Riven Isles

11 | Questioning Conventions

All eyes are upon the captain as he leaves. As soon as the door closes behind him, Simon cries out in outrage and smacks the flat of his hand against the desk. The doctor bristles, shakes his head, and draws out his pipe.

"We're now to be enslaved by a pirate!" Simon howls. "Did you see his crew? Pirates and scumbags, the lot of them! As perfectly plain to the eyes as I'd be able to pick a peasant from a nobleman. We aren't sailing with honest men, here! What's more, I think a few of them were drunk!"

Dr. Oswald stuffs his pipe, lights it, and speaks only after a long draw. "At least he appears to know what he's doing. We'll just have to trust in the Seer that he'll get us where we need to go."

"At what cost?" Simon mutters.

"I know his disposition well," pipes Lydia, unaffected by the captain. "See it all the time at sea ports. I've run into many captains, and the most highly regarded few have been quite the same, with varying levels of this same trait. Charming and easygoing when they're getting what they want, and dangerous when they aren't. Keeps some sort of reputation with the crew. Obey, and you're a friend. Disobey, and you're an enemy."

"He's been looking at me funny," I say, on an entirely different topic. The door opens to admit the bulky, barrel-chested redhead that I had seen earlier on the deck. Leslie. We cease our disloyal chatter.

Leslie, for whatever subconscious reason, looks to me like a hugger. He has a great, warm grin on his square jaw that makes me fear that he's going to lift me up and embrace me.

Behind him is a tall man dressed all in black, with a scar across a blinded white eye. He skulks in, sweeping a one-eyed glare over all of us. He lingers on me, but follows Leslie, falling into a line. He tilts up his chin and stares out the back window, though I get the feeling he isn't watching anything.

Next comes a very short man with pointed ears and brown skin. His shocking white hair, like the back of a giant porcupine, stands on end, held back by a bandana. He spits at the doctor's feet and stands beside the black-clad officer, next to whom, he is dwarfed.

"A goblin," Simon breathes faintly. The goblin winks smugly and rolls his heavily laden shoulders. Two belts of bullets and ammunition crisscross over his scrawny tank-topped chest, and two guns that would have to be as long as he is tall sit on his back.

So far, they are a rough-looking bunch. Leslie looks kind enough, but with the muscle on him, he could have no trouble crushing a skull with his bare hands. I can picture that.

Trailing through the door is the last of the officers, with the captain behind. Simon faints, slumping over his chair. His spectacles fall from his nose. The rest of us just stare, our jaws hanging open like flytraps, wits knocked out of us.

I'd imagined the captain's fox speaking with no real conviction that he actually was.

Dorian's whiskery jowls curl, revealing rows of sharp yellow teeth. He walks like a man, and he's dressed like a man, but without pants to cover his haunches. He wears a long tunic, which covers his tender parts. A tool belt holds it in place.

He bends to pick up Simon's glasses with his oddly posable paws. His dewclaw acts as a thumb. He smacks his pink pads across Simon's cheek, waking the professor, who flushes with red.

"What'sa matter, Teach?" He drops the glasses onto the man's lap. "Never seen chest hair before?"

The goblin bursts out laughing. "Nothing says 'man' quite like hairy pits, whiskers, and a chest o' hair, eh, Dorry?"