Open Vulpinsula & Surroundings The Red Fleet: Playing with the Big Boys Now

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

They had been hungry for more. That’s all it had taken to start killing.

The hold of the Crabclaw brimmed with salted meats, pickled vegetables, preserved fruits, flour, sugar, and pounds of butter worth a fortune. Her galley had been refitted as the largest kitchen afloat, and her greasy black pots bubbled day and night. Among the ships of the Red Fleet, she was instantly recognisable from the smoke that billowed endlessly from her wood-fired ovens and stoves.

They could have feasted every day at sea for months. They often did.

They wanted more.

Just going out for a midnight snack, they had joked, as bows were strung and cutlasses sharpened. They had laughed, and jeered, and roared the Crabclaw’s chilling warcry, Death Hungers! Wasn’t Death the most insatiable glutton of all? Wasn’t Death their most faithful and ever-present crewmate?

There had been screams all through the night. Only morning revealed the devastation wrought on the seaside village they had stripped to bones, then crushed into ash and dust.

All because the pirates fancied a change of menu.

The oversized wildcat they called Blackfish was sprawled in a copper four-footed bathtub in nothing but his red breeches, which sat amongst the piles of looted property. A brave, solitary songbird warbled as the sun crested the trees. Blackfish grunted in annoyance, as a rather splendid dream about killing a long-dead rival evaporated, replaced by a headache. He cracked open one green eye, slitted pupil narrowing in discomfort at the light.

The first thing he saw was one of his crewmates relieving himself against the tree where the village chief and his family were hanging. Blackfish wondered if he should tell the weasel - who was obviously nursing just as bad a hangover as he was - to look up. Deciding it would be funny, Blackfish tried to unstick his parched tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Nnngh,” he grunted. “Ey. Loogup.”

The weasel didn’t hear his hoarse groans. Blackfish gave up after another feeble try - the moment had passed, his back ached from sleeping in a tub, and he needed to find out where most of his clothes were.

He found his coat easily - there was a broad-shouldered otter sat in the village square wearing the elaborately decorated centrepiece of Blackfish’s Red Outfit - with its massive gold epaulettes, and the scene of a pack of wolves tearing apart a fox embroidered on the back. The otter’s head had been cut off, and replaced with a coconut. Somebeast had taken a bit of charcoal and drawn a pair of round eyes and a demented smile on it.

Blackfish shook his head, wondering what maniac had gotten so carried away last night. Spotting the otter’s head a few paces away, he squinted at it, then snorted. Oh, he had done that. The otter had been the village’s warrior, until he had faced the Blackfish, and the wildcat’s wicked basket-hilted sword.

The Quartermaster of the Crabclaw had then gotten so drunk he had propped the corpse up with a sturdy stick, drawn a face on a coconut, put his coat over the dead beast’s shoulders, and declared he was Sir Coconut, Lord of Fishstick Village. He had laughed, the crew had feasted and danced around the huts-turned bonfires, and the survivors had wept before the end.

“…tha’ wazza good party,” Blackfish slurred. He needed a drink - hair of the wolf that bit him. Breakfast with seconds, too. Then he’d find out if any crew were dead or missing, and how much loot there was to ferry back to the Claw. Blackfish’s stomach growled, and he moaned his discomfort as though he’d been starving for weeks.

Gates, he hoped the captain was cooking this morning.

 

[Captain Grubguts]

Of course the Captain was cooking. It was the one thing he loved more than eating, and looting. He had such a passion for it, he probably could have been a master chef is he had ever lead a better life. A giant cauldron sat over a roaring fire, with what few tables that were still in one piece sat up nearby; a sort of makeshift kitchen popping up overnight wasn't new with this crew. The smell fish and spices, and a rare hint of orange zest? They were certainly being treated with the good ingredients. The Captain must be in a good mood.

The Captain, Grubguts, was a large and portly stoat- wearing a grease stained tunic and an apron that served more as fashion than function. He was currently towering over a trembling young mouse, who had been the assistant to the village's head chef. The chef's meal had NOT been satisfactory.... So, Grubguts made an example of him. His guts made fine fish bait for their breakfast meal. Grubguts had forbade anyone from touching the boy. They were going to need a new cook for their ship, after all.

"Come on, lad, but yer back into it!" Grubguts barked at the young mouse, who was desperately stirring up some sort of buttery-like spread. "Ye can't have bouillabaisse without a good rouille!" He smacked the mouse on the back, before going over to the boiling cauldron and stirred it. "This'll be done boilin' soon! Ye'd best hurry, lad."

Grubguts looked over and saw Blackfish awake. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. The cat!" He roared with laughter, smacking his knee. He was in an exceptionally good mood. Best not to sour it now.

 

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

Blackfish drew near, but not too close to the table of ingredients (Grubguts would not appreciate even the slightest hint of interference), just enough to assess their quality with the discerning eye of a former noble. So, this village had been of some value to their captain after all. Blackfish had seen pirates do unspeakable things for their love of gold, jewels and coin, but what crimes stained their paws were nothing compared to what he had seen Grubguts do for a tin of paprika.

“G’morning, cap’n, that does smell delicious,” Blackfish oozed, assembling a crooked smile on his lips and trying not to twitch his ears as the captain's laughter rang around his aching head. He had to begrudgingly give Grubguts credit where it was due - the enormous stoat’s chef skills were second to none, and neither indigestion nor a hangover ever seemed to affect him.

As for Blackfish’s hangover… he sniffed the air, noting a few crewbeasts must have started fires for their morning brew - they couldn’t expect the captain to do everything for them, of course. The wildcat’s eyes widened to a more wakeful state, and his tail flicked. Living and working with Grubguts so long had imparted onto Blackfish a shadow of the stoat’s uncannily refined senses when it came to food, or in this case, the rejuvenating scent of roasted beans. Somebeast was brewing that new drink, the one that had just been growing in popularity when Blackfish had been exi-… when he had departed the Imperium. Coffee.

Returning two minutes later, with somebeast else’s steaming mug, Blackfish smirked, and winked at the mouse that was sweating and shaking with nerves as he stirred the captain’s concoction.

“You’re a lucky fellow,” Blackfish remarked, his voice warm and uncannily affectionate, in a way that would make the fur on the mouse’s neck prickle. “You must have some real talent, for Captain Grubguts to apprentice you. Mind you pay attention, and you could go far, boy.”

If they had not been who they were, the bulky wildcat might have seemed kindly, like a jovial uncle encouraging the young boy. Yet it had been Blackfish last night ordering the deaths of the mouse’s family, friends and neighbours. It had been him, gutting everybeast the mouse had ever known like the fresh-caught fish on Grubguts’ table. To act friendly with the mouse now was sick.

Blackfish snorted to himself. Well, Mousey would just have to get used to his new life, and maybe one day the boy would call himself a pirate of the Crabclaw with pride. Just as long as he showed promise as one of their new cooks. If not, the captain had efficiently demonstrated that morning just how well he could find uses for beasts that failed him.

The Quartermaster had his own preference for a morning pick-me-up. Pouring a fine dark-amber coloured whiskey from a silver hip-flask into the coffee mug, Blackfish nodded at Grubguts deferentially. “Mind if I pour some of that heavy cream, cap’n? I must teach the lad the recipe for putting me in a good mood in the morning!”

Coffee, whiskey and plenty of cream, and a hearty, fishy breakfast. All of the wildcat’s favourite things!

 

[Captain Grubguts]

"Ye can teach 'im later!" Grubguts snarled, a fire in his eyes and his jovial smile replaced with a glare. "I won't be havin' the lad distracted! Now take yer damned cream and get lost!"

Grubguts muttered some obscenities under his breath and walked over to the cauldron once more. Taking a large strainer in his paw, he started to seperate the fish bones, flesh, and aromatic vegetables from the soup itself, and he caught the broth in a separate pot. Once that proccess was done, he removed the soup from the fire and put the broth on, poaching the fish in said broth while the captive mouse finished preparing the rouille.

"Let's see 'ere." Grubguts dipped a finger into the batter and took a taste of it. "Good stuff, good stuff, lad! Ye might just prove yerself worthy yet!" He gave the poor mouse another smack on the back, nearly knocking him over.

Letting the broth simmer, he hurried over and started to ladle up bowls of soup.

"Alright, yew miserable lot!" He shouted out to his crew. "Breakfast is almost ready! Line up now, all nice 'n' orderly! Yer dear Captain sweated his arse off cookin' since the crack o' bleedin' dawn! Lad! Get them fishes on a platter! And that broth in a bowl"

The mouse nodded fearfully, and hurried over to the broth, using a fork to pull the fish out and plate it up on a large platter, setting it next to the bowls of soup, followed by bringing the broth over and sitting it aside.

 

[Velnias Blackfish Blythe]

Blackfish’s paw held the jug steady as he poured cream over the back of a spoon into his mug. He kept his bright green eyes on the task, knowing if he made eye contact with anybeast he was going to burst into peals of laughter. He stifled a bout of chuckling with a grumbling cough, and sipped his coffee as daintily as a fine lady watching a game of croquet. As second-in-command of the Crabclaw, Blackfish could bully any of his subordinates as he pleased. He reserved such behaviour for when he was angry - otherwise, he tended to act as though the crew were his servants, and he to be their role model both feared and admired. Getting on Grubguts’ nerves though? Now that was a fine sport!

Blackfish made many things in the captain’s life easier - it was Blackfish who dealt with the mathematics behind dividing loot, who worked out what duties were fairly apportioned to whom, who settled disputes, who trained them in close-quarters combat, and many other things besides. This was a pirate ship after all, there were no Articles of War to keep up draconian discipline, only the force of personality, and the semblance of fair treatment. So long as every crewbeast of the Crabclaw believed they were slightly more special, slightly better off than every other crewbeast (and Blackfish was a master of keeping up this illusion), then the ship ran as smooth as… well. Cream down a cat’s throat.

Behind his oleaginous flattery and faux-genteel manners though, Blackfish resented Captain Grubguts. Not because the wildcat sought command of the Claw - far from it! No, he disliked the idea that he was getting too used to Grubguts. This half-dressed greasy low-born lardbelly would have been utterly repulsive to his former self, the wildcat noble who once went by the name Velnias Blythe, with all the history and prestige it carried. Yet Blackfish had grown accustomed to watching the stoat’s wide back in combat, dining with him at the same overburdened table, even seeing the funny side of the captain’s dark humour. The idea that he might actually like Grubguts’ company… it made Blackfish shudder at what he might become.

The wildcat had noticed for years that the type of scoundrel that signed onto the Crabclaw possessed a reflection of some facet of the captain’s personality, and whatever vices they brought with them were amplified in excess by his presence. It had taken him a long time to admit to himself that Grubguts brought out the same thing in him. He was as greedy as the captain - just for more than food. Winning was his chosen addiction above all others. Blackfish loved to win anything - games, minor squabbles, admiration, fear, respect, even causing another beast shock or disgust was a kind of winning - a kind of power he could hold over another.

That was why it was so fun to annoy the captain in small ways. That was why Blackfish was at the front of the queue to be served the freshest fish, and the hottest soup. Gates, but the food was good! Blackfish resented that too, in a way - he had the refined palette of a noble, and Grubguts was the only gourmand outside Imperium control who could cater to him. That made Blackfish dependent on Grubguts to maintain a comfortable standard of living. Being intertwined in mutual need with the captain was far from the Quartermaster’s preference… but it would do, for now.

“Blackfish.”

Blackfish knew who was beside him without even having to look. “Racket. Sprocket.”

The fox twin brothers were alike down to the last strand of bloodstain-red fur. Racket and Sprocket Cruces were long-time Claw cutthroats, with their brawny frames clad in matching outfits of shark leather, and matching gold piercings in their ears. They constantly competed, which made it easy for Blackfish to play them off against each other. So utterly determined to be alike in every way, the Quartermaster had had no choice but to promote them both to the rank of ‘Acting Second Mate’ - or else risk them dueling to the death.

“One of ‘em villagers is still ‘oppin’ about. A squirrel girl wiv a sling. Nearly brained us she did.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Blackfish rumbled, finishing his coffee. The sweetness of the cream, mixed with the bitterness of the coffee, and the fire in his throat from the whiskey - ah! Now he felt more like himself.

One fox drew a throwing dagger, and twirled it expertly, balancing it by the sharp tip for a moment on his finger-pad. “Give ‘er to me, I’ll finish ‘er quick.”

“No imagination, bruv,” the other fox sighed. “What did we ‘ave those poisoned crossbow bolts made for, if we ain’t gonna test ‘em?”

“Savin’ those for the big fight,” the dagger-twirling twin sneered. “Wiv what Ironpaw is plannin’-…”

Both foxes turned their gaze to Blackfish, clearly hoping the wildcat would indulge in some gossip. He smirked. He knew much of what lay ahead for the Red Fleet, whilst these lesser crewbeasts scrounged for scraps of half-truths and rumour.

“You’re right, Sprocket, we really should test the poisoned bolts,” Blackfish agreed as pleasantly as though they were discussing rearranging furniture. “Bring your crossbow. Racket, find my bow if you please, I left it in the jolly-boat.”

Both twins scowled, and spoke in unison. “’Ow did you know it was me?”

“Sprocket’s prettier,” Blackfish retorted with a wink.

The foxes flicked their tails in mutual annoyance, and both gave the Quartermaster a rude gesture. The wildcat really did burst into laughter this time - mostly at the absurdity of how offended Racket was. It was no breach of discipline - this wasn’t the Navy after all, and letting the twins banter and bicker with him would lower their guard for more important matters. As the two of them trod off, Blackfish raised his voice to address the rest of the crew.

“Gentlebeasts! There is sport for us this morning, with a special prize from your generous Quartermaster!” He called. Ears pricked - prizes were no joke with Blackfish. He loved playing with high stakes. “I shall award a special share of the loot to the sharpshooter that brings down a squirrel hiding in the treetops yonder! Be warned - she is armed with a sling, and anybeast that gets brained and reduced to a drooling moron shall be disqualified!”

There were guffaws at Blackfish’s little joke, and he saw an avaricious, bloodthirsty look in many of their eyes. A squirrel hunt, with live, dangerous prey! What a treat today was turning out to be.