*Scrape* observed the knife as it ran down the whetstone.

Captain Powder Burn turned the weapon around in his magic, scraping the other side down once more against the stone.

Large bonfires danced tantalizingly before him, the waves crashing up on the beach eager to tango. Sihlouettes of ponies fought, froliced, and fornicated upon the beach before him, their shadows dancing madly to the tune of the massive flames.

“Alcohol,” Burn spat—literally, onto the drying stone to keep it nice and lubricated—as he glowered at the ponies down on the beach, “turns the fucking best of us into raving, thoughtless lunatics,” he gave a quiet growl as he grew silent.

*Scrape* the knife commented, flipping in his ruddy magic once more.

Many on the beach, he knew, were of his own crew. After many a harsh month at sea it was a blessing to be able to sit back and relax on solid ground. Most often, that meant squandering their winnings on fresh food, fresh whores, and fresh drinks, almost none of which were ever had often—if at all—at sea.

He let them. The sooner they ran out of ill-gained earnings and ran into more ill-gained debts to the merchants of flesh and drink the sooner they’d need to head out for more.

The sooner they could hunt again.

The sooner he could hunt again.

*Scrape* agreed the knife.

*Pop* retorted a scroll as it vaporized into existence before him.

Powder Burn nearly vaporized the scroll for good as he gave a startled flinch, horn glowing with angry arcane energies. He gave another annoyed growl, wiping the whetstone clean of spit and metal shavings on his filthy shirt before hammerspacing it and sheathing his knife.

Plucking the scroll off the sand in front of him, he unwrapped it and gave it a quick read.

Dear Captain Powder Burn,

You are being hunted by the Equestrian Royal Navy. I recently happened upon a Captain of said navy inquiring about your whereabouts. I managed to send him towards Prance for the time being.

Faithfully, your trusted friend,

Captain Slate Sheet of the Vultures’ Delight

Burn read over the warning note a few more times before giving a snort, “Who the fuck is Slate Sheet?”

<~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~>

Powder Burn gave the door a solid set of knocks.

“Occupied!” a strained voice called back, a rhythmic creaking of wooden boards coming from the other side, “Fuck off!” Powder Burn opened the door enough to put his head through the opening.

Inside a unicorn stallion with a light orange coat and mane braided like many strands of hemp rope was sheath-deep in a mare. The sweat-damp, sin-stained bed the two lay on creaked in protest to the unicorn’s ferocious rutting. His magic flared up as a small dirk and two tar-black spherical grenades floated ready before him.

“Are you daft!? I said…” he halted in both speech and sex, if only for a mere second, as he recognized Powder Burn, “Uh, Captain?” he asked with surprise, continuing with the mare at a slower pace as he eyed Powder Burn curiously. The weapons returned to their scattered places amongst the floor.

“Are you going to be long, Slow Match?” he asked, eyes flicking to the mare. Her hindquarters were propped up by her stiff hind legs, giving Slow Match easier access. Her head was lowered to her front hooves, closed eyes and happy smile telling him she’d already had her share of the fun.

“N-no, just a—” he cut himself off with a wild whinny, arching his back up as his face clenched into an orgasmic grimace, gripping the mare tighter with his forehooves as he filled her with the warmth of his seed. Giving a few extra, short thrusts as he emptied himself into her, he lay down across her back, affectionately nibbling at her ears and neck as she let her hind legs give out.

“That all fer this evenin, love?” the mare inquired in a sugary, accented voice. She looked back over her withers at him, flashing a seductress’ smile, “Might be able to give y’all a two-on-one special,” she batted her eyes at Powder Burn.

“I’ll be out of your manes shortly,” Powder Burn assured, stepping inside and floating over the message, “Just received this by magic fire.”

Slow Match lay where he was, taking the letter in his own magic as he floated over a bottle of booze and took a large swig. His eyes darted over the page and he tipped the bottle in Powder Burn’s direction.

“You know I don’t drink, Slow Match,” Powder Burn replied to the offer, distasteful.

“Would be rude not to offer,” Slow Match replied, shrugging and taking another swig, “So we’re being hunted by the Equestrian navy?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Powder Burn jerked his head towards the letter, “Depends on who our sender is and if they’re full of shit. The name mean anything to you?”

“Hm,” Slow Match replied, swigging another gulp of booze as he looked at the name. He offered the bottle to the mare, who took her own, long, drag of the alcoholic beverage, “One of the fences, I think. Maybe trying to get his dick licked if the wording means anything,” he chuckled as he glanced over it, “sounds like a little ass-kisser to me.

“We’re not in Prance anyways, so what’s it matter?” he gave Powder Burn a wide grin, the booze in his belly no doubt fueling a good portion of his cheeriness, “Even if he wanted to, the fences don’t know where we are,” he gestured about the room with a hoof, “much less any of the safe routes into Outcast Isle!”

“Well,” Powder Burn growled, “Because I know of a little whore who probably is in Prance. One that I owe a great deal of gold and would likely throw me under to get her filthy, whoring, hooves on it.”

Slow Match’s grin faded, “Oh...wait, you don’t mean—”

<~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~>

“The Blackjack. Captained by Vanilla Bonnet, pegasus, female,” Ensign Cypher Scribe read out of the large tome, “wanted for charges of piracy, embezzlement, bribery, blackmail, and a list of other crimes by the following nations: Equestria, Great Grifon, Saddle Arabia, Germaneigh, Stalliongrad, Zeb—”

“Thank you, Ensign Scribe,” Frostbite cut the Guard off as he glared through his spyglass at the other ship, a two-masted brigantine with four starboard gunports, docked in the small harbor. It bobbed slowly with a series of other, random ships, “Dismissed.”

“Aye, sir,” Scribe said with a salute, trotting off as he hammerspaced the book.

“No sign of the Sacrilegious Saint,” Broadhead observed.

“No, he’s probably on Outcast Island, wherever that is,” Frostbite replied, snapping his spyglass shut, “But it takes a pirate to find Outcast Isle,” he turned to Broadhead with a cunning smile, “and we have a pirate somewhere in that little harbor town before us.”

“You intend to ask politely while wielding the larger stick?” Broadhead inquired, uncertainty in his tone, “No matter how friendly our nations may be, the fact that we are now operating in another nation’s waters means we lose some of that leverage.”

“No, I doubt coercion will work in this case,” Frostbite agreed, “She will either fight or flee if we try to force the issue and I doubt capture and interrogation will get us what we need. The bare bones of what we need perhaps, but anything short of her cooperation and we might as well not even bother.”

“So what do you suggest? Buy her off?” Broadhead asked, skeptical.

“Perhaps...perhaps not,” Frostbite was quiet for a minute, contemplating, “Have the colors dropped and issue an order for no uniforms on deck,” he suddenly said, “then get me ten of our best spellcasters and have them meet me below, no uniforms,” he smiled, “perhaps some shore leave will help me think of a way to work this out…”

<~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~>

“You don’t think she would...would she?” Slow Match inquired, dressing after having paid the whore. He slipped on a rough, leather vest and belt, tucking his explosives, a smallsword, and a dirk into place. The bottle followed him out in his magical grasp, his steps only somewhat unsteady. He took another swig.

“If the cunt thinks she can get that money I owe her from the Equestrian’s pockets…” Powder Burn growled, trailing off as he stared balefully ahead.

The two made their way down a set of stairs to the main lobby of the whorehouse. It was surprisingly up to date with an urban strip club, dancing ponies grinding up against poles in exotic and revealing poses. Others trotted about the many tables, serving both drinks and lap dances to their drunken and horny patrons. Loud music helped to blur every sound together, forcing Slow Match and Powder Burn to raise their voices a touch.

“But...would she give up the location of Outcast Isle?” Slow Match asked, genuinely worried. One ship we could easily handle...but if the Equestrians sent a dozen, more…blockaded us or collapsed our only way in and out of here…” he suddenly looked somewhat sick, and it certainly wasn’t from the alcohol.

“She’s not that fucking stupid. If she gave away Outcast Isle then where’d she run to to lay low? Nopony can hide indefinitely in the Mareibbean,” Powder Burn growled, “Don’t know what she’ll do.”

The two passed out into the cool night air, stars sparkling in the velvety sky above.

“Then what have we to fear? All we gotta do is keep off their radar long enough for them to give up,” Slow match began with another smile, “The chances of the Equestrians finding us are so slim, so—”

“Being called out as cowards.”

“What?” Slow Match asked, halting in his tracks a ways away from the whorehouse, aptly named: Winking and Dripping.

“What we have to fear from sitting here like a bedwetting bunch of fillies,” Powder Burn’s eyes seemed to burn, even in absence of the beach bonfires, “Being called out as cowards,” he spun about, “Inform the crew: we leave tomorrow at high tide.”

<~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~>

It had taken some time, and some bits, to get into the small port, but they had finally gotten clearance to weigh anchor and send a longboat ashore.

Being a shore-side harbor town, the little mess of buildings weren’t the standard cloud-constructed abodes that the homeland of the pegasi were famed for. These rotted, wooden structures—fewer larger than shacks—were stuck in the sands and dirt of the land, though a few cloud structures did dot the skies above.

Tall, thick mountains dotted the horizon, most capped in white snow and clothed in green forests. To the South rose Great Grifon, its numerous peaks taller and more crowded with trees than all others. In all other directions, Prance spread to the horizons.

All the buildings sagged with waterlogged boards, threatening to topple or tear apart at any moment. Few ponies milled about this late in the evening as, one by one, lights in stores and warehouses were extinguished.

Still, many buildings, most still roaring with boisterous noise, remained lit. Frostbite ran his eyes over the many taverns and clubs, smoke rising from chimneys into the dusky night. Eyeing their signs, he found the one he was looking for: the Scarlet Dog, if his prançais was up to date. Asking around had pointed him to this being his most likely target.

“You, head in now, you two find some time after I go in,” Frostbite ordered the ten assembled ponies waiting in the dark alley before him, “The rest of you, keep an eye on the tavern. You will know if this all goes to hell. If it does, do your best to apprehend Bonnet and get her back to the Crown’s Judgement. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” the ten chorused quietly, each saluting.

“Then let us tarry no longer,” Frostbite said with a nod, returning their salute and turning towards the tavern. The first pony entered, Frostbite following him a minute later.

The tavern was largely full, the vast majority of the patrons pegasi—Prance being their homeland—drinking, gambling, being merry with friends, and sleeping in alcohol-induced slumbers. A many series of crowded tables littered the alcohol-stained floor, the damp smell of wooden beams rotting from the dampness tainting the place with the smells of urine and vomit.

‘If this is one of the best taverns this place has to offer...’ Frostbite shuddered at the implication as he trotted to the long bar nestled against one wall.

“Que puis-je faire pour vous?” the bartender, a beer-bellied unicorn in a stained smock asked.

“Light ale,” Frostbite replied, switching over to the other language.

The bartender gave a grunt, horn lighting up as he ducked down behind the counter. Frostbite turned his head about with a bored expression, eyeing the room about him. When he spotted the unarmored Guard he’d sent in before him, the other gave the slightest jerk of his head to one side. Frostbite followed the movement and, in booth sat in a darkened corner, spotted his prize.

Her coat was an unblemished vanilla color, impeccably clean. Her short mane and tail were a fiery red that flashed memories of Purée across his vision. Her eyes were a buttery yellow that seemed to melt in the soft light of the room. In spite of himself, he felt his heart flutter at her beauty.

A polished, steel half-cuirass rested over her breast, the glimmering metal inlaid with fancy filigree, a shirt of mail over leather trailing out a ways from under it. Two needle-bladed daggers with wide dome guards were nestled into a belt around her waist.

Along with a mug, two other ponies in ratty sailor attire shared the table of Captain Vanilla Bonnet, their backs to Frostbite.

A mug slammed onto the bar, startling Frostbite as the bartender named the price.

“What can you tell me about that mare in the corner?” Frostbite inquired as the bartender swept up the bits. He took a sip of his drink, needing to choke the foul substance down, ‘Certainly not the kind of drink I am used to,’ he mentally cringed, setting the mug back down.

“Do I fuckin know ya, lad?” the bartender grumbled after glancing to Bonnet’s corner, eyeing him warily.

“No,” Frostbite admitted with a small smile, “but I would wager that you know a few of my friends,” he set a trio of coins onto the counter with his magic.

The bartender swept the coins up in his magic faster than the blink of a cat, “That I do,” he said, “tha’s Cap’n Bonnet of’a Blackjack ya’ve got yer eyes on there. Pretty mare; she’s gotta cunny an’ she knows how ta use it ta get what she wan’s. But ya cross her?” he took a mug and a rag in his amber magic, cleaning one with the other, “Well...le’s just say ponies’ve started ta calling Cap’n Milo ‘the One-nut Mutt’ fer a reason ever since he tried ta take her an’ lost.”

‘Duly noted,’ Frostbite thought, mentally wincing at a ghostly pain in his loins, “The pirate,” he stated.

The bartender paused a moment in his cleaning, “Aye, some folks call ‘er that.”

“And being a pirate, I assume that she has accumulated some amount of dirt around the edges,” Frostbite stated, “Happen to know anything concerning that?”

“Well now, tha’ depends on whether ya’ve got any more friends I might know,” Ten more coins were swept off the bar, “Now I can’t say I know much concernin dirt on Bonnet,” Frostbite’s calm expression grew suddenly cold, the bartender hesitated, “But I know for a fact she’s owed quite a bit’a gold from another of her lot,” he spat into the mug, using the saliva to polish away a stain. Frostbite gave his own mug a weary look.

“Hey,” the bartender spoke up, somewhat defensive, “At least I don’t water down my stuff with piss. Ol’ Hodge Podge at the Kicking Bucket down’a street does and he ain’t even the worse’a the lot.”

“So who owes Bonnet?” Frostbite asked, getting back on track.

“Pirate by the name’a Cap’n Powder Burn,” the bartender spoke up, spotting the look on Frostbite’s face, “I see ya know the name’a that one.”

“That I do,” agreed Frostbite cooly, tossing the bartender a final coin and turning from the bar. The bartender took the coin and spat in the mug once more, wiping the grime away.

Author's Note

Fuck 'em if they hate, I'm not letting the story die.