There is nothing worse for a pirate than dying on dry land. Except, maybe, swinging two feet above it.
When their captain is imprisoned, facing the gallows, the men and women of the Lady Lesya's crew will try everything to break him out--even if it...
Running uphill proved to be much harder than stumbling down it. Flow had raced on the docks, swiftly avoiding men, barrels, and containers once again. He had soon left sea level to climb through the narrow streets of the city. The first yards on the winding slopes had been a pleasure cruise, but eventually his calves started to protest. The tickling sensation first turned into discomfort, only to become a radiating pain in tetanized muscles.
Flow slowed down, trying to engulf as much oxygen as possible to feed a heart threatening to burst out of his chest to run on its own. He started to trot, avoiding the indifferent passersby with more and more difficulty—until he couldn't.
The man materialized out of thin air, his broad chest becoming Flow's only horizon. A very close, dark, and sweaty horizon, on which his face crashed and bounced. The pain in his nose was soon replaced by the one in his ass, when it landed on the uneven cobblestone.
"Merde!"
Grimacing, Flow tried to massage both of the injured areas, when the sun disappeared again. Looking up, he found himself facing tiny dark eyes, a wide, bulbous nose, and lips curled back over crooked teeth. The whole face was a challenge to look at, but the expression of murderous rage painted on it was all too clear.
"What'd you say, frog?" the contorted mouth asked.
Flow crawled backward as fast as his aching body allowed.
"N... Nothin', sir. Sorry, sir!"
"Think you can hit me and live, frog?" spat the hulking thing, making saliva rain.
"The idea crossed my mind, but now I can see it didn't cross yours..."
The man's fat purple lips stretched upward into a nasty smile that brought out his pockmarks even more clearly. But Flow's concern was less for the man's poor skin condition than the bludgeon in his hand.*
Adrenaline rushed into Flow's limbs, relaxing his tensed muscles at once. He plunged forward, throwing his slender body between the thick legs of the maniac, and started running again without looking back. The brute's deafening roar was enough of a warning.
Flow found a way through the crowd and ran some more. He took a left and ran harder. He took a right and ran still. He felt his chest explode from the inside and finally stopped, crumbling to the ground. Choking on air like a fish out of water, red like a cooked lobster, and covered in slimy snot and salty sweat, he tried to swallow back his heart, pounding somewhere between his ears and his throat. He sat in the mud, knowing that he couldn't crawl further even if the ugly monster of a man reappeared above him.
When the world stopped spinning and it became clear that he was safe, Flow looked around at last.
"Et voilà! I'm lost!"
____________________
*People usually forget how convenient it is to wander around with a bludgeon in hand. It scares kids away, allows you to easily kill rats and seagulls—when you're in need of a snack—and keeps you from the embarrassment of being empty handed when it comes to bash a head.
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