Beneath The Endless Sky

Remember Child, Your Wings Are Black

The Burning Ensign.

More a banner than a flag. The unfurled black cloth was larger than a small house, and its heavy mass billowed unnaturally slowly in the wind, off-note compared to how the balloon rippled, or even how Mercy's clothes were buffeted. And it might have just been a trick of the distant clouds, but the sky seemed to grow darker as it's length spilled out behind the Child.

On that small sea of black, was the head of a red dragon. Red slightly too dark for flames; like it might look through a haze of smoke. The mouth was open, showing no fire but rows of teeth, and the eyes were shaped like the wicked curve of a cutlass.

Mercy had raised the Burning Ensign only twice before, during her years with Vincent serving the navy aboard the Hood. Like this occasion, both times before had been a warning to pirates and raiders, anyone who would endanger someone else's lives in the far skies for the sake of small profit. Each time was a warning to the ships they were about to fight; a warning that the conventions of decency in war would not be respected.

After the first gun was fired, quarter would not be granted. Fleeing ships would be pursued. Survivors would not be rescued. Going to ground would see that ground burned. Leniency would require immediate retreat or complete capitulation on sight.

This was exactly how the wayfarers dealt with pirates. Her people survived in the far skies, where the air was thin, or cold, or had storms so large they could swallow all of the inner islands at once. The skies were enemy enough to a wayfarer, and to prey upon other people was to abandon everything that mattered to a clan.

"I'm surprised you were allowed to keep it, captain," Mercy admitted, as she stepped back to watch the banner stretch out in the wind.

"I don't think the Navy wanted it anymore. Each Burning Ensign is unique to the ship that flies it," Vincent replied. He still had one hand on the wheel, iron steady as he steered the Ravens' Child into a storm of predators. "And the last time this banner was unfurled, we hunted one of our own. No navy ship would want to fly it after that."

"Rather thought they'd burn it then," Mercy said.

"No. If they did that, they'd be saying what we did was wrong." Vincent shook his head, his jaw clenched, and his free hand gripped the scabbard of his sword, just beneath the swept hilt. "And we've have been put to a firing squad."

"So it's really your war banner now?" Mercy asked.

"Ours. The Child's war banner," Vincent insisted. As small as the semantic distinction might be, to Mercy it felt like warm, sweet air. "Let's hope we don't have cause to use it often."

"I don't like the odds of that, captain. This is our first job," Mercy laughed as she shared her thought.

"Fair point," Vincent agreed, but he didn't sound particularly upset by the thought. Their time on the Hood hadn't been a peaceful one. "Take over the helm. I'm going to see if we're in range for the Banshee."

"You don't want to get closer, so they get a good look at the banner?"

"My ship was expensive. I'm not giving those boil-ridden bottom-feeders a chance to dent my hull in a fair fight," Vincent replied with an indignant scoff. "We'll turn as soon as we're in a practical firing range."

"How far is a practical firing range?" Mercy asked, as she took the wheel.

"For us? Four miles. Beyond that, a small raft like that with a good pilot might have enough time to steer out of the way of the shot," Vincent said, as he pulled out his spyglass. "Let's see, they're hauling little six-pounders. Unless you double-stuff them, their muzzle velocity is only about four hundred feet per second. As long as we don't get within three miles, you should be able to catch whatever they fire at us."