V.O.C. of the People

Carrots and Cutlery
In which snacking is not permitted

The smell of boiling carrots filled the galley. They weren’t being prepared with a purpose; Fabio just liked to boil carrots. They were easy to do, smelled good, and gave him an easy out whenever someone tried to get him to do something. “Just started boiling carrots,” he’d say. They usually left him alone after that.

It was a smell that always took him home, back to when he was a young Arighetti in Italy. His mother never had much, so most dinners were primarily carrot or tomato in composition. Occasionally, they’d have potatoes or pasta, but those were usually reserved for special occasions. Being the oldest of seven, he was often enlisted to help with making dinner — a chore he eventually took over completely once he was comfortable with the knife. It came natural to him, making food for others, so becoming a ship’s cook was almost a matter of course. He didn’t mind.

The sound of rope hitting the deck nearby brought him back to the moment. “Ey Cookie,” one of the deckhands called out as she walked towards the galley, “how’sabout givin’ us an early supper, then? I’ve worked twice as ‘ard as any other today.”

Fabio didn’t even bother raising his head. “No snacking, Joan. I just started boiling some carrots.”

The stock excuse didn’t seem to faze Joan. “Come on, cookie. Jus’ an apple. I’ll eat it secret-like.”

“No snacking, welp.”

Joan, eyeing Fabio, stopped her approach just outside the galley’s door. “I’ll not bother ye, then. Just an apple for me’self,” she said, reaching her arm towards a bushel on a nearby counter. “Nothin’ to bother ye wiAAAAAAA!”

Her scream came on the tail end of Fabio slashing her arm with his cooking knife. She gasped, grabbing the wound defensively as she eyed the cook. Fabio, emotionless as always, simply wiped off the knife and resumed his work.

“Yer crazy, then!” Joan shouted. “That punishment t’weren’t fit fer pinchin’ an apple!” Hatred filling her vision, she grabbed for her cutlass and pulled it from her belt. “I’ll have your ‘ead for that!”

She lifted her cutlass, as though prepared to charge into battle, but felt a hand grab her wrist from behind. She turned, startled by the sudden grapple, to see Captain Borrow restraining her.

“There’ll be none of that,” the Captain said, his voice reminiscent of a father scolding his child. “Besides, you wouldn’t last two seconds with the cook.” He gestured with his head that she look ahead.

Where Fabio had previously stood working, now there was only empty air. Instead, Joan felt the flat of a blade tap against her ribs. She looked to see the cook, crouched silently at her side, holding the kitchen knife against her ribcage. “It’s a shame,” Fabio muttered, standing back up, “not much meat out on the open seas. Be nice to get some protein back in our diets.”

“We don’t eat deckhands for being rowdy, Fabio” The Captain chided.

“Quite right you are, Captain,” Fabio responded. “Not since we resupplied in Suez.”

Joan went pale at the implication, but calmed a bit upon hearing the Captain’s chuckle. She lowered his arm, and sheepishly returned the cutlass to her belt. “I’ll return to my duties, then, sir.”

“Captain,” Philp interjected.

“Yes, Captain. I’ll return to my duties, then, Captain,” Joan reiterated.

“Yes you will. And when we arrive in Batavia, you’ll be looking for another ship. I’ll not have deckhands attacking my cook because they’re hungry.”

“Yes, Captain.”

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Once Burned, Twice Shy
Four years ago

Cullen gritted his teeth and held Pip tightly in his left hand. The alley had finally grown dark in the clouded cover of night, and the time to execute had finally come. Any other job would have been a cakewalk, an easy in and out. But this was not his usual job. This was not his idea. The plan was one he had to learn, not lay out himself, and it made him uneasy. While he trusted Devon, he did not trust his logic this time. The VOC were not someone to be reasoned with, and infiltration was not something that had ever occured to him. The idea of taking down the ones pulling the strings was tempting, certainly, but the execution was not in his usual playbook.

A series of sparks lit momentarily in the alley across the street before extinguishing. It was time. Cullen closed his eyes and let out a sigh, and climbed atop the crates stacked next to him. He’d get one shot. His sixty seconds started now.

Cullen jumped and aimed a decisive blow towards the second story of the building opposite him. Pip connected with the stone and let out a concussive bellow that resonated through the district. A moment later, he was standing in a dark office, surrounded by files stacked high around the walls. Fifty five seconds.

He made his way across the room to the stack closest to the door, and began digging through the stack, frantically looking for the building plans he was told would be there. And as he was instructed, the plans for the newest Bordeaux Orichalcum Refinery sat about halfway down the stack. He grabbed them and exited the office, and carefully closed the door behind him. He was in a long hallway. Forty Seconds.

He turned right, and made for the stairs at the end of the hall, but took the ones going up to the top floor, against his better judgement, and headed towards the roof. With twenty seconds left, he reached the roof. The door was not locked. So far, so good. He turned and locked the door with the key he had been given. To anyone trying to evaluate the scene, it would appear he had no possible way to escape the building but the way he came in. Now for the difficult part.

He turned to the roof neighboring and braced himself to jump. Below he could hear a commotion coming from the base of the building he was jumping to. Devon must be doing his job well, Cullen thought to himself. He tried to push his friend from his mind, and took a deep breath. He jolted to attention, and felt every muscle in his legs respond as he surged from his braced stance, and sprinted towards the ledge. As he approached the side he lept, and looked down. The height only briefly registered in his mind as he fixated on a spot in the wall in the building below him. He wound up, and threw Pip with all his might. Pip connected directly with the wall, letting out another thunderous bellow. But a mere second later, a massive bolt of lightning erupted through the hole and into the first hole he had struck. Out of the corner of his eye, right before landing, he saw a familiar form jump between the two holes in the opposite direction, heading for the office he had just vacated. Devon was right on time. Perfect.

Cullen stumbled on his landing, a mixed feeling of accomplishment and anxiety. On the one hand, the plan was going perfectly. Anyone pursuing Devon would have assumed that the bolt he let off fired through both walls, and that there was never any target in the office, just the jewels he was currently making off with. He and Devon both knew that Devon’s lightning could never break through a wall without an outside power amplification, but the beauty of strangers was the misunderstanding of the outside world. On the other hand, Pip lay below in the ally, knocked free of the debris by the lightning. They would be reunited soon, but first he had to finish the job. And that part depended on no complications. He bit his lip, and made for the access into the building.

Once in the building, he waited carefully a few seconds, listening for sounds of any further guards pursuing his companion. Once he was sure that the building was empty of all unwelcome, he made his way to the instructed door, and opened it. It was only once he entered that he realized something was wrong.

Sitting in a desk opposite him was a man he knew only as Guisarme, whom was not entirely unexpected. He wore an eye patch over his small, piercing eyes, and had a long, pointed face topped with greasy, long black hair. The unwelcomed guests, however, flanked him on each side. One was a large, beefy man covered from head to toe in burns, completely bald, and gripping two stones in his left hand, which he turned over and over methodically. The other was a slight woman, dressed in robes of deep black, and hooded so as to shroud her face. All that was visible were her thin, pale lips.

“Greetings, Cullen O’Dunnel.” Guisarme mused lazily.

“Ye never said ye were bringin’ guests.” Cullen said stiffly, edging back towards the door.

“Didn’t I? It must have slipped my mind.” Cullen took another step back. “Now now, there’s no reason to leave when we’re so close to completion.”

The hooded woman waived her hand, ever so slightly, and the door shut behind Cullen. Great, Cullen groaned internally, more Strangers.

“Now, it would seem you retrieved the documents, would you be ever so kind as to hand them over?”

Cullen didn’t move.

“Come now, time is of the essence, we need that file replaced in a timely manner. We wouldn’t want anyone to miss them, or this whole facade has been for naught.”

Slowly, Cullen stepped forward and dropped the file on the desk. Promptly, Guisarme took the file and opened it.

“There’s a good lad” Guisarme smirked, reaching up to his eye patch. He lifted it and revealed an orb of sky blue, which began to glow eerily in the gloom. He quickly flipped through the pages, and within moments shut the file and replaced his eyepatch. “Excellent, I should be able to replicate those perfectly for our benefactor now.” He handed them to the woman on his right and said, “now, would you be a dear, and replace those for me?”

Cullen interjected. “I believe that was my job.”

“Ah yes, well plans have changed slightly.” Guisarme continued lazily. At that, the bulky man on his left separated the two rocks into separate hands. In the light streaming in behind the window, they flashed and revealed themselves as flint and steel.

A scream of a man resonated from somewhere outside. Cullen turned around abruptly. It sounded like Devon.

“Our benefactors in the VOC have determined that loose ends should most likely be tied up. They feel terribly about the jewels lost in the process of obtaining these documents, and cleaning the smut willing to steal off of the street would make them feel quite right in the addition of a VOC representative apprehending the thieves responsible. All about image you see. And so, I will bid you adeiu, and leave you to my colleague here.”

“Ye’ll have a good time of it. You should know I don’t go down easy in a fight. Even with brutes ugly as this sport.” Cullen spat venomously, rage beginning to boil.

“Ah, yes, I did some research about you, mister ‘Grey Gale’, was it? From your record, it sounds like you are nigh unstoppable. Fortunately, we have, what you might call a speciallist on the matter. You see, stones may not break you, my good lad.” At this, he stood and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. In a blink, they were gone. But as the enormous man grinned and struck his two stones together, Guisarme left two words ringing in his ears.

“Everyone burns.”

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Note_23.01.1712
The first official note on the A.L.A.N. project by one Aart Driesen. Authorized personnel only.
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Dinner with Kharrakh
During Which a Gift is Given

Avinnia took her plate of food down to the brig, deciding that she would enjoy spending the evening having conversation with their captive. She set her plate down on the floor and proceeded to sit beside it. She always placed herself in front of the bars, carelessly close, but she was not afraid of her Ker. Though her visits were not as often as she wished, she did find herself spending more of her free time with him.

She did not speak, at first, her thoughts drifting to the crew. While Phillip found her useful and was having her go with him nearly everywhere, Farrah seemed to want less and less to do with her. It was not just her, however, Avi had noticed Farrah’s attitude continue to change the longer they were away from Christmas Island. After what happened in Cairo, Avi did not blame her. She could not imagine seeing Reykjavik burning, her family nowhere to be found. She did not know how that could affect a person. Farrah was only a few years older that her. Perhaps, this form of loss, caused more reckless behavior. Farrah was acting out against the captain, though, as she thought about it, Farrah had never really taken orders or even advice from any of them.

Avi? Kharrakh’s voice broke through her thoughts and she lifted her head from her plate. He had moved to his normal spot on the opposite side of the bars. His eyes, endless like the night sky, were staring at her. He always kept his eyes on her.

Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts. She looked away from him to check that he had been fed. His plate was empty but there were small traces of the meat he had been given. I am sorry that you are still stuck in there. Captain Phillip is still hesitant to trust you. I think he worries that you will hurt me.

I would not harm my Okraik. Avi thought she heard an offended tone in his voice.

I know, Kharrakh. I trust you. I know you will only protect me. However, after what you and your brothers did, I understand everyone being afraid of you.

Do you fear me, Avinnia?

His question took her by surprise and she looked at him, again, before answering. Her gaze was steady, fearless. Had there ever been fear since she first saw him? No, no, there had not been. If they had not met in battle she would not have even attacked. Her curiosity had been the strongest emotion she had felt. He was so different from those around her, he could understand what it was like to not look human. He had lived in Vandagen. He had seen others like her.

No, she finally answered. I do not fear you. She shoved one of her hands into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a polished aquamarine gem stone. She stared at it for a long, silent, moment. Kharrakh’s eyes, for once, moved from her face down to the stone. He withdrew the shell, that she had previously given him, and looked down at it. It had a similar polish to it. He looked at her as she reached through the bars and stretched out her hand. The stone sat on her palm and her eyes were fixed on him.

A gift, she said.

What is ‘gift’? He asked her. He stretched out his pale hand. His fingertips brushed her warm skin as he lifted the stone.

Humans give gifts to show affection to those they care about. Birds have a similar tradition. Though we prefer objects that shine and shimmer. I polished this myself. She was smiling when he met her gaze once more.

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Pulses and Promises
In which a situation is pondered.

Thump-thump. The pulse rang, radiating life, despite being mired in death. It was so strong, so full in sound and body, and betrayed its own destiny. Anyone with ears could tell that.

Thump-thump. It echoed in the halls and stairwells, pounding into ears and reverberating through heads with neither patience nor mercy.

Kharrakh had long since grown accustomed to the noise, though he’d found it deafening at first. The pulse of the vessel and those aboard it, the sounds of life and those who live it, had, in a way become comfortable to him. The Songbird was what one of his ekurr had called it, a strange name for a vessel if ever he’d heard one.

Thump-thump. The sound of laughter worked down the hallway and into his ears. He did not like the shrill noise, but his Okraik, may her shadow ever stretch, had told him the sound was one of mirth. It was a concept he’d struggled to understand, chittering as a means of signaling to others that you are happy. It was a weak behavior, one that invited mun, but Kharrakh had come to recognize that there was much to Avalon that did not make sense.

Thump-thump. Avalon itself had been much of a disappointment. Him and his brothers had been promised blood and war, with worthy foes and kers aplenty. But they’d been greeted instead by soft, cowardly creatures, who feared battle. When he did finally join upon a worthy foe and became her ker, he was denied his ker-thin, instead being forced into a prison of shame and impotence. Twenty-seven days without being allowed to shed another’s blood. It was amazing he yet lived.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump. And yet live he did. He ached for battle still, but found himself enjoying the peace of his Okraik and her band of ekurr. She was lovely, as were all of Iures’ daughters, and he would no doubt hope for one like her, were he ever deemed worthy of urni-ga, but it was more than her appearance that was softening him. The mun-oraith, the kindness, that they showed him. It was repulsive, but it was also…calming.

Thump-thump. He still longed for battle, and ached for his ker-thin, but perhaps it would not be the worst to wait a while more.

Thump-thump. His body was stiff and sore from this prison, but he found himself not needing freedom as badly as he once did. Perhaps he was beginning to like it here.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

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Wind and Wishes
In which the journey is its own reward

The wind tossed Kemal’s hair, and he allowed a smile to crawl across his face as he enjoyed the magnificent view. Two months ago, he never would have guessed that he’d be on his way to Nepal, with a beautiful woman in his arms and the plan for a good life ahead of him.

The good ship Northwind, the flying vessel upon which he rode, had given him doubts at first. Less of a ship, really, and more of a rowboat strapped to the bottom of a giant balloon, Kemal had been very worried when they’d first taken flight — the first windstorm had very nearly made him mess himself. But now, nearly four weeks later, with the tips of the Himalayas coming into sight, he’d gotten used to her rough-and-tumble style of handling the skies.

Indeed, he’d actually grown fond of it. For while she wasn’t much to look at, she was his. “Or rather, ours,” he thought. “Sunita owns this ship as much as I do.” He glanced down at her, wrapped up in a blanket, nestled in the crook of his arm, and he felt another smile coming on.

Though they’d met under less-than-ideal conditions, they realized almost immediately after making it off Christmas Island that they had a lot more in common with each other than the rest of the world. It turns out that being exiled, no matter where it’s from, can leave some pretty major scars.

He’d found it almost comical, in a fashion, how quickly they’d bonded. Her being a thief with no shame or reservations, and him being a former soldier and bodyguard for the Vatican. Were it the premise for a stage play, he’d find it far-fetched… and yet, here he was.

He’d sought her company the first few nights after their arrival in Odessa. He tried to be the courageous man he felt he should be, but it turned out Malika was (and likely always would be) far better at courage in the face of the unknown than he could ever be. He’d grown to fear the outside world, and found himself distrustful of new people, afraid they’d discover his secrets and send him back. When he learned Sunita felt the same way, he couldn’t keep away from her. They talked for a while, and finally agreed to leave the others and try to start a life together.

First, they’d get a ship and fly to Nepal, where Sunita last saw her son. Once they’d found him, they’d flee into the country and live off the land. It was a simple plan — a Godly plan — and the promise of it gave Kemal the peace he felt he’d lost all those years ago.

A sudden gust of mountain air struck the side of the Northwind, causing it to sway slightly as Kemal felt the chilly air pass through his thick layers. The gentle rays of dawn were just cresting the peaks ahead, and Sunita’s weight in his arms filled him with a strong, if gentle, sense of purpose. His past was behind him, filled with pain and confusion. His future laid ahead of him, full of hope and uncertainty. But for now, he had just the wind, the sun, the mountains, and a woman he was madly in love with.

In that moment, he was free.

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Continued correspondence
For the Revolution!

Dr. Crustevya,

I have previously spoken to you on the matter of shaping the world, changing the lives of those people crushed now under gross oppression. You, in your caution, tell me that my aims are too hasty and bloodthirsty.

However, recently you must have been made aware of the true scope of these forces. Cairo, along with many other Ottoman-controlled port cities, has fallen and my people scattered. I am safe, relatively, in my position with Captain Phillip and the Songbird. Many of my theories have been tested and found solid by the recent events.

I write now only to ask you one simple, yet crucial question. Will you stand with the Al-Azar heir?

As ever thus,
Farrah Al-Azar

Mister Khouri,

I am establishing correspondence with you for the unfortunate reason that I feel someone should become aware if I should ever run aground in hostile seas. My journey has not been safe or easy, but it continues for now. It is my dearest hope that you should not feel this position too taxing or dark for your taste.

I continue to search for my family, but the search seems unlikely to produce positive results. Currently, the Songbird rests in Batavia, that den of jackals, and I will ask at the University of the Al-Azar fate. Hopefully this will not draw ire toward myself or the crew of the Songbird. I have found myself growing fond of the ship.

You must know, my ultimate goal is not peace. And I must ask you now before this correspondence continues further upon your time and mine; Will you stand with the Al-Azar heir?

Yours ever,
Farrah Al-Azar

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When Dreams are only Nightmares
between the party and the shore

After the party, both Farah and Avi had gone to bed, scolded by their captain for their actions that night. Avi had meant no harm by her actions. She trusted Kharrakh and believed he trusted her. She had wanted to show him a side of them that were not his captors. Everything had fallen apart, so quickly. He had smelled Farrah as soon as they were near the deck. And under Cullen and her own orders he had gone to Farrah, so that they would know who he was not to hurt. Farrah had reacted in a way Avi had never expected. Violence was so unlike the woman she idolized. Even so, Farrah had attacked Kharrakh and he in turn got ready for a fight, but not to protect himself. He had leapt in front of Avi, pulled bones from his own body, ready to protect her from Farrah.

She left Alan to tend to Kharrakh’s wounds while she went to speak with Captain Phillip. After he was done speaking with Farrah he turned on Avi. Though, circumstances had made her become an adult much faster than her age, she was still very much a child. It took all her strength not to cry in front of him. She had made such a mistake that he was threatening to kick her off the ship. She took in his words, harsher than she had ever heard from him. She spoke little, “Yes, Captain,” and “I understand, Captain” were almost the only words that slipped over her trembling lips.

As she moved to leave the room, her shoulders hunched, her head lowering, she spoke once more. “I am sorry,” her words so quiet, as she struggled to hold back a sob..

She hurried off to her cabin and locked the door, as soon as she was inside. She wanted to see no one else that night. She wanted no more kind voices to turn cold. She rested her brow against the wooden door and listened to the soft, sleeping chirps of her birds.


Day 1

Everything was slipping. She has not meant to lock herself away at first. When morning came, she did not budge. She knew the sun was up, she always knew when the sun was going to rise, something she associated with her bird-form. Her eyes, one blue, one yellow, stared off into the dark of her room. There were no windows in her room, and she had lit no candles. She had not slept the night before, every bone in her body ached with the gentle shaking of her body. She had, instead, cried all night. Breakfast would be served soon, but there was no hunger inside her. Her birds tweeted awake and Little Tip hopped over to her.

“Did you have a good time, last night, Avi?” he asked in his small voice.

She reached out her fingers, still so very strange to her, and stroked his head. She remained silent, which worried her birds.

“Why are you crying, Mistress?” he asked as he hopped closer to her face.

“Sh,” she whispered and finally let her eyelids close. “I am going to sleep.”


She was falling, so fast, and she could not get her wings to catch her. Her feathers were falling from her, slipping up passed her body as she continued towards the water. A gasp escaped her lungs as she felt cold fingers catch her hand. She looked up at a metal arm then into the face of her captain. Relief washed over her. Phillip would save her, he would not let her fall. But as she stared up at him, he did not pull her up. He was staring back at her, smiling at first, like he had been relieved to catch her, but then his smile was gone. His face was growing dark. Hate replaced the love in his eyes. His metal fingers tightened and he scoffed at her cries of pain. Tiny bones snapping in her fingers as he crushed them.

“Phillip, why are you doing this?” she asked through her sobs.

“You are one of them, Avi, we can not trust you. You have to be put down before you betray us,” his words echoed but his voice was not his own, she could hear the entire crew saying the same words.

“Please, please!” she begged. “I would never betray you. You are my family.”

“We do not want you in our family,” though this voice had the others with it, as well, the main sound was that of Farrah. She stepped up to Phillip’s side, looking down at Avi. She looked different, one had resting on a swollen belly, but her face was as dark as Phillip’s. “I can not have a monster like you near my child.”

Farrah reached down a hand, a small knife in hand, and slid it across the wrist that Phillip held.

Avi screamed in pain as the blood slipped down her arm.

“Goodbye, Avinnia,” they said as one voice.

She was falling again but this time she felt her body hit the cold water. A numbness washed over her. Death’s cold grasp now held her.


Day 2

She had slept through the most of the day and night, though the sleep had been filled with nightmares. She had not ate that first day, but she did not expect to be missed after only a day. She had slept through any meals that had been served. During the second day, she sat in a corner of her room, listening to the chirps of her birds as they tried to cheer her up.


Day 3

Avi looked over at the door, she was still not ready to go out, her nightmares had only grown worse. She was afraid. Afraid to step out of her locked cabin, afraid that the faces she would be greeted with would hold nothing but fear and hate. She had dreamed about her parents the previous night. About the day she first started growing feathers. Her mother’s screams of fear still pounded in her head. Her father’s words, calling her an abomination never left her ears. When she closed her eyes she could see their faces and the faces of her new family.

Fear. Hate. Disgust. These were the things people felt around her. What her presence seemed to evoke in them was even worse. Abuse. Violence. Towards her and anyone like her.

She wondered if her nightmares were what were to come of the future. Perhaps they were not just dreams of her fears but a warning. She would stay in her room longer. She was not ready to face her fate.

Death. Abandonment. Loss. She had been here before. Was she fated to repeat the cycle? Would she have to flee the people she thought had finally accepted her?

Though, near dry of tears, these thoughts once again brought on her sobs. Soon, someone would come looking for her. She needed to decide if they would find her like this, broken and alone, or as a strong, fearless woman, not showing the pain that she felt so deeply.

The third night was no different, nightmares rushed to her, every time she closed her eyes.

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Little Darling
A glimpse of Farrah's father from the past.

“… two “Beste”s and two “Semaî”s have to be composed to form a fasıl of an air. These are verbal pieces. The “beste”s are in the forms of “Murabba” or “Nakış”. “Murabba”s composed on two couplets of a “Gazel” can be with or without “Terennüm”s. Melodies formed with meaningless words such as “ten, tenen, tenenen, ten nen ni”, etc. or meaningful words such as “canım, ömrüm” etc. in accordance with the measure…”

Farrah found it very difficult to focus on the music lesson; she had been out late at the Rashid household teaching the women there how to hide their slate and scrolls from the men, how to meet and study in the many hours when women are not seen around the house by their fathers, husbands, brothers.

Besides, this droning old man had not an ounce of beauty in his soul. Her father had sung often when she was little, rousing war histories and clever tales of princes to amuse his sole child. Once, and this memory was vague to her but nonetheless dear for that, Farrah had spied upon her parents at night and her mother had danced while her father sang slowly, low of voice and somehow softer than he was with everyone else.

This foolish old teacher had never seen a woman dance like that for him, and never would. Songs were a sort of machine to him, but Farrah would rather have gears she could touch.

Lately, Farrah’s father didn’t sing much. She generally avoided him, to preserve her secrets from the man who had power enough to ruin everything, but even the townspeople whispered at how the mighty warrior had diminished in body and spirit. For just a second, Farrah was swept up in the silly thought that the Al-Azars might not be so powerful always. But that wasn’t possible. If anything, her own plans were growing in power and could in future be used to the advantage of trade, politics, and even war! Imagine her father taking up sword again, marching at the head of an army with advanced weaponry that the VOC had never dreamed of, every regiment with a talented Doctor and prosthetinai mechanic.

While of course Farrah wrote the laws in Cairo, corresponding with their merchant vessels and the ambassadors from countries around the world.

The teacher was still droning on about how each fasil could be constructed in patterns of 6 and 8, but Farrah thought instead of her father’s favorite song to sing for her.
_
My life, my little darling
My life for you
My love for you
Little darling
The world is sleeping but you have woken me.
Woken life
Woken love
Little darling my child._

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Dreams - Pt. 2
Alone with her Thoughts

Avi had not drank a lot that night, she was not wanting to get drunk, though the others, Farrah and Phillip mostly, did. She was not able to discuss the evening’s events with Farrah as she had wanted. That, however, was alright. She had so much on her mind and most of it Farrah would not want to hear. She sat in her cabin, which now had a chair, a table, a dresser, and some blankets sprawled on the floor for a bed. She did not need much and she did not want to bother the captain with getting a real bed moved into her room. She had chosen it because of it’s space and privacy. Some of the crew still seemed hesitant around her, and particularly uncomfortable when she would go clothesless. Once she gained her arms she had been happy to dress up. It was easier to alter them with her wing’s slight change in position.

The early evening had been enjoyable. The party had been enough dancing to tire her, but she still went to meet with the other smuggler captain. Kharrakh had been vaguely mentioned during their time there and she had grown rather frustrated. Everyone seemed to dislike him, and she understood to a degree, he had attacked them and the cities, but he would not hurt anyone now. He was under her command, and she honestly felt that she could find a way to turn him into a friend and an ally. To do that, she would have to keep him alive, which worried her. Mel worried her most of all. He had referred to Kharrakh’s kind as monsters. Her mother had called her such. Did Mel think she was a monster? Did the others? She knew that Farrah on occasion had fear in her eyes when she looked at Avi, was that because she thought she was a monster? Fear of her new family turning on her brought tears to her eyes.

She pushed the thought from her mind and thought about something completely different. Her birthday was coming up. She would be seventeen in a little over a week’s time. She had not told any of the others about her birthday, she did not think it was an important day, as she had not celebrated her birthday since she had started to grow feathers. But it was now on her mind. She was growing older, she was learning, and she was beginning to realize what attraction was. She did not know how to deal with it. She knew she was of the marriage age.

Back home these feelings had been for Dashiell, though she had not realized what they were then. She would not see him again, however. She had no intention of ever returning to Iceland. She had informed Captain Phillip of her history and he promised to avoid the area as much as possible. She was grateful that he was always so willing to listen to them. He taken her in after what had happened on Christmas Island. That was not something he had to do but she felt welcomed by him.

He had always been kind. She had thought about that when they were dancing. His kindness may have been what first drew her to him. He had reacted to her desire to learn with an eagerness to teach. He had been interested in the lady captain, however, and so the thought never crossed her mind. He was older than her, but that did not seem strange. Aleid had once mentioned that the man father wanted her to marry was older. Aleid was all human, however.

Like Farrah, Avi thought again. Phillip had his mechanical arm, which Farrah seemed to love, but he could also make his ship fly. Would he ever look at Avi the way men were meant to look at women? Farrah would be a much more attractive prospect for him. Or even Charlie. Neither of them feathers growing in odd places; feathers instead of strings of hair.

The man back at the ball had approached her, but something about it all seemed strange to her, she had seen Farrah reject him. Did he ask her to dance because she was there and a woman? Did Phillip only accept to dance with her because he was her Captain and he did not want to disappoint her? She was knew to all these emotions, there was a chance she was reading too far into them. He might think nothing more of her than being a part of his crew. Or worse, he might have thought of her as a monster.


Avi’s sleep was restless, her sleep terrorized by the thoughts that had plagued her in in the waking world.

Red eyes stared at her, everywhere she turned, boring into her soul. She tried to run but one of them was already there to stand in her way. Human hands caught ahold of her feathers, snatching handfuls and tearing them out. Ripping them away from her wings. Fingernails scratching her skin. Blood mixing with tears and her screams deafening. They did not stop. They pulled and tore at her. Unwilling to yield at her pleads for them to stop. She saw their faces; Farrah, Mel, Cullen, Philllip. Each filled with hate.

She woke in sobs, feeling up to her hair, then to her shoulders for her wings. They were still there. She was still whole, alive, safe. She looked around her room, her birds were sleeping soundly and she was alone. Sleep overtook her again.

Her door creaked open. Footsteps approached where she laid. She did not open her eyes. She did not want to spoil the moment. A hand caressed her cheek before the body of her visitor laid down beside her. Their arms held her, strong and comforting.

This time when she woke, she was still crying, but she felt more relaxed. She looked towards her door and longed for someone to open it. Someone to come in and comfort her. She did not want to be alone, but she knew they would all be in deep sleep from the eventful evening. So, she stayed, wrapped up in her blanket, and soon sleep took her once more.

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