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[Following the week of April 9, to April 16]
When the call came, Anstarra was unprepared.
One might be inclined to believe there was a pattern to such things, or perhaps a sort of balance; a cynical or philosophical (or religious?) mind would perhaps state that it was a right and just balancing of scales. That she should be called upon when otherwise needed. Alternately, such a mind might conclude that she was being blessed; for was this not a reprieve from responsibilities she had been growing ever more desperate to avoid, and had just now been buckling down to face?
Whatever the reason, or underlying order of cosmic balance (if such a thing even existed), Anstarra was unprepared... and yet responded eagerly, hastily, when she got the call. The first call, the one she'd been expecting for half a moon, almost to the day.
The call to go back to sea.
There was a certain romance to it, to be sure, underscoring the dread. Romance, and a sort of... appropriateness, which was a terribly unromantic word. Perhaps destiny (though she didn't like to lean on that word too heavily what with certain other obligations she'd been hiding from). Still, it WAS appropriate that that which she'd been cast from, that which she'd lost by committing her crime, be regained through... another crime.
Even if she didn't quite know what said crime WAS. Even after the sennight's journey shipside was past.
"We have every intention to make use of your skillset. Your past accomplishments are nothing to scoff at. For the most part, you can expect to be sent to sea from time to time, mostly with men who have been in your shoes before. The jobs will be simple. You will be raiding very specific Garlean trade routes, and sinking ships there. As you will be taught by the Captain, there will be no boarding, and no contact with outside sources. It is work you should have an ease of familiarity with, I am told."
It had sounded too good to be true, too easy, compared to the weight of the crime she'd committed. She told herself that made sense; of course they would recruit those willing to do the work. Killing, sinking Garlean ships... or even Eorzeans trading to Garleans... that was not so unpalatable. They were traitors, weren't they? There was a humorous, slightly bitter irony to the notion that she'd be doing pirates' work after all, but at the end of the day, if it meant she could walk on Vylbrand with minimal fear of being arrested, it was a small price to pay.
Too small a price. The more she'd thought about it, of course, the more she'd worried, and so she'd devoted herself to not thinking about it. Drowning herself in dissolute pleasures, in adventurous combat, in the attentions of willing lovers, in work at the Host Club, in that little escapade in Ul'dah in which she helped to bring down Lord Kokoripu (and hadn't that been satisfying? She'd been reprimanded, by Alec, for taking such a risk, after.. but he'd still had to praise her for bringing those valuable documents, pillaged from the monetarist's mansion, to him).
Never mind that niggling question, as to why they weren't to board those ships. Pirates who only sunk, and didn't pillage... it smacked more of assassination, or financial sabotage, than simple piracy. She'd been told to ask no questions, beyond the necessary, which did not at all keep her from THINKING them. At the end of the day though, it didn't matter. It was what she had to do. To be able to return to Limsa.
And she HAD returned. Even before being sent on this mission.
She still remembered setting foot on the landing platform. One sennight nearly to the day after making the deal, the time frame Alec had promised... which had seemed inconceivable to her. Setting foot on solid ground. Keeping a smile on her face, trying not to look like the wanted criminal she knew she SHOULD be, as she went through customs. Half-certain that it had all been some sort of scam, a vicious prank, a trap...
...and then, somehow, miraculously, getting through. Welcome to Limsa Lominsa. Bustling merchants, hawkers, sailors. That moment, when she noticed a Yellowjacket staring at her, she remembered freezing in sudden panic... and then virtually sobbing with relief when he made a lewd gesture.
It had been true, all of it. Everything Alec had promised. She didn't go flaunting herself around Maelstrom Command... and she'd avoided flirting with Baderon like she used to (the man was a little too savvy to rumors and stories, after all), but otherwise Limsa had welcomed her back with open arms.
Leading her, of course, to wonder just what in the Seven Hells she'd gotten into. Until, one sennight later, the time came... to go to work.
The Merciless Maid sailed out of Moraby on a cool, misty morn. A sizeable ship, comparable to the Iron Bitch in complement, though there the resemblance ended. Armed to the teeth and crewed by every manner of ruffian, they set out.
A full sennight she would spend on board, and far from the worst she'd ever spent, aside from the frustrating and incomprehensible ban (ban!) on sexual relations. Past troubles, she was told. Captain Herlmhas' own personal orders. The Captain himself was a touch peculiar, demanding order and cleanliness somewhat beyond what she was used to, yet was not overall unlikeable. The crew... no particular surprises there. A fair spread, mostly male, mostly Limsan, all of whom had done something to put themselves on the wrong side of the law (though most did not willingly speak of their crimes, at least at first).
Out then, to the high seas. To the Bounty, where they sought their prey... and soon found it. A single, unmarked vessel by way of Thavnair. She tried to flee. The Maid did not let her.
Anstarra helped load cannons. Her comparatively small size and disproportionate physical strength allowed for quick work, and she took pride in the fact that her station was ready before any other, each time a salvo was to be launched. The heavy smoke of firepowder, the blinding rush of action... the shocking, deafening roar of the cannons. Over and over, until the enemy ship... until the target was utterly destroyed, and sunk.
And that was it.
Always, in the past, she'd been up top, ready to board... had been among the first to engage in bloody melee. She felt no qualms about battle, but to kill like this, far away, out of reach felt... unfair. Like she'd cheated the enemy of the chance to fight back, to take her own blood. Or, perhaps, like SHE had been cheated of the chance to have her own blood spilled. The rush and thrill. The savagery.
Her shipmates did not share the sentiment. Indeed, it seemed that other times their targets on occasion had been far more difficult, well-armed or even escorted; this attack was a milk run, by their reckoning, and they were glad of it. In the after-time, some of them would paint vivid images of past times when it had not been so easy: fellows of theirs getting shattered by cannon fire, unable to see or even realize their deaths before they happened.
These discussions did much to dispel Anstarra's qualms over 'fairness'. The old rules were true out here. Predatory truths. Kill or be killed, no quarter, no chances.
In a way, it was... chillingly nostalgic.
The return took place without incident. Deprived of one of her physical activities of choice, she indulged in the other: melee combat training. Far more on the return trip... she did not turn, in her heart, from the simple truth that the mass-murder of a shipful of complete strangers had been something of a bonding exercise.
It was a dark thought. But, more and more, she was coming to the fullest understanding of the fact that it was a dark world, not just back home, but everywhere. And the only brightness that mattered was that which you held in your hands, be it wealth or love or friendship. That which was tangible and close, not some murky painting lying in the past, nor some promising gleam in the future. The here, the now, that which you had or would soon have.
And so she helped train them. These killers and thieves. These traitors and con-men. These villains.
These fellows.
These kindred spirits.
And when she disembarked at Moraby, on a cool morning not unlike the one she left upon... when she looked up, and saw Limsa Lominsa's flag drifting lazily in the breeze, she smiled, and tossed a salute. And then spat on the docks.
And then Anstarra made her way off, tail dancing as she thought only of how she was going to throw Nihka over her shoulder, and carry her to a room.
Possibly for a sennight.
When the call came, Anstarra was unprepared.
One might be inclined to believe there was a pattern to such things, or perhaps a sort of balance; a cynical or philosophical (or religious?) mind would perhaps state that it was a right and just balancing of scales. That she should be called upon when otherwise needed. Alternately, such a mind might conclude that she was being blessed; for was this not a reprieve from responsibilities she had been growing ever more desperate to avoid, and had just now been buckling down to face?
Whatever the reason, or underlying order of cosmic balance (if such a thing even existed), Anstarra was unprepared... and yet responded eagerly, hastily, when she got the call. The first call, the one she'd been expecting for half a moon, almost to the day.
The call to go back to sea.
There was a certain romance to it, to be sure, underscoring the dread. Romance, and a sort of... appropriateness, which was a terribly unromantic word. Perhaps destiny (though she didn't like to lean on that word too heavily what with certain other obligations she'd been hiding from). Still, it WAS appropriate that that which she'd been cast from, that which she'd lost by committing her crime, be regained through... another crime.
Even if she didn't quite know what said crime WAS. Even after the sennight's journey shipside was past.
"We have every intention to make use of your skillset. Your past accomplishments are nothing to scoff at. For the most part, you can expect to be sent to sea from time to time, mostly with men who have been in your shoes before. The jobs will be simple. You will be raiding very specific Garlean trade routes, and sinking ships there. As you will be taught by the Captain, there will be no boarding, and no contact with outside sources. It is work you should have an ease of familiarity with, I am told."
It had sounded too good to be true, too easy, compared to the weight of the crime she'd committed. She told herself that made sense; of course they would recruit those willing to do the work. Killing, sinking Garlean ships... or even Eorzeans trading to Garleans... that was not so unpalatable. They were traitors, weren't they? There was a humorous, slightly bitter irony to the notion that she'd be doing pirates' work after all, but at the end of the day, if it meant she could walk on Vylbrand with minimal fear of being arrested, it was a small price to pay.
Too small a price. The more she'd thought about it, of course, the more she'd worried, and so she'd devoted herself to not thinking about it. Drowning herself in dissolute pleasures, in adventurous combat, in the attentions of willing lovers, in work at the Host Club, in that little escapade in Ul'dah in which she helped to bring down Lord Kokoripu (and hadn't that been satisfying? She'd been reprimanded, by Alec, for taking such a risk, after.. but he'd still had to praise her for bringing those valuable documents, pillaged from the monetarist's mansion, to him).
Never mind that niggling question, as to why they weren't to board those ships. Pirates who only sunk, and didn't pillage... it smacked more of assassination, or financial sabotage, than simple piracy. She'd been told to ask no questions, beyond the necessary, which did not at all keep her from THINKING them. At the end of the day though, it didn't matter. It was what she had to do. To be able to return to Limsa.
And she HAD returned. Even before being sent on this mission.
She still remembered setting foot on the landing platform. One sennight nearly to the day after making the deal, the time frame Alec had promised... which had seemed inconceivable to her. Setting foot on solid ground. Keeping a smile on her face, trying not to look like the wanted criminal she knew she SHOULD be, as she went through customs. Half-certain that it had all been some sort of scam, a vicious prank, a trap...
...and then, somehow, miraculously, getting through. Welcome to Limsa Lominsa. Bustling merchants, hawkers, sailors. That moment, when she noticed a Yellowjacket staring at her, she remembered freezing in sudden panic... and then virtually sobbing with relief when he made a lewd gesture.
It had been true, all of it. Everything Alec had promised. She didn't go flaunting herself around Maelstrom Command... and she'd avoided flirting with Baderon like she used to (the man was a little too savvy to rumors and stories, after all), but otherwise Limsa had welcomed her back with open arms.
Leading her, of course, to wonder just what in the Seven Hells she'd gotten into. Until, one sennight later, the time came... to go to work.
The Merciless Maid sailed out of Moraby on a cool, misty morn. A sizeable ship, comparable to the Iron Bitch in complement, though there the resemblance ended. Armed to the teeth and crewed by every manner of ruffian, they set out.
A full sennight she would spend on board, and far from the worst she'd ever spent, aside from the frustrating and incomprehensible ban (ban!) on sexual relations. Past troubles, she was told. Captain Herlmhas' own personal orders. The Captain himself was a touch peculiar, demanding order and cleanliness somewhat beyond what she was used to, yet was not overall unlikeable. The crew... no particular surprises there. A fair spread, mostly male, mostly Limsan, all of whom had done something to put themselves on the wrong side of the law (though most did not willingly speak of their crimes, at least at first).
Out then, to the high seas. To the Bounty, where they sought their prey... and soon found it. A single, unmarked vessel by way of Thavnair. She tried to flee. The Maid did not let her.
Anstarra helped load cannons. Her comparatively small size and disproportionate physical strength allowed for quick work, and she took pride in the fact that her station was ready before any other, each time a salvo was to be launched. The heavy smoke of firepowder, the blinding rush of action... the shocking, deafening roar of the cannons. Over and over, until the enemy ship... until the target was utterly destroyed, and sunk.
And that was it.
Always, in the past, she'd been up top, ready to board... had been among the first to engage in bloody melee. She felt no qualms about battle, but to kill like this, far away, out of reach felt... unfair. Like she'd cheated the enemy of the chance to fight back, to take her own blood. Or, perhaps, like SHE had been cheated of the chance to have her own blood spilled. The rush and thrill. The savagery.
Her shipmates did not share the sentiment. Indeed, it seemed that other times their targets on occasion had been far more difficult, well-armed or even escorted; this attack was a milk run, by their reckoning, and they were glad of it. In the after-time, some of them would paint vivid images of past times when it had not been so easy: fellows of theirs getting shattered by cannon fire, unable to see or even realize their deaths before they happened.
These discussions did much to dispel Anstarra's qualms over 'fairness'. The old rules were true out here. Predatory truths. Kill or be killed, no quarter, no chances.
In a way, it was... chillingly nostalgic.
The return took place without incident. Deprived of one of her physical activities of choice, she indulged in the other: melee combat training. Far more on the return trip... she did not turn, in her heart, from the simple truth that the mass-murder of a shipful of complete strangers had been something of a bonding exercise.
It was a dark thought. But, more and more, she was coming to the fullest understanding of the fact that it was a dark world, not just back home, but everywhere. And the only brightness that mattered was that which you held in your hands, be it wealth or love or friendship. That which was tangible and close, not some murky painting lying in the past, nor some promising gleam in the future. The here, the now, that which you had or would soon have.
And so she helped train them. These killers and thieves. These traitors and con-men. These villains.
These fellows.
These kindred spirits.
And when she disembarked at Moraby, on a cool morning not unlike the one she left upon... when she looked up, and saw Limsa Lominsa's flag drifting lazily in the breeze, she smiled, and tossed a salute. And then spat on the docks.
And then Anstarra made her way off, tail dancing as she thought only of how she was going to throw Nihka over her shoulder, and carry her to a room.
Possibly for a sennight.
![[Image: MBLxxyE.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/MBLxxyE.gif)