Stories That Won’t Go Anywhere.

The horizon of the Heavens was black.

What was once perfectly blue skies and pure white clouds was now blighted by smoke and pillars of sulphur.

The choirs at the gate had gone silent; they fled the moment the wound was opened. The angels came a few minutes later, pennants billowing in the wind and divine lances that had been still for nigh a century now in hand. They held at the gate, hundreds of soldiers stacked into seven barracks. Their wings flapped and twitched in anticipation as they awaited the coming assault.

The legions that spilled forth mere moments later were far different from anything the history books had described. Rather than being thin, feral and impish as the angels had expected, the demons on the horizon were massive. Countless units and legions, armoured to the point that not a single inch of skin was exposed, moved forward like a wave of iron and baelfire. They didn’t roar and call as the stories had foretold, but rather moved forward voicelessly. The only sound that they caused was the rhythmic, deep rumbling of the army’s footfalls across the holy grounds. The horned helmets of a thousand warriors filled the skyline, varying between being similar to those of a ram, a bull or any other type of horned animal. The one in front, clad in yellow armour and pennants showing the crossed blades of Baal’s legion, raised an arm.

The army halted.

The Angelic bulwark bristled as they stared their age-old enemy in the eye, many of them for the first time. The Throne angel behind them roared for them to raise their weapons, and instantly, a wall of holy spears and swords rose to meet the enemy. Some of the younger angels gulped. The Demonic commander turned his head to the legion. "Weapons up!" He roared.

“You reanimated me three years after my apartment lease expired. I’m homeless.”

‘Longing to prove their cowardice.’ The Coyote thought to himself, rolling his eyes at his own inner dialogue. 

He paused at the entrance to the dock, wrinkling his nose and taking a breath of the air. Sage and Dirt. Exactly as one would expect given the fact it stood at the edge of a massive stretch of sand. He walked deeper into the dock. His hand came up to his head, absentmindedly adjusting the wide brimmed hat that sat on it so as to block out as much sunlight as possible. He shifted the cigar in his mouth and exhaled a thin cloud of yellow smoke from his nostrils. 

Home Sweet Home. 

He eyed the vessels he walked by as he moved, first the Establishment Galleons and Schooners that resembled ships for water more than they did those for sand. Looks could be deceiving though. The Coyote knew exactly how much getting in a cannon fight with one of those ships was idiotic, given the fact that their crews usually had experience on actual ships. Those things were slow, yes, but they turned far easier than a regular Skimmer. And new design cannons weren’t something to look down upon. The vessels were built like bullets with rounded roofs, keeping the vessels decks below to protect from the sun’s burning rays and other ship crews. 

Next, he eyed the rides of the tribe and native folk, those that wore the wide brimmed plates of fallen behemoths like the headpieces of ancient warriors from the east to protect from the sun. They also didn’t use ships like their other counterparts. They traversed the sands atop massive crustaceans; their homes built atop their backs of the massive beasts. The coyote eyed one now, one of the bigger ones at the dock with a grey shell and massive claws that looked sizeable enough to heave any other Skimmer it came across. He could see massive cannons atop the beast’s back, primitive and closer to ballistae but still fully capable of ripping a Skimmer’s deck to shreds. The thing was asleep, thankfully. But its crew were watching him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were. 

Finally, his eyes landed on the homemade skimmers. Simple decked vessels and actual riggings for the massive umbrellas that shielded the deck from the heat. Aged cannons, whaler’s harpoons repurposed for fighting sand behemoths, damaged floorboards and scuffed steering wheels. But glory shone far brighter on these vessels. Figureheads of massive beasts and deities headed the prow, armouring made from defeated monsters lined the hull, flags stitched from fallen comrades and enemies alike sat at the helm. These were the vessels of outlaws and brigands, most excommunicated by the Establishment or exiled from their tribes. Miscreants, dishonoured soldiers, outcasts, bastards and fugitives. 

Pirates. 

Brothers. 

Caldera City’s bells rang out into the stifling air, signalling that noon was just around the corner. Hottest time of day, when the Inferno Sun had a clear shot of everything from straight above. The Coyote clicked his tongue and quickened along his pace, turning a gangplank aboard one of the Pirate Skimmers. The umbrellas of this one were deep red and bathed the deck in the very same colour. A figurehead of a multilegged insect hugged the prow of the vessel, mandibles opened forward. His boots made a heavy thump against the deck, prompting one of the vessel’s crew to loft their head from the crate they were looking through. 

“Captain on deck!” The crewman roared out. The Coyote noted the man fixed his shirt’s collar immediately afterward. He stepped to the helm and pulled his cigar from his mouth, exhaling another cloud of yellow smoke and nodding to the fox at the wheel. 

“Everything on track, Mr. Rye?” He asked, leaning against the helm’s railing and tilting his head. 

“Nearly, Cap’n. Just need ‘ta load on a few more crates.” 

The Coyote nodded and took another drag of his cigar. His gaze slid to the side of the ship, eyeing the dock’s edge and the last few crates. Then he noticed the rabbit hopping toward the gangplank. 

“...Is that Herby wearing a tie?” He muttered 

“In Caldera?” Mr. Rye added, squinting at the newcomer as they walked onto the deck. 

The Coyote groaned inwardly as he realized they were walking toward him and slid down the railing from the helm to the deck.  "Oi! The hell do you think you’re doing on my ship.” 

The rabbit simply paused and straightened out, adjusting their round spectacles painstakingly before reaching out with a felt gloved hand to offer a handshake. 

“Eugene R. Hopp, Realm-wide Creature and Behemoth Researcher.”  The Coyote eyed the hand, then back to the rabbit’s eyes. He spoke and left the mammal hanging. 

“Coyote. Why’re you on my boat?” 

“I’d like to charter a ride.”  “Out of the question. I don’t do tourists.”  “I can assure you that I’m not a tourist.”  “I can assure you that you are. Get.” He gestured to the gangplank. 

“I’m not leaving.” The rabbit retorted, standing as tall as he could yet only making it about halfway up the Coyote’s mid-bicep, even with his ears adding a few inches.  “Oh, for the love of-” 

“Cap’n! Sand’s softening.” Mr. Rye yelled from the helm. The Coyote paused and tilted his head, finally picking up the hissing sound the sand made when the heat forced it to soften up enough to allow for launch. He huffed and glared at the rabbit. 

“...You so much as annoy me and I leave you to the dunes.” 

“Clear.”  The Coyote let out a slow exhale of yellow smoke and climbed back to the helm.  “Gangplank up! Start the fins!” He barked, sending the crew to work. Mr. Rye pulled a lever next to the wheel, releasing two massive metallic fins from the ship’s stern. 

“I want this vessel at Marauder’s Maw by Sunset! Move it people!” The Fox barked, prompting the crew to speed it up. 

The fins began spinning up, sending sand into the air and putting the Skimmer into motion. In mere minutes the city was far behind them and there was nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. The Coyote was on the prow, Cigar hanging from his lip and a tinted spyglass over his eye. He spoke up without moving it from its position on the horizon. 

“Your breathing gives you away, Mr. Hopp. What’d you want now?” 

The rabbit blinked and shook his shook slightly, before speaking up. 

“I never got your name.”  The Coyote tilted his head to the prow. 

“Three degrees Portside!” He then turned to the rabbit. “Yes, you did. It’s Coyote. Or better yet, Captain.”

The rabbit stared at The Coyote.

"Just... Coyote?"

“Search every nook and cranny. You find a knight, yell for the others. Find a Nun… well, your choice.” He muttered, a wolffish grin crossing his face. They split up into the massive library’s shelves and aisles, daggers and flintlocks in hand.

One particular thief ventured into the study section of the monastery, whistling aloud and intentionally knocking over anything loose on the desks. He paused at the end of the room, turning his attention to the carved statue that opposed the door.

The metallic behemoth fell to its knee before the Khajiit, lifting a claymore the size of a car and setting it before the confused beast-folk. Its pointed visor lifted slightly as it spoke.

“Long have we waited, my prince. No longer will thy legions remain petrified. We will serve now as we served then.” It spoke, its voice a bottomless growl closer to the sound of thunder than a throat. It lowered its head again.

The Khajiit blinked once. Twice.