The|MULTIVERSE

EPISODE 3: Scaleback'd

The tropical Vrygilst Cay; for the pirates, by the pirates. Named after the once great captain Bolton 'The Wall' Vrygilst, the island of stone, steel, and overgrown seashells cradled the leafy island oasis like a cozy pearl clutched in giant's steel.

Bolton's Blockade was the name of this mighty wall. A titan-sized rampart; the strongest barricade in all of Oedimaar built by Bolton himself-so they said and for good reason. It stood as the capital of the self-proclaimed Free Pirates, rulers of the free seas; raiders of the uncharged. Pretty much a republic, operating under one revolutionary form. A true control reigned by pirates that none dared opposed, or, risk themselves tossed into the Wolf Shark Sea surrounding them.

And the Wolf Shark Sea was jam packed with vicious wolf sharks!

Rollicking thick as jolly thieves in Vrygilst's center sat The Seedy Clam, a boisterous tavern of joyous jams, sizzling delights, and winsome wiles. The drinks never dried and its food stayed hotter than its half-clad wenches, and its stimulating boon of mirthful perks laid packed in a colossal cluster of sunlit seashells-shells that beamed a festive array of colorful beacons both day and night.

And today, The Seedy Clam beamed brighter than ever before.

Word of Kal'Maro's death sparked the island up like fireworks. The night before more a nightmare that can never be shirked for wild illusions. The beast of Kalamari's Cove was real indeed, for its jillion backs of throbbing doom reached the island, too, until Kal'Maro fell, and every tendril from Vrygilst and beyond obliterated beneath what Oedimaar surely deemed the worst storm of the century.

Once the busted Bearded Eel reached the island, it was then did the island of pirates learn of Oedimaar's true salvation overnight. They learned of the starry-eyed swordsman then, which was no surprise to Ricven-the starry-eyed swordsman, that is. He comically expected to have his neck needled by swords, guns, and bad breath again. At any moment. Fortunately, that all changed once he saved their asses.

The whimsical eye of the one gaudy pirate of colors kept winking and cooing at him a bit too much, too. Some things one cannot just simply change-and lucky for that sweet man, Ricven allowed.

At least Scarface respected him a whole lot more than he had during their not so savory encounter on Cicily Isle.

Of course, lies were spun to sweeten the tale on how Ricven and The Jack Brothers faced the squid-beast. It was the brother's man 'o' warship of tough iron that pierced the heart of Kal'Maro instead. Sending the demon back into the hell seas, never to return. Ricven gave not an ounce of a damn when Azuren warped the truth like a certified politic. Sometimes it was best to embrace the shadows of obscurity than bask in the light of lustrous victory. His true occupation-despite these moments of cover up-succeeded fame as always, and Ricven could care less about being a celebrity.

And so, the tales had spun. The party never ended. The pirates of The Bearded Eel gorged like gluttons until their stomachs surged to limit, and Ricven dined like a potbelly piglet. Others wallowed around him, drunk like alcohol fiends. And while some tried to swoon Ricven into a taste of the spirits, he maintained a lip masked with milk instead; his favorite drink of all.

Milk. Here. Of all places...

In the midst of it all, the pirates danced and sung their sea shanties. While that happen in full blast, the women grew nuts over Ricven's eyes. Eventually, they got a little too close, and the gorging Ricven found himself fondled in places he swore he never been fondled before-but it felt damn good. There was nothing greater than a lusty rub down while filling the stomach.

The Seedy Clam's capacity for noise and body heat intensified, and in came Cornelius Hunter; a man dressed like an epic gun-toting cowboy. Belts and dusky brown leather garbs donned his strapping frame, and several more belt straps hid beneath his long coat-housing his not so Oedimaari pistols; Dusk and Dawn. Twin double-barrel automata mystrock pistols with a cedar stock, gold crests, and black barrels stuffed in their unique holsters. What stood out like a new kid on the block-other than his sharp pop-collared long coat-was that strikingly wide-brimmed traveler's hat he favored the most. It shielded his face, somewhat, along with one of his gray eyes clothed tightly behind a dusky scarf that hugged his skull, completing his olive face with enigma. At his back rested Thunderbuster; his big bitch of a shotgun; the biggest, hole blowing, oaken steel heavy shooter for all to see.