In the dead of night with torch in hand, Centeran walks briskly through Lignum town. He weaves past flame-lit lanterns and nods to the [Guards] on patrol, of which there are many. He’d ordered an increase in night patrols after the incident, and clearly his orders are being followed. Even at night, the dark town is still a wellspring of activity, especially near the harbor and pubs. Men of the sea tend to sleep late and wake early. It truly boggles the mind how so many can function with such little sleep.

Eventually, Centeran reaches his destination, a small but cozy manor on the outskirts of the town. He notes, thankfully, that there is still light within the building's residence.

He walks up the few porch steps and knocks on the door.

Then, he waits patiently. On the other side of the door, he hears the tapping of feet.

“Hello? Who is it?” Asks a child’s voice from beyond the door.

“Clay, it’s Centeran. I would like to speak with your grandfather and his guests.”

“One moment!”

He hears the tapping of feet, a muted conversation, and then the tapping of larger feet. Two locks click and the door swings open.

“[Governor],” Myers says tiredly, “please, come in.” He steps to the side. “The guests are in the living room.”

“Thank you.”

He enters the manor and Myers closes the door behind him. Two clicks and he is locked inside.

Knowing the manor, since he’d lived in it before, he goes straight to the living room wherein all the guests are situated around an organized pile of coins, weapons, and jewelry; a veritable horde of treasure and wealth.

“Please don't tell me you’ve stolen all this.” The words escape his mouth faster than the thought.

The cat sighs. “Seriously? You steal from seventeen people just one night, and now any form of wealth you acquire is assumed stolen?” The cat shakes his head. “No, this was not stolen, unless you think taking objects from decades old corpses is considered stealing.”

Centeran frowns at the cat for several long moments, then he realizes.

“This is from the swamp! From everyone that's failed my request over the last eighty years!”

The cat grins. “Finders keepers.”

Centeran relaxes. “That's fine. The wealth I can generate from having the corruption removed is vastly more than the trinkets and coins you’ve found.”

The cat yawns. “Good, cause I wouldn't turn the items in anyway. Me and Borris had to wade through a shit ton of mud to get it. On another note, it seems you’ve gotten the report about my success. So my question is, how long until my ship is ready?”

Centeran smiles happily. “Indeed, what you’ve done for me is truly grand. I’ve spoken to my [Harbormaster]. Tomorrow morning, he will unload the ship from storage and check to make sure the ship is fit to sail. I’ll have the paperwork ready for the transfer of ownership.”

Centeran frowns for a moment. “Are you even able to write?”

“Yes,” the cat answers resolutely.

The [Governor] gives the cat a long look before continuing. “Once ownership is transferred and paperwork is completed, all you need are supplies and you can leave at your leisure. I’ll have additional [Stevedores] on site to facilitate preparations.”

“You’re rushing, Centeran,” Myers interrupts. “All this could have been explained in the morning instead of the middle of the night. Is there something you're not telling us?”

Centeran takes a slow breath. “I should have figured you’d see through me.” He grimaces. “[Bounty Hunter] Raaf is asking about both you,” he looks at the cat, “and Quasi. I know why he’s after Quasi, but not why he’s after you. Regardless, I’d rather have both of you off my island as soon as possible.”

“Does he know where I live?” Myers asks.

Centeran shakes his head. “Not yet. I told him I’ll find out and tell him tomorrow.”

“You come warn us. Is good honor,” Boris says happily.

“Dummkopf,” Irmgard begins. “He came here to get rid of us. Clearly, he doesn’t want a confrontation between us and this [Bounty Hunter].”

“I disagree, my fraulein Gestapo,” Cillian counters. “He could have informed the [Bounty Hunter] of our location. If we died or got captured, then he could keep the ship for himself. The fact he is here and taking a risk shows a degree of honor.”

Irmgard frowns. Her gaze shifts to Quasi laying down while Clay brushes his fur.

“What are your thoughts?”

The cat yawns. “My thoughts? It’s rather simple. We wake up early and get to the ship. Cillian, Boriss, and you will grab supplies while me, Clay, and Myers stay out of sight. We’ll board it as soon as we can and then set sail.”

Quasi raises a paw at him. “I’m pretty good at seeing a person's character, and Centeran isn’t wholly honorable. He does want us gone as soon as possible, but not so badly he’d lose sleep over it. No, that honor gets relegated to Myers.” The cat stretches his claws, and then purrs softly from Clay’s brush.

Centeran glances at Myers. Myers gives a soft smile and a nod. “Don’t worry Centeran, I’ll make sure my problems don't return to you.”

The [Mayor] sighs. “Thank you… and please, be safe. I’m going to head back home.”

The discussion done, Centeran leaves the manor.

_________________________________________________

The next morning, the whole group arrives at the harbor, a large shipyard filled with half a dozen ships in various states of construction and repair. Four of the ships are Corvettes, two are frigates, one halfway under construction, and the other under repair.

“Are any of these ours?” Cillian asks.

“No,” Myers answers. “None of these ships are cored.” He points at a large wooden warehouse near the Edge. “Your ship is in storage there.”

Quasi nods from in Clay’s arms. “Lead the way.”

They follow Myers past workers in the midst of construction to the hangar. The door is already open and the sound of men working echoes from inside.

They enter the warehouse. In the center, an aged wooden frigate, with faded paint and bare masts, rests on an equally aged wooden trestle. [Dock hands] and [Stevedores] bustle around the vessel, provisioning and repairing it under the direction of a [Shipwright] as old and faded as the paint.

“That looks really old,” Cillian comments. “Can it even float?”

“It can.” “It can.” Both Meyers and a voice from behind us answer simultaneously. We turn around and see Centeran enter the warehouse with a smile. The man glances at Boriss for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the massive pack strapped to his back and the literal chest on his shoulder. He turned back to Myers. “It is good you all heeded my instructions. One of Raafs crew came asking for your location this morning, and I was forced to give them the address.”

“So they’re at my home today?”

“Most likely. Maybe they won't enter if your doors are locked, but I doubt it. Regardless, you are here and preparations for the ship are underway. Speaking of which, I think an introduction is in order.”

Centeran raises his arms towards the ship. “This is Timbergrove, a cored heavy frigate. Her keel was laid a hundred years ago, hewn from a single Arborean tree from the island's center. I [Captained] that ship for many decades. I think you will find her quite impressive.”

“Your boat looks like a salvage job.” Irmgard exclaims firmly.

Centeran opens his mouth to speak, but Myers interrupts. “The ship is very well made and in perfect condition. The old man raises a finger. “You are looking at the decaying wood around the ship and the old sails, but all of that can easily be replaced and repaired. The most important aspect of a ship is its hull and the top and side masts.” He points at each piece of the ship. “A cored ship is naturally resistant to decay and damage- of which there are none.”

Centeran smiles. “As he said. The core is intact and the steerage works. She’ll have fresh rigging and sails before you take off. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to check the runes, nor give her a fresh coat of paint.” He glances at Quasi, “I’ll leave that to you and your crew.”

He gestures to the ship’s ladder. “Let me show you around and where you can stow your goods.”

We follow Centeran as he leads us up stairs and onto the deck. The deck is in perfect condition, the polished wood unmarred by time, but everything on the deck is clearly in decay. Boxes, barrels, chains, rope, all reveal decades of age.

We follow him to the pilot box, where you’d expect the ship’s wheel, but instead, a natural wood altar of intertwined roots rises from the deck, as though grown in place, and wraps around a shiny, softly glowing, white orb bigger than my head.

“And this is the ship's core, never removed from the tree that this ship is built from.”

Myers strokes his long, old wiseman beard. “I’d heard that this town carved out a ship from a single, aged Arborean, but this is the first time I’m seeing it. It is quite impressive. I imagine it takes quite a bit of time to build.”

Centeran nods. “It takes three times as long, but time is paltry when you can sell the ship as though it is a cored frigate. But, enough about that. I imagine you all are adept at using a core?”

I glance at Myers, a man who clearly has experience in ships. “Of course.” I answer.

He nods. “Good. Follow, let me show you the guts.”

We follow him below decks where the musky smell of old wood bites at the nostrils like a swarm of thirsty mosquitoes. The bulkheads of the ship are in perfect condition, but the wooden doors and furniture all show signs of decay. He shows us the captain’s cabin, that can comfortably fit two people, two bunk rooms for crew with decaying hammocks included, a privy, ship’s mess and galley, all on the first deck. The forward portion has several small storage compartments for food and supplies, and twelve portholes for cannons in the lower deck- of which there are none. At the lowest part of the ship is a large storage area clearly intended for the main cargo.

At the end of the explanation, we are led back onto the deck. “And there you have it, that is the Timbergrove. I hope you are impressed with your new ship. Now, all I need is the future [Captain] of this fine vessel to follow me to my office and sign some papers.”

“Sounds good.” I look to my companions, “Boriss, Cillian, and Irmgard, go buy all those supplies and have them rushed to the ship. See if you can also replace some of the old shit in the ship. Use however much coin you need. Me, Clay, and Myers are going to go fill out paperwork.”

Cillian chuckles. “You should never ever tell someone to use as much coin as they need. That's a good way to find yourself destitute.”

Boriss laughs. “Comrade Cillian, is funny joke. You are like shrewd communist. You make good deal and make enemy cry when you take money.” Boriss taps his new coat happily.

Myers clears his throat. “Though I’d love to see the [Governor’s] reaction to a cat writing, I must quickly leave to finish some loose ends.” He glances at Clay. “I leave Clay in your hands for the time being.”

I raise an eyebrow at the old far, and nod. “I’ll make sure he’s safe.”

I watch my crew and Myers leave the building. Then, I ride my short mount to a back room where several documents are ready for signing on a desk. Centeran sits on the far side of the desk and Clay sits opposite. I hop on the table and await instruction.

“Now, I’ve already filled out the documents for the transfer of ownership. All I need now is your signature…” he pauses, staring at my paws.

“I’m going to want to read it first, then I’ll sign.”

“Umm,” he frowns for a moment. Then he pushes the stack of documents to me.

I glance at the documents and read the page in a matter of seconds. Then the next page, and the next, finishing the long and legal document in five minutes.

“Huh. This is actually pretty straightforward, albeit needlessly long. I can sign right away. Just give me something to sign with.”

Centeran opens a drawer and takes out a pad of ink. “A footprint should be acceptable.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why the fuck do I need to put a footprint as a signature? Just give me something to write my name with. I didn’t waste time learning to write my signature from Clay all night for nothing.”

He frowns at my words, but does as he is told. He reaches into the desk again and brings me a quil and small ink bottle. I take the quill with my mouth, dip the tip in the bottle, and then sign Quasi Eludo as my signature on one of the documents.

When I push the signed document at him, his eyes raise in surprise. “Your penmanship is impeccable. It reminds me of royalty.”

I wave my paw. “Yehs, yehs. ’m ‘n amashing student. Now, yet me ‘on’ntrate. ’ve ot sheheral ‘ocuments to go ‘n this quill tashtes ike ird’s ass.”