Interlude 1: Island Hopping (1/2)
It was a dark and stormy night.
The airship droned through the sky, propellers thrumming as it sought its prey, the distinctive sound of its workings covered by the noise of the wind and rain and thunder.
They were above the clouds, and so spared the worst of the storm. It was by no means comfy, but it was survivable.
Well, most of them were above the clouds.
“Haul him up!” bellowed the captain, and with two pairs of yipping shouts, four of the crew literally hopped in place, then dashed over to the starboard winch, and hauled for all they were worth.
It took a while. They weren't worth a lot, when it came to raw strength. None of the crew were.
But that was fine, they had other talents, and Captain Anne knew how to use them to her advantage.
The winch turned, and the rope wound, and from below the clouds, dangling like a lure from a deepsea fish, came a wicker basket. Water sluiced from it as it rose for it was below the clouds, and in the full brunt of the rain. And when the crew had got it up next to the deck, a figure swathed in layers and layers of oilskins gave a mighty leap and bounded over the railing.
“Permission to come aboard, mom?” the figure saluted, his voice muffled.
“Granted, me boy!” Captain Anne said, ignoring the fact he'd already done so. If it had been any of the rest of the crew she'd have shot them for their insolence. But this one was different. He was special.
“We've got a galleon sailing with a small escort,” her boy said, mopping water from his oilskins. “Two quarteons and a pinteon.”
“Only two quarteons? That's not enough for a galleon!” Captain Anne bellowed.
The crew flinched back, and she dialed her voice down. Too used to dealing with landlubbers in loud bars, these days. She didn't need that here, even with the storm. Every jack tar of them had good ears, after all.
“What do you think, Captain?” asked her first mate, Harey Karey, squinting at her through spectacles thick enough to stop an arrow. “Be this a trap?”
Captain Anne considered, then shook her head. “Nay. Tis the off season for the molasses mines. They're likely trying to sneak one last small shipment to market before the year starts in earnest. But they made a mistake!”
The crew leaned forward, grinning. They knew what she was going to say.
And she did not disappoint! “They crossed paths with the Cotton Tale, and the Dread Pirate Anne Bunny!” Captain Anne roared. “Now get ter yer stations and dive dive dive! We're takin' that Galleon, and anyone else that dares to sail against us!”
And as they went, Anne assembled her party, called her boarding bastards up from below decks, and chanted her litany of buffs and preparatory skills, the ones laid down by her ancestor decades ago, chanted in a rising crescendo of glee. “Lay of the Land. Ambush. Do the Job. Fight the Battles! Sea Legs! Show the Colors! Swinger! YARRRR!!!”
“YARRRR!!!” the crew screamed back.
Yarrr!!! was a useful skill, and the first one any true pirate learned when they got the job. It basically increased their luck when performing stupid but flashy stunts. Like for instance, trying to swing on guidelines down from a moving airship onto the deck of a galleon during a heavy thunderstorm.
The Cotton Tale dove from the clouds like a bird of prey, its lift engine stopped, and gravity doing the work. A few crew were blown away by the force of the wind, flying off and down toward the ocean below to a certain death and Anne laughed, laughed in the face of gravity as she clung to the wheel and steered it toward the running lamps of the squadron of ships ahead.
She could hear bells tolling, heavy bells, even through the rush of the wind and the storm. The Cotton Tale's flag was on full display, thanks to her skills, visible even through the dark night and filling their prey's crew with dread. A simple symbol, really, a skull with rabbit ears.
The Dread Pirate Anne Bunny had come to thump some heads!
The force of the wind blew her scarf from her head, and her ears flapped free, then straightened, as she held them firm. Unlike most rabbit beastkin she was decently strong, her human parent's half helping to mitigate rabbity weakness, and her years of grabbing booty and sending foes down to Gravy Jones had only made her stronger.
And to her extreme disappointment, the galleon's captain knew it.
“Captain!” her second mate called back, straining to shout over the rushing air. “They've struck their colors!”
Anne's whiskers wiggled. Her nose twitched. And a scowl crept across her face, as irritation filled her lean frame. “Blast and bedamn!”
“What do we do, captain?”
For a moment she wanted to ignore the surrender.
For a hot minute, she held silent, wanting to drop and rip and tear and take heads clean off at this blatant act of cowardice after she'd gotten her blood up.
But then she felt hot eyes on her back. Her son's eyes.
What legacy will you leave behind?
Anne ground her gold buckteeth. “We. Honor. The. Code.” she snarled, and jerked on the wheel. “Engines to full! Propellers to half! Take us in slow.”
And a few minutes later they were boarding the enemy vessel, a horde of bunny beastkin, and every jill of them female save for one. They yarr'd, they strutted, they slapped around the prisoners, but did no real harm as they filtered down into the hull of the galleon and started hauling up barrels of raw rum.
The lone male in the crew, still shrouded in heavy robes, patted his mother on the shoulder.
Well, he tried to. She caught his hand and threw him on the deck before she realized it was Stormanorm the Third.
“None of that now,” she snapped. “Mommy's working.”
Though she wasn't, she really wasn't. She was just standing on deck, glaring down at the cowering captive crew, and mentally counting the barrels drawn up from the hold. Not enough. Not nearly enough for the effort. And not satisfying.
Norm sighed, and rose to his long feet. “Sorry, Mom. I know you wanted a battle.”