The lights glimmered softly through the inn's windows, and merry sounds could be heard when a new patron opened the door and let some of the excitement escape.

The soldiers were drinking and feasting merrily, some of them dancing with the local people. Coin was exchanged easily and the drinks kept coming. While his subordinates kept themselves busy, Admiral van Bahn enjoyed a rare moment alone. He walked to a secluded park bench, trying to find one dipped in as much shadow as possible. Ross sat on an ill-kept bench, probably forgotten by whoever was minding the park. It was missing a few planks, with the green paint chipping off and landing in the grass.

Ross sat and enjoyed the cool metal pressing against his back. He let a wisp of regret wander around his mind, just to see how it would taste. Perhaps the whole rebellion endeavor was a mistake. He wondered how the rest of his fellow traitors of the crown were faring. Not so well without precious gunpowder and weapons.

Maybe Ross should've listened to his mother, play the politics game, marry a nice venom snake from the high society, and die a much distinguished fat old man. Just like dear old dad, spend the golden years polishing a wooden seat in the Noblefief. How he would have been outraged at his son's actions.

Ross chuckled to himself remembering the day of the rebellion. He led the crowd through the prison gates, all of them drunk on possibility and hard liquor. It all appeared so very simple, and it was, they killed the crownfolk guards and draped their bloody yellow garb on the steps of the Judiciary.

But now, here he was further than he had ever gone, on some undeveloped territory hoping to rob innocents of their guns and money. It would not have been much different had he decided to suddenly become a privateer. He might've lived longer as a pirate, anyway.

Ross felt his food come up in the back of his throat and he leaned past the metal arch on the side of the bench and spat in the grass. He wiped a hand past his forehead to get rid of the sweat forming there. Ross had put off the need to form a plan for too long. Since the beach escape and the loss of his troops, he had been feeling feverish and full of anxiety and fear.

The Admiral decided that he needed a walk through the park to clear his heavy head. He had always loved nature, or at least the fantasy of it, the image of walking beneath the canopy of trees and feeling somehow at peace. He put his hand on a nearby tree, feeling the rough bark underneath his hand, but he was quick to pull back as tree sap and ants attached to his hand.

Further down the park path, he saw Yoru passed out underneath a tree, a bottle poking halfway out of his back where he had rolled on top of it. Ross could not see Patrick and was about to kick Yoru awake by breaking his nose when he saw the boy stepping through some bushes.

Yoru groaned, sounding more like a bear than a person, and used one giant paw to push himself off the ground, only long enough to grab at the food that Patrick had brought. He made quick work of the wrappings, tearing through them and tossing the bits on the nearby grass. After he was done with the food, taking him only a few fast seconds, he began sucking down whatever alcohol was nearby.

The Admiral felt shame blossom in his chest. Shame and rage, at this, being his crew. He bemoaned the dead men and women who were good and loyal. Losing the First Mate had been terrible enough, but the quartermaster too, and having to replace them with such people. Ross was left to survive with the most wretched of his crew. He thought about how the gods seem to love the bastards most, and if his own survival was a judgment on his moral character and worth as a person.

Patrick sat by and waited for Yoru to pass out. When he was sure the man was in the world of dreams, he walked away, softly and slowly, trying to not make noise. Ross raised his eyebrows at this and decided to follow and see what mischief Patrick was up to.

It turned out, nothing ostentatious. The boy just made his way back to the docks and ignoring the theft of some fish on a stick, there was no wrongdoing. Nonetheless, the Admiral stuck close behind, making sure to remain unseen.

The Mastiff rested peacefully on the water, looking a bit rugged but still having fight left in her. Patrick hid behind some crates, waiting for the night guard to get distracted or simply fall asleep. He waited and waited, and began to think it would never happen when the Admiral's voice boomed from the other end of the pier.

"Come here, Halley," Ross said.

Patrick froze in his hiding spot, fearful that he had been discovered. Halley and the Admiral talked in hushed tones and soon began laughing together, their voices growing dimmer as the two walked further and further away. The young man took this opportunity to make his way onto the ship.

Ross patted Halley's arm and slipped some coin into the sailor's hand, and pointing to the nearest place of debauchery. The sailor took off immediately, needing no further encouragement. Ross sat down with his back against a crate, shimming to where the shadows fell, and waited for Patrick to return from his nocturnal exploration of the ship.

The boy soon returned, a little unsteady on his feet, causing the gangplank to creak and groan. Ross could see the boy held the dog in his arms, wrapped in Everett's thick, heavy coat. Before Patrick could move past him, the Admiral jumped up and blocked the way.

"Good evening," he said, rummaging in his pockets for some smoking leaf. Finding some, he ground it in his pipe and took his time lighting it.

Patrick froze, wide-eyed. The wounded dog whined and opened his eyes, marred by exhaustion. He licked the underside of Patrick's jaw to reassure the boy and give thanks and then went back to sleep.

"Hello, sir," Patrick said.