The continual nights of bad sleep were beginning to take their toll on Reaver, and he was more than irritable at breakfast the next morning while his well-rested companions made plans and laughed. He kept to himself, knowing better by now than to even try to start an argument, and picked absently at the food in front of him. There would have been a time when he would have cleared the plate and imperiously demanded seconds, but today his heart simply wasn’t in it, and his appetite was sorely lacking.

“Come on, Reaver, buck up,” Hammer said cheerfully. His first reaction would have been to point a gun at her, but instead he lifted his eyes, his gaze near-thunderous, and she blinked twice before looking away. The pirate frowned at his plate, then sat back and pushed it away from him, glancing about the room. He had to wonder what kind of a man had bookcases in his dining room, idly scanning the titles on the other side of the room until one caught his eye. Standing, he made his way around the table to the bookcase and drew the book down, running his thumb over the peeling gilt lettering of the title, ‘The Temple of Light’.

Dropping into a nearby chair he propped his feet up on the top of the table, crossing his ankles and opening the book on his lap. It had been a long time since the temples had fallen, some time before Reaver had even been born though they had still used the old names back then, more out of habit than belief. It was a habit that the pirate had yet to break out of, though he was quite sure that he had invoked the Gods more times in the past fortnight than he remember doing at any other point in his life. He absorbed himself in the book, mentally checking off every mistake that the author had made, and he didn’t notice the others finish their breakfast and move to leave until a hand fell on his shoulder and he all but jumped out of his skin.

(more…)

[A/N: Hello dear readers! However many of you there are. I apologise most profusely for the slow updates, but I have been suffering from the dreaded curse known as writer's block. Chapters should come a little quicker now I've got over it =)

Additionally, thank you very much to Sunny for their wonderful and inspiring email. =) ]

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Reaver couldn’t sleep. Whether it was the rhythmic creaking of an unfamiliar ship or the faint scratching of a quill on parchment from the next room, he couldn’t be sure. The Thief had a good mind to tell the man to stop his infernal scribbling, but for the moment his pride simply couldn’t take any more battering. Garth seemed to know just where to poke to injure him the most and he was sure that the Mage was teaching Hammer some tricks. That woman wasn’t capable of being witty on her own.

He sighed, lying on his back and making a vain attempt at resting, if not sleep. It was not long before he gave up, and with a frustrated sound swung his legs from the bunk. Pulling on a shirt he buttoned it as he headed for the door, walking easily on the gently swaying floor. There was a cool, brisk breeze on the night air as Reaver stepped out on deck, the wind lifting his hair and touching his skin through his thin cotton shirt. A glance upwards told of clear skies and good weather all the way to Westcliff, where a smaller boat would be needed to sail up the river to Bowerstone. The Pirate King never really took the time to simply take in the view while he was searching for ships to capture, but now there was plenty of time and he moved to the bow, leaning on the wooden rail, tasting the faint tang of spray on his lips as the ship drove through each shallow wave. The horizon blurred where the sky met the ocean, and it was easy to see the reasoning behind the old belief that the world was flat.

With a frown he shook himself from those fanciful thoughts, looking down at the black water below. A strange, unnatural kind of fog was curling in pale tendrils over the dark waves, leading back to a fog bank that spread over the land. Reaver’s keen eyes could make out the shore even from this distance, and he was so focused upon it that he didn’t hear Hammer step up beside him.

(more…)

The first thing to do was to turn the others to the idea. Hammer took little persuading, but as suspected, it was Reaver who caused trouble from the outset.

“No,” the Thief held up one hand to stop Sparrow in his eager explanation. “No, not a chance. I’m getting out of here as soon as I can, and I have no intentions of going gallivanting around Albion with the three of you.”

Hammer made an irritated sound, and beside her the Mage cleared his throat and laid a hand on her arm. Patiently, Sparrow gave a small nod, idly rubbing his hands together.

“Your decision entirely, of course,” he said. “But at least think about it. I have some business to attend to at Fairfax, so I am leaving Garth in charge here.”

It was a harsh reminder that the deed to Bloodstone Manor was still not in his possession, and Reaver found his fingers once more itching to reach for his gun. Sparrow seemed, if anything, amused at his reaction, and paused to shake Garth’s hand as he made his way to the door.

“Hold the fort,” he said jovially. Garth smiled and nodded, seeing the man out then turning to Reaver, who glanced from the Will user to the monk.

“This is ridiculous,” he stated. “All three of you are ridiculous. You’re searching for meaning where there is none, and I will have no part of it.”

(more…)

He couldn’t fathom it. Reaver had expected at least some kind of fight for the deed of the house, and yet, for all intents and purposes, it was already his. He had barely seen Sparrow since the incident with the snow globe, and even then it was briefly, the man never being anything less than polite. A quick sojourn down into Bloodstone had revealed some interesting facts, the foremost being that while every whore, male and female alike, all practically swooned at the mere mention of Sparrow’s name, not one had experienced how he performed in the bedroom. A second, slightly more irritating discovery came in finding that Sparrow owned every building and shop in the town, and charged far lower rents than Reaver ever had. No one was afraid of him, that much was clear, but they respected him, and Reaver found that it grated somewhat to hear the man spoken of so warmly. As of yet, however, his mind wasn’t on reclaiming the town. He had other, more troubling thoughts to deal with.

(more…)

“Is he awake yet?”

“No, sir, and if I may be so bold-“

“Of course, Max.”

“Thank you, sir. He was not awake five minutes ago, nor the five minutes before that. If he is awake five minutes hence, I will let you know.”

It was laughter that woke Reaver with a start, the quilt beneath him caught in a momentary death-grip. It only took a moment to recognise the familiar furnishings, and he relaxed, too relieved to be embarrassed. Slowly, the pirate sat up, curiously rubbing the fine fabric of the strange (not his) bedclothes that he was wearing. He felt… broken, as if something inside of him had snapped. The encounter with the banshee had poked a hole in a wall that had long stood firm, letting light shine through the cracks.

(more…)

How many had he sent to them now? Hundreds, it had to be. At first he had remembered each and every one but now their faces blurred together, features meshing, and he could have sent a dozen identical to the man who now stood before him. It did become awfully tedious, though, going through the motions like a script as he first charmed, then persuaded the man to take the perilous journey into Wraithmarsh to deliver the seal.

“See that there?” he said, quite obviously bored, not moving to reach for the dratted thing. “See that little objet d’art?” The man looked at him, blankly, and he had to force himself not to rub his temples in irritation. Reaver was anything but a patient man and this cretin was far beyond the calibre of those he normally sent on this errand. Still… beggars can’t be choosers, and he didn’t have the time to wait for another Sparrow to come along. Bad seas and high winds had delayed his return to Samarkand, turning what might have been a leisurely search for an ideal candidate into a matter of poking his head out of the port-side window and hailing the first idle rogue that walked past.

(more…)