“Krilling ain’t for everyone son, it damn sure ain’t for me,” the old rat croaked, sharpening his dagger on the cobblestone pavers that lined the walls of their squalid den. “Trust me boy, folks like us are resourceful, we’re kings of our own destiny. We don’t need no captain, no coat of arms.” He held the dagger up to catch the light of a lantern passing overhead, “sharp… just like we is,” he vaunted, holding the blade out for Patches to take. “Now come on son, there’s more than krill in those waters.”
And so, they went. Two rats through the familiar sewers, down the central drainage pipe below the belly of Ellen’s Arm and beneath The Collapse’s canopy of wooden slats to their makeshift dock and their dory. Every day like the previous. Paddle. Hunt. Paddle. Sell. Every day like the next. Soon Patches was four years older and not a krill richer.
“Git on up son,” the old rat grunted, kicking Patches in the ribs. Patches itched his head and turned over in bed. The old rat was wearing a tailored coat and filled the room with the smell of earth and herbs following the trail of smoke that fled his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. The old rat didn’t get back to the den until early in the morning, Patches could tell by the faint golden glow in his eyes and the unsteadiness in his step.
Like the day before and the day before that, Patches wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and secured it at the waist, taking a moment to scratch the scum from the corners of his eyes. “Quickly now, I seen something shimmering at the edge of my dream, we’re in for a good haul today my boy.” Patches nodded and the two left the den without another word.
Right down the drainage pipe, left at the fork over the sewer grate, steady on through under the guild port, and carefully across the wooden dock that predated the old rat. Same as the day before.
“Mornin’, scrappers,” a voice called out from above.
“Bleh,” said the old rat, flicking the butt of his smoke roll up towards the offender. Patches peeled the canvas from their dory as the old rat’s fingers searched his coat for another smoke which he lit with a sulphureous snap. The dory hardly rocked as the two stepped inside and Patches pushed away.
Alamun’s Light was but a spark at the dory’s stern when the old rat produced his spyglass from his coat. Finely worked metal buttons snapped asunder as he slid the instrument from the coat’s supple interior pocket the colors of mahogany and umber. The brass tube expanded with a series of clicks and the old rat’s weathered fingers brought it to his eye.
“Like I always say boy, there’s more than krill in these waters!” the old rat shouted as he extended an untrimmed finger into the dim, “The carcass of a great beast! Must have fallen from the starry river, it’s all trimmed up with silver! Right into our palms, boy! Right into our palms!” The dory curtsied as the old rat leapt into his seat and freed a set of oars yet to touch the water.
With the two of them rowing the dory descended like a vulture upon the carcass. As Patches tied a lasso and anchored the dory to the beast’s wooden nose, the old rat was already belly deep into a hole in its hull. “It’s still fresh!” echoed from inside the stomach as Patches clambered up onto the deck where his face was illuminated by a soft blue glow. Large crystal formations broke through the deck creating jagged towers that dotted the plane like a forest. Each formation cocooned a humanoid skeleton, many of which had been entombed with fine armor and weapons. Patches pulled his blanket from his head and pressed his ear to one of the crystals. A soft static caressed his ear drum.
As he strode through the crystalline mausoleum, a single skeleton caught his eyes. Its arm was outstretched with fingers closed around the hilt of a magnificent sword, its blade black within black within black, its guard barely escaping its wielder’s blue tomb. He gripped the guard and pressed his feet to the crystal, using his body as a lever to snap the sword free. Patches caught a glimpse of himself in the ebony blade as the weapon fell to the deck with a thud. The scrapper gripped the heavy blade in his hand, the grip was cold and much too large for him, and the point drooped down and pierced the wet wood of the deck. He looked into the blade for another moment, his reflection reminded him of all that he was entitled to. When he looked back up, the old rat had surfaced from below deck and was upon him. A crown sat upon his head.
“That’s a mighty fine blade you got there, son,” the old rat grasped, steadying the newly found crown upon his head as he leered at the obsidian blade. He jingled with coin as he stepped towards Patches and placed his hand over his on the sword, the leather sleeve of his mahogany jacket rolled up to his elbow. Patches gripped the weapon. The old rat raised his other hand, baring his nails.
“I’s found it,” said Patches.
“But I found the ship, son. Now give it!”
“You’s always finding the ship.”
The old rat brought his hand down upon Patches, his claws leaving a freshly tilled cut from jaw to lip. Tears welled in Patches’ eyes as he felt warmth on his cheek. “Finder’s fee,” said the old rat, wrenching the sword from Patches’ hand.
“Well, there ain’t nothin’ else but bones and this blue junk down in the belly, and I reckon we’ll need axes to get at all this armor,” said the old rat, gesturing towards the former crew with the stabbing end of his black blade, “besides, them Flicker tramps mustn’t be too far behind us,” he clicked his tongue, “I’ll give it to em, they’re slick but they ain’t slick ‘nuff.”
Patches nodded and pressed his cheek; the dagger was heavy on his hip.
The dory pushed away from the dead galleon and towards Alamun’s Light. The old rat took his place on the bow and lit another smoke as Patches propelled them forward. The sword lay unsupervised in the belly of the boat. Patches kept rowing.
published to SCHISTOSTEGA on: 12/8/2025