Private Tales The Dead Man’s Curse

[Maeve Blackwood]

Maeve Blackwood leaned over the railing of her ship, which to some might have seemed a risky move to make. The decaying wood protested the undead kivren’s weight against it, but somehow it held. A cigarette hung haphazardly from betwixt painted lips as her crew amused themselves with a game of dice. Those damned souls seemed perfectly content to spend their time at sea with such mundane pastimes, and perhaps, taking their fate into consideration, they deserved that small joy.

Turning around, Maeve faced her crew, resting her bottom against the rail. Her hand raised to her lips, withdrawing the cigarette as she exhaled. Her chest seemed to rattle with the passage of air.

“Ye filthy landlubber!” exclaimed one of the ghouls, flinging himself at his crew mate. Desiccated fingers reached for the other’s eyes, curling inward menacingly.

“Avast, or ye’re both walkin’ th’ plank,” Maeve hissed, ruby lips parting to reveal jagged teeth. “N’ I’ll be eatin’ th’ both o’ ye fer grub meself.”

“Ye’re full o’ shit,” quipped the aggressor, and Maeve suddenly lunged at him. He jerked back, startled, and reached for a rusty harpoon gun that lay on deck. Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger and the bolt released, toward Maeve.

The kivren shifted, and though the process was quick, it was also painful. Her legs split into eight arms, taking on the rubbery texture of an octopus as one tendril swung upward, intercepting the harpoon. An otherworldly shriek tore through the night, perhaps haunting other nearby vessels.

RustySpork

 

[Méchanteau]

Sharks were too docile and falcons too haughty, Méchanteau much preferred to compare himself to a vulture. Hence his theft of the Vulturous Flight, a ship with far too much gilding for its wood but just enough of a recursive motif for the pirate to be overcome with joy; least of all, the paddles were shaped as wings! To christen this new ship Méchanteau took great care to honor centurial codes and traditions he only vaguely remembered having founded. He sailed out, commanding the eighty fleshy bodies in the ship as they did in life, with the sort of silence and precision earned by generations of selective breeding. Paddlers and hoisters and the rest of the crew were grossly deformed almost by design, but each was like a fine instrument just perfect for their task. Méchanteau even considered gathering up some living, have them cross bloodlines and juggle deformities until something useful came out, but men with hands the size of fat trouts would be good for hauling and little else. Better leave the living live as they would, and raise their bodies as they were...

Speaking of raising bodies, Méchanteau had caught wind of a pirate in his waters. This did not concern him terribly, competitors meant good-eating and trade, but this one had a certain radiance of... undeath. In fact, her whole ship did. Méchanteau could attest to that, perched as he was in the vulturesque crow's nest, following with inflamed excitement the pacing of this rival. Oh, how his heart beat at each beat of her boot on the rotten wood, and then fluttered up to his throat with each exhale that came from those parted, dead lips. To be in love! To feel again these layers of muscle and fat grinding against bone, organs and pleurae! He would wear her skin well.

Bound to their captain, the bodies that manned the Vulturous Flight did not have souls or minds of their own. The same did not appear to be the case with the upstart's crew. In fact, either the lich's monocular had a 'mischanted' lens or the captain appeared to have just been by one of her own... Still peering through the device, Méchanteau threw himself forward, to be caught in midair by a flock of birds - not all of them feathered or fleshed. The garishly dressed flying skeleton must have made a sight, followed by a growing host of rot, dropped onboard of Blackwood's ship in more than enough time for her to deal with the mutiny herself.

"WELCOME, BOYS AND GHOULS, TO THE CRUCIBLE OF SOULS!" he shouted in a refracted echo, more mystical than haunting. He jauntily paraded around the crew in sight "And the crucible, methinks, murmurs for meat."

 

[Maeve Blackwood]

One of Maeve's arms unfurled quickly, snapping itself around the harpoon-gun wielding fiend with alacrity. A wicked grin twisted the corners of her mouth as she ripped the once-living man from his seat and slammed him back down against the deck. It was as she raised the poor pirate into the air again that Maeve noticed the eyes of her crew on something overhead. Her head tilted back slightly, her eyes bright. Méchanteau's silhouette moved overhead, and when he dropped onto her deck, she flung her victim away from her.

She raised her injured arm, grabbing the harpoon and tearing it free from the limb. A thick, dark ichor oozed from the limb as she lowered it once more. Her body shifted, tentacles writhing and twisting around her as she glowered at the Kiva's Fury's uninvited guest. Maeve's lips moved into a thin, wary line as she watched Méchanteau.

The wind howled around the ship, despite the fact that it was truly barely more than a gentle breeze. Another unnatural feature of the ship, probably. Her tongue, purpled with death, swept over her lips. She only had so much time that she could stay above water in this state and she wasn't keen on shifting back in front of the stranger.

"'N wha' th' farrg are ye doin' on me ship?" the cecaelia snarled.

Méchanteau

 

[Méchanteau]

Ever the showman, Méchanteau took the snarl in stride and with a bow, swooping his tricorn over his chest "What the farrg indeed!" he then kept on flouncing, all the way to the pirate's carcass. He held onto a handful of greasy black hair, propping it high for all to see the spill of gore "Entertain the notion that you are— give me a second..." he scoped handfuls of the guts still inside, gathering into a pile at that poured and soaked over the boots of both men "Entertain the notion that you are dead." he punctuated with a meaty splosh "Not just dead, but animated. And as if the deal couldn't be made any sweeter, you yet have control beyond death. Well, further entertain the vaguest possibility that, rare as you are, more exist! But they are, among many other terrible things, landlubbers." he shook his red fist at the mere idea of such a people, a gesture spastically mimicked by the corpse "And so you keep to yourself, the occasional raid or siege notwithstanding," he let go of the greasy hair, letting the carcass stumble, fall, squirm, before rising to its feet to continue copying the captain —to the best of its rather impaired ability— "ever hoping in your heart of hearts that you will may one day find one you might call kin..."

Méchanteau fell into a loud silent. Forced as it was, it allowed for a good effect. The dripping of blood and fluids, the blowing of the preternatural wind, the crackling of his flames, it was all very dramatic!

"And then you find him..." he opened his arms, as an actor would taken in applause "And he is a right beau." He quickly broke the pose, slinging the corpse over his shoulder and stuffing his pockets with the squelchy guts. "My name is Méchanteau and I come partly to talk, and partly to do business. Preferably away from these fleshies. Erhm, no offence." he waved at the other pirates, half expecting some to kill themselves just so they could be raised to serve him for all eternity. It was a good gig, probably more stable than whatever their gods had promised.

 

[Maeve Blackwood]

Fleshies. There was something about that word being used to describe her crew that Maeve didn't much care for. Perhaps because all of Kiva's Fury were under the same curse, and the same magic that reanimated her also affected the others. If she were a more thoughtful woman, thinking about it might have guided her hand to the pendant around her neck, to make sure it was intact and that she and her pirates weren't about to be sent back to their rightful graves.

Maeve said nothing as he defiled what was left of the crew mate she'd slammed back and forth, watching with keen interest as he played in the visceral juices of the ghoulish creature. He was still moving, dancing to Méchanteau's macabre choreography. But when the lich was done tugging those marionette strings, the ghoul lurched away, trying to scoop his innards back into its gut. This amused the cecaelia, coaxing the faintest of smiles to her painted lips.

"Leave 'im be 'n come wit' me, then," Mave said, and her arms worked in tandem, guiding her mass across the deck and toward the captain's quarters. Her skin was beginning to dry, and though she wouldn't die, she'd soon be miserable. She pushed open the door, holding it long enough to allow Méchanteau to enter before closing it and slinking toward the divider that obscured a corner of the room. She disappeared behind it, and the sound of flesh and bone twisting, popping, breaking, could be heard from beyond it. A few moments later, she emerged, having tugged on a pair of pants to replace the ones she shredded during her earlier transformation.

"Speak. Wha' business do ye seek?"

 

[Méchanteau]

Watching that poor, poor soul flounder, at last free from the lich's control, Méchanteau felt the slightest bit of pity. He made a point of exaggerating his swagger just a bit much, enough for some innards to spill from his pocket. A kidney, even a liver, perhaps a portion of the entrails. He was not without mercy! He tipped the man his hat before he disappeared into the ship, following close behind the captain and giving a small nod as she held the door open. What a magnanimous streak he was on! He took a seat, not particularly fazed by the snapping and cracking of his colleague's transformation. He wondered how she would return, a corpse woman of beauty or this horrible and much more gripping tentacled monstrosity!

"Well, what's the one business that never goes under?" he turned his stool around now that she was suitably apparelled "Information! Nobody ever passes on the stuff. Me, I love it. It's the wonder of knowing, you know? Keeps the mind springy, the soul wanting." he leaned, elbow propped on a table and skull rested against a needle-like finger - he looked very much at home "Methinks you and yours could use a... rundown. For instance, my great and terrible name ought to have conjured up some images of fear and distress! Not that I am set against you, of course not! It is simply the way of the sea, the small fish avoids the big fish, lest he be eaten... Unless they're a remora."

"Are you a remora?" he leaned further, launching himself from the seat. Not to attack, but to simply pace around the room, at times getting his greedy hands all over this one or other doodad only to then return them to their place. "Well, little fish! I would like to know more about your ship, your crew, and yourself! Hells, I could even use your maps, charts! You may add mine to yours, too. It's not like I'll be sailing all over the place, haha!" he then coldly added "Yet."

"You see, high risk entrepreneurs such as ourselves, what with being more dead and cursed than a..." his trap held shut, reaching for that word he could not conjure "Tit for tat, as they say. I answer your questions, you answer mine. How about five each to start, sounds fair?"

 

[Maeve Blackwood]

"Mollusk," Maeve corrected. Bare feet padded against the floorboards of the cabin as she moved toward her desk, skirting around Méchanteau's meandering frame to grab a wooden brush from her desk. Brushing ruby curls back from her face, she drew her hair up with one hand and laid the brush down. Maeve tugged open a drawer and fished for a thin leather strap which she used to tie a ponytail. A moment later, the deathsinger strode toward her bed and sat on the edge of it, those glowing, ethereal eyes of hers watching Méchanteau as he continued to speak.

"'N no, I be nah a remora. Nor do I 'ave anythin' in common wit' suckerfish," she said sourly. The Kivren woman's painted lips pursed together tightly, her thoughts briefly touching upon memories of home. Her nose wrinkled. "Mighty well. But I'll be startin'."

"First, how's it that ye died? Wha' happened t' yer flesh?" the pirate began, hardly pausing for breath. Not that she needed any of that anyway. "Be that yer ship out thar? 'n if 'tis, wha''s its name? 'n finally, th' hard riddle: wha' information 'ave ye that ye reckon 'tis worth me givin' up information on me owns?"

Maeve leaned forward, thrusting a hand under the bed and feeling around for the familiar neck of a bottle of rum. When she found it, she grabbed it and sat back up. "I'd offer ye rum, but I dunno where it'd go."

 

[Méchanteau]

Méchanteau smothered a giggle as this other called herself a mollusk. Like a snail? Then again, squids and octopi were mollusks too. Fine creatures to curry favour with, but he preferred them as thralls. The bigger, the better! Those sorts big enough to take down a ship? He wanted one of those. An entire shoal! Even more exciting, and ten times more perplexing, was the sight of the capitaness sat on her bed.

Turns out she was just reaching for something under it.

No less unsettled, Méchanteau sat again on the stool. Soon he would be exploring again, polluting every damn utensil and bric-a-brac with his touch, but for now he has answers to mull over. "Hard riddle? I think you just answered it yourself. After all, how else will you have your burning curiosity sated? Knowledge for its own sake is fine, but curiosity? It gets more than cats killed." he took the rum, pouring some into the green flames "Ah, it's the weak- or rather, social stuff." he slammed the bottle on the table, not one bit drunk despite the much more chipper flames "Good for you. Shows character, not wanting to make strike a deal drunk. Can you even get drunk?" he opened his hand, signalling her to stop "Nevermind, I have better questions to ask. Well, as for yours — I think it's safe to say I died the same way I lived. Maybe. Perhaps I was born this way, fleshless and soulless? You can't miss what you can't remember. The ship you's been seeing coming from leeward is the Vulturous Flight. Cute girl that one, very spry."

"Between life and death." he whispered, tilting the chair on a single leg "As in, not quite alive but not quite undead. Cursed ship, but still a bit on the rickety side. Savvy?" he returned "Don't think about this as... surrendering information. More like, establishing good and hearty bonds between us fishes. 'S like that proverb! A friendly hand... scratches where yours... can't reach... And well, I would have to be a fair bit daft to reveal the most delightful secret now. How about this, ten answers and I'll give you the ultimate solution for any one of your problems. Well, the secret to it, at least."

As he began listing his questions, he counted down his fingers "Who are you? How many ships are at your command? How many men? Why are you lot... existentially challenged? What's the deal with this octopus situation you have going on? Are you in league with anyone? Do you know more undead pirate captains? Are you familiar with gunpowder? Are you interested in exchanging maps? Would you be interested in a one-time alliance with Captain Méchanteau, Unliving Terror of the Seas?"

 

[Maeve Blackwood]

That be a lot o' riddles, Maeve thought to herself as Méchanteau spouted off those ten questions. Her eyes flickered briefly before sweeping toward where the lich placed her bottle on the desk next to him. How rude! He should have given the bottle back to her. Wrinkling her nose, the pirate drew herself up onto the mattress and put her back to the wall, legs crossing the width of the bed to hang off the edge of it.

"I be Maeve, Captain o' Kiva's Fury. I reckon thar's prolly about three hundred damned aboard this ship, but as t' why we be black spotted--that's up t' ye t' learn on yer owns. As fer wha' I be, that's none o' yer business, Bones," the ghoulish mer-creature answered. "Ye goin' t' hand me that bottle, or hog it yourself?"

She paused in her vocalization for a moment, waiting for the lich to hand her the rum--not that there was any use in drinking it. To answer his earlier question without speaking, the woman lost her ability to get drunk some time ago. Perhaps there was a concoction out there somewhere that might assist with that, but in this regard, Maeve could only taste the familiar bite of booze and dream of the life she once had.

"I can nah say I've met a lot o' undead pirates outside o' me owns. As far as gunpowder goes, thar are cannons below deck. Would ye like t' see them? More maps are nice, but I be wary o' an alliance. I dunno ye, 'n we be nah exactly th' most trustworthy sort o' scallywags now, are we?" She watched him, waiting for an answer after she finished speaking. It was her turn to ask questions, but she appeared to have forgotten considering she showed no other intention of speaking further until Captain Méchanteau replied.

 

[Méchanteau]

Méchanteau surrendered the bottle, although he didn't looked mighty pleased about it. "Tut-tut, good captain, the supposed is to give as many answers as you were given." he admonished without much candour. He hadn't withheld anything yet, mostly because her questions were of a harmless sort. What's more, he did like talking about himself! At the mention of cannons, full of that scrumptious wonder powder that could ground brick and timber into fine dust, there was a not at all imperceptible rattling of bones. "Well, aren't you flash!" he stood, hooking together the fish lures that served as his cufflinks "Let me see them devils, been a good couple o' centuries since I boarded a ship with anything of the sort! Folk here prefer ballistae and pitch-belchers. Good stuff but... it doesn't have that bang." he swooped his fingers in an exploding motion, paired with a poor rendition of the sound. It had been a while.

He snapped his fingers, hand wrapped around the doorknob that led to the deck.

"We'll be thick as thieves, flash Maeve. Scallywags of sea and soul, we might as well be brethren! In the meanwhile, let me peruse your gunnery. We can haggle routes later." then he remembered "By the by, Kiva's Fury, do you practice? Hallowed grounds give me a splitting headache, I don't know if the same goes with ships... You're one of those fish folk, yes?" he said nothing of the scores of kivren he had sent down Endellion's prodigious gullet.

 

[Maeve Blackwood]

Maeve looked at him, considering for a long moment the words that he spoke. When the bottle was in her hand once more, she took a hearty swig from it, yearning for the days when it would have had an effect on her; yearning for the days of mortality, where she as not an undead creature, forced to wander the seas alone. Her gaze darkened slightly, the ethereal glow of her teal eyes dimming. Another swig, but this time it turned into thirst gulps as she drained the entire bottle. A moment later, the kivren hurled it across her quarters and watched as it shattered against rotten wood. She slid to the edge of the bed, her gaze on the lich.

"'n wha' be it t' ye wha' I be 'n am nah? We may go into an agreement, but that does nah mean ye 'ave starb'rd t' pry into me past," the woman breathed, her voice echoing around them. "I've answered enough o' yer riddles fer now, I reckon. I'll show ye th' cannons, but t' nah be surprised by th' condition they or me ship are in. Th' Kiva's Fury rose from her watery grave."

She stood finally, looking at the creature before her with the haunted knowledge of the life she was doomed to live. Maeve was a miserable soul, and there was likely little in this world that could fix that. She raised an arm upward and pulled open the door to the cabin so that they could walk back out on the deck that was blackened with rot.