he’d swung his horn as he’d always done and then walked straight into the door when it entirely failed to open. He’d felt the low thud of impact reverberate up through his hooves, such had been the force.

He’d felt it considerably moreso in his face, of course, this being the main instrument of his demise.  When he next attempted the trial of opening the door, Flotsam was mostly irritated and slightly dizzy. He fumbled about with his hooves, attributing his flustered clumsiness more to the moment than to any ingrained habits of magic use.

Flotsam got his grip and the way opened up for him. When this moment of effort paid off, his sense of accomplishment quickly took on a self-depreciating tone. He tried and found some humour in the situation and started with a few fleeting chuckles, but it was a somewhat more bitter and sardonic variety of humour than could usually be said of Flotsam. Opening a door. Yay.

A few steps forward put the matter behind him and Flotsam decided, with some small degree of grace to take it as a lesson about limitations, especially those of the newly-imposed variety. It was easy to forget in these small, daily ways that his magic wasn’t here anymore. Some of the reminders hurt.

His hips rocked as he walked and his gait easily courted the ever-present, oft-faint and forgotten rocking motions of the Mother. Only with conscious observation did he realize that, at present, she rocked enough to stagger the Flotsam of weeks ago. He hadn’t thought about footing and balance at all lately. Like magic had been, Flotsam’s acquired sea legs had simply become a useful, easily dismissed component of his habits. That, at least, was not about to change, and in light of this outlook his spirits were quite recovered by the time he ducked through the hatchway into the galley.

It was unlit and unoccupied presently, and about as tidy as one could expect such a rough and tumble living space to be. The rising sun cast it in a sleepy light. He knew from personal experience that it was something of a communal effort, keeping the essentials done. It was pretty lax as work went, primarily just making sure that things that could fall, catch fire, become sticky or turn smelly didn’t. Most nights, Patches finished her motley chores with this, and through chance observation Flotsam discovered that she only infrequently took a cookie from the tin for her efforts, despite having all the opportunity to.

If not an actual law of physics, then it should have at least been a guideline of nature that small ponies left unattended with tins of cookies and plausible deniability would, naturally, eat the cookies and apply said deniability, possibly with their mouths full. It was practically an equation of a sort. That Patches would buck this trend was, while not actually worrying, nonetheless as incomprehensible as the rusty painted logo pony adorning the tin’s lid, smiling hugely and declaring something big and faded in his unrecognizable language..

Flotsam popped the lid off and fished about, choosing with deliberation from the tumbled and crumbled mix a pink wafer thing. Munching this was the undercurrent to his thinking; he fetched up a second and popped that one also into his mouth, chewing them thoughtfully into a sweet and stale paste. With a battle between good and evil fought, Flotsam hesitated then guiltily acceded to a third, fiend that he was. 

He liked the pink ones best, and he knew this, because he’d tried them all, monster that he was. They'd be in port soon anyway, his battered cookie-related conscience rationalized.

Then, not so much remembering what he’d come here to do but rather remembering to be prompt about it, he scanned the early-morning gloom for a familiar, rounded dark shape, simultaneously returning the lid to the cookie tin.

The kettle on the Mother of Mercy was not magical in and of itself, though it was intended to be used magically. It had the same heavy construction found in cast iron frying pans and could, in a pinch, probably be used as a battering ram. A second piece of metal curved from end to end above it, wrapped in a sleeve of worn-thin and tooth-scarred cork. The actual capacity for water was somewhat lower than a pony might expect given its bulk, and this was explained both by the general sturdiness of its intended environment and additionally the particulars of this design. As Flotsam understood it, a plate or filament of magically-susceptible material, a metal, probably, was inlaid against the interior. A unicorn need only apply a few seconds of magic and, readily enough, the arrival of boiled water into the world was announced with steam and an off-key hiss.

Flotsam hefted the weighty instrument with his mouth – the handle had a whiffy texture, cork and metal; he tried to not think about mouths and teeth and spittle – and  judged its interior sufficiently sloshy for his purposes. He caught himself thinking in his usual patterns. Flotsam, who had often enough been borrowed from all manner of spots and times, being both rather pliant to instruction as and unskilled enough to never be given tasks that couldn’t be let sit idle for a moment now lacked that vital ingredient for which he had usually been called to supply: magic. 

He frowned, or maybe scowled. In the slowly waking light, it wasn’t readily apparent. His expression turned thoughtful. He flicked through options like a pages in a catalogue. Did he have a heat source? No, the whole point of the magic kettle was to circumvent a fire hazard; he seriously doubted that a lamp would cut it, and had no doubt at all that he’d look an absolute idiot if he tried precariously perching the heavy iron lump over any of the glass and brass lamp holders that – in addition to all the reasons not to try already given – weren’t lit anyway.

He stared in quiet contemplation, rubbing at the lingering ache in his forehead. Clever answers here were, in fact, the stupid ones. Flotsam grimaced as he came to the only realistic, simple and sensible conclusion. 

He had to get a unicorn.





Three ponies on the Mother had a space to definitively call their own. The first was of course Nauticaa, who enjoyed (if she were the enjoying sort of mare) the largest and best-kept quarters, which was her right as Captain. Flotsam, sitting at the polar opposite end of the ship’s social spectrum had previously had his own spot – a vacated and tiny deck-cabin, now splintered and bedless – granted him by her. He did not mourn the loss very much, knowing now that the Captain’s intent for him was a bigger, softer, and best of all shared-with-somepony bed. If Nauticaa knew just how much he liked the new arrangement, she’d probably toss him out again.

The other two mares in the hierarchy to have their own cubby-holes were of course Harpoon and Charming Booty, First Mate and Quartermaster respectively. It was to the latter’s room he now went.

Flotsam could, if placed under the pressures of rigorous and enthusiastic interrogation, presently admit to feeling somewhat antsy. Sleeping with the Captain, a term applied in the purely literal sense and no other, was rife with confusion for him; Nauticaa had made it abundantly clear that things were anything but straightforward in the rocking and docking and locking of hips department. In fact, from the word ‘go’ things had been consistently perpendicular to expectations, or what expectations might have been, if Flotsam had ever really had them. His brief chain of memorable existence since having been plucked from the ocean – all of a scantily clad and rough-living month, more or less – had taught him better than that. Expectations invited their own betrayals.

So... there’d been no hoisting of flags, weighing of anchors, riding of longboats or whatever it was the ship-dwelling ponies euphemized about sex with. Flotsam doubted he could match the rowdy mares for creativity, crassness, cunning and artful tongue-istry with regards to that. They simply had the years and the experience on him. All the experience and, in cases like those of Scuttle and Hard Tack, most of the years, too.

Sufficed to say, Nauticaa was keeping Flotsam at leg’s length from the crew in this aspect of life, out of what Flotsam vaguely understood as the principle of what could be alluded to as: I hope you brought enough for everyone.

He was genuinely shocked to catch himself, a moment later, for purely speculative reasons, of course, guesstimating his calculations as to the possibility that, as a matter of fact, he had brought enough. Flotsam mentally swilled the cerebral equivalent of half a pint of strong vinegar, shocked at himself. Flotsam stood at Charming’s door, rehearsing purely chaste thoughts.

It was easier in some ways to share a bed with a mare that had never shown interest or intent, than knock on the door of one whom expressly had. Charming Booty was inarguably stunning. So stunning, in fact, that Flotsam just now had effectively stunned himself on her behalf, so that she didn’t need to be involved at all, least of all even be awake yet or know he was here, at her door, struggling away with himself.

Flotsam caught himself and grit his teeth. He thought of the squat, sturdy kettle and the Captain’s second request, that being to send this very mare to her. The magic kettle would not be flustered by this flirtatious flame-haired beauty*, neither should he. Lack of sleep and too much recent excitement made Flotsam feel a little bit more raw and sensitive to these things.

*It could be incensed to whistle for her, of course. That was rather the plan here, as a matter of fact.

He raised his hoof, and sighed, and lowered his hoof. Flotsam was lying to himself, and he’d just now caught onto it. Oh, the bit about lack of sleep (he’d had quality, yes, but lacked in quantity) and excitement was all true, but it wasn’t sudden solicitations of sex that truly bothered him. That was awkward and flattering, and at turns enticing and uncomfortable, but that was a familiar issue to him. It was one he variously entertained and dealt with day to day.

The truth was something he’d been feeling all morning, in the back of his mind, lurking, whispering. Generally being kind of a dick, actually. He’d felt it on leaving the privacy of the Captain’s side and felt it each minute after.

What Flotsam really worried about was the fear that this day, the day after he’d gone too far and had some sort of meltdown, he was going to meet the crew and find that, in an inexplicable way, that he was still far away from them. That they’d pulled away from him.

Nauticaa hadn’t changed her manner, but would she? The Captan was so damn practical and stoic, how could he know? The rare flash of resentment came and went in all of a second, leaving Flotsam feeling more penitent than anything. She’d probably tell him to get on with it, in her not unkind way. A chain of command was an awfully reassuring thing to have, for someone like Flotsam.

He’d just have get on with it, and fix whatever damage he might have done, as best as he was able.

So he raised his hoof and he knocked.

What might have been the low murmur of Charming Booty’s voice came back to him. Flotsam steeled himself, then stole inside.

All his time aboard the ship, he had yet to see the private living quarters. As has previously been mentioned, Flotsam carefully cultivated a lack of expectation, finding his ability to assume was simply out of touch and unreliable. This carefully held lack of anticipation helped him, generally, to avoid shocks when such expectations typically backfired.

It didn’t help here. Charming Booty’s room was a shock anyway.

Flotsam stole inside and stopped with a jarring halt as if he’d walked into a second physical obstruction, such was the view. There was so much stuff, most of it shiny. There was a squat chest rubbing shoulders with a rack of overly ornate swords, and hats perched on hilts thereof, and another chest, and bowls with glittery jewels; a brush flaunting wavy red hairs; another chest; a dresser with the drawers dangling out of it, teasing of trinkets and valuables happenstance that suggested a pattern of being laid, waylaid and laid again. Shirts and ruffled things and what might have been a many-strapped corset overflowed from the corners, from the seat and back of the chair and from un-closable drawers, full as they were with things.

The floor space amounted to that bit of ground where things had been shoved out of the way. Flotsam could reach from the door to the bedframe, if he stretched and kept his balance.

What was really surprising, however, was the bunk bed. Charming Booty slept on a bunk bed. The lower half. Flotsam knew this definitively because, partly because the top bunk was every inch an extended version of the hoard, full of sparkle, but mostly because he could see Charming Booty’s lower half, the curve of her stomach and her very…leggy legs, sprawling out in luxuriant feline rest on the bottom bunk. Her upper half was hidden under a blanket, heaped as it was over her. A hoof lay across her smooth belly; the other was draped over the linen nest she’d built for her head. A tease of fiery red hair tickled out from under the bedding. 

“Uhhh.”

That was Flotsam. It was a dumb sounding noise. He couldn’t help himself. Such a sound is the elevator music of the soul, of a brain rebooting. It could roughly be translated as: Flotsam is unavailable right now, if you leave your name and number, he’ll get back to you as soon he can. 

The Quartermaster writhed and stretched and squeezed under her head-shrouding lump of blanket. “Uhhh.” With somewhat more alacrity than Flotsam, her sound said: I’m asleep, but I can feel myself waking up now, and I certainly don’t approve of that. What fool do I blame for this, hmm? 

Then she growled. “Oh, fine,” She threw the blanket from herself in a series of untangling and shoving motions. If somewhat graceless on that front, the act itself was no less respectable for the iniative and the willpower involved. 

Charming Booty rolled to her side. She looked tired. Normally, saying a pony looks tired is a genteel way of saying they look less than good. Charming Booty did look tired. Her hair was crumpled and disorderly. Waves of it fell across her cheek, which she unselfconsciously brushed out of the way. She took a deep breath, yawned and blinked, and generally made sleepiness look both innocent (which it was) and damn sexy (which it wasn’t, normally).

Then she settled her eyes on Flotsam – a certain sultry coyness came into them – and some of the effect was lost. Not all. Her head rocked with the drunken gesticulations of the preconscious. He really liked her unstyled hair. “G’morning, Sammy. Paying me a visit, are you?”

“Ahh…ah, ahem.” He paused, not for effect but to start over. Something clinked and rolled away from his hoof. “Yes.”

She yawned, nodded, and settled with a very reposed smile. “You’re up early.”

“Captain’s an early riser, and, well…” he shrugged, hoping to express his general confusion where words failed him.

The unicorn propped herself up on a hoof, letting her back legs dangle and wiggle in the air. “And here I was, thinking all these years that early rising was the stallion’s job.”

Flotsam’s eyes widened. Flotsam opened his mouth. His eyes narrowed. Flotsam closed his mouth. He huffed from his nose. It was an unwinnable battle.

Charming Booty laughed delicately, swinging herself to her hooves in one clean sweep of motion. She yawned, navigated the these-are-all-mine-mine-mine-field of things and caught her balance again.

“Oh, Sammy,” she said with gentle reproach, “you are just too easy. I like the ring, by the way. Captain’s present, I don't doubt it.”

It wasn’t a question, but there was the inflection of invitation there, to delve deeper and talk about it. “She asked if I wanted it.”

The Quartermaster tidied up with a lazy, relaxed and shameless approach, spending as much time as trying out various garments against herself as actually repositioning the anarchy of items. “Nauticaa’s not in the habit of giving gifts. Paying well: yes, giving gifts: no. You were right to take it when she offered.” She waggled her tail and her bottom, a gesture not passing unnoticed by Flotsam. “Or maybe it is a payment, for services rendered, and the like?”

Before Flotsam could well and truly give her his disparaging look, she carried on in a suddenly different tone, one bereft of sex and appeal, letting the present garment lay where it drop. 

“How is it, anyway? You. That. Iean, nevermind the banter." She flicked her horn at his. "I never want to be put into one of those things.”

Flotsam felt uncomfortable. Stung, even. It would never not be uncomfortable, talking about a disability-imposing headpiece and the likelihood of latent insanity. But it felt uncomfortable in a good way, given his fear. Like having a dried bandage torn off, or a boil lanced. A quick sting and an passing ugliness, chased with a lasting relief. Charming Booty was a much better gauge of emotion than the Captain; since neither seemed alienated from Flotsam, then that was a good sign for the rest of the crew. 

His hopes were balmed. How was the nullifier situation going? He spoke with unusual brevity. “Five minutes ago I walked face-first into a door.” He rolled his eyes and affected a wry smirk. It had the desired effect.

She smiled. She nodded. “Mhmm. I can see it. It’s a horrible thing. And it spoils your look.” Her own horn glowed and Charming Booty slid into a white, string-tied shirt with a popped collar. Something not entirely unlike a bowler hat settled atop her head, sitting purposely askew. 

Flotsam had not seen a mare dress before. He felt the colour rise.

“Now,” she said, “what was it you wanted me for?” The brush floated over to its owner and set about drawing out her tail in long, deliberate tugs.

“Coffee,” Flotsam yipped in a funny voice. “And paperwork.” He tried again with more masculine-sounding success. “Coffee and paperwork.”

Charming Booty scowled as she set the brush on her bed. “Damn that book.” But she lead the way out all the same, the door closed behind them and Flotsam was made quite aware just how shiny and bouncy a few effortless brush strokes had made the Quartermaster's tail. “She’ll want to be at it all day.”

Bounce and swish.

Bounce and swish. 

Bounce and swish. 

“Uh-huh.” 

> Let's nap
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Having safely deposited the Quartermaster – plus coffee – in the Captain’s cabin, Flotsam was left to tend to his sole remaining task. Taking his familiar friend, the mop, he worked his way up towards the prow of the ship. Water splashed his hooves. The sunshine kept him warm, and a steady breeze lifted the sweat from his back. He ached all over, but at least the unrelenting exertion was keeping him limber. He wasn’t letting his body stiffen up despite how it wearied, especially around his throat and jaw.

When it was too much to clamp down with his teeth, he used his hooves, sweeping the sodden mop-head about in broad, sloshy strokes. The decking glittered wetly where Flotsam went. He tossed another bucket of water down, pausing only to loosen his neck and wiggle his jaw. He rolled his shoulder and it popped with that distinctly pleasant pain. Forcing it further, it popped again.

Flotsam yawned – he was fatigued and past fatigued – but he railed against it. The sunshine was nice, but more than that it felt good to suffer in full view of the crew. Some of the mares smiled and waved at him. Others didn’t.

The Captain hadn’t punished him for his magical lunacy and endangerment – or she had, but it was too reasonable, too practical and painless a solution – and a part of Flotsam, wakened to the fact, could not feel squared with himself until some kind of proper penance had been served. 

Even if that meant he had to do it himself. Of course, working the bilge pumps was the truly self-depreciating option – a chore that nobody never ever ever volunteered for without some particularly obtuse angle, but that was not what Flotsam had been tasked to do this morning. It also didn’t help matters when one considered that job was in the damp, in the dark, in relative cold and by one’s lonesome. 

He wanted the mares to see that he’d put his head down and sweat for them, more than ever.

As such, if mopping was the only task Flotsam was good enough for, then by blazes he was going to be great at it. He scoured the deck; he scourged it; every time in every way his body protested he fought through all the more viciously, ‘til his breath was a noisy heaving and the lone stallion of the MoM was at a brisk canter up and down her decks, working the mop to the within an inch of its lack-of-life. Eyes turned and mares side-stepped his swift, hard-breathing advance. He didnt' know any jaunty, raunchy songs, the sort made use of by work-gangs to keep timings together and morale up, but if he had, he would have done with one now. Lacking, he improvised a wordless, expressive substitute under his breath.

He huffed and hurried forwards, swinging side to side all the while. The nullifier felt hot and tight and heavy from its perch just above his peripheral vision. Flotsam ignored it, but the awareness of it kept itching its way back into his consciousness. Reaching the prow, he tried to fling a bucket of sea water forwards – settled for tipping it over determinedly, too weak was he to lift it – then set about gouging each and every loose scrap of detritus and gunk from the absolute tip of the deck. 

Images crowded his thoughts. Sexy images. Scary images. Half-remembered pieces of his dreams, and less-than-half-remembered images that only might have been dreams. 

The mop helped. He practically growled out his inchoate verse as he worked it.

It was only a matter of time before his body put its hoof down with him. It came when he was fishing for water – a deceptively easy task – and discovered to his shock he hadn’t the strength to lift the bucket from the ocean. He tried and the muscles simply would not, could not, meet his demands. 

The drag on the bucket was powerful. The rope stretched taut, and the bucket slid across and scooped at the surface with jarring lack of pattern. Flotsam could imagine it ever so slightly beginning to pull the ship off course, through him. He ended up being pulled and pinned uncomfortably to the gunwale, holding to the ship more with his body weight than anything else, unwilling to let the rope go from his fiercely aching jaws.

He felt strangely giddy about the situation. A silly, epic, stupid struggle: passing without witness right under the eyes of seasoned mares.

Not, however, under the eyes of seasoned fillies. Patches’ little hooves were all sorts of cat’s-claws painful as she mountaineer’d his back, leaned out over the water (making convenient use of his head as a forward base) and wrapped a hoof around the rope. She threw her meagre weight into the effort and, once it popped clear of the drag, the bucket’s weight alone was manageable for her to haul up.

Flotsam helped her set it down, then slumped on jelly legs. He wasn’t sure he could stand. 

He was grinning.

Patches was having none of that. She cuffed him between the eyes, struck him a pointed flick to the forehead as if to call him out. Bad sea dog, bad.

“Thtupid!” she growl-chirped – her voice could only go so low, after all – “thtupid!”

She thumped him again; his ears flicked back in shock and submission and, placated, she grappled with Flotsam’s head. She leant her weight backwards, trying to get him up on his hooves. He found a reserve of strength – possibly stolen – and, once upright, had not too much trouble staying so.

Patches, for her part, had not let go of his snout. “Come on,” she urged. It was hard to see anything past the insistent little pony, but Flotsam thought he saw a few crew mare’s look on with mixed expressions, mostly benign. He would have been pleased with that, if he’d had a chance to think about it, but just then his head was full of bewilderment and instinctive submission. A deep and primordial part of his brain, barely separate from the spinal cord itself, was insisting that this lanky, two-toned filly was obviously bigger and stronger than himself, despite him having to stoop his head just for her to reach him.

It was an attitude thing.

Patches marched Flotsam into the ship’s below-decks. He hesitated. “I’m supposed to mop the deck.”

Patches, unable to actually kick the door shut behind them, settled on turning about, pressing her forehead to it and shoving. “You did. Three timeth! You thhould be rethting.

Well, he was really tired. “I did?” He knew he did – of course he did, and his private reasonings therein – but it was another thing altogether to own up to that.

“Yeth!” Her angry tone cracked. She hugged his leg, burying her face in him. He hugged her and found she was trembling. “You have to be better.”

He said, “I’m sorry.” He patted her gently and she steadied on her hooves. Then he said, “Okay.”

Flotsam surrendered to the filly’s lead. She clearly had some idea of what to do and with nothing more to do himself, but wait and think, the hours of the day opened up ahead of him like a restless, anxious chasm. Better the filly’s ideas, then that.

Patches rounded a corner – there was a tumult of items – and before Flotsam could follow she was back again, pushing something into his mouth.

He blinked as the familiar, abstract, never-exepected taste of chocolate slowly warmed on his tongue. He turned the brick over slowly, testing around the geometries of it. Making sure it was really there.

Hop Scotch. He spoke around the block. “This is yours,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “She gave it to you.” He chewed gently and edges crumbled.

Patches didn’t refute the facts. She led him down another level, and was even something resembling patient with him as he carefully navigated the steep, cool steps, one heavy lurch at a time. 

If her plan was to secretly mug him, this would actually be the perfect place for it.

It wasn’t, though, and she didn’t.

Taking another turn, then another, Flotsam lost his sense of direction. Following the filly, he sidled past some stacked barrels and was urged under a low, head-clipping support. The last leg of the odyssey – taking him behind a mountain of boxy crates, in the crevasse between them and the hull – he had to suck in his breath and really squeeze through. All the while, for all the cramped spaces, Patches had easily flitted and paraded her way through, though even she had had to duck a little bit for the beam. 

It was very dark – too dark to see much distinction in anything – but a month’s life on the ship had made darkness something mundane.

It was the softness underhoof that really caught Flotsam’s flagging, bewildered attention. He heard a brief series of squeaks; a rusty creak; a sudden striking.

The lantern’s glow grew steadily. Not entirely lucid at this point, his first impression was of Natuicaa and he in her cabin – a scarce few hours ago – and the way the flickering light had called the shadows to attend it. Flotsam caught Patches’ pleased, interested expression and the impression still was not lost. Two lit-up places. Two piebald ponies.

The softness was a mattress, or a nest, or something that had been cobbled together to serve as both. An atrophied pillow found its way to him. Sitting and leaning on soft things, Flotsam was pleased to find himself so cozy, and fished delightful nuggets of molten chocolate from his teeth.

It was only the mildest of surprises he felt when the filly brandished a wicked little knife; one of a varied set that never seemed far from hoof nor tooth for the little pony.

Taking a tin from a lidless, lockless, less loved (probably luckless) lockbox, Patches promptly shanked, gutted and levered it open in a flat few seconds. She bent the raspy-edged lid back on itself and, giving it to Flotsam, he was mindful of the sharp edges.

“Eat,” she urged him.

With nothing for it, trusting by nature and doubly trusting of Patches, Flotsam nodded and tipped the can back, on the principle assumption that she probably hadn’t concocted anything tinned herself. He had not forgotten the pickles. Even so, it could be anything here.

It was diced fruit in a light syrup and it was the single sweetest thing Flotsam could remember ever having tasted.

Cubed pieces of apple, pear, peach, slices of strawberry, mango, tart pineapple, whole grapes – whole. grapes. – oranges, the gang were all there, swimming in gooey, sugary niceness. He mashed them, swilled the flavours like a connoisseur and swallowed.

He sipped a bit of syrup from the can, then offered it back. Patches declined, but he refused to let Patches not have any of this.

She considered, took a moment, then went spear-knife-fishing. Two quick and painless jabs yielded two bits of pineapple, dribbling syrup. Moving knife from mouth to hoof, she nipped at the yellow cubes, then – her eyes on Flotsam – absentmindedly nibbled at the syrup still on the blade.

Normally, that sort of thing is done knowingly and expressly as an intimidation tactic. It usually works. In this instance, however, it was nothing of the sort, no more than a pony digging at the last vestiges of ice cream in a bowl would think their spoon could be an explicit threat to anyone. It just was.

Besides: spoons are just less edgy knives with a figure. All know this.

Patches watched hawkishly, and, finsihed with her taster, the little knife vanished from sight again. It occurred to him that she was rather determined about him eating. Flotsam’s ears perked, and he thought he clued into what the filly was thinking. He made an exaggerated – but still quiet genuine – show of enjoying himself. “This is, mm, really good!”

After repeated attempts, he coaxed her into having some more. When the tin was at last empty, and its tantalizing last drizzle of sticky sweet syrup exhausted, Flotsam settled deeper onto the bedding, closed his eyes and listened to himself breath. “That was good. I can’t remember the last time I had fruit.”

He heard a rustle, then – surprise! – a rough woollen blanket was nudged over his shoulders. More rustles.

“Patches,” he said, and he heard her sudden stillness. “Thank you. And…I’m sorry.”

Patches pushed at him stubbornly. “Get thome thleep.” For a moment, her obvious youth seemed at odds with a strange depth. Then, like a wave retreating down the sand, it slipped away.

Flotsam simply let himself sink under her insistence. Sleep rose in him like a tide. He was quite aware of the little lights of his mind winking out, one after another.

His ear flicked as if swatting away bugs, he mumbled something about music, then nodded off.

Patches left him be.
> Interlude – What do you do for a distant sailor?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Luna felt the anxiety.

It was a constant, quiet thrumming in the crystals – or crystal, singular – that made up the castle at the heart of the Empire. The smooth floors, the flawless steps, ever perfect, seemed somehow brittle under her hooves. They never showed the slightest change, never the slightest threat of cracking, breaking, sending her tumbling down into a jagged blackness; in a dozen different ways she knew it as a fact that they would not, but...

Luna could not shake her but.

It was not hers, this anxiety, but still she felt it. Everpony did, certainly those within the castle proper, and it reached farther out into the castle’s environs. The castle thrummed in harmony with Cadence. Not alive itself, but certainly...coloured by the life within it.

Affected, might be the word. Attenuated. Sympathetic.

The changes of the last month were subtle, perhaps surreal. To Luna’s eyes – accustomed to the fickleness of dreams – the differences were like that between night and day. Huge and manifold; where light had spilled gaily, now it trickled. Shadows huddled together in high corners where, a season ago, no such shadows had hid.

The crystal ponies walked more and ran less, save when moving alone, in which case they adopted a hurried, get-there-already sort of canter. Laughter had not abandoned this place, but it echoed with a note of embarrassment these days, an I’m-not-supposed-to-be-here self-consciousness. It was a sort of laughter that could easily be made to flinch.

Luna could well empathise, in a way no other Equestrian – not even her resplendent sister – could. After all, for Equestria, the evil king Sombra was a story. A horrible story, but one swallowed up by the gulf of more than a thousand years. For these meek and sparkling ponies, his memory was barely a thousand days old, let alone such a grandiose measure of time as months or years.

Temporally speaking, he was still quite near to them.

This generation that arranged flowers, tended colourful sheep, reached with mitted hooves into glowing ovens, and carefully copied the notes from a millenium of missed classes had also been the one to break stones and shuffle along in chain-gangs.

Shining Armour and Mi Amore Cadenza had inherited a gentle, peace-loving, and fundamentally spooked people.

Such thinking left Luna sullen and going no where. Her habit of wandering she put to use. She smiled, and said soft words, and did little things to ease the worries of those crystal ponies she passed.

This was not her house to put in order – some small part of her resented the imposition upon her nature; felt angry and put upon – but in the month since Shining Armour’s absence she had promised dear, wise, passionate, silly young Cadence her help. Even if what ‘help’ meant had expanded a little around the edges; had come to mean not only looking for Shining Armour a world away, but looking out for Cadence herself, right here in her own home as well. 

As needs must, so be it.

Luna, walker of the maze of dreams, had not learned the layout of the castle in all this time. She had not needed to. Her mind elsewhere, she patrolled her wandering, hours-devouring circuit.

Shining Armour was proving frustrating, and stubborn in the extreme. In the first days, the task of finding him had seemed so easy. It would have been, had there been anything normal happening.

Luna had first stepped through Cadance’s own fretful dreams, seen the beguiling, smiling, elusive stallion as Cadance saw him, and walked headlong into the dreaming equivalent of a brick wall. Twilight Sparkle. Spike the Dragon – Hero of the Empire himself – the Element bearers; a hundred friends and family and acquantinces of Shining Armour; every attempt to bridge their dreams to his had met with the same infuriating, same impassable result for Luna.

She had never seen such a defence. Her power could break through it, but there, the world was a different place. Shining Armour was not in a burning down house, where the walls might be knocked in or the door kicked down, and he scooped up and rescued unharmed in the hooves of his wife. In the world of dreams, the pony was the house, and the pony, and the fire, all at once.

It didn’t have to make literal sense. Luna understood. She was the only one that truly did.

Sufficed to say, force was not an option.

The filly had proved a timely discovery. Not a lucky one, as another might have considered her, for Luna did not believe it to be luck when she had trawled, proverbial nets wide, all up and down the far-distant, oft-forgot Coral Coast for such a span of time, dragging the pink alicorn along all the while. 

It was Cadence who had first tickled the small, nameless foreigner from the masses ‘beneath’ them. 

“How did you do that?” Luna had asked.

The answer she got, of light and love images and love lines was as vague and unsatisfying to Luna as, she begrudingly realized, her explanations of dreams and their ways had likely to been to Mi Amore.

Even so... cautiously, carefully, the two alicorns had treaded their magics together. Fitfully, inconsistently, they made progress.

Why a child would dream of Shining Armour at all, how she knew him, why Luna could step through her and not be hindered, when the unknown defence had stopped the same passage from all others... the questions hung heavy around them.

Shining himself raised even more. He had been off-putting, even eerie when Luna had finally popped the latch and stolen in through the proverbial window of his metaphorical house. Finding him should have been the end of it. Instead, Shining Armour, in his dreams, had proven evasive, skittish, and – Luna lacked a better word – distorted.

There was no such thing as ghosts, yet, even so... something haunted the stallion. He was a far-cry from the straight-laced, uncomplicated, noble and life-affirming fellow she had first shortly following her own return to the world.

Wherever the two alicorns met, Cadence asked constantly, “check again.”

Luna oft had the same reply. “They’re not sleeping. I looked to their dreams five minutes ago, when last you asked.”

“They could be asleep now. Or her. Or him. Check again.”

Luna sighed. Closing her eyes, she let her consciousness prod gently at the dream. “No. Still not.” And, because she could not stay mad, she added, “I’m sorry.”

Cadence's head fell. “It’s alright.” She nodded, as if in agreement. She turned and stared at the empty throne, perhaps to listen to it. “It’s alright.”

Taking her seat, she cradled the velvet the cushion from his, twin to her own. She hugged it, buried herself in it, until only her eyes peered out over the top, hidden in the shade of her pink hair.

The impression she gave was of a child. To Luna, she very much was. A sad, wise, heartbroken child. The eyes of Princess Mia Amore Cadenza were narrow, and they were focused.

Luna was more intrigued than worried, but there was some worry. Some. “Punch?” she asked.

Cadence was slow to respond, as if her thoughts had needed to return from many miles distant. In all likelihood, they had. “Sorry?

Luna gestured the grand door, thrown open and empty. “I believe I saw some made downstairs. I intend to have a glass, perhaps two. Shall I bring you some? It had a most promising fruity hue. Perhaps strawberry, or watermelon?”

“No... I, thank you, no... I just need to think. Thank you, Luna. Thank you.”

“As you wish.”

Cadence’s ears flattened back. She sat in silence, squeezing the pillow of Prince-Consort Shining Armor to her, and found little succour in it.

Luna left her be.

Cadence did not speak, because a distressed and royal figure speaking to themselves in a setting and context such as this has a decidedly different sort of implication about it then, say, a normal pony speaking to themselves and their audience of house-plants after getting home from the shop with their groceries. It would have been too alarming, somewhat melodramatic, and, at the end of the day: rather corny.

So Cadence did not speak. Instead, let us burrow into her mind for a moment – quite harmlessly, rest assured – and borrow her thought.

As she sat huddled, sullen and squeezing, her thought was thus:

My Shining Armour... She squeezed tighter, she could just about scent a cold trace of him from it. 

She breathed deeply of it. They're not going to like this. She'd have to ask one more favour of Luna, a big one, from she who had already given her so many in this trying time. Cadence considered whom she was dealing with. 

Actually, she might like it. Maybe.

When the runner came she reluctantly set the pillow down and adopted an appropriate poise.

The runner bowed. The rush she had been in was evident at the edges of her otherwise formal voice. "It's the Grey Port griffons, your highness, as requested." 

"Wonderful, yes, thank you. Send Burgomaster Gadroon to me right away. He knows the way around." Cadence actually smiled despite, for the last month, her frustrated dealings with the inky-grey griffons giving her little reason to. Certain slanted questions on the burgomaster's part regarding Shining Armour's disappearance had been...less than well considered. 

"Shall we arrange a platter for the griffons' refreshment?"

"Yes, please do." Cadence pieced together her plan. Images flashed in her mind (which we, in the narrative, have since withdrawn from, more's the pity) and she felt better already. 

Luna went where she pleased, and here and now, it pleased her to return. A pitcher of punch and a series of matching crystalline cups drifted after her. 

The runner to whom she nodded acknowledgement – who was named Snow Sprinter – lowered her head and stepped aside, then hurried away with Cadence's requests.

"The mystery is solved: it is both strawberry and watermelon, and the ice cubes are shaped like little flowers. Is it not cute?" She jiggled the pitcher and it made a sound of clinkle-clankle. "Of course it is. Importantly, however; it is refreshing, for brooding is thirsty work." 

A table, plain and wooden, drifted through the ornate doors and planted itself shamelessy at Luna's side. On it she set the assorted things. Juice and ice sloshed and settled. She leaned closer to Cadence. "Somewhere between us and the Coral Coast there is a lie, or an evil, or a most terrible string of chances. Mind who you trust."

Their eyes met. Cadence whispered, "I will." She flicked her eyes to the door.

And on as quick a cue as that, Luna twirled about. "Ah, Burgomaster Gadroon. A pleasure. Before things begin, I insist, try the punch."

The Burgomaster, who was not a young griffon, wrinkled and probably a bit dry of tongue, took the offer.

Luna was, partially, fishing for a spit-take. Certain smidgens of her modern education had come from Pinkie Pie, after all.

And, at the moment of Cadence's discretion, the raven-coloured burgomaster did not dissapoint.

"Are you sure?" Luna asked, neatly sidestepping the juice and nudging the spluttering, squirrely old griffon to his feet. What she asked was rhetorical, she knew, because there was fire in Cadence's eyes, and a smile on her lips.

"I'm serious. No more waiting, Luna. No more relying on magic and laying here, moping. Celestia's agents, the reports from your griffons, Gadroon, which, might I add, are lately beginning to contradict one another, except on the point of finding my husband – none of it's worked!"

"Now, it's very simple. I'm going to make a request. You will oblige it. It's really quite reasonable. Then I'm going. I'm finding him, and I'm bringing him back."

She paused. She sipped at a glass. "Mm, oh my, that really is good punch."

"Did I not say thusly?"

Gadroon had been Burgomaster to the sleepy, frosty fishing city of Grey Port for forty-six years, and for a solid four decades plus change of that it had been a remote and content city-state, two hundred miles from the nearest Equestrian habitation. Two hundred frozen, stark, impassable, lovely miles of good fencing and quiet living.

Then the neighbours had moved in. 

Gadroon choked off an unhappy sound as he regarded Princess Cadence's mostly friendly, slightly crazed eyes, and tried to stop the shaking of his knees.
> Making Headway
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Someone, somewhere, was scratching at something. 

It woke Flotsam up. It was a gradual process; a snort here, a flicked ear there. He huffed and was dimly aware of the smell: resinous and sharp. It seemed to scare away the oxygen. His mouth was dry and full of bad-tasting bits of sawdust, made pasty by the moisture they’d stolen. Wood chips burrowed into his tatty mane, and more dusted his body. The low, grating noise persisted erratically.

Blinking, disquieted and displeased, he writhed himself free of the mess. He shifted and chunks of wood bit into him. Some were quite large. There was a squeak-squeak-squeak of breaking wood; there was a sharp crack, then a piece the size of his hoof plopped down on him.

Flotsam wiped the dusty grit from his eyes. He pushed the piece of torn wood aside. He blew a resolute snort, clearing some of the crowds gathered in his nose. Propping up his hoof, he was about to sit up. 

He saw the griffon. Her slatey head was poking through the wall directly above his belly, mad-bird eyes glancing this way and that.

The griffon looked down and saw him. They met eyes.

“You!”

“You!”

They shared a moment.

The moment exploded.

“AHHHHH!?” Flotsam inquired.

“AHHHHH!?” She suggested.

They thrashed. One would think that, even on his back, with all four limbs plus a head-jabby at his disposal, Flotsam would be the better thrash-ee and that Gadfly, with naught but her head in the game – so to speak – would be woefully underrepresented in this contest.

It would be a fair assumption.

It would be wrong. The razor-sharp beak and powerful neck both helped, but the leading role had to be the inherent pinprick-pupil insanity that all birds are known for. 

Even the cute ones. Especially the cute ones.

Her stubby black tongue flailed like a lightening-struck snake. Her uvula (do griffons even have those?) wobbled like a very wobbly thing indeed.

“AHHHHHH?!” They each continued to postulate. Flotsam’s startled struggles slapped against the walls and floors; Patches’ box of assorted goodies was overturned and scattered, the sleeping area – already a mess of wood wreckage – was quickly being pulverized.

Gadfly’s slatey-grey beak, having somehow snatched the formerly emptied and presently flying tin of diced fruit, whipped it about, tossed her head and flung the tin at Flotsam’s. 

It struck true with a hollow doink!. “Ow!”

“AHHHHHhhh-wait, wait, I, I think I’m stuck?!” She tossed side to side like a struggling fish, and, going by the thunder reverberating through the wall, was unleashing all sorts of slash, stab, punch and kick havoc against the other side in her bids to break free. “I can’t move?! Get me out!”

Flotsam’s heart was in his throat, but not literally as that would be horrifying to comprehend and excessively fatal. His chest heaving and already sweaty, he kept low on his back as he manouvered away, very mindful of his soft fleshy everywhere and her sharp fish-hook beak just above all that. “What?!

Her eyes bulged and neck feathers piled up with a spirited and very definite struggle to pull out. “I’m stuck?!” 

Flotsam scooched best he could out from under her biting reach. His coursing adrenaline rattled around, quickly starting to shift tone from ‘I need to fight!’ to: ‘somebody needs help!’ He still wasn’t thinking all that much, though. 

It’s a hero thing.

He propped himself upright against the far wall – there wasn’t quite room to stand up and avoid a nasty potential snap of the beak – and heaved a breath of reprieve. “Okay! Stop, stop,” he roared and it made his throat was raw, “STOP!” 

She stopped.

He thrust up an excitement-and-stress wobbling hoof, pointing it dead at the griffon's head. He said the first thing that came into his head. “How are you stuck?

Gadfly blinked rapidly. As these things went, it was a considerable step down from ‘spittle-spattering-berzerker’ towards a considerably more genteel ‘immensely excited.’ “I don’t know?! I tried climbing through?”

There was something about the way she spoke in questions that gently curdled the brain. Her eyes, at last, came to settle on him after their mad roving. She asked, “Why are you even here? I thought it was just, storage and stuff? I mean, it is?"

An entirely misplaced pang of work ethic guilt shot through him Flotsam, one he really didn’t need in his life just now. “That doesn’t matter! Why did you try climbing through a hole in the wall-”

“To escape!” 

“It barely fits your head! No wonder you're stuck!”

Two angry, heated, flustered souls glowered at one another. It was another one of those pesky moments.

“What’s wrong with your horn?”

“It’s magic! I don’t have to explain anything!” Flotsam then thought to add that she, Gadfly, gray griffon, was a prisoner and as such he had no reason to answer her anyhow, but by then he’d sort of used up his iniative with his much touchier, more heated response and trying to go back and change it now would just be silly and sad.

Perhaps contemplating their lives, they shared another sullen moment.

Flotsam could almost see the gears of Gadfly’s brain clicking over. Click. Click... She hitched her voice up like another would their skirts, and her expression became almost pleasant. “Hey, would you, maybe, help me escape?”

“You mean, escape the ship? Because…” Daring escape plans filled his thoughts. Flotsam had a dizzying moment as his moral compass spun freely. Helping lone prisoners escape the bellies of ships is, after all, a very traditional aspect of the heroic calling, and dumb instinct was being stubborn. In Flotsam, it was always being stubborn. “No!”

Flotsam swung his hooves around and stood up. His legs were all sorts of wiggly and weird feeling, but more importantly he mad sure to keep well back from the sharp beak. “You attacked us! You attacked me!” His cheeks puffed as he grimaced through his next words. “I got all sticky. You're the pirate here.”

Gadfly took on a thoughtful, considerate manner which, calculated or not (probably not) left Flotsam feeling foalish and foolish for his outburst. In fairness to him and to context, a shrieking griffon head had punched through the wall, thrashed the ship and glared red murder at him, like some cuckoo-alarm clock raised from Tartarus itself just moments before.

But still.

At least, compared to that impression, the griffon was positively philosophic in her poise now. She blinked three, whole-hearted, fluttering, brain-refreshing blinks, then spoke. “What? Um, we were, hired, or something? I don’t know? I thought, we were done? But then they said we weren’t? Even though we were?” 

This treatise of thought meandered its way back towards Flotsam. “I can, pay you money, to help me? I mean, my dad can pay you? And he will! He’s probably worried, by now? No hard feelings, about fighting before, I mean, you know?”

If it wouldn’t be essentially jumping on the band wagon, Flotsam could have put his head through the wall just then, too. It was the voice. The worst part was, he knew in his good heart, that it wasn’t Gadfly’s fault, the way she spoke, with the oppressive commas, and the questioning lilt? She seemed – once you got to talk to her – uncomplicated? And genuine.

The Captain’s dismissive remarks about the griffon made a tad more sense now, he thought.

He didn't get the chance to do or say any more, however. “So…oh! OH!” Gadfly the gray griffon was sucked backwards through the hole, trailing an outraged squawk all the way. Feathers poofed on the blow-back of air. Flotsam watched them float down.

Flotsam sagged. He sighed, one of those deep, puffy, let-it-all-out sighs. It helped him register his experiences, a little. “Okay.” A second later, another face poked up against the ragged-edged hole, this time being the unimpressed and unconcerned visage of First Mate Harpoon.

She took stock of Flotsam and his not-actually-a-love-nest-nest. “You alright?” 

Before he could answer, she turned away from him. “Stop. Stop. It goes better for you if you keep quiet. Windlass doesn’t want to hurt you,” he heard her say, and Harpoon’s tone was such in its clear communication that Windlass very much could hurt the griffon, her wants aside, and that Harpoon herself would not be unduly fettered by such a turn of events.

A moment’s pause, a shuffle of hooves and then, “Yeah, that’s fine.” … “No, she won’t be a problem.” … “He’s right there.” … “Alright, yeah.”

She cocked her head back to the hole. She gestured back with a shrug. “Captain wants you here.” She gestured the distressed blankets and assorted mess. “The filly?”

Flotsam nodded and found his voice. “Yeah.” He tried to remember the various squeezes, ducks and turns that had brought him to this secluded spot. “Give me a minute. Maybe two?”

“Hey.”

Flotsam didn’t have to turn to know the slight grin would be there, but he did anyway. It was of the sort that only someone like Harpoon could wear naturally – the easy confidence that comes with one's absolute certainty about their situation and control over it. It was the same control with which the First Mate had lead Flotsam about the nameless, secluded spit of an island. 

The same with which she’d seduced him. Or he’d seduced himself, to her. He still wasn’t sure exactly which it was, if there was even a clear definition between the two.

Her slight smile waited patiently, as if she could read his thoughts play out across his face and found them cute. His belly fluttered. “Buck up,” she suggested. “And by the way? Welcome to Rivaplút.”

“We’re… here?” he asked, but she’d already turned away and he was left to tend himself.

In the stillness he noticed...the stillness. Not just that of him in the ship, but of the Mother of Mercy herself.  

“We’re there…” he mused. Whatever that meant.

He didn’t dwell long; that would’ve have kept the rest waiting. Captain's orders, and all that. First Mate's...something.

The shock would probably hit him more fully later, he dimly knew. A Port. A City. Ponies. Places. A life. A past. 

Maybe. 

In the meantime…he’d been told to do get from one side of a wall to another (in a better manner than Gadfly had tried) and that, at least, he could wrap his head around. 

"We're really there...or, here?" 

> Bars
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stars were out in force, prickling like pins-and-needles across the cloudless sky, and the sea — lapping at the world gently as kittens’ tongues — mirrored them in its surface. Starlight twinkled.

It was a purple sort of night.

But it was the orange glows and the shuffling figures of the wharf that held Flotsam transfixed. Skies he had seen, storms and stillness and the thousand temperaments of weather he had seen, but doors; buildings spilling light from framed windows; ponies milling on the boardwalk and others headed to places unknown; it was these things that bludgeoned into his head an overwhelming sense of mystery and wonder.

He had been away from the world. All of a sudden, here it was. He didn't recognize it, which wasn’t so bad — too often, he hardly recognized himself.

Around them the silhouettes of other ships were moored and quiet, like great wingéd giants sleeping. If they slept, it was a wary sleep, with one eye cracked open, watchful of the newcomer to their midst.

The Mother, for her part, disdained their quiet scrutiny. Somehow, she devoured the space around her. She claimed it and watched for others to challenge it. The ship was proud and imperious with her battle-wounds. 

Were she animate (and Flotsam was not entirely certain that, at some level, she wasn't) the ship would be, as it were, showboating.

All considerations aside, she certainly was alive with the sound of work. Hooves made a steady thunder on her decks, voices shouted and the air stirred around them. Flotsam’s reverie was not meant to survive a busy place like this.

“Oh!” he cried, half startled, half apologetic, shuffling out of the way as crew mares hurried about, grunting and coordinating, disgorging the ship of her belly’s cargo. Mares tossed and caught ropes, they tied and untied knots; boards were proficiently ripped up and others were laid down. Energy crackled through the crew, jumping in almost visible arcs from mare to mare.

Port! each jolt seemed to shout. Port! The excitement made the mares fast, powerful, eager and seemingly tireless in their work. Port! It spread like ships’ fire through them.

Flotsam felt the excitement spill over him, but it did not spark in him what it had in them. They knew what they wanted — to unleash themselves and run rabid and free through Rivaplút — and how to work towards that end.

This, after all, was their homecoming. He’d simply drifted along with the current.

Stealing a last glance of dark giants, lamp-lit docks and unnamed ponies on the quay, Flotsam ducked from sight again and slipped into the familiar world beneath decks.

Turning a corner, he bumped noses with Hop Scotch. Her expression was surprise, then delight. She swelled up with it. “It’ll be some riot tonight!” she declared, throwing a hoof around his head, and with the strength of the ecstatic, pulled his face to hers.

She kissed him wildly, pulling at his lips, licking at his lips, playfully poking her tongue’s way between them, pushing herself into him with the weight of her body behind her.

Then the mousy mare put a hoof to his chest — savoured a last biting, raking, lingering tasting of Flotsam’s lips — then pushed, finally breaking away from him with a pronounced Mwwwaah! Tilting her head back, her smile delightful and eyes lusty, she inhaled deeply as if to take into herself every last trace of the breath she’d stolen from Flotsam.

“Mm, yes.” She caught Flotsam’s eye like another might a snowflake: with their head tilted back and their tongue stretched out. She closed her eyes, and her mouth, and for a moment her smile was serene.

She let go of the breath she held in a slow, sensual sigh.

“You are a bad pony, Flotsam,” she said, but her tone was that of being incredibly pleased. “A very bad pony. The worst kind of tease.”

Before he could even think to speak, Hop Scotch shoved at his chest again and he staggered backwards.

His mouth tasted of hers. She’d wetted his lips. She gently tugged at his golden earring.

“I like this. Shame about the hat, though. Try not to keep it!” she finished, brushing past him and hurrying the way he had come. “Tonight this town is mine,” he heard her declare before rounding the corner.

Flotsam stood stock still. Seconds later, he started to tremble. Seconds more and he, too, began to nod agreeably. “Yeah,” he said to himself only. “Yeah. Okay.”

Stealing one last moment just to steady his breathing, Flotsam gathered up the scraps of his broken composure, roped them together and bound them tightly. He nodded his acceptance a few last times, took a breath and moved on. He was very tense.

He walked rigidly.

Harpoon eyed him critically when he at last did reach what served as the brig. “You get lost?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said shakily, with a bite of snark thrown in. He shuffled himself past her and along the limited space of the room. “Sorry.” 

Additional to themselves — and Gadfly, sheltering under her wings in the cell — the teenagers Parrot and Shanty stood to one side, their heads together in a now-interrupted conversation.

“Yeah, alright,” Harpoon said, sounding not so much convinced as simply indifferent. “There’s a lot of work Captain wants done. Done tonight. A start on some real repairs, sales, the works.” The usual unflappable tones of Harpoon were tinged with something else. She, too, chafed with the crew’s itch to get off the ship at long last. 

Everypony knew that he knew nothing, not of repairs, sales, or ‘the works’. Hopefully, fewer knew how he felt, because right now, that meant he grappled with all-too cloying thoughts and fended off the twisted, giddy sensations shooting through his abdomen. 

Hop Scotch had rattled his cage with her boldness. That wouldn’t have been too bad in its own right, if the last weeks hadn’t already put Flotsam in said cage, tied his hooves with silk and blindfolded him with velvet, locked the door, lit a stick of incense and whispered a safe word in his ear. 

Flotsam’s rear leg started to twitch restlessly and, worse still, audibly. He imposed a sort of jaw-gritting, mental martial law to fight and quell the rebellious uprising. His ears flicked. His leg thrummed rebelliously as ever.

“So,” he asked carefully, trying to distance himself somewhat from his own thoughts, “what can I do?” 

Harpoon gestured the bars of the cell. “Griffon guarding.” She raised her voice. “And it’s all three of you.” She raised her voice for everyone present. “You going to give them any trouble, griffon?”

Gadfly poked her beak out under a spread of dark feathers. She blinked. “Um, no?” 

Everything waited on Harpoon’s consideration. After a moment’s thought, she simply said, “Good.” To the ponies, she added only a quick, stern glance and a stiff, approving nod. It maybe – just maybe – lingered an instant longer on Flotsam. 

Harpoon left and the air cleared a bit. 

There were three ponies and the griffon.

Parrot flicked her mane. She wriggled her body, working the muscles down her neck, through her body and out to the tips of her wings. She slumped down onto a crate and leaned back. Her tone was lax. “Easy stuff.”

She committed her attention to nibbling her feathers, creating a constant slew of strange little noises as she preened them.

Shanty shrugged, but Flotsam wasn’t minding either pony too much.

He noted small things, in quick succession. Gadfly was partially hidden, sheltered as she was under her own wings. She could have something hidden under that, not that he believed her to, for to his knowledge her cell had been provisioned with nothing, but he acknowledged the possibility. He briefly considered if it would have been possible for her to grab any sort of weapon or tool when her head had come through the wall.

Then it occurred to him: the wood itself. She’d burrowed her way — or more aptly — ripped and tore her way through it. There could be all sorts of sharp nasty splinters she’d squirrelled for herself in the meantime.

At the same time as his thoughts came by this, he had moved to the centre of the room, fixed the griffon and her cell in his gaze and flicked his attention over details. The bars and their fixings, the cell door and its lock... where was the key?

The clink-clink of Shanty tapping it in her boredom against the floor registered itself in his thoughts, against a backdrop of the various noises of the pegasus preening herself. The hole in the back wall was a liability, but — here Flotsam juggled some casual estimates — even providing the wall could be ripped to a Gadfly-accommodating size quickly, and taking even a sloppy response from them getting into the cell into account... no, it still wouldn’t favour Gadfly getting anywhere. Even if she did, she'd likely be swarmed and subdued pretty much instantly.

The griffon was low to the floor and hunched, like a dark circle of feathers with a beak poking out between stooped shoulders. It was only then Flotsam realized she was staring at him.

He did a pretty normal thing.

He stared back.

Parrot finished the one wing and twisting, caught the other and set to work on it. Shanty kept a tempo as she tapped the key, adding to her quiet, simple tune the odd clop of her free hoof and quiet puffs of breath.

Other than these things, it was stillness and silence, the muffled, distant thuds and voices of the crew at work, and the mostly-subdued restless leg of Flotsam. Those were the only sounds that remained.

Time passed. Flotsam reigned himself to stillness. Gadfly might have napped inside her self-made shelter and honestly, Flotsam wouldn't hold it against her in the slightest if such were the case. 

Sleeping prisoners give guards less trouble.

Parrot’s voice was soft. “You thinking of staying with the MoM?”

Flotsam blinked and turned, his mouth half-framing a response when he realized he’d been more or less been forgotten about, left to stare at the griffon and think his thoughts.

Shanty had shuffled over to Parrot, so that she sat and leaned her back on the same crate the pegasus sat on and leaned from. There was another shuffle, and a freshly-preened, strikingly-green and striped wing had been stolen and repurposed into a back-cushion for the earth pony.

She said, “I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it. It’s hard to know, you know? I like being here, but, how long do you stay on a ship until you get stuck there?”

“Yeah.”

Flotsam was nominally watching the griffon, but his focus was on what he could catch in his periphery.

“You thinking of leaving?”

Parrot scoffed. “Nah, I’m good right where I am. And if I feel like going, I’ll just pack up and go.” She paused and hummed thoughtfully. “But I probably won’t.”

The conversation fell away. The wood of the ship creaked as it adjusted to different stresses and, even here in this deep gullet, the lapping of the waves against the ship kept true silence pushed back. 

“What’s the city like?” Flotsam asked gently.

A moment passed and, perhaps due to discomfort, Parrot hopped down from her high perch to sit lower down. She and Shanty swapped shoulders as headrests and leaned back against each other. 

Parrot popped the air with her tongue and her teeth. Then she hinged open her jaw and probed at them, until Flotsam was somewhere between disconcerted and affronted. Shanty’s tapping stopped and her eye turned to follow the jungle-green pegasus.

Then Parrot smacked her lips, twitched her wings, settled down more comfortably against Shanty and spoke. “It’s big. It’s stinking. But you can sell what you want and you can buy what you want." The teen rolled her head back and gave a short chuckle. “But I’ve never been. My first time, so I’m only repeating what I’ve been told.”

She gently ribbed the other teen, who quietly shoo’d away the motion. “You’d do a better job of it Shanty. Talking is your thing. Well?”

The earth pony shrugged indifferently. “You did alright, I guess. There’s usually more insults, when someone describes Rivaplút. Particularly from the locals.” She stared forwards in thoughtful quiet for a moment. “And, to be honest, a lot of them are completely valid. Which says not just something about the city, but about the people here, too.”

Her attention flicked to Flotsam. He said nothing, but hoped his attentive expression conveyed enough to have her keep speaking.

Perhaps, there was too much hunger in his expression. Or perhaps simply the music mare hadn’t brushed the memory of a lights-conjuring, nonsense-spouting, water-striding maniac mage under the proverbial rug as readily as some others had. 

In either case, Shanty’s ears flicked back and her face turned to one of minor distaste.

“I just want to know,” Flotsam admitted to the room, but it didn’t work.

Well, as a matter of fact, it did.

Indirectly, through.

It was annoyance that incensed the young mare to pull away from Parrot and start pacing. 

“Look,” she said, “Rivaplút is either the biggest town on the Coral Coast, or its only small city. Whatever way you want to think of it, you do that. Yes, it literally means ‘the river’s plot,’ probably because there’s the river, and we’re at the back end of it, and just because someone once named a thing once and it stuck didn’t mean it was a flattering name, but there’s also a story saying that it’s where Siren gave up her virginity and claimed her lovers’, so... choose your own adventure!” 

Shanty huffed as she gathered steam. 

“The further upriver you live,” she thrust her hooves forward,  “or the higher uphill,” she parted them, “the better you are. That’s just a fact,” she spat.

“And the rest of us. We’re not all cutthroats, or beggars, or ponies of ill-repute walking the wharves, but everybody knows that everybody’s looking out for themselves first and foremost, and nobody has the time or effort to care what anybody else thinks of them, because who gives a damn what you think? You’re just as likely to leave again on the next tide — or they are — and pretty much nobody bothers to go haggling for more problems when they have plenty already.”

She paused just long enough to huff, like an engine changing gears. “Of course there’s vices.” So far, she had been speaking emphatically to the empty space in front of her, with Flotsam a happenstance, not-looking-you sort of audience, but now she called him out directly, eyes and pointed hoof and all, “...and more whoring than even you could shake your horny horn at. Addictions. Gambling. Rackets. The only reason I think there isn’t any single problem completely overrunning Rivaplút is because if any one problem started getting too big, it would annoy everyone else who’s a big fan of the others, and they’d gang up on it.” 

Shanty snorted derisively. “Ganging up is a proud Rivaplút tradition, in case you didn’t realize. But...it's not all bad. Not at all. A lot of good people call it home...

She wasn’t done, despite her turn to momentary calm reflection. There was renewed vehemence rising in the pony. Flotsam wondered where it came from.

Where it was going, right now, was to him. It rode Shanty’s hoof and she pointed. He was surprised by the sudden annoyance he felt. She said, “A piece of advice? Don't insult it. You don't get to do that."

"What about you, huh, Flotsam?" She twisted the word; it wasn't a name the way she said it, just a word, draped like a worn rag over him, a description. "Do you think you're staying? Nearly drown and, what, that's a free ride?” Her expression flickered between unhappy uncertainty and downright bellicose, and the latter was winning two draws out of three. “Nearly drown and I'll get into any bed I want, too, huh?”

She huffed and muttered, “Like, what are you actually good for?

“Uh, magic?” offered Parrot. 

“Yeah, magic and madness. No thanks.”

Parrot shrugged, her gesture offered only slight sympathy. It’s all yours. I don't really care.

Flotsam was dimly aware that, with nothing and noone having actually moved, the shape of things had changed. A moment ago, he'd been simply in the room as Shanty lectured. Now he was On The Spot.

Gadfly’s eyes gazed, her face intense and blank. The nap was ended. At least she wasn't going to be bored with her imprisonment. He ignored her, and, after a review of what he knew, felt a degree of understanding about Shanty’s simmering outburst.

It tempered his response, but, then again, weapons were also things one tempered. He took careful aim with his. A part of him, small, whispering, officially denied by his higher functions but nonetheless there took satisfaction in this.

“Is this about me, honestly about me, or someone else? Someone that likes me?” Shanty’s face, hurt and scared and thunderously sullen as only moody teens can truly manage said it all. The infatuation wasn't exactly hidden. Some days, the teen was more or less The Quartermaster’s shadow, carrying her torch all the while.

“You like Charming Booty? Yeah, she’s pretty great.” A wry smile and a flame-hued tail flashed across Flotsam's mind. His belly turned another loop. The image lingered.

It made him smile.

His next words took a bit of a run-up to say. He wasn't usually so rough, but things had a way of happening under duress. Even so, he navigated clear of the nastier waters.

“You like her? Get up and do something. Be seen. Be forward. I don't think Charming likes shy wallflowers. You think someone like her even notices them? I doubt it. I'm not her, but even I can see that. I'm not here to steal your crush. I don't wake up in the morning and think, ‘I wonder what Shanty's aspirations are and how can I spoil them today?’ You're right: magic, madness, no name, no memory, no direction... I got problems up to my neck-” the image of water, crashed through his imagination, of barely treading it and things disappearing into the distance; Flotsam barked with sudden laughter that was hard to contain, and as he slowly, fitfully drowned it, it took the rest of the sounds with it.

Flotsam refused to let himself feel bad, despite the inclination to. “Up to my neck,” he finished, his own dead laughter sitting uneasy in his ears.

A thought popped sideways into his head, and it was welcome. The current train of them had pushed through some rough places. “You're a storyteller, how about you tell us about Siren? She’s supposed to be...charming. How would she have charmed Charming?”

Shanty stood stiffly. Her face smouldered with a furious blush. She was Holding A Grudge, it seemed. Jealousy did ugly things.

“Your a jerkass, a psychotic jerkass. You want to see Rivaplút, just...go and see it! Leave me alone,” she said and stormed off, or tried to, but really it was just her squalling. 

That left two.

Parrot shuffled herself comfortable. “That was kind of rough.”

There was a moment. The pegasus industriously nibbled at what Flotsam thought of as her wing’s elbow. She spat little feathers on the floor and shrugged. “Had it coming, if you ask me.”

“Me? Or her?”

“Oh? Uh, yeah, her, definitely. She’s afraid of making a move for the Que Em and hates that everything else in the world keeps, you know, moving before she's ready. Like I said: had it coming.” Parrot scrunched her face, fighting a battle of lips and tongue against the little shreds of down caught in her teeth. She smacked and slurped loudly.

“Good job standing up to an emotional and insecure teenager, by the way. Patches help cut your teeth, yeah? Did she need a stool, or did you stoop?” 

Parrot laughed. Gadfly wiggled with a low chortle. Flotsam surprised himself with a chuckle. "Stoop, definitely. And that filly has it together as good as anyone else. She wouldn't have tantrummed.

“Well, yeah, I suppose. Like, Flotsam, I'm out of the jungle. We're a little different. I know that. So, speaking as someone who's coming from the outside, and, to be honest, just doesn't care all that much for pony drama: you're kind of a pushover and sweaty ‘zip nuts, these are annoying!” The Pegasus scraped at her teeth, but it was a losing battle against the downy fluff caught in them.

It was down, but it wasn't out.

Parrot thumped her hooves on deck. “Okay, toothpick anywhere? Looking... Looking... Ahah!”

If Flotsam defaulted to a bewildered state so often, it was only because it was so often — too often — perfectly justified a response.

Parrot flurried into motion. There was a rush of air and suddenly his head was kinked forwards. Her other hoof kept a firm grip on his horn, which she navigated promptly to her mouth. 

Flotsam fixed his eyes resolutely to the middle distance, which in this instance also happened to be the floor. “Um.” He could feel the griffons questioning eyes on him.

A second later, he could feel the unpleasant motions, and the evil chalkboard scraping. Parrot made an unintelligible gnyah gnyah sort of sound just above the tips of his upright-standing ears.

Then it was over, with Parrot spitting something wet, green and formerly downy to the floor with great satisfaction.

She grinned innocently and tongued her teeth. “Mm, yeah, way better, thanks! Also for not stabbing my brain...kind of gritty, actually, and tastes, I ‘unno, like tin, I guess? Still better than trying my luck with beaky here, am I right? You’d try me in a heartbeat!”

Flotsam tried to approach the moment from a number of angles, then resigned himself to the facts that this had indeed happened and he was a ways away from understanding it.

Like, at all.

“Didn’t you used to be, uh, meek?” Even as he said it, that very quality flashed into her features. 

Parrot shrugged, with a hint of unexpected fluster. “Well, where I'm from...” she surmised weakly. “You know... But, yeah. You. Push over, proved it, stand up for yourself, congratulations, and the, uh, esseter-ra, what’s the word?

“What?”

“You know-” Parrot gestured lazy circles with her hoof, “the one you say where you mean, ‘there's more, but I'm not going to point it all out?’ ”

A grey talon flicked up through the feathers of Gadfly. “You mean, like, ‘et cetera?’ Means ‘and so on,’ I think?”

“Yeah! That's the one!” Parrot shot her hoof through the bars. Carefully, looking back and forth between that and Parrot's smile, the griffon slowly extended her talon and gingerly touched tip to hoof before retreating again into her shroud of feathers, carefully scanning the pony for any sign of reaction.

“Nice,” said the pegasus. She seemed content.

“Anytime?” hazarded the griffon.

Since Flotsam could remember that, during the battle with the griffons, Parrot had tried — really tried — to pry one's head off with the ship's wheel, he decided to just leave it there. 

Gadfly, most likely, had thought the very the same thing.

Maybe this was what they called honour among thieves, Flotsam considered. Or, to take Shanty's slant on things into account: camaraderie among psychotic jerkasses.

“Oh.” Parrot blinked and checked her sides. “Did Shanty take the key with her, do you know? I better go get that! If The Harpie sees her out there, or, you know, me, out there, chasing her, neither of us being here...”

Parrot's face scrunched as she made for the door. “Shanty!” she stage-hissed, clinging to the door frame. “Shan-teeee!”

There was no answering call. Parrot grinned. Or maybe grimaced. “I'll just be real quick, yeah?” 

She scurried away. That left one.

Quietness returned, cautiously as nose-twitching mice.

Slowly, Gadfly unfolded. Her wings brushed their stiffness loose. She stretched as only someone part-feline could, all legs and sudden back-end rises. 

Her tail wriggled. What yoga calls a ‘downwards facing dog’ was really proving more of an ‘upwards pointed pussy-cat.’  Gadfly groaned, sighed and slumped, folding again and resuming an approximate of her shelter-of-wings posture.

“What? She asked. Her expression was impassive. It did not suggest coyness.

Flotsam blinked. He hadn't looked for anything concealed, hadn't even thought to, in all that time of...what had it really been? Twenty seconds? Thirty? It'd felt longer.

Not that he hadn't been looking. He’d been distracted, was all. Flotsam, head in hoof, shook it wearily. He took his professionalism, heaped his proverbial hooves full with the stuff and simply let it all go. He pulled himself to the wall and let himself lean back, hoof over his eyes, just until his head cleared. 

A minute passed. Maybe two. Flotsam flicked idly at his ring. He tried, unthinking, to itch his horn, but met only the unpleasant grittiness of the nullifier, and quickly retreated from it. He tried magic, just on the off chance... but no, nothing.

He shifted on his hip. It didn't alleviate the discomfort of slouching on bare wood, but at least helped shuffle it around.

Gadfly rustled quietly. Flotsam inched his hoof and cracked an eye. The griffon had put herself right up against the bars. They furrowed her wings. Her head was hunkered low, hidden from Flotsam's vantage.

“I want to go home,” Gadfly said, quiet enough that Flotsam did not believe he’d been meant to hear.

He went with it nonetheless. He felt the griffon startle – just slightly – when he went to her, so that they sat back to back, against the same bars. They barely touched; just feather tips really. Mostly it was the cold bite of iron.

“You and me both,” he said softly. The two others returned, prodded by Parrot’s insistence. Flotsam afforded their quizzical looks the slimmest of dismissive nods. There was a fleeting moment regarding Shanty, but with any luck Parrot had had a quiet word before ushering her back. She didn't say anything, and for the moment, that was probably best.

As it was, Flotsam could not be bothered any further; he expected they realized this. He settled into his chosen, uncomfortable seat, focusing on the slight, soft brushes of contact between griffon and pony.

In a while, Patches would bring the quiet guards sandwiches, bought en masse from a wharf-walking peddler with a hot tray. Flotsam made sure that Gadfly got the same the rest did. 

Nobody questioned him on it.

Parrot, licking scraps from her teeth, eyed the unicorn and his tool with considered mischief. Flotsam met level with her eyes. He didn't smile in the slightest, he very simply mouthed the word ‘no’, and Parrot smartly never-ever tried to take his horn for a toothpick again.

...okay, he did smile, just a little.

Maybe a little more than little, even. Regardless, the five — for Patches had took to Flotsam like a scarf to a neck; they kept one another warm —settled in, peacefully, quietly, into the long and timeless night, while busyness happened all around them and tinted stars shone down on all of it.

Tomorrow would be another day.








> Push and Pull
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was early in the morning and Flotsam was doing pushups on the floor of the Captain’s cabin. Nauticaa hadn’t told him to, rather, he’d awoken from a dreamless sleep with energy to burn. He’d slid quietly from her bed and was none too surprised to find that if she hadn’t already been awake, he’d have woken her despite his relative stealthiness. 

Taking a page from Nauticaa’s book, he didn’t make a deal of it and simply went about his agenda. Activity helped him to think. He pressed.

The Captain sat up and for a time simply watched him. He pressed. Her blankets draped her and her eyes remained half-lidded, so that the two of them watched one another like cats, she head on and he from the corner of his eye, feigning disinterest. He pressed. He couldn’t believe she was entirely disinterested in him, he just couldn’t. He had his pride, after all.

Flotsam pressed.

Nauticaa had given Flotsam his name and a golden earring. He pressed. She’d taken his autonomy and his magic. Perhaps somewhere in her ledger for the ship was a page concerning Flotsam with positives and negatives all tallied together, amounting to... something.

Of course — and this thought required a jolly, aggressive upping of the ante, combining effort and breath into a fast, muscle-burning flurry of pumping motions — such a thing applied both ways. Flotsam had brought good and bad to the ship. Whatever Nauticaa had asked to take, he’d willingly given, she had afforded him that respect. As the old timers might have put it, he had blown both ways. Hopefully more to the good, if Nauticaa’s regard were taken into account.

That was only a metaphor, though; He hadn’t blown, nobody had blown, of such thing a fact he was quite certain, as certain as a wastrel born seemingly out of the water could be of anything. It would be nice, he mused, if for once something other than the wind was blowing him.

Flotsam at last dropped down and stayed down, chuckling and giddy with the slight high of exercise and, it had to be said, his own increasingly warped sense of humour. His heartbeat thumped strong in his chest, his legs already quivered, his blood flushed hot against his skin. He breathed hard, and eyed the grain of floor. He had meant to be counting, but all Flotsam could recall was the vague assurance that he’d passed by fifty at some point, after which his thoughts had taken their own course and had left his body simply to repeat its actions indefinititely.

He huffed, forced his muscles to act through their own quivering strain and pried himself up. He held firm and tortured himself slowly down into another exaggerated pushup. Despite the shivers, he kept his form. Coming slowly, slowly up from it, he smiled. “You’re impressed.”

“You're not bad. Tough, for a unicorn.”

Flotsam received the words like a warm accolade, given to him from some high pony on her royal perch. “Do I get a kiss?”

“I think not.”

The Captain stepped from her bed, took a moment to stretch, then took to her desk, neatly sidestepping the prostrate figure on her floor.

And that was that. Their relationship in a dozen words. The Captain was a perpetual cold shower; a bulwark of sobriety. 

In a choice few ways it was frustrating to no end, especially in the small hours of the night when, even asleep, Flotsam was on some level awake to the fact that she cuddled him, aggressively so. Outside of that purpose, she never touched him. Not restraint exactly, because that word suggested tension. Aloofness, maybe.

Flotsam stood stiffly and stretched. He splashed water on his face and rubbed, first to address sweat and sleep, then for the simple pleasure of cool water spread on warm skin. Salt prickled him momentarily blind. “What happens to me now, anyway? Everybody believes I’m sleeping with you, which I actually am, not that they’d believe if I put it that way.”

"Maybe it doesn't even matter." He hesitated. “Patches’d believe me. She’s innocent. I think. I’m wandering a little, what I mean is, that, well, no, let’s actually stick with Patches for a moment.”

Changing no other manner or feature, Nauticaa raised one eyebrow. This is a rare and valuable skill in a pony.

Raising hooves made Flotsam’s muscles twinge, but like with his workout, he felt full of motion and articulated himself with a surplus of gestures and a sort of side-to-side shimmy. He paced the floor and the Captain watched. 

“I guess what I’m asking is: are you going to keep me?”

The gestures stopped. Flotsam listened to the echoes in his head. It was six words, but they somehow worked very hard at their job and asked more than their sum weight would suggest. Keep me as a lover. Keep me as worker. Keep me as a prisoner.

What am I?

The options hovered awkwardly, unspoken but understood. Flotsam scratched at the nullifier. As always it felt gritty to touch, like sand clinging to a pony who has been playing in the ocean, but even a forceful hoof couldn’t lift a single of the black grains from the material. He had made his attempts, in odd moments of privacy, when a sudden anxious urge to be reconnected with his magic would steal into him. 

“And what is this thing, anyway?”

Captain Nauticaa flipped her book closed, perhaps in lieu of a sigh. She seemed, if anything, to relax slightly out of her usual stoicism, leaning and settling perhaps just a little more into her seat.

She nodded. “That, I received as a gift from the previous Captain, my father. He called it sombre stone, and said it was very rare. Wherever that mineral came from, I’ve never seen, and it stopped coming from there a long time before anyone alive was born. I’m given to understand that there’s more utility in sombre stone regarding magic than locking it down, but that, as you’re well aware now, is the design of this piece.

“As for your other question,” she spoke emphatically, “you are not a prisoner. Maybe to fate and circumstance, but I can't help that.” 

There was a knock at the door, polite and urgent. Nauticaa raised and pitched her voice to the interloper. “Wait!” 

“Flotsam,” she resumed, “I think I can trust you to understand by now that in anything I do, the decisions I make are for the ship, first, foremost and always. I am rather impersonal like this. That said, I haven’t been ignorant to your concerns. You have been an interesting addition to the journey. ‘Interesting’ does not equate with ‘good,’ although, I will admit in this case you have managed to be both, if more of the former than the latter. At times you have even proven quite useful. But we’re here now, and I and the Mother will continue on exactly as we will.”

Flotsam knew he was none too devious or cunning. When he didn’t know, he didn’t know, and whatever cards another pony might have kept with which to bluff, Flotsam merely gave away, hoping and worrying. As a plus, he wasn’t very evasive either. He asked, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m prepared to offer you a choice. That's a thing, I think, you’ve been starved for recently.”

Flotsam’s ears flicked about. He lowered his head. “You need to be simpler. I still don’t get it.”

“You can stay on the ship or you can leave the ship. No, that’s not quite right. Either way, you will be leaving this ship. The real choice is, you can stay a little while more, while we’re in port. Your choice is, do you stay a while more, or a while less?”

Flotsam met the Captain’s stern glare with one of his own. “You want me to leave the Mother?”

“You will leave the Mother.” Nauticaa propped her hooves on her desk and leant forwards. She took a deep breath before she spoke, slow and forceful. “Do you think that I would have ever brought you onto my ship under any other circumstance? If it hadn’t been that or leave you to die in the water?

“You’re a terrible sailor. You are. Willing to work, I grant you, but you know nothing. Children on the dockside know more about running a ship than you. You can fight, but you’re a distraction. And you have magic. Real magic. Not like Charming Boot, not like Sea Bed; lighting lamps and moving quills; real magic. Powerful magic. Could you kill her?”

Flotsam stood tense. He refused to let his voice catch in his throat. “Kill who?”

Nauticaa tapped the floor loudly. “The ship.”

“I would never-”

“And I believe that. That you wouldn’t intend to. But you could.” Resting her head in her hoof, Nauticaa rubbed at her temple, her eyes shut for a moment. “My crew knocked down the griffon sky-frigate. My crew, all working together. They’re good mares. They’re strong mares. Don’t tell me that you couldn’t have done the same by yourself if you’d really needed to. If you’d had the right incentive.”

Legs straight, his eyes forward and expression fixed into stony nothingness, Flotsam kept his breath tight in his chest. The black smoke and grey stormcloud of the frigate bled across his mind’s eye. He drained his voice of emotion. “What’s the right incentive, sir?”

The Captain clapped her hooves down then swept them aside. “The wrong words, a piece of your memory, a bad day, maybe nothing at all. I don’t know. Neither do you. Whatever happened to you... whatever lead you to drift on wreckage in the middle of the sea, it wasn’t kind and it wasn’t gentle. And it didn’t end there, not really.

“You’re not a bad person, Flotsam, I know that. You have a good heart. A good heart... but it’s not your heart that worries me. Your mind isn’t right, Flotsam. You know it, I know it, let’s not have either of us insult the other by pretending otherwise.”

The silence that fell was brittle. Flotsam wouldn’t speak yet, he sensed she wasn’t finished yet and besides, he did not trust himself to. There was a second knocking at the door, firm and urgent. Nauticaa sent it away with another stiff word. Then she slid a dusty bottle from her desk. Glass clinked and wine gurgled as she poured for two. She gestured Flotsam towards the second glass and took a deep swallow of her own. He hesitated, then took the glass in his hoof. 

He’d tried first with his magic. It was still his instinct to do so, despite the nullifier. He sipped. Heady and dark and quite thicker than water. 

Nauticaa stared into the red. “I’m not cruel. But truth is hard and hard decisions are necessary decisions.”

Flotsam said nothing.

“There is a ship, two masted, trimmed sails and lines of orange bunting. Did you see it?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

Nauticaa hefted her bottle of wine. She sealed the cork and set it back again into her desk. “That ship is the Sea Skull. It’s fast, and small, and it’s held by Captain Lamprey. 

She sipped; he sipped.

“We’re not friends, he and I. Now, imagine you were on my ship, out in the open. Not as...this, but a true member of the crew. We see her coming towards us, or we're going towards her, either way, within the hour it’s going to be a battle. One of us is going to loot the other, you understand. Ponies are going to get hurt, and ponies are going to hurt each other. You follow me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I then said, ‘Flotsam, split her open’, what do you do? Be honest.”

If Nauticaa wanted to make Flotsam hurt, she’d succeeded. His heart — the actual, tangible, bloody muscle hidden under meat and bone inside him — ached as if it were bruised purple and black. Maybe he'd simply done too many pushups. That'd be nice to believe. “I don’t know.”

“But you have to know.  The pegasi don’t get to say ‘I don’t know’ when I need them to get us through a storm. Cook doesn’t get to say ‘I don’t know’ when I need her to keep this ship fed. What do you do, Flotsam? Don’t say ‘I don’t know’. ”

Flotsam envisioned magic, and the great long planks that made up a ship breaking and buckling. Did ponies come spilling out, falling into the water and clutching for bits of driftwood as they may? His eyes were a lead-dull glare. He tried not to let his breath catch before he spoke.  “I really don’t know, sir.”

The Captain tilted her head back, perhaps to stretch, perhaps just to stare at the ceiling. “It’s alright. I’ll leave it there. You become very formal when you’re upset. You take orders, and I think you’ve been lucky not to get the wrong ones so far. I expect you were a soldier of some sort. A pony of some city watch, perhaps. But with your magic?”

“Is splitting a ship open the wrong orders, sir?”

Nauticaa chuckled, dark as the red. Another first, to Flotsam’s recollection. “It’s not an order I’ve ever given. You know what they say about power.” She swilled her glass and finished the wine. With it gone, something of her usual stoniness returned.

Metal clinked loudly as a coin purse hit the table. “We’ll be here for a few days yet. You can stay aboard for that time, on condition that the nullifier stays on at all times and that you stay below deck at all times unless I specifically tell you otherwise. I probably won't. We’ll arrange for lodgings in the meantime and generally try to make your transition to the city easier. You know nothing,” she stated. “You’ll want the help navigating Rivaplút anyway you can. By the time we leave, you’ll have a place to stay and know a friendly name or two. Not every visitor who walks off a ship can say that."

Flotsam eyed the purse. It was small, but hefty with its bellyful of coinage. What coins, worth what? He didn’t know. It was only on his experience of the Captain that he thought it would be fair but again, fair by what measure?

“You’ll pay me to sit on my hooves?”

“I’ll pay you for what you’ve earned and to stay out of trouble while we’re here. Or,” she said, the word rolling like a long wave onto a soft shore, “you can leave the ship today, and not come back. No sitting below decks, no orders-”

“No nullifier.”

Nauticaa nodded. “No nullifier.  It belongs to me and this ship, for the service of this ship. I’m hardly going to send it away with you. It’ll come off, you’ll walk across my decks, onto land and that’ll be the end of it as far as I’m concerned. You’ll be on your own, and not an expense to me, so...” Nauticaa slung an extra, smaller purse onto the desktop, a little sister to its big brother.

Flotsam set his wineglass down, unfinished. He stared into the drink, weighing his options. The more he tried to make sense of them, the more a single thought resolved itself into his mind. “So, it’s money or my life? This really is a pirate ship.”

Nauticaa didn’t react. “It has been.” 

The words settled like a fog bank. Or they would have, if a third knocking at the door didn’t blow them away like a stiff breeze. Nauticaa rose. “Have a meal,” she suggested. “Think it over. We’re not chasing you with our swords just yet.”  She shared a grimace with him, one that had a brief and ghostly hint of humour in it. 

This was Nauticaa, laughing, drinking wine, attempting humour. It was almost more daunting to Flotsam than the unknown city before him. Did she really think he was that battered? That on edge that she of all ponies needed to lighten the mood? Of course, she wasn’t actually wrong. The Captain's words cut deep, not least of all for ringing true. Flotsam had seen her aptitude with the swords. The Captain cut what she meant to cut, no more, no less. “I’m glad for that,” he murmured.

He’d take her on her words, to go have a meal and consider his options, and the implications of each. His friend, the rusted tin of cookies painted with the little smiling foreigner, was always good for counsel.

Just before he left the Captain’s cabin, Flotsam downed the last of the wine from his glass. ”What the hell,” he thought as the juicy red darkness poured inside him.

What the hell.




> Don't Rock the Boat, please
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam was lounging in the galley, making for himself quite the meal out of scummy coffee and stale cookies. He plundered all the pink ones, even digging about in the tin to root hidden survivors out. He was feeling thoroughly self-indulgent and reckless, as people sometimes do when they expect their personal circumstances are about to fall out from under them.

“You, my friend, are the very last,” he said, holding up the final pink cooke. He stared at it with the wide, unblinking eyes of a fixated cat. “Came all this way. Crossed the ocean! But now I’m going to eat you. I’m going to put you in my mouth and I’m goinf to foo you and...” he swallowed, “that’s the end.”

Flotsam washed the sugary paste gumming up his teeth down with another gulp of warm coffee. The mug clanked as he set it down. Flotsam realized something. “I miss you already.” It wasn’t even as if the pink ones had been much better, they were as stale as the rest. He just liked them more.

It occurred to him too late that he should have explained his villainous plan — in exploitable, exacting detail — to the Last Pink Cookie before setting it into the unknown. Flotsam tried to consider what exactly that plan would have been and gave up. 

He considered instead something that he did know.

Flotsam knew he was unusually powerful. His limited experience only gave a few ponies to compare himself against, but even then something in him just knew. Not one in a hundred unicorns, not here, not anywhere, could do as he did. In the city, something would come up for him. Or he’d make it come up. Either or. Magic like his did not have to speak softly, or carry a meek mop. So far it had — by his choice, no less — but it wasn't the only option available to Flotsam. The future did not have to be scary for someone who could deflect cannon balls, turn aside fire and storm-tossed hazards, no sir it did not.

It was still a little scary, to be fair. 

Nauticaa had given him this time to make up his mind — what there was of a mind to make up — but from the onset there was really only one option that felt real to him. Stay on board, quiet, subdued and waiting? No.

The idea didn’t disgust him, not in the slightest. Flotsam quite liked the Mother, her crew and captain, but the idea of hanging on inexorably repulsed him. He could be comfortable here, but the moon couldn’t stay in the sky, the tide couldn’t stay high or low, and Flotsam couldn’t stay on the ship. His time, he felt, had come. 

He didn’t want to go and he didn’t dislike staying, but... well, he stared at the table top, sipped his coffee without really tasting it — making it marginally better, as it were; he hadn’t made a very good pot at all — and if he could put it into words, what he would convey is that while the ship had stopped moving, some kind of inertia was dragging on his spirit, pulling him further forwards still.

The ship had stopped, but he had not. This, here, now, cookies and coffee and waiting: this was just formalities. 

Flotsam would leave The Captain to her business and himself to a bounty of charred caffeine and months-going-on-years-old baked goods.

A groan lurched into the galley. Grammar says that a groan can’t lurch, only a thing that can groan can lurch, but in this instance it really was the groan that lurched. The pony that voiced it was dragged, zombie-like, behind.

Hop Scotch was either newly of the undead, or so immensely hung over as to be also be over, under, upside-down and possibly even sideways.

The mare, her colours a good few shades more pallid than usual, collapsed on the bench. She slumped against Flotsam, who bore her slight weight easily. Her face was lost in a tangle of wiry, partied-out, exploded-looking hair.

Flotsam topped up his mug and slid it over wordlessly.

Hop Scotch moaned a ‘thank you.’ Well, truth be told, what she actually moaned was more to the effect of ‘the world is slightly less miserable while still being absolutely, 100% miserable,’ but in cases like this, one just had to creatively interpret the meaning in it.

“Fun night?” he asked. 

Hop Scotch leaned into Flotsam. She nodded slowly, which really meant she rubbed quite intimately against his chest.  Flotsam had imagined himself enjoying moments such as these more than he was currently finding. Of course, in those idle fancies he had not considered that the ponies of his affections would have extenuating circumstances. 

Namely, Hop Scotch smelled bad. The underlying scent of mare was there, and that was a pleasing enough scent, but what that underlay was a brewup of brews, sweat, a night’s grime and all those sporting activities that don’t involve a good, focused wash. 

The little mewling affirmative sound Hop Scotch made as she nodded though; that was admittedly cute. She fumbled under her snarl of messy hair and dangled something black and silken from her hoof.

“Got a new ‘patch,” she announced, sounding quite proud, even through her groggy — perhaps grog-induced — fatigue. “Got it off a guy.”

Flotsam delicately tried to extricate himself. Hop Scotch was a mess, her hair was sticking to him in places and it distressed him to no end. He froze in dread when she heaved; the moment was ugly and scary and went on forever.

Hop Scotch swayed. She navigated the shaky procedure of bringing lukewarm coffee to her lips and putting it inside her. She swallowed, took two deep breaths then coughed abruptly. “I’m alright,” she said, peeling away from Flotsam until she was sitting upright more or less on her own power, if swaying steadily. “I’m alright.”

The silence became companionable, less pukey. Hop Scotch cradled her head on the table and covered her eyes. She murmured, “So you’re leaving.”

“Who said that?”

The mare shrugged her shoulders and stirred the air lazily. “It’s just the word going around.”

Flotsam was a little curious to know just where the word going around had started. He wasn’t exactly long from his chat with The Captain, whom Flotsam could not ever see being a flippantly chatty mare. He hadn’t given her his decision yet.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe he was just predictable.

“Yeah. I can really start looking for, you know, this...” he trailed awkwardly, gesturing his hooves nebulously around his head.  “Who I am, I mean. Nopony on the ship knows me — the other me, or... the past me, The... real me?” Flotsam wished he could take back the last words, they didn’t sit well with him. “I’m not sure how to put it, but, yeah. Nopony here knew any of that. In the city I can do more.” 

He hadn’t planned it out yet. Going around asking “Do you know who I am?” wouldn’t be an entirely bad start, though it would be a bit silly.

Hop Scotch hummed affably. “Ships from everywhere come through Rivaplút. Somepone’ll know something, if you can just find them. Maybe someone's looking for you.”

Flotsam sighed and leaned back, the better to stare forlornly to the sky, though in the galley really it was just to the ceiling. "That'd be nice to believe." Did he, though? He honestly couldn't say. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he could almost as readily believe that there was nothing before, that he'd simply been born of the water with delusions of more, but he never really committed to this. It seemed that little bit more far-fetched than his already weird circumstances. A real-life magical avatar of the ocean incarnate would be more mer-maidy, pretty and shining and maybe that little bit scary, he figured. Certainly less Flotsam-y.

He stared, lost in thought. There was always the risk of tipping over backwards from this position though, what with the benches having no backs. Flotsam stretched, popped a few vertebrae pleasantly and slumped forwards. He gave the cookie tin a prod, it slid away with a noisy rattle. “If I could just remember on my own...”

But that didn’t seem to work. Not at all. Questions from The Captain and the crew, the fantastical guessing games with Patches; sometimes Flotsam felt he just glanced off the edge of his memory or passed in reach of it, if only he could grasp it. And he remembered remembering — it came in those moments when magic pried something loose in his head and the glimpses came — but the memories themselves went away again, leaving only silhouettes and shadows on his thoughts.

Flotsam was quietly startled from his brooding by the grip of Hop Scotch’s hooves around him. Putting her body into it, she rocked him gently. A pony could forgive sticky hair and general whiffiness over an embrace like this, and a pony did. Flotsam let the hug take him.

“You just gotta look,” said Hop Scotch. “You’ll find something.”

Flotsam did feel better, even if he spotted the nice platitude for what it was. If anything, he liked it more for that. It made him smile. “What your saying is, my ship will come in?”

Hop Scotch scoffed. “You are literally on the ship that came in.”

“But time and tide wait for no mare?”

“You’re no mare.”

“Don’t rock the boat?”

She bumped her hip against him. “But everypony knows you desperately want to.”

Flotsam had no presumptions about being a wit, having presently exhausted his current supply. He managed in the interim, “Uh...” 

Hop Scotch gave him a playful shove. “I’m rocking you right now.”

“Okay okay, you win.” Flotsam put up his hooves in honest defeat.

“Damn straight,” mumbled the mousey earth pony. She groaned unhappily. “And my prize is coffee. Give me coffee.”

Flotsam couldn’t argue. He poured the last sludge-like dregs of the brew into the mug and let Hop Scotch go at it. She swallowed weakly and, a second later, gave a toxic little cough. It passed, and she kept it down, albeit with some apparent effort.

Harpoon came in and without ceremony dropped herself at Flotsam’s other side, forceful enough to make the bench slam and ponies’ spines jolt, right through their butts and up to the napes of their necks. She paid neither of them any sign of acknowledgement and dragged the cookie tin towards herself with a noisy scrape.

The First Mate was always rough to Flotsam’s mind, in a stone of a storm-shorn shore kind of way. Even against that usual standard she seemed a little more haggard, but there was something languid in her movements, too; it put Flotsam in mind of a mare who had burned through too much energy in the last twelve hours to bother spending any more on keeping herself tense and stiff. She scrutinized a cookie with little interest and with a flick of her hoof tossed it back again like an underwhelming catch of fish. Her wings rippled at her back and crackled at the joints before she settled, not touching Flotsam at all but close enough all the same that he could feel her prescence, his eyes opened or closed. Around hers, there was a bruise, with swelling in her cheek and the general air about her of a cat that had won her fights and claimed her spot.

Harpoon put a hoof to her jaw and cranked it sideways, making it give off a loud crack before settling more fully into her chosen spot. It was, Flotsam realized, the most relaxed he’d ever seen her.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was that one time...

“Do you believe in hair of the dog?” asked Hop Scotch. She upended the stained mug and three sets of eyes watched as a molasses-slow dribble of dregs-of-the-dregs misbegotten coffee drooled downwards before falling in a sad splat of black. “I think the dog's hair tastes better,” she mused bitterly. 

“I believe in holding my drink,” said Harpoon. That was her, always a flat answer, and maybe with a bit of snide on the side. “It’s good to use up the old stock.”

Hop Scotch only shrugged and, fed up by even that slight action slumped head-into-hooves again. “It was there,” she said, gesturing vaguely to empty mug and pot. “So I drank it. Good had nothing to do with it.”

Harpoon grumbled something in a tone which, to Flotsam’s ears, suggested a message along the lines of “that was your logic last night and look where it got you.”

It either slipped over Hop Scotch’s head or she blithely ignored it. As skins went, the crew mares tended to have rather thick ones. Wilting wallflowers didn’t do well here, and even if nature had intended Hop Scotch to look the part of one, she certainly didn’t act it. The Look, such as her thing for eye patches, just helped correct nature’s Hop Scotch brand marketing error, as she saw it.

Maybe nopony else would consider losing a leg — while still horrible — to be a chance to come into her own identity, via peg-leg. Flotsam couldn’t imagine Hop Scotch being quite so devoted to the image of a freebooter corsair so as to get a saw and take the proactive stance, but... the impression was there, even so. 

She looked like a mare that had thought about it. At least she wasn’t trying to shove Parrot onto her shoulders.

Hop Scotch might have fallen asleep, only the mare’s eyes shot open and they showed whites. She heaved and moaned. She burped and there was an audible splashing sound inside her. “Oh no.” Hop Scotch launched off of Flotsam and the table, hit the floor at speed and was still accelerating while a horrible sound rose in her throat and raced her out the galley.

“She’s fine,” Harpoon said.

“Yeah,” said Flotsam, wondering. Since Hop Scotch took the night watches zealously and was practically nocturnal, he figured, that made daylight Hop Scotch’s midnight and her waking hours — as they were — had been spent, in her own words, rioting. “Has she even been to sleep yet, do you think?”

Harpoon only shrugged. Hop Scotch’s problems were Hop Scotch’s problems. Flotsam cared a little more, or at least more openly. Right now her problems were — hopefully — going overboard into the salty waters of the harbour. Not just for her sake, nor just the ship’s, but the mop’s, too. Tedium and long days had endeared the thing to him. It was silly, but it was what it was. You cared about what you cared about, whatever that was. It was the symbol of his contribution — sans feats of mighty and terrible magic — that were his. Modest, meagre, but willing.

He felt oddly ambivalent about that.

“What about you?” he asked.

Harpoon turned abruptly. Their legs brushed together under the table and she tossed the question back at him. “What about me?”

The pegasus was muscled, tufty with her thick coat and unapologetically rough. She could impose on a pony, whether she meant to or not, and Flotsam after all this time was still never quite sure which it was. At the very least, she had to be aware she was doing it. He could feel her effect working on him. It was something he liked, not that he’d admit it in so many words. “Your eye,” he suggested, nodding to her bruises.

“It’s nothing.” 

“Right,” said Flotsam. He wasn’t sarcastic about it, either, sarcasm not being something that came too readily to the unicorn. Harpoon was quite apparently fine and, as a few tufts about her chest rose up on the tiniest bit of satisfaction after he’d mentioned it, it seemed she was quite pleased with herself. She’s been fighting, he thought. Brawling, even, which is like fighting only with more heart and better improvisational skills.

Flotsam waited for the next bit.

“You should see the other mare,” Harpoon added brusquely, more or less on cue. Some conventions you just had to honour, after all.

He didn’t think to think before he spoke. This is a huge cause of problems in the world. “Was she hot?” he asked, suddenly feeling leaps and bounds and backflips at odds with himself. The words were out, the words had come at him sideways, and the imagination had a way of running away with itself. To be studying Harpoon and then come out with that...

They could be horrible sometimes, the reactions Harpoon didn’t have. It made you feel like you’d taken a leap of faith only to find open air and a long drop. “Eh. Wasn’t bad.” An unfriendly grin snuck into her bruised features. “Cost her some money, getting teeth those teeth put back, though.” Harpoon gave a rare flash of her own.

Flotsam laughed heartily. It was wrong to, he knew, but his own embarrassed shame about finding some stranger’s misfortunate pain funny somehow only stoked his outburst higher. Sometimes you just needed a laugh that wracked your ribs hard enough that it became difficult to breathe, and you took the first thing coming that could even remotely give you that, good or no.

“Remind me never to tumble with you,” Flotsam choked out.

“Eh” said Harpoon with unusual emotion. “Wouldn’t be so bad. If you’re done with being The Captain's pet.”

Flotsam stalled only an instant. “I am,” he admitted. "Done with it, I mean. But I don’t know myself. Don’t know this city. It’ll be great,” he said, managing a rare spat of natural sarcasm. Flotsam sighed and panted a little as he caught his breath. “Amnesiac, lost and full of magic. Or crazy,” he tried. “And crazy. Yeah. Wooh.” 

If he’d had a little paper flag just then, he would have waved it. Partially for self-depreciation, though. He flashed Harpoon a side-long grin. “Why would it be different with me, anyway?”

Harpoon snorted. “Because I would you push-over, Flotsam.”

Flotsam jostled back at her with more confidence than he actually felt. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, grabbing his shoulder, she pushed him down. Flotsam saw a ceiling and then the sultry face of Harpoon coming over him. “Something like that.”

The view was entrancing. The lazy and amused dominance in her expression, the tuft of her chest and the half-notching of wings that even now he could feel brushing at his sides. The view went further down. All the way down, in fact, to the part where their bodies formed a sort of hinge between them.

Patches is going to walk in right now, the little, more efficiently cooled part of Flotsam’s brain thought. She'll walk in because that’s the sort of thing that just happens.

He dared a glance. No Patches came in. Huh.

It'd be one of the other mares then, Flotsam figured. Gentle giant Windlass or moody Shanty, or stars forbid the raunchy and uncouth duo of Scuttle and Hard Tack.

Flotsam glanced a second time, first daring, now almost wishing the expected interruption came. His head felt tight and over-pressurized. Maybe it would be The Captain herself, despite her rarely ever visiting this place. That'd certainly stir something. But the encounter remained stubbornly their privates, er, theirs, and private. Sometimes convention let you down. Particularily when you called it out, it snubbed you.

"Well?" asked Harpoon.

"Uh," was all Flotsam could manage on short notice, in what he only opened was more of a sexy moaning than blank droning kind of way. He was still in his head, making little sense of big things. He smiled and turned his head, made an effort of staring into Harpoon's eyes and studying her in detail.

Ca...?

What happened last time, exactly? Remember the beach?

Most...ly?

I remember it was hot!

Cadance?

It was hot because there was fire! I should have burned!

Ah, but you see, you shouldn’t have burned, because that would be horrifying agony. And when horrifying burning agony becomes a ‘should’ in life, something, somewhere has gone very very wrong.

...why am I...who is...? This is wrong!

Okay, good point. And I did a top-notch job with myself, even if I had nothing to do with the thing I did to save myself from the thing I got myself into. Good to know that I’ve got my own back, or something?

...Yeah, sounds about right. Oh hey! Pay attention already! She's gunning right for us!”

I can’t...I can’t...

You know what? I’m thinking it shouldn’t be me rolled onto my back!”

Go on, Sammy, my me! Piracy and burying your treasure and all good things!

Of course, Flotsam’s actual inner discourse was much faster, much less verbal and much less dualistic, but the end result of his thoughts were the same. He pulled himself up, caught hold of Harpoon — she was startled, for once! — and with a growl rolled them together onto the deck. They hit bottom with a slam and Flotsam came out on top, pinning Harpoon’s spread wings under his hooves. 

Flotsam breathed in the coarse scent of her. She pulled him down. She stole his voice with her lips. 
 
...help...me...

The pegasus pushed Flotsam away. For a moment an unbroken line of shiny saliva linked them, which is itself always a sure sign that things have gotten serious indeed. 

Harpoon rumbled with low, seductive laughter and the link broke. She turned her lower half under him, in effect closing the window of opportunity. “Save it for later,” she suggested. “When we’re not on her ship.”

Flotsam nodded hasty agreement, which is not hard for the frustrated male brain to do in this situation. “When we’re not in the middle of the galley floor,” he was quick to point out.

"That, too." Harpoon gave a chuckle, low, throaty and incredibly appealing. Flotsam hesitated in disentangling himself from the pegasus. Having her under him felt incredibly, well, incredible. He was loathe to let go of that. Reluctantly, blushing, lusty and assertive as an idiot, he did so. Harpoon rolled to her hooves with an easy motion. She rolled her shoulders and flapped her wings a few times

Flotsam grinned. There was nothing furtive about his gawking for once, and knowing that she knew that made him feel damn fine.

Something decidedly unwell was creeping in him though. He had tolerated it, he had ignored it, but now it presented itself all the more insistently. Pain tempered Flotsam's elated mood somewhat, like a lump of ice floating inexplicably down a warm stream. There was the pressure in his head, knotted and snarled behing his eyes, and growing bigger and snarl-ier. “I’m going to get some water, try to clean up a bit.”

Harpoon scoffed. “You do what you want.” Her tone was encouraging, although suddenly Flotsam’s internal world was not.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, keeping his lusty manner more or less in tact. 

“Sure.” Harpoon scoffed in a brief, barking way that a pony could miss if he weren’t paying attention. “Bring your friend.”

For a moment, Flotsam hesitated. “Oh,” he said as realization dawned. He grinned like a happy fool, despite his mounting migraine, which was of course only his second favourite type of mounting. “That friend. Yeah.”

He chuckled awkwardly and took his leave. A chance to splash his face and get some fresh air would see him right as rain, Flotsam promised himself. It was just a matter of sorting himself out and waiting on The Captain, now.

> All up in his head.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Waiting on The Captain seemed to take rather longer a span of time than it really should have. If there really was some sort of defined grieving process like pony pop psychology said there was (Flotsam could remember some little things like that, but not where he’d read it, or when, or who he’d been with or whom that ‘he’ had been), then Flotsam had the poor wherewithal to be taking that process backwards. 

He’d been accepting at first. A Captain’s duties were important and could not be rushed for his sake, important to him as they were. In the start he was accepting, a brittle, stiff-upper-lip kind of accepting, and hoped that between the rest, the water, and the easy company of the more relaxed crewmares; if not actually overcome his throbbing, dizzy head then at least he could be distracted from it. 

He had been accepting. Now he was falling backwards into less savoury frames of mind.

Flotsam forced himself to keep a hoof in the conversation and was learning from it something despite himself.

“Wot ye need to know is, the Mother bay a family business.” Scuttle pronounced it with such emphasis that the ‘si’ in business turned to ‘saw.’ Hard Tack was working the deck with easy sweeps of the mop. Scuttle intermittently hauled buckets up from the side. Flotsam didn’t offer to work and they didn’t ask. 

“Aye. The Auld Captain, Mr. Merciful, calm bay his waters, he were something of a new breed in his day.” Day become die the way Scuttle spoke it and be, bay. “Ah, he was a good handsome stallion himself, proper twinkle in his eye sort.” 

There was a moment of girlish fawning from the two elders. For many, many reasons Flotsam let them have it. “Ah sure, was always the gold tooth twinkled more for me!” 

“And his big sword!” The elders tittered and played. “Ah, keen on treasure, was Mr. Merciful. Never could be ‘suaded to find some nameless, lifeless, soulless spit of nowhere to bury it all under, though. Neigh, not him.”

The mares sighed. “Was something of a character flaw, that, so’s you’d hear around. Never in the loud, mind.”

“What?” asked Flotsam, because, what? 

Hard Tack bopped Flotsam with the mop handle. It hurt more than he’d allow the let on. A certain amount of physicality was part and parcel here, after all. If only his head would clear. The pain was a constant effort. “Shore, very traditional is that, amassing a great whopping pile of wealth what would make an honest filly unfurl the sails and hope to catch the wind, if you catch my drift.”

The elder rascals sandwiched the stallion.

“Push out for her maiden voyage, if you know what she’s saying.”

He wasn’t in the mood for it. Which meant really he wasn’t in the mood to be flustered, his head hurt so. Flotsam pushed them off; for their toughness they were surprisingly light. “So what happened to the treasure?”

There was a sore loser in Hard Tack’s tone. “Investment.”

Scuttle proved more philosophic on the matter. “See, the proper course of things bein', you'd amass that which we said, take 'er off to some far, forsook place and bury it right and proper. Your glistening, sea-sprayed treasure, mind. Not your glistening, sea-sprayed fawning fillies. So's Mr. Merciful, we was saying, you could say he buried his big one right here in good old, bad old Rivaplút. Shore, you might say here that many little thanks and more tin a few big ones are owed the outstretched hoof of Mercy.”

The city slumped against the shore of the sea, but hiked up its girth and made a determined effort to climb at least some of the ways up into the forested hillsides. The Mother was moored too far from the river’s mouth to see much of that, further out in the deeper waters of the bay as she was, but little boats were often darting in and out of view, often as not with ponies shouting at those on the shore and at one another.

“Big ideas he had, Very generous he was with his investments. Forgiving stallion too, was Mr. Merciful.”

Pausing in their work. Hard Tack plucked idly at splinters in the shaft. “Oh aye. Very forgiving.”

“Oh, aye.”

“Very fair, mind.”

“Oh, aye. Fair and more than fair, was our Mr. Merciful.”

“How many times could a pony slight him, and there hay’d bay, patient and understanding.”

“A good many times, me Scuttlebug. A good many times.”

“To a point.”

“To a point.”

“Aye. A good many times he’d take a slight. And despite all that yay’d never bay needing for forgiveness twice, shore as Siren’s salty teats. Very forgiving.”

Flotsam imagined the point. It was pointy. Flotsam imagined Siren’s salty teats. They were pointy. Probably.

“Now, ah’course, them debts be all paid. The interest done bein’ interesting, you might say.”

“Aye. Twas years ago. The name of Mercy is well built up on that.”

Flotsam connected the dots. To be fair, most of them had been done for him already.  “He wasn’t just the Captain. He was The Captain’s father. Before Nauticaa” The nullifier had come from her father, she’d said. Where might a pony sail to find such a thing as sombre stone? It was a question with no answer in Flotsam.

“That much should bay apparent to you. You’s more jumbled up than stupid, after all. And ‘tis her sister, Oil Cloth, what stays in the mansion. Keeps a hoof in, as it were. One rules the land and one rules the sea, you might say. Not that either of them be all so much as Princesses or Queens, but power is power.”

"Money is money."

"And cute stallions rolling are cute stallions rolling."

Scuttle hooted. "Waves and wheels roll. If you're rolling stallions, my Tacky, you're using them wrong!"

Hard Tack slapped her rump. "Not the ways I does it!"

And they laughed.

Ponies under duress are known to sometimes scream into pillows. Flotsam had none to hoof, neither was he crazed enough just yet to try such with the business end of the ratty old mop, all his affections for it notwithstanding, but the sea was an increasingly tantalizing prospect.

He steered the conversation's wheel hard to, not port, nor starboard, but decency. “So it’s not just a business trip for The Captain,” mused Flotsam. “It’s a family reunion.” He tried to imagine Nauticaa as a Princess. He didn’t like it. 

The laughter died surprsingly fast. Hard Tack spat, with volume and quantity. ”Better here than there, so I say. Tis not the family reunion that she deserves, is all I’ll say to that.” She started something in a mutter, but a warning swat from Scuttle put an end to it.

Scuttle moved out of sight and cold water sloshed up against the backs of Flotsam’s hooves. The old mare laughed and the air cleared. That seemed her intent. The bucket clattered against the hull of the ship has she hauled it up afresh. “Now move off, Floaty, or the next one’s going under yarr tail.” She grinned. ”Fair warnings, and onlys 'cause we like you.”

“Understood.” Flotsam was quick to move; he took her threat as valid and literal, playful or otherwise. Water splashed on the deck, the mop was worked and thankfully, neither activity was under his tail. He left the mares to their work. 

He’d hoped the sunshine might make him feel better. Instead it left him rasping more and more at his tongue and lips in dry mouth, as if it were much hotter and drier than it really was. His eyes prickled at the edges. He avoided looking to the sky or the glints of the moving water. Flotsam itched and while he’d had the distraction of story time his headache had not seemed so bad, but with it over it resumed building itself steadily as a bad canker at the centre of his world.

“There must be something I can take for this,” Flotsam thought. It was a plan of action, but also a confession: fresh air, fresh water and a splash of stoicism was not enough to get over this.





Nothing was stolen from the galley because the galley had nothing worth stealing. That wasn’t to say oddments didn’t wander off, spoons and cups and the like to the far corners of the ship, but that this phenomenon was understood to happen as no particular ponies’ fault and included the eventual return of these things to their places, more or less, in fair condition. More or less. 

So Flotsam didn’t head that way as he sought out medication of one form or another. Even stepping from sunlight to relative dark hurt his eyes and made him wobble. Not as much as the opposite had, but still worse than it should have done. 

Flotsam traced his way along the walls trying to make up his mind. Was it possible for a pony to suffer reverse seasickness? He hadn’t even stepped off the sea yet! Would Nauticaa have something for this in that exquisite folding chest of drawers of hers? Most likely. But waiting for The Captain to resolve a headache that was at least in part because due to waiting for her to resolve other, figurative headaches seemed at best silly and at worst, just stupid.

With that in agitated mind, Flotsam sought out the next best pony and was grudingly happy to find her.

“Charming Booty?” Flotsam pushed at her door and knocked as it opened. A mismatched set of bejewled goblets were brushed aside with a metal-on-wood ringing while the door’s journey ended and jammed in a pile of socks. The socks, which in turn had had balanced atop them a pile of dirty dishes toppled and let them slip in a clatter down the slopes. A plate rested like a drunken friend against Flotsam’s hoof. “You have a hoarding problem.”

The Quartermaster’s personal effects were, which was to say, those adornments directly on her body at that moment, those few of the many in here, those few were immaculate. Less could be said of the newly disturbed dish-socks. Spinning her legs around from the bed Charming Booty waded the mess in practiced strides.

“I don’t have a hoarding problem,” she said. ”I have a hoard. Possessions are a mark of high standing.”

“You could stand high on this. You’d have to squish it more into a pile, though. “

She smiled, like a pleased tutor. “What is it you want? You’re only funny when you’re hurting. Such a tragedy. So, what problems do you feel like sharing?”

The mess Charming Booty’s ownership seemed to span further than the confines of her quarters. Some of the piles looked capable of making a grown stallion plunge, through the floor and into some figurative dimension of heaped stuff. The impression only added to the hurt. “My head’s pounding. Things move if I don’t focus on them. Anything in here I might take for that, what with being Quartermaster, and all?”

The mare flicked upon a flask. No sooner had she held it out then Flotsam, having tried and failed to levitate it over — it always failed now, the magic was gone — swiped it and swigged it.

Her grin turned to annoyed alarm. “Woah, hey! Not like that!” she said, and magic pulled it away again. The rush of alcohol made Flotsam feel sick, but he welcomed that nausea. 

Nasuea was a relief because it was different. 

Charming grumbled and tipped back a swill for herself, her eyes staying on Flotsam. “Don’t guzzle it. You’re not yourself when you drink.”

“I’m not myself when I’m sober. I’m not myself on general principles.”

His throat burned and his stomach turned, it was entirely unpleasant but it was a different unpleasantness than the fugue he already had, a change of scenery improved his mood some. “Anything proper?” he asked.

Charming Booty turned to go rooting. Her tail bobbed in a pleasing manner or would have, if Flotsam were in a frame of mind receptive to being pleased. He still watched, though. More for habit than anything. “Hit of this, you won’t feel trouble for a long time.”

She was referring to a cudgel now levelled with the side of Flotsam’s face. It was slim and clad with spurs at the thick end that dug into Flotsam’s skin. Charming Booty smiled. Then she booped him with it, but the heft and the spurs made it more of a bop anyway. “The Harpy doesn’t know I have it. She thinks she lost it when the griffons attacked.”

“An evil little weapon,” Flotsam mused.

“Whereas Harpoon is hugs and kisses?”

Flotsam gave an ambivalent snort to that. The weapon was shoved in a corner and a cloak thrown over it. Charming was testing his patience precisely because, Flotsam knew, precisely because she knew he currently had a patience to test. The inside of his head was ringing. “Do you have something for this or don’t you?”

Flotsam shot her a glare, or meant to. The shifting in his vision dizzied him; he tensed his muscles to stand firm.

“You really aren’t well, are you? There’s nothing I have like you’re looking for.” Her dissapointment seemed genuine, though it moved him little.

“Gripe Weed,” she said. “It’s a tea. Maybe it’ll clear on its own? It will blunt the edge, at least.”

Flotsam didn’t speak his mind. His mind was too much in upheaval to be spoken kindly just then. If anything, the severity had been creeping all the more upwards for him, not done.

“Thank you,” he muttered, finding manners somewhere. He looked at the mess and fought off vertigo. “Where is it?”

Charming Booty looked him in the eye. There was mischief there, but it was adrift on concern. She shook her head. “I don’t have it. It’s Sea Bed keeps some. She’s shared once or twice before.”

“The weird pony in the dark?” Flotsam asked.

“You’re one to talk.”

“You’re room is messy.”

“Your brain is messy.” Charming Booty leaned up and kissed his cheek. 

Flotsam conceded the win. He touched the kiss and looked at his hoof. “I'm in the dark, aren’t I?”

“To say nothing of weirdness.” She smiled. “Go on, Sammy. Take care of yourself.”





The last time daylight had reached these depths of the ship, griffon cannonballs had smashed her from above. Flotsam had gained a little of a sailor’s sense and something in his hooves told him that he’d reached rock bottom... wood bottom. 

It was dark. Flotsam focused on moving forwards. Until he didn’t.

“Sea Bed?”

“Yes, Flotsam?”

“Have I walked into your butt?”

“Yes, Flotsam.”

“I’ll just... take a step back.”

“You may.” Which was not precisely ‘yes’, but Flotsam wasn’t splitting hairs. Spitting hairs, though, that he was. Tail hairs. In his teeth.

“Sorry.”

She only made a sound.

It was slow and that made the going seem far. Rationally, Flotsam knew they’d only come a couple of pony-lengths. Rational Flotsam, though; he was a facet of the wider person much abashed and coping poorly alongside the likes of Overwhelmed Flotsam, Hurting Flotsam, Sexually Aggrevated Flotsam and, that one's awkward bosom buddy, Self Restraining Flotsam. 

Not to mention Seeing Things Flotsam and Hearing Things Flotsam where, respectively, one was covering his eyes — and the other keeping his mouth shut.

For all the good it did. Strange fancies twisted themselves to formation in the dark.

They came upon a cubbyhole of sorts: table, tools and hammock lit by a beaker of luminescent fluid. The material’s glow was enough to keep the shadows entertained. Its light was a green pallour and entrapped bubbles promised a goopy, oozing nature.

Stooping to fit, Flotsam sat on the bed. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, that still being something of a redundancy. In short order and without fanfare, a mug of murky broth was pushed into his lap. It smelled like nothing he wanted to know. What surprised him more was that it was warm.

His surprise, unspoken, must have outed itself regardless. “Not all of us are gelded,” Sea Bed said. He hadn’t noticed the use of magic, than.

“This is temporary,” said Flotsam, rapping his stone-clad horn against the wood. His temple followed as a thud and his golden earring as a clink. 

The drink was stodgy and uncomfortably hot, just shy of scalding. Even so, haste was better than taste — the first sip had a marshy kind of quality that Flotsam would later rather than sooner recapture by drinking from a well-churned puddle. 

He remembered himself slowly. “Thank you. I should go.”

“You should stay.” Blue-black as she was, the only way to really see Sea Bed was by the sheen of her. And the eyes. They seemed black. Or maybe green.

They stared at one another. Flotsam surprised himself by how much he brought to the contest. Something was dredged up in him more and more lately. It reared its head at its own choosing.

Sea Bed blinked. Flotsam relaxed. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Gripe Weed can be potent.”

Flotsam wasn’t alarmed in so much as he was annoyed. Only slightly, though. Losing way was really only frightful if there was a way to lose at first. Flotsam eased himself lower onto the cot and let his eyes close. “Charming Booty didn’t make it sound so strong as that.”

“Charming Booty keeps her head above water.”

The words meant one thing, but the tone something else entirely. Flotsam opened an eye. Sea Bed’s horn glowed in tandem with the beaker; a pale green light. Trails of the same began. She was a unicorn and she was casting a spell. 

The lucky bint. Try shoving sombre stone up in her business...

Flotsam was going to be annoyed and, yes, a little scared if his headache relief turned into a situation quite different. The direct approach, than. “Should I be worried right now?”

The lines of light were past her horn now, dropping slowly to the floor like a spider spinning silk. Past her chin. Her chest. Her knees. They probably weren't a hallucination. Probably.

Paranoia squeezed at Flotsam. His vertigo and pain were lessening, it was true. So was his sense of urgency, of presence. He watched himself as if from the outside of his own body, almost. 

The magical line halted in a dancing green spark just shy of the ground. “There are things to fear.” Sea Bed sounded reluctant. “I don’t mean to be one of them. Not all things dangerous want to be.”

Flotsam managed a little chuckle. Despite himself he did feel a little better, if weird. And if this pony were doing some crazy, broken-headed dangerous feat of inexplicability, well, he’d had more than his fair few goes at that, surely? Let somepony else have a turn.

“You’ll do this to help me?” he asked.

The mare nodded, almost shyly. The green spark fizzed and bobbed at the end of the line.

Flotsam’s paranoia was there, but pushed to a time-out corner, where it sulked amidst the distractable and flighty sexual fantasies normally dwelling there.

He thought of the crew. Not in that way. A little in that way.

Flotsam smiled, to make the signal clear. He lay back to submit. “Alright than. Time to pay back some of this trust I’ve been shown.”

Flotsam closed his eyes, his quickened heartbeat betraying his demeanour. 

The next bit was easy and painless as falling asleep.





It didn’t feel like dreaming. It certainly wasn’t wakefulness, though. 

There was no sound and, in its place, a sense of pressure in the air... water? In the stuff. Flotsam flopped. The resistance made movement slow and he tumbled slowly over.

A leg and he parted ways. He waved it goodbye and watched it go in melancholy. It was his leg, and there it went. Floating away.

There was no sound, but the intention of sound. Hello? he asked in the not-sound. 

I’m here. The words seemed a thought inside his own head, another part of the ever-lasting monologue that prattled to itself when the mouth wasn’t moving. The words were imagined but, and this was a lovely big bubble but, not his imagination.

His leg was on its own now, but they kept in touch. It waved encouragment as it spun in stately manner away into the not-quite-nothingness.

A creature that looked like a pony, or a pony that looked like a creature popped up in front of him from a spasm of green fire. He recognized it as Sea Bed, though he’d never seen the like of this, nor her like this, before. 

Firstly her eyes weren’t pony, instead existing as a full spread of green. Her horn was a tatty looking thing, gnarled and whorled, and a pair of papery wings had appeared on her back. 

Sea Bed scooted past and by gentle insistence, began shepherding Flotsam’s erstwhile leg back his way. 

His back half got bored, perhaps from lack of attention. With a suction-cup pop! it turned tail and mosied away.

You look different, Flotsam not-said. Have we met somewhere?

This is- ...and Flotsam received an overarching impression of, not definitions, but rather vague understandings as if understanding was a thing that could be quarried up from below, hewn to order, packaged and imported.

Shared thoughts. Connection. Space between. 

Mind meld, Flotsam deduced happily. He retched and coughed up a comic book, it and spittle hurrying off into the unkown, watching it until the fogginess of this place overtook it completely. Huh. You see that?

Sea Bed was only just stuffing Flotsam’s leg back on. It tickled; he wiggled, making her efforts all the more frustrated. She pushed it in and twisted it around to face the right way. 

My butt’s over there, Flotsam said helpfully. He pointed and, in a uniquely literal way his reach exceeded his grasp. He caught it by the elbow. Got it. 

Sea Bed’s anxiety was a palpable sensation. Don’t let it go.

Flotsam’s leg was in his mouth. Like a dog with a stick. A hinged stick. Curiosity got him: he shook his head. Oops.

Sea Bed was wrestling Flotsam’s butt into submission. It wasn’t going down easy, though.

It was being a stubborn ass. I said to hold it.

It came apart. 

He’d only shaken his leg very gently. Flotsam was down to one leg. Thankfully, he didn’t need it for standing just now. Sea Bed gave the hind quarters a push so they were at least floating in Flotsam’s general direction before she drifted off after the pieces of leg.

In the end, Flotsam was resigned to a carry-bag, where it squished down surprsingly compact. His head was carried with that personal touch; his mane tied hastily off in one of the curious holes in Sea Bed’s body. 

A vague optimism bouyed him through all this. 

Flotsam thought maybe Sea Bed didn’t feel the same. Piecing Flotsam back together wasn’t hard, but it was hard enough and nothing would stick. This isn’t right.

I’m willing to try out life as a necklace. 

There were other things appearing, too. Hello, Mop.

Evening, sir.

Sea Bed shoo’d the mop away, but addressed Flotsam. Don’t do that.

He’s a friend of mine. 

No, it’s not.

You think he’s not my friend?

He’s...its not anybody’s friend. It’s an it. It’s not anything.

Flotsam craned to see, which was difficult to do in his current state of decapitation. My head still hurts.

I know. Don’t think about it. I’m still trying to fix it. 

What’s over there? In lieu of appendages, Flotsam stuck out his tongue.

Dreams.

Flotsam nodded as if that answer meant anything to him. And over there?

Consciousness.

Sea Bed rummaged. The bag seemed to get bigger, the more things were taken out. A purple pony jumped out, startling them both. She had two books in the place of wings. She flapped her books, flew a widening gyre and disappeared. Flotsam watched her go.

She didn’t have a face. Sea Bed sounded unnerved, for the first time since... whatever this was.

Flotsam felt a prickle of agitation, also for the first time. She doesn’t have to have a face if she doesn’t want to. I’m a head and you’re a bug.

Everything should have a face.

Mop doesn't have a face.

Mop isn't a thing.

That's mop-

A torrent of sand spilled out over Sea Bed’s hooves. A black and holey hoof pulled Flotsam’s head free of the deluge. Thanks, he said. Rather than pouring flat, the sand showed some ambition and built itself up as if filling an invisible mould. Walls climbed up around them. Flotsam chuckled as the last few grains scurried into place. Here’s this castle again. We should explore it.

Sea Bed was trembling. I’m in over my head. You're head, she corrected.

Flotsam obliged. Bah-dum tssh.

What?

Never mind. Up or down?

This is your castle.

Up it is then, said Flotsam. Maybe Twily’s in.

What?

What?

You said something. Did you say a name?

No! No? Oh, it’s hurting now.

There was really no discerning the passage of time. Fortuitous or perceptive, Sea Bed didn’t speak until the flash of pain receeded. Flotsam gave it a moment more and risked opening his eyes. They were in a corridor of indeterminate length. The shapes of paintings lined the walls, but what their depictions were meant to be was impossible to tell.

They came to a junction.

Sea Bed’s voice was soft. Flotsam? Your pain... Does remembering hurt you?

“Yes.” Flotsam hadn’t really known the answer but he’d spoken without hesitation. Hold on... I spoke? 

That shouldn’t... that’s not how... It makes me uncomfortable.

I don’t mean to do that...

There came a shifting in the sand. Sea Bed turned around sharpish, Flotsam’s face bounced off her side. He wanted to rub his nose after that. Shapes were boiling up from the sand they had just passed over. Ponies filled the passage choc-a-block.

Not ponies. Sea Beds. Featureless to the last, but recognizeably dimpled of body and whorled of horn like she.

Back up slowly, Flotsam suggested. His detached demeanour was fast becoming invested in the situation in the decidedly unhappy kind of way. 

Sea Bed did not need telling twice. She took two trembling steps. The sandy mob matched them. Another was met by another.

Then havoc broke loose.

Specifically, it broke through the wall and plouged through the first rank of the creatures, striking with a headed spear that made Harpoon’s weapons look like toys.

The slasher glittered and the slashees were shorn. Of heads; of legs. 

The many remaining spectres were undaunted, which was just as well because their attacker had brought excessive amounts of daunt and delivered it out with exterme generosity. Their foe was a glittering suit of steel, each piece floating where it ought to be regardless of vacancy.

A front half of one sand spectre slapped bodily... half-bodily against the wall before collapsing into so much harmless sand. A soaring, severed head splashed against Flotsam’s.

The shining armour stopped only an instant in its assault, turning on Sea Bed and Flotsam with spear levelled in an impossible yet unmistakable stay there or else expression before flipping its spear the other way and charging.

Sea Bed was charging also, albeit the opposite direction. Flotsam’s head was bounced about wildly, and he was still blinking and spitting sand.

They’re not me, they’re not me... Her thoughts were louder, anxious almost to the point of panic. And they were repetitive.

That way, urged Flotsam and Sea Bed swung the corner hard. He wanted to believe some knowledge of direction or destination was with him, but truth was he was a helpless head bumped along on the chest of a distressed mare and picking the turns gave him at least an iota of agency. Up the stairs.

Wait. Wait! It was hard to get a running mare to stop. I think we’re good.

They were in an open hollow with a pool of water. It wasn’t doing anything and that was a start. Part of the castle had collapsed as the water encroached under it, as sand and water were wont to interact, forming a sort of courtyard. It smelled of salt.

The effect on Sea Bed was immediate. She stepped into the water. It flowed in little swirls around, and through, her hooves. The ripples spread. Oh. Of course. Of course.

What’s of course?

“You won’t hear it if I say it. You have to hear it. Listen for the music.”

“There is no music!” The vehemency would have shocked Flotsam, if the flash of pain behind his eyes hadn’t gotten there first.

Sea Bed pulled the necklace that was Flotsam free. With quiet reverence, spoiled quite handily by his protests, she set Flotsam’s head to float on the water. Seawater.

“No!” he yelled, his disembodied head turning over and over in the water. “Not again! Please, no!” 

He was spinning and spluttering. Choking. Not seawater. Tears.

Sea Bed stood back. “You guided me here. Don’t fight it.” She tipped the bag of his body parts into the water. They pulled together of their own volition like cereal in the bowl, but despite newfound wholeness Flotsam could still only struggle and thrash, barely keeping head above water. 

The armour. The shining armour. It was on him. That’s what was pulling him down, down, how could a little pool be so vastly deep?!

A surge of strength lifted him up. The spear was in his hoof, and he recognized Sea Bed for what she was. 

A changeling.

He ran her through. She looked more surprised than hurt before the water finally dragged him down to a depth beyond bearing.

“What did you do?!” a pony was shouting over and over.

Flotsam opened his eyes to the dark underbelly of the ship, and saw what he had done. 

And what he'd done was, he'd pinned Sea Bed to the wall with a spear. She was upside down, her head nearly reaching to the floor. She wiggled in weak struggle and her guise as a pony was stripped, almost as it were pulled into the jagged edges of the stone leaving her a mostly similiar, somewhat different creature than the Sea Bed Flotsam had been familiar with. 

Sea Bed's table had been blasted clear of her things, goopy, mucky tea was spattered all over the mare. The spear was clean through all four of her legs and stuck fast to the decking behind. The spear looked unmisteakably of sombre stone.

"Holey hooves," Sea Bed said in awe, and passed out.

So... Flotsam had seen what he'd done, and it only baffled him. His perceptions were cloudy with that still half-dreaming fatigue. Where visions sapped at his sight.

There was another scream from the doorway. It was shrill enough to be an attack in its own right, and Flotsam winced, his ears pressing flat. He was vaguely aware of a drawn sword, also. "What did you do?!"

"I can explain." 

Flotsam caught up with his mouth's running improv. He sighed. "I can't explain. Would you believe me if I said she's fine? I think she's fine? Sea Bed. Sea Bed?"
> A Meeting of Minds
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Nauticaa had returned. Currently she was sitting at her desk. Opposite the desk stood several ponies, Flotsam in their midst so that he was sort of sheltered but sort of held prisoner between them. They were all to varying degrees anxious, Sea Bed in particular. The desk itself had quite a few of its many tricky little things, all useful little tools of the Captain — Flotsam recognized the hoof-guards on which she mounted her swords, among others; all polished with exceeding attention and undoubtedly kept in the highest degree of maintenance — her things were cleared from the desk to make way, but  —  and this was a big, wonderful but  —  her swords were still right there, splendid and gleaming.
 
They were arrayed to the side, because on the desk was a big old spear of somber stone.
 
Not old, actually. Big though. Plenty big.
 
Ponies’ eyes were on the Captain, and hers were on the spear. Flotsam felt of all things acute embarrassment.
 
The spear was as rough-hewn as anything, its form violently disarrayed like nature had produced one exceptionally long geode in its most irritable and distressed of bowels, then ripped the black heart from it. Or like black as coal barnacles had colonised the branching zig-zag of a midnight lightning bolt. It was savage and wild. It was gritty. It was a weapon. And it was its every magic subjugating inch somber stone.
 
In the company of perfect, polished swords and intricate and clever tools, it seemed to snarl and slather smugly, even in its inanimacy.
 
“You did this?” The Captain asked. But it wasn’t really a question. Of course he did.
 
Flotsam was decidedly chipper, all things considered. “Looking at the positive things here, my head’s clear. Clearer? Clear-ish. It’s not pounding.” He smiled and tapped his temples.
 
There was a kick at Flotsam’s ankle. “Oh and Sea Bed’s not horrifically injured or, you know, dead. That’d be bad.” Flotsam’s smile stretched at the edges.
 
The Captain gave him the sort of unreadable expression, one to make card sharks consider giving up cards and sharkness altogether. “Indeed. I appreciate that you can still come to that conclusion yourself.”
 
“To my credit, I was in the middle of pretty intense mind...vision...thing. There was, kind of, memories? Bits and pieces and what I’m going to haphazardly call my junk floating around, that’s literal by the way, but hey I remember what changelings are. That's new.”
 
Charming Booty horned in. She’d been eyeballing the somber stone with wide eyes. Now she flicked her fire red hair and narrowed them. “Siren’s spasms, Sea Bed, how strong was that tea?”
 
The almost black mare bloomed with slightly less black blush. “It wasn’t just tea,” she admitted. “There was magic.”
 
“Changeling mind-meld,” Flotsam helpfully explained, because ‘magic’, like symbolic hallucinations from the depths of a broken mind, could have so many explanations and meanings as to be almost useless a term without any given one.
 
“Don’t say that,” Sea Bed whined.
 
“So it wasn’t?”
 
She held covered her eyes. “No. Just, it sounds silly.”
 
“It does sound pretty silly,” Charming Booty admitted. She turned on Sea Bed, poking her in the chest.  “Hold on. I’m pretty sure we’re still hooves off with the damaged goods.”
 
“I was bringing him on a journey to the fractured edges of his psyche. Not hanky-pankying him.”
 
“At least give the poor stallion a drink first, doing something like that.”
 
Harpoon added her two salt-greened bits. “Getting a stallion inside his own head? Drink's for courtesy. Stallion like that wants money at the door.”
 
“Damaged goods,” Flotsam mumbled. “Apt, I suppose. Still. Kind of hurtful.”
 
“Patches,” spoke the Captain, summoning the filly who came wriggling from under the desk, a coffee pot and mugs balanced on a tray in her precarious hold.
 
“Yeth Captain!” squeaked the little lanky one.
 
“Shut them up.”
 
“Right away!” she beamed. She turned. She turned hard. “RIGHT, you lot! Auntie Naughty Wantth youth all to thhut yer trapth, or I’ma ‘af to cut the tongueth from yer gobth!” She cuddled the stunned stallion, giving him a big fawning smile as she squeezed him. “Ekthept you, Flottham. You’re my favourite.”
 
She limpet-attacked his leg and he was stuck with her nuzzling. A stern but not unkind look from Nauticaa finally drew the filly off and the Captain was served her coffee. She sipped it black while the room went quiet.
 
“Well done,” Flotsam overheard, whispered low and resonant from the lips of Harpoon, to the ears of Patches’, catching a slight nod accompanying the two words. 
 
Indeed, the other crewmates seemed more pleased than intimidated.
 
“Now,” said Nauticaa, “who wants to go first? On the one hoof, one of my crew, one of the longest-serving and least troublesome mares on my ship turns out to all along have been... Sea Bed, if you please?”
 
“Um, yes.” And Sea Bed shed her skin, in a flourish of green flames. She glanced left and right, finding herself in a slightly more opened space. “I just want to start by saying-”
 
The Captain held up a hoof. “Not just yet. Give us a moment.” She almost smiled. Or Flotsam imagined a smile. And a softening to her tone. But only slight, if at all. “There’s this revelation to consider.” 
 
Maybe she sighed. Maybe Flotsam imagined it.
 
“And then there’s you.” Her eyes were deep and dark, not imagined. And they were beautiful; he met the Captain’s gaze with — he surprised himself — almost wistful yearning. Her focused attention didn’t distress him, even as he recognized that maybe it should have. If anything, he found himself having to suppress a smile, then wondered why he had to suppress anything, so he smiled and perhaps the slightest suggestion of a quizzical, uncertain frown came out in the Captain’s stern expression. 
 
She set a hoof on the black spear and eyes followed.
 
Nauticaa sipped her coffee and the air grew thicker with its pungency, swirling and mixing into the almost forgotten background of salt, sea and wood and the never-quite-forgotten and sometimes feverishly highlighted notes of female hair and sweat. She asked, “How?”
 
Flotsam opened and closed his mouth. How had he done it? He didn’t really know. In fact, he really didn’t know. Or was the question better interpreted as, how did a pony such as he exist that could do such a thing as whatever it really was he’d done, creating somber stone, with all it’s unknown and unconsidered connotations included? He was no better for answering that than the predecessor.
 
Charming Booty brushed past him and his returned Patches. “If I might interject, Captain? You must realize, the value of somber stone, it’s... it is...”
 
Harpoon scoffed. Her wings flicked with air-stirring forcefulness. “It’s a new tin of cookies.”
 
Charming’s ears went on end, exasperation making her eyes wide. “And sandwiches! Really nice sandwiches, sandwiches everyday. All new supplies. And cannons. And all our repairs. And that’s not even getting to our actual, comfortable, happy, joyous profit. This right here is why I’m Quartermaster and you are First Thug. I take the actual account of things. Somber stone is valuable,” she huffed, “very much so.”
 
The First Thug only snorted. “So’s fresh cookies. And that’s queen First Thug to you, Boots.”
 
Nauticaa set her hoof to her table. It wasn’t loud in the slightest, but it had never needed to be a noisy gesture. “I prefer the sound of ‘princess’, myself.”
 
Harpoon nodded. “Princess First Thug it is than, Captain.” She grinned at Charming and the unicorn stifled a giggle. 
 
Sea Bed’s voice was a surprising addition to the mix. Her ears flicked and overall, she looked ready to wince. “I never expected my being found out as a changeling to go like this.”
 
“How so?”
 
The changeling glanced about nervously. “It’s supposed to be this big, scary moment, isn’t it? All eyes on me? That’s what I always figured.” She horned a gesture at Flotsam. “Instead he’s upstaging me.”
 
“Yes,” said Nauticaa, “he does that.” She gave him a look and Flotsam’s ears went back.
 
“Oh. Sea Bed. Uh, sorry. Also for the whole spearing you to a wall thing. I didn’t mean it.”
 
“You actually did.” And Sea Bed looked around again, seeing that being upstaged hadn’t been so bad, because now the eyes were on her. “Flotsam... Captain... I was in Flotsam’s head or, a part of it. It’s... It’s not very nice in there. He hates changelings.”
 
His ears head lowered, his ears also. “No I don’t.”
 
Sea Bed superficially resembled Nauticaa, even in her true changeling form. Another surge of fire and her familiar guise was resumed. Her eyes were deep, and they had pity in them. Pity and fear. Were the eyes real or fake, knowing now what he did. Flotsam wondered. What of their emotions? Real, or fake?
 
“Flotsam isn’t you. Not really. Captain, intended or not, he’s named very aptly by you. Flotsam. The debris after the wreck. The debris floating to the surface. That’s what he is. Sam. That’s what you are.”
 
“That’s it, is it? Flotsam pulled himself up, brushing the protesting filly away. “Sea Bed, thank you for doing whatever you did. I feel...better. I won't forget that you tried. But that? Anyone else want to call me damaged goods? Debris? No?” He eyed the room over. Flotsam had never seen concern in Harpoon’s eyes before, and now he did. Patches’, too.
 
“Whoever, whatever person I was before... you think I haven’t thought about this? That I’m at best confused and downright unstable? Either he will come back or maybe he never will. Maybe he’ll come back and take my place and I’ll be gone just like that. Maybe he’s gone and I’m what’s spat up to inherit it the mess. Maybe he’s gone and I’m going to go the same way, too.”  
 
Flotsam pulled his torso up over the desk, his shadow falling on his spear.
 
“Maybe there was only ever me in here, and this is only simple madness. Sounds a sane enough answer, doesn’t it?” 

"In the meantime, and it surprised even me to realize this: I don't really give a damn what the truth is. I am. Talk to me like I'm a mad pony if you have to, but do not talk to me like I'm not a person. A piece. Like I'm leftovers."
 
He hefted the spear. It was gritty in his hoof. Heavy. Ugly in his eye. “You asked me how, Captain. How this happened. And now I think that somber stone needs to be mastered. Cowed. Enslaved, for lack of a better word. It doesn’t suppress magic just because it can. It’s a challenge. Control the magic, control the stone. I believe that’s how I created this.” The details of fresh memories grew clearer Flotsam’s mind. “I grew this. My stone, seeded from yours. And speaking of which...”
 
He lowered his blackened horn to Nauticaa. “It’s time you take this back. Please.”
 
In his peripheral, he could make out the rising eyebrow of the Captain. “Quite a speech. I wouldn't say I've ever heard 'enslavement' and 'please' used in the same appeal before. For all this, I expected you to show you could remove it yourself. Can’t you?”
 
Flotsam considered. “I can.” 
 
She reached out, taking his horn in her hooves with a tenderness Flotsam had not expected. “Then why ask me?”
 
“Why would I want to worry you even more? Asking is polite. Asking is respectful. I’m a little mad, but I’m not going to lose sight that the Mercy saved my life. Mercy has been kind to me. So yes. I can. And the nullifier will melt or explode or even just come off. Doesn’t mean I should.”
 
Flotsam grinned in grim humour. ”A pony with less magic can afford to go around proving points they don’t have to."
 
“He did thtop the griffonth’ thhip,” Patches mused, “He hit them with their own ballth.”
 
“Well,” said the Captain. She even shared a little smile. “A moving speech. Does anyone protest this? I somehow doubt the nullifier will be going back on again.”
 
“Not likely,” Flotsam quipped. "It doesn't really provide the safety we thought it would."
 
“I’m disturbed by how easily I’ve forgotten Flotsam’s a fellow unicorn,” Charming said, her red mane swishing most pleasantly. “I’d be sickened, having my magic suppressed like that. It’s been cruel to treat you differently.”
 
Harpoon puffed her chest. “I’m game. Let him free. That or he’ll break it anyway.”
 
Sea Bed worded herself carefully. “I am skeptical,” she admitted. “I’m the one that saw in his head. I got a spear for it. Flotsam isn’t all and only the person  you think he is. I don’t want to be against this... but I am. I don’t want to be part of this. Flotsam, I’m sorry. You scare me.” Sea Bed made for the door. “Captain, by your leave?”
 
Nauticaa nodded and the changeling walked free to the sunshine. Flotsam did his best not to resent her. Were it only so easy.
 
The Captain cradled Flotsam’s chin and pulled him closer. “You do make things adventurous, Flotsam.” Her hooves closed around the nullifier.
 
“I kinda feel half blessed, half cursed, you know?”
 
Nauticaa laughed lightly, a beautiful sound. “Let’s say two thirds the one, one third the other.” Her grip tightened.
 
“Wait, which-”
 
Flotsam tensed and cried out. Nauticaa was pulling the nullifier off.
 
“Ah!”
 
“Patches, child, look away!”
 
They covered their eyes just in time. 
 
Except for Patches. She was really rather pleased with what she saw.
 
It was a really bright magical light, after all. 

Dazzling.
 
 
> A Tail of Two Taverns
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam was sitting in a place he had found. It was called The Ticklish Turncoat. Word on the street had been that the meals were better than the rest to be expected for the seafront, and Flotsam was well enough ready for a hot meal his own. He found himself contemplating the bread he had, in a way its freshness and buttery companionship were as inexplicable as anything. He used it in lieu of his spoon, scooping up dollops of gravy and roast vegetables for every bite that melted the spread butter even as he ate it.

He paused often. Often to wipe at the slops on his muzzle, but these gestures he combined with frequent glances about. Flotsam had put himself in a corner opposite the front door and it did not take him much at all the look the room over. There was a fireplace ready with firewood, but it had only the barest few coals necessary to heat a kettle and keep the cauldron of stew warm, such was the weather. Stairs led to a second floor and Flotsam debated the merits of taking a room here for a night or two. Next to that a hall cut by to the back rooms, presumably to the restrooms also. Occasionally the cute little cook would that had brought him his meal would bustle past, her busy little hips and swishing tail made all the more charming by her expression of busy, attentive focus to her job. But her jobs were only minor ones at the moment, busywork to keep a restless pony moving.

Flotsam knew the feeling.

In the end, Nauticaa had given Flotsam both parcels of coins, the bigger and the smaller. It was impossible to calculate exactly how much he might have earned, a consideration that would have to be compounded by how many damages he had also caused, but for all that, it was a moot point. Flotsam had never been a true member of the crew to The Mother of Mercy, signed and listed to the great registry book Nauticaa kept in her desk. He’d been surprised to learn the captain of the ship that had saved his life had been entitled to his free labour, until their next docking, or so the custom went. She had never made a point of stating that, but then again, Flotsam had never been shy of working anyway.

At least, not in this life.

That technically made his wealth gifts, not rewards or even wages. And Flotsam was largely okay with that. The gold band still dangled from his ear. Three gifts. Not to mention the comforts of The Captain’s bed. Four.

A fifth sat atop his head, though it wasn’t from Nauticaa.

After the goodbyes were said, but before he’d disembarked, Charming Booty had come rushing back, a tricorn cap in tow.

“For that,” she’d said, gesturing his horn and smiling sadly.

“Yeah,” Flotsam had agreed. “Thanks.”

The somber stone had come off. Flotsam's magic was his again. And his horn was stained a sooty black with the stuff. It looked like a sickness; a black horn on a white stallion, certainly like something to draw more attention than Flotsam was ready for.

The hat was battered, resilient and similarly stained. It was a useful concealment for his horn and gave Flotsam a semblance of belonging in this strange place. His was not the only tricorn, though others had not perhaps had the same pedigree for age and wear as his.

The cute little cook came for another pass and Flotsam waved her down. “What can I get to drink? No, better idea, what’s your favourite? I’ll have that.”

She was brown, and she frowned. “I don’t think you’d like my favourite.”

“Oh? Too strong? I’m not looking to lose my mind just yet.”

“Too weak, actually. I don’t drink liquor. Just teas.”

Flotsam grinned. “I am well used to tease! Could you bring me one? And one for yourself, if you’ll join me? I need conversation more than I need brooding, just now.”

“I’ll get you that,” said the mare.

In a minute she had swept clear a table left by departing patrons, refilled an old stallion’s pint of darkest ale and still made it back with a teapot. Steamed aroma played at Flotsam’s senses. “You’re not from around here.”

Flotsam felt playful. “This is Rivaplút. More ships than houses. Nobody’s from here.”

The proprietress narrowed her eyes, but the edge of her lip turned up. A game it was. “One or two of us are.” She poured the tea and they watched the two cups steam. “Nice hat.”

Flotsam gave her his eyebrows and his teeth. “Thanks. It’s an heirloom, near and dear.”

“Makes you look like a pirate.”

“I’ve been on a boat.”

“It’s a big hat.”

“I sleep in the Captain’s bed.” Flotsam shrugged. “Most nights. Now I’m thinking to sleep in a different one for a while. Find new bearings. How well do you know the city?”

The little mare chuckled, her voice low. She sipped her tea. “A stallion stops and asks for directions. You really aren’t from around here. And I know here well enough. Do you like the tea?”

“It...” Flotsam lost his playful verve. It was hot, but delicate, like fruits or flowers. “I might have had this before. A long time ago.”

The mare’s sigh was sympathetic, and amused. She had a lilt of ribbing to her tone, as if calling a bluff. “Your jasmine tea just happens to bring up painful memories of a love long-lost?”

Flotsam smiled. “How lovely that would be. It’s nice.”

“Well, thanks. I’ve seen what the drink does to ponies. I’ll stick to this.”

“You serve it readily enough,” said Flotsam, nodding to the ancient of a stallion stooped over the bar, cradling his pint.

“I figure we have freedom, and our own choices to make in that freedom. Besides, taverns are ships that sail on alcohol. I’m not about to run the Turncoat aground.”

“That sounds like a quote.”

“Oh, it is. Words for a stubborn daughter.”

Flotsam ripped another bite from his stew-sodden bread. He wiped his muzzle and clapped his hooves. “Right, then. The room upstairs...”

And they negotiated a price.





It was evening. Darkness fell on the port city. Flotsam had met up with some of the Mercy’s and he hadn’t quite made up his mind whether they were there for the fun of it, or if curiosity or concern for his state factored into it. At any rate they had found him and lead him from the Turncoat to an altogether different sort of tavern, the kind with hot air and sticky tables. A squeeze-box player crooned for biteens next a smoky fire and though crowded with people, few spoke, those that did in hushed tones and only to their own.

“The Thnake’th Thithter,” Patches announced with utmost thibilance, thweeping a hoof across the grumbling, dismissive array of grumbles and smells arrayed before them.

“Cistern” Shanty hissed. “Cistern. Like a piss pot.”

“I like sister,” Parrot said. Her garish green stood out, but it was her roving eye that stood out more, it bounced each way and back again. To Flotsam, it looked the young foreigner was sizing them up, all of them.

There were half a hundred or more. Mostly ponies. Some griffons, but they didn’t seem cut from the same gray cloth Gadfly and her kind had been. Even a minotaur was in attendance, a big bull of a fellow stooped over a dicing game in the far corner, his back turned.

“Sister is good,” Flotsam said distractedly. This was the largest, densest crowd he could remember seeing that wasn’t actively warring across the deck of the Mother.

“Flottham liketh it, tho I’m right!”

“Cistern! Cyst. Urn!”

“Nope! Nope!”

Parrot laughed. In the jungle pegasus, it always ran to the slightly maniacal. “Squeezy, let her have it. Piss pot is piss poor, anyway.”

“Whatever.”

They squeezed for seats and got a round. “Thanks,” rumbled the husky voice of Harpoon, descending on the group and lifting Patches’ mug.

“Hey!” squeaked the filly, her protest cut off by the replacement of her drink with a fruity looking thing with an umbrella in, so that her high pitched, drawn out cry shifted suddenly to a bubbly, contented, “ooh!”

Harpoon nodded gravely to the filly, then eyed the teens in turn. The message unspoken was apparent: She’s too small, leave her off. Shanty looked away in a huff. Parrot grinned and wiggled her eyebrows.

The First Mate dropped in next to Flotsam; he twisted up inside. “Dry land working for you?”

“So far. Got a place. Got a hat.” He gave the tricorn a flick.

Harpoon rumbled acknowledgement. Not many ponies could have cut through the din with just that, but she could.

“Yeah,” said Flotsam, drinking by magic, “horns aren’t usually the opposite colour to the unicorn. Black on white kind of stands out.”

“Mhm.”

“I’d like to keep it to myself, for now. Figure it out tomorrow, you know?”
“I got no reason to tell.” She rolled her neck and her wing brushed his side.

“M-makes me look like a pirate, for starters.”

“It does.”

A moment drew out slightly longer than other moments, and Flotsam headed it off. “How’s Sea Bed doing? I scared her pretty bad.”

“She’ll get over it. Always took her for a spook.” She swigged her drink. “Bug. Same difference.”

“Don’t they... swarm up? Supplant nations? Stuff like that?”

“Nah. She’s just a spook. Harmless. Drink your beer.”

Flotsam did as he was told. He’d largely tuned out of the teenagers’ conversation, but it drifted to him now. Parrot was poking fun at Siren - probably specifically to goad her friend - and Shanty was heatedly taking the bait and defending her patron, er... thing?

He leaned across the table, pint sloshing. “So, Siren is like a goddess, or something?”

“lovemaking goddess,” Parrot chuckled. “Spirit? Whatever. I was just suggesting Shanty spend less time appealing a higher power and more time appealing Charming Booty directly, if she’s going to get what she wants.”

“What does she want?” asked Flotsam. Money? Hats? Charming Booty had a lot of stuff.

“That red, red mane. That red, red tail!”

Parrot flicked open her wings only to be flicked by Shanty in turn. “Shut up!”

“Your red, red cheeks!” The pegasus hooted, with a cross-eyed squawk mixed in, until the laughing fit had her wheezing. Shanty was trying to pummel her to little effect.

“Travel does strange things to a pony,” Flotsam mused.

“It gets you pent up,” Harpoon suggested.

Flotsam supped his beer. “More than you realize. Er... where’s Patches?”

“Making friends.” Harpoon flicked a wing lazily.

Beyond the din of conversation, Flotsam could just make out the tops of  lanky little one’s ears. As he watched, the minotaur and his dicing partners paused their game and turned to face her.

Flotsam made to stand up, but a feathered tip across his backside sat him back down. Not to mention made him shiver. “She’s fine,” Harpoon said. “Want to learn something?”

It wasn’t a question Flotsam was expecting, least of all from Harpoon.

The First Mate gestured the teenagers. Their squabble had spilled a drink and Shanty, sopping with beer down her barrel huffily dragged the pegasus to the bar.

“For all Shanty’s goddess-bothering, Parrot understands better.”

Flotsam had the shape of a question on his lips.

“I never read a good book, but I can tell you everything Siren wanted us to know in five seconds.” She counted out three feathers. “Show what you feel. Take what you want. Desires are good. Everything after that is wind blowing. What do you feel, Flotsam?”

“I-”

“Show me!” she hissed. She put a hoof on his thigh, her eyes held his.

Flotsam felt his blood; his heart. The crowd seemed more distant and Harpoon, nearer. His breath seemed cloyed with heady airs. He put a hoof around her back, another over her shoulder. He pulled her and he kissed her, deeply.

She tasted like sweat and strength and dangerous living and it thrilled him. She bit his lip; he bit hers. Flotsam pushed away her jaw and bit her neck, sucking it well hard enough to elicit a deep groan.

“White bruises better,” Harpoon teased through her moaning. Mouth full and occupied, Flotsam could only murmur acknowledgement.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

“I’m right behind you,” she growled.

Flotsam nipped the pegasus and kissed her. “For now.”

And Harpoon laughed, her hoarse, husky femininity speaking to Flotsam in a manner that waylaid all doubt, all hesitation.

Sooner or later, the teens and the filly would notice their two elders’ absence from The Snake’s Cistern. Or Sister, because Patches liked it that way more. But by that point in the night the young trio had their own immediate excitement to resolve, and as for the missing two, well...

The same could be said for them.

Early to bed, early to rise, so the expression goes. And it applied that night, in the Turncoat. 

In a manner of speaking, anyway. In a manner of speaking.
> These Little Turns -Or- The Mercy of Strangers
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flotsam’s eyes opened to near total darkness. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of his evening. The lingering stars of the early dawn showed as a washed out gray through the window, and the sound of his breathing was matched by that of Harpoon’s.

They laid in each others’ grip. He was awake and she was not. Flotsam was in no rush to change this; he almost didn’t leave the bed at all. But he did, slowly extricating himself from the pegasus’ grip and pulled himself slowly to the edge of the bed. Flotsam felt rested as anything, despite the scant few hours that had been left for sleeping. He felt rested and calm and even clear-headed on a level that was unfamiliar to him, as if for a first time he were a still body of water, with perfect reflections of above and perfect visibility of below. The waves slept like the mare.

The room was not cold, but felt that way on Flotsam’s so-recently indulged senses. His actions stirred the air a little and the musky air stirred him a little in turn.

He stared at the sleeping pegasus a few minutes more, less attaching significance or impression to any of it than just letting it work its way into him, the moments of the hear and now becoming memories of a time and place. He traced the detail of her body in the wan light, her sleeping features and the bed they’d shared. These would be well-founded memories, Flotsam decided. He would remember the prickle of sweat and the catch of their breathing, all of it. If he was going to have precious little else, he was going to have this.

The blackened light of his horn barely registered in the grayed starlight; Flotsam reached out and, finding something appropriate, brought it back. There was a slight shift in the air as the weapon appeared, hovering silent and ready in Flotsam’s grip. It whirled quick, baton-like arcs in his hold.

Harpoon’s cudgel. Flotsam had seen it in Charming Booty’s keeping, she’d said Harpoon had thought it lost, keeping it herself only for what Flotsam considered it to be the thrill of a secret. Charming Booty could go on bluffing, that didn’t matter. This belonged to Harpoon though, and for Flotsam it felt an appropriate gesture to return it to her.

Hers... and perhaps just a little more, too. Drawing a little deeper on his magic — it felt more natural now, manipulating the sombre stone — Flotsam studded the weapon with the tiniest seeds of black stone. They spread like frost on glass, covering the head of the weapon and reaching a ways down the heft of it, before Flotsam cut the flow of power.

Harpoon moaned softly and reached into the empty side of the bed. Flotsam set the cudgel on a dresser, for her to find.

“Everything changes a little bit,” he mused. He gathered up his tricorn cap, stole from the room and from the Turncoat, and went skulking about in the false dawn’s light.

What he found was a very lazy mugging. By way of one of the smaller waterfront alleys, two ponies were working over a third, an expression that usually suggests violence but here involved a bored and lacklustre prodding, the sort employed when tentatively checking if something had gone off or not. This was perhaps due to the third pony’s ignorance about the exciting economic prospect of being a victim, instead; he was in a stupor, grunting more from habit than pain as the feeble prods touched him.

They froze up as Flotsam approached a nearby junction of backways. “Don’t mind me,” he said, dipping his hat slightly in friendly salute, “I’m just passing through.”

“Just passing through?” said the one dispirited mugger, turning to his cohort, perhaps, for a better appraising of the words uttered. “Just passing through?”

The mugger prodder shared in the exchange, then was quick to prod his second pony that morning and raise his voice needlessly. “Ah!” he intoned, “a vigilante. Of the night! Has come to. Do justice on...” there was a furtive glance to a hoof’d scrap of paper, “...justice on our villainous hides. Let’s, leg it!”

The duo made a legging-it motion but, seeing any and all lack of Flotsam’s supposed heroic aggression, got stuck in place doing a sort of furiously suggestive wiggle.

“No, no,” said Flotsam cheerfully. “I’m hardly going to interfere in your business. Really, don’t mind me.” He made for the junction at a jaunty clip.

“Wait!” called mugger prodder the second, a higher pitch coming into his voice. “You’re not going to come rescue this pony here, this poor pony fallen afoul of foul pilfering?”

“No?”

The aforementioned pony falling afoul of foul pilfering sat up, a tone of affront in his gruff voice. “Doesn’t my being viciously beaten and robbed of my worldly possessions offend your senses of virtue and justice?”

“I suppose it does,” mused Flotsam, “A little. But it’s hardly right for me to step in and start dictating to Riváplutians how to live their Riváplut lives. Far as I know, they might be the lawful authority and you the foul pony pilferer.”

“Well they’re not,” huffed the mug proddee in a sulk. Stirring, he cried, “Look, they’re getting away!”

The supposed getting away had taken the muggers two steps further, whereby they continued with their running away any minute now pantomime.

“We couldn’t persuade you to just, you know, jump in for the sake of the thing, could we?” said the higher pitched mugger. “Run down this alley after us, like? Only, it’s gone a bit ploin-shaped here, I think we’re all in agreement on that, and makes things go much easier for us if things work out naturally, as it were.”

Flotsam frowned. “But I’m going this way,” he said, gesturing the junction.

“Aw, blast it,” cursed the supposed victim, pulling himself to his hooves. “I tolds youse lot we needed them acting classes. Jump ‘im, boys!”

“Oh,” said Flotsam, surprised but not in the least worried, catching an assailant from above by way of his back hooves, their stomach and a pained groan, “here we go.”

A thrown hook took Flotsam straight in the jaw, jarring his head aside. He swung back a reply of his own, catching them with a hit that bowled the pony over on the cobbled ground. Flotsam was frowning. That had stung.

More of the gang were surging up from the alley the three ponies in need of acting classes had been so eager to lead Flotsam down, no doubt where they would have had him surrounded in tight quarters. Well, no time like the present to oblige a stranger a kindness.

Flotsam hefted the stunned foe towards the oncoming pack and charged. Two were dropped under the flailing weight of their compatriot, and three more rushed on. Flotsam checked the first with his shoulder, driving that mugger off his course and so crashing headlong into a water barrel; a sure way to dampen one’s spirits.

The second Flotsam couldn’t tackle; he ducked a whirling buck, bringing his shoulders up hard as he could into that pony’s breastbone. Wrapping a hoof around his opponent’s and having him suitably cross-mounted Flotsam jumped, twisted and pulled hard.

The result was Flotsam’s shoulder had the full weight of Flotsam and foe falling down to drive it home.

“AAaaiiiii!” the mugger screamed, curling up and gasping for breath. “Rib! He bust me rib!”

The third pony bowled Flotsam over. He grappled blindly and three more piled on.

“A proper Riváplut welcome’s in order, boys!” On his back, it was all Flotsam could do to keep his face shielded as blows rained down. A stomp to his gut knocked the breath from him and set him howling with pain.

A second stomp met magical light and a down payment of pain. In an instant ponies were slammed to the stones and crushed flat. Not so literally flat as to be an act of horror and require chalk outlines that climbed the walls, but flat enough to keep muggers’ heads and hooves pressed flat. They grumbled and grunted, unable to squeeze words passed their lips.

“This is where things get outright unfair,” Flotsam confessed, slurring a little on the words as he pulled himself upright. He wobbled unevenly towards Mr. Stompy and peeled back the magic from the mugger’s face

“One minute you’re getting badly enacted street entertainment...” Flotsam looked Mr. Stompy in his panic-struck eyes, then kicked him a vicious blow to the side of the head. He rolled that stricken pony away with a heave and lumbered to the next.

“The next, this.. Life takes these little turns,” he mused aloud, bruised jaw and swelling lips making his words less than eloquent to hear. The remaining muggers were pinned and helpless beneath him, struggling in vain against a force Flotsam fully was aware could crush ships into compact little spheres of mangled debris. “Siren’s tits, but this really is unfair, isn’t it?”

He set the next pony free entirely, sidestepped a desperate retaliatory swipe and two seconds later had the mugger up against the wall, slamming him two, three, four times, until he fell in a limp, unresisting daze at Flotsam’s hooves.

“These little turns,” he said again, stalking the subdued row of struggling ponies. “Life shakes you around, leaves you open to questions of who you are. What to do. What you want. What you want to do. Am I making sense?”

He peeled back the magic from another mugger, dragged him by his hooves and, spinning around, flung him out to the open street. “Make a choice!” Flotsam roared. “Run away, or come and fight me!”

The mugger rushed to his hooves. A quick glance to his friends, to Flotsam, to the prospect of freedom...

“There he goes,” Flotsam sighed. “Honour among thieves, eh? So, these little turns...” He prowled the remaining three muggers, his original three bad actors. “You get all these choices, don’t you find? And you’re not even sure what they mean, what the context is or what the choices are. But you use them, best you can, to make sense of those questions. All those...” Flotsam waved a hoof vaguely, “all those identity ones. It’s kind of my deal, I know.”

He peeled back the restraining magic and planted a hoof firmly in the chest of the original mugger prodder, staring him in the whites of his eyes. “Have you ever had a moment where, without any grain of doubt in your mind, you realize your choices aren’t enough, and your life relies entirely on the mercy of strangers?”

“No..?”

Flotsam ground his hoof down harder.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Remember this feeling of helplessness,” Flotsam gently encouraged them, before magically flinging them each into the ocean.

The ocean which lay a full three blocks away.

Flotsam fell to his rump and propped his skull, for once aching for tangible reasons, against the blessedly cool stones. He allowed himself a short rest in the alley and watched the sun come up.

Then he went to fetch his tricorn cap, which had blown off in the fighting, and set it once more on his head. He gave his earring a flick and set about walking with as little a limp as possible as he continued his journey into Riváplut.

“Acting classes. Heh.”

It was worth a chuckle.