“Two fucking days!” Jenah Jones curses as she walks down the docks. “Why does it take two fucking days to have me released?”

Her questions receive no answer, not that she thought she would get one. Luxor, which so prides itself on its sea trade and efficiency is just as much of a bureaucratic hellhole as any other port. It comes with the territory of entertaining [Merchants] and having its head so far up its ass it can’t see–

Before she can finish the thought, she stops in place. This area… is not one she recognizes. She swears, turns around, and starts angrily stomping back the way she came.

Where was she? Right, [Bureaucrats]. Fucking snakes, the lot of them. All they do is sit and wait around all day for businesswomen making private deliveries to mess up and then they threaten to steal all her–the businesswomen’s money. It’s simple laws of supply and demand, and just because someone made a mistake because of their own purchase she has to pay for their fuck-ups? Bullshit! She should…

Jenah stops, again. It’s strange. She’s once again walked past where her ship should be. She frowns and turns back around.

She’s just about ready to start fuming again, but she looks up at the night sky. Both the moons are out tonight, one waxing and the other gibbous. Their light shines upon the sea, illuminating it and forcing a smile on her face. Even when life is at its hardest, when the world seems to conspire against her, she can always rely on the sea to never take a side. A violent and dangerous mistress, but a fair one.

She stops a final time, standing on the dock where her ship should be. She looks at the garish sight and her jaw drops in horror.

“What in Poseidon’s depths have they done to my ship!?”

______________________________________________________________

Cleaning the entire ship and painting the hull took a surprisingly short amount of time. I was expecting it to take two or three days, but no, it took mere hours thanks to the thirty-six [Maids] Naunet had hired. Apparently, cleaning skills make such work trivial.

“What do you mean you can't send them back?” I ask while pointing at the thirty-six women standing in four single-file rows of nine.

She tilts her head. “They are your [Maid Slaves], Master. You hold their ownership, so sending them away is impossible as they are your property.”

Oh no.

I glance at the maids and check their classes. Nearly all of them are indeed [Slave Maids] with an average level in the upper forties. They stand straight and ready, eagerly awaiting any and all orders that may come their way.

“Naunet,” I say with a steady tone, “why did you buy permanent [Slaves] for me? I’m sure you already know how I feel about owning people.”

Naunet tilts her head with a look of confusion. “As an [Emperor], it is imperative that you have a large pool of servants to cater to your every whim,” she extends her hands to the [Slave Maids], “and those trained at the Royal Maid Academy are the best for what you need.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No. I don't want slaves. Send them back,” I order.

Naunet frowns in disapproval. “That is not possible, Master. The Royal Maid Academy has already signed them away and will not accept them back until at least a year of service has been fulfilled.”

“A year of–Ughhh…” I shake my head and point at the maids. “And they’re okay with this?”

“Absolutely!” Naunet exclaims. “They live to serve a master, and what better master to serve than a wealthy [Emperor] who can afford to spread his seed to as many mistresses as possible.”

As many mistresses as…

“Naunet, are you trying to get me killed?” I lean in and whisper, suddenly thankful that Jessica is out shopping with Fiona.

Naunet pouts. “I’m sure Miss Jessica will understand. An [Emperor] has responsibilities, afterall.”

“YOU!” I hear a shout as a foreign aura envelops the ship. I turn and find a tattooed woman stomping towards us holding a glowing red cutlass.

“You dimwitted pansy!” she bellows.

“Hiya!” I wave to her, and the woman’s expression darkens further and speeds up to a jog. When she arrives, she points her sword at the Deadheart.

“What the hell have you done to my ship!?” she screams at me.

“Oh, you’re the captain.” I eye the rugged woman whose looks scream, “Pirate!” from all angles, “Nothing too drastic. Just some cleaning, remodeling, and a new coat of paint to improve speed. By the way, who made those enchantments on the ship? They’re quite potent, especially the regeneration one. I didn't know a ship could heal.”

The woman growls and releases her hold on her sword. The sword floats in the air on its own with the pointy end now aimed at my chest. “How dare you damage my ship!” she shouts.

The curved edge of her sword blurs slightly, releasing an ominous high pitched hum.

Then I hear the ring of swords unsheathing as all the [Slave Maids] draw a slender short sword from some hidden scabbard in their skirts and quickly surround the surprised captain.

“They can fight?” I blurt in surprise, watching the angry maids as they flourish their glinting steel weapons. ready to turn the captain into a pincushion.

“The Royal Maids Academy also trains their [Maids] to defend their master if ever required.” Naunet explains.

Slave combat maids…

Eh. Fuck ethics, that sounds pretty cool.

“Stand down,” I order and the maids return their swords to the sheathes hidden in their petticoats.

I look at the captain who continues glaring at me, but the thought of fighting not only me, but three dozen armed [Maids] keeps her from violence. With a flick of her wrist, the cutlass flies back to its scabbard in one fell motion. She folds her arms across her chest and continues that glare that women seem to just love giving me.

I scratch the side of my neck. “It seems we’ve come to a bit of a misunderstanding. I tested your vessel, and found it shall serve us well.” I quickly raise my hand. “And yes, I checked the enchantments, they are all active and undamaged. Anyways, my name is Bone and I believe you are contracted to serve me for a year?”

Her glare eases and the woman releases a breath. “Yeah, I’m [Deathsea Captain] Jenah Jones of the Deadheart.”

“And again, I’m Bone, leader of the platinum mercenary team Merry Marrows,” I reach into the robe and allow her to glance at my card before putting it away.

The peek at the card sends a clear shiver down her body at the realization of how awesome a man she’s indentured to. Her posture, formerly confident, turns wary. Anyone with a platinum card is not someone she has any hope of subduing. She nods slowly. “Whaddya need of me and my ship?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Nothing much. I just need transport and assistance with finding a [Pirate]’s kid… by the way, I haven’t seen your crew yet. Where are they?”

Jenah raises an eyebrow. “In my ship, unless you’ve done something to ‘em.”

I pause, considering how to break the bad news. I slump forwards and shake my head. “Sorry. I think your crew died while you were gone. But don't worry, I gave them a decent burial at sea, so it's all good.”

“You threw out my crew?” Jenah stares at me, aghast.

“I threw out their corpses,” I hedge.

Her arms unfold in disbelief. “I’m a [Deathsea Captain]!” she exclaims.

I blink. “And I am a [Door Gentlemen]. I don't see why our classes matter right now.”

Her mouth opens and closes several times before she clenches a fist and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I raise undead to crew my ship. Those corpses were my crew.”

Oh…

“Huh… I guess that explains why there was only one bed onboard.” I say. “Can’t we hire just [Sailors] to crew the ship normally?”

“No [Sailor]’d ever sign ont’a a ship captained by a [Deathsea Captain].” she says, “and anyone who did, I’d never want as a sailor.”

I roll my eyes. “Alright,” I thumb over my shoulder at the [Slave Maids], “let’s just train them to do it.”

She looks at the maids, and then at me as if I’m crazy.

“They’re live [Maids], not dead [Sailors].”

“You don't need to be a [Sailor] to sail a ship. Heck, you don't even need a class, really.”

She shakes her head, clearly in denial of my great and fabulous idea. “It won’t work. The Deadheart travels underwater. I doubt these [Maids] can breathe sea water.”

Ah, fuck, comes the realization. The Deadheart is a submarine. That explains the watertight enchantments, the weird ram on the forecastle, the crew, and… even the filth. Wow, I can’t believe I missed that. But then… why sails?

“Master,” Naunet chimes in, “it is our bound duty to serve you in this life, and, if your benevolence permits, it would be our great honor to serve you in undeath. So long as you do not forsake us and let us level our [Slave] class, Ptolemaic Law will permit it.”

I look at Naunet and then look back at the maids. Many of them show clear worry at her heartfelt declaration.

Zombie combat slave sailor maids… That’s a lot of layers.

“Nah,” I shake my head, “it’d never work. And Jess would kill me. I’ll just enchant your veils with [Water-Breathing].”

Jenah rolls her eyes. “[Water-Breathing] enchantments cost a fortune. Or d’you expect me t’ believe you can just magic some up overnight?”

“Well, I do have a fortune, but yeah, they’re not that difficult to magic up if you’re a decent [Enchanter].”

Jenah scoffs at me. “Right. An’ you’re gonna tell me that in addition t’ being a [Twat], you’re some kinda almighty great [Enchanter]? Whaddya think ya ‘are, some kinda [Hero] with a half dozen classes?”

“Well, only four actually, or five if you count the [Hero] bit. And they are [Heroic]. My bits, that is.”

The [Deadthea Captain] scowls at my admission. “Fine. It’s their lives, not mine. An’ if the enchantments don’t work, I get my crew back.”

“It will be fine, though,” I cut off Naunet and glance at the [Slave Maids] listening attentively to our conversation. I kneel down, reach into my shadow, and retrieve a bag of coins which I hand to Naunet. “Take the maids to the market and have them buy whatever supplies they need.”

“Yes, Master,” Naunet bows. She turns to the [Slave Maids].

“Form Up.” She orders and the maids make four lines again. She walks up to the front of the group with a smile. “Follow,” she orders and then starts walking away. The maids lock in step behind her.

Jenah shakes her head. “This is very confusing,” she exclaims and I can't help but nod.

“Yes,” I say, “It absolutely is.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Deep within the bowels of Muspelheim, the greatest of its old powers awaken. Long ago, when dragons still roamed the lands, great men and women fought against the greatest dangers, led through calamities so great they would have crushed a modern kingdom, survived in the face of overwhelming odds, and finally secreted themselves away in a grand gambit against a threat too great.

The [Royal Generals] of ages past have awoken from their deep slumber, and now they assemble before their [Empress].

She sits, confident and regal, upon a crystal throne behind a circular table. She waits, her hands folded over one another, with only a minor amount of trepidation. This moment, the revival of her greatest [Generals], should have her excited beyond belief. Instead, she feels anxious, and she doesn't remember why.

After a moment, her [Generals] enter and the feeling redoubles. The three imposing men walk in lockstep, scrutinizing the room with stern facades. On the right walks Bes, the shortest, matching pace with the others perfectly despite his smaller gait. His is a shrewd mind, honed through the decades to master underhanded strategies and tactics. Through his cruel but effective ideas he has pulled victory after victory from the jaws of defeat.

On the left walks Musada, narrowed eyes taking in everything. Tall and lean, the cautious [General], experienced in defensive warfare, takes short steps, testing the ground with every footfall, as he walks beside his comrades. Famed for holding off great hordes of beasts even despite great level deficiencies, he was always preparing her country for the next great disaster.

And the last of the three, walking between them, is the fat man himself: Zuberi. He does not have wit. He does not have some single great equalizing skill. What he does have is the sheer, unbridaled determination to crush his enemy no matter what, and the ability to never, ever, lose focus on his goals.

Finally, the trio stands across the table, looking at Cleopatra.

Only when Musada breaks out into a grin does she remember why, exactly, she’s worried.

“Ayyyy, man, look who it is!” He grabs Zuberi beside him who starts smiling himself. “It's little Cleo! Bro, she hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Damn, bros,” Bes says with his own stupid smile, “she hasn’t even aged.”

“Hurhurhur,” laughs Zuberi.

“Yo, check it out,” Bes points up at the irritated [Empress], “her crown is [Divine] tier. Bet she scored it off Mimir.”

“Oooh, you're right! That crown is classy!”

“Very classy.”

“Super classy.”

“Hurhurhur,” Zuberi keeps happily laughing.

“The classiest of crowns.” Bes counters.

“Can't get any classier than that crown.”

“Most classiest crown to ever you–”

“SIT DOWN!” Cleopatra yells at her three highest leveled idiots.

The stooges chuckle and take their seats while Cleopatra rubs her temples. She gazes at them, the three triplet brothers, who are distinct in body but one of mind. Each of them are handsome in their own ways, competent beyond reason, and would be the envy of any other kingdom.

“[Imperial Cityholder General] Musada Wynn, [Imperial Dragonslayer General] Bes Wynn, [Imperial Geophist General] Zuberi Wynn, I welcome you three back into the waking world.”

“Dudes, since when did Cleo go all formal?” Musada asks.

“Brah, she is, isn’t she. Little Cleo grew up,” Bes responds.

“Bro, Cleo’s like an elder now. We’re babies to her.”

“So, what? We’re her babies now?”

“Nah, bro, she’s the babe. We’re, like, her kittens, ya know.”

“Bros,” Zuberi finally enters the conversation, “I got an idea: Let's call ourselves Cleo’s Kittens.”

“Brah,” Bes slaps the table, “genius right there.”

Cleopatra watches her [Generals], each one in the third tier, get up and fistbump each other like they haven't just woken up from a deep sleep so long she’s lost count of the centuries.

“Please sit,” Cleopatra commands with a stunning level of patience, “there is much I need to explain.”

“Bros, she’s so nice. You sure this is Cleo?”

“Hasta be. She has the class.”

“The classiest.”

“Brah, but there’s, like, liar skills.”

“Yah think she’s fake?”

“SIT THE FUCK DOWN YOU STONER GENERALS!” she finally shouts, losing her calm. Somehow, these three are too good at getting on her nerves.

“Shit, bros, that's her.”

“Dude, she’s the real deal. Only our classy Cleo can yell like that.”

“Hurhurhur.”

The three idiots nod to each other as they sit down and then look at her while wearing smiles that only make her more irate. Her fond reminiscence of the past is swept aside by her true memories, of the three numbskull [Generals] now sitting in front of her.

Cleopatra groans and rubs her face with her hands before glaring at them.

“I’ve always hated you three, haven't I?”

The three idiots laugh.