Sitting on Myers shoulder, my gaze is glued on what looks like a massive horizontal tornado a good mile in diameter. The circulating vortex of violent wind snakes across the sky, swerving in-between islands into the far distance.

“So that’s a slipstream. Seems violent enough. Are we going to be riding it or something?” I ask.

The old man stares at the slipstream with a smile on his face.

“Myers.” I call out his name.

And like that, the trance is broken. He grunts. “Sorry. What did you ask?”

“The slipstream. Are we riding it?”

“No, we’re entering it.”

I frown at the violent vortex for a moment. “I don’t think the Timbergrove is durable enough to enter a damn tornado.”

He chuckles at my caution. “We will be fine so long as I maneuver properly. Did you make sure everything is tied down and everyone is secured?”

I nod.

“Good. Let's get into position.”

With his hand on the crystal, the Timbergrove lurches upwards, rising and rising until the ship is higher than the vortex. Then he positions the ship so that it is above the slipstream.

“Is there a reason we’re entering from above and not the side?”

“The current of a slipstream is too strong for any ship smaller than a cruiser to enter from the side.”

“Right… but somehow entering from the top is safer.”

He chuckles knowingly. “We’re going now.”

I feel the ship start descending. With each second of its descent, the current grows stronger and stronger, the wind more violent, and the Timbergrove gains in speed. The closer we get to the slipstream, the faster the ship accelerates and more aggressive vibrations. During this entire time, the mast sails and side masts are constantly changing to keep the ship in position.

“Hold on tight.” He warns.

My claws extend and grab firmly onto his coat.

Not a moment later, the Timbergroves hull touches the vortex and lurches the ship even faster as though someone shoved nitrous oxide into its engine.

Not that it has an engine… or nitrous oxide.

For several brief moments, the ship wobbles from the increased speed, stabilizing eventually after some adjustments.”

I grunt. “Alright, we’re riding the slipstream. What’s next?”

The old man grins cheekily. He grabs the crystal with both arms. “Don’t let go.”

My eyes go wide. The Timbergrove starts tilting forward. At first it’s only ten degrees, but then the tilting continues.

Twenty

Thirty

Fourty

Forty-five

Sixty

Seventy

“Oh shit!” I curse.

Eighty

“I should have warned Cillian not to drink.”

Eighty-Nine.

The ship is now almost perfectly vertical, and the only reason it isn’t plunging down is because the hull is getting pushed by the slipstream.

Then the ship hits ninety.

Slowly, the Timbergrove lurches forwards, straining against the onslaught of wind, going deeper and deeper into the vortex. For several long seconds, the ship strains against the pressure while the violent air currents batter the hull, draining the ship's mana.

Once those seconds pass, the air-currents release their grip. We pass through the vortex in something of a freefall. Myers reacts quickly, shifting the ship back upright. Our ninety degrees turns back to zero. The Timbergroves sails expand so as to catch the much less violent wind.

Calm in comparison to what was just experienced. The wind is still very strong, but not at the point of damaging the ship.

“So,” He begins, “that’s how you enter a slipstream with a smaller ship.”

I give the man a glare. “When you asked me to warn my crew about violent weather, you failed to mention that the ship is going completely vertical!”

The old man chuckles.

_____________________________________________________________________

The city of Memphis is located directly southeast of the central continent on the island of Splendor- one of the only medium sized islands that can support ships larger than destroyers while providing adequate water and food reserves for the populace. Not that either would be a problem on account of trade, but the guild prefers to save money where they can.

The city, similar to Breston, separates docking size via the Basket, Fabricate, Perditor, and Navis. The Navis being where Galleons, Galleys, Brigantines, and Cruisers make port. Not that there are many Cruisers or Galleys at a trade city. The speed and versatility of a Cruiser and the Maneuverability of a Galley aren't useful for trade in comparison to the larger holds of Brigantines and Galleons.

It is at the Fabricate where the Timbergrove has just docked, and it is at the Fabricate where a problem Arises.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The crew of the Timbergrove descend down the plank of the ship, only to be noticed by a pointing[Guard]. Which results in yelling, screaming, and the converging of several more [Guards] towards him.

“Myers, what the fuck is happening?” Quasi asks while sitting in clays arm. The old man grimaces at the question and tightly grips his cane.

“I-I don’t know. I was not expecting this.”

The crew waits and watches as more and more [Guards] converge- rapidly rising to a dozen. Only when a well-dressed male [Guard] arrives do they approach.

While approaching, Quasi takes stock of his Job.

Garis Levine: Level 41 [Guard Lieutenant]

Garis nervously stops approaching a good several meters away, with all the regular guards patiently waiting behind him.

Garis looks the crew up and down, halting momentarily on Nepenthes. “Where is your [Captain]” He asks.

Quasi sighs. He hops out of Clay’s arms and climbs up on a nearby ledge. “That would be me.”

Every eye turns to Quasi in startled surprise. A few [Guards] reach for their weapons on instinct, but not Garis. The man has far more self control. He stares at Quasi for a long moment, seemingly reading something.

“What are you?” he finally asks.

Quasi chuckles. “What? What is but the function following the who, and who I am is the [Captain] of the Timbergrove.”

The [Guard Lieutenant] frowns at the answer. “I can see that.”

“Of course you can. I’m not questioning your powers of observation, I’m merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a kitten what he is.”

“You’ve yet to answer my question.”

“Adequately answer your question!” Quasi corrects. “Because I did answer your question, for I am an adorable kitten. But, if you require me to go into further detail, then you should understand you stand before a superior race. I am not merely an adorable kitten, but an apex predator of all those that would dare stand before me.” The cat flicks his tail. “I have slain [Pirates], giant scorpions, and even a Leviathan. All have fallen before me as is expected, for I am a sovereign of levels.”

The cat grins, revealing sharp teeth. “Now, it is my turn to ask a question. Why have you stopped me and my crew?”

Garis stares silently at Quasi for a long moment, before sighing. “You’ve got quite a tongue considering how many half-truths you’ve said. But fine, you’re free to have your secrets.” He raises a finger toward Nepenthes. “I need to see some documentation on the bug before it can be allowed in the city.”

“Bug?” Quasi frowns.

“Insectoid,” Myers corrects. “I believe the [Lieutenant] is mistaking Nepenthes species.”

“Really? Huh. Nepenthes, mind introducing yourself to the man?” Quasi extends a claw

“Yes, [Captain].” Nepenthes steps forward, towering all those present. She looks at the wary [Guards], gazing at them like a predator on prey. “I am Nepenthes, daughter of the great tree, huntress of beasts, slayers of the flaming scourge, and servant of Matriarch Quasi. I am a war Phytonid, bred and trained to slaughter my enemies. If you find my strength lacking, then speak it so that I may have reason to end your pathetic mortal lives.”

“OK!” Quasi interrupts. “I just said introduce yourself, not threaten the poor guy. He’s just here doing his job and doesn’t know you’re a Phytonid [Druid]. Right Garis.”

Garis swallows. He forces his eyes to divert from Nepenthes, something his own [Guards] are struggling to do. “Yes. I apologize for my mistake. Your Phytonid looks far different than those I am familiar with.”

“See, he’s just impressed with your ability to shape your body.”

Nepenthes tilts her head and lowers her body. “I see. I will accept your apology human and will forget your scent so that I need not slaughter your family.”

Garis gulps again. “I thank you. Please enjoy your stay in Memphis.”

He turns around and quickly tells the [Guards] to disperse. Which they do very very quickly.

As they leave, Quasi chuckles towards his crew. “Well, that was a fun interaction.”

“Da, like dating strong Russian woman. Always want fight,” Boriss explains.

Quasi snorts. He hops off the edge and into Clay’s arms. The child giggles and quickly gives a nice pet. “Alright, time to split up. Boriss and Emma will stay at the ship and protect our treasure until Irmgard can hire some [Guards]. Cillian will head to the merchant guild about selling our treasure.”

“Alone?” Cillian asks.

“No, with Nepenthes as your protection.” Quasi looks to the Phytonid. “Until such time you have a good understanding of the world, I need you to follow any orders Cillian gives.”

“Of course, [Captain].” She nods.

“Good.”

“Where will you be going?” Cillian asks.

Quasi grins. “Your favorite kind of establishment.”

______________________________________________________

Leaving the Fabricate and entering Memphis proper, I find myself immediately impressed by the cleanliness of both the streets and all those walking on them. Speaking of the streets, the city is organized to the point of having sidewalks for people to walk on while the center has carts pulled by ox-like beasts with twirled horns.

At nearly every intersection, I also notice numerous [Guards] wearing the Merchant guilds insignia. The [Guards] are generally well-leveled and all armed with an uncommon runed weapon.

“The Merchant Guild seems pretty organized.” I say from Clay’s arms.

“They generally are,” Myers agrees. “In pursuit of trade and profit, the guild found that when areas of trade are well-cared for, then more trade happens and thus more profit.”

We pass by a store with thick glass windows and metal rebar. “Wait. Hang on a second.”

Myers and Clay halt at my command, giving me a moment to look past the glass.

Flintlock pistols, muskets, and blunderbusses line the shelves. “Guns,” I say aloud.

Then I noticed the price-tag. “Why the hell are they so expensive? I could buy a dozen crossbows for the same price. I mean, these guns are crap compared to what Cillian carries. No wonder [Pirates] don’t carry guns.”

The old man chuckles. “Cillians revolver is worth more than the Timbergrove. It is a custom made firearm by the Gemma. As for the price of the guns here, they are priced as such because they are imported. Generally, such weapons would cost only double that of a crossbow.”

“Right. If I was an entrepreneur, I’d just make my own guns here and sell them at a reasonable price. I’d get so many customers.”

Myers frowns. “The creation of guns is a heavily guarded secret, both by the Gemma and the Gun Guild. Many have tried to produce their own, but all they’ve done is create expensive hand-held inaccurate cannons.”

“I call bullshit on that. Buy a good gun and then reproduce it. It’s that simple. The only thing I can think of that is happening is that those who can produce guns are being suppressed so that they can continue their monopoly.”

He shrugs. “Perhaps they are, but I also think you are underestimating how difficult it is to produce guns. The materials in the creation, the skills and levels of the craftsman, and the understanding of how to craft every piece of such a weapon is not something you’d easily find.”

Oh.

I glance again at the guns on display.

“Alright, I'll take that back. If every gun is completely handcrafted by individuals and not manufactured, then no wonder reproducing it is difficult.”

Clay squeezes me tight. “Quasi, can we eat? I’m hungry.”

“Hm? Oh, yea. Let's continue on. Myers, how far is this place?”

“Not far.”

We continue past stores and streets, eventually arriving at our destination. I look up at the gold-lettered sign.

The Grounded Gardener. Pub and food.

“You said you know the owner?”

“Something like that.”

Myers opens the door and I’m immediately hit with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and meat. When we enter inside, we find the place packed to the brim with bodies. Nearly every table is full. The only opening is at the bar at the end.

Traversing under warm firelight, Myers and Clay take a seat on a stool while I hop aboard the table. On the opposite side, a young woman with a bottle pours the man a drink. She then walks up to us. “Welcome to The Grounded Gardener, how may I hel-” her eyes widen on noticing Myers.

The old man smiles faintly. “Mentara, I don’t suppose your mother is available?”

Without answering, she raises the bottle over Myers head and allows the contents to pour on top of him.