Threadbare - 63A Three Hour Tour

“Are you all right under there?” Stormanorm asked, as a shadow blocked out the light from the center of the room.

“Yes, I think I am,” Threadbare said, retrieving his hat and resuming scrubbing. For a second he debated gouging out the carved message, but he put that aside. If they were going to give him this cabin eventually, then he could do it when there weren’t any ears around to hear suspicious activity. Besides, it was unlikely to be found by anyone bigger than a breadbox. “This stain is being stubborn.”

“You’ve done pretty well. You sure you’re a princess?”

“I wasn’t raised as a princess,” Threadbare said. “And I’m still not one. We don’t have kings or things like that anymore.”

“Mom says give it a few years, you probably will again.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Stormanorm put away the cleaning rags, dropping them into his own bucket. “She likes what you’re doing because she thinks kings are a really bad idea. All pirates do. The pirate code says everyone should be free to follow their own fate, chase their own destiny. Nobody should tell anyone else what to do.”

“We still kind of do,” Threadbare said, following Stormanorm as he went out into the corridor.

“Yeah, but you’re not KINGS about it. You don’t pretend that you have a divine right to be in charge. It’s like a pirate council, you argue and end up telling people to knock things off when they get dumb. You don’t change your mind on a whim and everyone has to stop what they’re doing and humor you. That’s good. That’s not perfect, that’s not pirates, but it’s a step in the right direction.”

“But she doesn’t think it will last?”

“No. See…” Stormanorm paused, with a foot on the ladder. “You want to come with and talk while I do chores?”

“Sure.”

“Alright then. See the thing of it is, most people don’t like thinking for themselves. Freedom takes work.” Stormanorm descended into the next deck, and Threadbare followed, taking the rungs of the ladder with the long experience of a small creature in a larger-sized world.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Stormanorm said as he touched down. “Also I’m surprised you wear panties.”

Threadbare was confused for a moment, before remembering that Celia had been in a skirt when Renny saw her. The illusion around him was probably wearing a skirt, too. Which meant… “Oh, you looked up my skirt?”

“Sorry. You were above me and all.” Stormanorm shrugged. “I’ll avert my eyes in the future.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Stormanorm coughed. “Anyway… you lot not lasting.”

“Right. That.”

“Thing about being free is that it’s harder. With a king, you don’t have to think. The king does that for you. You just have to do what they say and keep them happy. And if they’re a bad king, well, the gods will take care of that and maybe the next king will be better. And you can blame all of your problems on the bad king. So you don’t have to take responsibility for your own problems, because it’s ultimately the king’s fault.”

Threadbare took his time considering his reply, and they walked in silence for a bit.

The corridor led down to a wider one, down on the third deck. Doorways off the main passage were roped off with hanging curtains, or left open. One of the rooms they passed had a number of hammocks strung between support posts, and footlockers nailed to the floor at intervals. Crewbunnies were working in there, stuffing blankets into portholes, caulking the cracks in the boards of the deck, and otherwise trying to weatherproof the place.

Most of the crewbunnies stopped and looked over to Stormanorm as they entered. Buck-toothed smiles greeted him, and one crewmember gave him a vigorous wave that made her ample flesh jiggle in a way that made Threadbare worry for the sturdiness of her shirt.

Stormanorm deposited the now-clean chamberpot and a few more blankets he’d grabbed from the forecastle and got out of there rather quickly.

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Threadbare said when they were out. “Kings and councils and freedom, I mean.”

“Eh, I don’t think so. We’ve plundered all over Datland, and that’s usually how it goes. Caused a few revolutions too, and killed a few kings when they gave us trouble. At the end of the day people are lazy, and don’t want to think for themselves. So they bend the knee and give up their freedom to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“A lot of them didn’t have a choice,” Threadbare said. “If they didn’t, then they would be punished or even killed. They were in a position where they had to do what the king wanted or be harmed for it. Is that laziness? Or ignorance?”

This time Stormanorm took a few minutes to reply. They crossed the corridor to a small, cramped kitchen, where an overly plump crewbunny in an apron was busy taking stock of the food. Her face lit up as Stormanorm entered.

“Ooooo, Normy! Ye came down here to see me! Such a good boy, to cheer up old Duffy,”

She had a wooden leg, Threadbare noticed, and the other one seemed twisted and a little off. As he watched, she hauled herself over on a series of ropes hanging at head level on the kitchen, muscular arms carrying her large form within range of Stormanorm, who hugged her while she chattered and nattered on about supplies and how she’d been quite scared when the ship went down, but knew he’d see them all through.

Only when Stormanorm disentangled her arms and started writing numbers down in a small book did she turn her attention to Threadbare.

“Oh! You’d be the dolly girl, then! I was told ye’d be coming!” She bent down a bit, laboriously, to offer a pudgy hand. “I’m Duffy, it’s short for Duffodil. Me mam couldn’t spell, ye see.” she giggled, and Threadbare shook her hand happily. “Normally I’d be askin’ about yer food allergies and preferred dishes, since we treat our guests right, but… well I hear yer not much for eating. Shiver me timbers I couldn’t deal with that, I couldn’t. It must be hard!”

Threadbare remembered his conversations with Celia. For a moment it tugged him back to darker times, so he tried to twist his face into the expression she’d made, trusting the illusions to follow his cue. “It is,” he admitted. “I wasn’t always like this, and I miss food. But I appreciate you being kind about it.”

“Bah, tisn’t a thing but just simple decency,” she hauled herself back up with the help of the ropes, and beamed a many-chinned smile down. “Even if ye ain’t much for feasting, stop by and tell ol’ Duffy how yer day’s going whenever. I’ll be here, and I don’t mind a listening and catching up wi’ me shipmates! And as for ye…” she turned to Stormanorm, who was edging out the door. “Oh no ye don’t! Take this with ye and eat! Get more meat on yer bones, yer a growin’ boy!” She moved with swiftness that quite surprised Threadbare, swinging over on the ropes and shoving some sort of bun in his face.

Stormanorm pocketed the bun. “I’ll eat it later. Thanks Duffy.”

She tried to pinch his cheek through the veil, but he blocked her hand and was gone before she could stop him.

“Such a sweetie. Ah, if I were only three years younger…” her ears twitched against her chef’s hat. “Well, Cap’n Anne would still kill me. But it might be worth it.” She pressed a hand to her heart, and sighed.

Threadbare hurried out while she was mid-reverie. Stormanorm was moving a bit more hastily, heading down the hall, peering in the doors to the sides. It looked like they led to long, narrow rooms that were taken up mostly by cannons, each one sitting behind a closed firing port.

“I think you always have a choice,” Stormanorm said.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, maybe you’re stuck early on when you’re a child, or without enough power to affect things, but you don’t stay that way forever. Unless your luck is absolute shit, then sooner or later an opportunity comes up. At some point in your life you get the chance to stand up for yourself, even if it’s in a really small way, or the odds of success are really bad. And most people don’t! They just roll over and accept their fate, and lick the hand that holds them down. They don’t have the courage to step up and stand for themselves.”

The doors at the end were storage rooms, full of things that seemed to be useful for keeping the ship running. Things like piles of wood that matched the hull, sailcloth, lots of coils of rope, several kegs of gunpowder and stacks of cannonballs lashed together to keep them from rolling and causing havoc. There were also more mundane things, like lanterns, oil, and various sundries.

Stormanorm grabbed several blankets and started hauling them back to the crew quarters, cursing as they caught on some rough planks. Threadbare hastened to help, and caught a grateful glance from the beastkin.

“I’ll never get used to how strong you lot are,” he commented, as Threadbare helped him navigate the fabrics past the places where the walls and deck had been obviously patched and were still rough. “You’re so tiny, but you’re still golems after all. Enough to give Mom a challenge, and that’s no small feat.”

“We’ve been through a lot on our side of things,” Threadbare told him. “Not really pirate-style adventures. More desperate and a bit less fun overall, but I like to think we did well.”

“Eh, ours aren’t exactly fun and games either. Oh they make for good stories when they’re told, but…” Stormanorm dropped the blankets off with the crewbunnies who were winterizing the compartment, and got out quickly, declining their offers of hugs for his assistance. “…but this last job? We lost a good two thirds of our crew to your people. I lost some friends there.” His voice grew quieter, as they moved back into the rear of the deck. “And I don’t grudge you that, because you didn’t ask us to come and kidnap you. But they were friends, and I’ll be a while mourning them. You know?”

“If it helps, the standard guard policy is to recover the wounded and medically treat prisoners of war,” Threadbare said. “You may not have lost as many as you thought.”

Stormanorm was silent, his expression unreadable behind the veil, his body language concealed by the shapeless robes. “Thank you,” he said finally. “You’re alright, for royalty.”

“I’m not royalty anymore,” Threadbare said, doing his best to mimic Celia’s tone when she had to remind people of that. “And I’ve thought of what you said. About people being afraid to seize their moment.”

“And?”

“There are two components to fate. Your luck and your perception. Do you know why that is?”

Stormanorm shrugged, stopping at the main staircase down to the third deck. “Not really. It just sort of is.”

“It’s because if you want to make your fate, you have to see your opportunities and realize them when they arrive. If you don’t, then no matter how lucky you are, you won’t make the leap. And rabbit beastkin have a very high perception, don’t they?”

“They do,” Stormanorm said, slowly.

“So of course for you it’s a less of a leap. Less of a risk when you take your fate in your own hands. But humans, dwarves, most of the people that make up Cylvania down there, what if their moment comes and they don’t realize it, and it passes them by? Does it make them cowards? Does it make what happens to them their own fault? I don’t think so. And it’s that suffering that I want to end, that I hope we can end.”

Stormanorm descended down into the cargo hold that was the third deck, ears twitching through the holes in his hood as he pondered.

They wandered through the simple doorway, no corridor here, because the third deck was a large, open hold. Most surfaces were metal, the thin, light, strong metal of the true ship that the wooden planks covered over. Crates and boxes and barrels, scrawled and stamped with letters and numbers from alphabets familiar and strange filled a good third of the hold. Some were strapped down, but others were scattered about, and a few were cracked open with unknown liquids and powders combining into a rather disturbing looking mess on the floor.

Experimenting, Threadbare turned on his Scents and Sensibility skill, and found it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Spicy, yes, but the hold was large and the air flow was good, so it wasn’t overwhelming. And there were a few smells he hadn’t smelled before, which was always a plus.

Your Scents and Sensibility skill is now level 26!

“Who goes?” Came a sharp, familiar voice.

“It’s me and the Princess.”

Harey Karey stepped out from behind a stack of crates, a musket cradled in her arms. Now that he had time to examine her and see the rest of the crew, he thought her rather short as rabbit beastkin went. A mere five and a half feet, more or less. She had short, curly hair that was tied off with a blue bandanna that matched her jacket, a set of thick spectacles that magnified her green eyes, and mostly-black fur, broken up with a few white splotches. She had three pistols tucked into her jacket pockets, a small saber by her side, and a sour frown on her face.

“Do YE be here to try and swipe some plunder? Because that would make the third time somebunny has ‘accidentally’ wandered down this way a-lookin’ for the Captain, or somesuch lie.”

“There’s what, twelve crew left on the ship, half of them out scouting, and they’re trying this?” Stormanorm raised an eyebrow. “Well, nobody ever went broke betting on a pirate’s greed.”

“They’re mainly after the rum, I’m thinking,” Karey sighed, hopping up to sit on a crate, setting the musket next to her. Stormanorm sat on the side without the gun, and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her ears interlaced with his, then twitched to the side to rest on her bandanna.

It was oddly intimate, and Threadbare smiled to see it. What good friends they were!

Something in the way the illusions altered his face must have caught her eye, because Karey scowled at him. “Don’t go thinking we’re mateys, princess. This be brotherly and sisterly affection, ’tis all.”

“I’m the one person on the ship she doesn’t have to worry about,” Stormanorm said. “Two if you count… no, no, just the one. She does have to worry about Mom. A lot.”

“As should ye,” Karey’s glare relaxed, but her eyes scrutinized Threadbare carefully. “Cap’n meant every word on how she’d kill ye if ye caused too much fuss. She expects a little fuss, but her tolerance for shenanigans be a bit low in the water.”

“I understood Captain Anne’s message,” Threadbare told her. “Right now I just want to help everyone get through this alive.”

“We’ll see if ye meant that. Actions, words, and all that.” Karey closed her eyes, and fell silent for a moment.

In the silence, Threadbare could hear muffled voices from further back in the hold. “I think you might have some more visitors.”

“Mmm?” Karey’s ears fluttered. “Nay. It be that Jean woman, and her abomination.”

Threadbare hadn’t heard a thing while her ears were fluttering. The hearing on these pirates was impressive, and the ship, all things considered, wasn’t that large. When the engines were turned off, sound carried.

Threadbare knew he’d have to be very, very careful, not only with what he said, but when and where he said it. This was a very dangerous game he was attempting.

“You can talk to her if you want,” Stormanorm said. “Maybe seeing you will loosen her lips a bit.”

Karey shot him a look, but her face was inscrutable when she turned back to Threadbare.

“I’ll do that,” Threadbare decided. “Thank you.”

“We’ll be here if you need anything,” he said, then shifted to give Karey more shoulder room to rest.

Threadbare left the two to their comfort, padding back past a few rows of crates.

There, in a hollow surrounded by cargo nets, lashed ropes, and chains affixed to the ceiling and floor, was the Cotton Tale’s brig.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a sturdy iron cage, about big enough for two adult humans. The chains secured it in midair, about two feet off the ground.

Inside the cage was an albino bunny beastkin, lying on the floor. Her red eyes were narrowed to slits, and her ears were limp. This was Jean Lafeet; actress, swordswoman, and apparently, spy.

Outside the cage sat a tall, thin human man, wearing a patched shirt. The lower part of his face was stubbly with gray, and his receding hairline didn’t cover his long ears, ears that seemed higher on his head than any human’s should.

The ears were the mark of the Lop Garou, a thankfully rare breed of lycanthrope. Mostly known for running away and raiding gardens during the night of the full moon, but the man, whose name was Gaston, had evidently turned his talents and goals toward capturing Threadbare’s little girl.

Threadbare caught the last of the conversation as he approached.

“And for what, eh? Some little undead girl? A cold little doll with no way to give you the love your body desires? You’ll be dead in a decade or two, and where will she be, eh? Sitting there, slowly going mad in her ceramic shell. Hell, maybe your death will be what pushes her over the edge. Maybe you’ll be the cause of the very thing you’re worried about.”

Jean’s eyes snapped open, and focused on Threadbare. She sat up, groaning a bit at the pain.

“Oh, that’s what finally got your attention?” Gaston sneered. “That’s what gets you angry at me? Good! At least it shocks you out of your endless self-pity! Go on, take a swing at me through the bars. I can take it, and it’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t think she can quite reach you,” Threadbare said, and felt a small, somewhat mean pleasure in the way that Gaston jumped up and whirled around.

“Celia,” Jean whispered, then coughed. Her fur was scraped and abraded, and her clothes still torn from her nearly-fatal and very short-lived duel with Anne Bunny.

Threadbare looked to Gaston, who glared back. “She sounds thirsty,” he told the Lop Garou. “Have they been giving her water?”

“She hasn’t been drinking,” Gaston snorted, pointing at a spilled cup, and a small puddle to the side of the cage.

“To be fair,” Jean said, and cleared her throat. “They did not provide me with a chamber pot, and I did not wish to make a mess. There is no privacy in this cage anyway.”

“Tch.” Gaston looked away. “I will go find you one. Here is your alone time with your pretty little princess. Go, discuss in what privacy exists on this rattletrap boat.”

“Technically it’s a ship,” Threadbare told him. But the lop garou merely shook his head and left.

Jean clutched the bars, and looked down at Threadbare. At that angle, he could see that her eyes were focused above his head. She was tracking the illusion’s face, he thought.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“I haven’t been harmed.”

“No, I mean…” Jean paused. “You know. What we talked about.”

Threadbare didn’t know what she’d talked about with Celia. He thought fast. “I’m not certain we should discuss that here, but for the moment I’m well.”

“Good. I was worried.” Jean sagged back into the cage, pulling her hands down into her lap.

“You should probably worry more about yourself,” Threadbare said, pacing around the cage, and glancing back toward where Karey and Stormanorm were sitting, and doubtless listening.

Jean raised her hands, and let them fall. “I am going nowhere. They will not harm me. I am no threat. I never truly was, I see this now.”

“I appreciate that you tried. But for now our path is with this crew,” Threadbare said. “They let me roam around free. Do you think they’ll let you out of the cage if I ask them?”

“Well there be a difference between captives and traitors,” Captain Anne said from directly behind Threadbare.

Unlike the lop garou, Threadbare managed to keep himself from jumping into the air in surprise. But he couldn’t help a twitch, and he turned around quickly to see her gold-toothed grin smiling down on him.

“Been enjoying yer little tour o’ me ship?” Anne asked.

“It’s been interesting,” Threadbare said. And about done, too. The only deck left was the last one, and that was the engine room at the bottom of the vessel.

“Good, I hope ye like what ye see. Because the scouting party is back, and they’ve found what we’re lookin’ for. So we’ll need yer help for this next part, Lady Cecelia…”