Cyberpunk 2077 Review

For the last week I've been deep in the gritty streets and neon sidewalks of a city. 

It's almost my own city, but not quite. Occasionally I'll recognize a monument or a panorama that is straight out of the view outside my window, right here. For the rest of the time, the glowing streets of Night City are a world only a few brief steps removed from the horrors of the real. 

In Cyberpunk 2077, we step into the shoes of the futuristic everyhero, V. Delving into the machinations of skyline dominating megacorporations and the brutal life of street level crime, all the while listening to the backseat driving of a time displaced rocker-turned-terrorist. It's time to burn Night City to the ground. 

V is what you choose to make of them. The character customization of Cyberpunk 2077 is both impressively trailblazing and strangely crippled at the same time. How we design our version of protagonist V allows an assortment of choices and options that would be fantastic for a standard GTA style game, but beyond allowing some sci-fi options to eyes and metallic teeth, there's little here that actually takes advantage of the Cyberpunk genre. 

Being able to alter V's genitals separate of their body type allows for the illusion of gender subversion, but then having to choose your V's voice to officially designate them as 'male or female' in the eyes of all in-game characters immediately circumvents it and returns it to basically picking your male or female Shepard.

While it absolutely can't be understated that it is insane for an AAA title released in the west to let you create a slender femininely bodied V with a huge cock, it then feels like any further effort was diverted from sticking the landing in character customization, and I can't help but feel this is one of the areas the game may have been handicapped by the famously rushed final days well documented elsewhere.

After an opening introduction unique to your chosen character origin, you're let loose in the dark streets of Night City, and the hand holding is blissfully light. An issue often found in the genre is a habit of slowly introducing game mechanics mission by mission, piling them upon one another until ten missions later nothing has really passed but a series of game mechanics you'll never use again. Cyberpunk throws you into the deep end pretty much from the get go, with access to almost everything you can do in the game from the start. Something wonderful carried over from The Witcher 3 is the fact that almost any character build is effective and a legitimate direction to take your V. 

The guns blazing approach is fast and accurate, with the game definitely being optimized for the first person shooter design. Guns are wildly varied, from the usual pistols, revolvers, shotguns, sniper rifles and all manner of machine guns, but then added to this is the tech side of guns, allowing you to interface with certain weapons to take more effective control, sending bullets automatically seeking for heads in your enemies. 

A bit more unusual in a first person game is the ability to run a robust melee combat build, which is also extremely fun. Far more quick and accurate than trying to use close range weapons in something like The Elder Scolls, using fists here is fast and carries a great sense of impact. The default boxing is fine, but soon you'll be able to augment your arms into Mantis blades to slice up enemies, or Gorilla fists to deliver huge blunt force blows. Your arms can even be altered into the whip-like Monowire, or fitted with a projectile launcher to change standard grenade tossing into direct RPG accuracy with your bare hand. 

Outside of weaponry, you can also take the far more Cyberpunk route of Quickhacking, a system of multiple different tweaks and abilities allowing you to take advantage during combat, quick as you'd use something like spells in a fantasy game, to do things like shutting down your opponents optical sensors or exploding the grenades in their pockets, right up to sending viral system failures into a group of enemies and watching it jump from one to another like a fatal meme. Other uses of the Quickhacking system allows for avoiding large amounts of combat situations entirely if you prefer. Using stealth tricks and turning the environment to your advantage to either circumvent enemies or destroy them without even being seen becomes a devious and playful alternative to using weaponry. While you'll occasionally encounter enemies who will Quickhack you in turn, I only ever encountered them using simple DOTs on me, and it would have been fun and more challenging to encounter enemies who use some more nefarious hacks.

All these character equipment options are supported by a complex advancement system, growing with your level, with a wide variety of buffs and boosts, making certain weapons stronger, allowing you to apply debuffs with fists or adding bleeding effects to blades, and making your Quickhacks faster or adding a multitude of effects to them. Building into these skill trees adds to your chosen abilities drastically, upgrading hacking into real battlefield controlling effects and turning melee combatants into regenerating juggernauts. 

Taking the V you have crafted, genitals and mantis blades and all, into the underbelly of Night City, the game flourishes most in the characters you meet. From your best friend Jackie, a hardened child of the street with a heart of gold, to aging rock musicians turned gangsters and taxi driving sentient AIs, Cyberpunk 2077 has a wealth of fun and unique personalities to indulge in interacting with. Some of the games best moments are hidden deep in a wealth of complex side missions, with one easily missable moment involving a convicted murderer-turned-Night city messiah sticking out to me in particular.

And then of course, we come to Johnny Silverhand. It's impossible to even really talk about Cyberpunk 2077 without talking about Johnny Silverhand.

Johnny Silverhand is a complete piece of shit. He's an egomaniacal, narcissistic rocker well past his day in the limelight who once detonated a nuke in a major metropolis just to prove a point about capitalism. Johnny is forever at your side, judging your shitty choices, talking down your self worth, and forever reminding you that in the grand scope of the Megacorporations who run Night City, you are absolutely nothing. Johnny is both angel and devil on your shoulder at the same time, dropping by to share a story of fucking groupies at some long forgotten show, or to let you know he thinks the guy you're talking to is a wannabe poser or a corporate stooge. Johnny's presence is a unique facet of Cyberpunk 2077, and one of its most enjoyable elements. It was no forced star-power misstep to cast Keanu Reeves as Silverhand, because it's clear he loves the role, and somehow through all the crude, antagonistic snark he throws at you as you journey together through Night City, Silverhand is still lovable as all hell.

Night City itself is a wonderful world to take your journey through. It's energetic and absolutely filled with stuff. The constant barrage of noise and advertisements and buildings and stores is delightfully varied, fun to observe, and interesting to explore. The street art is incredible and unique and feels real. Even late in the game I came across very distinct looking unimportant NPCs who were wearing something I hadn't yet seen in the game before. The incidental characters on the street or filling out one of the cities many nightclubs or bars always wear something wild and they do seem designed, not randomized.

Seeing everyone else wearing such fantastic clothes continually hammers home how little we can customize our own protagonist though. You'll casually run into characters wearing spiked cocktail dresses, huge fur coats, translucent plastic mini skirts and all manner of outrageous sci-fi styles, but we as V don't have access to any such garments. The clothing you can buy in stores is all a little samey, mainly consisting of street wear that wouldn't look particularly out of place in a GTA game, and doesn't jump out as wildly cyberpunk in most cases. Another oversight is the inability to really alter your character. We see people on the street who have chrome flesh from head to toe, cops with glowing cybernetic eye implants, and one of the gangs is based around heavy augmentation and routinely has entire facial organs replaced with all manner of glowing red orbs or mechanical jaws. Why on Earth can't we do this too! The lack of getting to have even something as simple as a robot arm in character creation seems to miss out on half the fun of living in a Cyberpunk world.  

Night City of course isn't complete with out its nightlife. The gangs of Night City, both the style and overall concept of each one, formed a large part of the games design push pre-release and are present in just about every bit of supplemental content about the game. The sexy all-female Moxes, the monstrous heavily augmented Maelstrom, Soviet Scavengers, Japanese Yakuza themed Tyger Claws, the dubiously voodoo themed... Voodoo Boys, all of them have a distinct stylistic flair, an atmosphere that colours the city as we interact with and combat each gang.

The thing is though, we really don't. The gangs are completely secondary to the main story, and really only form a small aspect of the city as a whole, which is a mystifying design choice. 

Even a quick glance at the in game map of Night City sees it separated by area, with the symbol of the gang that primarily operates there, but they never really come up as you navigate the area. Start a fight in any area of the game, it's the same police who come after you, when it would have been much more fun for it to have been that particular areas designated gang instead. Fighting a string of identical police robots is dull compared to, for example, facing a group of Tyger Claws with katanas riding up on motorbikes or the attack of a crew of barely-dressed Moxes wielding baseball bats.

While we have some minor interactions with Maelstrom and the Voodoo Boys in the main story, it's brief. Many of the gangs, especially fringe ones like the Scavengers and 6th Street, are completely ancillary to the game as a whole, and feel like they're barely fleshed out whatsoever. 

The presence of the gangs should be a major way to make coming to each of Night City's seven boroughs feel distinct, and their absence in the story and even just casual play of the game itself is a disappointment considering the atmosphere they could have helped add to the city. 

The only real interaction we have with each different borough is the presence of the 'fixers'. These characters communicate with V through text message and video calls and generally act as your quest givers for each hub, sending you details on things to steal, people to kill or cars to buy. Each is different and has their own personality, some more than others, but generally the fixers aren't as important in the grand scheme of things as it seems they should be. 

We don't really know why V is compelled to interact with most of these fixers at all. A couple are connected to us through the story, but some simply call us up out of the blue and expect us to dutifully run off to complete a side quest for them. 

In one extremely memorable sequence, V meets a local gang leader, and takes a walk with them through the slums of their city. We watch how they interact with locals, how they talk about their corner of Night City, and listen to how they expect V to help them with their own goals. This brilliant moment gave us everything we needed to know not just about this character and the part he plays in everything, but unveiled the uniqueness of that specific part of night city. It would have been great if every fixer got such a neat introduction to the narrative as well. 

The times in the game that we take a step away from Night City and journey into the nearby Badlands are surprisingly poignant. You'll find yourself driving through endless rolling dunes of trash, discarded electronics and kitchen appliances while the city sits, gigantic on the horizon, belching smog and advertisements into the skies. The roads of the old world are there, partially buried under dirt and burned out cars, but what's there looks uncomfortably like it does in reality today. You'll pass motels and bars, old truck stops and bus stops that are relics of times gone past, but something you'd see any time you were to head even a few miles outside of the real Los Angeles. 

You'll spend a fair amount of time speeding around Night City and the surrounding area, and of course you'll do it in one of the games many vehicles. While early on you're supplied with a starter vehicle fitting the starting concept you picked for your V, you'll soon find yourself without one and in need of wheels if you'd prefer to avoid hoofing it around Night City. While the fast travel system is helpful, by the end of the game you can zip immediately pretty much anywhere you need to go, it's a big place in the meantime. 

The variety of cars and bikes you can steal on the street GTA style is what you'd expect from the genre, and the rest you can purchase from your fixers or be rewarded with if you play your cards right in certain side missions or story chapters. Another example of the game choosing quality of life over realism, any vehicle you own disappears into a nebulous off-screen garage to be summoned to your location instantly at any time, and you can leave them wherever you like without worry that they will ever be damaged or lost. However by the time you're earning enough money and respect to purchase one of the many high end futuristic sports cars or anime style superbikes, you may find the convenience of the fast travel has replaced any need to actually use them. 

The more time I spent in Night City, the more I enjoyed myself. Cyberpunk 2077 started off a little quiet for me, and it took a moment for me to get the feel for it, but when the story decides suddenly to take the plunge and grip you, you best believe it fucking does. There's moments of cinematic tension that are immensely entertaining, and some quiet scenes of unexpected tenderness that stuck with me. Johnny Silverhand knows a little about losing yourself, feeling like you don't know who you are at times, feeling lost in the world. The story is, at it's heart, a personal one, and searching for a way just to continue to be yourself is a powerful drive beyond any villainous scheme or a typical saving the world yarn.

The way V's story can end is varied depending on your choices, from quietly satisfying to deeply sad, but all endings are a spectacle to be a part of and worth seeing.  

While it has been covered at great length elsewhere, it's impossible to fully look back at Cyberpunk 2077 as a whole without addressing the issue of bugs. As with bugs and glitches in all games, YOUR MILEAGE MAY VARY. I personally was very lucky, and in my 70+ hours exploring every inch of Night City on a PS4 Pro system, I encountered only a handful of minor bugs, all solved by a quick restart to a recent autosave, and a few instances of crashing. The game would sometimes take its time fully loading in a new area, with textures and character details popping in over a few seconds, and occasionally I'd run into strange graphical quirks like an individual clearly smoking their gun instead of a cigarette. Patches in the first week since release seem to have begun to iron out issues, and already the game does seem overall more stable. Nothing still found in game is truly game breaking, and if you don't mind a few odd or sometimes hilarious graphical quirks here and there, you'll likely find nothing that bad among the bugs to still be found in Cyberpunk 2077. 

I enjoyed my time in Night City. The story itself rounds out to a solid 25 hours, and the side missions and world around it flesh out another 30. I'd love to see the world grow and expand, and some of those missing aspects filled out in the future. I've got the feeling I've not quite burned enough of the city to the ground just yet. 

-

I played Cyberpunk 2077 on a PS4 Pro. 

Artistic Endevours

An unspecified time after Cerce arrived at the shipping town of the Foul Mouth...

-

“Easiest five gold pieces you’ll ever make,” Cerce grumbled to herself, trying not to move her mouth, which was held in a pleasant smile a little unlike her usual casual toothy grin.

“What was that my dear?” Asked Treave from across the room. Cerce couldn’t see the Gnome from the place she lay; his tiny form hidden entirely behind his easel. Occasionally the stool he stood upon would give a wobble, and his great nose would poke out to take a glance at her, mustache wiggling.

“Nothing, nothing,” Cerce said. She wanted to itch her knee awfully, and then after thinking of that for a moment, realized she wanted to itch her nose as well, and then the sole of her foot. It seemed everything itched the moment you’d been told not to move a muscle.

“It’s just...when Adam told me you were in need of my services… I’m usually called on for sort of...adventury type things, you know.”

“Oh yes! Absolutely! I have heard many a tale of the great Cerce Stormbringer in the last few months! Like wildfire, they spread,” Treave said enthusiastically as his little face popped out to gaze at her momentarily, bright eyes glinting behind his over-sized spectacles before his face disappeared again. “When I was told of you, of your tall form and your marvelous hair, I knew I had to reach out! And that skin! Oh!”

“Yes...when you reached out I expected you might have needed help, of the danger variety, or some-such.”

“Oh no, no everything is quite wonderful with me, thank-you! Extend your arm a little more over your head, would you? Elbow up, knee a little higher.”

Cerce did so, feeling the stretch in her shoulder and wondering how much longer this would take.

“Hope you’ve got a lot of green paint...” she mumbled.

“I heard from Master Iggles of the shoe-store that only last week you single-handedly protected the merchants caravan from a full scale assault in the pass outside Penryan! Incredible. So dynamic. I should have loved to have been there to watch. What a painting that would have made!”

“Yes...” Cerce murmured. It had been three poorly prepared highwaymen, but she’d not correct the gnome. She was counting on the newly inflated story getting her bought a drink or two down the Hound’s tooth later on. “Of course I was wearing my armour there.”

The little gnome gave a tut of dismissal.

“Yes well that sort of thing wouldn’t match my style at all of course.”

-

Cerce gave a sigh and tilted her eyes across the room where her great halberd was leaning in a corner, along with her new leather armour and the pink silk shirt that Adam had bought her at the festival. Close by it on the floor, she bemoaned, were her undergarments.

“Roughly how much longer-” Cerce began, and was interrupted when the door to the studio seemed to open by itself. The bustling sound of the town could be heard, and at first it seemed the wind might have blown the door open, before Cerce looked lower to see the small figure, standing barely two feet tall. The tiny Gnome peered at Cerce and she gave a chirp of surprise and instinctively dropped a clawed hand to hide the mound of hair between her thighs.

“Not to worry,” said Treave, casually. “Treave the younger is well versed in the necessities of the artistic method. Aren’t you lad?”

To his credit, the young Gnome did indeed pay Cerce no mind as she lay bare and instead spoke only to his father.

“Some friends of the lady Stormbringer are here to see her, most important apparently. Shall I see them in?”

“You bloody better not!” Cerce spoke up, sitting up suddenly, trying to cover multiple areas with only two hands.

Treave the elder gave a sigh and hopped down from his tall stool, his smock filthy with paint.

“Such is the life of a fearless adventuress I am sure! Please, best go to them, who knows what great adventure lies in wait!” he approached, gesturing grandly as Cerce got to her feet. “Will you be able to return soon? Another session or two should see our artistic endeavor to completion!”

Cerce gave an awkward smile, baring her fangs, and tried not to think about the Gnome’s unfortunate view as he stood peering up at her.

“It would be… a pleasure, of course, Master Treave.”

He clapped his tiny hands and shook them in happiness.

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” he went on as Cerce sprung to reclaim her garments.

Draped in her silken shirt and fastening the belts of her skirt and leathers, Cerce reclaimed her halberd lastly and felt like herself once again. Onto something she could hopefully be fearless about.

Treave gave a nod to his miniature son as the relatively huge figure of the Stormbringer ducked her head to leave the studio, and he gestured to the work in progress aboard his easel.

“What luck! I think I may be the first to paint a Nadyr nude in all the southern coast! I can’t wait to see the look on that fool Firkus’s face when this goes up next to another of his tiresome spread-eagled Dawn elves.”

In the Lair of the She-Beast (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 4

Part 3

-

Chapter 4

Cerce's every sense flooded instantly. The sound of the waves and the crash of blades and yells of combat were blunted down to echoes as she sucked in a deep breath and water closed over her head, the battle behind her and suddenly so, so far away.

The water wasn't shallow, and Cerce's feet kicked at nothing, a horrible absence that felt like it went on forever.

But the weight of her Halberd dragged her down. She could feel the water trying to take hold, pull her down to the sea floor or toss her forward towards the rocks, but her grip on the artifact kept her steady.
Cerce had gambled her life, but came up lucky. The power that gave the weapon its impossible density planted Cerce down to the sandy floor beneath the waves, and held her steady as the invisible force of the tides pulled against her.

All around her were clutches of shining white orbs, smooth along the sea floor, their colours and shapes as varied as the Merrow on the decks above. She began to stride, placing one foot slowly and steadily in front of the other, avoiding treading on the colourful clusters. She knew she was moving as fast as she could, but as the air began to burn in her lungs it felt like the moments stretched with every heavy step.

There was a sound beneath the waves, a horrible bird-like warble with a high pitched whine threaded through it. Cerce couldn't identify it at first, but soon realized it was the Merrow talking to each other; it was what they sounded like in their own realm. Shadows moved just out of Cerce's field of vision, darting shapes moving swiftly through the murky waters.

She gritted her teeth and strode on. The solid lines of cliffs were visible somewhere up ahead, but Cerce's blurry view through the surging sea made distance impossible to tell.

There was a noise in Cerce's ear, a sudden sharp whistling rushing up on her. She turned, raising one arm defensively as fast as she could through the weight of the sea. The jagged little stone knife that the Merrow wielded dragged a line across Cerce's flesh, and red blood blossomed through the water, only to be immediately sucked away as quick as it had bloomed by the surges of the tide.

It was a small one, fast. Her skin blue and glittering in the dappled light from above, her slim frame darted side to side, her movements unaffected by the water that hampered Cerce's movements.

Cerce thrust out with her halberd desperately, and the Merrow took the bait, slipping up underneath the huge head of the weapon to come in close. Cerce let the weapon sink on to the would-be assassin's tail. The Merrow was close enough to slice with her dagger at Cerce's gut, drawing more blood, but Cerce pulled the girl in close, closing her fist around the smaller girl's hand, and jamming her own fist up hard behind the Merrow's jaw. The soft gills were a glaring target, and though Cerce didn't have speed on her side under the waves, she had strength. She jammed her fist into them again and again while the creature thrashed and flailed.

Gripping tight the bare waist of the Merrow with one hand, Cerce tugged at the shaft of her weapon with the other, unanchoring herself and her assailant, and found herself lurched along as the creature thrashed for escape.

Cerce momentarily lost awareness of her place in the world as she spun through the water and her air left in her lungs dwindled. The powerful back of the Merrow she clung to bucked and tossed madly, spinning Cerce around, upside-down and over her own feet faster than she could see.

All of a sudden the wind was crushed out of Cerce in a great crash, as her back came into contact with the hard rock of the cliffs and the dregs of her lungs bubbled from her lips. Sunlight blazed down from above, the water level so close above her head.

She'd lost her grip on the Merrow during her collision with the rocks, a blessing she realized allowed her to reach up with one arm, claws scratching desperately for grip above the waterline. Cerce's lungs were on fire, and she had the momentary vision of her corpse merrily floating face down into the filthy waters of the Foul Mouth for everyone to have a good laugh at.

Just when she was about to spend her dying breath cursing Red Tom's common sense, her fingers found purchase and she pulled.

For one brief, blissful moment, Cerce sucked in a gasp of crisp sea air, felt the flash of sun on her skin, before her head bobbed back below the waves.

Tugging herself loose of the water's grip almost ripped her shoulder out of its socket. She tried to keep hold of her halberd, awkwardly maneuvering her body to balance it anywhere, but without both hands on the cliff face, the sea threatened to pull her back in. Cerce dropped the weapon.

The forgotten Merrow made herself remembered, thrashing at Cerce who suddenly found claws in her face.

Without the weight of her halberd, Cerce was able to grab the nearest flailing limb and smash it hard against the rock, sending the dagger flying from the crushed hand, and sent the Merrow darting away for easier prey.

Cerce summoned the last of her strength to pull herslef up the cliff side, coughing up water and belching. She almost laughed as she rolled onto her back and found a moment of respite on the flat crest of rocky cliff.

Cerce's clothing was soaked, the laced front of her jerkin ripped open and ruined by the Merrow's dagger and scales. The garments stuck to her skin, heavy and itchy. She muttered a few choice words of frustration and climbed to her feet.

The sea cove Cerce found herself facing was dotted with rocky pools of unclear depth, disappearing into the darkness of the overhanging cliffs. The sunlight sparse and speckled. There was no way down here but to swim, or to fall a hundred odd feet from the precarious edge above.

It was quiet for a moment, the echoes of battle ringing low across the waves, but Cerce felt eyes on her from the darkness of the cove.

"I know you're there, I'm here to talk," she called into the shadows.

Cerce's clothes were so heavy her pockets could have been filled with rocks, but she felt naked all of a sudden without her weapon. On the ground nearby was the tiny stone dagger, and she knelt to snatch it up.

There was a slither of movement in the cove ahead, shadows upon shadows that squirmed just out of the harsh light. Her eyes failing to adjust, Cerce had the horrifying momentary image of multiple huge snakes, coiled and folded in on each other. She gripped the paltry blade and bore her fangs.

"Show yourself!" she hissed.

The voice that came in return was unlike anything Cerce had ever heard. Deep and rumbling like the guttural bluster of a barrel chested horse, but piercing to the ears like a dolphin squealing in a fisherman's net. It was a horrid cacophony, and Cerce stumbled a step back as a loop of thick pink flesh unfolded and slapped down heavily onto the rocks.

The wet coils were as thick around as a tree trunk, hot pink in the sun. From them, fin-like extensions flickered and flailed, glittering with the light. The longest tip of the coil began to extend, slithering a tapering point around the cove edge. The awful mental image of snakes moving in reverse persisted, before the movement in the cave all of a sudden clarified, and Cerce could see that there were not multiple creatures lurking within, but only one.

The Merrow that lurched from within the overhang of the cove must have been forty feet long, her massive frame held upright on coil after coil of her serpentine body. Her visible flesh was striped with white bands, and rows of long twitching ribbons of flesh extended from her broad body. Cerce watched as muscular arms reached for purchase, dragging the huge frame forward. The upper chest and highest loops of the Merrow's body protected in a gleaming white armour of spiky coral.

While some Merrow features mimic those of human women to the point of mockery, the face that Cerce now stared into was inhuman and repulsive. Beady black eyes stared out of a long sloping skull, and a jaw circled with needle-like teeth leered open wide enough to admit a child whole. Baubles of jewelry were pierced through the flesh of the creature, and proudly hanging down over the huge swell of her chest were three necklaces of partially shattered bones.

"Par...parley. I'm here to..." Cerce stammered and faltered, her voice fighting to escape the tightness of her throat. 

A long tongue extended from the black depths of the creature's gullet, and tasted the air in front of Cerce's lips. The angle of the maw warped slightly, tilting irregularly.

Cerce had seen familiar expressions on Merrow before. Snarling rage and anger was common and unmistakable on any species, but staring up at the creature that leaned over her now, Cerce felt she was seeing one grin for the first time. As if to confirm the thought, a noise emitted from the thing's wide gullet, a slow and choking cough that came over and over again in the horrid mimic of a laugh.

Shaaaa...kaa...kaa

Shakka the She-Beast roared into Cerce's face.

Cerce leapt in time to avoid the crushing coils as Shakka flexed her body and drew her tail inward in a death embrace. The flailing sails all along the monster's body flashed and darted as Cerce spun, jumped, and landed crouched on Shakka's coils, aiming the tiny knife at Shakka's eyes.

Shakka thrust a powerful arm out, shoving Cerce so hard in the gut that the wind was knocked from her with a grunt of pain. Before she had flown far, Cerce was struck in the back by a roiling coil that lifted and tossed her straight back into close range with the She-Beast. One of Shakka's talons reached out to snag Cerce by the front, taking a huge handful of clothing and twisting. The wet clothes tugged up around her throat, and Cerce was lifted entirely from the ground, feet kicking helplessly.

One of Cerce's hands thrashed at the claws gripping around her collar, trying to dislodge the black talons that were ripping through her clothes and holding her aloft. The other still gripped the tiny knife, and Cerce jammed it into the fleshy pink wrist and twisted.

Shakka's flesh was like boiled leather, the knife barely penetrating, and Cerce resorted to stabbing wildly at the huge hand that was holding her aloft, digging the twisted little blade into Shakka's knuckles. If Shakka felt pain, she didn't show it. Cerce kicked out, going for the distinct lines of gills visible beneath Shakka's deep set jaw. The incredible reach of Shakka's arm left Cerce only grazing her bare feet on the sharp edges of the Merrow's coral armour, sending droplets of blood across the pearly white covering.

Cerce finally got purchase with the knife in a crevice of flesh and twisted, and Shakka recoiled her wrist, tearing loose Cerce's clothing. The tangle of wet garments ripped from her body, Cerce was deposited on her arse on the ground of the cove. Circled again by Shakka's huge body, Cerce scrambled to escape the coils as they moved to enclose her. 

The huge loops rose and fell, writhing as they coiled inwards. Cerce screamed as Shakka's immense body rushed inwards from all sides. The muscular loops coiled her from knees to shoulders, and Cerce's body was raised fully from the floor of the cove, her feet dripping blood and her chest compressed tighter and tighter. She desperately tried to suck in one shallow breath after another as she was slowly lifted towards Shakka's leering face.

The Merrow exaled stinking breath into Cerce's face, and the eyes above the massive maw glittered with anticipation. Cerce heaved in a shaky breath, aware it was possibly her last, and coughed out words as fast as she could.

"I know what you want and I can help you!"

Shakka continued to stare, the wide yellow eyes gleaming. The coils gave another squeeze, but then loosened, and Shakka's brow jerked upwards once, as if in encouragement. As if the Merrow urged, go on. 

"The ship came through your new home, I know. I've seen the eggs. You're just trying to protect them."

Shakka's tongue lolled from her mouth, and she gave a deep guttural bark. 

"I can make sure this land is yours. This island. I can make sure you're safe here and that no ships will pass. This island will belong to your people! You fled your old home because the waters were poisoned."

Shakka's face leaned in closer, so close that the rough texture of her scaly flesh was clear to Cerce's  watering eyes. 

"If your people kill all of us, they'll just send more. More ships next time. They'll poison the waters here too. We don't have to do this. We can end the bloodshed, you and I. If you don't attack any more ships, I'll make sure the island is yours."

Shakka leaned back, her huge head tilting to one side, eyes keenly staring at Cerce. She uttered a quick croak with an upward inflection, jerking her jaw forward.

"The island will be yours, and no one will come around these waters again, I promise."

Shakka stared deep into Cerce's eyes, and gave a long, slow blink, before tilting back her whole body and letting loose a bellow that shook the cavern. Cerce's body dropped to the rocky ground as Shakka's coils relaxed, and she scrambled to her feet. 

There was an eerie silence, with nothing but the slapping of waves against the cavern walls reaching Cerce's ears. The cries and clash of battle had stopped. 

Merrow faces were peering from the water as Cerce stumbled to the mouth of the cave. Lifting her hands to her mouth, she yelled at the top of her voice over the waves to the Adamas. 

"Put down your blades! Peace!" 

---

Cerce was hoisted onto the boat in the arms of two heavy Merrow that lifted her as if she were a child. Her remaining clothes sagged with water and hung about her in shreds. Her skin was so covered in grazes and scratches and blood that at first glance, Red Tom thought the Merrow were delivering Cerce's body. 

Stepping off onto the deck, Cerce gave a half-hearted smile, before collapsing into Tom's arms as he ran to receive her. 

The Merrow were motionless on deck, their weapons down. The Silver One seemed to be uttering orders. The crew were still gripping weapons, warily balancing the battle blood in their veins against the urge to collapse from exhaustion. 

"They'll call off the attacks," Cerce wheezed, "It's over."

Cerce's vision was blurry, and she watched as if through the veil of a dream as the Merrow began to slip from the deck of the Adamas. Some were slithering, weak and defeated, some carried bodies of their slain sisters, and some gave dark looks at the pirates as they began to drop into the water off the side of the ship. 

The giant siege Merrow took the help of several of her sisters to heave her massive bulk over the side, where the resulting splash sent the whole ship swaying in her wake. 

Before long, the last remaining Merrow was the Silver One. She stood with one hand held to a gouge in her side from which thick blood was oozing. The crew were helping one another up, many bleeding, many barely walking. A few clearly never to rise from where they lay on the wet boards. 

The Silver One extended a long fingernail and thrust it at Cerce. There was silence on deck, but for the moaning of the injured.

Cerce fought to stand on her own, and shook loose Tom's grip from her shoulder as she took a step towards the Merrow commander. 

The Silver One gave an inquisitorial croak and cocked her head towards the island and the cave. Cerce gave a shrug, not knowing what to do. After a moment, the Silver One fiddled with a bracelet on her wrist, a pretty thing of pearls and dangling shells, and detached it. She extended it out at arm's length, to Cerce. Hesitantly, Cerce took it.

"Thank you. It's beautiful," she said quietly. The Silver One made a gesture with the outstretched hand, clutching her fist, and pulling it towards her chest. It took Cerce a moment to realize the meaning of the gesture.

"Oh...I haven't got anything...I..."

"Allow me, girl," said Red Tom as he approached. He had a dagger in his hand. The Silver One looked to him expectantly. 

"I'm the Captain here. I'm the one whose men you killed." Red Tom said. He reached into his hair and cut loose a tangle of matted black locks. Sewn into the tangle was a large silver coin. He extended it to the Merrow. She gave a chirp as she took it. 

"Looks like we done for a few of your girls too," Red Tom nodded at her. The Silver One gave an incline of her own jaw, barely.

She turned, silvery tendrils hanging behind her, and moved to the edge of the deck. Before she dropped, she turned to look at Cerce. She gave a trill, and there was movement that answered below the ship. An echoing whistle, somehow high and deep at the same time. It was a haunting sound, and Cerce had the sudden awful gut feeling of something below the ship, far greater than anything seen above the waves. A massive coiling tentacle rose beside the ship, white flesh semi-translucent in the sun. Coiled amidst it, rescued from the waves, was Cerce's halberd. She moved to reclaim it. 

She knew she should feel grateful to have it back, but there'd been a moment there when she'd been free of it, and the weight gone from her shoulders for just a little while.

The Silver One croaked to get Cerce's attention. She placed a clenched fist to her own mouth, and opened it, her splayed hand flashing out in a quick gesture, then back into a fist before her face. Then she dropped silently into the waves.

"What was that?" Cerce asked, cradling the bracelet in one hand and shouldering her halberd with the other. Red Tom brushed blood from his chin and turned to go to his crew. 

"Your word, girl. She told you to keep it."  

Epilogue

It was well into the second day, lying in her bunk somewhere between restless sleep and aching wakefulness, that Cerce finally had the strength to return to the deck.

Her body was sore and covered in bruises and half healed scabs, and she wore a simple white shirt that Red Tom had provided for her. It hung to Cerce's thighs and tied with string at the collar, and Tom had told her now that she had a cheap frilly shirt she made a proper pirate.  

The crew were on deck as usual, sweeping and shaking down the ship for the close of the sunny day. The breeze was brisk, and Cerce held her shirt down as she walked over to where Red Tom sat, bottle in hand, in one of the little hammocks set up to lounge in.

"The beast awakens," he said, raising his bottle to her. He smiled, but there was a shadow behind his smile. 

Where the men worked, there were spaces in the line. Here and there, Cerce noticed them. Where three men before had been leaping amidst the rigging, trading shouts and laughter, now there were two. One man sat up front at the stern, drinking from a big metal tankard that a few days earlier had been shared between three. 

"The ghosts never quite leave. They stay with the ship," Red Tom said, nodding at his men. 

"I'm so sorry, I..." Cerce began, but Red Tom shook his head.

"Nah, not on you, girlie. You show me one pirate who actually retired at the end of his days and I'll be damn surprised. Nah, it's what it is. Each man who went down fighting earns us a bonus from the guard. That's shared between the crew. Burials at sea go cheap, luckily. Rest of us plod on 'til the next time." 

Cerce looked up to the crow's nest, where Ben the Black was leaning, looking down over the sea before him. A long ragged piece of white material was strapped around his head, stained black with old blood from his missing ear. He coughed up a mouthful of brown spit, and sent it spiraling down towards the deck where it disappeared into the hole left in the boards by the huge Merrow. Ben gave a half-hearted cheer. 

"Promising an entire island to the enemy," Red Tom gave a chuckle, and whistled appreciatively. "Being the one who's going to have to tell Wib that...don't envy you much girl."

Cerce gave a shrug.

"Seemed the only thing to do. Can't always just go on killing, can we? Everywhere we go. Got to end sometime. When I was a kid the Orc war was still going on. Now, Orcs live everywhere. The best food in Penryan is that Orc place that does the turnips."

Red Tom gave a theatrical shrug.

"That question is well above my pay grade, I'll tell you that much. What I will say is, Wib's gonna say someone has to go give the news of the deal to High Chairman Adze."

At saying the name, Red Tom took the time to make a show of spitting over the deck. The captain fought to his feet, and gestured with a wave of his arm for Cerce to claim pride of place in the comfy hammock. As she climbed in and lay back in the hanging white sheet, Tom gave her a wink.

"And I'd be willing to bet that Wib says that someone is going to be you." He gave a reassuring pat of her bare leg before he went, "Not too long 'til home shores now." 

She watched him go. 

The breeze was cool over Cerce's face, and in silence she watched the crew go about their work. She idly toyed with the bracelet around her wrist, rolling the pearls between her fingertips.

One of the men near her, barely older than a boy, was sitting cross legged on the deck, making repairs to a violin. The instrument looked ragged and homemade, and Cerce watched his calloused fingers fixing the strings on the little thing. The man she'd seen leading the rowdy songs on the journey before was usually upon the rigging, but she looked now and realized that his was one of the faces missing from the crew of the Adamas. 

After a while, Cerce called the boy over to her, and whispered to him.

"I know it," he responded, lifting his little instrument and placing bow to strings. He waited patiently; he knew the voice started the old song. 

Cerce lay back in the hammock, closed her eyes. She felt the salty sea spray on her face, and began:

    I dreamed a dream the other night

    Lowlands, lowlands away my john

    I dreamed a dream the other night

    Lowlands away

The boy began to play. The reedy sound of the string instrument echoing over the sea, matching the slow croon of Cerce's voice. 

    I dreamed I saw my own true love

    Lowlands, lowlands away my john

    He stood so still, he did not move

    Lowlands away 

    

    I knew my love was drowned and dead

    Lowlands, lowlands away my john

    He stood so still, no word he said

    Lowlands away

    Around his form, green weeds had hold

    Lowlands away

Cerce's singing voice was the stuff of softly spoken bar legend up and down the coast. It rose over the crash of waves. Her accent lyrical, her words clear. 

    I will cut away my bonny hair

    Lowlands, lowlands away my john

    No other man will think me fair

    Lowlands away

    For my love lies drowned in the windy lowlands

    My lowlands away

The sea was smooth, the endless clouds filled the sky, split here and there to spill sunlight like gold dust across the world. In the distance, the first shadows of the southern coast could be seen among the blue waves. 

-

For Andy

In the Lair of the She-Beast (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 3

Part 2

-

Chapter 3

The first light of dawn gave a green tint to the dark water, and Cerce watched as a broken board floated by the ship. She'd slept poorly.

The small set of islands they'd come to were pleasant looking, green and shady and filled with small inlets and tiny untouched beaches. For all purposes they seemed a nice place to lounge on rocky sands, away from the mainland, but a knot of tension was lurking in Cerce's gut that wouldn't shift.

The crew of the Adamas ate quickly and sparingly, and around the ship proceedings were underway above and beyond the usual. Cerce watched, chewing on a hunk of salty dried pork, as rows of metal poles were brought up from below deck and placed in lines facing out from the middle of the deck. Nasty looking hooks tipped the end of every pole, and some crew were smearing a foul looking concoction upon the barbs of the poles they manned.

Earlier, Tom had overseen the unrolling of a great net from the topsail, that now hung a dozen feet above the deck like some great hammock in the wind.

"It's for the flyers." Tom declared as he saw Cerce staring up at the net. He came over to stand by her side. Tom had advised Cerce carry her weapon with her from the moment she awoke, and he too was already strapped for war. Beneath his jacket, his normally bare chest was instead covered by a dirty red boiled leather breastplate, decorated with chainwork around the upper body. At his hip was a long curved saber, and he absently tapped on the bronze hilt as he spoke. The blade was unscabbarded, and the metal was an odd whitish hue.

"Merrow attack three ways. Flyers don't really fly, of course, but you'd be fooled. They get up a speed and jump like devils out the water, come down on you with rocks, shells, rusty old blades they stole from the last poor fucker to sail by. Then the lurkers, they usually come last, when you're trying to regroup. Remember, it's not safe in the hold. Never put your back to the hull."

"And the third one?" Cerce asked. She ripped at the meat and touched her fangs with her tongue. Tom gestured to the sides of the ship.

"All the rest. They'll come up the sides, and you better be ready for them, because they'll be ready for you. They're smart, they're not animals. But they don't parlay, and they won't listen if you try to talk to them."

Cerce just nodded. The quiet was stifling, regardless of the wind on her face.

"You need a breather, get as close to the mizzen as you can, get up to the rigging. Even the little ones are heavy as hell, they can't pull themselves up. Or get behind Ben."

Ben the Black was hanging from the rigging, staring down into the water. From his free hand dangled one of his axes, swinging back and forth.

"Not too close behind, mind you."

As the ship sailed between the islands, there was a weight that came down upon Cerce. It was familiar, and she gripped the shaft of her halberd firm. She'd felt that weight before. The moments in the quiet before it all kicks off. It always reminded her a little bit of Belerion. Of her dad's smithy, and her old friends, the ones she'd never see again. Everything had been calm then, before everything happened all at once.

Tom pulled a little green flask from his belt, one she hadn't seen him drink from before, and took a quick swig. He went to replace it to the spot on his belt, before he instead offered it to Cerce.

"Here, little sip. Little, yeah?"

Cerce nodded and took a quick pull. The liquid tasted like pineapples and fire and Cerce couldn't help but cough and heave a deep breath as she handed the flask back. She felt a tingle down her throat and a shudder ran through her body, right down to her fingertips

"Strong, is what it is." Tom replied, replacing the flask and taking up his sword.

There was a moment of absolute silence aboard, with just the creak of timber and the splash of waves, before an explosion of noise rocked Cerce's senses. 

Pirates yelled as a shape sailed over the side of the ship fast as a bird in flight. As the great shape flew over the ship, an enormous curved conch dropped from it and shattered to the deck, sending hundreds of fragments of razor sharp shell across the ship. 

"Look lively lads, the ladies have arrived!" yelled Red Tom. The pirates gave a roar of assent. The longest and wildest scream came from Ben the Black, who brandished an axe in each hand, his eyes rolling madly. Tom raised the hilt of his sword up before his face and whispered a word to it. Cerce wasn't sure what happened, but the blade suddenly become painful to look at, her brain discordantly insisting that it was moving whilst she could see it was held still. 

Two pirates hurled themselves aside as a coral spear came shattering into the deck, splintering into pieces, followed again by another high sailing shape. This one came slightly lower, and both the shape and the huge projectile they carried landed snatched in the net supported by the mast. The figure within thrashed wildly as it turned to look down at the men below it. 

Huge wide eyes, black and empty, peered down from a sloping face. She bore no nose, but a mouth filled with pointed little teeth gaped. Her top half was that of a lithe and slender woman, her flesh a deep red, and her belly pale. Her breasts were so close to that of a human woman's that it seemed some grotesque imitation. At the waist, the body continued into a thick and powerful fish tail, her fins flashing in the early sun. 

The Merrow looked down at the pirates below her and screeched. As one, three pirates jerked up their spears and pierced the Merrow through. She was barely dead when the ship was rocked by impact. There were yells from below as the last pirates still readying themselves for war rushed up.

The first of the attackers swarmed over the side of the deck starboard side, a tall and angular Merrow bearing a blue head fin and white nipples pierced through with brutal barbed fishhooks. Her small and circular mouth bore a ring of teeth that pointed inward, and her long snakelike body reared up to lurch at the nearest pirate, a rusty scimitar swinging. More soon followed, clawing up the side of the ship and rearing up on powerful torso muscles, some as small and lithe as children, others twice the size of a burly deckhand. 

A startling rainbow of colours, the Merrow swarmed the deck. Blue and red, white and black, their claws gripping the shafts of coral spears or lugging great shells to hurl like cannonballs. Each was decorated or adorned with warlike jewelry and trophies, necklaces of teeth and bones, jagged metal rings, bangles and piercings. Some had the flesh of their arms or breasts tattooed in black ink with patterns and designs, the markings of their tribes. Not one was identical, and together they swarmed towards the crew of the Adamas, blades and teeth flashing. As one, a row of pirates knelt, yelled a joint command, and raised the long spears to meet the oncoming surge. Spears bit into multicolored flesh and tore bellies, and the pirates rallied to take up more spears from their placed spots. The fast movers made it, but the slightest hesitation was pounced upon. One pirate was snatched up in the arms of a muscular Merrow with a great white fin atop her head. Her powerful arms twisted his shoulders revoltingly out of place. The pirate screamed, and she slapped him into the ground where he went limp as a cloth doll. Picking him up, the Merrow effortlessly lifted the unconscious pirate over her head and tossed him into the waiting teeth and claws of her sisters in the waters below. 

Rising at the fore of the ship was a long and sleek Merrow, the size of Cerce, whose shoulders were armoured in gleaming coral pauldrons. From her head hung white sinewy tendrils that dragged to the boards of the deck. Her scales were a blinding silver, reflecting the light of the dawn like a blazing torch, and the flesh of her long stomach and soft underarms was the rainbow shine of gleaming pearl. Raising one arm high, The Silver One brandished a gleaming coral spear, and gave a screech that echoed over the sea.

The Merrow warriors moved unlike anything Cerce had encountered before. So much of their body's weight was in their lower halves, that they swayed almost drunkenly at will, listing and leaning from side to side yet able to dart up and forward with immense force. The first Merrow who rushed at Cerce had bulging eyes and horrid white flesh, translucent in the dawn light, and she lashed with broad strokes of a curving hook gnarled with barnacles. Cerce backed up a step, then a second quickly as the Merrow lurched forward, arms raised high to bury the brutal weapon into Cerce's gut. Cerce's knee came up to meet the thing's midsection, and twisting her hips, Cerce kicked out a boot into the underside of the Merrows flat jaw. The bones within crunched audibly. Continuing her momentum, Cerce let the cool black metal of her Halberds shaft slide through her hands, snatching it tight at the last moment to swing the heavy blade into the Merrow before it could twist or lean. The monstrous swing bisected the Merrow completely and buried itself in the chest of the next one that was approaching Cerce from the other side. Launching another high kick up at the face of the new attacker, Cerce tugged her halberd free, leaving a huge gash that promptly emptied the entrails of the Merrow across the deck. The smell of the Foul Mouth market at dawn filled the air. 

A few feet away, Tom gave a great yell as he leapt towards a broad red Merrow with a rust crusted metal gauntlet strapped to her arm. Tom was an agile combatant, ducking and weaving with his whole body, and the blade he carried practically sang as it rattled off the side of the Merrow's gleaming coral helmet. With a spin, Tom turned and launched forward, spearing his opponent through the chest. His blade cut so clean and so deep, the cross-guard met her collar bone, then neatly slid back out without the slightest difficulty. Tom nodded to Cerce.

"You'll never smell a fresh fisherman's catch the same way again girl." He laughed. Cerce had no time to choose or to focus, she simply had to move to the next warrior who lashed across the ship towards her. The deck of the ship was already a complete bedlam of clashing bodies, Merrow slithering across the boards to clash their weapons with pirates who danced between the rusty hooks and coral spears.

There was blood across the deck from slashes, bites and cuts that the crew had taken, gashed faces and smashed teeth. Several men were gripping injuries with spare hands as they fought, or bearing distressing read stains that were growing across their shirts. Tom's men were doubtless skilled fighters though, and it was clear they'd tangled with Merrow before. There was a handful of the seafolk warriors down and gurgling on slit throats and pouring thick oily blood from sword wounds. Crawling over their dead or dying comrades, the Merrow continued the assault. 

Ben the Black fought like a man possessed. Leaping from the rigging, the man came down screaming upon two Merrow, an axe in each of his calloused hands. One after the other the axes lashed into the scaled bodies, again and again Ben's arms pumping, cleaving hands from wrists and deep into heads. When the two Merrow he'd fallen down upon were nothing but a bloody ruin, he immediately moved on, his chest heaving with deep breaths.

The Silver One pointed her spear and gave a guttural screech, and Ben the Black faced her, his arms wide, axes extended either side of him.
"Oh yeah, yeah you got the right idea love," he said. Ben's speaking voice was quiet and cold. He talked to himself, not to the Merrow who stared him down.
The two warriors launched at one another in a flurry of movement, Ben taking a heavy step forward and leaping, axes swinging, and the Merrow rushing forward low, her muscular tail bringing her up to meet Ben with speed.
Her spear thrust missed the leaping pirate's gut by inches, and as her nimble shoulders dodged his first swing, Ben followed the momentum through by cracking his skull into her forehead with a sound like a splitting watermelon.
The Merrow reeled, her senses rattled, and Ben immediately pushed the attack, kicking up a filthy boot into her lower abdomen and swinging again with his brutal axes. One of his axes finally caught the Merrow commander in the side of her torso and she shrieked, losing her grip on the spear, she grasped at the burly pirate with claws. Dragging them both down to the deck, they rolled in the blood that coated the boards.

Clamping his thighs down either side of the Merrow's torso, Ben locked himself in a straddle above his opponent, and his elbow snapped back repeatedly as he pummeled at the keening Merrow's face with fast jabs, ignoring the claws that were rending the sunburned flesh of his shoulders. With a last punch Ben sent the Merrow's head crashing back against the deck, and her arms flopped to her sides.
Ben half sat up, his bloody face split with a grin filled with chipped teeth and madness in his wide white eyes.
"Got me a lively one here boys!" he yelled into the madness around him. Leaning forward to where the silver warriors heavy breasts were heaving, he promptly placed his mouth over a pearly coloured nipple and sucked on it loudly.
With a cry of rage, the Silver One lunged up and crunched down with a mouthful of razor teeth on the side of Ben's head. Her long body roiled and threw the pirate from where he straddled her, and tilting her head, she spit Ben's severed ear to the deck. After finding his feet, the pirate gave a hoot of laughter and, blood pouring down his shoulder from his maimed head, rushed straight back towards the snarling silver woman warrior, their matched screaming lost in the smash of bodies and scales and clashing steel and cracking coral.

Cerce's feet were spread wide in her usual stance, and it helped her retain her balance on the unfamiliar ground of the deck as she swung her halberd around to take a blue Merrow in the side as it weaved towards her, tongue out. The creature was cleaved neatly in half by the weight of Cerce's halberd, the humanoid top half flying to the deck to writhe while the serpentine lower half flopped entirely of its own accord on the deck.

Ducking under the swipe of another Merrow that rushed towards her, long jaws snapping for her face, Cerce shoved out her weapon to jam it into the gut of her attacker. The silvery Merrow doubled over in pain, tongue hanging from her great mouth, wide glassy eyes rolling on either slide of her sloping head. As the Merrow began to rise, Cerce jerked forward her forehead to butt the thing in the face and while it reeled in surprise, she sent it tumbling tail over tits over the side of the ship with a great shove of her armoured shoulder.    

More Merrow claws appeared on the deck, dragging bodies up and over onto the ship, and with them was coming a chant, a battle song that began to rise from the mouths of many of the aquatic warriors. With the aid of a few already aboard, a great Merrow with purple rubbery flesh was being pulled from the depths. As she crested the side, massive muscular arms rose, and an awful horizontal jaw wide as a longbow appeared. Huge breasts dangled to the deck as she finally crawled aboard, the entire ship leaning under her weight, dragging behind her a sinewy eel-like body as big as a draft-horse. In one arm the creature brandished a curved metal club that was clearly a repurposed anchor, green with barnacles and brown with rust. Beyond her huge mass, more Merrow appeared, every one of them some new horror from the depths. Pirates roared and there was another surge in the defense.     

Near the fore of the ship Cerce found Red Tom at her back once more, his arms moving as he engaged a slender little Merrow with vibrant orange and white flesh. She was stabbing at the pirate captain with quick little jabs of a rusty old blade, and Tom parried each neatly and skillfully, and with a quick feint stepped forward and put his blade clean through the little Merrow's gills. She gripped at her throat and, eyes bulging, came crashing dead to the deck.   

The pirates were giving as good as they got, organized into a line but slowly being pushed back. The slow slug-like approach of the great purple siege Merrow was pushing them back, her huge wide mouth open and a deep gargling warble echoing from behind thousands of needle-like teeth. She brought her anchor club overarm and with a great crash put a hole the size of a man into the boards of the deck. One man tried to get behind her, and with a brief roll of her massive body, she struck him in the hip with her tail, sending him flying clean over the rail towards the sea. 

"We're about to get crushed, Tom," Cerce said frantically. Tom brushed fish guts from his blade onto his filthy trousers and nodded.

"We bite at them till the last dog dies, girl," He snarled. 

Cerce looked around, the battle raging aboard the deck obscured most of the view from the ship, but the island they had drifted nearest to kept drawing her attention. 

"The cove. What's in there?" Cerce asked, pointing. The crashing waves partially hid the little sheltered cove from sight, nestled as it was in the grey cliff rocks.

Red Tom followed the line of her arm, and gave a great shrug.

"Dunno, sea cave. There's thousands of them. Too shallow. Not big enough to hide a ship in, not worth knowing."

"We'll see," said Cerce.

She tugged roughly at her boots, pulling them off and letting them fall to the deck. She next went at the straps of her armour, the heavy metal pauldron, and soon threw off what she could struggle loose from. 

Red Tom turned his back to Cerce, swinging his glimmering blade and taking the hand off a bright blue little Merrow that was slithering across the deck towards him brandishing a broken chisel. The creature let out a hideous gargle of pain and threw itself overboard.

"You go in there, you're dead, greenie. It might look shallow but those waves will smash you to shreds against the cliffs. If the 'maids don't chew your tits off first anyway."

"Got an anchor haven't I?" Cerce said, as she threw down her clothes to the deck and hefted her halberd.

"You'll fuckin' drown!" yelled Tom at her back, as Cerce took off sprinting. Hefting the halberd high she planted it hard onto the deck with a mighty crack, vaulting over the side of the ship at speed. Hair flailing, she flew fifteen feet from the ship before she hit the water with a crash, and instantly began sinking into the dark.

-

Part 4

In the Lair of the She-Beast (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 2

Part 1

-

Chapter 2

Three days aboard a ship was intimidating, but would at least be comparatively relaxing, Cerce had thought. Her usual fare was days of travel by road, aching legs, tortured feet, chapped arses, and chafed thighs.

Turns out the sea wasn't too much more comfortable. The 'cabin' Red Tom had promised her proved to be a corner of the central hold sequestered off by a curtain hung from a rope, creating a private area just about large enough to curl behind in a makeshift cot while sweaty pirates snored and farted two feet away on the other side of it.

Breakfast was usually cold meat and boiled beans that Cerce ate cheerfully on the deck, looking out at the blue waves with endless wind chapped lips and watery eyes. The Foul Mouth was far beyond sight anymore, and only the vague shadow of the southern coast of Cornubia still visible on the horizon as they traveled east along it. The sky was bright, with patches of sunlight peeking down through the white clouds, and Cerce's skin began to darken slightly as she spent afternoons basking on deck.

Red Tom was occupied completely for the first few hours of every day, surprising Cerce with his activity and the amount of energy at which he threw himself around the ship. The Captain had an eye on everything, and while she'd known Tom a few years, Cerce had never before seen him in his natural habitat.

When the sun was at its apex the crew settled somewhat, and took time to entertain themselves. For the first day or two the crew were standoffish and Cerce found herself excluded. She'd pass time watching the men work, trying to figure out the intricacies of the rigging. Occasionally she'd flick through the little book that Adam had given her when she'd told him she was taking a trip, but had trouble making much sense of the flowery prose. Something about horses and pretty girls in dresses, but Cerce had never been much of a reader.

She'd find moments to chat with Tom and watch the waves go by in the evening, and he reminded her that the crew may be a surly lot, but they were his boys and soon they'd come around. He assured Cerce that though they might have not shown it, they were likely thankful to have a woman on board to spice up the usual scenery a little.

After a couple of days the men of Adamus did indeed warm up a to the presence of the Nadyr. Cerce found herself playing card games with cards so rat eared that the crew knew almost every one from the tears and folds alone. This led to arguments over who'd won a round pretty much every round, with handfuls of coins being tossed back and forth moment by moment. Occasionally something comparatively worthwhile like a shiny apple or a measure of rum was tossed into the winner's pot and everyone would get quiet and pretend to know what they were doing for a round or two. Cerce lost a  bone necklace she'd made in her days on the road, but won a hammered copper ring she'd taken a shine to and, out of jewelry, anted up a show of her tits instead. Cerce had also found an appreciation for the filthy jokes that seemed to make up a lot of the banter during the ship's work hours, and if nothing else, learned a thing or two about the acts a Penryan girl would allegedly perform given the right circumstances. There were the inevitable contests of strength and other manly prowess, and Cerce almost got her shoulder dislocated arm wrestling Ben the Black. Later, some of the crew took turns trying to lift Cerce's halberd, and then it was her turn to giggle as half failed to lift it at all, and the ones that did stumbled around trying to wield it like a toddler with a broadsword.

It was after a game of cards one night, when Cerce was stretching by the bow that Red Tom approached her and handed over a cup of the rich, sweet mead he kept in the cabin.
"Oh, the good stuff is it?" Cerce asked. Taking a sip. It was thick like honey and went immediately to her head.
"Wanted to see how you were coming along. Taking a liking to the sea life, Stormbringer?"
Cerce shrugged, leaning over the deck to peer down into the water. The water this far from shore was darker than Cerce had ever known it to be, a blackness so complete it looked almost solid.
"Still get shivers down my spine sometimes, but it's not too bad. Ship's cosy."
"Isn't she?" Red Tom grinned, clearly a few cups into his mead himself, "Nothing like it really, being out here. I see you been getting on with the lads."
Cerce nodded and smiled,
"Yeah actually, for a bunch of crazed known thieves and murderers, they're pretty good to know."
"Only the best on this ship, greenie."
"So tell me about the Merrow, what do you know?" Cerce asked, sipping from her cup.

Tom drank liberally from his own and blew noisily out of pursed lips.
"Well, I know they aren't usually anywhere near the west, for a start. Come in all shapes and sizes. Most about the size of a man, or smaller. Up north in Dumnonia they say there's huge Merrow, big as ships. Sounds like sailor talk to me though."
"Like Shakka?" Cerce asked, "I heard a lot of stories in the bar."
"The She-Beast of the South? Yeah, she's meant to be big. I know people who say they've seen her. Queen of the Merrow. Mostly rumour though, still. Most of the ones I've seen have usually been out near the east island. You ever been to Exenar?"
Cerce shook her head, her white hair flying in the sea wind.
"This is the furthest I've been from Cornubia, right now."
Tom shrugged, "It's nice out there if you like the heat. Good food. But yeah, they got Merrow all over the waters out there. Locals been fighting with them over patches of coast all along the island for years, way back since the bloody shattering. Adamas been in a couple scraps with them over there, paid work. Always trying to find a way to get rid of them. Even poisoning their own waters to try and drive them out, everything. Probably why the Merrow fight so nasty."
"Who fights nice, Tom? Tell me that." Cerce smiled.
"You know what I mean, you go into a fight ready for a fist in the gut or a nutting, don't you? Merrow, it's claws, teeth, they make weapons out of coral, oof, gets caught up in your guts, shatters to pieces inside you. Proper nasty stuff. Why do you think I dragged you along on this?"
"Because you want to see me locked in a vicious fight to the death with some bare breasted Merrow right?"
"Partially, but mainly because you're bloody nasty yourself in a fight, Stormbringer, and I like that in my friends."
"Thanks Tom, that's sweet of you."

They both finished off the mead that remained in their cups, and Cerce gave Red Tom a nudge.
"Speaking of friends...tell me about Captain Revan. How do you even know him?"
Tom tipped his head back and gave a bark of a laugh. Cerce pushed on.
"I wanna know! How does the most respected guard captain on the south coast get on so well with...well, you! Revan's almost put a rope around my neck about three times, why isn't he firing burning arrows at your ship any time you're in sight?"
Tom clapped Cerce on the shoulder.
"Wib wasn't always such an uptight sod, is why. Before someone rammed that stick right up his arse, Wib Revan was quite the adventurer. Back in the day we were something of a team."
"You and Wib? Side by side?" Cerce asked incredulously.
"And a few others. Barr of the Isles, biggest bastard I ever met, bigger than most orcs. Lady Crayne, finest knight for leagues, blonde hair like sunlight. Couple other comers and goers over the years. We were quite the party back then."
Cerce was shaking her head in disbelief. Tom nodded, his eyes a little lost in the memory.
"There was a lot to do after the war. We needed heroes then. Soldiers gone wild, bands of brigands, rogue orcs who'd ignored the treaty. We chased one or the other across the island for years. Bloody good days, them."
"So what happened?"
"Ah, everyone gets old don't they? Can't live the adventuring life forever. Work slowed down. Wib settled, found his little Elven bride, got himself straight. Barr died from an arrow wound gone bad. Crayne and I rumbled pirates in the Foul Mouth for a few years and...well...one of the ships just looked real good one day. Rest just came with the territory."

Tom looked about his crew, and gave a smile. There was a rustle of commotion going on, and a few of the men had produced instruments.
It wasn't practiced, it seemed to come naturally, reedy whistles placed to chapped lips, a rickety little fiddle, and a plain little drum beat with a calloused hand. It started to echo out over the waters around the ship. Clinging to the rigging by the mizzen, a tall deck hand with long brown hair was the first to raise his voice and start singing.

Now when I was a young man
We lived near the sea strand
And my folks kept a tavern called the Admiral's head
And old salts by the fireside would tell of the sea's wide
The far foreign shores
And the lives that they'd led

After that, it filled the ship. Every voice suddenly raised as one, and Cerce jumped in surprise as Tom joined in at full volume, a song every one of them clearly knew by heart. The ship seemed to swell with it, voices raised, arms swaying.

And it's up and away in the mornin'
O' the tears my poor mother has cried
But the sea it had called me
And you may say I'm balmy
But I went to her just like a bride
And it's up and away in the mornin'

Cerce was smiling, watching the musicians play, the bodies standing upon the deck, swaying in the rigging or emerging out from the cabins below to join in. Tom gave a gesture to them proudly. He leaned in closer to her to speak as his crew continued their song.
"Friends are what you make of them, Cerce. First time I met Ben the Black, we were hunting brigands terrorizing a town. Ben had been burning whole buildings for a handful of coin. He almost put his axe into my head. That big scar on his chest? Wib gave him that. Damn fine with a blade, Wib."
Ben was among those hanging from the rigging, his mouth open wide, roaring along with the rest of the crew.

And it's up and away in the mornin'
And though we may never come home
We'll think of it often
Til' the day that our lead weighted coffins
Get tossed in the foam
And it's up and away in the mornin'

"Where'd you see yourself in another ten summers? Twenty? You and your friends. Shacked up with true love, raising a little one?" Tom asked.
Cerce thought of her group of friends. The little party they'd become. The thief, Adam, the mercenary, Carnaby, the bartender, Jiera. Where they might be headed.
"Maybe, I can see it for one or two of us. Happy ending. Or maybe in the dirt, or disappeared without trace."
Tom gave Cerce another clap on the back.
"You want my advice, be the one who sails off into the seas at the end. Not the one left behind."
Tom finished up his drink and began to walk to his cabin, over his shoulder he said to Cerce as he left.
"Sleep if you can. Not long after dawn we reach the waters where it happened."

Cerce watched the men partying well into the night. Some of the songs she knew, and she joined in whenever she could. Her voice carried across the sea along with the light from the lanterns, making the ship seem a strange little pedestal of brightness in the middle of endless night.

-----------------------------------

Part 3

'Up and Away' lyrics by The Poxy Boggards!

In the Lair of the She-Beast (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 1

Prologue

The night breeze moved across the wide wooden deck, strong enough to add a chill to the air but not to steal the words from Reyes and Obie's mouths as they sat overlooking the passing water.
Obie passed the little flask back to Reyes, and the elderly sailor took another quick sip of the rum before he continued.

"I mean, it all depends where you been in the past really, doesn't it? I got the job 'cause I sailed with old captain Hereford for twenty years, up and down the coast. I knew every port, every customs man, every old inn that welcomes sailors, and I got that job 'cause I'd been part of the rigging crew on the state ship as a young man, doin' the circle past Zenance and back every week. You ask me, when we get back to the Foul Mouth, go talk to the lads up at customs. You make friends there, it'll get you places."

Obie nodded solemnly. 'Decades of back-breaking hard work' hadn't been the advice he'd been hoping for. He scratched his hair, unwashed and matted with weeks of seawater.

"Yeah... I mean, just want to see something new I guess. Always wanted to see the south isles."

Reyes was staring off into the dark seas stretching out before them. Black waves were slapping quietly past the side of the ship, the horizon clear and empty.

"You want adventure, you'd be better off on a pleasure ship, boy. You want to see beautiful sights or do you want to get paid?"

"Well, both; don't I?" Obie shrugged.

"Then you should get yerself on a pirate ship boy," he gave a snarky laugh, "Riches an' the women of the southern islands. You know, I hear one of those islands down there, fruit trees everywhere, an' all the women wear nothin' but as a hat to shade their eyes, all year round."

Obie snorted, not half as outrageous as most of what Reyes had told him though. Obie reached back for the flask. As he turned his gaze out to the sea, a face stared back at him from the water.

Wide eyes, black. Glistening skin. A wave crested over the face, and it was gone.

"Reyes, you...you see that?"

"See what, kid? Beaches of beautiful women? Lots... I once found myself on..."

Obie cut him off, pointing into the sea.

"No, there was a girl, in the sea there."

Reyes nudged him,

"It's been a while, I know, believe you me you get to the point where you'll be able to find a nice pair of tits in the knots in the planks above yer bunk."

Obie stared into the black waves. He wasn't the type to have his eyes play tricks on him.

"Let me guess, big blue eyes like that girl in the bakery shop you're always talking about?"

"No, black eyes, black and horrible."

Reyes went silent. He found his feet and leaned over the deck, peering down into the ocean. His old eyes darted left and right suspiciously.

"Couldn't be, not 'ere. We're too far west."

Obie tugged at the old man's ragged shirt.

"Too far west for what?"

"Never you mind, stay 'ere, keep an eye out. I'm going to knock on the captain. You see anythin' else you scream," Reyes said as he turned and began striding across the deck, "an' I mean you scream like a bloody banshee, you hear?"

"Reyes, what are you doing? Captain'll go radge if you wake him up now; it's not dawn for hours..."

Obie shook his head, watching the old sailor go. He turned the flask in his hand, only a drop left. He tilted the thing back the whole way and felt the last sliver of rum snake down his throat.

When he turned his eyes back to the black seas, the faces were watching him. Black glossy eyes staring back at him, glistening faces, scales, teeth.

He thought he saw three at first, then five, then he couldn't count anymore.

Obie screamed.

Chapter 1

Cerce stood peering out into the gray fog that was sweeping in over the sea. Mornings in the Foul Mouth were always drenched in mist and fog, slowly boiling off throughout the morning as the sun rose drearily behind the perpetual clouds.

She'd arrived at the docks early, and had been watching the many jobs unfolding around the galleon. Adamas wasn't the biggest ship in the bay, but it was well known. Most of the other ships around had probably chased it at some point.

She swallowed, trying to unseat the deep feeling of dread that was gripping onto her guts with tight little claws, and continued what she had been saying.

"I mean I like the sea, don't get me wrong. Grew up in Belerion. Used to sit for hours down by the coast, watching it, when I was little. Just don't much like being at sea. As soon as I can't see the ground beneath my feet. Something about that feeling..."

Cerce gave a roll of her shoulders and cringed.

"Fear of the unknown, greenie," said Red Tom Flint as he came clomping over the gangplank to grab another sack of provisions. His long black hair jingled and glittered with the dozens of assorted coins, bones, and bits of junk woven or matted into it. Tom's white shirt was open to bare a lean, hairy chest and the edges of various tattoos.

He stopped before Cerce, and spread his hands wide, red painted nails miming claws.

"The feeling that, just out of sight, in the inky depths, there's eyes and teeth and gaping, stretching maws waiting for you. Waiting for some unseen horror of the deep to engulf you whole like so much shrimp."

Cerce inclined her head. Her thick white hair was blowing in the sea breeze, and although most of her frame was strapped in leather armor, goosebumps rose on her bare arms.

"Well, yeah. Pretty much. No one likes the idea of getting eaten."

Red Tom gave a smirk and slapped her on the side.

"'Course we don't. That's why every sailor has those fears, and we all get over them. For the most part."

Cerce followed Red Tom up the plank, her heavy halberd resting over her shoulders. Red Tom tossed his hair and looked back at her as he went on.

"When you're actually out there, you mostly forget about the existential dread of the great black unknown when you start dealing with all the other shit. Like dying of thirst, mold, getting sick all the time, losing a hand to a rope burn gone nasty, some nutter castaway leaping aboard in the night to steal your salvage and cut your nuts off while you sleep, you know."

Cerce nodded, "...I guess."

Red Tom's crew were making the final checks before they set sail. A hardy dozen, bare chests and sun ruddied skin to a man. Cerce didn't know any of them personally apart from their Captain.

As she walked, her boots stomping on the gnarled wooden deck, she strode by Red Tom's first mate. Ben the Black was sitting on the deck cross legged. His whole body was practically a knot of muscle, and he whistled to himself as he ran a whetstone over the blade of a little handaxe.
Cerce let her gaze stay on him for a while. Ben bore a freshly shaven head, a ragged blonde beard, and a chest that was a patchwork of scar tissue. From what she'd heard, not so long ago being anywhere near a port would have got Ben a good hanging. Ben looked up suddenly, the whites of his eyes a rheumy yellow, and gave a toothy smile to that set the back of Cerce's neck to tingling.

Red Tom gave her a nudge, and pointed off down the jetty where silver guard armour glistened as a tall figure made his way towards the ship.

"Our charming benefactor arrives." Red Tom yelled, loud enough for Wib Revan to hear as he came to a halt before the ship.

The Captain of the Guard put a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the emerging sun.

"Captain Flint." Revan acknowledged.

"Red Tom, Wib. It's Red Tom. Going to be joining us on our merry way?"

"Afraid not, Tom, no time for sailing. The Foul Mouth needs me here."

"That is a damn shame, we could always use another one to mop the deck."

Revan didn't smile, but he didn't grimace either. He strode up to the side of the ship and placed his hand upon it.

Looking up, he met the gaze of Red Tom and Cerce.

"I have missed your wit, Tom." Revan said.

"You too Wib, whatever happened to us?"

"I grew up, Tom, and you became a professional pain in my arse."

Red Tom put his hand to his chest,

"I'm glad I still have a special place with you, me old mate."

Revan pulled a rolled up paper from his jacket, and waved it towards the pirate Captain.

"The map you asked our friend to draw. He managed it, but it is a bit shaky."

Red Tom dropped from the ship down to the pontoon, and the whole thing rocked under his weight, nearly sending a deck hand staggering into the drink. Revan didn't so much as wobble.

Red Tom took a glance at the map, squinting up his big brown eyes a moment, before turning the thing on its side and tilting his head the other way.

"You really think it was Merrow done this?" Red Tom asked, "You don't see them out this far. They stick to the eastern islands. I'd bet money it was a ship that put the blades to them. Been a while since we seen the Boneshaker, might be back in business."

"I'm well aware of the proclivities of local pirates, Tom, I chased one in particular for eight years."

"I always could run faster than you, family man. How's the wife by the way?"

"Regardless," said Revan immediately, "the bodies we pulled out of the ship were torn apart. No human did this."

Red Tom folded the map and stashed it somewhere in his spacious trousers.

"Well, that's why they, and by they I mean you, pay us the good money. If it's pirates, we know how to deal with 'em. If it really is a rogue pod of Merrow. Well, we know how to deal with them too."

 "You're my best man on the job, Tom. Don't mess it up."

Red Tom have a chuckle as he climbed back aboard and sent his crew swarming for their posts with a wave of his hand.

"Wib, you of all people should know how hard Red Tom Flint is to kill. And thanks to your far reaching connections, we have the Stormbringer."

Red tom gave Cerce a hearty clap on back that had her grabbing for rigging to steady herself.

"And if all the stories are true she single-handedly smashes mountains in half and blasts lightening from her eyes. Isn't that right?"

Cerce gave a shrug and nodded down to Revan.

"Thanks for this, Wib."

"Captain Revan." The Guard Captain corrected, and gave Cerce the slightest of nods.

"Alright you hairy bastards! Time to get sailing!" Yelled Red Tom, raising an arm in the air. The crew sprang to it.

Red Tom noticed Cerce's clear apprehension, and gave her a nudge.

"Come on Stormbringer. What you worrying about? Worst things happen at sea don't they?"

-

Part 2