As A Stranger Or A Friend?

Axtapor - 28 Evening Star, 1244 A.D.

"Will ye no disembark First Mate?" Lexlar asked as he hefted his pack over his shoulder.

"Nay." I responded as I looked out at the harbor.

There was nothing down there for me anyway. Between the lack of Ophelia and the abundance of Miss Frère, Port St. Croix seemed lackluster and unoriginal.

"Aye 'en." He responded before patting me hard on the shoulder.

"Ey up Lexlar, ye slow cunt." Hartim snickered as he slithered passed us both.

"Oh aye, I be right slow. Yer mother 'njoys it." He barked back as he trailed after him.

Hartim growled and swatted him with his tail, eliciting no more than an entertained laugh from his counterpart as they descended the gangplank.

Sometimes it was exceedingly easy to believe that they were my underlings. This was one of those times. And with their constant ribbing of one another, one might easily mistake them for brothers. Were it not for their differences in coloring and form, Lexlar being a wine-red iguanakin and Hartim being a burnt orange nagakin, it would be entirely believable that they were. I suppose that happened with any pair of men that served closely together. Xaxxix and Qantar, Oleander's lackeys, were much the same. Though the two of them were rather more quiet and less jovial. They took after the Quartermaster in that regard. He was a man of few words and a lover of torture, fitting for his role, I supposed.

Regardless of their closeness, the five of them could not be more different from one another despite all belonging to major and minor clans of the House of War. I was the only one who belonged to the House of Dreams in our group, so even with the many shared years of familiarity, there was always a barrier between us. Of the three Houses: War, Law, and Dreams, The House of War was the most powerful. Though the House of Law would disagree with that assessment and likely belabor the point to death, in an effort to convince any who would listen that they were far superior using all manner of logical arguments. Such was their craft, and rather a well-suited one at that, for they had no reputation of being skilled fighters or hunters. Their ikismal's were among the most boring to attend as a result. At any rate, the two were in a constant tug of war for power while the House of Dreams sat mostly on the outskirts of things, watching as the never-ending struggle unfolded. Much like now...

I leaned against one of the masts, watching the rest of the men disembark, each with their own plans and packs to boot. It seemed only I had no business down there today. Though now that I thought about it, that was not strictly true. There was always one who never disembarked from the Angel's Lyre: Kirik. I looked up at the crow's nest and decided that I would pay him a visit. After all, it was rather dull to spend time alone on a pirate ship, especially when it wasn't moving and, despite his constant presence aboard, he was a rare sight on decks.

I scaled the ladder with ease and pulled myself up to see him sitting there, eyes spinning, hands opening and closing rhythmically as if he was holding two pulsating hearts in them. He clicked his tongue and cocked his head at me in many different directions as I approached and took a seat beside him.

"Oxlo, Oxlo. First Mate, broken-hearted Dreamer. Broken man, broken heart, broken Dreamer. Nightmares. Dark. Terror. Oxlo."

"Aye, Kirik." I responded with a frown as I pulled my pipe from my pocket and began to stuff it with tobacco.

He was strange, even for a lizard. His form was that of an overgrown salamander with the ever-rotating eyes of a chameleon and scales of the brightest brilliant teal. His mannerisms and method of speech were obviously unusual, but despite that and his appearance, he was not idiotic, and he was not to be trifled with.