His rum was stale. The barkeep promised the barrel was ripe, fresh, recently shipped from the distilleries of Plitover and opened only a week ago. The finest rum in Bilgewater Bay, or the finest his thinning pockets could afford. It’s sweetened lime flavor, the brand he was most fond of, had molted into bitterness. The very ends of his lazy swigs yielded some of the buds he had become accustomed to, but nothing like a fresh barrel. He kept drinking, not for the flavor any longer but for the liquor's embrace. One more night to wallow, to mourn the loss of his fortune. All lost at sea to big-headed spirit creatures seeking what everyone always sought; The blade- No, his blade. It was his, given to him by his late Father. He had done his research. Yordles, they called them. How he managed to covet such information? He couldn’t recall any longer. Perhaps a sober mind would unlock his memory in the morning.

He was deep in his cup and the barkeep was keeping him topped. A younger fellow, much too timid to be a denizen of Pirate’s Paradise. His smile read of someone who didn’t want to offend, who would tell a lie to save face, a gentle soul who probably longed only for a good woman and a healthy babe. Disgusting. His lack of ambition was repulsive. All these harlots cavorting about, stuffing their breasts with loose coinage, so shamelessly fornicating with any sailor who winked their way. Surely he must’ve known Bilgewater was no place for love. No, he couldn’t have. His stark blue eyes and his undercut blonde locks… He would marry one day. And have his heart shattered to pieces. It was curious how one could surround themselves with one thing but be oblivious to its reality. Ignorant to the truth laid bare before them day in and day out. How many men and women, not just in this godsforsaken place, but everywhere across Runeterra were like this boy? Going about themselves without an ounce- Ah… His mind was getting away from him again. Just the philosopher in him, he supposed.

His eyes fell into his frothy wooden tankard. Nice and topped. The moment the barkeep daned to stride past on his way to another patron Fain’s hand arrested the boy’s wrist, his unfocused eyes righting themselves as he captured the barkeep’s own. “C’mere, boy, take a sip of this”, Fain whispered, hoisting his tankard to the young man’s lips, right beneath the nose.

The barkeep flinched in surprise, the tankard’s excess spilling out onto his shoddy leather vest and white privateer’s blouse. His fear was palpable, teeth grit nervously as he looked for some way out of this situation. There was none, though. Fain’s grip was iron and steel around his cuff. He reluctantly obliged, taking a shaky palm to the cup. Fain’s intensity diminished now that his request was met. The boy took a sip, shallow and short.

“A little more”, Fain urged. And the boy did. A longer sip, deeper, overcompensating in hopes of pleasing the pirate so he would be let go.

“Now…” Fain’s voice, while slurred, was supremely calm - his eccentricity having fled in favor of a sinister undertone. “Does that taste like week old rum to you, boy?”

“N-N-No… No it doesn’t sir, I’m sorry, sir… Please aah-uuh- Let me get you a new cup!” He was a mess, stammering over himself once, twice, three times over.

What a lack of spine this boy had. Fain’s nose wrinkled in avid disgust. “And be quick about it.” His grasp fell limp and he curled over the bar’s width like a corpse, too drunk to stay upright.

When the barkeep did return Fain shot up with a sudden alertness that made the young man’s eyes widen in their sockets. Fain stirred in his chair and extended his hand to take the fresh tankard. He appraised it with his single good eye. Cool to the touch, like he liked it… A nice bubble and layer of foam at the top, like he liked it… The tankard was heavy in his grip, just how he liked it… He brought it to his lips, pausing a moment to smell its contents. It wafted well enough into his nose, almost… How he liked it...Then the gulp.

The boy waited with bated breath for his approval. And he surely hoped it would be approved. “Th-The most recent barrel I could scrounge up, sir! Only the finest!”

One gulp. Two gulps. Three gulps. Half the tankard’s depth sloshed down into his belly before he slammed it to the wood of the bar with a hard clack of contact. He let the taste marinate across his tongue for a moment, smacking his lips loudly and slowly… His expression, one of rumination and consideration, quickly shifted to cold indifference - eyes half-lidded and mouth slightly agape like that of a zombified corpse.

“Still. Too. Stale.”

Before the boy could react, or anyone else for that matter, Fain was standing - kicking the stool out from under him as he pushed off the wooden frame of the bar. A hand went down to his hip and around, coming up with his own iconic pistol, the golden filigree gleaming in the warm interior of the tavern. His gun arm snapped straight, his single eye narrowed and he fired all in a single breakneck motion. The shot silenced the joy, the fun and the lust all in one go. Fiddles and drums were dropped and patrons nearby leapt back in surprise.

A single hole bore straight through the poor barkeep’s forehead, neat and brimming with blood and grey matter that spilled and gushed. He stood tall for a handful of seconds, long enough for everyone to recognize what had transpired, then the boy crumpled. A wench in the far corner cried out in horror as the women soon fled in droves. Good, they didn’t need to be here, Fain thought.

“Eustace!” Fain roared, his weapon arm still extended towards the bloody indentation in the wall behind the bar.

Eustace, half naked and abandoned by the dirty courtesan he was just frogging a moment ago looked over in recognizable confusion.

“Buy these men another round of piss-water on me!”

“But, Captain-”, Eustace began, but was soon cut off when the long barrel of Fain’s pistol swung in his direction. “Aye, Captain!”

As if nothing had ever happened, the music resumed and those men who remained cheered in appreciation. The establishment’s owner was vexed to have seen his barkeep killed, but what was a life really worth in Bilgewater Bay? Now the recruitment could begin.

The primitive jungles of the Serpent Isles were hot. Though that was expected of any tropical rainforest. Bilgewater Bay offered the consistent and cool breeze of the sea to keep one comfortable, and while the inlands were a nice reprieve from the salt and fish that constantly assaulted the nose, the ocean mists were always sorely missed. A narrow path ran along the highs and lows of the island topography, its smoothed cobblestone length overgrown completely in some stretches, making it difficult to follow to his destination. But in reality he didn’t need its guide, he knew where he was going by heart. His Father would bring him and his siblings along these paths to the farthest island along the chain when he was just a little boy. Back when Mother was alive and possessed all her senses. His sisters Revina and Dima, his brothers Bo and Nevel. Childhood was simple in hindsight. He remembered the noise of the powder monkeys who followed them along up high in the trees, stalking their cannonery that rolled heavy across broken paths on their way to their hidden home in the mountains. A reprieve from Bilgewater, a summer home for vacations, if you will. Father would always have his men haul a cannon with them when they went. You never knew when you needed a cannon.

His Father, forever stricken with paranoia, had made a deal with those indigenous peoples, the ones who came before Bilgewater. At the time his shrouded meetings were a mystery to the adolescent Fain, but upon sailing aboard his Father’s ship; The Bloody Mary, with her crimson sails and cherrywood finish, he saw her. The blade made generational only recently possessed an incredible power. No wonder his Pa guarded it with jealousy. The first time he laid witness to its power he couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. His Father had only permitted him to sail aboard the Bloody Mary two years earlier. He was overly protective at times, but that wasn’t his fault. He remembered it so vividly. That voyage was meant to be a smuggling run to Ixtal and from there to Zaun. They were intercepted upon leaving Bilgewater. Some monumental frigate flanked by escort gunships had set upon them in the dead of night. The seas were restless and the cold rain beat down on his head like tempered steel. In the violent flashes of distant lightning he made out the shape of their aggressors’ vessel. He’d never seen a ship that large in his life.

Fain’s Father was nothing if not a realist. There were no delusions about which way this battle would go. Perhaps that’s where him and his Father differed. But Fain was too proud to admit that pride and arrogance were separated by a fine line. A line Fain had crossed some years ago. The ship’s first volley of cannon fire devastated the Mary. He wept at the carnage of it all, too young and emotionally fragile to process the things that were happening around him. But his Father was not disgusted by his weakness, he was a protective parent. And he intended to protect. He raised his blade, just as Fain would do for years to come in hopes of emulating the strength of his Dad’s gesture. The wild gems across the ivory hilt lit brightly like colored stars. Purple and green. The clouds had parted just enough, allowing the moon to filter its rays down onto the ocean. It was as if the cosmos wanted Fain to witness this moment in time clearly, as if it wanted him to remember forever.

Up through the rowdy waves came a shape, fins and gills and scales wet with seawater that caught the moon’s light so extravagantly. Tendrils lapped at the air in unfiltered aggression and a hungry maw exercised its might with a titanic screech that rang the ears. Father’s Leviathan. At the time he was racked with fear, but now he could only be overcome with its beauty, its majesty. A spitting image of the Mother Serpent, though perhaps not as large and certainly not as perfect. All of its eyes, at least a dozen of them, all of varying shapes, peered down upon their ship seeking instruction from the wielder of the blade. Those who knew it well enough did not fret, but Fain was petrified. Surely it would devour them all! He thought. But, no. Father lifted the blade towards it and it reared, then the golden tip of his sword swung in the direction of those who dared to put holes in his beloved Mary. And so too did it turn, not just its physicality, but its wrath in their direction. The might of the sea was his to command, all of it focused into the artifact begotten by those Truth Bearers of the Buhru tribes.

His Father spoke of a woman, a woman of reputation amidst Bilgewater Bay. Strong as an Ironback and with an indomitable heart. He never knew her, only stories of her. A Buhru native and Truth Bearer who tested his Father’s soul and found it to be pure, not wanting in the eyes of Nagakabouros. He was one of the few mainlanders to receive such a trial. And the blade was bestowed upon him after a deal was struck.

This weapon, this golden cutlass had special properties. When striking down the soul of an unworthy, or cleaving into the undead whose soul was bound to their animated corpse, it would entrap it within the blade so it could be judged by the Truth Bearers and their Goddess, then used later for rituals. In turn the blade would grant access to the sea and the sea creatures who lived within, able to cast aside great waves and summon mighty denizens from its depths. But now the blade was rendered inert, its powers but a fraction of what they used to be all because the original keeper, his Father, had passed. The blade was bound to him and he was bound to it. Fain had been dreading returning to the temple, afraid that he might fall short in the eyes of the Truth Bearers and his adopted Goddess. Were his ambitions great enough? Had his actions perpetuated the flow of the universe or harmed it? He couldn’t tell. But now more than ever he needed the blade’s power. He would have to return. There was no other choice.

Accompanying him on his trek were those men he had convinced to follow him into the jungle. They were few in numbers, but he was confident that the weapon on his hip would dissuade natives from attacking them. This charted but unexplored expanse of the island was beautiful. The jungle trees and palms that edged along the cliffs dropping down into waterlogged ravines. Every so often he’d spy a roadside totem dedicated to the ocean’s creatures and the Bearded Mother. How he missed these wilds. There was nothing like the sweat he’d build whilst navigating the jungles, forcing him to retire his Captain’s coat to spare himself from the heat. He hadn’t done this in many years. He had buried treasure in these parts and retrieved it all some time ago. Oh, how he wished he hadn’t now. With the men came the Plundercrabs. He had two of them. The blade still possessed enough power that he could command the lesser creatures and part the smaller waves. It was how he escaped that disaster almost a week ago. Plundercrabs were large crustaceans. He adored them for their brawn. They were good hauling animals, strong enough to support a small cannon on their backs, which of course attracted the Powder Monkeys. He adored them, too. He enjoyed keeping them at bay, they were almost like children, always getting into something when your back was turned.

He had arrived at the strait. There it was before him, made traversable by a long stone bridge, somewhat withered and centered on a risen sandbank for stability. It’s dilapidated length was a cobbled thing, rising just slightly at its edges to keep the unattentive traveller from slipping over its borders. Facing outwards were the likenesses of Angler Fish situated every twenty feet on either side, recreated in stone with a liberal and artistic take on their terrifying appearance. Bending back and hanging over the path was the bulb that in reality would light the dark of the seafloor and lure prey with its curious glow. It served the same purpose in these stone recreations as it did in real life, or a similar one, anyways. At night the bulbs would glow a sickly green color to light the length of the bridge, made to do so by some misunderstood magics, no doubt. The bridge was low to the waters, only some twenty feet tall. Fain and his men had just descended down a winding path from the towering island cliffs and would have to ascend another on the opposite side. A climb he wasn’t looking forward to.

Beyond that and through more jungle. Finally, his destination proper. A lonely temple on the farthest island, nestled into a large rockface. It’s only facade was painted with colorful pastels depicting many tendrils writhing against waves. It was almost a mural of sorts. And though primitive, it was no less beautiful than Targonian tapestry. Several rough archways were cut into its face as well as small windows overtop them and even more beyond those. The jungle continued to twist and bow along it’s “roof” before a circular dome broke the vegetation like a pustule of architecture. It appeared something like a Demacian state building or an observatory, though of course with Buhru inspiration. At its apex was a gleaming plinth of gold that rose high into the air, lonely and speckled with age. Counter to that was a large inlet that led out into the ocean through a nearby lagoon. Situated on the very edges of the inlet were rowboats and stone docks. Most curious of all was the massive, curling horn that extended into the crystal blue waters of the inlet.

Eustace projected his relief with a sigh. “Finally here, Captain”, The man smiled.

“Yes, Eustace… Finally here”, Fain repeated, those words spreading across his lips like warm broth.

The natives were taken aback, fearful and on edge at the appearance of these buccaneers. But Fain would put them at ease. “I’ve not come to hurt you!” He undid his sheathe and presented the blade. “I come seeking the Truth Bearer, Illaoi!”

“Ornn’s beard, it’s so fucking hot here!” Enzo exclaimed, wiping the sweat that had accumulated across his furred brow off and away with a flick of his wrist.

He had stripped down to the bare necessities, removing his insulated, fur-lined coat and leathers, exposing his muscled chest without a care for his companion’s perception of his form. He had never experienced such humidity. The Freljordian north was cold almost year round and forever dry. He had heard stories of places like this, weather like this and people who lived this life day in and day out. The thought of the Shuriman desert was fast becoming a nightmare he never wanted to experience. If this was bad, what would that be in comparison?

The thrill of exploration had been helplessly dashed upon the merciless heat of the evening sun. But thankfully reprieve was fast approaching. The horizon slowly began to give way to darkness, the beautiful oranges and distilled purples growing longer with the shadows that stretched across the jungle, every tree and every bush mirrored by a darkening counterpart. As if another, blacker world was beginning to take shape before his very eyes. Only a few more hours, he thought.

The mention of his patron, though he had only encountered the Hearthlord once, brought fond memories of his time in the Freljord, crafting and working with tools - the bellows and the fires hot as ever. That was the heat he liked, the emanating warmth that blew hard when he stoked the flame. The clink of his hammer on cooling steel. Enzo was perhaps one of the only souls across the entirety of Runeterra and the Spirit Realm who could claim to have learned under the Demi-God Ornn. Not for very long, a week or less if he could recall correctly. Ornn was a recluse, hidden in his volcano mountain. It was difficult to convince Ornn to abandon his introversion long enough to let Enzo in. He valued his privacy. He was a gentle lord but a quiet one, simple and old-fashioned in a way. He forged, he slept, he ate and… He lived.

In the beginning Enzo had vigorously pruned the annals of history, drawn to what he thought was mythos by a single token of Ornn’s shady existence, an artifact from times before. It was often that a Yordle’s enthusiasm for the different and the unknown was enough to send them questing for answers - easily influenced by the varied cultures that made up material Runeterra. A plethora of examples existed now and then. Poppy, the gullible championed protector of Demacia; Kennen, the Ionian Kinkou monk-warrior; Kled, the psychopathic Noxian enforcer… And now Enzo, the Freljordian Hearthblood. Or so he styled himself. Never something he bragged about but something he was always proud of.

A loss of footing sucked him out of his own mind. A crumpling of loose rock and he was staring over a cliff's edge and leaning over its treacherous drop, balanced on the brink like a stunt double. Something soft had coiled around his midsection in the fleeting moments he’d succumb to deliberation. He looked down to see the braided length of Chelle’s hair keeping him from falling. He looked back with a nervous smile, eyes squinting as he scratched the back of his neck. It had just occurred to Enzo how strong Chelle’s magical hair was. She held him unassisted, her visage painted with cool and harsh judgement.

“Whew, that was a close one. Tha-” Before Enzo could finish his sentence he was whipped around like a ragdoll caught in the grasp of a kraken’s tendril, flinging him to safety with a lack of care.

“Get your head out of your ass”, Chelle said. A lazy hand ran under the weight of her locks, flicking it straight like a Piltovan fashionista.

“Awh, Chelle cares, guys.” Enzo brought a touched palm to his heart, doting with a pouting frown.

Chelle could only roll her eyes, not willing to provide the satisfaction of a reply.

Mica and Lois had proceeded just ahead of the two, starting down the shale path that twisted between risen earth. The further down they went the higher the wall to their immediate right extended, coming ever closer to the base of the steepened cliffside. This path, just as previous, was old and worn. The slabs of stone that had been excised from the rockface to form a winding flight of steps crumbled often. One misstep or slip up could spell death for the uncareful adventurer, as seen just a moment ago.

Enzo descended cautiously, the weight of his totem making things twice as treacherous. But with patience and thought he arrived at the base behind his companions. There they stood before a length of old bridge. The towering mountain cliff opposite them brought darkness sooner than it would have normally, casting the entire narrow ravine strait in shadow. To his left and right the strait stretched onward, sinking deeper until it suffused with the sea in a seamless fashion. He stepped up to the backs of his friends, levelling his vision towards the far side of the bridge where figures stood, hardly able to be made out in the fading twilight. There were perhaps a dozen, maybe more.

A voice spoke out towards them, echoing hard against the tall walls of the strait. “And here I thought you would be waiting for me in Bilgewater! Tell me little creatures, how did you find me?” It was Fain Toddbringer, their mark.

“Bring me the Sword.” Lois said, as blunt as ever and in no mood for theatrics.

“You demand of me?” Fain scoffed, a throaty chuckle filling the depths of the high trench. “You no longer have anything to leverage. Your powers are equalled.”

The silence was loud. Fain stood proud, backed by his entourage of pirates and flanked by his pair of Plundercrabs, his golden cutlass extended out to one side of him like a duelist with a filed rapier.

“Don’t believe me?” Fain inquired. Still silent. “Then perhaps a demonstration is in order!” His voice took a turn for the sinister as he swung the blade in line with his center.

Fain flourished the blade as purple and green lights burst to life across the hilt. He brought the blade out to his right side as if pointing. The water along the corresponding side of the bridge began to churn and churn. Waves ran through the length of the ravine all the way out from the sea to the sandbank the bridge stood on, lapping over it and crashing into the stone itself, each wave larger than the last. Without warning a tidal wave amassed on the far side of the ravine, sweeping through the trench with thunderous abandon. It was some thirty feet tall, white foamed water spilling into itself endlessly as it raged towards the bridge. The party was quick to step back to the limits of their half just as it washed across the length of the span. The cobblestone bridge quaked, the doctored concretion grumbling in protest as its weathered form cracked from the onslaught. Laughter began to bubble over the dying sounds of dissipating water.

“Oh, yes! Mother has found me fit to bare her boon! Did you know that’s what they’ve named it? The Boon Blade of Nagakabouros! Something my Father never told me. I thought you might want to know before I cut you open and feed your innards to the Leviathan!”

Along the flat of the bridge were slimy figures, recently deposited by the violent wave that had crashed overtop it. They writhed against the stone, slowly undulating to their webbed feet. They were wiry things with sickly sage green skin spotted with black pock-marks. Their bellies and the insides and undersides of their limbs were an off-white color. They possessed faces like cat-fish with loose tendrils at either corner of their wide and ugly gaping mouths, and their lids blinked across their big eyes in a horizontal fashion as opposed to a vertical one. Across their back like a flag declaring their allegiance as well as on the backs of their forearms were thin, semi-translucent fins. Twenty aquatic allies to rebuff Fain’s numbers, strategically placed as screening fodder. He wouldn’t be surprised this time.

The party steeled themselves for the fight ahead just as the light of the bridge’s magical lamps flickered to life, providing a dreary glow across the span turned battle lane. They settled into their formation. It wasn’t a rehearsed thing, but a natural thing. Enzo lined up at the front, a bulwark tank against their enemies. Mica, focused on close quarter engagements, lined up beside him. Chelle, mobile but perhaps more vulnerable, placed herself in an intermediate position. And finally the Ionian Hemomancer, who preferred to battle from a distance.

Enzo’s totem was peeled off his back, clacking hard against the stone beneath as a bastion. The engine mechanism within Mica’s drill rumbled to life, pulling against the trigger to send it spinning in a declaration of her violent intent. Chelle’s locks, aglow with magical energies, unravelled and splayed out behind her head like a medusan mockery and Lois ran her ceremonial blade along her forearm, pulling the blood from the wound and bending it into flowing circles that eventually hardened into dagger-esque spikes in a ring before her.

The plundercrabs opposite them inched forward just as the Fishfolk settled their sights on the diminutive group of spirits. The engagement began with a pair of booming explosions and a hot plume of black smoke. The plundercrabs’ cannons, nestled onto their backs and operated by buccaneers, fired their payloads, being ranged accurately in beforehand. Both operators swung around the front of their living gun-platforms with small cannonballs stored inside netting that hung from either crab’s rear. They loaded in a second volley along with the blackpowder, pushing it to the back of the cannon with their rammers, then the fuses were set and the ignition stick was readied again.

The shots flew high over their aquatic summons with a whoosh of salted air and were met with an angry ram totem. Like a batter, Enzo swept his weapon overhead in a rounding three-sixty, spinning on his heels to build momentum with the action. His arms snapped hard to whip the totem around, so liberally handling the weight of a weapon almost twice his size. Clack, clack! Both balls were knocked aside in quick succession, sending them deflecting into the water with a splash. With the gathered impetus of the strike he leveraged his totem around and into the bridge, jutting its ram’s head down and forwards.

The bridge buckled again as a trough of destabilized earth extended across it in a short arc before him, a preemptive measure to slow the oncoming Fishfolk. And come they did, all twenty of them sopping against the span towards the party. The largest of them let its aggression be known with a croaking screech that shattered the ears.

Lois was undeterred, though. With quick flicks of her wrists, turning her palms up and towards herself, fingers shooting out, she urged her bloody daggers forward. Each one found its mark with increasing accuracy, felling one, two, three and then four in a swift, murderous cascade. They collapsed on their run with defeat gurgles and death rattles, some of them stumbling to a watery demise over one edge of the bridge’s expanse. How beautifully they whistled on their way to their targets, bursting seconds after contact to rend flesh and pulp the innards. Nehel was pleased.

They were close now, slowed by the magically churned earth but not stopped. Mica was up. Like a shark she dove into the shallow rock of the bridge with her drill, running along its surface, using it almost like a Zaunite motorboard to surf towards her foes. She cut the engine with her foot, causing the drill to kick up after it was no longer able to eat stone. She gripped it mid-flight by the handle and ripped on the cord, spinning it up again. All of it seamlessly led into her first attack, thrusting forward to gouge a bloody hole into the nearest amphibian. It was a brutal exchange, ironic how the most cordial could become the most ruthless.

Her victim screeched in agony before it succumbed to shock, viscera flecking off and into the air like bloody party streamers. Then from that one to the next, blocking a strike with the width of her drill before retaliating. She swept the legs, an always effective strategy for creatures their size. But this simple action was augmented by the spinning of her drill. It peeled away oily flesh and filed at the bone on its pass. When the creature was finally on its back she held the drill down against its torso, grinding away its skin and muscle and sinew before crashing into its fragile ribcage. It was dead within moments, ground to smoking paste. These were not the jolly, carefree Yordles spoken about in legend. Unlike the Bandlegunners and groups like them in every way.

Boom, boom! Another pair of resounding explosions rang throughout the ravine, disrupting the flow of combat. One cannonball went wide, smacking into a graven Angler Fish idol and shattering the sculpture into rubble that sploshed into the water beneath the bridge. The other was accurate, sailing towards Mica. She swung her drill around, putting it between herself and the oncoming ordnance. It did little to nullify the force of the shot but it did protect her from serious injury. She was flung back and away from the point of impact, her size making her much more prone to being knocked airborne. Mica tumbled back head over heels before coming to a hard stop near Lois.

Chelle gasped, casting her eyes towards her beaten friend.

“I’ve got her! Go!” Lois exclaimed, retreating towards their companion.

With her worry dispelled she could focus her emotion into rage. Her eyes settled on the gunline that had formed on the far side of the bridge, all the pirates presenting their arms in Chelle’s direction. “Enzo!” She hollered.

As if one piece of a bigger whole, Enzo was already trotting forward. “On it!” Like a bull with a dozer grill he brought his totem horizontal across his body. Chelle followed him along as he bucked Fishfolk aside, swinging his plinth left and right just as he was about to make contact. They went sailing over either edge of the bridge, left then right, left then right, spilling and splashing.

Eustace, who was in charge of the men Fain had brought along, hoisted his own sword high in the air, his offhand holding his pistol. “Fire!” he shouted, swinging his blade down as a signal to let loose their salvo.

Enzo skipped and slammed his totem down, shaking the bridge for a third time. A plume of dust was erected before them just as the order was given. Then he slid to a knee, using the heft of his weapon to shield him and his allies, close or far, from harm. Bullets whizzed overhead and cracked against the totem as Chelle fell into cover behind it. Like a smoke screen the dust veiled them from observation, the remainder of the fishfolk seeking them in the shroud of airborne earth.

Lois arrived at Mica’s side, kneeling down to inspect her wounds.“Are you okay?”

Mica was scraped from the skidding and bruised from the tumble, her everything ached with each throb of her excited heart. The adrenaline was perhaps the only thing keeping her from total collapse. “Uh… No… Not really…” Mica grunted, willing herself back onto her hands and knees.

Lois began to conjure blood, though, not her own. From the spilled ichor of the fallen she began to amass another orb, identical to the previous one she’d used on the deck of the ship. It grew in size, not as big as the other, but big enough. The strands of blood from the bodies of their enemies eventually fell slack, spilling onto the ground in streaks. The orb hovered in the palm of Lois’ hand. She brought the other to Mica’s cheek, almost in an endearing fashion. The blood orb began to shrink, sinking into her pores through the palm of the receiving hand. It travelled through her body, purified by her Hemomantic powers. Mica watched as the veins, blue and red, became pronounced against Lois’ ashen grey skin - her eyes aglow with unnatural influence. All of it was channeled into Mica through the pores of her visage, passed from finger to cheek. The sensation sent shivers down her spine, it was a dull tingling tickle that emanated warmth through her face. The feeling was oddly pleasing, if not a little strange. The orb shrunk to nothing within a few short seconds and Mica felt renewed, her vitality returned and perhaps even a little supercharged.

“You-... You just injected me with fish blood.” The thought of it sent a less comforting shiver down Mica’s spine.

“Yes. Yes I did.” Lois droned. “Do you feel better?”

“I think I’m going to be sick...”

“How dramatic…” Lois sighed. “Come, let’s finish this.”

“Reload your weapons!” Eustace called, stepping up to his Captain’s side. “Captain… I don’t mean to sound grave but are you sure this is a fight we should take?”

Fain snapped his neck round to settle his attention on Eustace, an intense look in his eye. “Why, of course it is, dear Eustace! We have the power of the sea at our beck and call!”

“Yes, but-” Eustace began only to be hushed by a finger against his lips.

“Do not fret. Father’s Leviathan is always nearby.”

Eustace nodded, turning his eyes out towards the dust that now began to settle. Emerging from it was a silhouette. Small of course but aglow with enchanting blue light. An angry Chelle parted the plume of dust with a look of disdain on her features, hands out towards her sides, her locks whipping and lashing at the air as if completely autonomous. All of her hair was painted in the oiled blood of the Fishfolk Fain had summoned to his aid. The blood dripped down across her forehead and her eyes like barbaric warpaint.

Eustace gave a glance over one shoulder to his cannoners, nodding. Twice they shot again, and twice they missed. The first cracked hard against the stone where Chelle would have been had she not moved. She gracefully leapt over the point of impact, spiraling into a forward roll over the shoulder. As she transitioned towards her feet her hair pushed against the stone to propel her back into the air, avoiding the second shot. The men went to load once more.

“So colorful, you are! And all alone? Where have your friends gone, little one?” Fain rested his palms against his knees to better talk down to the furious Yordle.

There was no reply.

“You seem rather angry. What for?” Fain asked. Silence reigned, still. The lack of response was starting to anger the man.

“Captain!” Eustace called.

Fain’s attention swung to one edge of the bridge beside him, the furred head of the largest male peeking up from below, his totem strapped to his back. They’d fooled him again, had they? Just then a crimson shape split his attention. It cut through the remains of the dust screen behind Chelle, speeding towards him. His single good eye widened to see a spear conjured of blood reaching out, on a path directly for his head. He began to spiral clear just as the spear passed against him, cutting through one cheek to give him half a glasgow smile.

“Agh!” He doubled over in pain and fury. “Little bastards! Kill them!”

But it was too late. Enzo was coming up onto the flat of the bridge amidst his men just as Chelle was advancing, bloody daggers were singing towards them at breakneck speeds and the whirr of a faulty drill was fast approaching. Enzo’s totem burst aglow, the horizontal striations on the ram’s motif of his weapon burning red hot with fiery embers. He charged forward with magical vigour and constitution, his weapon buffed by the proxy powers of his patron demi-God. With great strength mustered from nothing, or nothing that they could see, he struck with the might of Ornn’s hammer, sending one Plundercrab over the edge of the bridge - its carapace cracked beyond repair.

Chelle capitalized on the chaos sowed within their midst, bouncing from pirate to pirate, bludgeoning them with the heavy mass of her hair and impaling them with sharpened strands. Fain couldn’t keep up with it all. Just then Mica returned to the fray, her weapon damaged and sparking but still functional. The remaining plundercrab charged to meet her, its massive claws rearing for a downwards strike that would mush her into nothing. Mica went sliding across her rear, angling her drill upwards for the giant crab to slam down onto. With a fleshy crack it broke its claw across the breadth of Mica’s drill, rearing back in angered confusion. The other claw tried its hand now, meeting the drill again as it grated the carapace of its own limb into shrapnel trying to crush the Yordle.

To conclude its meager existence Lois rode forward across the bridge and out of the dust cloud, or what remained of it. The magical trail of crimson lifeblood left in the wake of her spear allowed her to skate across its thin surface, the blood reacting and carrying her forward at an ever increasing pace. She leapt and produced her ceremonial dagger, taking its wicked edge to both eyes in a single cut. The crab reared again, stumbling and stumbling until it unknowingly threw itself off one extreme of the bridge. Another splash followed shortly after.

“Eustace, you must run.” Fain gripped his second by his collar in the middle of the chaos.

“Captain, I couldn’t possibly leave you!”

“No, Eustace. You must leave, the Leviathan’s wrath will be absolute. I can only be certain that I will be spared. You must leave!”

Eustace gulped hard. “Aye, Captain. I will return for you!”

“I know you will, Eustace. Now go!” Then Fain was shoving his second towards the cliff’s climb and away from the fighting.

Eustace stumbled his way to the steps, heading back in the direction of the temple.

It wasn’t long until Fain stood alone, surrounded by his slain allies and his belligerent foes. The beleaguered captain, beset on all sides, laughed. Truly amused. “Come then, let’s not waste anymore time with this!”

Fain’s coat billowed in the cool winds as he cast it aside to reveal his musculature. Still glistening with sweat and effort, his blade gleamed all the same, unmarked by blood or imperfection. The four Yordles circled him around the wide bridge, forcing him to turn and turn again, waiting for someone to make the first move. Who would it be? He wondered. There was stillness that gripped them all, a moment of mutual respect, perhaps? Of understanding that one party would leave here alive. And the other would not.

The first move came from Mica, she leapt in spinning her drill, the point of it coming in towards the back where the heart would be. In that second before it made contact the blade’s gems ran alight once more. Fain spun and struck the drill wide just as a tendril conjured from the waters below reached up and swiped at Chelle who was attempting to flank him on the opposite side. She was knocked away with a grunt, crashing hard against another Angler Fish statuette adorning the side of the bridge. Then he was spinning again, his sword swinging before he even saw the foe that would make the next attempt on his life. Along the edge of his Boon Blade ran the salted ethereal waters of Nagakabouros, extending its length from a simple cutlass to that of a spear almost. A spear with a cutting edge. Enzo’s offense transitioned to defense as he got behind his totem, blocking the strike. It left a sizable striation along the stone.

“You know how long it took me to make this?!” Enzo said as he retorted, digging the head of his weapon down into the bridge to send out another ditch of broken earth.

Fain leapt as the ditch surged towards the Captain. He flourished his blade and more water came up to assist him, this time in the form of periodic spurts that ran beneath his boots and carried him into the air as if he were sprinting up a flight of stairs.

“He can walk on water? That’s unfair.” Enzo moaned.

Fain brought the tip of his blade down just as he began to fall on the chatty little Yordle, the gems gleaming brighter and brighter the closer he closed. Enzo rolled away but had failed to anticipate the explosion of saltwater that would be birthed from the impact. Sea water flooded one half of the bridge, washing out and over its boundaries. Enzo was flung into the water while the other three were spaced away from the Captain.

The hurried steps of another Yordle at his back forced him to turn and meet them. This one again. The one with the drill. She jabbed with a buzz, falling short as Fain stepped back. Again she jabbed and again he stepped to one side. Then a leap and downwards punch, this time. Fain chuckled, the tendril returned again, wrapping around Mica’s torso to whirl her about before her intentions could be realized.

“Not fast enough, little one.”

The whistling of the blood blades caught his attention. He ducked the first and weaved the second, bringing his blade up to parry, parry and parry the rest away. They clunked off the flat of his sword in quick succession, deflecting each and every one like an Ionian sword dancer. He brought the blade up high and down with finality. As it rose so did the waves, and when it came down the waves formed themselves into a blade of their own. So sharp was the water that it cut a divot in the stonework of the bridge. Lois narrowly avoided it. It fell inert immediately after, wetting the span.

Lois turned her attention to the suspended Mica. With two flicks of the wrist she sent hot blood streaking towards the watery tendril that held the Yordle aloft. Its magical connection was severed and it became simple water again, releasing Mica. Her drill spun up as she dove down, catching Fain off guard. He stepped aside only to stumble back into Chelle who sliced the back of one knee out with her razor strands.

Another growl of agony escaped Fain as he fell to a knee. This is not how he would go! The Captain thought. Chelle and Mica were prepared to end him when a wave of water broke across the bridge and swept them away, leaving Fain knelt and soaked through, only kept stationary by his powers.

“All your efforts are for nought, little creatures.” Fain hobbled to a stand, looking at the only remaining Yordle. “This was all a distraction. I did say I was going to feed your innards to Father’s Leviathan, didn’t I?”

A bellowing screech punctuated his inquiry. On one extreme of the ravine the mighty shape of a Leviathan broke the water’s surface. The same one Father commanded during his youth. Oh, how magnificent. Its scales glistened so perfectly in the full moon’s light. He missed it so. He could tell it was his own from the single missing eye. The eye that was shot out the very same night Fain had gazed upon its glory for the first time. The spitting image of Mother. All his to command.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” He grinned, his voice breathy as if seeing a long lost lover for the first time in decades.

“First she will feast on your friends down below. And then, she will take you as well.” Fain swung the tip of his Boon Blade towards Lois’ companions stranded in the shallow waters beneath the bridge. “Come now, be the hero and save them! Try and save them!” He laughed again.

The Leviathan, with its target now acquired, swam down the length of the strait. Dipping up and out, then back down and in something like a dolphin. Its titanic length arched in and out of the water, trailing itself along.

Lois appeared collected outwardly, but panic began to consume her inside. The thumping of her heart grew louder, louder. Her head hurt, she couldn’t think. What could she do in a situation like this?! More blood, more blood! Her wrists flicked again and again, sending blood daggers towards Fain but he deflected them all. She siphoned the blood from his comrades and projected it in another spear but it failed to find its mark. He was advancing on her, she had so little time. She produced her ceremonial dagger, fending off his attacks. Each one wore on her strength more. A dagger wasn’t meant to parry a sword. Her muscles atrophied and she was beaten to the ground, kicked across it and stomped on.

“Your demise will be the sweetest yet!” Fain chuckled, pinning her underfoot so the two of them could watch his Leviathan feast. Here she comes! Yes, here she comes! The Captain thought.

Suddenly the horizon was consumed by a baleful red light. Fain blinked and turned about, casting his vision upwards. Even when he saw it his confusion was no less than it had been before. The moon was… Red? His boot, his boot was being lifted, how could she?! From beneath him an inhuman voice spoke, as deep as the deepest depths of the sea and backlit by a murderous lust that was palpable and overwhelming. His stomach churned at its vile nature. And suddenly he felt small. Something from beyond a veil he never knew existed spoke to him. He felt its lack of empathy, its unending voracious appetite for bloodshed. Something about it was not of this world. It was beyond comprehension.

“The darkness is not exclusive to your petty little sea creatures!”

He looked down in absolute horror, the solemn face of the Yordle he once could claim to have beaten was now twisted into a parody of itself, the eyes aglow with ethereal blue light that trailed a crimson-purple haze, the veins around her grinning mouth bulging and pronounced, her teeth sharpened into predatory sickles and her nails extended in talon-esque claws that dug into the rubber of his boots. With strength he could no longer keep down the creature inhabiting Lois' body forced him back and then stood, snapping upright with unnatural fluidity. The spilled blood began to rise from its puddles and streaks, each droplet hovering above the ground to suspend itself like rain frozen in time. All at once they came together to form a duplicate of the ceremonial blade Lois now held again. Two daggers.

In a dash faster than Fain could blink Lois was on him, forcing him to stumble away from the ‘X’ cut towards his throat. She hovered in the air for longer than she should be able before falling and bouncing into another dashing sprint. She rounded on the retreating Captain, throwing her duplicate dagger to cut him off. Fain deflected it barely, watching as it boomeranged back into her grasp. She was cutting faster than he could riposte and with his bad leg there was nothing he could do to get away from her. Their blades clanged several times over before steel met flesh. Fain cried out as his abdomen was split open in a curling arc.

He summoned the powers of the sea to help him, he even readjusted his Leviathan’s target. She was shifting so strangely, as if the bones in her body no longer defined her range of movement. She was here and then there. Another cut to the back and then across the shoulder. Fain’s water tendrils and waves couldn’t keep up with her. Then the killing blow. It was sudden, unceremonious. Both daggers through the lungs, followed by a twist that wrenched his insides. He fell to his knees, gazing longingly at the sight of his Leviathan surging towards him as he sputtered crimson. The sword fell from his hand and was taken by his better. He could only watch as life fled his body. She held the blade up and the Leviathan abated a mere twenty feet from the bridge, hanging there out of the water, its serrated maw slightly agape as if not understanding. Lois swung the blade opposite herself and the Leviathan swam over the bridge and through the strait, out the other side. Fain twisted to watch it go, a palm reaching out in hopes of touching it… Just touching it… He wouldn’t get his chance.

With his own weapon, the weapon given to him by his Father, the weapon that controlled the oceans and the weapon he had fought so hard to obtain during his trials… Lois ended his life. A clean excision through the neck, clipping the artery to spill the most blood. With little oxygen in his punctured lungs he would meet death's embrace by violent asphyxiation. His eyes set on the darkening horizon at the end of the strait. How could it have come to this?

A nebulous amount of time passed as he clung to the dregs of life still left in his body. He heard the conversations of his killers nearby, they had taken his blade and left him for dead. In his final moments he heard another voice. A familiar voice, overcome with sadness.

“Captain! Captain!... Don’t worry Captain, I can see you back to life, I promise…”

Then nothing...