Chapter 22: The Poet's Revenge
The morning light that seeped through the grimy windows of The Salty Dog was a diluted, grey thing, but it was undeniably morning. A morning on the surface. The smell of the place had shifted overnight from pure salt and fish to include the richer, more complex aromas of fried sausages, baking bread, and strong, cheap coffee. The Damsels assembled in the dining room, a space that felt cavernous after their tiny quarters, its air thick with decades of peat smoke and spilled ale. They looked different.Not clean—the grime was too deeply ingrained for that—but restored. Faces were less gaunt, eyes less haunted. They occupied two long tables shoved together, a bizarre island in the sea of local fishermen and early-mercantile toughs.
Minnie presided over the tea trolley, which she’d wheeled proudly into the room, its squeaks a familiar anthem. "A proper cuppa sets the world tae rights,” she declared, pouring for everyone. The local brew was bitter and black, but it was hot and wet.
The easy silence was broken by Dravion clearing his throat. He stood, his chair scraping loudly on the floorboards. He had found a relatively clean, if threadbare, dark blue doublet, and had attempted to tame his white hair. His expression was one of profound, tragic solemnity.
“Friends,” he began, his voice a resonant baritone that cut through the clatter of cutlery. "Compatriots. Survivors. This dawn finds us battered, yet unbowed. And in the quiet watches of the night, the Muse, that fickle and merciless goddess, visited upon me a revelation. A poem. Born of… contradictory sensations.”
Polly grunted around a mouthful of sausage. “Here we fuckin’ go.”
“It is entitled,” Dravion continued, ignoring her, “‘Ode to a Pixie’s Paradox.’” He inhaled deeply, placed a hand over his heart, and began.
“Above me, in the gloom’s embrace,
A vision of celestial grace.
Two petals of a perfect flower,
Unfurling in that shadowed hour.
A cleft of pink, a promise sweet,
Where eager pleasures vow to meet;
And tight beside, a darker star,
A promise of a different war.
O, sight divine! O, heaven’s art!
It stirred the wisdom in my heart!
But lo, what sound assaults the air?
A rude and sulphurous despair!
A puff, a blast, a bitter wind,
From that same Eden, ill-conned.
A scent that doth the soul assail,
Like murdered dreams, like love grown stale.
Thus stands the truth, both foul and fair:
The nectar and the nettle share a lair.
For every promise, pure and deep,
A vulgar vigil it must keep.
And in that tiny, twinned decree,
Lies all of life’s sweet misery.”
He finished with a flourish, bowing his head. For a beat, there was silence. Then Scoffer let out a roar of laughter that shook the tankards on the table. Brutehilde’s shoulders shook with silent mirth. Polly sprayed coffee, coughing. Even Ulrika’s lips twitched in a faint, icy smile.
Tanna clapped, her innocent face beaming. "It’s beautiful! What's it about?”
Honeymuff, who had been perched on the edge of a honey pot, zipped into the air, her wings a blur of delight. "You did it! You nasty, wonderful man!” She shot towards Dravion, who was still basking in the ambiguous reception.
Before he could react, she landed on his head, her tiny feet tangling in his white locks. She wiggled backwards, hitching up her minute dress, and then settled, pressing her miniature naked pussy directly against his forehead. Dravion stiffened, his eyes widening.
“Your reward, poet!” Honeymuff chirped. Then she began to grind. A tiny, impossibly smooth motion, rubbing her slit and the barely-perceptible nub of her clit against his skin. She let out a soft, musical sigh, her wings fluttering. “Mmm, yes. The sweat of artistic anguish. Very conductive.”
Dravion stood frozen, a living statue of poetic suffering, as the pixie seated on his brow shuddered through a minute, intense climax, her tiny body tensing before she collapsed in a contented heap into his hair. The table erupted in fresh, howling laughter. Brutehilde wiped a tear from her eye.
“Right,” she boomed, once the chaos subsided. Honeymuff flitted back to the honey pot, looking smug. “We’ve had our fun. Now we need a ship. Ulrika, Polly. With me. The rest of you, pack the trolley, settle the bill. We'll meet you back here later.”
The three women stepped out into the blustery day. The wind held a bite, but it was free of the underworld’s clinging damp. Dunkel’s harbour was a chaotic, slopping thing, a maze of wooden piers and rotting nets. Gulls screamed overhead, fighting for scraps. The air was thick with the cacophony of shouting men, creaking ropes, and the slap of water against hulls.
They moved with purpose, Brutehilde’s clogs thumping on the worn planks, Ulrika’s eyes analytically scanning each vessel. Polly lit a cigarillo, squinting against the spray. They rejected several: a coaster that sat too low in the water, its hull suspect; a narrow, sleek vessel that looked built for speed but not for cargo or passengers; a fat-bellied merchantman whose crew leered with unprofessional intent. Finally, Ulrika stopped. “There.”
The ship was a caravel, not large but sturdy-looking. Its hull was tarred black, its sails neatly furled. The name ‘Sea-Nymph’s Revenge’ was carved with elegant, faintly mocking script across its stern. A woman stood at the rail, watching the dock with cold assessment. She was a stark contrast to the grime around her: tall, sharp-featured, with long platinum blonde hair pulled into a severe, intricate braid that fell over one shoulder of a perfectly tailored navy blue coat. Brass buttons gleamed. Her eyes were the colour of a winter sea.
“That’s the captain,” Ulrika stated, her voice low. "See how the crew moves. Efficient. No hesitation. They watch her, not us.”
“Looks like a prickly bitch,” Polly observed, blowing smoke. “I like her.”
Brutehilde led the way up the gangplank, which was sturdy and clean. The deck was spotless, holystoned to pale bone. Two crewmembers—a human woman with a scar across her cheek and a hulking, silent figure in a hooded oilskin—moved to intercept them, but a single, gloved hand raised from the captain stopped them.
“State your business.” The captain’s voice was crisp, devoid of welcome. It carried over the harbour noise effortlessly. "This isn’t a passenger vessel. We’re outbound with the afternoon tide.”
“We need passage south,” Brutehilde said, not offering her hand. “To the capital. Ten… possibly eleven passengers. Some cargo. A tea trolley.”
The captain’s pale eyes flicked over Brutehilde’s milkmaid dress, Polly’s combat boots, Ulrika’s dark elegance. "You look like trouble dug up from a grave. My hold is full of spices. I don’t need gravesoil or tavern brawls stinking up my profit.”
“We can pay,” Ulrika said, her tone cooler than the captain’s. “In gold salvaged from deeper places than your charts show.”
“Gold’s good. But delay is expensive. Trouble more so. Your motley crew includes a pregnant elf, a pixie, and an orc wearing a clown nose. I have my informants, and I have a schedule.” The captain, Nell, folded her arms. Her posture was rigid, unyielding.
Polly dropped her cigarillo and ground it out on the pristine deck with her boot heel. Nell’s jaw tightened. “Schedule’s a suggestion, Captain. The world’s full of ‘em. We need to get home. Name your price, then add your ‘trouble’ tax on top. We’ll pay it - or Lord Falroch will.”
A tense silence stretched. The wind whipped Nell’s perfect braid. She was calculating, weighing the undeniable oddity against the promise of heavy coin. Her gaze lingered on Ulrika, recognizing a kindred severity, then on Brutehilde’s raw physicality, and finally on Polly’s defiant smirk. "Follow me,” Nell said abruptly, turning on her heel. “We’ll discuss the details in my cabin. Alone.”
The captain’s cabin was a temple of orderly maritime function. Charts were weighted down on a large table, a sextant gleamed in its case, and the air smelled of lemon oil and crisp paper. Nell closed the door, shutting out the harbour sounds. She turned, leaning back against the table, her gloved hands gripping its edge.
“The gold first. Show me.”
Ulrika produced a small, heavy pouch from inside her tunic. It clinked with a solid, unmistakable sound as she placed it on the chart. Nell didn’t move to open it. Her eyes stayed on them. Ulrika then laid her Governor's Seal beside it. The captain's eyes sharpened with surprise, but she retained her poker face.
“Now,” Nell said, her voice dropping, losing some of its official crispness, gaining a lower, rougher texture. “The other currency. I’m a woman who appreciates direct negotiation. You want my ship, my schedule disrupted, my crew’s nerves tested by your circus.” Her winter-sea eyes locked on Polly. “I want to see what you’re really made of. Not gold. Guts.”
Polly held her gaze. “What’s your ask, Captain?”
Nell’s lips, unpainted and severe, curled into something that wasn’t a smile. “The scarred one says you like to be rough. I don’t. I like to be serviced. I like control. I’ve been at sea for eight weeks with a crew of competent, silent women. I am… wound tight.” She paused, letting the unspoken need hang in the lemon-scented air. "I have heard the tavern talk. The legend of the Damsels. How you… handle things.”
Brutehilde understood. She gave a single, slow nod to Polly. Polly didn’t hesitate. This was a language she spoke fluently. She crossed the cabin floor, the boards creaking under her boots. She stood before Nell, who remained against the table, proud and challenging. Polly’s hands went to the brass buttons of the impeccably tailored navy coat. "Allow me,” Polly murmured, not a request.
Nell watched, her breathing subtly deepening, as Polly undid each button with deliberate slowness. The heavy wool coat fell open. Underneath was a clean, white linen shirt, tucked into high-waisted trousers. Polly’s fingers worked the trousers’ fastenings next, the silence broken only by the rustle of cloth and the distant cry of gulls.
Nell didn’t help. She didn’t move. She simply watched, her face a mask of expectant authority. When the trousers were loosened and pushed down just enough, Polly went to her knees on the hard deck. She hooked her hands under Nell’s thighs, her fingers gripping the strong, taut muscles, and pulled the captain forward, leaning her back more fully against the table’s edge.
Nell’s platinum hair brushed the chart behind her. She was completely exposed now from the waist down, her shirt tails providing a stark frame. She was shaved clean, her cunt a neat, pink slit between the golden skin of her thighs. "Well?” Nell breathed, the word a command.
Polly didn’t need another. She leaned in and dragged her tongue from the captain’s tight asshole all the way up through her soaked folds to her clit in one long, slow, wet stroke. Nell gasped, a sharp, bitten-off sound. Her gloved hands flew back to grip the table edge, her knuckles straining the leather.
Polly dove in, burying her face between Nell’s legs. This wasn’t tender. It was functional, devastatingly skilled. She ate pussy like she fought: dirty, efficient, and aimed to win. She flattened her tongue and lapped at Nell’s entrance, drinking the sharp, salty tang of her arousal. Then she focused on the hard little bud of her clit, sucking it hard between her lips, flicking it rapidly with her tongue-tip.
“Fuck,” Nell hissed, her head falling back. “Yes. Just like that. Don’t you fucking stop.”
Polly obeyed. She fucked Nell with her tongue, plunging it deep inside her, feeling the captain’s inner muscles clamp down. She added two fingers, curling them up to find the rough, textured spot inside. She scissored them, stretched her, worked her in tandem with the relentless suction on her clit. Nell’s thighs began to tremble against Polly’s ears. Her breathing became ragged, choked pants. The pristine captain was unravelling, her composure dissolving into pure, raw sensation. “Harder,” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Make me come. Make me forget my own name.”
Polly redoubled her efforts. Her jaw ached. Her own cunt was wet, throbbing in her fishnets, but this was the job. She grunted against Nell’s flesh, the vibration sending a new shockwave through the captain. Nell’s back arched sharply off the table. A guttural, unfettered cry tore from her throat, utterly unlike her earlier crisp tones. Her body seized, wave after wave of brutal climax milking Polly’s fingers and mouth. Polly rode it out, sucking and fucking her through every spasm until Nell sagged, limp and gasping, against the table.
Polly pulled back, wiping her slick mouth with the back of her hand. She stood up, her knees popping. Nell’s eyes were closed, her face flushed, her perfect hair disarrayed. She took several long, shaky breaths before pushing herself upright. With trembling but deliberate hands, she refastened her trousers, smoothed her shirt, and re-buttoned her coat, reclaiming her uniform piece by piece.
She looked at Brutehilde and Ulrika, then finally at Polly. Her winter-sea eyes were clearer now, the storm within momentarily calmed.
“You make the afternoon tide,” Nell said, her voice regaining its command, though slightly roughened. “The gold, plus twenty percent. Your circus stays out of my crew’s way. You bunk in the forward hold. We sail in four hours. Don’t be late.”
She turned to the chart, as if they were already dismissed. The negotiation was complete.
Back in the Salty Dog’s dining room, the mood was loose, the relief of imminent passage softening the edges of their perpetual weariness. Minnie was conducting a solemn inventory of her tea caddies. Tulip rested a hand on her stomach, watching the fire. Tanna polished a greave. The cozy scene was fractured by the return of the three women. Brutehilde’s clogs announced their arrival before the door swung shut against the wind.
“We sail with the afternoon tide,” Brutehilde declared, her voice cutting through the murmur. “Pack what’s not packed. The hold’s our berth. Captain’s a hardcase, but she’s solid.” No one cheered. They simply nodded, a quiet efficiency taking over. This was the next step, not the end.
In a shadowed corner, away from the organizing, Dravion found Scoffer. The orc was slumped on a bench far too small for him, his single remaining clown shoe looking profoundly sad. He wasn’t drinking. He was just staring into the middle distance, his usually boisterous presence deflated.
“Mighty Scoffer,” Dravion began, sliding onto the bench opposite. “A cloud obscures your divine countenance. What troubles the god of the goblins?”
Scoffer heaved a sigh that smelled of old mushrooms and damp leather. “It’s the shoe, poet. The fucking shoe.” He lifted his large, bare foot, wiggling his grimy green toes. “Lost to the god-pissed sea. Can’t replace it here. This dump doesn’t have a decent cobbler, let alone a proper clown-shoemaker. I’m lopsided. It’s undignified.” He dropped his foot, his voice dropping to a grumble. “And I miss my temple. The chanting. The little shits leaving offerings of half-eaten rats and shiny pebbles. Here, I’m just a big, smelly orc in a posing pouch.”
Dravion listened, his expression morphing into one of profound empathy. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Aesthetics undone! The tragedy of asymmetry! The cruel alienation of the deity from his devout! I feel it, my friend. I do. But remember, even a god must walk a mortal path sometimes. And on that path, sometimes, consolation comes in… unexpected verses.”
Scoffer looked at him, a glimmer of interest in his small, bloodshot eyes. “A poem?”
“Not just a poem,” Dravion said, drawing himself up. “A ballad. An epic of… earthy consolation. I shall call it, ‘The Cloistered Cunt and the Savage Knight.’” He cleared his throat, and in a resonant, theatrical whisper, began.
“Sister Marian, pale and tight,Knelt in chapel, soft moonlight.Her prayers were not to God above,But to the orcish god of love.She’d lift her habit, pure and white,And beckon in the dead of night.A green-skinned giant, strong and coarse,To take her with relentless force.His broad, blunt cock, a monstrous thing,Would make the holy cloisters ring.She’d scream her psalms on cock so thick,And bless each brutal, juicy lick.The altar where she’d take her communion,Was the sweating orc’s crude, bestial union.So fear not, god, for shoe bereft,For zealous pussy is always left.To worship at your true, great size,With desperate, holy, hungry cries.”
As Dravion finished the last, hushed line, Scoffer’s morose expression had utterly vanished. His wide mouth stretched into a delighted, tusky grin. A low, rumbling chuckle started in his belly and erupted into full, table-shaking laughter. “A nun! By the lost shoe, that’s brilliant! She blessed his juicy lick!” He slammed a massive hand on the table, making the tankards jump. “You’ve got a twisted mind, poet. I feel better. Still missing a fucking shoe, but better.”
The commotion drew looks. Polly, shouldering a packed kitbag, shook her head. “Great. He’s written porn for the orc. We’ll never hear the end of it.”
With the bill settled and the tea trolley loaded with their pitiful baggage, the Damsels filed out of the Salty Dog and toward the docks. The wind had picked up, scudding dark clouds across the sky. The Sea-Nymph’s Revenge sat ready, lines cast off, a sense of taut anticipation humming through its rigging. Captain Nell stood at the top of the gangplank, her platinum braid whipping like a banner. She watched them approach, her winter-sea eyes missing nothing.
The boarding was less chaotic than feared. The crew, a mix of human and non-human women with focused, closed faces, directed them efficiently toward the forward hatch. The hold was dim, smelled of spice, old wood, and tar, and was cramped with their gear, but it was dry. A space had been cleared for Minnie’s trolley. It felt like a retreat, a womb of wood within the larger vessel. The finality of it hit them as the hatch was battened down above, leaving them in the lantern-lit gloom. The world outside became a muffled symphony of shouted orders, creaking timber, and the groan of the ship coming alive.
They felt the deck tilt beneath them, a slow, ponderous motion that was utterly foreign after so long on unyielding stone or treacherous cliff. The Sea-Nymph’s Revenge was underway. The journey home had truly, finally begun. No one spoke. They simply found places to sit or lie, listening to the new rhythm of their world, each lost in private thoughts of what lay behind and what might lie ahead, the ship carving a path through the grey, boundless sea.