The passage to Mexico had been rather uneventful, save maybe for some wind gusts halfway through when they passed the Yucatan Peninsula. The wind increased wave height a notch, though it posed little trouble, save maybe for Rhine’s torpedo escorts who experienced some amount of discomfort due to their smaller size. Barring that, the biggest issue they faced was when the Chief Cook forgot to fasten the trash cans to the railing and a particularly strong gust of wind blew them overboard.

As small problems often do, it blew out of proportions, rather unnecessarily so. Folks don’t always get along, and it showed when Rahul (the Chief Cook) and Artyom held a shouting contest in the cafeteria regarding which of the two was actually responsible for the incident, since it was the bosun who had asked Rahul to move the trash cans (a matter of putting a fresh coat of paint over the accommodation since rust was starting to show) and the black labrador Diamond-Dog had felt it was implied that the Russian would put them back and reattach them. It didn’t go much further than shouting before the problem caught Dilip’s ears and he intervened.

Few on board spoke Marathi, but judging by the tone of the scolding when the Captain met his fellow Indian, and by the sour look the cook sported afterwards, Dilip had decided to side against his compatriot rather than against Artyom. Rahul had then dragged his paws back to the galley, a new set of cleaning duties now garnishing the cook’s already cluttered schedule for the next week.

After that… the mood for the rest of the passage to Mexico was noticeably tenser, the cheery mood with which they had left Havana all but gone.

Dilip had seen worse, and he knew it would only get better from there on. It took a whole lot more than the cook and the bosun throwing a hissy fit for a crew to truly become dysfunctional, and Amandine’s sailors were too professional to let that happen. Sailors were people too, and people made mistakes and didn’t always get along. Rahul and Artyom didn’t have to get along, they just needed to work together.

Beyond the concerns of crew relations and discipline, the fleet carried on with the passage through the Gulf of Mexico and past the many abandoned and derelict platforms that dotted its waters. By this point it had become clear that only the fixed platforms remained, floating platforms - apparently- fell under the vehicle clause and had been whisked away much like any occupied vehicle would. Of the structure, only the turrets that would normally connect them to the oil wells and subsea templates remained. Not connected to anything, the turrets floated in place like humongous buoys outfitted with christmas trees and pressure relief valves. Some had already sunk below the surf, the only hint of their presence being the odd bubbles of natural gas that floated up to the surface.

The fixed platforms that remained tended to be closer to the shore, or built wherever the seabed rose enough to allow this type of structure. None seemed to have caused an oil slick, instead becoming orange rust-covered nesting grounds for scores of seabirds, and for that they had to thank the engineering behind their construction.

Left unattended, most had fallen back to inbuilt emergency devices in the form of pressure release valves and other devices imbedded along the well to vent nearly all of the leftover pressure in their respective wells, meaning ludicrous quantities of natural gas had been flared for days after their former operators vanished… it rendered all of those oil pockets basically unusable without severe effort, but it also meant they hadn’t leaked crude oil into the seawater. An ill for a good, in a fashion. Only a serious group of survivors would be able to pump anything out of them, and that would require injecting some serious amounts of stuff to have a chance of seeing oil come out of the wellhead.

“Shouldn’t we be a bit more concerned about that by the way? I mean… reason why we’re going to Mexico in the first place is for the refinery.” Alejandro asked Roberto over lunch whilst awkwardly sipping from a bowl of soup.

It being awkward because beaks weren’t really suited for liquid food. You got used to it – you only really needed to tilt your head at the right angle to make it work-, but the gesture could hardly be called elegant and he’d rather go for a spoon… if they weren’t all in the wash. By comparison, the cat sitting across from the Chief Officer looked like he had the table manners of a noble, if a bit annoyed by the heavy scent of spices that permeated the cafeteria and galley at any hour of the day.

Part of the sacrifices you had to make to accommodate a mixed crowd of carnivores and herbivores, though it looked like the latter was slowly growing accustomed to the initially nauseating smell of meat, so really: it was a bit of a gamble whether or not all those spices really were necessary.

Would that stop Nguyen and Rahul from putting an ungodly amount of spices in the food? ‘course not.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Roberto replied after a few seconds. “Sure it’s a lot of wells beyond use, but there are still plenty of turrets ready to be exploited, undersea templates that should be fine for a couple years more provided they were up to standards, and some wells don’t even have surface units anymore. The pipeline just goes straight to shore facilities. And then...” The feline shrugged as he ripped the top off a milk carton with an extended claw. “… we tend to ignore those in our line of work, but inshore wells are still a thing. That’s not as much production as offshore wells, but then again we don’t need a thousandth of the oil production the industry could muster before the Event. Population divided by ten thousand implies needs are divided as wall. And that’s with all colonies and the whole fleet accounted for, without even resorting to recycling fuel. We don’t need many wells to sustain ourselves to begin with.”

He paused, throwing a look over his shoulder at a table off in the corner of the room. It was currently occupied by a small group of Diamond Dogs, Abyssinians and the odd parrot quietly chatting in Spanish. The absence of Amandine’s trademark orange coveralls made them stand out starkly from the other occupants of the cafeteria.

Mexicans. Tourists from Cuba in need of a repatriation.

“Plus it’s not like we don’t have any reasons to visit Mexico either.” Roberto jerked his thumb towards the wayward tourists. “These guys need to be dropped off, and the intel we got from the HPI says there are some locals. Any colony is worth contacting, no? Moreso if they can man a refinery.”

Alejandro put down his soup bowl and leaned forward ever so slightly.

“I’d be… cautious still. With what we encountered in Savannah, there’s a very real risk criminal elements might have made an attempt to seize control, and what Mexico can put out is a whole league beyond mere escaped convicts.”

“Cartels?” Roberto’s ear twitched.

Alej’ nodded slowly.

“I talked about it with the Captain. And some of our tourists there.” The hyacinth macaw jerked his head towards the Mexicans. His crest of feathers bobbed slightly at the motion. “According to them, it’s not the region with the highest cartel presence in the country… but there’s a risk the strategic value of all these refineries got their attention.”

“And what are we supposed to do about it then?” A rough, feminine voice with a vaguely germanic accent made itself known behind them.

A second later, an orange dragoness whose scale color was a near-perfect match for that of her oil-stained coveralls sat down at their table. Her blue eyes were pointedly looking towards Alejandro as she dug into her plate, skewering a piece of meat with the tip of a bronze-colored claw and showing it inside her maw.

Schmitt. Their Chief Engineer.

“Hey, how goes the machinery?”

“Ready for arrival this evening. My question?” She insisted.

“There isn’t much we can do until we actually know what’s happening there.” Alej’ told. “Best we can do is keep a hand on our guns and an eye out for trouble, but anything more than that might cause trouble with the locals if those concerns are unfounded. Damn sure all the combat vehicles will have their guns loaded though.”

On that last sentence, the Chief Officer stood up from his seat and gave both Schmitt and Roberto a curt nod.

“Now, if you two don’t mind I’m supposed to supervise our entry into port and it’s only a couple hours away. I want to review those charts, and the tidal calculations aren’t complete yet. Last thing we want is to ground ourselves in the fairway, no?”

“If you could avoid that, that would be great yes.”

Visibility upon arrival in Mexico was… rather poor. While the weather had been rather fair to the fleet up until them with a rather dry stay in Havana and little trouble as far as wind went given what could be expected of the Carribean islands… Coatzacoalcos was in full-blown monsoon when they hit the shore. Torrential rains greeted their arrival, fat droplets of water that relentlessly pelted against the bridge’s windows and almost blocked the view entirely, even with the wipers running frantically across the glass. Up above them, the lights of the early evening were but a dim penumbra because of the thick gray cloud cover above them. The skies rumbled. Off in the distance, the penumbra lit up as a bolt of lightning impacted against an abandoned antenna on a hilltop.

Up on the bridge, Alejandro glared at the radar screen in mild annoyance, talons fiddling with the rain clutter knob in an attempt to rid the display of the myriad of little yellow spots caused by the rain. It worked… but they wouldn’t be detecting anything long range that day.

Eh, at least he could spot the buoys on radar, and a quick check with the GPS showed they hadn’t drifted out of position. Not too far at least.

Plus for all the rain there was, the winds had dropped to an intensity mild enough that he didn’t have to call off the entry into port. Those were always a concern. You could maneuver with high winds, albeit with difficulty, but getting the ship tied up alongside while the side of the hull acted much like a sail might very well result in snapped mooring lines and injured personnel.

Not today though. Decreasing her speed down from her normal seagoing pace, Amandine took the lead of the little two-ship-convoy and headed for the breakwaters that marked the entrance into the fairway at the mouth of the river. Two cables across. Not a wide fit, but Alejandro had sailed enough with Amandine not to stress over such stuff. Large a lady as she was, their ship was actually remarkably maneuverable, even without her bow thruster.

Gotta thank having two propellers with pitch control for that.

With a smile on his beak, Alejandro looked up from his displays to give the next helm order. Port ten. He waited a couple seconds. Decrease to port 5. Now to just stay lined up with the leading lights…

Hold on, what?

The parrot did a double take, eyes flicking back and forth between his ECDIS and the bridge windows. Most of the buoys weren’t lit, implying nobody had come to repair them when they stopped lighting up at night… though they were still visible against the muddy waters around the fairway.

The leading lights, on the other claw, were shining brightly through the curtains of rainwater falling down upon them.

Leading lights were an easy concept to grasp, and a common sight in a mariner’s life many ports used to guide ships. Two different lights mounted on masts set at different heights. Line up with them, and then you’re on the right track. Easy.

That they were active to begin with was a surprise that Alejandro most certainly wasn’t going to turn down.

As far as ports went, Coatzacoalcos was actually pretty straightforward to get into. It was built at the mouth of the river the city shared its name with, and two narrow breakwaters extended out like prongs, surrounding the estuary. As a side effect, it provided a decently safe bay within the breakwaters for lesser ships like trawlers and sailboats to moor and anchor while larger vessels travelled further upriver. The waters were muddy, carrying clumps of dirt and fallen leaves dragged into the river by the heavy rainfall. Around the bay, the city extended, fairly large, yet unimpressive with blockish architecture, cracked paint and very few buildings rising above the three story mark, most of them showing signs of damage and overgrowth.

At a guess, Alejandro would wager the reason why the city was more than a little town was owed to the oil industry providing a large influx of cash in the last fifty years. It just didn’t have the hallmark of a former colonial trading post.

From then on, navigation split two ways: west followed the natural course of the river upstream where there were still a couple quays deep enough to accommodate seagoing vessels until a low-hanging bridge blocked off any further traffic, and east.

East was an artificial channel that veered off the main course of the river and dug less than a mile inland before it opened up to a vaguely square-shaped cove. The PEMEX – Mexico’s federally-owned oil conglomerate- terminal, a vast petrochemical complex comprising multiple refineries and chemical plants, responsible for most of the town’s wealth and strategic importance thanks to its ability to process all kinds of oil products from fuels to fertilizers and plastics.

At least according to what intel Roberto had managed to put together.

And there came further details on what had surprised Alejandro. More so than just the leading lights installed within the perimeter of the petrochemical complex, the entire installation was aglow: orange sodium lights, blinking aircraft warning lights at the top of the installations, the pale white of neons… it was as though someone had set up shop there, flipped the breakers, and turned off everything to ward off the night.

A myriad of chicksans, pipeline connections and elaborate gantries lined the shores of the cove with piers and berths in various states of disrepair that would normally allow tankers and chemical freighters to dock and connect themselves to the complex network of pipelines, valves and storage units that made up the petrochemical complex… and it was only one among several spread out across the region.

Still, as with any structure after the Event, signs of disrepair showed. Though not completely rust-covered, much of the installations were starting to veer towards the orange side of the spectrum in places, and the not-quite-jungle vegetation that sprouted around the area was already making attempts at reclaiming the structures, vines creeping up the fences on the eastern edge of the complex, unkempt hedges and decorative vegetation around the office side, the list went on.

On the far eastern side of the cove, next to piles of rubble that at some point must have been a construction site that never saw completion, was the wreck of one little coastal freighter. Judging by the algae-covered chains welded to its sides and the sizable holes rust had managed to sear in its sunken flanks, it was already there well before the Event occurred, likely a ship that had been impounded for one reason or another.

Not only were the lights on -a good sign already-, but signs of occupation could be found elsewhere. Fences had been reinforced with layers upon layers of barbed wire, plates of corrugated steel and whatever else the locals could find to ensure nothing slipped inside the maze that was the refinery. Easily piercing through the veil of rain, searchlights were set up at regular intervals, scanning both the cove and the outer perimeters for intruders. A few lingered on Amandine for a few minutes before they resumed their usual pattern.

Paired with the thin plume of flame of gas being vented and white smoke columns… all that light, rust and overgrowth added up to give the whole complex a surreal outlook. Whoever was occupying the refinery may be doing their best, but industrial complexes didn’t have the luxury of coming back with full complements as vehicles and ships did, and large refineries required equally large pools of manpower to function at peak efficiency and – more importantly- to be maintained properly.

Merchant vessels the size of Amandine and Rhine Forest always were hard to miss, so it was no surprise when they saw flickers of movement along the refinery’s gangways after the searchlights noticed them. As they kept sailing for the center of the cove, more hints of activity came up: silhouettes in high-vis coveralls, flashlights being turned on, the news of their arrival was traveling up the chain of command. A fair distance away from the shoreline, lights turned on inside a fairly large office building, a sign more of the locals were being alerted of their presence.

No sign of aggression however, which eased up some of the tension Alejandro was feeling. He caught himself repeatedly flicking a ball point pen in his pocket before he sneaked a look towards Dilip. The Captain was sitting in his chair, calmly looking out the window, surveying the situation.

“Our course of action, Captain?” He inquired.

The D-Dog drummed his digits against his armrest, quietly stroking the side of his muzzle with the other paw. He eyed Rhine Forest, over on their starboard side where the barge carrier had taken position, holding.

“Did Lorelei say anything over the radio?”

“Nay. Nothing else beyond the fact she’s deferring to us on this. She doesn’t have any Spanish-speakers on hand… hoof… mierda, you get what I mean.”

“Very well...” He frowned slightly. “Try hailing the locals over the VHF. They ought to have some walkie-talkie on hand even if they don’t have proper radios. It is a port terminal. We’ll go the diplomatic route and avoid mooring just yet. Ask them for permission, see if they’re willing to let us in.”

It didn’t take more than a few repeated calls across a couple channels before they finally got an answer. They had surprised the local returnees during dinnertime, but they were willing to receive them. Not immediately though. The guy on the other end of the line – one Samuel- told Alej’ it was way too late to ‘recall folks to the plant’ and have them tie up alongside, so the two ships would have to spend the night anchored in the cove before they met them next morning.

“Excellent.” Dilip stood up slowly. “Consider yourself free to go Chief, I’ll handle the anchoring from now on.”

“Captain?” The parrot tilted his head to the side.

“I don’t know if they have more English-speakers than Havana had, but we’ll need you well-rested to handle diplomacy.” His superior told him. “Catch some rest and try to have a chat with Roberto about how to…” He searched for words, snapping his digits a few times. “How to best present our organization I guess? This installation is of prime strategic value, we must get them into an agreement with us.”

“What if they’re...”

“Bad guys?”

Alej’ nodded slowly. Dilip turned his head towards the refinery with a light frown. Multiple silhouettes could be seen through the rain, observing them but staying at a respectable distance. Some… were armed.

Then again so was basically everyone in the fleet.

“The Switzerland clause is still part of our MO so...” He trailed off. “No messing with their decisions. Only reason we’d have to intervene is if they turn out to be as bad as those bandits in Savannah. Otherwise… it’s not our right to intervene in how they decide to govern themselves. That said, I’ll make sure we have the veterans geared up for when we meet them if we need to bail out.”

Lots of ways this could go terribly wrong.

In the span of time Rhine and Amandine had taken to journey towards Mexico, Fugro had headed in the opposite direction, headed for Dominica. A shorter journey, yet one that took about as much time for the other vessel. She wasn’t quite as fast as the other two vessels, though she could still achieve a respectable 14 knots. Not a record-breaking speed, but not bad for an offshore support vessel.

Vessels of that type never were meant to get anywhere fast, and that was hardly a problem to Captain Skinner.

Nor was reaching Dominica much of a problem. Their passage from Cuba to the diminutive island in the Lesser Antilles took them east along Cuba’s northern shores and its signature cayos, little islets that dotted the shoreline like miniature, idyllic archipelagos forming sheltered creeks and coves in stark contrast with the steeper shoreline found around Havana. Past that, they sailed along Hispaniola’s northern shores, passing the second-biggest island of the Greater Antilles before they slipped south in a gap between the islands just short of Puerto Rico.

And then… that was one last stretch east-south-east towards Dominica.

Simple, but there was a bit of charm that came with sailing around islands in the Caribbean sea.

Their destination was reached in short order, first appearing as a big yellow blotch on their radar screens before the island’s steep verdant slopes appeared over the horizon. In contrast with the almost perfectly flat relief of islands found in the Bahamas – glorified sandbanks really-, and the balanced relief found among the larger islands of the Greater Antilles, the Lesser Antilles had a volcanic nature that was pretty hard to miss at a glance. Most islands were diminutive in size, yet with a jungle-covered landscape that quickly rose up from the shoreline and towards mountainous summits. The typical volcano shape, one that didn’t lend itself to the construction of many buildings, or to agriculture. There were only a select few areas on such islands that could be turned to producing food, no more than a few plantations.

It was no surprise then that its pre-Event economy would have been… weak, to put it mildly. Dependent on a tourism industry that usually preferred other islands, with limited local industry that was highly vulnerable to foreign concurrence, it was no surprise the island had never truly blossomed.

And it wouldn’t be blossoming for a good while after the Event either. Steep inclines and abundant rainfall had a nasty habit of creating landslides, and being left with a nearly-nil population for an extended amount of time meant that not enough folks had been there to stave off ground erosion.

Add to that a strong hurricane season and magically-induced storms from when those demon-pirates had passed through the area… and the ensuing damage was extensive. Upon arrival in Roseau, the island’s capital, they found it almost completely reduced to rubble. Its position at the end of a valley meant debris from higher up in the island had been funneled into town just as the foundations of nearly all buildings in the town’s upper reaches slipped right from underneath them, carrying humongous amounts of mud and rubble all the way up to the shore where a scant few buildings were still standing, next to a ravaged pier Skinner had initially hoped they’d moor at.

Good luck doing that now.

“Holy shit...” Quinn muttered under his breath, the short black dragon occupying the role of Chief Officer was gaping at the sight, his sentiment echoed by most of the crew present on the bridge when they arrived.

There had been some nasty cases of abandonment and overgrowth in their previous ports of call, they had seen some burned down towns in Northern Ireland, and they had heard of the flooding in Savannah and wider Georgia too… but devastation on that scale? That was something else.

And yet recent intel reports from the HPI pointed to activity on the island. There were returnees that had survived… that.

“Quinn...” Skinner finally said after spending a couple minutes observing the damage from the bridge’s windows before the sun finally set with not a single light illuminating Roseau’s ruins. “It’s too late to dispatch a lifeboat ashore today, so get down to the sick bay and ask the doc if she’s got any experience with the kind of sicknesses disasters like that usually come with. Think uh… cholera and the like. I’d wager a fair sum of money the locals aren’t doing too good.”

“But where are they? I’m not seeing a single light here!” Quinn erupted, waving an arm towards the ruins. The dragon’s nostrils were letting out thin plumes of smoke.

“That’s the second part. They must have gone somewhere, so scrounge up a chart of the island and try to identify places that might have withstood the damage or that could offer shelter. We’ll… explore around and try to find some clues. Tomorrow.”

Merlin stared across the table at Morgane. The fay had reassembled his missing tibia and was now casually sipping from a glass of wine as she stared back at him expectantly. The tibia laid between them on the table, the enchanted bone thrummed with power. Every now and then, a small spark of stray magic would pop out with a fizzle.

“So… why would you do that?” She set down her wine and asked. “Why engrave your bones?”

“Sounds obvious to me.” The ghost replied defensively. “You ought to be clever enough to put the pieces together.”

Morgane leaned forward, the purple embers that stood in for her eyes pierced through his translucent form.

“I’m also clever enough to recognize the potential danger in assumptions, and I’m giving you a chance not to further tarnish what little esteem I have left for you.”

“How kind of you.” He scoffed.

“Quit acting like you even have a semblance of moral superiority. You’re in Arthur’s court no longer, you’re dead, and most of all: you need me. Unless you want to tell your friend Rockhoof his transportation issues will never be solved and that Miss Miles will forever remain a mare, then you better start giving out answers right about now. So… this enchanted bone, was it yet another of your grabs at power?”

“That’s rich coming from a former court maiden who used magic to turn herself into a fay.”

“Merlin...” Morgane’s sharp nails dug into the table and drew shallow gouges in the wood.

“Fine!” He finally relented. “Have your answers if you want. Judge me. Those enchantments on my tibia… you probably noticed but I used to have some over my entire skeleton to various extents. Skull included. It’s… the best means I had at the time to extend my magical prowess when I plateau-ed.”

“Lust for power then.” She sniffed. “How predictable…”

He ignored the jab. No matter what kind of argument he conjured up, he knew the dark fay would just fall back to her usual accusations. But really, at the time he started engraving his bones and inserting mana stones in his bone marrow, he needed a quick power boost. Both as Merlin and as Starswirl, and when his little pet project of turning himself into an alicorn panned out...

Alicorns were the same type of species as fay in that only female specimens existed. And if you’re not willing to take that kind of step forward, it gets really limiting for a mage. Hitting peak performance? You could turn into a lich or a demon… with the obvious consequences that typically ensue. Sprites and elementals usually had severe limitations, and most other non-human species likewise were limited by intrinsic ties to certain divinities.

Yet here he was way back. Already a powerful mage with access to the arcane might of two renowned casters at the same time and the advantages that came with being two persons at once… yet Arthur’s adventures kept raising the stakes and he was constantly racing for more power, more spells, more mana.

Talk about being stuck.

The reasoning that followed seemed simple then. Magic circles, spell matrices, mana stones and artificial foci. All core concepts of being a mage and the source of most casters’ powers. So what if he always had direct access to them? As in… that even stark naked, he could never be separated from them? After all, as Starswirl, he never was separated from his horn. So what if he did something similar as Merlin?

Therein laid the difference. He had only ever done it with his Merlin half. Starswirl the unicorn didn’t need it, much less when he discovered the boost carried over between his bodies. If he didn’t need to go through the excruciating pain that was engraving his own bones and ingesting enough potions to knock out an ox just to make sure he didn’t reject the changes, then he certainly wouldn’t be putting himself through the ordeal twice over.

Still… the pain was worth the boons. He had started off small, and from then on proceeded to expand on it for years until Camlann happened. Foci to be able to cast without a staff (though it still helped), mana stones and gems to enhance his energy stores, wards for protection against attacks mental, physical and arcane, premade spells for quick casts like teleportation, shields and telekinesis, enhanced strength and vigor...

You named it, he had a bone engraved for it. Years of work.

It only stopped when he went into exile, after the battle of Camlann, after the battle of Arfderydd… when Morgane managed to trap him and entomb his human half under a menhir. Incidentally, that happened at the exact same time his pony half became stuck thanks to the Stygian incident.

The flow of power and information between both halves, what used to be a wide rushing river, became but a trickle. Starswirl forgot about Merlin. Merlin withered under his tomb and became a ghost, slumbering as human magic withered away and his life became legend.

Before the Event brought it all back to life and reunited both halves.

“When?” Morgane asked.

“I started doing it shortly after Arthur received Excalibur.” He said. “As for the… ghostly contingency...” He waved a hand over his own ethereal form. “It was there from the start. I made sure my bones would not become a phylactery by accident – too prone to corruption-so my soul is anchored thanks to my… inter-worldly nature if you will. I’m forever tied to the boundary between Earth and Equus until such a time that all the substance of both my souls will be consumed.”

“So you don’t actually need your skeleton anymore?”

He shook his head.

“How do I put it? The inter-world divide is a strange concept that I’m only now starting to unravel. I can tap into it for power, and I’ve even found a way to create immaterial versions of those same engravings I did on my skeleton… thanks to you telling me how to create a plane of existence actually. The wards, the enhancements, I have them now, and unlike the skeleton, they’re not prone to corruption. Still…” He tentatively rested his gaze on the tibia on the table. “I do still hold my own skeleton dearly.”

“I’m not giving it back.” Morgane retorted sharply.

“Why do you even need a tibia for?!” Merlin exclaimed loudly, standing up from his seat.

Morgane smirked lightly before casually picking up the bone and running a single nail over its length, purple sparks of magic erupting from the contact point as the air hissed.

“Why, it’s a powerful item that you no longer need, and my material-bound self thinks it might make for a pretty decent wand. A foil to my own staff if you will.” She told him offhandedly. “Maybe I’ll pass it on to a student in the future? I mean, you have one yourself, so maybe I ought to find a returnee myself? A young lady with some potential, hmm? Or a doe rather… I ought to ‘modernize’ my speech patterns, so to speak.”

“There is a very good reason as to why I’m training Martin.”

“I’m aware. The forest has ears, you know?” She smiled, flicking her fingers and sending Merlin’s tibia back where she usually kept it. “Better hope that fawn of yours doesn’t get your habit of putting his nose -pardon me: his snout- where he shouldn’t. That said, knowing you have an apprentice has rekindled the interest in my poor old withered soul.”

“If you’re back to making accusations then I guess you’ve had your fill of explanations?” Merlin ground out slowly, not sitting back down.

“As far as what can be casually discussed around a table?” She paused to finish her wine, one little red drop trickling down the corner of her mouth as she smiled predatorily. “Yes. But you’re not in the clear just yet. Those bone engravings, I’ll need you to write it all down in detail for me. Just telling me the gist of it isn’t enough, understand?”

With a flick of her fingers, she summoned a roll of parchment from an alcove behind her.

“I guess it won’t hurt...” Merlin relented.

“Unlike you I’d rather collect that information and hold on to it rather than use it on myself in an excruciatingly painful ritual. There’s the difference between you and me.” She gloated.

“Don’t play it off as though you don’t have a track record yourself Morgane. If anything you’re as guilty as I am when it comes to the darker arcane arts, unlike Vivian.” He countered, using his telekinesis to grab a quill off Morgane’s shelves. “Your taste in decoration doesn’t help either, regardless of whether you’re using it to drive off hecklers or not. I mean… goat skulls? Really?”

Morgane just propped an elbow on the table and held her chin in the palm of her hand.

“So now you’re actually responding to the verbal jousting? Why I thought I had accidentally stolen your spine for a while.”

“Nay, I ensured it was properly relocated this time, before Vivian decides to mimic you and blackmail me for my jawbone or something.” He snarked as he began jotting down the process behind bone enchanting. “I’d hate to be at the mercy of those followers she’s gathered around herself… which reminds me I’ll need to check them out.”

“You probably should.” Morgane said more seriously. “Those familiars I send to her domain for our usual correspondence told me they were a bit… zealot-ish so to speak. And if crows can pick up on it, it’s something you should be aware of.”

“All the more reason to be careful then. Vivian has a vengeful streak you don’t share and enough reasons to dislike me such that might hinder Trecesson. Do you know if...”

“Cernunnos?”

“Is she in on his deal?”

“Probably. Otherwise I suspect the Horned God wouldn’t have let her set up a colony in the first place.”

Merlin paused in his writing.

“That might help with diplomacy then. I can’t fathom him allowing petty wars within Broceliande’s borders, though I’ll have to look into the details an-”

He halted mid-sentence, a thrill of alarm going down his spine. Across from him, Morgane went still for a fraction of a second before her staff flew into her hand and purple magic erupted around the room. Something had entered Broceliande, something potent enough to trigger their wards. As his fay… acquaintance was doing, he summoned up his staff and began casting scanning spells in quick succession to figure out what it was that was coming and where exactly it was going.

Vague images started flicking back to the forefront of his mind. Shapes, a vague sense of direction, it was large… He scowled. Still too far from him to reliably scan.

With a curt goodbye, he teleported back to Trecesson. He’d need his gear in his tower to figure it out.

On Morgane’s table, the parchment lay unfinished with only the beginnings of the bone enchantment ritual on them.

Being anchored in the middle of the cove and waiting for the next day didn’t mean activity on Amandine had wound down to a standstill, far from it. Deep within the holds, sailors could still be found hurrying from one end of the ship to the other.

The rumor mill was running in overdrive with various kinds of speculations as to what awaited them went they went ashore the next day, and most of the upper ranks were grasping at straws trying to figure out how to go about first contact in the most diplomatic way possible without exposing themselves to anything should the locals turn out to be of the unfriendly kind.

On the main deck, the rumble of an engine signalled Micha had gone ahead with her idea of moving some of their combat vehicles next to the side ramps. Anything went wrong, and they’d be dropped halfway open to allow the Piranhas and the CV90 to fire freely.

At the same time, throngs of sailors started bringing ammunition to the armory where they started filling up spare mags, both of the deadly kind with live rounds, and the… lesser-lethal kind by bringing the FN303 riot guns out of storage. Because in a world where the amount of sentient beings has been reduced by a factor of ten thousand, the last thing you want is to further cull what’s left of the population.

“Or commit the usual mistake and pull out the less lethal stuff when you meant to kill your target. Right Scarface?” Thanasis joked.

“Why, fuck you too.” The gargoyle rolled his eyes as the whole recce team was gathered around a workbench inside the armory, preparing their gear after Bart brought it out of storage for them. “It only happened the one time, and that was months ago. You wanna comment about the fact you can’t hit the broadside of a barn?”

Across from him, the sphinx with the tan fur and reddish mane recoiled as if struck.

“Not fair! Not all of us are veterans.” He protested.

“True, but with the range time you’ve clocked every time the opportunity presented itself, one would think you’d actually improve, no?” Scarface casually commented with a light smirk as he finished reassembling his SCAR, racking it a few times to ensure it was properly oiled.

A few meters away from the two, Aleksei settled on ignoring the weak jabs the two were throwing at each other. Bizarrely enough, it would be down to the recce team to escort Alejandro and the Captain ashore and ensure their safety. Probably because she had some magic that could help with first contact, and Dilip wanted to keep the three veterans that weren’t on her team in reserve as marksmen. She completed the last checks on her gear and Radiant’s. The pegasus now officially counted as part of the recce team, and enough time on board had seen that he now had gear that properly fitted his form.

The matter with him was that unlike most of the crew that had either hands or telekinesis to handle the fine stuff – barring Sandra, but the radio operator batpony was a non-combatant-, he didn’t have that luxury and had required… adequate measures to ensure he’d be able to fight alongside her team.

As a result? Bart had devised a sort of battle-saddle under Radiant’s advice which he had based off of the same K9 armor ponies generally stuck to (whereas larger species like griffons and hippogriffs could use human armor, if adequately modified). The pegasus had a pair of holsters on either side of his barrel under each wing. One for the same hybrid FNC-Ak 5 the whole crew used, another for the less-lethal FN303, both designed so he’d be able to fire them prone, standing or flying.

It had its issues though. The extended triggers he could activate with his hooves still required him to toggle the safety with his primaries, and he couldn’t reload while in the air, but he would be able to fight.

“So how does it fit?” She asked him, sitting down on her haunches after helping the pegasus adjust a few straps.

“Snugly I guess? It’s heavy.” Radiant grumbled, rolling his wings in their sockets and tugging at the armored collar with one hoof.

“It should be. You’re carrying a full combat load. You think you can fly, or should I tell Bart to come and remove some kevlar plates?”

He hesitated for a second.

“I should be able to… but I’ll probably remove the back plate anyway. It’s superfluous.”

“Okay… now...” She tapped a talon against the side of her beak. “Let’s test those mechanisms. Triggers?”

The gray-coated pegasus flipped a small latch on his chest, and a pair of shiny levers appeared on either side of his barrel, just in reach of his forehooves. Aleksei had him dry-fire either, practice his reloads, inspect the targeting system…

Which technically were just a pair of lasers mounted to the barrel of either gun, but that was his primary aiming system. The other was a small scope mounted on a spring alongside the saddle, though… parallax was a bitch on the accuracy and it was less than ideal to use the system when on the move. That made it even worse, because if he stopped and came to a halt he might as well unhitch his gun from the saddle and fire it the regular way. He may not be able to pull the trigger with his hooves, but his primaries could do the job in a pinch.

“Still… for Bart’s first attempt at crafting a battle saddle it’s not half-bad.” Radiant commented, impressed. “I swear the Royal Guard’s armorers would appreciate the design at least. I think. They’re mostly unicorns.”

“That you can tell him in person.” She jabbed a talon towards the area of the armory where the unicorn was inspecting some guns. “You going to be okay with that thing then?”

“Well… I was never much of a fighter, but you can rely on me. Promise. Normally I’d say I’d be your eye in the sky but...”

“I know. The whole recce team can fly.” She smiled, giving him a pat on the back. “Just stick with us and everything will be fine.”

“Let’s hope it will.” He sighed. “Now what?”

Aleksei surveyed the team. Scarface and Thanasis were still bickering, but their gear was ready, as was hers and Radiant’s.

“Captain wants us in high readiness. You can take off the armor, but don’t let it out of your sight. You’re free to roam around the ship and catch some rest, just keep your walkie-talkie on. I want the team assembled by the boat davit within five minutes when we’re called up, okay?”

“Anything else?”

“You’re armed.” She said. “That means no alcohol, no prancing about the main deck so we don’t scare the locals, and if I find you without your guns in the same room I’ll dunk your head in the sewage tank, copy?”

“Crystal ma’am.” Radiant straightened up.

Her beak parted in a small smile. She stood up.

“Good. Sorry if that seemed rude, but I’d rather set it straight from the beginning. Pray, play, do whatever you want so long that you’re on time when the call comes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

On that note, she was off to her own cabin. She had her own affairs to tend to, the usual cleric stuff, some prayers, maybe a protection ritual or two to aid her team and make sure everything went smoothly…

And then there was her correspondence with Morv’. The magical exchange of letters was almost daily now, and last she heard of the demigod stallion, he sounded like he was about to find the ruins of that sunken city he was after. He said he was looking around… Douarnenez was it?

He could certainly conjure up some interesting tales and topics in those letters, and Aleksei was glad Epona taught her how to send them back.

Too bad the goddess endlessly teased her about her infatuated son.

Author's Notes:

First off, I want to thank Harts Fire for helping me edit this chapter.

So, if you dig around and do a bit of research on Welsh mythos and Arthurian legends you usually find a trio of significant battles. One basically winds down to a druid going Postal and unleashing the March of the Ents on an army, but that one I don't find as meaningful as the other two. The Battle of the Trees.

And the other two? I'm referring to the Battle of Camlann and that of Arfderydd. Those two, as you read, I believe had a significant influence on Merlin/Starswirl.

In the first Arthur was defeated and evacuated to Avalon. Given the relationship between the two and the likely perceived end to that whole era of adventuring, that would have hit him pretty bad.

Arfderydd is lesser-known, but seems to be the last civilized sighting of Merlin (Myrdinn in Welsh tradition which sees him as... a bard) before he 'ran into the forest' after the minor lord he was fighting alongside was killed. I'd imagine his reaction to be along the lines of throwing his hands in the air and say something along the lines of 'Aight, Imma live with the druids then'.

Add a couple years of wandering around to that, and then Morgane comes to collect her dues and shoves him under a menhir.

...

As an aside I'm reasonably certain this is the first story on this website to ever mention Dominica. Yeah me?