"Fire, fire again!" Edmund screamed, and the cannons complied. They had been fighting for the better part of an hour, and the already wrecked Bitterwind looked far worse than it had been before. His surviving crew still battled on, biting back wounds and injuries to repair to the best of their abilities and reload cannons with remaining limbs.
The pirates they fought were also beginning to feel the strain, clearly expecting the broken ship to keel over, it's crew to surrender meekly. True enough, the ship was sinking, load overcoming bear, and it was pointless to try and outrun the heavier ships. It was three against one, predators finishing their prey, but their target resisted every boarding attempt, every broadside, and every parley, offering surrender, yet the Bitterwind knew better than to yield to a band of bloodthirsty pirates.
Clashes of steel sounded from below as the pirates swung across to attempt another board. At this rate, Edmund knew he would run out of men before their willpower would break, but what choice did he have? A bullet streaked across and cut a lock of his hair, harmlessly skidding into the floor. Swearing, he took cover behind the food rations, several barrels stuffed to the brim with provisions set for three months. An idea struck him.
"Throw shit overboard!" his crew was bewildered, "I don't care how important it is! Start with the forward cannon!"
A moment of shock was snapped as Edmund fired his flintlock into the air, repeating the orders. As soon as the last pirate was kicked off the deck, his crew set to work, splashes sounding as anything, regardless of its necessity, was tossed away. More substantial splashes were heard as the cannon were untied and slid off. Edmund took a risky look at the side of the Bitterwind, and whooped as it came above the waves. The food barrels were reluctantly rolled off, and personal effects spiralled across the air, pictures of waiting spouses and even money finding its way into the watery depths.
They were smarter than to abandon their own weapons, a cluster of muskets lay untouched and cutlasses stayed strapped onto their hips. As more load was jettisoned, the Bitterwind picked up wind, the sails thankfully left mostly intact. Edmund saw the pirates reacting with anger as what was meant to be an easy picking built up distance.
His initial attempt to sail for Arbude had worked up until the rudder broke, and now the Bitterwind was restricted to a straight-line voyage. Fortunately, the winds had been favourable, and with the right amount of weight distribution, the ship turned back on course. The town of Arbude was nothing like Yorke, less respectable and much less benign to Albionic sorts, though it was now the closest, and pirates did not dare infringe upon the coasts where shore batteries could damage them. As expected, the pirates had persevered for a while but decided the losses had already been enough, the battered ship in the distance not worth the trouble anymore. Edmund's crew let out cheers as they saw the enemy spin around. They would live for another day yet.
The Captain rested, the last of the rum in hand. When was the last time he had seen an old friend of his? He relented, shore leave would be extended, at least for a while yet.
{---}
The girls had adapted well to Rose, it had seemed. The 'handmaiden' sat on a stool, all the while having her chaotic hair combed and washed. Eventually, it was braided into two separate parts that were interlinked into a bun at the back. Rose wasn't happy about the affair, but the sisters were overjoyed. Catherine especially, glad to be working on somebody other than her sisters, desires of hairdressing becoming known.
"Alright, that's enough, let's leave her be." Amelia clapped her hands, and pointed up towards the second floor, "Off to bed, the lot of you."
Eleanor gave her a look she had become all too familiar with, a face that had allowed the girl to stay many nights past her bedtime. Not today.
'Nope, missy, up you go." She's getting smarter, "Chop, chop."
When the miscreants had fled, Amelia backed up against a counter, hands unoccupied.
"Everyone in the family's got their own job you know?"
Rose put a hand outward, making out the height of a small child.
"Yes, even Eleanor, she tends to the sheep."
Rose then pointed at herself, quizzingly.
"There's a place down by the village, it's a small pub, nothing like that inn from Yorke-"
Before Amelia could finish, Rose shook her head violently.
"I guess not after what happened, we'll just have to keep looking then."
The two waited around for a while, in silence, not looking at each other. Then, Rose asked for something. She conceived the motion of writing, and then a square. Amelia left the room, and returned with a paper and pencil, the latter a rare commodity. The mute wrote in sharp lines and wonky curves until a clear message was envisioned.
me know how play
violeen
me okay
Beneath it, a crude drawing of a Violin. Amelia looked at her in wonderment.
"Really? You can?"
Rose nodded, and wrote on the paper again.
no violeen
Amelia smirked, and left the room once more. It was purely coincidence, and luck that had brought this girl to her. She entered, a dusty and ancient violin in hand, bow tucked behind. Rose took it up, afraid it would snap at any moment. She looked at Amelia, a thousand questions in that glance.
"It was my father's,' she answered, "Before he went and died."
Rose bowed her head, the sense of sincerity clear. Still, that questioning look remained. Amelia huffed. This pickpocket, tavern dwelling, mute, violin-playing girl had already told her so much, it was only fair to give back. She had not told her story in a long time, yet the memories came clear.
"I was fifteen, living with Ma and Pa, when they were still alive. Ma worked at that tavern, see, and Pa, he was the headman of the village, his word was law, and crops were always shared out evenly. Ma, she died having Eleanor, and it left Pa heartbroken, I ain't ever seen him cry before that, but he still worked, and I still went to school, and we all went about our lives, it was still all good and swell. Since our village is on the way to the Capital, we got a lotta visitors, which meant a lotta trade, and a couple of hotshots here and there, but none of them ever meant trouble, no matter what they said."
Amelia paused, before continuing.
"Until he came along."
She spat the words, eyes narrowed.
"He-, he-, he backed me up against the wall, saying he jus' wanted a 'lil fun, so I told him to go fuck off to a whore, and that made him angry, oh it made him so angry."
"He told me I was a whore, and told me to strip, he had a sword an' all, an' I was about to, until Pa found us."
"Pa, he was gettin' old, and frail and-"
Tears threatened to prick her eyes.
"He didn' stand a chance. I only found out it was a Prince, or somethin' alon' those lines, afterwards, we never cared for them sorts really."
Rose made a box around her face.
"What'd he look like? Uh, he was' the pretty boy type, you know, the ones who think they can get their way with a smile an' all, slim, like normal height, a lil' windswept, and-" Rose scrawled over the paper, and looked expectedly, "He had cruel, cruel eyes, like they'd bore into you."
Finishing, Rose lifted the picture.
"Yeah, yeah that's what he looked like."
Amelia collapsed on the floor, legs buckling and emotions stirring. The mute girl lay an arm around her, as she sobbed. The meticulously drawn picture lay on the counter, the callous prince glaring from his paper prison.
{---}
Frederick couldn't help but let out a hoot as hooves clattered along the forest floor. Just behind, Gunther, always a skilled rider himself, forced his mount on. The twins were nowhere to be seen, though Frederick could vaguely recall them feeding their horses that had roused them, troublemakers and fiends bound to be plotting their next plan.
"Guys, guys, wait up!" Gridion was more passive, far behind and barely holding onto his wild compatriot, "This is really dangerous, you know!"
"You hear that, Fred? I think you should slow down!" Gunther called, his hat somehow still perched on his head, "Could trip, very hazardous!"
"Not a chance!" Frederick replied, as a branch narrowly avoided his face, "Artorius, on!"
His horse neighed in response, and charged on. The paths were becoming more enclosed, low-hanging branches becoming numerous. A scratch across his cheek ignored, the Prince opted to go lower. Gunther yelped, and Gridion had decided that his boundaries had been reached. Artorius, a recently cold-turned Stallion, had been obedient throughout the Romanov campaign, yet somehow had lost his discipline after a month aboard. Both rider and mount had aged together, and their bond was good, whereas Gunther, despite all his equestrian skill, lacked the same energy with Percival. Breaking through the foliage, Frederick was dazzled as he came across a cliff. Overlooking it below, was Yorke, in all it's glory. Below it was his city, or at least to be, and he had a plan for it. Life was good, and the winds seemed calm as he raised both his hands, crying out his joy.