“Hm…” Haveraul was moving his head side to side, twisting this way and that, examining the board from every angle.

“Does it show you something new if you look at it from the right or left?” Akura’a teased him.

“Never a good idea for a novice to trash talk,” he chided.

Akura’a held her hands up innocently. “Look all you want.”

He pulled an emerald from his pouch and placed it triumphantly on the board, then proceeded to jump three of her jewels. He picked them up and gave her a wink. “This game rewards patient play.”

He’d barely finished his brag before Akura’a had placed a ruby down and jumped five of his gems in turn. He’d sprung her trap.

“Hey now!” he protested. “I thought you said you never played Jewel Jump.”

“Haven’t,” she said. “I just pick things up quickly.”

“How much did we bet?” he said rubbing the back of his head, regretting his decisions.

“Ah, what’s the matter, Haver?” Laterra said. “Orc got your gold?”

“Don’t take too much from him,” Rovel said. “You’ll bruise his ego. Makin’ gold’s all he’s good for!”

There was a heavy crash that sounded like it came from the cargo hold. They all stopped what they were doing and looked at each other.

Akura’a was quickly acclimating to the creaks and groans that came with seafaring, but this was something else. Muffled shouts could be heard through the floor.

“What you think that ruckus is about?” Darben asked.

“Oh god, we’re sinking. It’s not my time yet,” Rovel whimpered.

“Get a grip,” Laterra said. “You’re useless in a pinch, ain’t ya? We probably should go see if they need help, though.”

There were a few successive thuds, and the shouting intensified. Then: a heavier sound with inertia. It pushed through the boards like they were paper.

Akura’a knew immediately: she had been found. “It’s him,” she whispered.

“Him who?” Haver asked.

“The Retriever.”

“Now you don’t know that.”

But the others looked at him with honest eyes and he admitted it--“Alright, well, then...we’ll just have ta hide ya.”

“For how long?” Laterra said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Akura’a said. “He wouldn’t be on the ship if he weren’t sure I was here.” She stood slowly up and bowed her head at them. “You’ve all been very kind. I can’t thank you enough. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”

“What are you doing?” Darben asked, a slight quiver in his voice.

“Turning myself in. There’s no point in resisting.”

“Maybe you can take him,” Laterra said. “Specially with us by your side.”

“No.” She was forceful. “I will not lift a club again. And you will not interfere. No one else has to come to harm.” She walked out of the room and made her way toward the commotion.

A man bolted past her, the point of a drawn dagger leading him. “Stow away!” he yelled. “In the holds.”

Akura’a descended the steps and found a scene of pure chaos. Everywhere were toppled or shattered boxes, their items spilled across the floor--unfurling textiles, dessicated meats, even broken bottles of spice, the contents of which had been kicked into the air, filling it with stinging, perfumed clouds.

Near the back was Gawro’o. She recognized him immediately even underneath the ceremonial paint he wore. He’d grown up in the tent next to her, and she’d harbored a crush on him as an adolescent. She felt like she was looking at another ghost.

He held a club in one hand and one of the crew in his other. Four other crew members hoverd feet away, weapons drawn, waiting for a vulnerable moment when they could strike.

Gawro’o flared his nostrils, snorted--dared them.

One took the bait and lunged in. Despite his size, Gawro’o was far more nimble. He brought the crewman he held in front of his body and used him as a shield. The attacker’s blade found the man’s thigh. He tried to cry out in pain, but the orc’s claws were crushing his windpipe, and only desperate, clipped gasps escaped. Gawro’o tossed the helpless man to the ground and he skidded to a stop, chirping and limp, like a naked baby bird that had fallen from a nest. The orc swung his club around, giving it only half an effort, and knocked the attacker into a stack of boxes.

The others exchanged panicked glances, but knew what they had to do. They all pounced together, hoping at least one blade would find its way through. But Gawro’o grabbed his club at both ends and held it in front of himself, catching all three swords. The brands bit deeply into the wooden handle, and when Gawro’o pulled his weapon back, he wrenched the blades from the men’s hands.

He laughed at their pathetic attempt and charged forward, shoulder first, sending all three jerking back like gangly marionettes, their joints flopping as they soared through the air and crumpling in on themselves as they landed. He plucked their swords from his club one at a time and they slowly began to stir.

He walked over to one and looked down, slamming the head of his cudgel into his palm, relishing each stout, satisfying smack. “Would you like to play dead?” he asked, poking the man with the tapered end of his weapon, “Or do I need to make it so?”

“No,” the man huffed. “Please. What do you want? Are you a pirate? You can have everything on board. I swear.”

He locked eyes with Akura’a. She made no move to defend herself. No move to evade him. “Put the club down,” she said. “I beg you.” Her eyes shut. She couldn’t look any longer.

“Anything,” the man on the floor blurted again. “I promise. As much as you want.”

Gawro’o dropped the club, letting it fall into the man’s gut, eliciting a pained groan. “There’s only one thing I came for.”