Molotov fussed about the galley of the ship, humming a nonsensical, irritating tune and wearing a fine, pair of flowing red pantaloons that matched his firey red hair. He was in a chipper mood- he had a habit of misplacing most of his clothing, and his pink speedo had been burned clear off his lanky frame from a dragon recently. Luckily, there had been some spare sails, that Rum would assuredly not miss, and the boat would not suddenly need. A few snips with some scissors and Molotov, tenacious tailor, and hem-lord of high-stitchery, had a new pair of pants. Drafty pants.

Rum was... not doing as well. The would-be writer rested his head against the galley table, his stomach rolling. He'd been fighting a desperate battle, cold sweat caking his body. How come I had to live in a world covered by bubbling, foggy seas, with islands flitting about like flies on a forgotten banana? Why couldn't I live in a world that was just... flat plains. There's nothing stomach-rolling about flat plains. Nothing that'll have me vomit up a banana. Oh Gods, no, stop thinking about bananas. Stop thinking about bananas-

"Hey Rum! Do ya' want the last of the bananas?"

One dry-heave later, and Rum had his stomach back under relative control. He desperately needed to find his sea legs. Perhaps he could buy some? He still was, at least by Foggy Ocean standards, relatively flush. Suddenly, furrowing his brow and wiping the sweat from his head, Rum had a thought. "Molotov? What do you mean last of the bananas? We had twelve bunches in the hold last I checked."

Molotov didn't pause, but instead added a butt-shaking dance to his humming. He looked back over his shoulder, continuing to rummage around in the cabinets. "Beats me, Rum ol' chum! They seem to have gone missing!"

"Lots of things have..." Rum said bitterly. Somehow, he'd misplaced his manuscript from last night. I was sure I'd left it on the desk, but...

CLANG.

Molotov spun and brought a plate down in front of Rum with a clatter, enough to make him jump half-out of his seat. Rum rubbed sleep from his eyes as Molotov leaped into a seat opposite him, legs up on the chair and grinning.

"Molotov?"

"Yes, Captain my Captain?"

"What is... this?" Rum poked at the large yellow-ish egg on his plate, roughly the size of a grapefruit. A few flakes of pepper were stuck to it. Somehow, it looked familiar...

"Molotov," Rum hesitated. "Is this... one of the eggs from our Helms-Wizard? The eggs they keep barfing up everywhere?"

"Right you are, Rum!"

"I uhm... admit that I'm unsure about the... optics of eating the eggs of one of our crew. Isn't that technically cannibalism? Or... lizardism?"

Molotov blinked. "I thought that was the reason you got him for the ship. Emergency food supply!"

"No, oh Gods!" Rum felt his stomach jump at the thought. His stomach was nice that way, kicking him all the time. The egg shifted on the plate, rolling quietly back in forth in time with the rocking of the boat. It was hypnotic and disgusting all at once.

Molotov scratched his head. "Well, if we can't eat the eggs, that's a bit of a problem. Because... we seem to be out of food."

Rum gaped. He rushed toward the cabinets, throwing them open. But as the minutes passed, the pit in his stomach grew deeper and deeper. Not a scrap of rice, not a slice of bread. Just pepper, salt, and a very old slice of cheese stuck to the side of a cabinet, so fused with the wood that it was more ship than dairy product now. He'd even run out of grapes- for so much of Rum's life he'd figured grapes were just... well, you never ran OUT of them, that was certain. They were endless, festooning every corner of his house, present at every terrible party his mother had hosted.

Yes, Rum had entered a brave new reality. A grape-less dawn. His stomach rumbled, like an emphatic period at the end of a sentence. Alright, now I really CAN'T throw up if that's all we've got on board to eat... "Maybe there's an island nearby, a spot to resupply?"

"Mfmfggmh!"

Rum turned to see Molotov with the egg crammed half into his mouth. The wizard's eyes were wide and watering as he tried to bite down through the shell, and he flailed his arms around helplessly.

"Molotov, you're supposed to cook it, you can't just put-"

SCHLP-! The egg suddenly was sucked into Molotov's mouth. He smiled content for a moment, then furrowed his brow in a frown. "That didn't taste like anything!"

"Did you have your mouth... portal... open?"

"Ah."

---

Rum searched throughout the ship, his mood darkening with every passing minute. It was alright to pretend to be a starving artist- but being a starving artist was another matter entirely. Every hidey-hole, every nook and every cranny was dry of food. Rum couldn't understand it. There had been some nights where he'd wandered searching for a midnight snack, sure. But this was unprecedented.

It had almost been three hours since he'd consumed the last banana. Soon, the hunger pangs would set in, and he'd have no choice but to eat Molotov.

Yes, everything was going to hell. Or at least, one of the hells. That was the thing about living in the Foggy Ocean. There were so many pantheons knocking around the place and they'd never set a time to sit down and workshop up what "hell" was. So they'd all just made seperate ones, of varying size and devilishness.

Rum was really feeling low. Sure, he had an immensely powerful sword, capable of cutting the ocean in twain or some other poetic shit- but what did it matter if he starved to death on his own boat? The sword was garbage, his manuscript was gone, and he was about ready to burst into tears from the unfairness of it all.

Sighing, Rum sank down on the railing of the boat, observing the choppy bubbling waters. Did the great heroes suffer from things like this? It was hard to imagine them in his position, starving without a bite to eat. Surely they had planned better than he had. Of course they did. Even a... person really bad at planning would have planned better than this! Oh this chapter is NOT making it into my manuscript. Whenever I can find that damn thing! Oh no, will I have to start from scratch? I'm going to have to start writing from scratch, aren't I.

The most terrible side-effect of his sighing was that it often attracted well-intentioned wizards. Molotov floated by, a peppy smile on his face, ready and willing to spread it to him, like some terrible infectious-positivity disease.

"Don't look on the bad side, Rum ol' chum! There's plenty of great things happening, even if we're starving!" Molotov began.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Molotov paused. "I don't know. It's hard to think of them when I'm currently starving."

Rum sighed. It was as he expected. Somehow, despite all the visions of glory, he'd worried he'd die on a ship just like this. Banana-stricken and henpecked by an idiot.

Absentmindedly he surveyed the horizon. There was nothing but endless water, as there had been all day... expect of course, for the strange blot to the east. He paused, his brain whirling, considering this. Strange blot to the east. Yes. That is... not normal. Especially considering I called it a strange blot, instead of a regular blot. Yes. Hmm. Should I be alarmed? I think I'll be alarmed. I think I'll make a big deal about the blot.

"Molotov! Strange blot to the east!"

"Oh wow, Rum! That's really alarming!" Molotov shouted back. The duo stared over the railing, squinting, eager to make out any identifying traits of the strange blot. It was not forthcoming.

"Should we head towards it? Or should we wander off to an uncertain fate in the wider ocean, very possibly starving to death?" Rum asked. "No, wait, please don't respond, I just realized the answer for myself."

Molotov nodded his face determined. "That's great, Rum! So I'll just tell the lizard guy to turn the boat around and head for the open sea?"

Rum groaned and dropped his head onto the rail of the ship. Definitely not putting this in my next story...

---

Zayldrieranth, the Breaker of Bones, soared through the sky, cutting through the wind. The bite of frost was nothing to the beast- the dragon rose high into the clouds, rage fueling its every movement. Snow whipped by, turning to clouds of steam as the beast flew onward.

Every action had a consequence. For every decision, came retaliation. This was the way of the world- it was the way of dragons, violent and brutal, like a jagged, rusted sword-edge, uncarring of who was cut. It was the way of the hawk-lord, carrying the pigeon in its talons. It did not need to kill it. But it would, to show the world it could. Every other race upon the Foggy Ocean simpered, squandered their time, wasting away their days with tea, and idle chatter, and half-hearted attempts to start a book club. Not the dragons. They were concerned with one thing, and one thing only. Violence. And who could do the most of it.

Zayldrieranth was angry. He had been rejected- his oath broken, his vows thrown into the fire. It was not an easy task to bow before a mortal. It was uncommon within the dragon world- but when Zayldrieranth had bowed long ago, before the previous owner of Foam-Cutter he had been so sure, so adamant. This was a human who could bear the weight of destiny, the burden that was superiority.

He had been wrong. The Pirate Captain... he had been unfitting of even that title, for he had been not a pirate, not a leader. The fool had given up the blade. He'd stored it away, afraid of its power, afraid of its ability to tear the seas apart, to tear empires in two. The last owner of Foam-Cutter had left the weapon with the one-eyed monks of the nameless island. They would protect the blade within their underground city, until the blade chose a new owner. Until that day, it would not harm the Foggy Ocean.

Zayldrieranth had flown into a rage. To give up power? To choose peace when born with fangs? It was unthinkable. He'd slept in protest, believing whoever found the weapon next would be a worthy master. But that had been a mistake as well- the human, a stupid looking creature with a very large nose, had balked at the idea of commanding him, of commanding his fire and bloodlust, his rage and his anger. Zalyrieranth was left without a master.

Well. The Council of Beasts would hear of this betrayal. For even though they abhorred the idea of dragons beneath humans, they abhorred the idea of dismassal from their service even more.

A brutal smile crossed across the dragon's pallid features. Vengeance would come for this betrayal. It had been long years since the dragons had dipped their claws into the mortal realm. Empires had flourished- the Yellow Haven Empire had sprawled across countless islands, a loose conglomeration of local barons and kings, all swearing loyalty to the Queen of Yellow, distantly ruling from her Sun Throne. Before, Zaylrieranth had not even considered her worthy of notice. But now, she was the closest authority to dismantle, decimate, and destroy.

He could start there. You do not know what you have started, human. Actions have consequences and retaliations. You have turned me loose- so I shall burn your world, cast down your Kings and your Gods. I will create anarchy, I will kill, and it shall be your fault.

Malice grew with each breath, with each beat of the wings. High in the clouds, higher than any mortal had ever reached, the citadel of the dragons loomed, a massive spike of burning metal and bronze, jagged and cruel, heinous and vile. A kingdom within a perpetual snowstorm, the lair of the dragons, the meeting place of killers beyond mortal comprehension. The Parliment of the Dragons, the Council of the Beasts.

Home.