This story was told to Painted Wheel at Twelfth Night. 1/5/2002
By Robert, Rachel, Max and Yela
It was one of the finest mornings we'd ever seen at Camp Bodrum. Our pirate contingent was merrily conducting a land raid while the Bodrum gypsies enjoyed a pleasant visit from their friends in Painted Wheel. The shadows lengthened and bottles of meade began passing through the company. Songs were sung. Some well, some loudly. Jokes were told, drums were beaten, and dancers whipped about in splendid fun.
But across the road, there was trouble sneaking through the shadows. Though at the time we'd no notion of it, we later learned that a man was watching our goings on with sinister purpose. Petrel Demetria, a veteran and ruthless mercenary retained by Nero the Drake, had spent many long months in pursuit of his elusive quarry, the fair Aysha, and must have been well pleased to spot the runaway dancing among us, oblivious to the malignant danger he represented.
Every member of our household is familiar with Aysha's tragic story. However, if any hearing this tale are unfamiliar, suffice to say, Nero meant Aysha terrible harm, and this assassin was to be the instrument of his will. Presumably preferring the cover of night, Petrel slipped quietly away to take a meal and wait out the sun's final moments. Fortunately, as we would soon discover, Petrel was a man generously capable of error, and it was during his absence that the members of Painted Wheel chose to collect themselves and head for their own camp, Aysha among them.
It was also at this time that the stalwart Mariners returned triumphant, laden with all manner of ill-gotten goods from their raiding. They greeted, and then wished fond farewell to the departing gypsies, and immediately set about distributing and packing their loot aboard their grounded ship, the Twilight Mistress. With practiced efficiency, ammunition, food, and clothing were packed away. Coins and jewelry were divided and stored, principally in secret places, and the bolts of cloth were quickly claimed by Trina the sailmistress. The pace slowed considerably however, with the large and myriad supply of stolen ale and liquor. As the variety and quality of these spirits sunk in, a lethargy for work settled over the male members of the crew, until WyteRaevyn, the ship's carpenter, suggested that each and every bottle should be carefully sampled to insure there was no poison. "For safety" he quickly added.
The matter was settled and the sailors began doing what they do best. Soon they wandered into the cool interior of the ship. Not long thereafter, all that could be heard was their sharp staccato snores drifting into a darkening sky.
After a few exchanged smiles, the women of camp had turned to the business of settling in for the evening, when Demetria returned. His eye was steady. His hands drifted across the weapons concealed about his person. Slinking through the gate, he moved to circle the edge of camp. While a stealthy entrance might have served him well on someone else's property, it was just the sort of thing to catch the eye of the wily harbormistress Elayne. In short order, she stood before him, coolly demanding to know his business. With a growl of warning he shoved past her and immediately saw Rachel assisting Ven Droma's beloved Shuvani to their Vardo after a long day's fortune telling. Mistaking the frail old woman for...a frail old woman, Petrel was upon her in three long strides, grabbing her by the arms. "Where is Rebekah?*" he hissed. "I know she is here among you gypsies."
Shuvani's eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and said nothing, which angered the man. He shook her violently. Rachel began moving toward him, but was stayed by a sharp look from her grandmother. Rachel had long known to respect that temper and remained at arms length. Glancing quickly about she noticed Yela quietly hurrying into the Twilight Mistress. Oblivious, Petrel repeated with greater venom, "Where IS she?"
Shuvani leveled her eyes at him and began speaking in Romany--sharp, ancient words in rhythmic cadence. Not a patient man in the best of circumstances, the mercenary brought a knife to her throat. Rachel, unable to remain silent any longer gently gripped his arm pleading, "Please don't hurt my grandmother, she doesn't speak your language. The woman you seek is inside the ship, you will find her there."
Smirking at her, Petrel sheathed the dagger and shrugged her hands aside. Shuvani was flung toward the ground and would have fallen if not for Rachel's quick hands, correcting her balance. Through it all Shuvani's litany continued.
The burly hunter advanced toward the ship with confidence. Just before he reached the opening Maeve lunged from the shadows, wrapping her arms around him, a look of fear on her pretty face. "Please, don't hurt Rebekah!" she begged. "She has done no wrong to you!" Impatiently, he pushed her away and, finally entered the Twilight Mistress.
But Yela had not been idle within that broken hull. Petrel Demetria, veteran mercenary, stared down a broadside of five well-oiled, but quite unsteadily aimed, flintlock pistols. A sixth gun was held in the Captain's limp fingers as he remained unconscious, heedless to Yela's desperate howling into his ear. "The ship is under attack!" she screamed.
Morgan remained inert.
Petrel quickly deemed the sergeant at arms his most dangerous foe. With practiced speed his right hand stole beneath his cloak, and with a single, fluid motion, he unsheathed and struck Joad in the heart with...a delicate branch that snapped harmlessly against the sergeant's massive chest. Irritated, Joad quickly fired at point-blank range. The ball planted squarely in the ship's hull three feet to the left of the assassin's head.
Joad later insisted that he had seen two identical attackers, and he had hit the one on the left directly between the eyes.
The first pangs of fear in his heart, Petrel reached for his backup dagger, and quickly produced...a ripe banana. Bewildered his head snapped left and right, seeking his absent arsenal, and there, through the entrance, was Maeve, playfully swinging his custom rapier to and fro. Behind her Rachel smoothly tucked his jeweled, curved dagger into her belt, and began idly thumbing through the contents of his belt pouch. Both ladies wore a wry smile.
A second blast echoed within the pirates' grounded ship as the Naviguesser, with a muttered curse, opened fire on a harmless lantern. In his hungover condition, the bright light it cast was a greater threat than ten armed killers.
Still trying to rouse their slumbering leader, Yela violently shook Morgan, and shrieked into his ear, "A killer! He's trying to kill us!"
There was a slight twitch of the Captain's nose.
Cross-eyed and perhaps the least lucid of all, WyteRaevyn nevertheless drew perfect aim. Sadly he had selected the Captain as his target, and only the quick action by his wife, Trina nudged the weapon aside in the nick of time. The ball passed harmlessly, though noisily, through one of the ship's few remaining glass portholes.
Petrel's confidence returned in a rush. These men were roaring drunk! He pulled from his boot a weapon not stolen by the quick-fingered gypsies; a small derringer style pistol. Typically ineffective, the pirates realized it could be deadly in this small space and backed away.
Suddenly, Arduina the Captain's Booty, who had hitherto escaped Petrel's notice reached from the darkness and gripped Morgan's shoulder. She said simply, "He's stealing the booze."
Bolt awake, the captain immediately sat upright, drew an unswerving bead on Petrel's head and squeezed the trigger faster than the eye could see. It was only the mercenary's quick reflexes that kept him from certain death, but he yelped in pain when the ball grazed his ear. Once again the ship endured its crew's well intentioned marksmanship as Morgan's shot bored into her battered hull. Wounded, Petrel staggered back out of the ship, and was momentarily panicked when Angus emerged from the opening. He was angry, he was armed, he was nearly sober. Petrel began to run. The compact Mariner leapt neatly from the opening and gave chase, screaming madly. To the huntsman's bewilderment, his pursuer quickly outdistanced him, running faster and faster until he disappeared into the woods. Soon, all that could be heard was a far away howling as Angus chased shadows in the distance.
Petrel galloped madly around the tents, trying to find a way out. He took a wrong turn and discovered himself with his back to a wall. Two newcomers approached the scene. Max, pistol in hand and, in marked contrast to the rest of the crew, sober, stalked forward slowly, holding the man in his sights. Robert atte Quill, raced to his wife Rachel's side and asked, "Who the devil is he?" "I don't know," she replied, "but he's trying to kill Aysha." Then in a whisper she added, "And I think grandmama put a curse on him." Not taking any chances, Max fired at the panicked assassin, but by bizarre chance, the bullet ricocheted off the target's wide belt buckle and shattered a neighboring jug of 20 year old, 80 proof rum. Renewed howls of anger bellowed from the ship as the mariners impacted and tumbled against one another in a fervent but ultimately doomed effort to all get through the opening at once.
A strange smile on his face, Petrel stood straight and took careful aim at Max's heart with the derringer still clutched in his hand. Max looked for cover, but found none and slowly realized, he could do nothing but wait. Robert, looked on worriedly and said to his wife, "That's strange. Shuvani's curses are usually a lot faster-acting than this."
Lips curled in a sneer, Petrel pulled the trigger. Incredibly, his small pistol exploded, severely burning his hand and hurling burning wood and bits of metal in all directions. Petrel had time to scream and grab his wounded hand, before the shower of sparks ignited the pool of rum in which he was standing. His whole body suddenly engulfed in pitiless flame, he ran for a few steps, then squarely struck a neat stack of large barrels with a small cask balanced on the top. Petrel's impact dislodged the barrel, which promptly fell onto his head, cracked and detonated its contents of black powder, which in turn detonated the dozen large barrels filled with the Brewmistress's finest meade.
Max quickly felt his chest and abdomen, checking for holes while the rest of the household slowly approached the sudden bonfire burning in our camp. Joad, Raven and Wyte Raven were distracted, keeping a tight hold on Morgan who was pushing with all his strength towards the fire. "Don't be a fool, man!" screamed Wyte Raven, "He's beyond our help!"
"The meade, you idiot!" our Captain shouted back. "We must save the meade!"
Quietly, Rachel turned and walked to her beloved grandmother, who was sitting on her wagon steps. Cocking her head, Rachel asked, "Grandmama, what did you say? What curse did you give that man?" A glint in her eye, Shuvani replied slyly,
"May the curse of Painted Wheel fall upon your head."
After the story was completed, Max and Yela presented the skull of Painted Wheel's enemy, in a chest, surrounded by gold and silver coins. Its purpose is to be a fire charm, to keep the household from setting themselves on fire.
