Captain Fortinbras Carlyle
It was a symphony. The cannons roared their supersonic widow's song in the key of agony; the Innate's will surged over the deck like a tangible presence, prickling along the back of Fort's neck before smashing through scale and flesh like the fist of an angry god; and Cain executed a stunning Slash and Burn which had them peeling away from the arms of the fiend from the depths, leaving hellfire and ashes in their wake as they sailed on trailing a cloud of vapor to rival any comet. And to add insult to injury to injury, Cas leveled her clockwork rifle, Vega, and delivered their parting shot. From her smile, it had to be a good one.
Fort took hold of the gunwale, his gloved right hand gripping the sturdy soarwood even as his feet struggled to compensate for the harsh manuever that had seen them clear of their inevitable demise. The Ardent groaned, her hull protesting the harshness of the high-g manuever, and threatening to kill them all where the Stroud had failed.
"S'alright, m'dahl. Hold tight, now." Fort whispered his words of encouragement just as Cain jerked them back onto a level course. Fort watched the aeronaut slump in his seat and his lips split into a momentarily unguarded smile. "Not bad, Aerodar. Not bad at all. Steady as she goes."
Remind me again how much you pay me, exactly? Cas' breathless question filtered through the space between them and Fort loosed a rakish chuckle like sodden honey-comb, rich and thick with his own amusement. He shook his head as he turned on his heel. There were things to be seen to...that mast for instance. An ancillary tower, but a necessary one. They'd need all of their solar-vanes if they were going to make the necessary push to serve their current patron...or escape anything else that took a shine to ending their lives with decidedly less panache than the creature quickly falling away behind them.
Fortinbras Carlyle drew a deep breath and began to bark orders once more, directing his first downward toward the gunnery deck. "Make safe the Long Nines. Well shot, lads. Get the wounded to sickbay, and ease who you can. Belo..." As he delivered his orders in his "against-the-gale" voice, eyes the color of frost-rimed slate probed the teeming mass of crewmen for the face of his Innate. For a moment, he wondered if her display had sent her over the edge, tumbling into the hungry waters of the Vast Sea.
That would be his luck.
But that was quickly laid aside. HEADS UP! Belo made a pretty inverted swan-dive into the deckplates, grabbing a ratline as she fell. The jerk which went through her body made him wince, even before she slammed into the soarwood of the deck with a solid thud. For a moment, Fort was sure that he'd have to get the poor girl to Aleta's triage, and survive the fireworks that would inevitably ensue. But, before he could finish imagining the explosive confrontation that the two would have as soon as Belo was in a position to vent her ire, she was on her feet and spitting venom...at least displaying enough of her sharpened tongue to let him know that she was battered, but not yet broken.
Fort's smile returned, washing over his face like a wave over a half-submerged reef. "...thank you," he whispered softly, finishing his half-finished sentence.
Fort turned toward the remainder of the crew which stood milling about, collecting the dead and dying, whistling at the damage. Fort leveled an even gaze at them, once more raising his voice to be heard over the buzz of conversation. "The rest of you see about shoring us up and making us flightworthy enough to make the push to Fort Rock. Patch what you can, splint what you can, curse what you can't. When we make it, the first round's on me." Fort put some hearty weight into the last bit, eliciting a ragged cheer from the survivors as he turned for his quarters.
Da's bolter was still clenched in his left hand, a bit of cool familiar weight in a ready fist. With a motion that had become second nature, he slid the pistol into the holster on his right hip and clipped the safety strap. With his right hand, he pulled open the door which led into his quarters situated beneath the aftcastle.
All in all, it was a lovely little space, dominated by the heavy mahogany desk at its center, covered with maps anchored by open books. The chair behind it was a leather wingback, bolted into the floor. Fort crossed to the chair which often served as his bed and sat, heaving a weary sigh.
"A good day," he decided to himself. Sure, there was tension between the crew, a giant fish-monster had attacked them, his ship was brutalized, and many of his crew had been mauled. But they were still flying. A good day indeed.
Captain Fortinbras Carlyle
Fortinbras Carlyle drew a slow, steadying breath through his nose and held it until he could hear the shuddering thunder of his heartbeat slow as the unspent adrenaline burned through his system. He let it out between his teeth as he brought the tumbler of whiskey to his lips.
Baurius 1144. Good year. Good product. Good people, those who sweat to grow the wheat and rye, tended it, cared for it; those who watched it malt, distilled it, barrelled it, and finally bottled the resulting liquid panacea and shipped it into the hands of men who needed it. Blessed be, by the Throne.
Fort set the glass down, the muffled clunk of glass against wood playing counterpoint to the tinkling of honest to god ice cubes. How he'd lived without the vacuum feed from the induction coils and the flash-frozen chunks of water which rimed it, he'd never know. But thank the powers that be, he'd never have to drink his liquor warm like a goddamn savage again. By all rights, he should be smiling.
Why wasn't he smiling?
Fort laid a hand on the familiar form of the bolter that was slowly becoming less and less "Da's" and more and more "Fort's." It was laid out on a grease-smeared swatch of tan oil-skin, the tools necessary to render proper service to the battle-worn Harlon Arms "Archangel" arrayed in tidy little lines beside it. With an affectionate caress which might be better lent to a pet...or a lover, Fort let his hand drift over the weapon until his hand found the beveled grip and lifted the heavy pistol. With a well-practiced motion, a pull and a wrench in equal proportion, he disengaged the slide at the back quarter of the weapon and laid it aside. Next, a depression of the catch which held the breech and cylinder together. With careful motions he pulled the spent casings of the heavy bolt rounds from the chambers and set them upright along the edge of his desk. When he'd cleared the last chamber, a quick flick of the wrist slid the eight-sided cylinder clear and Fort laid that beside the slide.
One of the things that had made Da swear by Harlon Bolters was the ease with which one stripped down. They were a breeze to clean...one of those things that forbore all excuses and demanded attention. With bolters, one had to be terribly careful. They slung a very heavy hypersonic bolt of magnesium-capped tungsten carbide downrange with enough kinetic energy to lift two full-grown men from their feet and set them very firmly on their asses ten feet downrange; enough thermal energy to slag solid steel. If something went wrong in their works, one would be lucky to survive the misfire with all of their bits intact. Which was why Da had gone for a model which prided itself on simplicity and ease of maintenance. Fort could appreciate that.
He saw to the breech and barrel first. With the a cleaning-rod and a swatch of gun-cotton, he scoured the rifled interior of the Harlon's barrel, lifting away the traces of burnt propellant and tungsten dust. The cotton only came out black once. A light day indeed. The cylinder got similar treatment, each chamber swabbed with meticulous care. The cylinder's exterior got a liberal coating in gun-oil, ensuring that it would rotate smoothly. The slide and exposed hammer assembly were inspected, grudgingly approved, and lubricated. Fort reassembled the weapon unhurriedly, taking time to dry-fire the weapon eight times at the bulkhead. Everything seemed to be in order.
Fort cycled the latch for the breech and cylinder and reloaded the weapon, sliding the finger-length bolts into the heavy pistol's chambers. With a flick of the wrist, the weapon snapped closed and the catches engaged. He slid the Archangel back into the holster at his right hip, snapping the safety strap closed and leaning back into his chair. He took up his whiskey once more.
Why the hell wasn't he smiling?
A contemplative silence held sway in his stateroom as he sipped and grappled with an ephemeral opponent. He'd never been one to scrutinize himself, his feelings. But something niggled at the back of his mind. They'd come through the day; they were still flying. They'd taken losses, certainly. But they'd fought clear. They'd always fought clear.
His gunnery crew had done good service, making the Long Nines sing like the choirs of archangels which knew only songs of vengeance. The Innate had funnelled enough magic through the aether to make demons quake. His femme fatale had placed her shots like a creature with the eyes of a hawk, the reflexes of a cat, and the calm of a freezing glacial tide. And the aeronaut...well, he'd damn near shaken them to pieces, but the gambit had paid off. All together a rousing display of daring heroics...
So what, by the Throne, had him so damnably grim? Shouldn't he be toasting their good fortune.
As Fort's glass became empty and his eyes heavy, the phantom of doubt clouded his mind, cutting through the pleasantly lurid amber whiskey burn. They were not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. The Stroud would not be their only obstacle. No. It was only an omen, a portent of what was to come. This was no milk-run, no day-trip for quick cash. He should have guessed that one by the sum that the young chemist, Rem, had agreed to pay to engage the Ardent's services. Far too high for something safe and sane.
Fort drifted into a fitful sort of half-sleep haunted by specters from his past and phantom-threats of the future. He had a bad feeling about this journey and where it might take them all next.
Captain Fortinbras Carlyle
Fortinbras Carlyle awoke with a start, jolted from the mists of Morpheus by some half-remembered phantasm. Something ominous and formless. It danced at the edges of his perception, even as his eyes opened, glinting in the first rosy hues of dawn. Blue-grey, they swept through the room, probing the corners and identifying the room as his own. He'd fallen asleep in his chair again.
The bed situated in the corner of the room had hardly been slept in since he'd owned the Ardent. Soft sheets, clean pillows...no match for the well-padded leather and the view through the aft window.
One couldn't watch the world slip away or come into focus from his bed. Not like this.
As the sun rose in the east, its rays filtered through the double-paned one-way glass and shattered into a thousand golden hues, scattering across the room and throwing the entire scene into a buttery wash of light. The water, rippling a scant fifty feet below the ship's hull, lapped against granite cliffs. Fort closed his eyes momentarily, dazzled, squinting into the glare and uttering a soft oath under his breath. They'd arrived, it seemed. Fort Rock.
Fort's history with the place went back. Way back.
Fort rose, stretching languidly. His joints creaked and popped unhealthily as he spun them through their range of motion. Shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees, ankles, neck, and even the place where his ribs met his sternum crackled from a life already hard-lived. Bracing his hands against the surface of the carved mahogany desk, he applied gentle pressure until every digit cracked loudly. He heaved a sigh. The old axiom was true. It wasn't the years that slowly killed you. It was the mileage. And Fort had more of it than most. Too much for his twenty-nine years, certainly.
He shed his clothes, stepping out of his customary sailing gear and looking toward the bureau set beside the unruffled bed. Without hurry, he rifled through the drawers, selecting a pair of laced leather breeches, a white silken shirt (Bursian) which billowed at the sleeves, and a long leather riding coat of Tyrisian leather. He stepped into his boots and fastened their silver buckles. With something like reverence, he reached for the brown leather length of his swordbelt. The comfortable weight settled around his hips, and the brass buckle closed.
Fort crossed back toward the table and reached for the bolter which laid over the swatch of oilskin, newly oiled and gleaming. And loaded. His fingers closed around the familiar grip and he lifted it. With a satisfying hiss of leather on steel, it slid back into the confines of its holster.
Arrayed to meet his public, the clamour of which was already drifting through the soarwood which made up his walls, Fort stepped to the door and drew a deep breath. Fort'd never quite gotten used to the presence of mobs, one of the reasons he'd retreated to a life at sky-level. When they were chanting his name, it was even less bearable. To be honest, he was damned ill at ease. Still, with his steadying breath he stepped through the door and into the limelight.
The fireworks were a little over the top...
Fort's features set into a mask of insouciant mirth as he cast a wary eye over the crowd. Bending at the waist he dipped into a little half bow toward the assembly, following up with a little three-fingered wave. This was certainly madness. Never in his life had he ever done a damned thing that warranted attention such as this. Noblesse, he might've been able to lay claim to. Civility? Certainly. He'd never shot a man in the back. Never stolen, nor cheated. Never made a promise he did not do everything in his power to keep. But he certainly hadn't slain any goddamn dragons.
The whole thing made him feel a mite uncomfortable.
Still he put on a little show, walking across the decking, doing captain-ly things. He made a slow circuit of the deck, offering orders in a hushed voice and paying little more attention to the crowd than he could possibly get away with. There'd be time to deal with that later. He saw to the mooring, the fixing of the stays, and oversaw the last of the grunt-work before taking his place at the center of the deck.
"Tallow Vance, you've got command while I'm away. First watch, at your leisure. Let's have a look at this town. What say?" Fort put some hearty volume into the order, turning on his heel to bend his steps in the direction of gangplank which led to Fort Rock's quay.
The crowd, to its credit, did not clutch and grab at him as it usually did. The clamour died into a hushed chorus of his name as they parted before the captain of the Ardent, their living legend. He turned to take in faces and offer wry little nods to the familiar ones. There were a lot of familiar ones. There was Martha Hillard, her matron's face set into an expression of motherly pride. And there, Tristan Thatcher, a face-splitting grin plastered over his lips as he nodded his head in excitement. Good people, these. For the most part.
"Where's the Badger?" Fort raised his voice again, turning a slow circle. "The old coot still kicking?"
"Aye, Cap'n," a wizened old man in a linen jump-suit of olive-drab fabric hollered from the midst of the crowd. "I'll be the one burying you."
Fort's lips split into a roguish smile as he turned in the direction of the familiar voice. The crowd parted once more, circling around the two as they drew nearer and enfolded each other in a backslapping embrace. "I don't doubt it. How goes, old man?"
"Not so bad, little pirate." The sixty-year-old mechanic broke the embrace and too a step back, letting his eyes scour the young swashbuckler, ensuring that all of his pieces were indeed intact.
Fort's chuckle was slow and sharp. The nickname was an old one. Nothing new, and yet still rankling. "We came under some trouble, Badger. Fish decided we looked like dinner rather than the other way 'round. Snapped some spars and shook us up mighty. We effected some repairs, but we'd appreciate you and your boys having a look and doing what you can. Think we might reach an accord?" His eyebrow raised with the question.
"Ah, hell, Fort." The Badger's wizened face collapsed in on itself as though the question itself were absurd. Fort's Rock was a little port, but not without a few decent ship-mechanics and a dry dock with which they might work...and the Ardent was much like a holy site in most of their eyes. "You know we'd be happy to help. Stay a couple of days and we'll set you right."
Fort sucked a breath through his teeth and hooked his thumbs through his belt. "We're on a time-table, Badger. Got a job to do. Just set the spars and ice the plating. We'll make do until we get a breather, square?"
"Keep running her hard and she'll suck dirt 'ere long."
"Run too soft, and we'll be without coin to keep her sailing anyway. We've got a job. We're going to see it done."
Badger scratched at the side of his nose and shrugged his shoulders. At the end of the day, it was the Captain's call, and he wasn't about to argue with him. "We'll see it done, then. Glad to have you back." He reached out and gave Fort's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "The usuals will want to be seeing you down at the Taphouse." No more words were bandied. Instead, Badger turned on his heel and whistled sharply. Seven brawny youths detatched from the crowd and began moving toward the Ardent.
Fort moved through the crowd with languid slowness, pausing to shake hands and nod deference to the fluttering eyed girls. Good natured reproof issued from the matrons...
He had business to attend to at the Taproom, but his feet moved him instead toward Rounce's shop. The squat little building was not much to look at from the outside, but the man who found his refuge there was a rare treasure. Fort opened the door and sketched a little bow. "Master Playfair?"
The thin lipped man behind the counter had a cast to his face which might've better befitted a preacher. He wore half-spectacles on the bridge of his hawk-nose and a measuring tape about his neck. "Fortinbras Carlyle." He pronounced the captain's full name with obvious relish.
Fort's lips drew back into a slow, spreading smile as he took his first unhurried steps into the tailor's shop. "Show me what's new."