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‘Nine lives’ Stiles
Three Hundred
Part II
-Nine Lives-
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The Issir galleon cut hard to port, its figurehead the Black Hydra of Caspo O’ Bor growing huge as it approached the sides of ‘The Purser’. The latter captain Vale’s ship that was to become a tavern a decade later, the name not the ship that is, Stiles thought and moved in his sleep.
It was no use.
The moment you start correcting and adding details in your dreams then you’re done. No more sleep for you. Stiles groaned, opened an eye and was faced by utter blackness until he remembered he’d lost that in eighty-five. Or eighty six.
So he opened the other one, got blinded by the strong sun coming through his open window and felt none the wiser.
“Fuck’s sake,” he groaned a second time and turned to get out of his bed. He run out of real estate faster than he expected and almost planted his face on the tiles.
Whoa there mate.
Ye break your head here that’s a life. A man don’t know how many he has left.
But Stiles knew how many he’d burned to make it to this point.
The dream had reminded him of the first. Vale’s stupid scheme to hurt the High King that had gotten a lot of people hanged, killed, or drowned. Difficult to pick out of that pile, he thought and stumbled to his feet, found a barrel with water and splashed some on his face.
He looked about and found his eye patch and tied it on his head, smacked his lips at the end of it and checked that darn gold tooth that always bothered him on the water’s surface. Stiles looked out of the window next, spotted Ottis marching about followed by a couple of sergeants, the Dogs on the lookout for new recruits, since Glen had asked for more guards.
Captain Jinx had, but it was Glen pulling the strings.
Apparently he’d gotten into trouble in Wetull.
Stiles started chuckling with the absurdity of it all.
“I could’ve told him that,” he said aloud and reached for his dark blue shirt. Stiles put on a leather cuirass next that could stop a knife and a weak slash from a cutlass. Ye see someone swinging wit his all, ye better duck under it. Once something of ye gets detached, it ain’t getting’ glued back on. He thought about getting his longcoat on, but the weather was warm enough so he tossed it over his shoulder instead and got out of the tower that he’d turned into his house.
‘Pickpocket’ Clint saw him walking out and rushed to intercept him just as Stiles was putting on his leather fedora hat, pushing his long black hair behind his ears. The gold loop on his earlobe brushing against his hand.
“Morning Chief,” Clint greeted him, a long knife in his belt. “Be meanin’ to talk to ye.”
“I figured,” Stiles grunted and checked to see if the tavern was full. “Still I need to have something in me stomach afore starting work Clint.”
“Have some dry dates,” Clint offered, searching in his pockets.
“You know what?” Stiles sighed. “I’ll pass on that. Ah, master Norec,” he said seeing the Dwarf getting out of the tavern, two pieces of sliced bread in hand dripping butter. “Is that spiced salami in there?”
“Pork sausage,” Norec corrected him taking a huge bite.
“Was my meaning,” Stiles said. “Where did you get it?”
“Our market,” Norec replied and took another bite. Dwarfs had enormous appetite for their size. “With coin.”
“Of course,” Stiles snapped not liking his innuendo.
“Just saying because you’re not appreciative of the practice—”
“I won’t allow cutthroats to take advantage of the community charging an arm and a fuckin’ leg, a LEG MIND YOU, for a god darn salami!” Stiles blasted him, spittle flying out of his mouth, all fired up.
“It’s called trading Stiles. It’s how honest folk buy stuff.”
No such folk frequented the crowds he knew.
Stiles snorted and wiped his mouth.
“The market ye say,” he mumbled, hearing his stomach protesting.
“Sausages and the bakeries are side by side,” Norec mocked him. “You know it.”
“Mmm.”
“Chief can I say,” Clint started, but Stiles cut him off.
“Don’t you see I’m thinking?”
“It’s a five minute walk Chief,” Clint insisted. “I’m waiting since morning.”
“This isn’t morning?” Stiles asked him befuddled and stared at the blinding sun.
Damn it that idiot is right.
“Nope.”
“It was a fuckin’ rhetoric query shite for brains!” Stiles blasted him and glared at the Dwarf watching them whilst chewing on his huge hoagie.
“Now wait a bloody minute here chief!” Clint protested. “What’s a rhetoric—?”
“Just lead the bloody way!” Stiles hissed and gave him a kick to propel him forward.
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An hour later Stiles decided to return to the ‘watch tower’, stopping at the Mastaba first to make sure work was finishing there. They had turned the large empty structure into a massive second warehouse mainly for timber and building materials, but also bought iron to be shipped to Goras. The district had three blacksmiths working their craft, the workshops between the market and the refugee quarters. Streams of them had continued coming down the Merchant Path for months, Lorians from Rida mainly, but also a few transport ships rented by wealthy citizens from Altarin and Altarinport that had managed to get away and wanted to avoid getting mixed up in the chaos unfolding on Jelin.
What had started as simple wooden houses to accommodate two hundred people, mainly families, had turned into sprawling rows of two story buildings on stone foundations almost attached to the west wall, from the gates to the irrigation canals coming from Felmond River. The water poured into a basin turned into a small lake, next to the south walls.
The number of people staying there and in the rebuilt ancient structures, what locals called ‘Garth’s District’, exceeding eight thousand souls.
The characteristic walls themselves were under reconstruction, using the better timber coming from Goras, but was still unfinished at many places. Ruins needed to be brought down and with the district growing the hard labor jobs were abandoned for more profit-rich and less tiring professions. Stiles had to turn to the Sopats again for worker crews and thus the slave quarters had been created.
Stiles grimaced and wiped the sweat under his eyepatch and then stepped outside the Mastaba and headed towards the Watch Tower with a last glance back to the Gallant Dogs permanent camp. Built out of hardened wood mostly, the barracks were located adjacent almost to the Mastaba and amidst a lovely copse. Perhaps the best spot in the whole district.
The company had grown exponentially in less than a year, absorbing scores of deserters, refugees and even pirates looking for steady pay without much danger involved. Or work. Glen was paying for the company to stay where it was and look pretty, since he’d a deal with the Gish bearing the moniker. Captain Ottis used the soldiers only for tasks involving the camp, a bit of policing, patrols and drilling with weapons, which Stiles firmly believed was the biggest scam runnin’ in a city riddled with criminals runnin’ one scheme, or another.
This was what Stiles had to deal with.
Eh, and a bunch more stuff as well.
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“So,” Clint resumed his report on the events happening at the docks. “The Three Hundred posted guards at every berth and are patrolling the market, stopping and searching everyone.”
Stiles smacked his lips and eyed ‘Rat’ Wake of the Rats gang, then Dob ‘The Bull’, a Cofol slave he’d freed months back, the man huge in size though covered in layers of fat tissue more than muscle. Some muscle must be under all that lard, he thought defending his decision to set the Cofol slave free. In exchange the man from Wotcheki Castle, a town at the mouth of the Khanate’s Gulf in the arse end of the fucking world, had agreed to work as Stiles enforcer.
A job requiring more size than skill.
Usually.
“Ahm, do they bother us?” He asked Wake who was also in his payroll. The gang leader had found himself kicked out of his territory by Sid Cross’s Marauders, a rival gang out of Rida looking for a new home.
“They are mercenaries, we’ve no problem with them,” Wake explained.
“Garth gave strict instructions to keep our eyes on ‘em fuckers,” Stiles reminded him.
“They still work for the bank the ‘girls’ say, but they are after a princess now,” Wake replied.
“Like a poofter?” Stiles chanced and big Dob frowned, his double chin vibrating in the grimace.
“A real princess from Kaltha,” Wake grinned a rat’s smile, only two incisors still standing in that rotten mouth encased in white gold.
“In Eikenport?” Stiles wondered aloud and poured himself a generous cup of wine to wash down some of the spicy sausage aftertaste. He had to burp loudly right after as the Sopat wine Lon bribed him with didn’t agree with Stiles more refined gullet.
Refined used loosely here.
“Aye,” Wake replied and Stiles thought of the couple that had arrived earlier that month. An effeminate Lorian and an Issir slave of considerable beauty for the place and the time.
Hmm.
Allegedly Vale’s daughter had sampled the girl in ‘Bald’ Burton’s inn, though she herself had denied it. Then again Burton did run the brothel across the street and that pawn shop the Thieve’s Guild used, he thought rapping his fingers on the table.
This can’t be real, Stiles finally decided. That’s a wild story.
“Clint keep an eye on the situation. Next,” he said moving on.
“The cattle,” Clint started, but he stopped him.
“I’m bringing the sheep in,” Stiles reminded him again. “Buy ‘em in bulk from Blacksheep, ye hear the name you can tell they know their stuff, anyway down to the Triage an easy route after that. I’m not even going to entertain the notion of convincing Leona to transport livestock from Castalor. That bitch tried to kill me once already. So just drop it son.”
“I could talk with her, we are on good terms,” Clint insisted.
“Not if ye sail that route mate,” Stiles advised him. “By the way she’s not girlfriend material and I respected her father. Damn shame they hanged him.”
“Didn’t you betray him to the Admiralty to save yer neck?” Clint countered getting on Stiles nerves.
“One doesn’t exclude the other and vice versa,” he retorted glaring at him. “For instance I don’t respect ye at all, but I’m forced to work wit you for now.”
Clint stood back shocked.
“You need to put the screws on Sid mister Stiles,” Wake reminded him taking advantage of the break and Stiles groaned.
“I ain’t startin’ a war for a couple of corners for yer harlots to stand on Wake, forget about it.”
“It pains me to hear ye say it,” Wake retorted sadly.
“You’ll get better.”
“That’ll fuck the girls over mark me words,” Wake insisted. “Have you thought of ‘em poor souls?”
“They’re used to it.”
“Lon said he wants to negotiate a deal for caravans to go straight to Goras, load up and return,” Dob said taking his turn, breathing heavy and sweating profusely despite his loose robes.
“That’s a couple of years back and forth,” Stiles noticed.
“Or he could use a sea route,” Dob added.
“Through the reefs? Well, even if we had the ships and I’m talking heavy cargo ships here, plus escorts that wouldn’t be—”
“Aren’t you a pirate?” Wake asked interrupting him mid-sentence. “What need have you of escorts?”
Stiles sole eye stayed on him for a long moment, half in the mind to cut him down with his saber.
“It’s a legitimate question,” Wake defended himself.
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“A ship full of valuables is at risk at sea,” Stiles explained patiently. “Not everyone in the brotherhood keeps to the code and Vale’s own daughter is a good example on the scoundrels one might face—”
“Isn’t she working for us?” Clint asked afore he could finish, never the sharper tool in a box, or the most polite.
“It was an example to reveal the flaws in Wake’s proposal,” Stiles elucidated his patience running thin.
“Ron claimed they have the cargo ships, all he needs is the route, or a guide through it. He’ll pay premium,” Dob insisted.
“Nobody knows Dob,” Stiles countered. “Because nobody has made the journey for a couple of hundred years.”
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Stiles had his legs on the table, stretching his back. He was just about to lull himself to sleep and dream of the juicy Issir wench, when he heard someone bursting into the small yard and bang on the closed door.
“Go away!” Stiles snapped.
“Chief, they want ye at the main gate,” Clint was heard through the wood. His lackey turned the knob to get into the first floor office Stiles had set up, the moment Sen-Iv left for Goras.
“Who does?” he grunted.
“Door is locked,” Clint murmured. “Let me work on it.”
Abrakas toes!
“I locked it ye cretin,” Stiles grunted and got up. “Stop trying to break it!”
“You got the key?”
“Of course, I got the bloody key!”
Stiles unlocked the door and opened it. “So what’s the problem?”
“No problem chief, there’s a delivery for you,” Clint replied trying to make out the design of his iron key afore Stiles hid it in his pants.
“For me?”
“Aye.”
Hmm.
“A chair?”
“No a couple of barrels, yay big,” Clint showed him.
Right.
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The Dogs sergeant, a mustached Lorian with brown hair and same color eyes, made to stop him approach.
“I run this fucking place!” Stiles blasted him.
“You’re ‘Nine Lives’?”
“It’s me fuckin’ moniker!”
“Because the rum is for him,” the Sergeant elucidated. “Want no mix ups here.”
“What mix ups? Move aside you idiot!” Stiles growled and walked past him seething. He stopped at the open gates and stared at the two men driving the open wagon, the barrels that were its cargo covered loosely with a sheet at the back. A pirate scum he knew and an Issir black robed dude he didn’t.
“That you ‘Nine Lives’?” Salty Reed asked and Stiles snorted and tied his arms on his chest.
“No, I just look like him. Standing in when he’s away. Turn around now Reed,” he mocked him.
“Hah, always the cracker,” Reed smirked. “I have a delivery for ye.”
“Rum,” Stiles said eyeing the older Issir.
A hard face on that man, despite the priestly robes.
Then again most priests are quite the cutthroats.
And what’s with the darn black?
“That’s right,” Reed rustled, answering his query.
“Haven’t ordered anything.”
“Aye, but ye like rum, don’t ya?”
“I favor it true. Where is it from?” Stiles yielded.
“Burton. That’s his fresh batch.”
“Nah, I’ll pass,” Stiles decided with a grimace and spotted a large group coming down the main street. A large group of soldiers. “I’ve enough holes in me stomach Reed.”
“You should let us pass,” the Issir warned him.
“That so?” Stiles taunted. “Let me think on it some. Alright I did. Nah, me decision stands.”
“Take the rum ‘Nine Lives’, it’s free,” Reed intervened.
“I bet it is, probably undrinkable as well,” Stiles sighed and watched the fancy dressed soldiers approach them. A group of about twenty. All of them Lorians, their armours shining in the afternoon light. An officer detached from their group to talk with the Dogs sergeant.
“Greetings gents,” the officer said pleasantly, but the reaction to his words was universally blank frozen looks and downright suspicion from every man present. “I’m Captain Tony Ramos, second in command of the famed ‘Three Hundred’ company.”
One of the two mules snorted afore taking a dump and Stiles gathered moisture in his mouth and then spat down.
“Name’s Rollon Martel, of the Gallant Dogs,” the sergeant said, seeing no one else was willing to speak. “I haven’t heard of ye lot.”
“We operate on Jelin mostly,” Ramos replied with a grimace. He’d a straight nose and eyes a bit too far apart, but he wore the cleanest tunic Stiles had ever seen. “Haven’t heard of the Dogs in all fairness.”
“We operate on Eplas mostly,” Martel retorted with a grin.
“Right,” Stiles intervened wanting to get this over with. “What do you want Captain? You’re from Parmaport right?”
“That’s correct. Nice to meet a fellow Lesia man,” Ramos replied still smirking and still not answering. Stiles glanced at ‘Salty’ Reed the man nervous as a virgin mermaid caught in Abrakas tentacles and then at the silent Issir.
This dude is tense as fuck as well. What’s going on here?
“Adventure won me over,” Stiles retorted and turned his attention on Ramos. “What do you want mate? Don’t make me ask ye again.”
“We would like to search Garth’s District,” Ramos said, his eyes casually examining the wagon and the two drivers. “Our employer will compensate you for any damage the men might cause.”
“Are you the police?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you have any authority in Eikenport?”
“It’s a request mister…”
“Stiles,” he told him, his face hardening. “Now, Mister Ramos, let me tell you what I find strange,” he continued. “You want to look into my business, yet you come here blade in hand and in numbers, whilst admitting the authorities know nothing of it. You understand I find myself concerned as to your intentions.”
“We are looking for someone, this is not a takeover Mister Stiles,” Ramos protested.
“Now, I would have said the same in your place,” Stiles replied. “But I would be lying, ye see wher’ this is going?”
“I perhaps phrased it wrong,” Ramos backtracked. “We politely request entry into the premises, so we can search for a high value target.”
“How much value are we talking here?” Stiles asked. “Because I might be inclined to keep this valuable target around. I do run a business.”
“She’s valuable to our employer,” Ramos told him patiently. “We are prepared to offer a prize for your assistance.”
The rumors are true then, Stiles thought.
That’s a first.
Or so these fools think.
“What’s the prize?”
“Gold, or a contract with the bank.”
“The Dogs are contracted already and whilst I’d love your gold, we don’t have what yer seeking.”
Ramos grimaced and scratched a square jaw with his fingers.
“We’d like the opportunity to look for ourselves,” he finally said.
“The opportunity isn’t there unfortunately. The story of me life.”
“Five thousand gold Eagles,” Ramos countered and Stiles blinked not expecting it.
“That’s a lot of coin to carry around. You have it in boxes? I’m asking for a friend.”
“It is,” Ramos retorted, his eyes narrowing.
“Ten thousand is a bigger number,” Stiles haggled just to see if he was serious.
“I’ll have to consult with my superiors,” Ramos grunted in frustration. Stiles was impressed the man hadn’t outright rejected his counteroffer.
Are these scoundrels serious? He wondered. There’s a Princess of Kaltha in Eikenport?
“Take your time,” Stiles told him and Ramos grimaced his eyes bulging, turned on his heels and walked back to his men.
“Nine Lives,” Reed rustled from atop the wagon. “Ye need to let us bring the rum in.”
Stiles sighed and stared at the walking away mercenaries.
“Does Van Fleet know you’re here Salty?” He asked tiredly.
“He ordered it,” Reed replied and Stiles scrunched his jaw. “Article three, ye swore to offer helping hand to yer brethren ‘Nine Lives’.”
Curse ye to Abrakas gullet.
“You can come in, but him I don’t know,” Stiles yielded and the Issir showed him his teeth in an angry snarl.
“I’m not leaving her side,” the man warned Reed.
Oh boy, it all makes sense now, Stiles thought and eyed the barrels thoughtfully.
Rum must be right boilin’ in there under this sun.
“Tell me ye left a bloody crevasse on ‘em barrels Salty,” he muttered and then snapped at the two of them. “Fuck’s sake ye idiots hurry it up! You should have led wit that by the way,” he yelled running after the fast moving wagon. “Remind me not to ever ask for yer help. I only have so many lives to spare!”
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The dwarf saw a frantic Stiles running after the mule drawn wagon, a couple of kids running after him laughing while tossing pebbles tying to trip him up and came out of the crude tavern built next to the old warehouse, the locals called simply ‘Warehouse’ as Dennis the Lorian from Altarinport hadn’t bothered naming it.
‘Salty’ pulled at the reins hard, yelling at the animals to stop in front of the Watch Tower’s fence and jumped down from the driver’s bench. Glen had turned the large building into a house and now Stiles had appropriated it in his turn. Reed had opted to stop there probably thinking it was a normal guard tower. The Issir jumped down the other side and rushed back to open the second barrel with a long dagger.
“Need help there Katers?” Reed asked nervously and glanced at a huffing and puffing Stiles arrive, turning about when a pebble struck his hat to yell incensed.
“Get back to yer wayward mothers!” Stiles warned the kids and received a series of taunts in return. “Fuckin’ inbreds’,” he grunted, face covered in sweat and then glared at the heaving Katers. “Hurry up ye imbecile! People put sardines in barrels an’ not the oth’r way around, for crying’ out loud!”
“What’s happening?” Norec asked him with a scowl.
“Get her out fast,” Stiles urged the Issir seeing the cover being lift up and then glanced at the frowning dwarf. “Remember that Issir wench we stopped the other day? It’s been a while now.”
“You couldn’t stop talking about her for a week,” Norec pointed.
“That was Leo master Norec,” Stiles grunted just as a drenched in sweat woman came out of the barrel almost unresponsive. Katers grabbed her when she faltered and helped her climb down the wagon with the aid of Reed.
“My memory is way better than yours,” Norec insisted. “Who is she?”
Trouble, Stiles thought as much nervous as excited. Hadn’t been this nervous, or as excited since that time he’d faced the Kraken near the Straits. Well the Gish had, but now Jinx was not around to take the lead. This beast Stiles would have to tame alone.
“Water,” the girl muttered with a gasp.
“Get her up the bloody tower!” Stiles advised them irate. “The second floor, move ye stupid fucks!”
“Is this tied to the Three Hundred paying us a visit?” Norec insisted, using his right hand to pull at his long beard slowly. “Ottis turned all agitated earlier.”
“I don’t know the details, but yeah,” Stiles replied and walked after the men carrying the Issir female towards the entrance with a last warning stare at the annoying kids that were making funny faces at him. Norec followed running to keep up with his longer strides.
“Stiles you’re not this serious most times,” the dwarf insisted as they climbed the tower’s narrow staircase after the men.
“This ain’t most times mate,” Stiles rustled and wiped his sweaty face with a hand, his throat drier than a hag’s tit. “That could be a darn Princess of Kaltha!”
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“It can’t be. Stiles there’s only one High Princess in the three kingdoms,” Norec repeated calmly, with Stiles pacing nervously back and forth outside Sen-Iv’s bedroom not really listening to him. Ido Katers still standing guard at the door eyeing both of them. Reed had rushed back to the docks on a horse, leaving him the other barrel –full of Bald Burton’s rum- as compensation.
Stiles felt he had just gotten shafted hard. The assailant economizing on the butter.
“Let me get inside,” Stiles tried again ignoring the dwarf. “This is my god darn place!”
“No one enters until she give’s permission,” Katers droned. “I have my orders mister Stiles.”
What?
“She couldn’t speak ten minutes ago, could barely walk! Who yer tryin’ to fool ye cretin?”
“My orders came from Lord Bach,” Katers explained calmly.
“Fuck’s is he?”
“Let him inside mister Ido,” the young woman said behind the door. “I feel better now.”
“Move aside, else I’ll knife ye in the gut,” Stiles warned him and opened the door to enter Sen’s pillow and silks heaven. Katers allowed him to get past him but followed right behind Stiles.
Anne the ‘slavegirl’ raised her pretty head from the bronze bathtub holding a soft towel in her hands, she then used to wipe her face carefully whilst staring his way. Despite the sun slowly setting outside the open floor to ceiling window, a stunned Stiles had tripped over his feet when she turned those expressive -fiercely green- eyes on him.
Last time he’d seen that color elsewhere, Stiles had scored a fortune in plunder -mostly jade gems, he’d since long spent in grog an’ whores, much as decent folk do.
“Stand by the door Ido,” Anne told the priest of Oras in her refined common and the man obeyed with a grunt. Stiles grimaced and removed the hat from his head, frowned some more and then tried to fix his unruly hair.
“Ehm,” he muttered suddenly at a loss for words.
“Mister Stiles,” Anne said sounding a little nervous. “I want to thank you from my heart for your kindness,” Stiles blinked unsure at the lavish praise. He’d only asked them to get her out of the barrel afore she expired in the heat. “Risking your life for my cause is a sure sign of character and pure noble intentions.”
Stiles had no idea what she was talking about, nor where she had come up with all those fancy words about him. But when a fine-looking woman praises you an’ yours, it’s not easy to point out she’s mistaken.
“Hmm,” he hummed instead, keeping his options open.
“I fear though that stopping the bank’s mercenaries won’t be easy,” Anne continued and set the towel next to the filled bathtub, after folding it carefully.
“Why?” He croaked too fascinated by her little movements.
“They don’t have my best interests in their heart,” Anne replied with a small sigh, pushing her long white hair behind her well-shaped ears. “I’m Elsanne Eikenaar mister Stiles. I had to use that little ruse when we first met.”
Ah.
> By the order of his majesty Duke Rinus Van De Aest, appointed by Theun Eikenaar, first of his name and the gracious High King of Kaltha, you were found guilty of piracy, conspiracy to harm the throne, pillaging, kidnapping, rape, raiding and outright murder. This man has attested to your crimes in exchange for his life. By the King’s mercy you are to be killed afore the sun sets by the manner of hanging by the neck and left to the elements, after getting drawn and quartered. The executioner may proceed.
“Ahm,” He mumbled feeling his knees weaken and the screams of those getting their innards pulled out with rusty pliers, returning in his mind. “The name rings a bell, but eh…” Stiles couldn’t speak suddenly.
“The Three Hundred want me captured,” Elsanne explained seeing him having trouble breathing. “Bargained back to the Council that my enemies’ control. You see mister Stiles, with my brother on death’s door and his heir… not acknowledged by the Realm’s Lords, I’m the next in line for the throne of Kaltha.”
A nervous tick appeared on Stiles good eye, a tear running down his cheek when he attempted to fight it.
Here it is, the former pirate remembered the Black Hydra of his dream coming out of the morning mist of the straits flanking them. The memory back to haunt him, as much as to stand as warning.
Death always comes looking for the life he’s owed.
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