☕—“And what are your wings for…?
¿˙˙˙ɹoɟ sƃuᴉʍ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐ ʇɐɥʍ pu∀
He came back, from the gates of oblivion. Shades of bright, golden caramel peered from parted ash curtains, and Maveric sat up, abruptly. Levi’s hands were poised to shove him back over, out of brusque concern, but the motion wasn’t necessary. The younger pirate fell backwards, and when his head hit the pillow, Levi heard Rose’s breath catch in a half-sob, her voice choked with relief. Her response echoed his own relief, although he did not possess for himself, such a candid, unmitigated form of expressing as much.
Maveric spoke, and though his throat may have been raw from his torturous illness, he finally made sense. …as much sense as Levi had ever heard him make, anyway. The fever was clear from his golden eyes. The infection was gone from his scarred, heavily muscled leg. And Levi didn’t know where to begin with his gratitude. That was one more. One more, they wrested from the hands of death.
The sable-haired veteran indicated subtly, as Maveric chased his breath, to the ruptured sutures resulting from his struggle to survive. And he made wordless demands that the silver-maned elf clean up the mess he’d made.
For a long moment, he held eye-contact with the eldritch blue flames that flickered within Myrundiel’s silver gaze. This creature was no human. He doubted the being was even alive, by their sense of the word. And yet… A conventional doctor would be useless to a crew of beasts, Titan-shifters, and renegades of the natural world. It was far more fitting, for a monster to look after hellions, wasn’t it? It wasn’t conventional dangers that threatened them, as evidenced by this crisis. But someone who negotiated personally, with Death, itself…
Welcome to the Freedom’s Wings Pirates.❞
The invitation extended towards the Plaguelord was informal, but genuine. Regardless as to what Myrundiel would answer with, Levi leaned his head over the edge of Maveric’s bed, so that their faces aligned in a mirrored reflection.
Silently, he thanked the bastard, for surviving.
❝Oi…weren’t you listening…?
Mutts like you get to drink water. Until you’ve recovered enough to get your ass back to your own wetbar, no one is to deviate from the doctor’s orders. Or I’ll polish the soles of my boots on their asses.
Rest up. I’lll let Yarou know his stupid pup is still breathing.❞
Levi ascended the stairs to the fresh air above-deck. His nerves were still electric with suspense, and only now was he beginning to physically accept the outcome of their fragile gambit. He addressed himself as much as the Sea King, when he looked up into those canine-like features with relief softening every line time had etched into his face. Had Eren been contending with that frantic beast this whole time?
He opened both hands, in a gesture often used to soothe a child, only, upwards, towards the Sea King’s immensity.
❝Hey, noisy-ass fish. Quit howling. Maveric is fine. Still ugly as shit, but he’s breathing. That’s good, right? So shut up, he needs to sleep.
A cartridge was tugged from his jacket pocket, and the flare gun he carried at his waist was summarily fired into the clearing. Bertholdt and Reiner were thus summoned back to the ship, but Levi didn’t remain above deck for long. He was keen to verify Maveric’s recovery, again; and he was averse to leaving Myrundiel unsupervised until he had a better grasp of the phantom’s intentions.
The advisory that the silver-haired specter had offered, prior to the operation… though it was more like a ‘ritual’, it had dissuaded the majority of the crew from sharing the space with their ailing comrade. Only he and Rose had remained to witness Myrundiel’s work. And when he returned to the Sickbay, she excused herself in order to dispose of the venom-soaked linen that had been wrapped around Maveric’s previous wound. Halaa and Nela hadn’t trusted themselves not to interrupt Myrundiel if it seemed that he was causing Maveric more harm than repair, and their doubt was shared by the rest of the crew, as well. At the moment, the Sickbay hosted only himself, Maveric, and the ghostly enigma, Myrundiel. Rather tactlessly, he was quick to divulge his thoughts to the Plaguelord,
❝Something I want to know - you’ve already saved Maveric’s life, so no matter what your answer is, I won’t attack you for it: the doctor who gave me the Eternal Pose for this island… he’s dead now, isn’t he? Sorry for having these shitty doubts, when you’ve gone out of your way to aid us. But I’m not blind or deaf, yet.
What the hell are you? Why did you offer us assistance?
Who do you work for? What the hell were you doing on Thyme Beat? What happened to the research facility that was stationed here?❞
—Isn’t the sky within your cage,
‘ǝƃɐɔ ɹnoʎ uᴉɥʇᴉʍ ʎʞs ǝɥʇ ʇ,usI
too narrow for you?.”
“¿noʎ ɹoɟ ʍoɹɹɐu ooʇ
“Iｎ ｏｒｄｅｒ ｔｏ ｓｕｒｖｉｖｅ ｔｈｅ ｇｎａｓｈｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｉｔｓ ｔｅｅｔｈ…
❅—“You’re hired.
Welcome to the Freedom’s Wings Pirates.”
What collection of unreasonable individuals.
And, yet, how delightfully reckless they were. How exquisite, the precipice upon which their organization was poised. If he made a single motion, all that he had offered could be instantly revoked. He could exchange mirth for lamentation. He could inspire death in place of survival. They had invited him, a servant of Winter, into their delicate nest; and what simple pleasure it might be, to scatter the fruit within, upon the sea.
He was already aware of it, Myrundíel noted. Those magnificent eyes, as silver as the heirloom gazes found among his Highborn kin, they regarded him with pure and vigilant understanding. The coin had long since been stamped. One one side, he was a precious installment of the currency spent in survival. On the other, he was ruinous, sinking them like a stone shackled to their ankles. And, comprehending of that, this dark-haired human thought to place such an audacious wager?
The Plaguelord considered this, as his hands dressed a needle that the fair-haired human maiden procured from the supply cabinet. Apparently, he had ruptured a few of Maveric’s sutures in his task of saving the fool’s life. Entirely too reckless. And what clumsy stitching he was witnessing. Bringing these savages to Undeath would surely be a simpler task than preserving their lives. He could taste the suffering each of these mortals carried with them, even with his sensory-dulling mask affixed above his jaw. Yes, even caged, his perceptions could taste their aches, their fear, the grief that each of them wore across their spines like a mantle. Ah, if he invested in their lives, then certainly beholding their deaths would prove deliciously agonizing.
Truly, the hearts of every individual aboard the vessel, were beating to borrowed time.
Would he subscribe to that cadence? Would he entask himself with the inevitable despair of taking each of them to their final moments, when his medicine could not follow as far as their obstinate will might take them?
From behind its saronite cage, his his teeth were bared, sharp and narrow, like broken glass. A wide, invigorated grin split his mouth, pale and thin, like an eggshell cracked in half. Still, his needlework was meticulous, swift, and so precise that there was scarcely blood left in its wake. The patient was unlikely to feel pain. And he, himself, was made almost manic by the prospect of indulging in the assured suffering such a willful collective of individuals would summon. How long had it been, since he had enjoyed the company of mortals? Of the living and, summarily, the dying. The sweet desperation of those who sought to utilize their time well; of those who strove to make their lives count for something. There was a euphoric passion that stemmed from the company of the convicted and the believing, prisoners to their pulse. The struggle was precious, but futile. In the end, Death always claimed his belongings.
He focused on the completion of his task, and washed the temptation from his hands in the sickroom’s sink. Levi had left him there, with his thoughts. The sea. It was a nostalgic return, if he were to make such a decision. His people had lived and died by the sea’s discretion. His sister had perished to its depths, but his Queen endured there, as well. His mother and father had survived by the sea’s tides. And he, himself, had found comfort on the shores of Eversong. Even Northrend’s frozen seas were pleasant to him, and his skin, heedless of the cold. Yes, he was fond of the sea. And these mortals were curious; a gaggle of clashing and compatible natures and personalities that Myrundíel suspected he would come to think fondly of, rather effortlessly.
The ship’s captain returned, and along with his footsteps, the Plaguelord’s decision arrived, as well. Levi addressed him with a barrage of questions, and each of them was a pleasure for the fallen elf to answer. At the interrogation’s conclusion, the silver-haired San’layn disengaged the artificial jaw that enclosed the lower half of his face, and held the device in one clawed hand at a slight distance, so that the mortal could inspect the metallic structure, as well as his full visage, at his leisure while Myrundíel spoke.
❝It is as you say. I brought the mortals who toiled in that place, a more lasting frame of being. I looked upon their work when I arrived, and I found it wanting. Their efforts were primitive, and their materials, too wasted to produce suitable results for their tribulation. By summary, they were frittering away space, time, and fleeting life. I required all such amenities in order to restore my necropolis, Anak'Sokhen. It was not my direct intention to arrive at this island, but I deemed the preferable course of action would be to utilize the opportunity for myself.❞
His dark burgundy tongue brushed between his teeth, like satin passing through ivory. His lips were dark, a lasting impression of the frigid cold he had expired in. His fangs were elongated, like a serpent’s. And his face hosted several scars, each glowing a soft shade of the Plague that coursed beneath that flesh.
❝I am a San’layn, a Darkfallen. Years ago, a detachment of High Elven combatants traveled to the frozen north, in order to dethrone the nascent Death God, before his will found flesh in the living world. We were led by the last prince of our people, and his mentor, the Lord of the Outlands. Our contest was vainglorious, and we were cursed for the affront.
In the end, the Lich King was crowned, and he raised we who fell in battle from our icy tomb. We became the San’layn, and the very nature of our existence is unconscionable.
For my dedication to the unholy artes, and for my zealous work concerning the Plagues of Undeath, I was gifted with the title, "Plaguelord.” I possess dominion over death, decay, and shadow. Necromancy and scourged science are my most keenly pursued subjects of study.
The God of Death is my Master, and he is yours, as well. I have seen his touch in the eyes of you and your associates... you and I, our hands work close to his own, to glory and to ruin. Your gaze is startlingly clean. Alarmingly honest. I have heard much from your veins, I have seen much in your hands. You carry yourself as though you are ‘The Last’ of someone’s legacy. What you have survived, I cannot perceive. But as a remnant myself, I regard your struggle with fair respect. It is far worse to be left behind in consideration, than it is to depart by passion.
I will accept the appointment. And I would deny all that seeks to deprive you of the life my King has not yet sought, for himself. When Death speaks your name to me, I personally, will deliver your soul to his throne. Until that fate, I will accept the weight of bearing your beating hearts upon my hands.
My Anak'Sokhen is already prepared to disembark. This island will waste away, and the cruelty it has inspired and endured, will finally rest. I will take all that bears value from the island’s corpse, and dedicate it to the chaos I hear singing in your flesh.
You have no love for this world.
I can see the shade of entropy that haunts you. In that, I place my true and poisoned faith.
Though I shall ever submit to the banner of the Lich King, as flesh bends to the will of bone, I will also offer the full capacity of my necropolis to strengthen your cause, if called upon.❞
He would indulge in the veritable banquet of sustenance that these vibrant individuals offered by their wild exploits. And, when their adventures tired, and thir lives concluded by his Lord’s will, he would present these peerless wonders to the Lich King, himself. They would be preserved ever-after, unified as kin, under Death’s grayer skies.
The fallen elf crossed an arm behind his back, and opened the opposing palm upwards, towards Levi as he bowed, low and ceremonious. It was the characteristic gesture of respect that his people invoked for the sake of formality. Elves did so love their decorum.
❝The Plaguelord, Prince of the Blood Court,
at your gracious and worthy service, Captain.❞
ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｌｌｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｂｅａｓｔ.”
