The Swashbuckling Ballad of a Vandagyre

     the telescopes of Kreludor,

     technologies of Virtupets,

     there was a mountain-laden shore.

     Far higher than Terrana's climbs

     did all the Vandagyres nest.

     A solitary group, they stayed

     together: they believed 'twas best.

     The sun had flown across the sky,

     so nestled deep in downy clouds.

     In much the same way, one small child

     remained transfixed by Mother's sounds.

     For on her lap, a rarity,

     that sported leather, ink, and wax,

     was spread to tales of chivalry,

     of one brave Usul's noble acts.

     “She skirted blades, defended well

     with well-toned tail and, climbing high,

     did shove a barrel till it fell:

     The pirates knew their end was nigh.”

     “Oh, Mother?” did the small one hoot.

     “Why Giacomo, you're still awake?”

     the elder Vandagyre sighed.

     “At this rate, I won't catch a break...”

     “Of course I am!” the child crowed.

     “I've got to hear how Hannah slayed

     her Uncle Bloodhook one more time

     with flaming powder and blockade!”

     “Okay,” conceded Mother, “Then

     you're going right to sleep, my son.”

     The child, in answer, nestled deep

     in Mother's down, for he had won.

     The sleepy mom was not surprised,

     for every night proceeded thus:

     A book, so rare to find in mounts,

     that told of wars victorious.

     “Dear Giacomo, have sweetest dreams,”

     Did Mother murmur, with a nip

     Affectionate for her lone son.

     Then, slowly, out the door she'd slip.

     And sweetest dreams the child had:

     Of battles, drawn sword in a blur,

     outwitting those who challenged him.

     “I will yet be just like her.”

     “Oh, Mother?” did the child ask,

     when stars next sprinkled the night sky.

     “When can I be a pirate, too?

     Maybe when I learn to fly?”

     “Oh, don't be silly,” worry crept

     into her chuckle, bowstring taut.

     “You're safe with your own kind, my dear.

     The world out there, it matters not.

     There's nought but danger and all sorts

     of risks, but even so,” said she,

     “Perhaps one day we'll leave the nest,”

     His mother did croon thoughtfully.

     “Why, does this mean,” cried Giacomo,

     “That we might all fly, one day, down?!”

     His mother smiled. “Well, dear, perhaps.

     It might be nice to look around.”

     “I'm going to be a pirate!” crowed

     the Vandagyre, loud enough

     to wake the sleeping in the Woods.

     “From books I know I've got the stuff!”

     Young Giacomo then thought. “That's how

     Brave Hannah learned just how to find

     her treasure, deep in every cave,

     and how to flee from any bind?”

     “Why yes,” conceded Mother. “Still,

     some books hold only faerie tales.

     I'm not quite sure that piracy's

     a safe career. Why not try sales?”

     But every night, small Giacomo,

     while drifting slowly with the sky

     a-dreaming of the seas and caves,

     knew well that chances would come by.

     ((YEARS LATER...))

     “Oi! Cabin boy!” a grating voice

     that Giacomo knew all too well,

     screeched once again. “This table's rank!

     Do summin 'fore you hear the knell!”

     On legs too spindly for his kind,

     tall Giacomo did weave between

     the patrons of the Gold' Dubloon

     and brought once more a glossy sheen

     to tables that he'd too long seen.

     At least four times the snow had come,

     and not a glimpse of chestnut hair

     or curling tail. While scrubbing scum,

     tall Giacomo did wonder if

     his plan would yield fruit after all.

     Although the Vandagyres came,

     they did return to their high hall,

     at least once in a while. He'd hoped

     that Hannah would soon do the same,

     returning with her newest tale.

     No one knew of his true aim.

     Perhaps, the Vandagyre did

     reflect as grime was swept away,

     such kinds of dreams are childish,

     to nests of down they need to stay...

     “You all have sweetly titled me

     with Brave or Quick or Beautiful,

     but settle in, my trip is done!

     I've reaped all my rewards in full!”

     No need to turn around had he,

     For Giacomo had dubbed her so

     along with countless others. Still,

     the shock had caused him vertigo!

     Much like a wave outstretched, the room

     collectively did gasp and crash,

     its patrons clamouring to speak

     and ask the girl about her stash.

     The Vandagyre's heart did freeze,

     his entrails turned to ice and stone.

     The first part of his dream came true:

     the Hannah had, at last, come home!

     The feathered one could nought but stare

     at grinning Usul, battered by

     the wind and travels, but aglow

     with news of gold from days gone by.

     Across the room did gazes lock,

     and Giacomo did swift return

     to wiping tables: in his haste,

     he toppled soup, his arm did burn!

     A yelp, a crash, two gangly feet

     that tangled easily with all,

     all met in unison for him,

     as over patrons did he fall!

     The room swarmed quickly with a blaze

     of buzzing, shouting, laughter, taunts.

     Poor Giacomo undid the knots

     of limbs, then left behind his wants.

     Behind the stalwart tavern walls

     was where the Vandagyre stopped.

     The raucous laughter slowly died,

     reflecting how his dream had flopped.

     Oh, would that he were back at home,

     with Mother gone, but nonetheless,

     he had, at long last, Hannah seen,

     and fled, while causing quite a mess.

     But worst of all was that, his mind

     would be forever branded, etched

     with laughter spilling from the lips

     of one who had rare treasures fetched.

     A lifetime of hard, gruelling work,

     with hurled abuse and years of scorn,

     awaiting glimpse of Usul, yet

     today it could no more be borne.

     The sun-drained cap the Vandagyre

     had worn e'er since the Isle became

     his home away from mountains sweet--

     its owner cast it without aim.

     But rather than a sound like flump

     from greyish cap with faint crossbones

     upon the sand, no sound arose.

     Instead, he heard new female tones.

     “Well, there you are, lad!” came the voice,

     a smirking grin, a Kougra coiled

     to spring within each word was hid.

     “If you must know, the day's not spoiled.

     In fact,” she pressed on, giving back

     the cap, like some dreams, drained by sun.

     “What happened in there wasn't quite

     your fault, or, really, anyone's.

     You know, lad, if I must confess,”

     said Hannah, brushing hair away.

     “A fall, a broken dish, some trips,

     I'd caused them all back in the day.”

     The Vandagyre frowned. “But wait,

     that can't be right, you're just too cool!”

     The Usul laughed, a reminiscent

     sound of bells in times of yule.

     “If you think that I've always been

     this way, you've never read my tales!”

     Fair Hannah whapped him on the back.

     “I sought you out ere I set sail.”

     “What? Me?” the Vandagyre squawked.

     “Of course,” the Usul then replied.

     “I sensed you'd had petitions long

     unanswered, burning fierce inside.”

     Allowing no more time to pass,

     the plea erupted from his beak.

     “I would be highly honoured if

     you'd teach me all pirate speak,

     the ways of plundering, and more.

     In fact, o'er Kreludor I'd fly

     if you'd apprentice me today.

     I'd be your pupil—let me try!”

     A chuckle slipped from Hannah's lips.

     “I'd figured that such was the case.

     I've heard the same from traitor spies:

     how can I know that won't take place?

     The Vandagyre gazed below

     at awkward feet beneath his knees.

     Without another word, he pulled

     a book from pockets, mumbled, “These.”

     The Usul raised an eyebrow, flipped

     through pages barely tinged with brown.

     The crease between her eyes grew sharp,

     the deepening of thoughtful frown.

     “I see,” the Usul murmured, “You

     have studied what you could from books

     as well as oldest copies of

     the tales of much more than my looks.”

     “I've had it since I was a chick,”

     Tall Giacomo looked quick, away,

     determined not to show his face

     aflame, like Battle of the Bay.

     “My notebook's kept all that I know,

     from sailing ships to faerie tales.

     The trouble is, it's hard to tell

     what dreams are real and which ones fail.”

     The Usul stared at him, his words

     resounding like an echo past,

     and calling forth a memory,

     of stormy night and creaking mast.

     “What do they call you?” at long last,

     fair Hannah gained her voice to ask.

     “I'm Van den Berg,” the lad replied.

     “My first name's Giacomo.” “Your task,”

     The Usul said, as if she'd not

     heard him at all, “it is to tell

     me why I should apprentice you:

     for every doubt, you must dispel.”

     The Vandagyre swallowed hard,

     so clearly unprepared was he.

     “I,” he choked, “I want to go

     through every cave and every sea,

     Become a pirate, but with flair,

     unlike most ones on the loose.

     Like you, and no one else: with wits

     instead of brawn, you make good use.”

     “Now that's,” fair Hannah did declare,

     wiping off a half-real tear,

     “the nuttiest I've ever heard.

     Let us be off, Giacomo dear.”

     The sun was low, its nightly drown

     was nigh, the taller's spirits high.

     He knew at last just how it felt,

     instead of wings, for heart to fly.

     Behind the smallest cove, the hue

     of sand, and far from prying eyes,

     did Hannah settle, beckon him

     to join, revealing next the prize

     Of knowledge. “First things first: now what

     all d'ya know about the trade?”

     The Vandagyre thought. “I've read

     much o'er the tides and keeping blades

     All sharp and shiny for next use.”

     His elder groaned. “Well, that's a start,

     I guess, but that's not great.” “Now wait!

     But I can fly!” “Well, you've got heart,

     that's more than I can say for most.

     And flying can be useful, too.

     But if a pirate you shall be,

     There are four things you have to do,

     Four skills to master, ere we go.”

     The Vandagyre's feathers puffed,

     anticipating future bright,

     his dreams no more would e'er be snuffed.

     “Now Giacomo, there are four arts

     to master: First is thievery,

     which has two arts within itself.

     The build of trust, and lying. See?

     The second, now, I must admit,

     was, without doubt, the worst for me.

     Close combat skills are great to have,

     in cases where you cannot flee.

     The third may arguably be

     the most important of them all.

     Without a proper way to navigate,

     then one will always fall.

     And now, the final noble art

     of turning pirate, which just might

     be difficult for one of your..."

     The Usul's voice trailed off, in spite

     of wishing to spare feelings hurt.

     "Kind of stature," she said at last.

     "But never fear, the art of stealth

     is easier for those who've passed

     the other tests. Shall we begin

     tomorrow, at first light of day?"

     "Well, why not now?" the Vandagyre

     blurted, crumpling in dismay.

     "Now Giack, I've travelled quite a ways,

     was mobbed by both those crowds, and wights.

     And then, I've told you of your task:

     It all can wait till morning light!”

     The Vandagyre did concede,

     and rolled onto his side, curled up

     within a rugged nest of leaves

     and down, without a care to sup,

     For soon would dreams in faerie tales

     become so real and tangible,

     like bubbles he could almost touch,

     despite them yet so frangible.

     With eyelids sealed like treasure chests,

     all that remained was gentle breeze,

     and lazy waves upon the shore.

     Despite the hype, sleep came with ease.

      To be continued…