Fugger took it easy.

Bellhound kept the ship straight. Sober--and disappointed over it as well, unlike the captain who had braved his bender long enough to realign with normalcy--as best as Fugger could. The ship drew nearer and nearer towards the growing dark lump in the distance, its protrusions no different than usual as far as Bellhound cared. His captain, meanwhile, stared slack-jawed. Having traveled the entire length of the ship, maneuvered his way across rope to reach the railing at its front and vomit over it, he could only after marvel in silence at the silhouette and its growing docks, their lengths and great guests running massive alike. Masts’ colors burnt through the mists of distance, and Fugger breathed deep the paint and schemes of various factions assembled at the inbound pier and accompanying buildings--rows and rows of homes and warehouses strapped around not solely the shore but the entire length of a mountainside, cliffs decorated in civilization. Further back beyond the docks the feeling of fat wealth grew, more ornate and intricately designed homes and houses up and over hills high. Past them sat the greatest accumulation of wealth Fugger figured: the king’s castle, an unbelievable palace of sky bending proportions, its multitude of towers stretching partially unseen. Between them all a cylinder stretched wide and rounded, its roof glittering gold. Fugger thought to ask his first mate about it.

“The king live there?”

“What?”

“Does the king live there--” he illustrated his point with a wagging finger. “There, in between all those towers.”

“Probably. How the hell should I know?” asked Bell.

“Your background...”

“You don’t know anything about that,” he suggested.

Hesitation stopped Fugger short of blurting a comment likely to have gotten Bellhound’s fists involved. Instead, he approached him at another angle.

“Will you tell me of it?” asked his captain.

“Nothing to tell, captain.”

“I command you to.”

“Or what? And who bothered tying your little sailboat up like a ferry, huh?”

“Like a fairy alright.”

Just one eyebrow of Bellhound’s raised as he eyed his captain strangely. Surprised, he gave into a fit of laughter the captain did not join, celebrating instead with a simple smile merrily. With time it faded.

“Bellhound. Are we safe?”

“Yes,” answered Bellhound.

“You mean that?”

“Yes, captain,” he affirmed. “Though I cannot believe we succeeded--yeah. We sunk them. You killed their leader?”

“No... I didn’t even get his name,” the captain realized.

“The king would have your sorry head,” Bell said.

“Instead, I get to make a good impression.”

“Anyone else get a sailboat?” Bell asked.

“I don’t remember,” Fugger admitted. “Maybe. I shoved that girl out into the water. Dead, you think?”

“No. She has crazy eyes--like you do.”

“Is that so?” Fugger asked, narrowing his vision reflexively. “I liked her. Lot of guts. I wanted to take her, why didn’t that happen?”

“Cuz you’re a fairy, Fugger,” answered Bellhound.

The two laughed, Fugger unable to resist. Wood groaned from behind. The two spun their heads round to face a ragged woman with Blackgill’s twice looted flintlock aimed steady back and forth between them. Her hair ran dried and matted to her neck, only an occasional clump free to disrupt its overall shape. Her top and tights wore the particular sheen born from an ocean drying. One leg clearly supported the other. She breathed slowly.

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“You don’t know how to fire that,” suggested once its looter.

She clicked the back of the gun with a hand both confident and contrastingly anxious, her handling of the weapon not entirely new but certainly without experience. Nonetheless, the barrel stood Fugger down. Silence screamed at him so loudly he begged for a single seagull.

“You’ve loaded it?” Fugger quietly asked.

She nodded.

“How? From what ammo?” the captain quickly asked, his words running fast together.

She pulled from behind Fugger’s lost sack. It fell to the deck. Yes, Fugger had in fact come upon a good supply of the means of refilling his flintlock for a long foreseeable future. This loot joined much treasure, thankfully unnecessary to the ship’s recovery but not ignorable to its potential. Even asides the fetching for coin, of which Bellhound would surely handle and split, he had, for some time, been considering an option presented to him what seemed ages ago across the “artifact” below deck--that terminal so strangely tied to his survival. This and much else weighed his mind staring through a tube he fired perhaps too often in recent days. He too thought of Bellhound’s advice, of anger its origin. He shook his head.

“Your crew’s dead.”

“All more reason to avenge,” the exhausted gunslinger answered, Bellhound’s eyebrow rising again.

“Or you could join us--we all live,” offered Fugger. The woman’s expression broke, and her aim somewhat swayed. Bellhound darted his gaze between captain and possible crew addition. His own interview came at a strange circumstance, Bell remembered, but this felt like an outclassing.

“What?” she sputtered. “You--killed my brothers.”

“Oh piss off,” Fugger pantomimed, grabbing his genitals through the air and tearing it off in few motions. “They weren’t your brothers. You listen to the crap they said?”

The woman shook her head.

“What are you--you’re criminals. Murderers. You took Brother Corton’s life. You--”

“You know,” interjected Fugger. “You started that.”

She froze.

“That’s right,” he continued. “You got court, right? It’s going in my testimony. You wanna get me for stealing this ship, fine--” he waved his hands about. “But you started it. The “woman”--that’s how they put it.”

“So I’ll kill you,” she threatened.

“Guess we’re all criminals then.”

Following a final sway, the flintlock lowered.

“So,” Fugger said, she still. “Why don’t you cut the crap and join us? You’re strong. They trained you well.”

“No,” she shouted. “My father did. Tis the only reason I’m here.”

“Your accent’s familiar,” blurted Bellhound. Fugger turned to him strangely, but the navigator continued: “Your parents Shepherd District?”

After a brief pause, she nodded. “How can a pirate...?” she added, trailing off before shaking her head and letting loose the unfired flintlock from her grasp, it clattering to the ground. Fugger and Bellhound’s eyes collectively widened, both braced. The girl, at this, chuckled for but a moment. She straightened herself then; cleared her throat.

“What’s so...” Fugger too trailed, a sudden realization flashing through his mind. He lifted himself off the back of the railing and staggered over, catching sight of the wound he had dealt to her ankle the night previously. Noticing his noticing, their eyes met. He laughed.

“Hurts, huh?”

Fugger knelt and scooped the fallen firearm off the deck. He opened it, confirming his suspicions.

“You ain’t gotta clue how to prep this, do you?” he asked. Her lack of response led to his continuing. “I’ll teach you. Hell I’ll teach Bell, then we’ll all know how to shoot the damn thing.”

“No thanks,” said Bell.

The captain met her gaze awhile longer.

“But you gotta join first.”

“You’re both men. I know what you really want,” she said under her breath.

“Maybe. But I mean my word,” Fugger countered. “You been in a gang? Can’t fib in a gang.”

Her eyes wandered wood.

“And you intend to... allow me my armor’s return?”

“Yeah,” came from Fugger.

“Yeah,” from the navigator. “I’ll show you where.” He folded his arms.

“Plus,” added the captain. “The artifact. Oh yeah. I know how it works.”

He refound her gaze. But she looked sullen.

“I care rat’s asses about artifacts. King ordered foolishness.”

Bellhound turned to Fugger.

“Shepherd District.”

“I don’t know what that means.”