-[Act 3 * Part 1]-
It was quiet in Razazil’s private quarters. The Admiral sat at his table, glass of gin in hand, pondering his decision to contact Basil. He raised the drink in a silent toast to a framed painting that hung from the wall in front of him—a portrait of the dragon-kin commander in his early years. The youthful expression of the Admiral in the frame stared back at the old man with a fiery conviction in its eyes, reminding him of whence he came. An assorted crown of sabers lined the margins of the frame, reminding him of what he’s done.
This cabin was Razazil’s home when out at sea, so it had all the creature comforts that one might expect. The room was bright and spacious with a good view of the harbor through the windows at the back. Charts and astral navigation tools rested comfortably in the white ivory and gold trimmed shelves that lined the walls. The cabin almost resembled an opulent scholar’s study with how many books there were, but the countless trophies of monsters skewed the scene to where it gave off a ‘gentleman adventurer’ kind of vibe instead.
His king-sized bed was tucked away in the corner, partially hidden behind a wall of curtains that served to separate it from the rest of the room. For a split moment a presence could be observed moving under the sheets. A slender shape burrowed herself deeper into the pillows and let off a long sigh. Having changed her sleeping position, the woman stretched out her arms before settling back into the comfortable embrace of the soft bedding. Through the tufts of her ruffled hazel brown hair a pair of cat ears stuck out. They twitched subtly every time the hull of the ship creaked under its own weight.
Razazil paid no mind to the sleeper softly snoring away in the corner. The old dragon-kin admiral brushed his long whiskers between his rough fingers as he pondered on matters more serious. They were not quite claws, his nails, but they were sharp enough to be used as weapons in a pinch. A hulking creature in his own right, the dragon blooded Admiral carried several obvious traits of his much larger kin, but passed closer to a demi-human than a demi-dragon. Unlike his distant cousins, the lizardmen, he did not possess a scaly skin, but, rather, a rough and dark gray hide with a small patch of dark orange fur on the back of his head that ran down his neck. Likewise, there were several elongated patches of fur on his arms. The signs of his advanced age could be seen in the gray ends of his mane.
The Admiral curled his whiskers back and forth as he observed the small adamantium lockbox on his table. The dark green metal of the container glistened in the light cast by the magic lamps that were positioned throughout his cabin. The locking mechanism of the box was simple, but there were several lines of magic runes etched into the metal around the keyhole. These enchantments granted it an unnatural ability to resist attempts at lock picking.
Razazil poured the last of the gin down his throat and left the glass on the table. He then produced a key from the pocket of his jacket and placed it in the lock of the adamantium box, but did not turn it. He then spent a while pondering whether or not to open it.
Eventually he decided against it and placed the key back into his pocket.
“He is too young,” Razazil told himself in a coarse voice. “I shouldn’t set him on a path of ruin… It’s not what she would have wanted for him.”
The old Admiral got up from his seat and carried the lockbox over to a wall mounted safe. Once the precious item had been secured within it, Razazil closed the safe and pinned several trap scrolls to the door—for good measure.
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He then returned to his table and pulled up a large map of the 9th layer of hell. On the weathered parchment the top layer of the city was drawn in fine detail, depicting every street and building—everything except for the Inner District. There was no information available on the Guild controlled part of the city, as it was well shielded from scrying spells and similar tools of espionage.
“Show me my ships,” Razazil ordered the map.
At his command several blue figures appeared on the yellow parchment. The magic lights were sharp enough to match the rough shape of tiny sailing ships, but instead of traveling across water they appeared to be flying through the sky. The map revealed their relative distance from the ground as well as the direction they were headed.
They were all scattered around the Outer District, the sloops and brigs of Admiral Razazil. Eight ships patrolled the city in a search pattern, well apart one form another. Meanwhile, Port Malus glowed bright blue as the hulls of six ships—much larger than the patrol craft—were currently shown to be moored side by side within the westernmost part of the infamous pirate harbor. It was his little corner of the 9th Hell, his Sea Dragon’s Roost, as the sailors called it. And it was a damned precious bit of real-estate.
“Have they found him?” Razazil wondered as he noted the sudden shift in the course of one of his ships. It was a sloop going by the name of Restless and it was now traveling directly towards Port Malus at high speed. He then watched the ship disappear into a cloud of magic smoke just as it was about to pass over the boundaries of the port.
The Admiral’s whiskers twitched and he jumped to his feet. He moved swiftly to grab his sword and made a dash for the door. Razazil’s concern turned out to have been justified as an explosion could now be heard reverberating outside.
Razazil remembered the sleeper and halted in the doorway. As he turned to see if she had awakened, the old Admiral found the woman already half-dressed and brandishing her saber in her teeth.
“Go and rouse your crew, Kira!” the Admiral ordered. “We are under attack.”
The cat eared woman nodded, sheathed her blade and dashed for the open window at the back of the cabin. “Stay safe, my Admiral,” Kira said as she grabbed hold of a rope that had been left dangling outside the window. She then swung across the chasm that separated her ship from the Admiral’s, disappearing from his sight.
Razazil’s whiskers grew stiff, hinting at the dragon-kin’s worried state of mind at the sight of his woman departing for battle. But he couldn’t let his emotions cloud his judgment. He too had a duty to his crew. More than that, he was responsible for his entire flotilla before any personal considerations.
Just as the Admiral left his cabin he was met by a panting sailor.
“Trouble!” the orc sailor declared while saluting his commander.
“Report,” Razazil said as the two of them rushed through the ship’s hull. It was cramped by necessity and functional in layout. The wooden hallways were designed so as to facilitate swift movement in two directions at once while every spare nook and cranny was a storage area for one kind of provision or another.
“We are under attack!” the sailor said.
“I know. Who’s attacking us?” Razazil asked.
“We don’t know yet,” the sailor answered. “The lookouts haven’t reported it in yet.”
“From the port or from the sea?” Razazil asked.
“The port, Sir,” the sailor answered.
Razazil stopped, spun around and grabbed hold of his subordinate to get his full attention as he listed his orders: “Get the priestess,” he said, “Bring here up to the main deck—”
The orc nodded.
“—and then return with a few good men to guard my cabin,” Razazil ordered with one finger raised to stress the importance of the last part. “No one can enter. Is that clear?”
The sailor nodded once more. “Priestess; deck; guard the cabin—got it!”
As Razazil continued down the hallway, he was joined along the way by several others as his crew sprang into action. The sailors and marines moved about with a fire to their step, but none so much as got in the other’s way. They had all been drilled to perfection for just such an occasion.
Explosions could be heard rocking the harbor streets beyond. The sounds of battle were growing ever louder.
“This is not the time,” Razazil cursed through his teeth. “Not now… not when he is coming.”