Q&A — Part Two (Patreon)

· Vallen, what were you thinking the first time you saw Romanus' scar?

Vallen cocks her head. "You have a scar on your face?" she asks without a shred of concern in her tone. "Since when?"

I know I discussed this on Tumblr, but she really hasn't seen Romanus's scar yet. It's not so visible that she'd notice it at a distance, at night, with a hood over your head... and while adrenaline pumps into her veins.

• To Neia and the Pirate King: what is the strangest thing you've ever come across during your travels?

The Pirate King takes a big puff of his pipe. "You won't believe me."

The air smells of tobacco and ashes.

"Try me."

One black eye shifts to look at you, and whatever he sees on your face, has him smirking. "Fine. But when you get nightmares, landlubber, don't come running to me."

"It's a deal," you say, voice as dry as sand.

The Pirate takes another drag. "The lonely sailors call them mermaids or sea women." He exhales and speaks through the smoke. "The legends call them sirens. I? I've seen them up close. So, I call them monsters."

You lean forward, eyes fixed on him. "You've seen them?"

Too?

"Aye," the Pirate confirms. "I did more than see the scurvy dogs — the Mediterranean is filled to the brim with them. The deeper waters you go, the more you'll encounter. They take down ships faster than storms, but as ugly as they are, I've heard them talk to each other. There's more than brute strength in those fish heads."

He takes the pipe from his mouth to give you a full, crooked grin. "Why'd you think I was able to gather the armada? There are more than intelligent sharks out there, sightings of things that were supposed to stay in old, scary myths. The sea itself it is..." The Pirate frowns, looking for the right words. "More treacherous than ever. It has always been cruel, but now, it's almost malicious."

He points to the shoreline where you can just barely make out the outline of a dozen sails. "Those men and women out there? They're shitting bricks. They're terrified."

-

Neia cracks the knuckles of her left hand. At each loud pop, you cringe. "Witches," she answers.

Your eyebrows shoot up. "What, really? There are real witches out there?"

The Specter pauses to give you a look full of contempt. "Yes."

"Are you sure?" you say, not backing down despite the heat of her yellow eyes. "Maybe you burned women accused of dark magic by a jealous neighbor or a scorned lover."

Neia scoffs and starts to crack the knuckles of her right hand. "There's plenty of that too. Other useless Inquisitors might fall for it." Her face darkens. "Or not care enough to even check. But I could always smell forgery from miles away. When that happened, someone would end up getting burned."

She smiles. It's full of teeth and a kind of heartless satisfaction that, despite your recent familiarity with Neia, still makes you shiver. "Usually, the accusers."

"Good," you say, sitting beside her. "What makes a witch real, then?"

The Specter falls silent. She looks down between her feet, but you can tell she's far away. "Hard to explain with only words," she says at last. "There's a... taste in the air. Like blood and grime, but sweeter. It's sickening but addicting. Witches are usually followed by strange happenings. Flocks of birds falling from the sky, rivers tasting of salt, sunflowers growing thorns. It's like nature fights them — like God warns against them."

You still find it hard to believe. "How are they? I mean, physically."

"Can be anyone," Neia says. "Devils disguising as humans. I've met three, slaughter two — one looked like a young girl, no more than seven winters. The other took the form of an old crone with really pasty skin." Neia lifts a hand to her scar. "The last one was the most powerful by far. She had red eyes and nails like claws. She was... the least human of them all. She didn't bother to disguise her corrupted blood. I think it was arrogance, or maybe she was taunting us, God’s servants.”

The Specter curls her hands in tight fists. "She escaped me. The fiend roams free."

• To Vallen and Alessa, what is your boundary that would make a relationship beyond repair?

Both have the same answer: betrayal, broken trust.

• To Lance: What is your favorite weird little discovery or pet theory about history/Latin?

"My favorite thing about Latin is that it is not spoken outside of monasteries," the bard is quick to say, flashing you a smile of gold. "As for History... look, it is clear to anyone with two fingers length of forehead that what the Church tells is a lie, yes? There were people before. We can see their bones, figuratively and literally."

"Literally?" you ask, your leg bouncing in excitement.

Lance raises his blue eyebrows. "Literally. I have seen a corpse stuck between sheets of rock, my friend. It was wearing gold and jade rings with Latin inscriptions."

"What have you done with it?"

"Oh, I told Mat—" Lance snaps his mouth shut. "I mean, I kept on walking. No sense in an escaped monk to be playing with the remains of demons. I gather our mutual godly friends would not find it amusing."

• Alessa, the twins, and Rafael: If Romanus expressed a willingness to give you some lessons on Latin, would you take his/her offer?

"I would not," Alessa declares with a raised chin.

"Ouch," you complain.

She shows no mercy. "'Twould be unwise of me to try and learn those scribbles. The Church does not look kindly on mercenaries as is, but mercenaries who speak the forbidden language?"

She looks at you, and finally, her eyes soften. Alessa cups your face with a cold hand, her fingers brushing the skin under your eye. ""Tis more than dangerous. It is foolish."

"It's the only reason I'm a part of the Company," you say.

"I know," Alessa whispers, her blue eyes so light. "But part of me wishes it was not so."

You pull her closer by the waist. "And the other part, Lessa?"

"The other part is glad we met. Danger or no."

-

Rafael seems taken aback. "Ya would?"

"I'm offering, aren't I?"

"I—" He blinks a couple of times. "It's a sin, ain't it?"

You roll your eyes. "So is stealing."

"Yeah, I know." Your thief pauses before looking at you with wide hopeful eyes. "You'd teach me? It'd take time and... shitever else."

You smile a tender smile. "I would."

Rafael beams at you. "Then yeah! 'Course I would. Never too many words to curse someone with. Quick, how d’ya say ‘fuck you’?”

You open your mouth… and pause. “I – I don’t know.”

Rafael’s enthusiasm deflates like a popped hot air balloon. “Oh.”

“But I know how to call someone a stupid cow,” you say, cupping both his cheeks on your palms.

“How?” Rafael asks with a spark in his eyes.

“Vacca stulta,” you whisper right next to his lips.

-

Ysabella puts a painted finger to her lips. "I'd love to learn some words. It sounds so beautiful when you speak it."

"What kind of words?" you ask.

"How do you say 'dear'?"

It's very straightforward. "Carus."

Ysabella smiles. "Carus," she says, rolling the word in her tongue. "I like it. How about ‘dear heart’?"

"Cor carus," you translate, carefully enunciating the words.

Ysabella giggles. "You are my cor carus."

She says it awkwardly, without the correct pronunciation, but you're dumbstruck all the same. You haven't heard those words in so long. Not since you last saw your mother standing at those barn doors.

"That's good, Bella," you say, your voice hoarse with emotion. "Mi carissimi in corde."

"What does that mean?" she asks as you kiss her forehead.

“I'll tell you later.”

-

Alain looks at you over the rim of his glass. "More studying? I think not."

You narrow your eyes at him. "When have you ever studied, Alain? I've never seen you with a book!"

The nobleman finishes his wine with one gulp and sets the glass aside. "I'll have you know I'm very studious."

"Watching people naked isn't anatomy," you shoot back.

Alain finds this delightful. "Ah!" He laughs. "Good one. Not very creative but straight to the point. Alas, you're wrong."

It's your turn to raise a brow at his tone. It's not teasing now. It sounds serious.

Alain interlaces his fingers together. "I do study. And I read, by the by." His warm brown eyes settle on yours. "Do you think I have any shred of privacy, sparrow? All I owe is handled by an army of servants who don't answer to me. I can keep very little precious secrets, and you want me to add Latin to it?"

Alain shakes his head. "I can't put myself in that danger. Or Bella."

"They'd go after Ysabella?"

"They'd go after everyone," Alain says in an uncharacteristic somber tone. It's odd to see him like this. It's as if he... cares. "And I know myself. If you teach me a word, I'll write it down, and someday, sometime, I'll forget to throw my notes in the fireplace. I'd be caught."

You can't argue with him. So, instead, you jest. "I'd make it fun," you tease, pulling your shirt down to expose your shoulder.

Alain jumps up from his chair. "Well, now that you put it like that." He grins as he approaches. "Tell me everything."

• Pirate King, do you own a parrot or monkey?

The Pirate shoots you an odd look. "I own no beasts besides my corsairs."

"Why not?"

The look turns puzzled. "What do you mean, why not? Why would I?"

"Company?"

He smirks. "I have no shortage of that."

"What about intimidation?"

You have no words to describe his expression, but it makes it hard not to laugh. "A little annoying parrot is intimidating to you, peach?" he asks in disbelief.

"They can pluck the eyes out of your foes," you tell him. "And monkeys can throw their feces on enemy ships."

The Pirate sighs. "What I gather from this is that you want either a flying beast or a shit-throwing one."

"Both," you say, beaming at him.

Another sigh. "I'll be on the lookout."

• Do y'all have any favorite hobbies or pastimes you do in your free time?

Hadrian likes to pretend he knows carpentry. So, he'll often try to assemble a chair, fix a table, or carve anything that resembles a believable shape.

Alessa likes to hunt for sweets. She'll go to great lengths to find more to eat — whether by bribing other mercenaries to bring her some when they're out in particular places or even sending letters to known bakeries to prepare something.

Alain bird-watches.

Ysabella rides horses.

The Pirate smokes and writes in his journal.

Neia exercises.

Lance plays music and walks Chouriça.

Rafael throws darts, plays carts, and overall tries to cheat when he's gambling money.

Vallen enjoys people-watching.

• Hadrian and Beka, what are your favorite memories?

Hadrian lets out a surprised breath. "Where did that come from?"

"I want to know."

The former Templar scratches his jaw. "That's not, uh. It's not an easy question."

You cross your legs over his lap. "You can take your time," you say, lips tilted at him. "You don't have to hurry."

Hadrian's large hands gently circle your ankles. He's quiet for a while, taking the time you granted him. "My happiest memory used to be the day I enlisted on my Order," Hadrian says, at last. He's massaging your calves, his fingers drawing slow, wide circles on your muscles.

It also gives him a perfect excuse to avoid your eyes. "And now?" you prompt, choosing not to linger on that memory. Knowing what you know now, you're sure it’s not happy any longer.

"Truth is, I— I wasn't happy. Not on that day, and not before that as well." Hadrian moves his hands to your knees. "The first time I've known true happiness, I felt as if a hole had opened in my heart."

You cock your head. "That doesn't sound very pleasant."

Hadrian smiles at your legs, never stopping the massage. "It's not. I was, uh. It hurt to know I was never happy before. Content, yes. Satisfied, pleased... but never truly happy."

His voice is low but not quiet. It rings deep from his chest, and it carries a bittersweetness that has your throat closing. "When did you experience happiness, then, Hadrian?" you ask, grabbing his hand in yours.

Hadrian looks up at you, his cheeks red, his green eyes shining. "When I met you."

And his voice sincere.

-

Beka stops and stares. "What?" she barks.

"Happiness," you repeat patiently. You knew she was going on the attack first — it's what she always does when she's feeling vulnerable. "When's your happiest time, carrot thief?"

"I ain't a thief anymore," Beka counters, but her voice has no bite. She looks down at her worried hands, and you have to lean in closer to hear her next whispers. "Thanks to you, Richie."

Beka lifts her head, hair no longer dirty and cheeks no longer gaunt. Her pants are new, her tunic clean, and her boots are her priced possession.

"You're worth it, Beka," you tell her and pretend not to notice the tears in her eyes.

The little girl nods and blinks several times. "My happiest memory?" she asks, turning a big, toothy smile at you. "The first time I could write my name on a piece of paper."