Chapter 2: Vomit, Hell & Vomit

The few weeks that passed were Hell on high water.

By some method of chance, Mikey was not the only first-time sailor aboard the ship. Now known to Mikey as the 'Black Jack', Captain Tornstar's ship was temporarily deemed a vessel of sickness and disorientation. Serving as the chef's assistant, Mikey was not only required to serve the crew lunch, but also mop it off the floors, walls and occasionally ceiling.

"Ey Mickey! Com' 'n get these here taters from the barrel. Cooked 'n ready to muncho they ar'," the disorderly drunk of a chef gurgled out with half a bottle of rum sliding down his throat.

"Mikey you old fart! Not Mickey!" Mikey snapped in frustration. He was currently juggling about ten plates, bowls and cups between his hands, weaving between the crowd of hungry sailors below deck. Each step was accompanied by a splash of either seawater, food, rum, vomit or an unholy mix of the four.

Returning to the kitchen, Mikey dumped the lot into a barrel of dirty dishes before filling a bowl with the cooked potatoes. If not for the strong scent of seasalt, Mikey might be overwhelmed by the sheer power of the chef's breath.

Lucienne was the lard-of-a-chef's name, but the crew found the name too elegant for the body that wore it. Instead he'd been named Lumpy by everyone short of the captain.

Lumpy was every boy's nightmare. Always drunk, eating and holding the poorest tastes for humour, his gargantuan hands loomed over the smaller crew members shoulders. If not for the ridiculously over feathered hat atop his head, small children might be tempted to cry at the mere sight of him.

Two hours past noon and Mikey was finally let off on a break. Having taken to the deck, he had found himself an untouched corner free of the workings on deck. Mikey tended to stare out at the vast Des Maronian Ocean, as it was just about the only way he could feel at peace.

"Not slacking off I hope Mr. Drewitt," Diana could be heard approaching from behind.

"Of course not," Mikey replied, straightening his back almost instantly as he turned to face the first mate. "I was just, uh..."

"Taking a break? I know. Wouldn't want you killing yourself over everyone's food," Diana scoffed lightly, though slapped him on the back as she arrived beside him - rather sharply in fact. "But keep it up kid, you've got heart."

"Thanks, I guess?" Mikey replied, a little too intimidated by the amazonian-like woman to think of a more witty reply.

"Don't thank me, just don't let me be wrong," she'd respond, turning towards the captain's quarters and leaving Mikey to his break, "or you'll wish you HAD killed yourself in the kitchen."

Mikey could only sigh in relief as she took her leave, now hanging over the railing like a draping towel of sweat.

"What a bitch right?!" he'd heard from a squawking voice beside him. In fear that Diana might've heard the voice, Mikey's gaze whipped to the side. Standing there on the railing was a white seagull staring right back at Mikey.

Mikey looked to the seagull, before turning a full circle just to check that no dwarf-kin were hiding below his vision.

"Did you just talk?" Mikey asked the bird whilst tilting his head in suspicious confusion.

The bird made no effort to reply, but instead continued to stare blankly at Mikey. Looking more closely, Mikey seemed to notice a distinct scar down the right eye of the gull. The scar almost mirrored that of Captain Tornstar's.

"Oi! Where da' little shit scurry off ta'?" Lumpy's groaning voice echoed from down the stairs, whilst his obese stomps in protest of Mikey's absence seemed almost heavy enough to sink the ship. "Ya've a job ta be done boy!"

Mikey was too shocked to talk back, though began on a slow walk towards the stairs. He kept a puzzled stare towards the seagull, before eventually turning away from it with a shaking of his head.

'Too much seawater in the wine Mikey?' he'd thought to himself, hitting a more hurried stride once he arrived at the stairs. Once again weaving through the traffic of piling up sailors, Mikey arrived at a prettied ivory plate of steak and mash.

Each and every afternoon at exactly the same time, a meal of steak and mash was carefully prepared. Mikey had no clue as to how the steak managed not to go off and he was almost convinced Chef Lumpy was cutting it off his own behind by now.

"Same place?" Mikey asked whilst picking the plate up with a bit more caution than he had others.

"Dumbo questi'n 'at is," the chef replied.

Taking the plate, Mikey's dance through the crowd of hungry sailors was now more akin to ballet. In his time delivering this god-kissed plate, he's come to learn of its heavy significance.

The ivory plate was headed for the Captain's daughter; though she was more of a princess who'd chew someone out for the smallest of slights.

"Coming through, coming thro-" a loose hand and cup from a drunk suddenly came flying for the plate as Mikey approached the stairs, "watch it shit-face!"

Eventually reaching the top of the stairs, Mikey was now at the ivory plate's greatest danger: the deck.

Loose ropes, the splashing of waves and the occasional plank being swung around by a sailor making repairs left Mikey with an entirely different challenge - a new dimension of threat for the plate.

Making the mistake of falling victim to the deck's chaos in the first few days of delivering this plate, Mikey had made damn sure not to repeat it since.

His enchainment forward first began with a step into a passing group of swabbies all scrambling to mop up after the working sailors. They were in just as much trouble as Mikey was, getting bumped around with loose footing - but they made for perfect meat shields from the surrounding dangers.

The first swabbie found himself slipping on his own puddle of water, halting a passing sailor that was headed past Mikey. Side stepping the swabbie, Mikey's hand elegantly orbited around him as to keep the steak and mash untainted.

The next two swabbies were making a break for the Jacob's ladder with a cautionary survey for danger. It was easy for swabbies to be knocked into the sea when refilling their buckets, so they used every ounce of their being to make sure that didn't happen. This fear for their lives allowed Mikey an extra two pairs of desperate eyes to watch for danger.

Trailing behind each of them, Mikey shadowed the swabbies with grace. Leaping back and forth, the trio rapidly approached the ladder. Following from behind however, Mikey managed to spot a fairly troublesome inhabitant of the jungle ropes above: Darzel.

Darzel, with no family name, almost befitted the term monkey in both manner and appearance. A short, round-faced man with circular ears that poke out through his shaggy hairdo, Darzel only lacked the hands for feet to complete his simian persona.

It just so happened that this monkey Darzel was swinging down for the ropes - his path intersecting with the unaware swabbies ahead.

"Watch ou-" Mikey went to call out, though retracted his words once he realised the opportunity to overtake them. It was every man and woman for themselves aboard the Blackjack.

Mikey, before Darzel managed to swing down across the swabbies, dashed towards the centre of the ship. Closing in on the central mast, he extended a foot out and pushed forward off of it to get clear of the mess that would take place behind him. Ever so subtly, Mikey casted a telekinetic spell over the food whilst he was airborne. He'd tried his best to avoid doing this as to keep the attention off of himself, but this moment made it quite unavoidable.

As a soft glow emitted off of the plate and food, holding well together, Mikey's feet touched the floorboards once more in a springing halt. That final leap had left him only a few strides to the captain's quarters; it was one final stretch.

Twirling towards the door with one final survey for danger, Mikey felt a sudden relief of the tension. He'd made it there and the doors of the captain's quarters greeted him with welcoming arms.

Wham!

Mikey's meticulous effort came to a tragic end as he reached for the handle. Swinging the door open in a burst of frustration was Captain Tornstar, slamming into Mikey and sending him stumbling back. The ever-so-holy ivory plate of food went spiralling off through the air.

Lost in shock and desperation to keep the meal intact, Mikey extended his hand for a telekinetic grip on the food. In a rather pathetic kneeling position, Mikey only just managed to catch it before it hit the floorboards.

Drawing it back towards himself and reconstructing it on the plate, Mikey sighed in solace of his catch.

"A mage," the stern voice of the scarred captain could be heard from behind Mikey. "Now why in the world were you hiding that?"

Mikey's eyes widened as he turned towards Captain Tornstar.

"Seems we're due for a talk then Mikhail, I should like to know what else you're hiding," the captain finished, though continued on about his business on deck - leaving Mikey with his small and brief victory.

Mixed emotions chased after each other in circles within Mikey as he ventured into Captain Tornstar's lair. Relief, anxiety & frustration - all built up in a tangled web leading up to the meeting with the Blackjack's princess.

Gisla Tornstar. She was a young mage quite like no other. Though she was barely sixteen (only one year older than Mikey) she'd already amassed a collection of detailed scrolls and spell books procured by her father. She'd a talent for the study of magic law and it's transformation from energy to matter.

However, her talent for magic is where Mikey's envy ceased. Though it was true she'd a certain prettiness to her, the snobby demeanor which blackened her heart seemed to dismiss any compliment that one might think to give her. She'd a habit of glaring with her clouded grey eyes, hiding behind a waving fringe that was lighter toned than a snowy mountain peak. Her fair skin conveyed her as almost a blank canvas just waiting for a splash of paint.

"Your meal," Mikey spoke out as he laid the plate beside Gisla.

She sat at her desk, deeply invested in the archaic inscriptions of a scroll. With her finger trailing each line of text, she refused to grant Mikey even an ounce of her attention. Mikey, who would usually have been tempted to roll his eyes, found his own gaze following the lead of Gisla's finger across the parchment.

Gazing down for a few minutes, Gisla began to clear her throat rather suggestively.

"Right, right. Sorry," Mikey turned and headed for the door, "I'll get out of your hair."

As he reached for the door, he heard the brief clatter of cutlery behind him.

"Wh- Ptui!" the splattering sound of food hitting her plate could be heard from behind Mikey. "You've one job. Why the fuck is the food cold?"

This time Mikey did roll his eyes, turning to return to the young lady. However, now with her attention towards Mikey, Gisla noticed the apparent attitude. In some moment of selfish satisfaction, she slid the plate off her desk. The steak slapped against the boards with the mash plopping on top of it.

"Ah, thanks dog. Now you've made a mess," Gisla groaned, gesturing to the mess beside her desk with the tip of her boot.

A certain irritation emerged from within Mikey. Being raised in the orphanage, something like a well cut steak might only be eaten during a kid's fifteenth birthday, but here this prancy bitch was throwing it around like a handful of mud.

Not initially wanting to garner any further attention, Mikey tried to ignore Gisla's painfully arrogant elitism. Dropping to his knees and pulling a rag from his back pocket, Mikey had begun to wipe up the stray chunks of mash into a pile. However as he did, the rough feeling of a leather soled boot kissed the back of his head; Gisla was aiming to push his head further to the ground.

"Come on, lower," Gisla taunted.

"Fucking bi..." Mikey mumbled under his breath, his teeth clenching from this private humiliation.

"Paaaaardon?" Gisla cackled out, leaning forward to try and belittle Mikey.

In a swift and sudden strike, Mikey leaned to the side and swiped his hand up. Seeing as he already revealed his magic to the captain of all people, Mikey didn't hold back. Using a telekinetic hold on every chunk of mash and each drop of gravy he swiped up and flung the spoiled food towards the spoiled brat. Saturating the torso of her blue dress, Mikey got up and stormed off towards the door.

Screaming into a tantrum driven rage, Mikey made quickly for the door.

"Get back here y-" Gisla went to shout, though Mikey stuffed her mouth with a projectile steak from below her just for good measure.

"Get the swabbies to clean it up," Mikey replied, slamming the door behind him.