Chapter Text
“I yearn to set forth on an adventure with you all. To languish in bed forever would be dreadfully dull,” said Eve.
“I only wish that we could live free from want somewhere beyond this island of sea, thickets and biting insects,” sighed Lilith.
“I want to become the mightiest man in His Majesty’s Navy. Then perhaps I shall deign to protect you all,” boasted Adam.
At his words, I raised a hand and folded down my fingers one by one as I counted. “Then let us seal a pact: once Eve has regained her strength, we will go adventuring together. To a place untroubled by scrub or insects, as Lilith said. We’ll sail on Adam’s ship, leave this island behind us, and the sea will be full of adventures waiting for us.”
“Our destination must be London,” Lilith declared. “They say life there is free and splendid. Is that not so, Eve? You lived in London before you came to this island, didn't you?”
“My memory is dim, for I spent my days within hospital walls,” Eve replied softly. “But Father always said the city’s air was foul and unwholesome. And it was bitterly cold—snow fell from the heavens.”
“Snow? You mean that white dust that drifts down in winter?” Adam asked.
“No, not dust,” I corrected him. “It's more like spun sugar.”
“Spun sugar, my arse. You’re the one who said clouds were spun sugar the other day,” he retorted.
“Snow may fall like dust,” Eve interjected gently, “yet when it settles, it resembles cotton candy. Or even like spun sugar, sometimes.”
I shot Adam a triumphant look, to which he rolled his eyes and muttered curses at me.
“The three of you wouldn’t last a day aboard a ship. Firstly, you idiot, you’d do nothing but stare at the sky, babbling on about stupid clouds that look like cats or flowers or something to eat. Then there's Eve, always with her nose buried in a book. You know nothing about rigging or sailing, yet you talk about adventure. Without me, you wouldn't even leave the harbour. Ha! And Lilith—mark my fucking words—the boldest are always the first to turn green at sea.”
“Don’t presume. I’ll be fine,” Lilith snapped. “Besides, Adam, you swagger and boast, but I’ve heard the tale. You begged your father to take you aboard, and you were already retching before leaving port.”
“Oh shut it! The sea was shit that day! There was nothing I could have done!” Adam barked.
As the two of them started to argue as usual, Eve leaned towards me with a smile and whispered, “When the sea turns wild, sailors call it a gale.”
“Oh, really? I never knew.”
“I only learnt that yesterday from a book I was reading.”
“What adventure story are you reading now?” I asked.
She was about to answer when she placed her hand on her throat, her fingers brushing the pearl pendant at her collarbone. She gave a soft cough. At once, the bickering ceased. Adam cast a wary glance at the sky. “The wind’s rising.” Lilith drew her cape around Eve’s shoulders and murmured, “We must go inside before you catch a chill.”
I also rose, bracing a hand against the great apple tree that had served as our backrest and stretching my limbs. Then, to my sulking friend, I offered my other hand.
“Come on, Eve. The sun is setting.”
“I can stay a while longer. I'm feeling good today. It'll be okay.”
“But we pledged to have this adventure together, didn’t we? Then you must regain your strength quickly.”
“Indeed. You must be the one to guide us through London, Eve,” Lilith added.
“My father and his men are always saying that women bring ill luck aboard,” Adam muttered. “But one woman, Eve, should cause no harm. Oh, but Lilith doesn't count—she's no 'lady' at all, you know.”
“What nonsense,” Lilith scoffed, brushing grass from her dress. “Eve crossed the seas from London to reach this island. If women really brought doom, her ship would have sunk a long time ago and we would never have met her. I’d hate that.”
“Thank you, Lilith,” Eve smiled. Then, glancing at Adam’s folded arms, she added, “And thank you, Adam, for promising to take me aboard. You’ll be the Navy’s finest officer one day, captain of the fleet’s swiftest ship. I cannot wait to sail with you. Until then, I’ll ask Father to tell me more about London, Lilith. You will surely become the most radiant lady in London. We shall commission gowns and attend grand soirées together.”
Finally, she took my hand, rose to her feet and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Me?” I faltered.
But I had done nothing. Unlike Adam, I had no gallant ship and skills, and unlike Lilith, I had no bold vision for the future. I only listened, content to hear them speak so eagerly and wishing that the four of us might always remain together.
Eve had come to the island to restore her health in its endless warmth. Adam’s family had been ordered by the Navy to settle here. Lilith’s parents had moved here from the mainland for business reasons. However I had known no home but this forgotten isle since birth. My father spoke bitterly of how the Crown had abandoned it, yet I loved this life: My books. My garden. I’d never yearned to leave. But Eve, Adam and Lilith were my first true friends, and for them I would do anything. If Eve wanted adventure, I would gladly follow her. If Adam wanted to stand guard over us as an officer, I would help him. If Lilith longed for London, I would leave this island without hesitation.
“You've done more than you know,” Eve said softly, drawing Lilith's cape closer around her. “No one else would listen to my fanciful dreams and, instead of laughing, you immediately respond, ‘Then let's go adventuring together.’ No one but you—no one but Samael. Thank you for saying those words. Now I must recover quickly.”
At that moment, Angel froze, his hand still gripping his pen.
“Wait a moment—who the hell is Samael?”
Across the lavish table, hewn from a single seamless slab of timber, sat the man who had been murmuring, “So this is the gale at sea that Eve mentioned,” while the hull groaned beneath the wind and rain, and the ocean thundered against the cabin windows. Now, he blinked in bemusement and asked, “Come again?”
“I said—who’s Samael?”
“Oh. That would be me.”
“You’re Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar. My employer and our greenhorn, half-wit of a captain. Scion of the island’s noblest house. Sold off the ancestral lands that your family had held for generations and instead of gambling the money away or bribing your way back to the homeland, you squandered it all on a great, hulking ship. And despite having no seafaring experience whatsoever, you made yourself into a damn pirate.”
“Ah, well, the truth is—I changed my name.”
“To hide your identity?”
“No, more because it didn’t sound frightening enough.”
“Frightening?”
“Samael sounds a bit too noble, doesn't it? With a name like that, no one would respond to my advertisement. I thought something darker, something more devilish, might serve me better. Y’know, something more pirate-y.”
Upon hearing this pitiful revelation, Angel tossed his pen and logbook onto the table with a derisive snort. Yet, since fools such as himself had fallen for the ruse, one could not deny that the scheme had worked.
“And then?”
Tucking a lock of his snow-white hair behind his ear, Angel urged his captain to continue. Samael—no, Lucifer—tilted his face skyward and propped his chin on his hand.
“Eve passed away,” he continued. “I think it was when she was seven that Eve and her family came to the island, though I only learned later that she had been told she would never live to adulthood. And in the end, she did not. Before her eighteenth birthday, she coughed blood, and within weeks she was gone.”
Angel, who was born on the same island, had heard whispers of the tale. A noble house, once esteemed enough in the London court to appear before the King, had left their homeland for the sake of their daughter’s fragile health, hoping that the warm, humid climate would prolong her life. Although they were not of the Morningstars’ stature—who had reigned as the island's first family ever since the crown bestowed its governorship upon them—they still held a high station. Contrary to all expectations, the girl survived longer than predicted, and so a marriage was arranged: she would marry the Morningstars’ youngest son, who was her own age. None objected. The island’s other two great families, the Magnes and the Mannings, gave their blessing.
The Magnes had amassed their fortune through sugarcane plantations spread across the island, while the Mannings commanded the Crown’s fleets that ruled the Caribbean seas. Initially, the Magnes had sought to marry their daughter Lilith to the Morningstars, but in the face of such noble London blood, they were forced to settle for tying their line to the Mannings instead.
However, Eve’s death changed everything. Seizing their chance, the Magnes broke Lilith’s engagement and bound her to the Morningstars instead. The rumour said, the Mannings, dishonoured, abandoned their wayward son and now feuded bitterly over which of his illegitimate children should inherit. Lilith, now a Morningstar, soon grew weary of island life, which was so far from the glittering salons of England. Thus, she intended to secure a divorce and sail for London at the first opportunity.
The other key player in these island scandals was the Morningstars’ youngest son, who was so unlike his father, the governor, and his brothers, who held high office. He spurned duty, produced no heir with his wife and spent his days painting, reading and tending his garden. He had no interest in politics and, when pressed into the Navy, he abandoned service at the first opportunity. They called him a wastrel—good for nothing. So it was almost too ridiculous to believe that, at present, this same man would prove to be Angel’s employer. The Morningstars had many children who were all the spitting image of one another, but names like Gabriel or Michael meant nothing to Angel. Samael sounded familiar for sure, but as to which of the brothers he was remained a mystery. The fact that his boss was not merely a kinsman, but the youngest Morningstar himself, was a twist that made one laugh outright.
“I was always speaking of books with Eve. After she died, her parents finally decided to go back to London. They gave me a few books, saying I could keep them if I wanted to. Eve adored adventure stories, especially tales of pirates. From the window of her room, the sea was stretched out before her. She would talk endlessly to Adam about the ocean, and to Lilith, she recounted the voyage from London to the island time and time again.”
“Are you saying that you set sail to fulfill Eve’s dream?”
“Not entirely, though it does play a part.”
His gaze wandered towards the tall shelves that lined the cabin walls from floor to ceiling. Perhaps those very books still rested there. Lucifer smiled softly.
“All three were dear companions. Even though she was bound to her bed, Eve had a freer imagination than anyone I have ever known. Adam roamed the seas, master of his own liberty. And Lilith—she is one of the fiercest seekers of freedom alive.”
“So you envy them, do you? Even though one is dead from a wasting illness, one has become an enemy, and one is a childless spouse on the brink of divorce?”
“Even if they no longer walk this earth, even if they despise me, and even if they make for poor spouses, they will always be my truest friends: Eve, with her vast and daring dreams; Adam, who vowed to protect us and had the strength to do so; and Lilith, who could never tolerate a life that dulled her spirit. I would honour what they meant to me.”
With that, Lucifer’s smile tilted into something more mischievous. “Truth be told, we invented the name ourselves. If we were ever to embark on an adventure, we decided that we must bear a name fierce enough to keep us from being scorned. Quick-tempered Adam chose Satan for himself. Eve, ever confined to her bed, took Bel. Lilith, ever coveting what lay beyond her reach, called herself Levvy. And I—timid and frail, yet heir to the grandest, prideful house—was made Lucifer.”
Wrath, Sloth, Envy and Pride. Fitting sins for children's play.
“Hold on,” Angel frowned. “If you sail under the name Lucifer, even if it's not your real name, the Navy's golden boy won't let that slip. He’ll recognise you in an instant.”
“Oh, I’m sure Adam’s long forgotten such childish prattle. Did we not depart unchallenged? There was no reprimand or hindrance.”
The man dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand and rose to his feet. Wearing a ruffled silk blouse and snow-white breeches, garments so delicate that the sea winds would ruin them within days, Lucifer stamped his polished heels against the carpet as if testing their grip before venturing onto the deck. He scooped up the abandoned journal, nodding with approval. “Well done. You have quite the gift for words. Was it your ambition to be a writer?”
“Yes. I dreamt of being an author. I tried to save money for London by trading on my unusual appearance in the brothels, but I couldn’t escape once I started. Life felt like a pit of despair until your advertisement caught my eye: Crew Wanted. Three meals, a bunk, steady wage. I was foolish enough to respond, and here I am, writing your memoirs. I'm back to despair once more.”
“It’s no memoir—it’s a log of our voyage. Would you rather take your chances with ropes and wheels?”
“Heaven forbid. I’ll play the scribe most gratefully.”
“I thought as much.” Lucifer’s grin broke wide. He gently set the quill by its inkwell, locked the journal away in a drawer and donned what he claimed was a 'captain's look of command'. To the crew, however, it bore more resemblance to a child-lord over his nursery games.
Angel’s life could be told in five paltry sentences. By contrast, Lucifer Morningstar’s tale brimmed with storm and strife.
Born into nobility, he was rejected as useless and cast aside by his own kin. Then, hated by a friend for the marriage pacts he had made, and abandoned by a wife who longed for the glamour of London. He chose not to mend those bonds. He sold the land, built the ship and fled to sea. To his wife, he left a letter that was part farewell and part will: ‘All of the land and wealth are yours. Sell them and live freely in London. Forgive me for being a poor husband. Be happy. I love you, Lilith.' Taking only a large painting of an apple tree that had once adorned their living room, the man slipped away. He left behind his wife, who yearned for a city across the sea. He sailed straight towards his old friend-turned-enemy, who commanded the King’s fleet. He did so with his eyes open, knowing that discovery of his identity was inevitable. He knew nothing of seamanship or sailor's knots, nor even how to handle a pistol.
Angel filled in the gaps with some conjecture and invention, yet even so, the tale seemed less freedom than folly. A suicide dressed as adventure. The indulgence of a wealthy fool. Even the tender reminiscences of his childhood friends seemed insincere, the idle chatter of privileged children untouched by hardship.
But somehow, it intrigued him. After all, this was better than the brothel's slow death by pox. Food and lodging were secure, the wages were generous, and the experience was ripe for a novelist's page: A pirate who paid in coin and not just plunder? Unheard of. Though, truth be told, it had been a fortnight since they had sailed from the harbour and they had not seized a single prize.
Naturally, such a 'captain' was despised by most of the crew. Lucifer fended off the crew’s fists with calls for parley, telling hardened rogues that every quarrel must end with the words, “I’m sorry”. It was little wonder they scorned him. Angel, who preferred the quill to the cutlass, did not mind so much—Lucifer paid promptly, and that was worth something—but was he trustworthy as a leader? Hardly. A captain who was relaxed about piracy with a crew who were eager for bloodshed were like ships on divergent tides, never to meet.
As Angel followed the jaunty, small-framed figure down the stairs beside the captain’s cabin, the sound that reached his ears was not harmony, but the crash of anger and discontent rising from the decks below.
“What in blazes now?”
Raising his voice in a placating tone, Lucifer pushed open the door marked 'Recreation Room'. Angel, ever bemused by the foolish sign, wondered what could possibly be considered “recreation” inside. Closing the door behind them, he peered over his boss’s head at the sight within and gave another derisive snort. The spacious chamber—large enough, it seemed, for that frivolous new diversion from London called tennis, where one merely batted a ball back and forth—was strewn from wall to wall with bolts of costly, gaudy and mismatched fabric, gathered by the captain from every port of call.
“So! How fares today’s activity?”
Bending low as he asked, the captain received a salute and shining eyes from the navigator, Pentious, who exclaimed, “C-Captain!”
He was the only one among the crew to show such affection for Lucifer. Soon after they had set sail, on the day that very tennis had been proclaimed the activity, Pentious had thrown the ball into the sea within five minutes—yet the captain had forgiven him with a smile. From that moment, he was utterly devoted. Pentious confessed that on his previous ship, a misreading of the wind had caused them to run aground on a reef, and for that mistake he had been marooned on a deserted island. Thus, he said, his new master’s indulgence pierced him through the heart. However, to Angel's mind, exile would have been justice enough, and to escape death outright was a miracle indeed.
“A most delightful activity, Captain!”
“I’m glad to hear it, Pentious! And what pattern is this one?”
“Eggs, sir!”
Every time he was addressed, Pentious would sit up straight and salute again, his scholarly, nervous features making him seem doubly fussy and restless. This activity, held nearly every day under Lucifer’s direction, stemmed from his strange creed of love and trust—a motto ill-suited to pirates indeed. It was meant to strengthen their bonds, teach them to understand each other and unite them as comrades. In truth, only Pentious took part with any real enthusiasm.
“Eggs, hm?”
“Yes! What egg dish do you favour, Captain?”
“Oh, I’ve never thought about it. I eat whatever is put before me. And you?”
“I love a sunny-side up egg, sir! The firm whites and the molten yolk create an exquisite contrast!”
“Mm, put like that, it does sound tempting. You’ve made me hungry.”
“You hear that, Husk? Tomorrow's breakfast must be sunny-side up!”
“Shut it. We’ve been at sea for half a month—do you think we still have any fresh eggs? Unbelievable.”
The man who drained a bottle beside the navigator was Husk—once a tavern bartender, now pressed into service as the ship’s cook after answering Lucifer’s call for crew, much like Angel himself. He drank often and cooked roughly, but his food was not bad at all.
From the ease with which Husk moved about the rigging, Angel reckoned that he had been a sailor before becoming a bartender. The play of muscle in his arms as he hauled the ropes was a sight to stir the blood; his gruff speech was fitting for a man of the sea; and the long hair brushed back from his brow framed a face that was weathered yet handsome, bearing all the weary charm that only age can bestow. The rise of his bronzed, roughened throat as he swallowed the liquor made Angel ache to press his tongue to it, and what lay beneath the clothes required no words. In short, Husk was entirely Angel's type.
“Well now, kitten. How’s your mood today?”
Sliding down beside him with feline ease, Angel leaned in. Husk tossed aside his cloth as though it were a useless trinket and, in his idle drawl, said, “Done amusing the captain at last, kitten?”
“Oh? You missed me, then? Pined in my absence?”
“I enjoyed the peace while you were gone.”
“Come on, don’t be cruel! I’ve missed ya dreadfully.”
Born with white hair, pallid skin, and mismatched red and blue eyes, Angel could have claimed the center ring at any carnival—and found no shortage of success in brothels besides. Yet his honeyed voice, which had snared most men, was useless against the one person he longed to win over. He caught Husk’s roughened hand and tried to guide it between his thighs when, suddenly, a whistle of steel cut through the air. A fork struck the planks where the cloth had lain, sinking deep, and even the chatter about eggs was cut short.
“What the hell was that!? I almost got hurt!”
“If you'd rather not have your throat slit, Angel, then be silent and cut it out.”
These words came from Vaggie. Her bobbed hair framed a face half-hidden by a long fringe over one eye. She was the most skilled fighter and the surliest person aboard by far.
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like we’re making out right before your eyes—”
At instant the fork's point flashed again, pressed to Angel's throat. He bit his tongue. With the strength to drive steel through timber, flesh was like parchment.
“I said— Silence.”
“Wait, wait—let’s be calm. We can talk—"
“There is nothing to discuss.”
She flung the cutlery aside and strode out. Lucifer sighed and turned back to the crew after watching her go.
“Sometimes, caring too much is no kindness either. Still, we should try to reach her.”
“What for?” drawled Cherri, legs crossed and leaning forward. “She snuck aboard dressed as a man and is now sulking because we've found her out. Why fuss over her? If she thinks the old superstition is so dreadful, she should have faced it boldly.”
Eager to please his captain, Pentious cut in: “That is not the point! What our captain means is that boundaries must be respected. If she concealed her true self, she must have had her reasons. Those who do not hide cannot presume that others are so free. You lack imagination—i-ma-gi-na-tion!”
“Thank you, Pentious. And we mustn’t forget that Cherri may have her own reasons as well. Perhaps she has endured something that made hiding useless, or perhaps she simply does not mind.”
With that, Lucifer clapped the navigator on the shoulder kindly, then turned to Cherri. “And the pattern you’re stitching—is that a bomb?”
“Of course, Boss. Bombs are my specialty, after all.”
Cherri was a true powder rat who had plied her trade both ashore and at sea until posters marked her as a wanted fire witch. Whether or not the superstition about women at sea was true, welcoming a fugitive as notorious as Cherri proved that the captain’s heart was surely as big as the Caribbean itself. Admiring the beading she’d sewn to mimic sparks along the fuse, Lucifer unfolded the cloth Vaggie had abandoned earlier.
“A cat… Maybe she’s fond of cats? One-eyed, though. Was she short on cloth, or did she make this in her own likeness, I wonder?”
“Probably the latter. She’s wearing an eyepatch. And she’s clearly more of a cat person than a dog person. You said today’s theme was ‘Show what you like and make it into a flag’, didn’t you?”
“I’d hoped we might make one big flag together, Angel, but perhaps that was too much to ask.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course it was, Boss. If they had a knack for such subtleties, they wouldn't have turned pirate in the first place.”
“Well, fair enough,” Lucifer answered with a wary nod. Then, as though forgetting the sting of the words, he smiled softly.
“Still, it makes me glad. It was the first activity we all agreed upon, wasn't it? Merely seeing everyone take part like this moves me beyond words. I feel I could weep, to be honest.”
His eyes glistened, not from exaggeration, but from true emotion. Beside the captain, Pentious nodded enthusiastically as he guided his needle, prompting Husk to cast him a sidelong glance and sigh, “You really are incorrigible. It was anyone but you, Pentious, who declared that tennis breeds no sense of trust and that, as pirates, we should raid other ships. You and Vaggie insisted that true bonds are forged only when lives are wagered, and you even gave Captain a rousing speech about it.”
Yet, in the end, the compromise between the captain, who was unwilling to stomach bloody sport, and Pentious, who was ever hungry for gore, was this: let us fashion a true pirate's banner together and hoist it high. A pitiful middle ground indeed. To tell the truth, this ship was already a haven for fools and strays—men and women lured not by the customary promise of plunder and the division of spoils, but by the novelty of a monthly wage and the security of fixed pay. Even Vaggie bent to sewing in silence, not from any spark of loyalty, but because escaping the captain’s relentless pleading would have been far more troublesome.
Now, delighted, Lucifer gathered up the pieces: Pentious’s eggs, Cherri’s bomb and Vaggie’s patchwork banner bearing a black-and-white cat. “Once yours is finished, we shall stitch them together and fly them from the mast,” he said cheerfully to the cook.
“May tomorrow bring fair weather. What have you made, Husk? Ah, a bottle of rum—splendidly done.”
The chef’s roughened hands, better known for throwing meals together from scraps and pouring grog whenever he felt like it, proved astonishingly deft. As he let his mind drift to less wholesome thoughts about those fingers inside him, Angel muttered idly, “Guess I’m supposed to make a flag too, huh?”
His employer clapped his hands like a child. “You’ll join us as well, Angel!”
Somewhat taken aback by such exuberance, Angel nevertheless inclined his head.
“Well, I'm more a scribe in the captain's service than a proper hand aboard, but... I suppose?”
“As long as you sail with us, you are one of the crew,” Lucifer answered, smiling dazzlingly.
He heaped the fabrics into Angel’s arms, told Pentious to share his sewing kit and instructed Cherri to help. Then he turned to the ship’s cook. “Eggs aside, how are our stores?”
“Not well. We’ve got plenty of salted meat and hardtack, and enough apples for a few more days. Best we resupply soon.”
“Understood. Pentious, is there a nearby port?”
“I know of several, Captain! I shall fetch the charts straightaway!”
“Perfect. You have my gratitude.”
Despite his lack of mettle as a pirate lord, Lucifer’s courteous bearing bespoke noble birth and a privileged upbringing. Perhaps he was ill-suited to the Navy, but he might well have thrived in merchant ventures. Having heard more of Lucifer’s past than anyone else aboard, Angel felt a twinge of sympathy. He knew the stifling of the cage too well and had no wish to surrender the steady income his current position provided.
“There’s an island favoured by freebooters not far from here,” Husk remarked, tipping back his drink. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Captain, but if you want to prosper, you should start with a letter of marque. Then you’ll have the Crown’s blessing to call yourself a privateer, and the Navy won’t be on your tail.”
“A letter of marque, huh?” Cherri scoffed. “They’re only good when they need you. Sooner or later, the wind will shift and you’ll be cast aside.”
“Perhaps. That’s all the more reason to gain strength while you have protection. Once the leash is cut, you’ll be left to rot unless you’re prepared.”
Indeed, the great powers, spread thinly across their far-flung colonies, relied on privateers to defend their interests and attack rivals. These irregularly trained sea dogs sank countless Spanish ships during the wars, only to be discarded with peace. They were skilled sailors with no job, so they turned to attacking trade ships running between Europe, the Caribbean and the New World, adding civilian prey to their tally. Thus were born the pirates of this age.
Cherri was right: the war has ended and any remaining indulgence will not last. Soon, those who feed them will strike back. Apart from a few high-profile names, most pirates are now scrambling to grab their fortune before it's too late—or clinging to faded glories once sanctioned by the Crown.
Perhaps, then, the tale that Lucifer's deceased friend cherished on her deathbed harked back to those wartime days, when bold raiders were knighted, fêted and celebrated as heroes across the colonies. Their exploits glittered brighter than their plunder, and children dreamed of following in their footsteps. Angel himself had once done so.
Yet Husk was right, too: if one must live on the sea, then it is better to carve a name for oneself now. A protruding nail may be hammered down, but one that juts too far cannot be touched. Once you are loose upon the waves, you can slip the hunters’ grasp, and the horizon is yours forever.
They say you can go anywhere—everywhere. For Angel, who had botched his life and ended up at the brothel, this prospect was intoxicating. The same was true for all those ashore with no true place of their own. They also say the grass is greener on the other side, but the sea before them was just as green—well, blue, in this case—and that was reason enough.
Surely it must be the same for Lucifer, too.
“Then it's settled! We make for that island. Pentious shall chart the course. Husk, I’ll need you to draw up a list of provisions worth securing.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“And me?”
“Well, Cherri, just try not to get caught.”
“And what about me?”
“You, Angel, will accompany me. There must be a tavern or two crowded with souls somewhere, Husk?”
“There’s one run by a landlady who keeps the place in line.”
Pentious returned with his arms laden with charts, snapped a salute, and declared, “I shall accompany you as well!”, only to scatter the entire bundle across the floor. While he babbled apologies, Lucifer stooped to help gather the maps with a smile, then seated himself beside the navigator.
“So, it begins with making a name for ourselves, does it?” the captain mused, tilting his head. “Perhaps I should think of a fearsome epithet befitting a pirate.”
“If it’s notoriety you’re after, we’ll have to take a ship or two along the way,” Cherri drawled. “Reputation comes only after deeds. If we don’t cause some trouble soon, I’ll be the first to set this deck on fire.”
The captain squeaked at her threat, casting Angel a pleading glance. Receiving no rescue, he at last relented. “Very well—but only one ship.”
Cherri punched both fists aloft. “Ha! That’ll do!”
“Only one,” Lucifer insisted sternly. “Remember, a pirate must know not just boldness, but restraint too. Knowing courtesy and when to step back leaves a lasting impression. When we board, we must—”
“Blow the whole vessel to splinters?”
“No, Cherri. When you step aboard, you’ll say, ‘Pardon the intrusion,’ and again when we leave.”
“The rum’s ours, of course.”
“Sure, Husk, but let's leave them a bottle or two to drown their sorrows.”
“And sleeping with every handsome sailor I fancy?”
“Scandalous… but if it pleases you, I won’t object.”
“And slaughtering them?”
“No killing, Vaggie!” Lucifer cried from the doorway of the recreation room, where Vaggie had reappeared unnoticed. Pouting, he demanded, “Will any of you ever heed my words?” The answer was clear: they would not.
Pentious, the sole exception, attempted a salute and received a swatch of cloth flung at his head as Angel proclaimed, “Done.” Cherri snatched the flag from his flailing hands, laughing heartily as her ponytail whipped around.
“You're crazy as hell!”
“Well, isn’t the task to depict what we like? This happens to be my favourite thing.”
Angel had stitched a familiar shape onto the cloth—his cherished dildo, which was always tucked in his pocket. Angel’s debts and misfortunes came from brothel brawls and troublesome clients, never from any lack of talent or passion for the act itself. Carnality was his trade, his gift and his pleasure. The captain, often fretful for his crew’s welfare, had heard the tale before.
The carving itself was made of wood, yet he took great care to render it lifelike—velvet at the tip, then silk, then cotton, then linen, each texture rougher than the last. Cherri howled with laughter until she wept.
“Angel, was it? You’ve won me over.”
“Likewise. A woman of taste, I see.” He grinned wickedly.
Vaggie stormed out, slamming the door. Pentious spluttered that it was indecent beyond all measure, while Husk drowned the scene in another gulp of rum. Lucifer, crimson-faced with embarrassment, stammered, “O—okay, if that's what Angel cherishes, then we must accept it!” Before anyone could respond, he dashed off to fetch their absent crewmate, boldly declaring that lots must be drawn to decide the order in which the flags would fly.
“Best not to toy with him too cruelly,” Husk muttered.
“If you'd play with me instead, perhaps I'd reconsider,” Angel winked, closing one mismatched eye seductively. Husk stroked his beard and said flatly, “Not interested.” Angel only smiled, already plotting. Determined to win the tournament of chance at least, Angel steeled himself for the fray—only to be eliminated in the first round. The last to remain standing was Vaggie, who had been hauled back into the recreation room against her will.
And so, come morning, five banners snapped in the breeze: Vaggie’s surly, one-eyed cat in black and white at the top, followed by a bomb, a bottle, three eggs and, lastly, his lascivious toy. Under a sky scrubbed clean by a storm, Angel fulfilled his duty as ship's recorder by sketching the scene in the margin of the logbook. The captain's request made the day's entry ‘My First Activity Together’. The tale of how the voyage began would be recorded later; tomorrow's entry might be titled ‘My First Raid’.
But how likely was it that they would stumble upon prey so soon? Angel was still writing the heading when Pentious’s voice cracked across the deck. “C-Captain!”
Cherri leapt up from where she had been lounging by the mast and Vaggie straightened up at the helm. Lucifer emerged from the captain’s cabin with a teacup—Husk at his side—when their navigator, with wild, black hair, raised the cry:
“Enemy ship off the bow!”
The look on Lucifer’s face—half drawn in horror, half disbelief—was so priceless that Angel later sketched it beside the flags for posterity.