GOD GAMES

The red tape is complete, the time has come. The gates to the hangar are pushed open and logs are laid on the gentle slope to the Edge. Chains rattle, hammers strike wood, and then crack! The beams holding Timbergrove break. The ship slides onto the wooden beams, and then slides faster and faster until it hurtles off the Edge. Capstans on the dock spin out of control as the free falling vessel pulls slack. For one heartstopping moment, it looks like the ship might fall forever, but then it lights up. Mana glows along the grain of the ancient wooden hull, tracing its waves and whorls, and soft white light streams from the pilot house. Dockworkers lock the now still capstans and the ship rises, till the hawsers holding it to the quay grow taught. The men haul on the lines till the Timbergrove, alive again, rests fast by the pier.

“She’s still a beauty,” Centeran says softly. He glances at the cat in Clay's arms. “Please take care of her.”

The cat nods slowly while gazing not at the resurrected ship, but at a bird perched on the forestay. The cat's whiskers seem to rise ever so slightly. Then, all at once, the concentration breaks. The cat shakes its head.

“What? Oh, the ship. Pretty. Yeah. I’ll try not to destroy it till Tuesday.”

Centeran frowns, then sighs and shakes his head.

“Fluffy! Look.” Clay points.

Centeran and Quasi follow the boy’s finger, where several wagons filled to the brim with supplies approach, led by the rest of his crew.

“Comrade Quasi, Little Comrade,” Boriss waves with a grin. “Comrade Cillian is very shrewd communist.” Boriss says when they arrive.

“I'm not shrewd,” Cillian counters, though the Scot can't help but copy Boriss’s shit-eating grin.

Only Irmgard maintains her stoic expression, though there is a twinkle in her eye.

“You guys bought a hell of a lot,” Quasi says. “I’m guessing you got a good deal?”

“Da, very good deal.” Boriss slaps Cillian on the shoulder, “Comrade Cillian is proper communist. He make all [Merchant] struggle and fight to give good deal. Is great!”

Quasi raises an eyebrow. “Well then, you can tell me the story while we get everything loaded on the ship. I’d like to embark before night.”

________________________________________________________________

When Myers returns to the shipyard, he notices, quite thankfully, that the ship is floating and docked. Several [Stevedores] are carrying supplies into the ship while the crew is sitting on the ship's weather deck. He rushes onboard and climbs up to the deck. Then he walks up to the group and listens in on their conversation.

“So, I noticed that all these traders that sell supplies were positioned next to each other- and they were selling pretty much the same things. Sure, the prices were slightly different, but not by too much.” Cillian clears his throat. ”Now, one thing you need to know is that prices can always go down when buying in bulk, and merchants love selling and buying in bulk, especially for items that aren't in much demand or items that can expire. So, to get the best prices, I started to listen to the bulk offers of one merchant, then the bulk offers of the others. I would inform them that this and that merchant were offering a better price, and they would try to beat the price, but I’d go and do the same with the others.”

Cillian grins aggressively.

“Eventually, a dozen traders started yelling at each other and competing for who could give me the best deal. Two of them even got into a bit of a fist fight that had to be stopped by some nearby [Guards].”

He sighs happily. “It was great. I bought everything for a fourth of what they offered before.”

“And then you spent the rest on alcohol and weapons.” Irmgard adds.

Cillian grins. “Well, yes. We’ve an empty hold in need of things to trade.”

“Smart,” Quasi says. “Spending some money to profit later from trade is good. So how much Trist do we have left over?”

“Twenty.” Cillian says.

Irmgard and Quasi share a look. Then they frown at the Scott.

“I left you with all of our coin. Are you saying we only have twenty trist left over?” Quasi asks.

“Well, yes. Of course. Money not invested is money wasted.”

“Yes, but what if we need money to, say, make port? What if we need to buy a trading permit to sell our goods? What if there is something important we need to buy and don't have enough time to sell our goods for profit?”

Cillian rolls his eyes. “Bah, we’ll just take a loan.”

Quasi groans. “This isn’t the U.S. where you can get a loan of money whenever you want. We need to have cash on hand!”

“What isn’t the U.S?” Myers interrupts. He walks to one of the empty stools next to clay.

The four go silent at his question. Quasi sniffs, then turns his head towards Myers, a frown on his kitty face.

“We’ll tell you when we embark.” Quasi finally answers. “Did you finish what you set out to do?”

Myers raises an eyebrow at the secrecy, but nods regardless. He too has secrets, though his secrets will stay secret for the rest of his life.

“I did.” Myers answers quickly. He glances at his cane and then at the three other human adults at the table. “As Quasi will be taking the [Captain] job, what will your jobs be? If you don't mind me asking.”

The group shares a look with one-another.

“We’ll tell you when we embark.” Quasi says again.

Myers frowns. In many cultures, asking about someone's class is taboo, but jobs are not, and a sailing ship needs a clear chain of command. Even so, Myers chooses not to delve too deeply. He needs to be off this island as soon as possible.

The sound of footsteps thankfully interrupts the conversation. A man, average in height but astonishingly well built, walks up to the motley crew. The sun gleams off the sweat on his brow and arms.

“Uh, Sir.” The [Stevedore] addresses the group, “Everything is loaded up.”

“Oy,” Cillian recognizes the man. “Aren’t you that brat that got knocked out by Boriss here?”

Cillian elbows the Russian.

The [Stevedore] Favio, flushes. “Um, yes. About that. I-I was drunk. I’m sorry for my actions at the bar. I was dealing with something recent that happened.”

Quasi waves the young man off. “I told you it's fine. You were drunk and your wife was nearly killed by a dog last year. Emotions get hot.” Quasi raises a paw at Clay, “Just don’t threaten kids in front of me and everything is peachy.”

Quasi stands up and stretches.

“You said everything is loaded up? Perfect. Let's set sail.” Quasi glances at Myers, “You take the wheel- er, core.”

Clay tilts his head, “Isn’t the [Captain] supposed to launch the ship?”

“Eh,” Quasi shrugs. “I’ll do it next time. I’ll let the more experienced person do it first.” Quasi looks at Myers with an expectant gaze.

Myers nods slowly.

“Perfect. Favio, tell the men to prepare the ship for launch. We leave in five minutes.”

____________________________________________________________________

The gangplank is raised, the anchor weighed, the moorings cast off. The last tethers fall away and the ship floats free of the Edge, buoyed on the mana wind... Quasi watches as Myers takes the helm, or more like the core. He rests his hand on the white orb with a practiced feel.

The Timbergrove groans and shudders from below. Quasi and Clay rush to peer over the railing. New stays draw taut as the old, arborean wood wing masts swing out from the hull. Batons unfold from the mast, spreading canvas as the wing sheets pull the boom against the side of the ship. The ship pitches back, then rolls to starboard as she side-slips away from the pier. The cat and the boy study the island’s Edge with rapt attention as the ship drifts away. Then a loud, “Snap!” startles them both as the ship pitches forward and rolls farther to starboard. Quasi and Clay spin around. The jib hangs full in the breeze as it turns the Timbergove’s bow to the open sky.

“Clay, grab hold of something.” Myers orders.

Clay does as asked, as does every other person on the ship.

The jib furls and the wing sails spread wide. The wing jibs stretch and four sails sing upward. The Timbergrove begins to glide forward. From the helm, Myers slowly trims the sails back to midline as the ship picks up speed. The ship bucks upwards and the bow pitches up. Quasi digs his claws into the rail and flattens his ears against the breeze. The ship vibrates again as unseen parts of the rigging trim themselves. Soon the ship is clipping along at several tens of knots and Myers trims the wing jibs for level flight.

He nods happily and turns to the rest of the crew. He is met with wide-eyes from everyone, including Clay.

The old man grins and pats the core, “Looks like we’ve both still got it.”

Quasi unlatches his nails off the deck. “You could have warned us.” He hops up on a ledge and gazes into the distant expense. He is greeted with clear air, some clouds, and numerous distant islands. As he glances around, he frowns. He rushes to the ledge and looks down. Half a sun glances back, burning his retinas ever so slightly. Blinking rapidly, he looks back at the sky. Then he rushes back excitedly.

“Comrade Quasi, vhat is wrong?”

“This planet has no sun! Also, check under the island.”

The rest of the group rushes to the gunwales and looks out in amazement, to Myers’ amusement and confusion. They act like children on their first time on an airship.

But, Myers does glance at the retreating island, and raises a surprised eyebrow. Underneath Arbor is a massive stone structure sticking downward.

By the time they return, Myers ascends to the Mana line. There, he slows the ship's speed and removes his hand off the core. It should not need his presence for the time being.

“Myers,” Quasi calls. He hops up on a ledge. “I have not been entirely truthful with you, and now it is the time for truth. I - We -” He waves a paw. “Us four are not of this world. We come from a different world where classes do not exist. We got ours only last week. We are low of level and completely clueless. We’re in need of a lot of information, and you are going to provide that for us. But first, it’s only fair, do you have any questions for me, or, I guess, us?”

Myers blinks as his aged mind tries to process the cat's words. His immediate reaction is to call them out as liars, but every action he’d observed makes a great deal of sense if it’s true.

“If what you say is true, why keep such information secret?”

“Because knowledge is power, and why should we just hand every Tom, Dick, or Harry power of us? Like, what if there’s some organization hunting and killing people who come from a different world? Then we’d be painting giant, glowing, targets on ourselves. Speaking of which, is there such an organization?”

Myers shakes his head slowly. “None that I kno-.” He pauses for a moment as a certain group comes to mind. “The Tower Ecclesiasticus may be interested in you all.”

“And they are?”

“They are zealots who worship the towers and the true divine.”

“Towers? What towers?” Quasi asks in clear interest.

Myers sighs. “It seems there is much to explain. How about we speak inside where I can sit.”

“Will the ship be fine without someone at the helm?”

Myers nods. “For the time being, yes.”

“Alright, then let's head inside. We’ll talk over a drink.” Quasi decides.

“Yes!” Cillian yells happily. He rushes inside, followed by Boriss and Irmgard and finally Clay.

At the threshold of the captain’s cabin, Quasi halts and grimaces at the old man.

“By the way, clean your cane better. I can still smell the blood.”

Quasi then saunters inside, leaving the old man perplexed.

______________________________________________________________

Centeran practically sprints across town, his old body aching as he pushes it. Eventually, he arrives at his destination. Guards and crewmembers surround the home with a clear hostility in the air.

He rushes up the stairs and into the home, where he is met with his [Head Guard] and [First Mate] Kurtis of the docked destroyer.

“I’m here,” he announces. “What happened?”

Then he notices the blood sprayed across the living room. And then the body. His heart freezes for a moment as he expects to see Myers, but instead, what greets him is Raaf’s corpse bisected in two across the hip. The man's expression is that of both pain and surprise.

“What… happened?”

Kurtis kneels down. His expression is completely neutral.

“Someone killed my captain in a single strike. They sliced through his armor as though it was tin.”

Centeran gulps loudly. He looks around the home nervously. Then he notices something that doesn't add up. He’d seen fights when he was younger, and such fights always show some sign of struggle. He frowns.

“Raaf is a trained [Bounty Hunter]. Did he not try to defend himself? I find it hard that he would die so easily.”

Kurtis, stoic as ever, raises a hand and points at Raaf’s severed cutlass.