XV. Belles to the Walls Part III.

With every tug of the rope, the Festering Wound’s Jolly Roger flew lower… and lower… and lower. Cain turned his back in disgust as Majel took it down and replaced it with a tattered Horatio Empire flag—burnt ends and all. Even though they would be heading into neutral waters, it was safer to sail under the Empire than as a pirate—so… they weren’t that neutral of waters, really.

(Majel was just glad that Cain was too much of a skinflint to get those sails he wanted—the ones with the giant skulls stitched on the front, that would have been a pain to replace. She believes the captain’s strange desire to theme everything around bones and skulls is an ego thing.)

Winn, who happened to be laying in a sunchair nearby, looked up from her book. She squinted her eyes, trying to make out whatever it was that was now flying from the top of the main mast. Whenever she realized it was a Horatio flag, she shook her head disapprovingly. “Gross!”

“Better safe than sunken…” the cat shrugged as she folded up the Jolly Roger. That, too, was stolen from another ship. Most pirates lived zero-waste lifestyles like that.

“Yes, I’m sure a crispy, ripped-up flag will not raise aaany suspicion…” the skunk said in her usual sensuel et sophistiquée accent that will no longer be written out phonetically.

“If you’re going to keep criticizing every single thing I do during this voyage,” the cat gleamed with mock joviality, “I’ve heard inside the Captain’s Quarters is nice! You should go in there, instead of being right here, where I am!” 

“Belay that! I don’t want her stinkin’ up tha place!” Cain yelled from his quarters. 

“You heard the captain…” Winn smiled as she resumed her reading. Without looking up from her book, the skunk lifted her teacup into the air and whistled for D’anna. The elf rushed over and poured her some more Oolong, mixing in a couple sugar cubes with a finger.

The Festering Wound didn’t dock at Dimout Isle. Instead, the anchor was dropped near an uninhabited peninsula late at night so as to not draw any attention to their arrival. The cat and the skunk walked down the ship’s gangplank, dragging along a (stolen) trunk filled with everything they needed for the party—things like their makeup, their wigs, and their dresses. (As well as a pistol, in case things took a turn). D’anna waved goodbye to them, Majel returned the farewell while continuing her argument with Winn. 

“No! Pick something shorter!” Majel quiet-yelled as they walked from the edge of the peninsula to the city. “I don’t want our cover to be blown because I can’t remember your stupid, long-ass name!” 

“The longer the word, the fancier it is!” Winn hissed. “How difficult is it to remember a single name?!” 

“It’s very difficult whenever it takes a week to say it out loud!”

Their bickering continued until they had hobbled the trunk all the way to the closest inn. They collapsed in exasperation, taking a minute to catch their breaths. Still heaving from the trek over, Majel shuffled her way to the inn’s front door. She knocked, and whenever that didn’t do anything, she started to continuously knock until an echoed string of curses came from behind the door. There were a few phrases like “I’m comin’, I’m comin,” and “Have you any idea what time it is…” between all the bloodies and the swearing of the gods. 

The door unlocked, and a tired man in stained pajamas opened the door. “What?!” 

“We need a room,” Majel said, both a little curtly and a little out of breath.

“Beat it! We’re at capacity…” he sneered.  

Majel dug into her pocket and held up a small coin pouch.

“We’re still at capacity, so… no.”

Majel dug into her other pocket and held up one of the pistols. The innkeeper’s eyes widened with terror.

“Heheh… uhh… g-give me a minute and I’ll have it all fixed up…” he nervously laughed before taking the pouch and disappearing into a hallway. 

“And where do you come from, Lady Marchmain?” Winn asked in an accent that was more forced than usual. It was the following morning, and Majel was sitting on the bed while Winn tightened her corset strings. Each pull made the cat grunt a deeper and deeper “OOUGH!”

“Uh… shit, what are some Royal islands I can name?” Majel asked. She couldn’t think straight—the corset didn’t allow much blood to flow through her brain. 

“Port Bashir, perhaps?” Winn answered in her (relatively) normal voice. “It’s got quite the population!”

The cat shook her head. “No, that’s where I grew up. I don’t want any lines connecting Majel to Amelia Marchmain.” 

“Hmm…” the skunk thought, “Stementine? Larensburg? Cecily Kay? You could also just make some place up.” 

Majel thought about it as Winn helped her into her dress. “Where’s your girl from? If we’re supposed to be best friends, I figure we ought to come from the same island.” 

“Christina hails from Inland Isle, born and raised,” Winn said as she adjusted the dress. Once she was satisfied, she opened up a makeup palette and began to mix together a peach-colored foundation. “ I think, for variety’s sake, Amelia should be born in… let’s say, Stementine, but you moved to Inland at a young age.” 

Majel’s face contorted as Winn began to dab the makeup over her left eye. The cat hadn’t worn that stuff for gods know how long; the dark purple around her eyes wasn’t eyeshadow, but rather, a side effect of working with Sawyer Cain.

“I can cover up the scar, but I can’t do anything about the bump nor the pupil,” said the skunk. After a bit, she looked it over and dabbed off any excess with a handkerchief. “Let’s just say that your eye has been like that since birth. Try to cover it with your bangs as often as you can, though—you’re used to seeing with one eye, anyways…” 

“Keep it up and you’ll join the club…” Majel said, unsheathing her claws. 

The two of them spent most of the day in their room, dressed to the nines, perfecting both their looks as well as their characters. They interviewed each other to try and keep a coherent story between the two of them—things like fake parents that didn’t raise them, fond memories of a school they didn’t attend, and boyfriends that they’ve never dated. Whenever the sun began to set, they strolled their way to the Dimout Docks, confidently locked in their new personas. 

“Two tickets for Fiddler’s Green, mon bon monsieur…” Winn cooed to the dockmaster. “It is of the utmost importance that we leave by sundown if we are to make it to Duke Peregrine’s party in time.” 

“Understood, madam!” he nodded. He opened a leatherbound book and picked up a quill from an inkwell. “Pardon me, but would you two be so kind as to tell me your names?” he asked. 

“I am Lady Amelia Marchmain of Stementine,” Majel said in a tone most people use to brag with, adding a cartoonishly posh accent not too far from her own. 

“And I am Lady Christina de La Camembert Brightman of Inland Isle,” Winn added, finishing with little air left in her lungs.

As the dockmaster wrote their names down in a little book, Winn reached into her dress’ pocket and handed him two coins. Not standard doubloons, but the thicker Horatio ones, minted by the Empire itself. The dockmaster, after briefly checking the coins' validity, smiled. 

“May the gods watch over your journey…” he said before guiding them up the gangplank. Majel was impressed by its quality—not only was it fastened to the side of the ship and wider than two feet, but it had handrails, too!

Once aboard the ferry, the Queen's Tariff, the two ladies collapsed onto a bench and began fanning themselves. 

“this wig adds ten degrees alone! how the hell can you wear your hair like this all the time?” Majel whispered to Winn before adjusting her orange beehive. 

“you get used to it. really, the kicker is keeping it balanced…” the skunk smiled. 

Once she made sure her wig was secure, Majel resumed her fanning. She sighed and looked around, making sure to mentally familiarize herself with her fellow partygoers: Fops, dandies, aristocrats—exactly the types she suspected would be in attendance. Her attention shifted to the view from the back of the ship, watching as Dimout Isle slowly shrunk into the horizon before completely disappearing. Suddenly, her eyes widened with realization. “dammit!” 

“what? what’s wrong?” Winn asked, looking around to make sure nobody else had heard the cat’s curse.

“we forgot the trunk at the inn…” Majel sighed.

Another ship was headed towards Fiddler’s Green, too. It looked like The Festering Wound, but there was no name on the bow. Instead, there was a brown tarp nailed to the hull of the ship, covering where it should’ve been. It flew a worn Horatio Empire flag, even though it was partially ripped and fringed on the edges. 

“Adjust fer wind!” Captain Cain yelled to his crewmates. Zombies groaned as they shambled towards the side of the ship and began to heave on ropes, twisting the sails to point northwest. The ship began to speed up as they took advantage of the breeze. 

“I think I have everything prepared, Captain!” D’anna yelled as she climbed the poop deck’s steps. She had to speak loudly, since her words would easily be overpowered by the loud wooshing of the wind. “I unsealed a brain barrel for the crew’s supper, I got our loadouts ready to go, and I’ve cleared some space for potential treasure!”

“Very good, elf!” the skeleton smiled. “I already berated tha crew about leavin’ us behind! I don’t want a repeat of that stunt they pulled back at Masaka Isle!” 

D’anna shivered. The name “Maska” alone made her remember that vision the goddess gave her—the dreadlocked ghost, the man made of tentacles, and the snow-covered man in glasses… all of them have since become regulars in her nightmares. 

Luckily, she was snapped out of her trance by the sudden wailing of a zombie. None of the zombies sounded quite right—thanks to rigor mortis rotting their larynxes—so his “Land Ho!” sounded like a sickly seagull wailing in pain as its feathers were getting plucked out.

Cain motioned for D’anna to take the wheel—he trusted the elf to just keep it straight, any turns would require Majel or a zombie to take over—and extended the spyglass he took out of his pocket. His bony face twisted into a grin as he saw a black, rectangular blob in the distance: Fiddler’s Green. 

“Raise sails! Peterson! Clavin! Get into those Navy uniforms an’ guard the ship!” Cain yelled. He turned to another zombie. “Malone! Yer the cap’n until further notice. There be an unsealed barrel of brains fer yer dinners below deck—ONE barrel, and not a cask more! Keep these rotten boneheads in shape and do not, under any circumstances, ruin our cover!”

The zombie moaned, which Cain understood to be a very gravelly “Aye aye, Captain.” 

“Good! Now…” the captain said, stepping away from the helm and addressing his crew, “...if fer any reason someone manages ta board this ship…”

He squinted his eyes and smirked. “...see to it that they’ll never leave…”