The confident captain's face was pale. Gone was his smirk, his mirth, his mask of composure.
"A...mutiny?" he whispered, more to himself than to the assembled men before him. His back was to the railing behind the helm of the ship, the crew standing in front of the wheel in a neat formation.
It was all Nero could do to keep himself from collapsing to his knees. I'm...losing the Forte? He stumbled backwards, his arms clasping the railing, his mind spinning. Even as he struggled to react, a part of his mind was racing. This was Taeros. The Monetarists. They've turned them against me. Garalt...R'tyaka...Baenmann...all of them refused to look at their former captain. R'tyaka's tail was slack, her shoulder slump, her ears drooping beneath the fancifully decorated tricorne she spent so much time working on. Baenmann's broad shoulders were tightened as he clasped his hands together, his sea-green skin pale and his nose piercing silent, even as the tiny bell attached to it waved. Garalt's expression was chiseled from a deep pain and an incredible sorrow, but so too was it built from stony resolve. The shirtless Highlander's arms were crossed, and the rest of the men kept their heads bowed down in equal amounts of shame and solid, forlorn determination. The men were solemn, even as the gulls called to one another and the evening sun turned the horizon into a brilliant orange hue, providing a sharp and jarring backdrop to the scene taking place on the deck of the Second Forte.Â
A thousand possibilities spun. How did they reach him? His crew? How did the Monetarists find his ship, and manage to turn his entire crew against him? It was impossible. Utterly impossible. There was just no way that they could have managed this. Not at all. Nero had been perfectly discrete. He'd kept all of his assets hidden, his trail dusted. No paper could be linked to him. No crime could be properly linked to him. There was...just...no way this could..
"W...why? How did they do it?" Nero asked, dazed from the revelation. His crew. His family. They wouldn't turn against him. Not like this. "What did they say? They were lying. They're not..paying..you?" His questions were less of questions and more of near-gibbering fragments. "They lied to you. Whatever they said.."There was no way this could happen. It was impossible. His crew was loyal. Garalt was loyal, his brother, his guardian. He and Daegsatz were equal, the closest thing to a father Nero had when Vail had gone. "I don't know what they did, but they're lying."
"Are they lying about this, lad?" Garalt withdrew from behind him an opened letter. Nero froze at the sight of it. Kendrick must have...no, the boy was too weak-willed for that. Someone must have gotten their hands on it, and then exposed it to his crew. "An entire house of people. Men. Women. Children. The extended family. The elders." The Highlander's expression added deep disappointment to his sorrow. "You ordered their deaths. All of their deaths. With a pen, you murdered more people in a day than your father did in two entire decades of piracy with a galleon." How...how did they..but.. No. No, no, this wasn't right. This shouldn't be. It shouldn't matter. The Forte and he were one. They'd done some unsavory things in the past, but this was..
"I...that was for..Daegsatz!" Nero choked out. "They killed him. I didn't want them to die, but I--"
"Ye always said that in good or evil, a man must be takin' responsibility," Baenmann rumbled quietly. Nero looked at him incredulously. Baenmann was a shy Roegadyn, if ever was one. He kept to himself, rarely spoke, nearly died daily of anxiety of attacks. "We be seein' now...that yer just a boy." The Sea Wolf sniffed. "An'....no longer fit...ta cap'n this vessel."
"But that doesn't mean--" This shouldn't be happening. He'd lost control, of himself and his crew. Where was his composure? His smirk? His confidence? It was melting away under the withering gaze of pity emitted by his crew, his friends. This shouldn't be happening so easily. Not like this. Not like this. He'd talked his way out of everything before. Everything. When someone was trying to murder him, when someone was stealing from him, when he was stealing from someone.
"There always bein' a line no man be crossin'," R'tyaka said, tugging on the corner of her elaborate tricorne hat, her gaze focused squarely on the plank to the right of her foot. "We may be pirates, an' scoundr'ls, an' thieves an' beggars, and aye, som' o' us bein' bloody murderers s'well...but that don't mean we be lackin' lines we refuse ta cross. Ye be killin' women and children, cap--mate. We ain't bein' part o' that."
"And this is one line we cannot cross with you...Nero," Garalt said quietly. "This is something that we cannot, in good conscience, be complicit in."
Even as he reeled, a tiny voice of clarity spoke in the smuggler's mind. All I've done, all I have ever done is try to save people from their despair. Their poverty. And this.. No. No. He would not stoop that low. He would not blame his crew. Nero knew, the instant he began attacking Ul'dahn ships, the instant he sold the guns, the instant he offered his knife for Roen to kill him, he knew. This was one story that would have no happy ending.
Garalt seemed to notice his reaction, and he let out a deep, pained sigh. "Lad, there is no difference between an evil man, and a good man who stands by and lets evil deeds happen. All of us here..." he briefly unfolded an arm to gesture at the assembled crew. "We refuse to be that evil man. We kill...but not innocent women, and not innocent children."
The Hyur blearily gazed at the crew, aware that some manner of liquid had begun to slightly blur his vision. "But...where's Luther? And Norman? Lohtta?" They were pirates.
"They couldn't care less about your deeds...but with the rest of us refusing to serve, they went to seek greener pastures."
Garalt's words didn't even reach Nero. The Hyur had sunk beneath memories, his own voice and the past voices of others rising to the surface.
"Of course, this isn't just any other pirate ship. More like a party ship, really. With occasional loot and plundering." He leaned back behind the desk, boots propped on the surface. "I'm not convinced you'd be a good fit for our crew."
"Ye diggin' at me height, laddie?" The Lalafell violently swung a hand axe onto the desk. Nero quickly moved his feet from being sliced.
"No, no...but you better have some decent moral character, is all I'm saying." The pirate captain smirked.
"Since when'n pirates be needin' that mural whatsit?" The Lalafell bellowed, waving the hand axe again. The Hyur behind the desk stood up and leaned forward, staring the would-be pirate straight in the eye, his expression one of absolute smugness...and more than a little bit of arrogance.
"Since they started wanting to join my crew."
Several similar scenes arrived, flashing themselves in instants in his mind's eye. He slumped down, no longer holding in to the railing. The sorrow that filled Garalt's expression could only be described as infallible. The Highlander stepped forward and leaned down in a half-embrace of his former captain. The Midlander was near catatonic, unable to react. The women and children. I killed women and children. I killed Liam. And Martin. Daegsatz. I killed..
Why didn't they just understand? Everything he was doing he was trying to do for Ul'dah. Rebuild the system. A new future. A better tomorrow. No more pain, no more poverty, no more hunger, no more beatings. A better place.Â
Another side of him was laughing maniacally, incredulously. Since when did pirates ever balk at murder? They've murdered hundreds of people and sent them right down to Llymlaen's embrace. What made the Yoyorano houses so special? The crew of the Forte didn't just murder, but they stole, too. All of those raids, those screams as the ship broke apart from the cannons and the fire, the crew taking up swords only to be killed by the boarding party. Pirates objecting to this? Pirates? Since when? What kind of pirates didn't revel in that? The raids, the bloodshed. Women and children? How many women and children were on those ships?Â
Why did Vail take him in? What reason did that raider have? A shivering, skinny child who had pickpocketed his way out of starvation in Limsa Lominsa. He had nothing of value. Nothing to contribute. Why had he learned thaumaturgy? Why was he with Roen?
Where did I err?, he asked himself, bringing his gaze skyward, his eyes dull and glazed over.
His inner voice did not respond, but the answer he saw was his own face, sunken just beneath the surface of a roiling sea of regret.
"A...mutiny?" he whispered, more to himself than to the assembled men before him. His back was to the railing behind the helm of the ship, the crew standing in front of the wheel in a neat formation.
It was all Nero could do to keep himself from collapsing to his knees. I'm...losing the Forte? He stumbled backwards, his arms clasping the railing, his mind spinning. Even as he struggled to react, a part of his mind was racing. This was Taeros. The Monetarists. They've turned them against me. Garalt...R'tyaka...Baenmann...all of them refused to look at their former captain. R'tyaka's tail was slack, her shoulder slump, her ears drooping beneath the fancifully decorated tricorne she spent so much time working on. Baenmann's broad shoulders were tightened as he clasped his hands together, his sea-green skin pale and his nose piercing silent, even as the tiny bell attached to it waved. Garalt's expression was chiseled from a deep pain and an incredible sorrow, but so too was it built from stony resolve. The shirtless Highlander's arms were crossed, and the rest of the men kept their heads bowed down in equal amounts of shame and solid, forlorn determination. The men were solemn, even as the gulls called to one another and the evening sun turned the horizon into a brilliant orange hue, providing a sharp and jarring backdrop to the scene taking place on the deck of the Second Forte.Â
A thousand possibilities spun. How did they reach him? His crew? How did the Monetarists find his ship, and manage to turn his entire crew against him? It was impossible. Utterly impossible. There was just no way that they could have managed this. Not at all. Nero had been perfectly discrete. He'd kept all of his assets hidden, his trail dusted. No paper could be linked to him. No crime could be properly linked to him. There was...just...no way this could..
"W...why? How did they do it?" Nero asked, dazed from the revelation. His crew. His family. They wouldn't turn against him. Not like this. "What did they say? They were lying. They're not..paying..you?" His questions were less of questions and more of near-gibbering fragments. "They lied to you. Whatever they said.."There was no way this could happen. It was impossible. His crew was loyal. Garalt was loyal, his brother, his guardian. He and Daegsatz were equal, the closest thing to a father Nero had when Vail had gone. "I don't know what they did, but they're lying."
"Are they lying about this, lad?" Garalt withdrew from behind him an opened letter. Nero froze at the sight of it. Kendrick must have...no, the boy was too weak-willed for that. Someone must have gotten their hands on it, and then exposed it to his crew. "An entire house of people. Men. Women. Children. The extended family. The elders." The Highlander's expression added deep disappointment to his sorrow. "You ordered their deaths. All of their deaths. With a pen, you murdered more people in a day than your father did in two entire decades of piracy with a galleon." How...how did they..but.. No. No, no, this wasn't right. This shouldn't be. It shouldn't matter. The Forte and he were one. They'd done some unsavory things in the past, but this was..
"I...that was for..Daegsatz!" Nero choked out. "They killed him. I didn't want them to die, but I--"
"Ye always said that in good or evil, a man must be takin' responsibility," Baenmann rumbled quietly. Nero looked at him incredulously. Baenmann was a shy Roegadyn, if ever was one. He kept to himself, rarely spoke, nearly died daily of anxiety of attacks. "We be seein' now...that yer just a boy." The Sea Wolf sniffed. "An'....no longer fit...ta cap'n this vessel."
"But that doesn't mean--" This shouldn't be happening. He'd lost control, of himself and his crew. Where was his composure? His smirk? His confidence? It was melting away under the withering gaze of pity emitted by his crew, his friends. This shouldn't be happening so easily. Not like this. Not like this. He'd talked his way out of everything before. Everything. When someone was trying to murder him, when someone was stealing from him, when he was stealing from someone.
"There always bein' a line no man be crossin'," R'tyaka said, tugging on the corner of her elaborate tricorne hat, her gaze focused squarely on the plank to the right of her foot. "We may be pirates, an' scoundr'ls, an' thieves an' beggars, and aye, som' o' us bein' bloody murderers s'well...but that don't mean we be lackin' lines we refuse ta cross. Ye be killin' women and children, cap--mate. We ain't bein' part o' that."
"And this is one line we cannot cross with you...Nero," Garalt said quietly. "This is something that we cannot, in good conscience, be complicit in."
Even as he reeled, a tiny voice of clarity spoke in the smuggler's mind. All I've done, all I have ever done is try to save people from their despair. Their poverty. And this.. No. No. He would not stoop that low. He would not blame his crew. Nero knew, the instant he began attacking Ul'dahn ships, the instant he sold the guns, the instant he offered his knife for Roen to kill him, he knew. This was one story that would have no happy ending.
Garalt seemed to notice his reaction, and he let out a deep, pained sigh. "Lad, there is no difference between an evil man, and a good man who stands by and lets evil deeds happen. All of us here..." he briefly unfolded an arm to gesture at the assembled crew. "We refuse to be that evil man. We kill...but not innocent women, and not innocent children."
The Hyur blearily gazed at the crew, aware that some manner of liquid had begun to slightly blur his vision. "But...where's Luther? And Norman? Lohtta?" They were pirates.
"They couldn't care less about your deeds...but with the rest of us refusing to serve, they went to seek greener pastures."
Garalt's words didn't even reach Nero. The Hyur had sunk beneath memories, his own voice and the past voices of others rising to the surface.
"Of course, this isn't just any other pirate ship. More like a party ship, really. With occasional loot and plundering." He leaned back behind the desk, boots propped on the surface. "I'm not convinced you'd be a good fit for our crew."
"Ye diggin' at me height, laddie?" The Lalafell violently swung a hand axe onto the desk. Nero quickly moved his feet from being sliced.
"No, no...but you better have some decent moral character, is all I'm saying." The pirate captain smirked.
"Since when'n pirates be needin' that mural whatsit?" The Lalafell bellowed, waving the hand axe again. The Hyur behind the desk stood up and leaned forward, staring the would-be pirate straight in the eye, his expression one of absolute smugness...and more than a little bit of arrogance.
"Since they started wanting to join my crew."
Several similar scenes arrived, flashing themselves in instants in his mind's eye. He slumped down, no longer holding in to the railing. The sorrow that filled Garalt's expression could only be described as infallible. The Highlander stepped forward and leaned down in a half-embrace of his former captain. The Midlander was near catatonic, unable to react. The women and children. I killed women and children. I killed Liam. And Martin. Daegsatz. I killed..
Why didn't they just understand? Everything he was doing he was trying to do for Ul'dah. Rebuild the system. A new future. A better tomorrow. No more pain, no more poverty, no more hunger, no more beatings. A better place.Â
Another side of him was laughing maniacally, incredulously. Since when did pirates ever balk at murder? They've murdered hundreds of people and sent them right down to Llymlaen's embrace. What made the Yoyorano houses so special? The crew of the Forte didn't just murder, but they stole, too. All of those raids, those screams as the ship broke apart from the cannons and the fire, the crew taking up swords only to be killed by the boarding party. Pirates objecting to this? Pirates? Since when? What kind of pirates didn't revel in that? The raids, the bloodshed. Women and children? How many women and children were on those ships?Â
Why did Vail take him in? What reason did that raider have? A shivering, skinny child who had pickpocketed his way out of starvation in Limsa Lominsa. He had nothing of value. Nothing to contribute. Why had he learned thaumaturgy? Why was he with Roen?
Where did I err?, he asked himself, bringing his gaze skyward, his eyes dull and glazed over.
His inner voice did not respond, but the answer he saw was his own face, sunken just beneath the surface of a roiling sea of regret.
