Ryan found himself standing inside a great building with high walls of tan colored bricks. The banners of an unknown nation hung all around, brown, silver, a broken crown… strangely familiar. He began walking down the deserted halls, gingerly brushing his hands on the brown pillars as he passed them. It was marble, or so he thought, he had never actually seen it, only in books that Mary read to him, most of the buildings in Mirratroy being made of wood, stone, and other simple materials.

Ryan marveled at all he was seeing, all the fine materials, the portraits, the tables, chandeliers, everything had to be worth a fortune. He was tempted to pocket a candlestick, yet, as he reached out he felt silly, he could not quite place it, but he felt like he was home, and one does not steal from oneself. He came to a decorative set of doors with golden handles. Ryan went for the handle, but stopped when he heard his name, low, almost a whisper. He looked around, his hand hovering over the golden gleam of the handle, but all there was was empty halls. The voice came again, louder this time. It was coming from inside the room.

Ryan opened the door, coming into a room far larger than anything he had ever seen. The ceiling was made of glass, the floor was polished and had a picture of a strange man on it. The far end of the hall had a throne, like from the story books, and all of the walls hung heavy with more of same brown banners. Ryan looked all around at the grand hall of unparalleled beauty, not able to wrap his mind around it, when he heard his name again. He looked down from the ceiling, and there, in the center of the room, was a woman, standing with her back to him.

Slowly, he approached her. The woman had long black hair, blacker than anything he had ever seen, and she wore a long, dark blue cloak that came down to the floor, obscuring all her features. Ryan was sure he did not know this woman, but he felt a haunting sense that that was not true. He got closer, to the point he was barely 10 feet away from her.

“Hello?” She did not answer him. “Who are you?” The woman stood silent, unmoving. Ryan came even closer, to the point he was standing right behind her. He reach out to touch her shoulder.

“My, how you’ve grown, my little prince.” Ryan’s hand froze in mid air. The voice, he had heard that voice, but where? Where had he heard it? A dream? A memory? He broke free of the spell and laid hold of the woman’s shoulder, spinning her around.

“Hey, who are yo-” The body turned, but when it faced him the clothes were empty, falling to the ground in front of him. He stood perplexed, his hand still holding onto the air where she had stood.

“Ryan.” The voice whispered, almost in his ear. He turned around. A man with skin black as night, and hair down to his navel stood grinning, Ryan staring down the barrel of a flint pistol. Before he could even cry out in surprise, the hammer fell, the powder ignited, and everything went black.

Ryan lurched up in bed, immediately being greeted with pain. Breathing heavily, he opened his eye, the other one swollen shut. Looking around he saw that he was back in his small, cupboard sized room in the Sozzled Parrot. Ryan relaxed a little, lying back down. A dream, it was just a dream. He laughed at himself for being so stupid, met with additional waves of pain for the movement. He looked down at himself. He had pants on, but nothing else, and it seemed as though every exposed piece of skin he could see was covered in bandages, all around his chest, covering the left side of his face, all down his right arm and half of his left. I guess they really got me good. Ryan groaned, needing a drink of something other than water. There came a short knock on the door, and Mary came inside.

“I thought I heard you in here, how are you feeling?” She tried to sound relaxed, casual, but her face was sick with worry. Ryan did not like seeing her like this. She was not his mother, not by birth at least, but when Ryan had been brought ashore, half drowned, cold, and alone, he had been taken in by the women of the Sozzled Parrot, and Mary had become special to him. She had read to him, taught him his letters, fed and clothed him, treated him with kindness, most likely, because he reminded her of her own son… before he… Ryan smiled, putting on a brave face for Mary.

“I’m alright, really I am, this is nothing, just a scratch.” He laughed, wincing as his ribs threatened to kill him. Mary knelt down beside him, brushing his hair out of his face.

“My boy, my sweet, sweet boy.” She ran her fingers gingerly over the bandages on his arms. “I can’t believe I almost lost you. If Reis hadn’t shown up to help you...” She kissed the back of his hand, stifling tears. Ryan grimaced, pulling his hand free. He did not like making Mary feel this way, and yet, he seemed to do it a lot. Getting injured, street gambling, stealing brits out of the till, hitting on taken women… being in the gang. His mistakes, which should have been his alone, wrought pain and sadness for the woman who had become his mother. Ryan smiled again, trying to reassure her.

“Really, I’m fine, a few days and I’ll be good as fresh sails. Really, you should have seen the other guys, I heard Reis crushed that Blade like a coconut, they’ll think twice bef-”

“I don’t care about that!” Mary took his face in her hands, eyes looking deeply into his, filling with tears, long curls of sunset hair framing her face in fire, demanding Ryan’s attention. “I don’t care about Blades, and Terrors, Hooks, or Howlers.” The tears broke free, running down her care worn features, seemingly avoiding her scattered freckles as they fell down to her chin and onto the bandages of Ryan’s chest. “look what this gang has done to you!” She gestured frantically at his broken body, her voice wavering almost as much as her crimson hair. “Those men almost killed you!” Ryan’s face went neutral, avoiding those eyes, those eyes that made him feel, focusing his gaze on the window. “Why do you have to get involved in all this?” Mary rested her head on his chest, silently defeated, caressing the side of his face with her smooth fingers, the fingers of a woman who sacrificed more than the washerwomen and baker’s wives in order to provide for someone she loved. “My boy, my sweet, sweet boy, why can’t you just leave this gang?” She lifted her head up, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze, but his eyes were set hard on the clouds and the gulls. “You can live a good life here on the islands, a happy life, without all the dangers and bloodshed in the Salt Gangs. Please?” Ryan looked back at her with his good eye, his face a mixture of pain, guilt, sadness, and anger.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t want to leave the gang, they’re my brothers, we watch out for each other.” He sighed, shaking his head, unsure of who he was trying to convince, her, or himself. “Being in the Terrors, is a good opportunity, you know that. Not just money, but respect, protection, maybe even my own ship someday!” Ryan threw his arms out to the side, too emotional to let pain dictate his body. “A crew of my own, answering to no one but Reis! That would be good for all of us!” Mary stayed silent, eyes watching the sheets. Ryan took on a softer tone, moving her flaming hair out of the way, gently holding the side of her face with his good hand. “You, me, Jim, the other girls in the pub, we could have so much more.” Tears threatened to come, he pushed them back down, for men did not cry. “You wouldn’t have to work anymore, we could get a nice house by the water, you could have pretty dresses.” Mary took his hand off her face, avoiding his eyes as fresh tears welled up.

“I don’t need a house by the sea.” She stood up. “I don’t need pretty dresses.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I just want you to be happy, I just want you to be safe.” She turned, walking to the door without looking at him. Mary hesitated at the door, gripping the handle. “But I fear that you won’t be able to have both.” She opened the door and went out. Ryan called after her, but she was gone.

…

“Ehhhh, it don’t look that bad.” Jim leaned over Ryan, uncomfortably close as he inspected Ryan’s face, his breath smelling of afternoon rum. “Honestly, the way they was talkin, I thought fo sure you were missing some fingers, or maybe an arm or somethin.” He lifted Ryan’s left arm, knowingly ignorant to the pained grimace on the broken boy’s face. “But lookee there, here you be with all your tids and all your bits.” Jim dropped the arm, shrugging, his boyish face nonchalant, carefree. “Truth be told, I’m a little disappointed.” Ryan chuckled.

“Sorry, but I’m all in one piece.” He winced, continuously forgetting about his ribs. Jim laughed, his blonde mess of hair waving as he shook his head side to side.

“Yeah, barely.” He poked Ryan’s bandaged chest. “You’re lucky them Blades didn’t gut you good.” Ryan sat up up a little straighter, grunting in effort.

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of lucky in that, Captain Reis showed up.” Jim’s face lit up at the mention of the captain, his smile growing into an ever wider grin.

“The Cap’n? Oh, I’d a loved to see that. Put the fear of the Nameless in em?” Ryan nodded, his eyes wide as he remembered the sound of Finn’s ribcage shattering into the bricks... He smiled, hiding his discomfort behind a mask.

“You have no idea. Reis picked one of them up like a doll and fucking broke him, slammed him so hard into the bricks that the man cracked like an egg.” Jim did a little spin, moving his feet in a short jig. He was odd like that, humorous and carefree, still holding onto childish innocence.

“Yeah, that’ll show em Blade bastards what for.” He laughed, putting his hands on his hips. “Still can’t believe Cap’n Reis, the fucking Giant of Britva, was just there strollin along.” He looked at Ryan, raising his eyebrows. “Pretty damn unlucky for em Blades if you ask me. I mean, just, WHOOM!” Jim mimicked shoving someone into the wall, looking down at the ground as if observing a body. He shrugged. “Dead”. Suddenly, Jim’s face lit up again, and he turned back to Ryan. “Oy, I just remembered, I popped by Walsh’s bakery earlier. I told her you was injured and she gave me this for you.” He pulled a paper coated ball out of his pocket, holding it up with a smile before promptly tossing it at Ryan, who still managed to catch it with a hand covered in bandages. Ryan opened the twine wrapped bundle to reveal a freshly baked sweet roll, still warm to the touch, coated with sugared cream. Ryan looked at the roll, then at Jim, confused.

“Mrs. Walsh just gave this to you?” Jim just shrugged.

“She may have mentioned somethin bout addin it to yer debt.” Ryan laughed, stopping short when his ribs reminded him not to do that. He rubbed them gingerly with his free hand.

“Yeah, that sounds like Mrs. Walsh.” Jim gave a sly smile, looking over his shoulder as if making sure they were not being watched.

“I also got a couple other things.” Jim reached back into his pockets and retrieved a number of other baked goods, a loaf of bread, a couple sugar biscuits, a honey roll, and a half eaten meat bun. He tossed each one at Ryan as he pulled them out, all except for the meat bun which he promptly shoved into his mouth. Ryan looked at the horde of goods in his lap.

“She’s going to fucking kill you.” Jim tried to speak, but his mouth was so full of meat and bread that all that came out was garbled gibberish, savory juices dribbling down his chin. He chewed the monstrous mouthful deliberately, his face contorting in weird shapes, and then swallowed in one giant gulp. Jim wiped his mouth and grinned.

“Come on, ya can’t say yer not impressed. I looted that place good and none’s the wiser.” Ryan could not argue, it was pretty good, Jim had gotten a lot better with his hands. He remembered when the kid had first joined the Crimson Terrors, all smiles, even then, but definitely no skill. By the Nameless, it had taken Ryan forever to teach him how to lift a pocket.

“You’re still not as good as me.” He smirked, tossing the honey roll at Jim’s face, who caught it just in time. The two laughed, as good friends do, eating baked goods and swapping drinking stories as the day carried on outside.

...

Reis walked through the congested noon day streets, not having much trouble since everyone who laid eyes on the enormous man gave him a much deserved wide berth, looking at him as he passed as though the wheels in their heads had stopped spinning. It did not bother him any, he was used to the stares by now, the quiet whispers, the stories told over drinks and at the sewing circles. They were always exaggerated but, truth be told, he preferred it that way. Always be thought of as bigger than you really are, he always said.

Reis trudged down the main road, past the market and its smells of fish and pineapples, past the Mermaid’s Kiss, some of the girls calling out to him, laughing gayfully and waving from the windows, he paid them no mind. He continued a good while until he came to a moderate, two story building with a collection of men standing out in front of it, talking, laughing, drinking their afternoon rum. A large sign, hanging overhead, read, “The Deadman’s Tankard”, with what was surely a real skull stuck into the wood. Reis pushed past the layabouts, ducking his head under the overhang. Two men immediately stepped in front of the door, arms folded, black daggers on their hips, standing in his way. Reis looked down at them with no measure of patience or mercy, a man who would be entering one way or another. The two exchanged looks, and then decided that whatever they were being paid was not worth getting into a row with a giant. Reis grunted.

“Smart choice lads.” He moved inside the pub, a dimly lit place with air thick with smoke from the pipes of tavern goers sitting at the packed tables. The walls were painted in crimson, and the floors were level and finished. It would have almost seemed nice, if it were not for the nest of cutthroats that eyed him warily from every corner of the room, everyone putting stories and laughter on hold, silently whispering about the unwelcome intruder. Reis walked over to the bar and sat down heavily on a stool. The tapster, a young man with a shaved head and no shirt, stood there, cleaning a glass with a rag. “Rum, in a large tankard.” The man looked up momentarily and continued to clean the already glistening glass.

“This is a Black Blade pub, yer not a blade.” Reis slapped the counter with his hand, causing some of the men in the room to stand halfway out of their seats, waiting for a fight. He removed his hand to reveal two Brits, shining golden in the dim light.

“Rum, in a large tankard.” He leaned over the bar, the tapster backing up instinctively. “And a meeting with yer boss.” The barman went and poured the drink, setting it on the counter and pushing it towards Reis. He looked at the money on the counter, enough to pay for 20 drinks, then back at Reis.

“Cap’n Kreek ain’t in.” Reis drank heavily from the tankard, which seemed small in his hand despite its size. He set the empty mug down hard, glaring at the man impatiently.

“If yer lookin for more than two Brits, don’t be. I may be a generous man.” He shrugged. “But I also be a man who don’t like me time wasted.” The barkeep’s eyes blinked over to the tables, filled to the brim with knife wielding and gun toting Blades, it was quick, but so was Reis, who noticed the coward’s waverings. “Don’t be thinkin for one second that yer safe in this room full of children.” He stared the man down, bigger than him even while sitting, his face hard, a man who would not lose sleep if things got ugly.

A door at the far end of the room opened, the tapster looking over in relief as a man nearly as large, but not quite as tall, as Reis came lumbering in. The brute of a man wore simple attire, tattered sailor’s pants and a black vest with no shirt. He wore a large black dagger on his hip, and carried a wide barreled blunderbuss on his back. His face was fat and had a thick, cruel scar that ran from his upper right brow, all the way down across to the left of his chin. His nose was large and bulbous, and had surely been broken a good number of times. But it was his eyes that were most troubling, black as his dagger, devoid of a soul, the eyes of a true killer. Reis had seen eyes like those, the same eyes as Jack. Scattershot Tom.

“Boss wants to see you in the back.” Tom stood patiently next to Reis, his massive gut, stronger than looks would suggest, pushing into Reis’ side. The man looked at him as he would any man, undaunted by Reis’s size, nor by the stories he had undoubtedly heard, and Reis respected that. He stood up, the stool groaning in relief, and followed Tom out of the room, every eye in the bar watching in silent speculation.

They walked down a short hall to an ornate door of black wood, artistically designed with golden images of great sea beasts, guarded by two Blades armed with scatterguns. The men saw Tom and stepped out of the way, one of them opening the door for them as they approached. Tom went in first, squeezing his bulk through the entry with only mild difficulty. Reis followed after, and stepped into the room of a palace.

The floors were fine stained wood, covered in a rich, Imperial rug straight from Averynce. The walls were black, clean, and decorated with exorbitant paintings, hung straight and neat, and golden candle sconces that lit up the room as though they were standing outside. At the back of the room was a desk of dark stained wood, covered in gold and lacking in costly restraint, sitting in front of a dormant fireplace of fine stone, with bookcases laden with more books than the rest of Britva combined, sitting on either side.

In the middle of all this opulent excess was Captain Bartholomew Kreek, sitting casually in a comfy high backed chair with his feet, clad in fine leather boots, up on the desk. The man was pale, like any trueborn Melcanian, with short black hair and striking blue eyes that reminded Reis of the sea. He wore expensive attire, silk shirt and pants, a fine leather belt, and a black captain’s coat, similar to Reis’, but of much higher quality, complete with golden buttons. Kreek did not look at his guests as they entered, busy cleaning his fingernails with an expertly forged Kendorian dagger of black steel. Reis looked at the blade, a beautiful weapon, but anything from Kendor was nothing to sneeze at.

Kreek looked over his nails, blowing on them, and then tossed the knife on the desk, bringing his attention to Tom and, more so, Reis. He looked over Reis with intelligent, disinterested eyes, his fingers steepled in front of his face. Reis stood silently, he was in Kreek’s house, and if he was smart, he would let the man speak first. Kreek dropped his hands and pointed at Reis.

“You’re smaller than they make you out to be.” He waved his arms out to the sides. “The stories people tell, you’d think you were ten feet tall and son of the Salt God himself.” Kreek smiled a knowing smile, his eyes analyzing Reis. “But you like the stories, don’t you? They make you feel bigger than you are.” He nodded his head empathetically. “I can respect that.” He dropped his feet off the desk, taking on a more serious tone, the mood in the room shifting from jocular to consequential. “Now, enough with all that, tell me what it is that brings you to my place of business, unannounced, and uninvited.” Reis looked down at Kreek, the man not much bigger Ryan, and yet his voice was underlined with knives, knives that sent a chill down the giant’s back, this was a man without code or morals.

“I wanted to discuss a matter that happened the other night. I caught three of yer men pokin into me territory.” Kreek gave him a bored stare.

“Is that all? They were probably just deep in the cups and got lost.” He chuckled. “I don’t see how this merits wasting my time.” Reis did his best to keep composed, he did not care to be talked to in such a flippant manner.

“That be all fine and good, but I caught yer boys robbin and beatin one of mine. If I hadn’t stepped in they would’ve gut em.” Kreek’s eyes lit up in realization.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard word of this. Finn and his group.” He drifted off, silently musing. He looked back at Reis. “From the accounts I heard you broke Finn like a coconut and left him for the rats.” Reis opened his mouth to speak but Kreek raised his hand, silencing him. “Now, I had no love for Finn, the man was a filthy, uneducated, layabout that I was probably going to take care of myself.” He shrugged. “But, I can’t just have people taking out my men without my say, it’s kind of bad for business.” Reis was getting frustrated.

“They were in my territory without my consent, and they were killin one of me boys.” Kreek looked at him quizzically, pretending to think about it.

“But, you see, your man is still alive, isn’t he? My man is dead.” He plucked the dagger off the desk and played with it in his hands, spinning it around on his fingers. “If your man had died… then I’d say you have the right to crush Finn like a shellfish…” He paused, his eyes distant as he watched the blade move. “But he didn’t, and now we’re here, in this awkward predicament.” Kreek stopped the dagger mid spin and stabbed it into the desk with expert technique.

“You can stop with the games, Kreek, you and I both know that all of this be just an excuse for you to try and muscle in on me business.” Reis stepped closer to the Desk, Tom instinctively moving to pull him back but Kreek stayed him with a wave of his hand, unintimidated by the towering man that stood before him. “For years now you’ve been eatin away at the other gangs, bullyin them, pushin them out of their parts of the city, all so you Blades can get the fattest parts of these Islands.” Kreek smiled, amused.

“Business is business.” He laughed as he toyed absently with the hilt of the dagger, only paying Reis minimal attention. Reis stepped closer, close enough he could easily reach over and ring the man’s neck.

“We have codes, Kreek, don’t be forgettin that.” Reis put his massive hands on the desk, towering over Kreek. “We don’t need this to go any further that it already has. Nobody be wantin a repeat of the Smiling Devils.” The Smiling Devils, a gang that had once rivaled The Black Blades, but was now all but extinct due to a mysterious fire that killed their captain… as well as everyone else in the brothel. The Blades had gone in during the confusion and taken everything, all of the Devils’ operations in Britva. Kreek looked up at Reis smugly, undaunted by the man’s proximity, portraying a calm confidence and certainty that made Reis uneasy.

“I merely took advantage of an unfortunate… accident.” He pulled the dagger free from the wood, looking it over. “Nothing in the codes against that.” Reis scoffed.

“Accident, right.” Reis took his hands off the table, standing up to his full height. “Let’s be sure that another… “accident” don’t be happening. I’d be losin no sleep if I had to break you in half.” Kreek played with the knife, spinning it on his fingers in slow rotations, seemingly ignoring him. Reis turned to leave, Tom looked at Kreek, then grunted, stepping aside. Reis left, Tom shutting the door tight behind him. Kreek looked at the door, his face sinking into silent fury, the blade still spinning on his fingers. He threw the knife at the wall beside him without looking, the steel striking one of the candles dead center.