“It had been my understanding that nothing moved on those docks without your say so, Harbormaster.”
“I mean, yeah,” the scar faced man says, trying to be much more careful, and much more sober, than he'd been fifteen minutes earlier, “that's how it works. But we don't haul each and every crate, especially on the big ones. There's only so many of us, and these ships all have their own crews. All we really care about is if the paperwork's been properly filled out and whether or not they've paid their fees.”
Squinting at him. Nothing he's said this whole time had rung false. Seems like he's telling the truth, both him and beard. Giant, also, but he still wasn't back from wherever he'd gone.
“I want you to look into it for me. I need to track down the right captain and pay him a visit when I can. Thanks for the intel, thanks for the supplies, and thanks for the shoes.” The girl sitting next to beard nodding mutely in reply.
Out the Rat Cellar door and back out into the cool, autumn night. After turning the corner the breeze from the ocean coming in intermittent bursts. This plan hinges on a simple quirk of location. Any ships in drydock would be considered inside city limits, but everything floating around in the harbor is free game. The crew of each ship is responsible for the safety of their own vessel and, at this hour, all those crewmen are either still on shore leave, or passed out somewhere three sheets to the wind. They won't even realize what's going on, at first, and then, when they do, they won't know what to do for a bit. Still, going after every ship is a big ask, after the surprise of the first couple wears off resistance should pick up. Need to focus on the ones that could plausibly be the culprit first, and do as much damage as quickly as possible. The two main factors they share: medium sized or larger for traveling a long distance at sea and, with the amount of freight in the Stormhawk warehouse as any indication, those still needing to be loaded up. So larger and sitting relatively high in the water. Need to be quick before real resistance shows up.
Rune of Deflection on my clothing and a Rune Trap on my skin. The outside of my acquired cloak changed to Stormhawk blue and featuring their large gold emblem, wings spread. Going all the way down south to the first pier where a large, multimasted galleon sporting three flags had been moored. The Imperial symbol, also blue and gold, the lowest and smallest of the three. Lighting one torch, keeping my second unlit and hopping aboard.
Looks like no one's around. Should take my time getting this first one going while everything's still calm. Forget the rigging and sails, those are low hanging fruit, get them on the way out. Get inside and find something a little more structural. This cabin here.
Being very careless with my torch while entering. Holding it near the walls and ceiling to let the flames start to catch. Down into the belly and coming face to face with a crew member, unshaven, unkempt and reeking of booze.
“Hey.” The word coming out of his mouth more a reflex than anything. Surprise at my sudden appearance. Surprise at my outfit. Surprise at the torch purposefully lighting the ship on fire. Surprise at the shield suddenly knocking him off his feet. Surprise at the followup, the torch, my improvised, rune enhanced weapon, bashing down like a fiery club and doing more damage than a thin stick would ordinarily have any right to. Even surprise at the rune enhanced torch throwing a burst of fire and setting his clothing ablaze -that to my surprise, as well.
“Stormhawk sends their regards.”
Maybe he doesn't fully comprehend. Hitting him again and the situation seeming to settle in, the man patting at himself to try and put out the fire and scrambling away while trying to call for help. Scurry away, my little firebug, let them know death has come calling. Some calls of alarm from the direction in which he'd run. The timer starts now. Back on deck and going from mast to mast putting the lines attached to furled sails to the torch, and then the others. A yell coming from above, the lookout from the crow's nest so rudely awakened, and a bell starting to ring out.
“Fire!” His voice yelling out. “Fire on the deck!”
The first ship's fate sealed. Disembarking and proceeding in a relentless and methodical manner. Moving to the second likely target, a medium size ship a few piers to the north. Abandoning any pretense at subtlety or stealth and swinging the torch without thought or care. A lantern here, unlit. Much better on its side. The oil spilling out and running across the decking now set alight. More calls of alarm and cries of warning in my wake. Some drunken and disoriented sailors, fumbling with their weapons, staggering as if on choppy seas, sent overboard by pulses of the shield, or set running ablaze. Their screams starting to fill the night along with the warnings of the lookouts.
The torch, what a phenomenal tool, how has it been so overlooked? Not as quick or precise as the knife, but it has greater range. None of the weight or impact of the hatchet but fire adds something primal to each hit, sparking fear and spreading panic. Not just fear for their own safety, but fear that everything they see and everything they hold dear serves no purpose other than to ignite, burn, smolder and die. Not very useful for proper field work, but for dealing with the easily intimidated, the easily scattered, the easily driven over the edge, a more proper handheld weapon may not exist. At least not in here. And while an ordinary torch is good enough, this rune enhanced version really adds that extra special something.
A lone defender remaining on this ship, a sober, serious minded sailor with a weapon clutched in hand and still standing his ground. His friends already disposed of, knocked overboard or sent running after watching some of their other friends set alight. The lone defender standing athwart my ambitions. The torch revealing the lie of his position, the hopelessness of his defiance, the emptiness of his resolve and the flammability of his clothing.
“Mac.”
The gravely voice cutting off my manical laughter. The giant returning from wherever he'd gone, with a group of seven or eight, all holding torches, jugs or other accessories. All members of the Pact and some of them former Thieves Guild. One of them tossing me a new replacement weapon.
“With you being like this,” giant's words full of weight and deliberate, “it made me real upset seeing you so unhappy. I'm glad you seem to be doing better now.” Some nods and hope you're doing okays, Mac, coming from the group.
“Of course I'm doing-” My attempt at a lighthearted reply sticking in my throat. Stopping for a moment to overcome the emotion. Restarting. “Thank you. Tonight's operation is a framejob, and we're hitting hard and fast. If some real resistance comes along prioritize getting gone. The patsy is Stormhawk, so let everyone know they're responsible. Welcome to the House.” Putting little blue and gold approximations on their clothing. Eh, close enough. “I really appreciate you all doing this.”
My Pact members starting to fan out and spread flames to those smaller ships that had been spared thus far, as well as ensuring the ones currently burning didn't sputter out. A gathering crowd watching as each ship's rigging and sails and, in some cases, entire vessels started to burn. The watch finally managing to come by twenty minutes in and perform their namesake. The wind shifting, growing stronger and aiming toward the city, ashes and embers threatening to ignite the nearby warehouses and spread into the city proper, and threatening the mood of the largely drunken and festive crowd. The watch starting to make some efforts at doing something, pointing and gesturing, yelling out for buckets. With more Pact member filtering in and getting their little imitation Stormhawk insignia my lone crusade had become dozens, and with them the flames continue to grow.
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“Macarthy!”
Ah, here they are. Is this the sixth ship or the seventh? Must be, oh, that little sloop was the third so this must be the eighth. Eight ships in and my disbelieving, gossiping Stormhawk captors have finally graced me with an appearance. Raising my hand in greeting. This has all been for you. Every one of my strikes accompanied by the name Stormhawk. Every ship a funeral pyre to Stormhawk. Every one of these hapless sailors or pleading merchants struck with the torch or knocked into the sea had known the responsible party is Stormhawk. How fortunate that real members from Stormhawk are here to witness this glorious dedication. From the looks of them, the anger etched on their faces, the obvious loathing, they may even have accepted the truth, and now they're on this side of the edge of belief.
Need to keep them occupied, and let the rest of my helpers continue doing what they're doing without-
A massive explosion from the south, from one of my earlier targets, interrupting that thought. A series of several more following, completely destroying the entire vessel and spreading flames to everything surrounding it. The group of Stormhawk stopping where they stood and gawking. Everton staring in horror. They're staying put, looks like, gesturing and talking amongst each other once again.
“Outsider!”
The scar faced man's estimate right on target. If Stormhawk may have got here late, then these guys got here right on time. The word coming from an Imperial solider, an officer from his markings, at the head of about a dozen men. Disciplined, well armed and moving with intent. Altogether completely different from the sailors flailing around and failing to defend their own ships. The sailors a mixture of recently awakened, inebriated, half dressed, poorly equipped, and disoriented - overall more interested in saving their own ships than in fighting, and therefore failing at doing either. The Imperial officer and his contingent none of that. His group arriving from their moored ship on the northern end of the harbor, a sleek, midsize warship with the topmost flag on the mainmast showing the Imperial symbol.
Outsider, he'd said, meaning he isn't a local. But, then again, maybe he is - maybe he's just upset. The locals, by this point, know better than to use that word – they almost certainly still think it, even it goes unsaid – but we're a common enough occurrence that they don't bother to say it anymore. Us and them works with no real confusion and no real animosity on either side. Us and them is an honest state of affairs, and allows for mostly peaceful coexistence. We are us and they are them. That's how it is, and that's how it always will be.
“Outsider,” the word leaving his lips once again, “in the name of the Emperor of the great Mithran Empire, I order you to lay down your weapons and surrender. Surrender, or be killed.”
The Emperor, not the Marquis. A fit of laughter consuming me. Try and stop me – good luck killing me – even if you manage you'll find me back on my feet in no time. The Emperor, what a joke, this one isn't a local at all. It's a fake leading a group of fake soldiers giving fake orders on behalf of a fake Empire ruled by a fake Emperor halfway across a fake world. How fortunate that all these fakes seem to burn just as hot and just as well as real ones. The magnitude of falseness floating like a lead balloon, smashing on the ground to expose all the false, hollow rotten filth within. That's what the Imperial symbol on that flag looks like, that's the shape this fake's mouth has made, a pestilence filled pustule just praying to be popped, to be erased with no additional preemptive effort needed on my part. It's already been drawn.
“Macarthy, you lunatic!”
The Stormhawk group choosing this moment to come in and save the day. Soldiers from the local garrison would have known that we Outsiders – ha! - are not a monolith. They've witnessed our battles over the years, both drunken brawls, as well as more serious confrontations. Street to street fighting as territory disputes raged, as control of the city hung in the balance. Local soldiers would've listened to their words, would've heard my name yelled in such obvious anger and would've known to stay out of the way.
“Kill the Outsiders.” The order from the fake's mouth. “Put them all down.”
The Imperial out-of-towners, however, probably figuring Stormhawk's approach as some kind of flanking maneuver, as proof positive of some sort of Outsider plot. My cursory masquerade with the false Stormhawk insignia paying early, unforeseen dividends. Most of the Imperial group turning toward the Stormhawk newcomers and moving into attack position. Stormhawk, with evident confusion, backpedaling away while offering hasty explanations and holding out their hands to request parley. Defending themselves and retreating while making no effort to strike back. The commander, the one who'd given the order, looking away from me to better direct his men against our shared enemy.
Typical commissioned officer. They're the same in here as they are out there. Gives an order and assumes his word supersedes natural law. Maybe one in hundred, one in a thousand, is worth more than a warm bucket of spit. The rest are social climbers and ass kissers riding their men's backs to the next promotion, and the ones that rise to the top are always the slimiest, slipperiest and most worthless of the bunch. This one, here, ain't even worth a capful of lukewarm piss. Only an officer would be so careless and arrogant as to turn away from the instigator holding one of the torches setting fire to everything.
A shout from one of his men his only warning. The crackling shield smashing into him from the side, knocking him to the edge of the pier and the momentum causing him to fall into the water. Smacking at the one that yelled the warning with the burning end of the torch and then sending another sprawling into the drink with the shield.
“Help your comrades.” The now leaderless soldiers hesitating. That armor they're wearing isn't very buoyant. “I'll let you live if you stay out of my way. This is Stormhawk business.”
The Imperial soldiers regrouping, weapons out, regarding me and the real Stormhawk members with undisguised suspicion. The Stormhawk group retreating a ways but none downed, or even hit. One of the soldiers temporarily taking command. “Help the captain. Help the men in the water.” The Imperial soldiers taking ropes from a nearby ship and beginning to pull out the drowning men.
The real Stormhawk members starting to take flak from bystanders and unmarked Pact members, insults and objects hurling in. Minutes earlier there'd been dozens of Pact members bringing oil, holding torches and spreading the fires. Now the number's probably at almost a hundred and most of them are repeating variations of my earlier litany to let everyone know just who exactly to blame for the chaos and conflagration consuming the harbor.
From those Pact members unmarked and only offering support. “Stormhawk's responsible for this. It's happening because of Stormhawk.”
On the other side, from those Pact members sporting the gold and blue and spreading flames. “This is what happens when you mess with Stormhawk.”
The real Stormhawk members under fire, pelted and insulted, completely at a loss and choosing to withdraw, with Everton visibly the most lost of the group. The Imperials recovering their people and moving back to their ship on the northern end of the harbor.
Continuing on with my work directing my troops and smashing resistance. The token, drunken resistance at the start evaporating as it became clear the numbers had decidedly turned against them. Making sure to get everything, from the smallest schooners to the largest merchant ships, with nothing larger than a rowboat in the middle or southern part of the harbor being spared. The ships to the north near the well defended Imperial warship out of our range and left alone.
Finishing up our work at around three in the morning covered in soot, smelling like ash and skin flushed from the heat. Most of the now huge gathered crowd only watching the ships burn, with a small few trying to prevent any of the warehouses or other inland structures from catching fire.
Pact members giving each other nods of farewell as we slip back into the crowd. Nothing needing to be said - the success of the impromptu operation self evident. Removing temporary emblems from those in range and reverting the color of my cloak back to its normal, unremarkable hue. Taking a circuitous route back to my apartment, peeling off my smoke suffused clothing, undoing my braid and taking a quick shower before falling, bloodlust and hatred completely sated, into bed.