I’ve been cooking a pirate RWBY AU for a while now.
Have a snippet. The rest is being held hostage until I finish editing.
“Lines! Lines!” Yang bellowed out from the main deck.
Feet thundered around her, hands reaching for rope just as quickly as Yang’s did.
“Pull ’er in,” Yang called again, whirling the heaving line above her head before casting it toward the dock.
The weighted end sailed through the air.
The dockhand caught it cleanly, hauled the heavy mooring line ashore, and threw a turn around a weathered bollard.
The mooring line bit into Yang’s palms as it came taut.
The deck answered as one.
Boots dug into the wet planks. The capstan groaned, its heavy timbers complaining as the Wildfire surrendered the last few yards between herself and the dock.
And Yang’s muscles burned with the strain, even with a good couple dozen of her men heaving beside her.
The Wildfire resisted for a heartbeat before finally yielding, creeping toward the dock under the crew’s combined effort.
“Easy!” Yang shouted. “Don’t drag us into the bloody pilings.”
The helmsman spun the wheel a fraction.
The bow obeyed, sliding neatly alongside the weather-beaten wharf.
A deep thud rolled through the hull as the fenders kissed timber.
“There we are,” someone muttered beside her.
“Belay the lines!” Yang called out quickly, not giving the crew a moment to slack off.
The order echoed across the deck.
One by one, the lines were made fast around worn mooring posts. Sailors tied off knots with practiced hands before finally stepping back, shoulders sagging as the tension left both rope and crew.
Yang passed the last of her line to a deckhand to coil before finally letting go.
She flexed her fingers, rubbing feeling back into her reddened palms. Salt had found every split in her skin during the crossing. The countless calluses on her hands were proof enough that the sea had become her life.
Fifteen months at sea this voyage.
Long enough that the deck’s constant sway felt more natural than solid ground ever could.
Not that she ever could grow accustomed to not having a constant sway beneath her legs.
It didn’t matter. The ship was still arriving, and there was work to be done.
“Get those fenders secured!” Yang shouted, already moving toward the rail. “I don’t want the hull scraped to hell.”
A few of the crew were already scrambling, but Yang kept going—filling the silence with direction, with the weight of command.
“Secure the mainsail. Coil those lines properly,” she ordered, pointing toward the bow. “And if I find so much as a loose knot before inspection, you’ll all wish we’d stayed at sea.”
A chorus of “Yes, Cap’n!” answered each command.
“Get the gangway down once we’re secured,” Yang ordered. “Carmine, get dockside and find that damned Harbormaster.”
The crew scattered without hesitation.
Some hurried aloft to furl the last of the canvas while others wrestled the fenders into place along the hull. The gangway was dragged toward the rail as Carmine hopped the narrowing gap to the dock, already muttering under his breath about harbor officials and missing paperwork.
Yang made her way along the deck, tugging at a line here and tightening a knot there. One sailor received an approving nod. Another earned a sharp look that had him immediately retying his work.
A captain who didn’t know every inch of her own ship had no business commanding one.
“Fuck off, pirate scum,” a drunken voice bellowed from the docks.
Then came the sharp crack of glass against her ship’s hull.
She spun on her heel, her flintlock already in hand, the barrel trained squarely on the drunk.
“If you’re going to cause trouble,” she bellowed, “do it somewhere I can’t see that ugly mug o’ yours.”
The drunk swayed, pointing at her with an unsteady hand.
“Fah—Fuh—Fuck yooouu,” he sounded out with venom.
Nearly losing his balance, he caught himself on a nearby pole.
“Go ‘ome, piss-for-bra—“ Yang began, raising her voice to carry over the docks—but it already grew eerily silent. Her words cut off by another’s.
“That’s quite enough, Miss Xiao Long, and Mr Navarro.”
Yang turned, already forcing a polite smile. With an easy flick of her wrist, she lowered the flintlock and slipped it back into the holster at her hip.
A ring of guards in polished breastplates bearing Menagerie’s colors—a crimson surcoat and some embroidered crest Yang had never cared enough to identify—escorted the approaching noblewoman.
Faunus all, they bore ears, tails, horns, and every manner of trait without the slightest hint of shame.
Between them walked Kali Belladonna, her black cat ears standing proudly atop her head, each adorned with a slender gold ring and a pair of delicate piercings that caught the afternoon sun. Her soft black gown, trimmed in gold, swayed with each measured step.
Blake followed a step behind her mother, her own dress cut from darker fabric, elegant without quite managing to tame her. Her own feline ears peeked through dark hair. The etiquette was there—the measured pace, the folded hands—but it all sat on her like a borrowed coat.
“If it isn’t my favorite governess,” Yang mused sarcastically. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Yang’s gaze found Blake, golden eyes meeting hers for barely a heartbeat.
Fifteen months was a long damn time to go without certain comforts.
Blake’s ears gave an involuntary twitch.
Color crept across her cheeks before she looked away, smoothing an imaginary crease from her skirt as though she’d meant to do it all along.
“I’ll get to you in a minute,” Kali said evenly, interrupting Yang’s thoughts before they could wander somewhere even more inappropriate.
She turned her full attention to the wobbling drunk, who promptly tried to lean against her for support.
“Give this man a cold bath,” Kali said firmly, brushing his hands off quickly.
Two guards moved at once.
Mr. Navarro barely had time to sputter another protest before they each took an arm and marched him toward the end of the pier.
“W-Wait! I ain’t done with—”
A tremendous splash cut him off.
The gathered dockworkers chuckled amongst themselves while a few sailors aboard Yang’s ship barked out mocking laughs.
“That should cool his temper,” Kali remarked matter-of-factly, watching the ripples settle.
Only then did she turn her attention back to Yang.
“My apologies, Captain. I do hope Mr. Navarro hasn’t soured your return.”
Behind Kali, Yang caught sight of Navarro hauling himself back onto the wharf, only to collapse to his hands and knees, coughing up what sounded like half the ocean.
“Yet that can still change, can it not?” Kali shot back with a knowing smile. “You can still become my privateer.”
Yang let out a roar of a laugh.
“I prefer my freedom, Governess.”
“So you keep telling me,” Kali said evenly.
Then she spared a quick glance at her daughter before turning back to Yang.
“You actually arrived at a rather convenient time,” Kali said. “We’re celebrating tonight.”
Yang raised an eyebrow, folding her arms.
“A rather important venture has finally begun to bear fruit,” Kali replied cheerily.
Yang hummed thoughtfully.
“You mean that trading company of yours?”
“A rather loose description, but it serves well enough.”
She spared another glance toward Blake.
“Blake was rather hoping you’d return in time,” Kali said, the hint of a teasing smile creeping onto her face.
Blake shot her a glare, forgetting to keep her posture for the briefest of seconds before adopting it again.
“I formally invite you, Miss Xiao Long,” Blake murmured under her breath.
Almost too quiet for Yang to hear, but she heard it…. Somehow.
For someone who’d spent the better part of two decades standing beside cannons, Yang had no business hearing a whisper that soft.
Not that being in her late thirties had done her hearing any favors.
“Well,” she said, “when you ask so nicely.”
“Please, spare me the juvenile wit this time.”
Yang snorted as she vaulted onto the rail, one hand finding the nearest shroud with practiced ease.
“Would you prefer my pirate charm?” she teased.
Blake spared a quick glance at Yang’s crew hauling cargo before her gaze settled on Yang again.
“If by charm, you mean stolen cargo, then by all means bring your pirate charm.”
Yang let out a hearty laugh, leaning into the taut shroud as though it were the most natural backrest in the world.
“I’m afraid any loot I have is solely for sale to your mother’s company.”
“Mostly all of it,” Yang added, smirking at Kali.
“I’ll let you pick something from them later, dear,” Kali teased as she smiled at Blake.
“After she charges you three arms and a dozen legs for it,” Blake huffed, glaring at Yang.
“And I’ll make Mr. Schnee pay triple that for a quarter of it,” Kali shot back. “Call it the usual recovery fee.”
Yang shook her head, still chuckling, one boot hanging idly over the ship’s side.
She was about to counter with another joke, but another familiar voice cut in.
“I do not wish to hear of that man,” it said firmly.
Yang pushed lightly away from the shroud and turned atop the rail to find Weiss approaching with her usual poise, her companion walking arm in arm beside her.
The scar came before the woman herself. A broad, ragged slash ran straight across Weiss’ eyes. The blade had left more than torn flesh in its wake; both eyes were clouded beneath webs of scar tissue,
never quite focusing on the world before them.
Whatever blade had carved it had done so without mercy. Time had faded the wound, but never its consequences.
Yet Weiss never faltered. She walked with measured confidence, one hand resting lightly on her companions arm.
Even her white hair had been styled with noble precision, though Yang could still pick out the subtle wear of countless days spent among the docks. Salt had a way of leaving its mark on everyone who made their living by the sea, whether they sailed it or not.
Pyrrha Nikos—her hair as red as a sailor burnt crisp beneath the summer sun—kept effortlessly in step, offering only the occasional quiet word whenever an uneven plank or coil of rope lay ahead.
Carmine followed close behind, scratching at his beard. He caught Yang’s eye and gave the slightest shrug, as if to say, don’t ask me Cap’n.
“Miss Weiss, Miss Nikos,” Kali said politely. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
Kali bowed a half-inch, smiling more out of habit than for Weiss’ benefit.
“And it’s a pleasure to hear our fair governess,” Weiss replied, equally polite as she half-bowed back. “I wish we had time for our customary sparring of wits—as much as I enjoy it—but I have matters to attend to, I’m afraid.”
