This being a true recollection of actual events, recorded by my hand in the year 732, Post Shattering.

Much of the tale that is to be told, I was a part of. As Scrutineer and story-teller, my role was to observe and accurately relate the adventure that led myself and my fellow crew across the shards. Our ill-fated encounter with Archangel, and our eventual end.

Before that, though, there is a beginning. A turbulent phrase, for when does one thing begin, and another end? Who has the vision necessary to define time in such a way? Who has the authority? Well, it is not something I wanted, not least because I was not there at this particular beginning. I was elsewhere, and while my captivity may be of interest to you, it is not how this story begins. For that, I defer to the crew of the Kingfisher, who were involved.

The Kingfisher, I should state, had not achieved any of it’s near legendary status among the populace. Before it was a vessel of myth and story, told to delight and warn, it was a ship. A privateer vessel, existing in the gray space between the Wolfpack Naval Armada and the Ravagers. She worked outside the law, surviving however she could. While many privateer vessels descended to scum and villainy, the Kingfisher had thus far remained resolute, thanks in no small part to the work of her Captain, Erin Thunder. And, though we wouldn’t realize it for some time, the young boy who could not be killed.

Please forgive me my dramatic liberties. An aging man must have his fun. The following events have been re-told to me piecemeal, and so I have taken artistic license with some of the detail, the dialogue, and the descriptions. You may take my word, however, that they are an accurate representation. I have learned too well the power of my eyes.

[Two lines of text are thoroughly scratched out.]

Very well. I have put this off enough. Though my fingers tremble at the magnitude of the tale before me, I must find that most nebulous of things, for there can be no end without it.

A beginning.

* * *

The Kingfisher hits the atmosphere of Evergreen with barely a shudder. A soft thrumming from the Widowgas engines echoing as they fire. The crew stand at stations. A ragtag band from across Shatter. The ship itself, a six-gun Livewood brig, modeled off the water-borne vessels of old Arden. The hull is pitted and scratched from use, a still smoking hole patched conspicuously with a sticky yellow substance.

She is a beauty, though she’s seen better days. Well-kept and cared for, within the power of those in charge of such things. Namely, the hulking figure in her storm-cloud gray leather duster, standing imperious on the deck. About 7 feet tall, though currently hunching over the wheel. She seems almost too big for the ship. Taller and larger than the crew ranging about the deck, steam rises softly with every exhale. Her duster billows faintly, though there is no wind.

Captain Thunder tilts her head back, as she guides the ship down. The tri-corner hat over her close-cropped blonde hair was once white, though now, scuffed and worn, it appears to be approaching gray from the wrong side.

I wouldn’t want you to think that Captain Thunder stands alone, though. While she is first and foremost on board the Kingfisher, she is by no means the only person of interest to us. Upon the entire crew, this story balances. We will meet them in time. For now, let me direct your attention behind and to Erin’s right.

He always stands at her right, if the situation permits. One might think that such a personal code would get awkward, that there would be to-ing and fro-ing and constant rearranging, but truthfully, Zacharias Mudge had long ago turned being a Right Hand Man into an art form, and since then, all he had done was to hone his craft.

He wears a loose white cotton shirt and the plaincloth trousers of a common voyager. But while Thunder, with her whining servos and smoke is much more built than Builder, Mudge is Builder through and through. He bears the traditional tattoos, his star-darkened skin a canvas of coloured ink. He is First Mate of the Kingfisher, though for someone titled ‘Mate’, I found him short tempered and slow to trust. Though perhaps that has more to do with my unconventional joining of his crew, than he himself. Ask anyone else and they would tell you that Mudge was loyal, affable and engaging. If Erin is the backbone of The Kingfisher, then he is the heart.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

They descend towards Evergreen, a beautiful shard of boundless forests and shimmering lakes. Massive Livewood trees stand sentinel over the rest of the emerald canopy unfurling below. 

“So, will you tell me now where we’re supposed to be going?” The scratchy voice comes from Wilhelm, ship’s Navigator. An older man, terribly scarred, he is one of the Stormwards, children of Talos. It is reckoned among my people that the Stormwards are all addicted to the waters of their home-shard, Torrent. Why else would they charge so much for it? His pale skin is lit with lightning scars, criss-crossing across his face and down his body. He wears an eye-patch over one sightless eye, and is at first glance, horrifying. When first we met, the knowledge that his lightning scars had been largely self-inflicted somehow did little to assuage my unease.

“There’s a tributary that feeds into the western edge of the third great lake, Lincoln. The river runs through the deep forest-”

“Faerie country,” Mudge interrupts, before a sharp glare from his Captain silences him. This is not the time for rehashing old arguments.

“Yes, but we’ll fly overhead. It will be safe,” her words have the sting of someone tired of repeating themselves. “We follow the river to a waterfall and, I kid you not, there is a cavern behind the falls. That’s where we make our delivery.”

“Which will require landing-”

“Not again. Mudge, sometimes the only choice we have is a bad one. I’d rather not spend the entire journey second-guessing myself.”

“Mm. Well, you heard the Captain, Wil.”

“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm returns, before walking towards the bow of the ship. We follow him, leaving Mudge and his Captain to their quiet argument. Wilhelm’s means of navigation are always worth watching, provided you don’t stand too close.

The crew make room for the limping man. Anticipation building. Though able-bodied voyagers all, they part for the scarred man, one mangled arm dangling loose, one eye staring out at the Shard below. Those not watching set to quiet work, and with a hiss, the bubble by which they had been protected from the dangers of space and atmospheric reentry disappears. The wind whispers across the deck.

Wilhelm stands atop the forecastle, pulling a worn leather-bound book from his thick coat. A glance at the pages reveals it full of maps drawn in such a confusing catalog as to be almost unusable to any but the author, who flips it open, scans a few pages with one piercing eye, and then holds his good arm up, palm outstretched.

There is a moment's pressure. Ears pop. A hiss of releasing heat, and a crackle of lightning arcs down Wilhelm’s arm. He doesn’t cry out as it scars him, teeth clenched tight. A drop of blood splashes the deck as his knuckles tighten, and then the bolt is released. It spears into the air and forks off almost immediately into the darkening sky.

The air sizzles, and the lightning fades, leaving a brilliant purple after-image in the eyes of all who watch it. Navigating between the broken fragments of a shattered planet, which orbit in dizzying parabolas around a central star requires inventiveness and intuition. Wilhelm’s method is morbidly unique. He draws a ragged breath, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest, as the voyagers around jump into action.

The Kingfisher, and the mysteries within her walls, will take some time for us to get used to, and currently, time is short. We have a few more key members of crew to meet, but don’t worry, after that, things will settle down. 

Rico waits in the galley, helping Kendra Stoutheart, head chef and moral center of the Kingfisher. She orders him around without malice, putting the odd boy to work as they prepare the evening meal. Rico knows Kendra is glad they’ve arrived at Evergreen, because it is the best place to procure fresh produce. He also knows she’s doubly glad that she didn’t have to request this destination to the captain. She takes pride in her ability to make good food from anything, an ability which has recently been stressed almost to breaking point. You can make a passable meal out of bad ingredients, but nobody can make dust and weevils taste good. 

Pride in herself, and pride in her kitchen - the pride of the Solarii - keeps her from turning Rico away. She has yellowed eyes, and pointed incisors. Echoes of divinity.

“It’s ready when it’s ready!” she snaps at a third person, lurking in the galley. A narrow-faced man with a paring knife in his hands. The knife dances between fingers as he looks at the food. His ears are pricked up, eyes glinting with an amber glow. He is the Warmaster of the Kingfisher, one of the Wolfpack. Cunning and dangerous. He licks his lips, a cruel gleam in his eyes as he watches Rico duck into the smaller compartments at Kendra’s behest, bringing out mouldy old supplies for the evening meal.

“Dead Gods, look what we’re reduced to,” Kendra says with a weary sigh. She notices a subtle change in the Warmaster’s expression. “No, don’t. Not tonight, I can’t be-”

“Ah, come now Kendra,” the man drawls. “Rico doesn’t mind, does he?”

Rico looks up, silent. He’s interesting. Very interesting. The crew, as with the rest of us, are drawn from any of the seven Shards. Each one a distant descendant of a dead God, by whose sacrifice they were saved. They wear that genetic divinity on their skin, in their size and shape, hair and personality. In the powers that they can bring to bear upon the world. It’s been nearly a millennium since the world was shattered and people have changed. Wolfpack, Solarii, Builders, Stormwards, Singers, Shadewalkers, and the Scythe. Only fragmented remnants of their humanity remain. They are mutated. Blessed.

Rico is a human. The kind that no longer exists. The kind you hear about in stories.

With a chuckle and a shrug, the man flips his knife end over end, before slinging it at Rico. The boy, little more than a teenager, doesn’t have time to react. Doesn’t move, duck or jump. The knife penetrates. His eyes go blank.

And he disappears.