As Baum Chetner baked under Cira’s gaze, he turned to run, but she held him in place with her saber held aloft—secretly Aquon was working overtime, “None can escape my pirate magic.” He turned to look at her with terror in his eyes, “but fear not. I’ll pay you well and you can just go buy a house up at Port or something.”

“You don’t get it! Don will hunt me down, there’s no escaping the Black Scourge!” He cried.

“With a name like that you should be embarrassed to be scared of them. He’ll never know, so just hop on and drink some ale.”

She figured waving her sword around pretty much made the pirate magic speak for itself, so she refilled his glass beckoned him on.

He looked down, baffled, and took a drink, “But… but I don’t wanna go back there! The treasure’s cursed I tell ya’!”

“It’s not cursed, and it’ll be gone tomorrow.” She flicked a mithril doubloon at him. Baum stared at it as his eyes grew wide and his mouth slowly gaped open, “feel better?”

“Yes.” He looked up with a bright smile and unsteady eyes, “Yes I do.”

“Great, now everybody get on board!”

They did as instructed and Cira made the Salty Songstress drag along like a slug through the tunnels. It was actually part of the ground, just constantly molding itself forward. She made sure everyone’s glasses were full, shared a smile with Delilah, then turned her attention to the man of the hour.

“Baum,” he shuddered, “You know the way, right? Why don’t you take the helm?”

“Um, what? I don’t know if I can…” He shook his head, “I don’t know any pirate magic.”

“For one, magic is in the heart of each and every pirate,” she stood up and urged him to the seat, “but you won’t need it. Just take the wheel. There’s even a spot right here to place your drink.”

“Oh… alright then I guess.” He awkwardly walked past Cira and placed his beer in the cup holder with a short nod. “More ships should have these.”

Cira sat in the back and shared another round with her crew. Jimbo was in the middle of telling a story about his last prima run. There were very small tunnels in the ceiling of the nymph catacombs, and apparently landing safely from a high drop with a peg leg was quite the task. You had to literally crawl for more than a full day to get there from Nymphus. Then dragging a sack of salt back with a rope tied to his peg took even longer.

“Damn sweepers boxed us in, I thought we was done for.” Cira noticed his glass was empty and miraculously filled it again, “we had to—ah thanks—we had find another way out! Boy I tell you, me peg was achin’ for weeks. Almost had to stick ‘em.”

“’Least you played it safe,” Shirtless Joe slapped him on the shoulder, “More than I can say for Triton, the poor bastard. We ain’t never seein’ him again.”

“Hey…” James turned to Cira suspiciously, “you were in the Queen’s nest weren’t you? See anybody down there?”

Cira leaned back against the railing, nursing half a glass. As she finished her long drink, she let out a satisfied, “Ahhhhhh. Triton, I know him well. Dark hair, scar on his lip. Had a kid with him.”

“No way! She’s gotta be tellin’ the truth, that’s him!” Shirtless Joe was blown away, but Cira sat there with a smug look.

James too was honestly surprised, “Man… you weren’t lyin’… You’re something else, Cirina, that’s for sure. But I guess he really made it.”

“That’s Captain Dreadheart to you.” Delilah wagged her finger at him, and it sent Cira into a fit.

“Pfffft! That’s right, you hear me!” Cira mimicked the finger wag.

“What the hell happened to Triton though?!” Jimbo exclaimed.

“Relax, he’s just fine, but we ran into trouble…” She got a sinister grin on her face and proceeded to tell the tale of when smuggler, pirate, and witch clashed. Cira stood by her morales that only a true degenerate would deface the queen’s nest, while the freelance smuggler wanted to plunder its royal prima. Their argument devolved into combat, as they oft do—everyone nodded—then a patrolling witch stumbled upon them.

“Impossible!” Nothing got past Jimbo, “The queen’s nest is off limits!”

“Not all witches play by the rules.” She replied in a cool voice and drank from the bottomless ale. Well, with a full crew they were burning through it, but it would last until everyone except Cira died of acute alcohol poisoning. The ale was bottomless for all intents and purposes.

Salty tunnels passed them by, lit by eyes and open mouth of the angel adorning the bow of the Salty Songstress. Baum chipped into the conversation with a joke now and again but had no complaints as his glass also refilled itself. Nina had taken to dancing through the air out in front of them at some point.

Cira was certain they were following her as she left the Queen’s Nest most recently, but the nymphs were mysteriously missing from her adventure until this point. She figured the Last Step warded them off, but it appeared they were secretly following her, hiding in the miles of salt until choosing this moment to join Nina in her festivities. They kept accumulating the further Cira’s ship plowed down the tunnels. Twirling through the air, or just gliding along beside them, following ahead and behind. They were surrounded.

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Cira thought the silent movement of the ship and flapping wings was too monotonous and took a poll of who could play an instrument. In Cira’s travels, she’d seen many instruments. Different skies often ended up with similar ones to each other under different names, but she was able to work out most of them. Baum’s friend could play the fiddle, Shirtless Joe requested a flute, and not wanting to feel left out, James asked for a drum.

After a short struggle with Jimbo, Cira determined that the oingo slapper was an accordion. In the greatest feat of pirate magic yet, Cira called upon her nature sorcery and geomancy to conjure a band’s worth of instruments. Blocks of wood turned into a flute and fiddle, a tight wire for the strings. Making the bow was especially difficult as they were usually made with fine beast hair, but Cira found a decent substitute in conjured plant fiber.

They started a shanty, or at least tried. All their instruments were out of tune and the fiddle cried like a banshee. James alone was jamming on his little drum, but still the others tried. They completed one full song before returning to their drinks, and Jimbo put down his wailing accordion, “These sound like shit, Cap’n.”

“Aye. That they do.”

They returned to tall tales and shit-shooting while Cira worked on the instruments. All the while, she decided to decrease their travel time. By this point they were zipping through the tunnels at an outright dangerous speed, but luckily the turns weren’t very sharp. Sometimes they’d go up, or down for a little bit, but mostly up.

It was not often that Cira could approach her goals with so little effort, so she sat back and enjoyed it. The merry crew kept twisting and turning through the dark on their miniature white pirate ship, shrouded in salt nymphs and drinking from glasses that never emptied, singing and playing increasingly less-shitty instruments, telling stories in between. This must have gone on for hours.

These men would likely wake up tomorrow and remember this all as some strange fever dream. Two of Cira’s nameless stragglers had already drank enough to pass out through all the ruckus and Baum had figured out the throttle at some point. He slowed them down and Cira looked over.

“We’re getting close, keep it down… See that tunnel on the left way down there?” They were in something of a nexus and looking down on a large open chamber, “The Black Scourge’s hideout is right inside. That’s where you’ll find the treasure. Can I go now?”

“I never leave a crewmate behind. It ain’t a short walk back to town, so strap in.” Cira was slurring her words and fully in character now. Pushing Baum, who steered the ship, aside, she put a foot up on the bow and struck her signature pose.

From the point of her saber, sparks flew. Instead of sizzling out, they got larger and arced all the way towards the tunnel he pointed out. Scattering around the ground and exploding, They left bright red flares behind.

“Onward!” Cira cried, “It’s a siege!”

___

The dank cavern called home by the Black Scourge was carved out of the salt, illuminated by a dull red glow. A river inlet used for bathing fell from the ceiling and Don was busy licking his wounds. He had only been back for five minutes, but his crew immediately grouped around him with concern.

There were no healers among the Black Scourge, so the best one could do was clean their wounds. Now, Don sat under the stream as three scantily dressed women gently rinsed him off with a sponge. Saltwater wasn’t half bad as a disinfectant, but it sure wasn’t healthy to rub into your skin every day. These conditions helped pirates on the rock look extra skeevy with cracked skin and rough complexions.

“Oh, Don, I can’t believe they all ganged up on you.” The first sponge maiden was truly broken up about it.

“Poor Donny!” the next wept.

“Who was it, Don? Who started it?” The third was frail but her attitude made it sound like she wanted to do something about it—still hardly clothed, mind you, dual-wielding sponges with practiced hands.

“Oh, you shoulda seen the other guy.” He shook his head with a smug, but pained, grin, “Nobody gonna see him no more. Gave him a dirt nap, I did. He’s sleepin’ with the underworms now—”

Bang! B-Bang! Pop! Bang!

“What the hell?!” Don stood up abruptly from his stool, sending the frail maiden spinning to the ground. Lights flashed from the hall and blasts shook the cavern like they were under explosive cannon fire. “Are we under attack?! But how?!”

His men were all standing around already, now drawing their blades. Don didn’t care if his maiden’s bathed him in their presence because he knew he had utter dominance over everyone here. Hell, he was the biggest baddest pirate on Fount Salt. This was something he said mentally to reaffirm himself.

“Cap, whadda we do?!” Juan, his reliable first mate, came running up.

“Friggin’ go out there and look, what else?! Tell everyone to prepare for battle!” his sponge maidens all huddled against the wall, curling up to cover themselves.

The blasts got louder, and Don swore he could hear sadistic cackling above the deafening blasts. It was a dreadful chorus of laughter, and the chaos only grew as it approached. Juan made it to the entrance of the hideout and shouted, drawing his sword, only to be tossed aside like a sack of underworms.

Don couldn’t register his maidens’ cries as his eyes flew open at the sight of a miniature ivory pirate ship flying right through his front door with a full crew, blades in one hand and ale in the other. They were shouting devilish war cries and waving swords around, save for two inexplicably sleeping at the back and a girl shrouded within a shining bubble. No, the ship was salt, and the ground broke like waves as it plowed into his hideout. The attention to detail of something he’d yet to comprehend was astounding.

The figurehead on the bow was an angel like any other, but its eyes and mouth were wide open. a piercing light shot from all three orifices like some damned soul cursed to be exorcised for all eternity. Don shuddered as he slowly brought his face up to see someone he was not happy to see.

The pristine model ship slowed down as one figure stepped forward. With a foot on the bow and a radiant, yet twisted, smile, she pointed a glimmering blade straight at Don and cackled, “No one escapes a bargain with Cirina Dreadheart!”

“Wh…what?!” He was understandably flabbergasted, “There’s no way you’re here!”

“Don…?” His maidens were quite curious.

“Who is she?”

“Don’t tell me…” The frail one stood up with her arms at her hips, looking furious.

“Don, you scallywag!” Cira growled, “Clothe yourself so that we may duel!”

He yelled at his maidens and they dried him off, much to Cira’s disgust, then brought his clothes.

“What do you want?!” He snarled back, feigning dignity.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Cira looked to the elephant seal in the room—or in this case, the giant glowing rock. Water poured down it from the ceiling, splitting off into multiple streams where it bored through the salt, spreading in every conceivable direction through the island.

Not all employed by Don could call themselves crew to the Black Scourge. He had miners from the settlements around Uru that he’d blackmailed or ransomed his way into working for him. They swung pickaxes at the shining scarlet monument tirelessly.

None of the miners were right. They hobbled or hunched over, going through great struggle to bring the pickaxe up each time. No gloves, no masks. These were workers with a time limit. Expendable and easily replaced.

“The more I see, the worse it gets, Don. This is not looking good for you.”