At the fore of the gondola, a Khatta crewman by the name of Rovert looks over a "script" of plans for today's adventure. He looks disdainfully at some toy eyepatches and black hats with friendly-looking skulls sewn onto the front. "Giving these out to the cubs and kits detracts from the authenticity, methinks."

A speckled Vartan peers at a map, then stoops down to peer through a mounted spy-scope that peeks through one of the view slots. "Aye, cap'n … I thinks I seeings the Lady's Glove!"

"Arrrr … " practices a mangy mutt by the name of Gristle. "Avast there, ye scurvy swabs! Er … Arrrr! Offen the plank wit' ye! And then I'll have ye drawn an' quartered! Arrrrrrrr!" A colorful Creen on his shoulder – something Gristle picked up just for the occasion, claiming it made him look more like a real pirate – bobs its head, digging into one of Gristle's pockets in search of more crumbs to eat. "Ah! Stoppat!" the dog yelps.

"Ahem. Kindly hand over your valuables, Madame," says a bald Aquilan, Zoar. "Hmm. Now, I think that sounds too polite."

The clash of blades echoes through the covered deck, as some more rambunctious members of the crew fine-tune their swash and buckle.

Standing in the forecastle, Kensington switches back and forth between his role as captain, and stage manager. Pleasantly relieved that the crew reacted to the idea a bit better than he thought they would, he still insists on the men knowing how to fight. "Awright, no loafin'! Ye ain't fightin' our first flight out, but ye better be rememberin' we's fighters first an' actors second! We'll turn in a good performance, mark me words, but this be only ta gets our wings back unner us, an' our ship back along the skyways! Aye, Zoar, ye gots ta squints more when ye say that, an' puts some gravel in yer voice… "

Gristle tries squinting more as well. "Arrrrrr… "

Zoar obligingly attempts it. "Arrrr?"

The speckled Vartan, meanwhile, keeps peering through the spy-scope. "Cap'n … me seeings two ships out there?"

Kensington rubs the bottom of his beak thoughtfully. "Eh… not bad. But maybe we'll cast ye fer th' 'dashin', gennlemanly' bloke. Ye work on yer squint a while; we'll get backs ta' it." Stepping away from the Aquilan, he nods at his Vartan second. "We be nearin' th' rendezvous point, eh? Two, ye say? Can ye tells iffen one's the Lady's Glove?" He shades his face, staring out into the distance.

Zoar tries again, sounding more certain of himself, "Arrr, Madame … Kindly be turning ye jyoo-wels an' valya-bles to me. Arrr!"

The Korv glances over his shoulder. "Aye, that's it! Yer inspired, Zoar!"

Kensington can pick up the vague form of the ship in the distance … but a Vartan – with his already keen eyesight, and a spy-scope to boot – clearly has the advantage.

"Aye, cap'n. Methinks it beings the Lady's Glove, and anothers ship alongsides it," scrawks the Vartan, Rufflefeather.

"Wha? Blast… What be they up ta? Can ye tell what's goin'… " The Korv pauses, as something dawns on him, and he grouses, making a grab for the spyglass. "Oh, ta' Necropolis widdit! Gimme dat!"

Rovert arrrs, "Aye, what say we be hoistin' our colors on dis here scurvy ship, an' makin' it our own, arr? Arrr!"

Zoar looks to Rovert. "You can't be serious."

Rufflefeather stumbles out of the way, as Kensington takes the scope.

Sure enough, through the spy-scope, there's no doubt about it … A second airship has come alongside the Lady's Glove, and boarding ropes have been strung between the two ships.

The grumbling Korv peers through the scope, training it back on the shapes in the distance. The lens on the far end magnifies his ebon eye to ridiculous proportions, until it finally draws a bead on the figures, and blinks. "Whotsis?! *RAWK!* Some brazen sonnova air dog's pickin' our target!!" He stands away from the scope, waving his wings around angrily. "Full sail, lads! Drag yer tails ta yer stations, sommun's grabbin' our suppers out from unner our noses!"

Nothing happens. What with all the shouts and sword-fighting going on … maybe everybody thinks Kensington is just practicing.

"That's pretty good, cap'n," comments Rovert.

Zoar says, "Don't forget the line that said 'no cussing'. Does Dagh count as a cuss word?"

"I'm serious, ye darn blas-… guh! Ye Dagh blasted morons! This be fer real!" The furious Korv stomps back up to the forecastle, drawing his sword to bang the flat against a rail. "Lissen up, boys! Man yer stations, this ain't a drill! Rufflefeather, plot us ta come in on th' interloper's flank, I wanna figure out which lily-livered pantywaist be stealin' me payin' lily-livered pantywaist!"

The crew finally catches on … and with a clatter of dropped props, the cry of a startled Creen, and a few choice words (and a few "Arrrrs!" for no good reason), the crew rushes to stations.

Kensington whips his held saber out to point towards the ships. SHING! "That's more like it, lads! Full speed ahead! Arr!"

A couple of pirates stare in awe at the flash of light produced by the drawn blade, and the audible "shing"! And then they get back to work.

Why … it looks like it's a Gallisian ship. Yes, that's it. It's … the personal yacht of the Marquis?

As the Wench of Babel draws closer … a few projectiles fly from the deck of the Marquis' ship. The Marquis must be expecting trouble.

Fortunately, the shots fall short. Maybe it was just a warning shot.

"What th-… ?" The puzzled Korv scratches his head at the strange conclusion he comes to. "What th' 'eck be th' Marquis doin' out 'ere? 'Ey, they be firin' on us! Nobody fires on th' Cutlass! Rufflefeather, give us some altitude so's our bow kins protect us! 'E can't rise ta meet us wit them boardin' ropes on! Ballistamen, 'old yer fire until me word!"

"Ah … cap'n," ventures Rovert, timidly. "If we breach their ship, and they have boarding ropes … won't they topple the Lady's Glove, too?"

The airship slowly climbs, creeping over the two ships rather than coming level with them.

The Korv clacks his beak in irritation, tossing his head back. "'At's why I'm tellin' the ballistamen ta 'old their fire! Fer now, we'll keep 'em trained on th' gondola… iffen th' fight gets too thick, we'll pull back, an' lettem 'ave it! Fliers, at th' ready!" Picking up a cone of wood and paper products sloppily marked, "Director", Kensington leans over the side of his ship to squawk at the ships below. "Avast, scum! This be Kenny th' Cutlass! Cease yer fire, or heave to, an' prepare ta be boarded lest we strike yer colors ourselves!"

Rovert leans over the Korv's shoulder. "Ah … Cap'n … Isn't calling yourself 'Kenny' going to make yourself sound … uhm … juvenile, or something?"

A few fliers can be seen launching from the ships below. Not a Kujaku in the bunch. A bit suspicious for a Gallisian ship.

"Aww, shaddup Rovert. I'll thinka somethin' better tomorrah. We gots company!" Hopping up to perch on the rail, Kensington calls out, "Stand fast, men! Prepare ta repel boarders! I'm goin' down ta checks this out! Rufflefeather, gets two volunteers, an' come wit' me!"

Rufflefeather grabs Zoar and a half-Vartan/half-Rhian by the name of Cloudhoof, and they hurry after Kensington.

With no further hesitation, the Korv dives over the side of his vessel, pulling back his wings to head around the envelope of the "Marquis'" ship.

It looks like the fliers coming from the Marquis' ship are a mix of Solus, Korv, Vartan, Vartan half-breeds, an Aquilan or two, and even some Jingai fliers. It's quite the mix, really, and very un-Gallisian.

The two flight groups pretty much run through each other … though Kensington loses Cloudhoof along the way. It looks like Cloudhoof is holding off a few pursuers … but he's brawny enough that he should be able to handle them for a while.

As Kensington gets low enough to see the gondola decks again – both of them done in the old "sea ship" style – he can see that there's indeed something going on … but it looks like if there was a battle, it was for the most part over, until he showed up to crash the party.

There's a motley assortment of crew members – including several Gallahs – pointing weapons at wealthy-looking passengers, all lined up nice and neat.

It seems that their leader, if looks be true … is a female Khatta. Funny … she looks familiar somehow … No … could it be? It's … Madame Garrote!

Madame Garrote, as any red-blooded male pirate would know, was none other than the lady (if that term be used loosely) of the legendary (and annoying) Captain Dash, fox corsair.

It appears that, after the demise of her companion in crime, she must have started off on her own ventures. Oh yes, and this is probably not the Marquis' personal airship, after all.

The Korv gapes at the sight, though only partly in surprise. He swoops in toward the deck of Garrote's vessel, calling out, "Ahoy there, Cap'n! Stand down!"

It appears that she has some wealthy-looking poodle up on a gangplank. The poodle seems to be taking this all very well, actually, despite the imminent danger of plummeting to his death.

The poodle waves merrily to Kensington. "Ahoy there! More pirates! Oh my!"

Ternigan Troy Terano, Esquire, turns to his guests and exclaims, "Oh my! It's Kensington the Corsair! We're doomed for sure!"

Garrote pokes at the poodle, then looks up at Kensington. "Back off, 'Kenny', or you'll have this poodle's blood on your head!"

"Uh… AYE! Aye! Quake in fear, ye deck-scrubbin', bilge-swillin' lubbers!" The Korv shifts uncomfortably, directing his attention to the Khatta. "Better stand back whilst I 'ave some words wit' me… um… rival 'ere." His head tilts as he looks Garrote over, but he quickly snaps it back together. "Easy now, Cap'n… I don't thinks ye know th' whole story… "

"I know enough, Chronotopian 'privateer'. Find your own pickings elsewhere," Madame Garrote purrs menacingly, tracking the Korv's gaze and smirking with a hint of cruelty.

Kensington shifts uneasily from side to side, gripping his saber tighter. "Ye… ye can't win, ye know! Th' Wench o' Babel's o'er yer envelope! On me command, they'll drop a rain o' ballista bolts so thick, ye'll think a forest sprouted on yer deck!"

"Good point," replies Madame Garrote. To her grubby crew, she orders, "Move the children over to the Scorned Khatta!"

"Here, li'l bratty," barks a Gallah with a polka-dot patterned cloth tied around his head. "You gets to rides on a real pirate's ship! Ain't that gonna be fun, huh?"

The pup seems to be rather enthusiastic about the idea. "Yeahhhhh!"

"'Ey! 'EY! Belay that, strumpet! I means it!" The corsair tries to adopt a sneering expression. "Th' Lady's Glove be ours… I don'ts care nothin' for the dogs on 'em but fer the spoils! So shove off, 'fore ye makes me drop Dagh's own wrath on ye!"

"You won't be dropping anything, darling, except your feathered carcass to the ground below, if you think you can mess with Madame Garrote!" hisses the Khatta back at the Korv.

"Ah … can I go back to the deck now?" asks the poodle on the gangplank. "I'm kind of nervous about heights, really. Especially when there's so little between me and … well … you know… "

Madame Garrote gets a wicked grin on her face. "Sure. I'll take care of that right away. Bon voyage!" And then she hauls off and gives the poodle a good kick in the tail.

"YaaaaAAAAAAAAAA!" howls the poodle, as he falls headlong off the plank!

"Cap'n!" exclaims Rufflefeather.

"Aw, GRETCHEN!!" squawks Kensington! "Rufflefeather, get 'im!"

The speckled Vartan plunges overboard, folding his wings backin a power-dive after the poodle. At least the poodle is wearing blousy, frilly, flappy clothing … hopefully the resistance will slow down the poodle a bit… maybe.

That just leaves Kensington and Zoar … and a lot of pirates.

The Korv steps forward, drawing his other saber. "Awright, ye harlot! Yer no better'n me ex-wife! If ye gots somethin' ta prove, prove it t'me one on one, w'out a poodle ta hides behind!"

"I thought you'd never ask!" exclaims the feline. She turns to her mutts and orders, "Keep his bald friend busy! I've got a score to settle!" With that, she slashes at one of the boarding ropes … and uses it to swing across the gap between the two vessels, toward Kensington! "Have at ye!"

"Hah! Let's see ye try more than ta dust me feathers witcher featherduster!" Kensington skips backward to meet the Khatta on the deck of the ship, blades at the ready!

The light catches Kensington's blades just so, making an audible SHING!

Garrote's blade comes in amazingly sure, considering that she's leaping from a swinging rope when she makes her attack. However, the Cutlass has the defensive advantage and uses it, neatly parrying the blade with one of his own. Metal clashes against metal. Madame Garrote has done well for herself, it seems.

The Khatta lands neatly on her feet, but the momentary distraction might give Kensington an opening to act…

Slightly taken aback at the confidence with which his opponent acts, Kensington nevertheless drives forward, almost instinctively at Madame Garrote. He flicks the tip of one sword at his opponent, feinting to try to put her off balance.

Madame Garrote seems to be a little unprepared for Kensington's use of the apparent opening as a feint – perhaps overly prepared for the real attack that she was expecting. She swings to block the blow that never comes…

… when another arrives from the other sword held in reserve. It whips toward Garrote's midsection like a striking Naga, but curiously, it seems aimed off center.

Garrote looks down momentarily, then just looks Kensington back in the eyes. She smirks … then lunges in for the attack again!

A smugly self-satisfied Kensington starts to say, "Ye better do somethin' about th' draft 'fore ye catch cold… " But to his surprise, the fight isn't over! He hastily tries to yank his sabers back into position and his tongue off the floor to defend himself!

Alas, Kensington's parry comes a bit late. With a "pop pop pop pop", all the buttons on his nice (and freshly cleaned!) captain's shirt bounce off and rattle on the deck. He looks a little disheveled now.

Black plumage spills out the front of Kensington's newly 'altered' shirt, and a slightly sobered and more respectful Korv squares off again, his sabers raised. He sniffs. "So, yer better'n I thought. But yer still no match fer me." He tilts his head to one side to regard his foe, smirking. "Oh, a lil' cold is it?"

Madame Garrote's blade darts out while the Korv's in mid-gloat, swinging low across his midsection. There's a "flumph" sound of cloth hitting the deck.

"Not as cold as you're about to be if you don't keep yourmind on the fighting, Messeur – It's very cold in a grave," Madame Garrote purrs.

It seems to have gotten awfully quiet outside of this little duel, by the by.

Kensington's black zolk boxers flutter in the crosscurrents of the windswept deck, skulls and crossbones grimacing against the dark field. Yet again, a woman makes a fool of the Korv. "Awright! No quarter asked, none given!" snarls the bird! He shakes his breeches from his feet as best he can so they don't trip him up, and takes the offensive with a flurry of swipes!

Madame Garrote is slowly driven back by the ferocious assault … and a curious thing seems to happen. It's almost as time is slowing, his blades tracing lines of light as they slash back and forth through the air, making audible SHING and SWOOP noises as they go.

The mesmerizing lines of illumination tighten, growing into a thicker and thicker knot as steel whips around too quickly to follow, strikes becoming closer, and parries getting weaker. They converge until, with a bright sparkand the 'spingg!' of metal on metal, Kensington's right wing-saber points at the sky, crossing the other pointing down like a pair of opened scissors. Madame Garrote's weapon tumbles over her head to clatter down the stairs below decks.

Madame Garrote blinks. "Touche'," she purrs.

The guests on the Lady's Glove start applauding!

One of the guests turns to the other, and says, "Wait … isn't he supposed to be one of the bad guys?" The other replies, "Who cares? What a lovely swordfight!"

The avian corsair points one of his sabers, his plumage puffing out with each pant of exertion. "As good a fight as any I've fought… but ye still 'ave ta yield. Call off yer cronies, re-tie yer blouse, an' come back t'the Lady's Glove… eh… keep up the show fer the Gallees, an' I'll cut ye in fer half the loot, whatsay?"

Madame Garrote ahems. "Fair enough." She takes the moment to adjust her disheveled attire. "You're not bad."

A speckled Vartan flaps up, holding a very distraught-looking poodle. Rufflefeather looks a mite bit confused at the sudden stand-still … and uses the opportunity to drop his passenger on the deck of the Lady's Glove.

Kensington takes a moment to locate his knickers and get himself presentable again, tying his sash higher to at least give the illusion his shirt is secured. "The best there be! Harr! Let's return… remember, yer a rival pirate, an' th' Wench o' Babel swooped in fer yer take… but, uh… after a fight between cap'ns, we established roguish mutual respect, an' decided ta splits th' spoils."

"Mutual respect … riiiiight," purrs the feline. She puts on her best swagger. "You know what else? You're scruddy insane."

Out of the side of her mouth, she hisses to a crew member, "Play along … We're working out a deal, all right? Remember what the poodle was babbling about? He wasn't making it up." She gestures toward the Korv.

The Gallah crew member looks incredulously at Kensington. "Ya mean … ? For real?"

Zoar ahems. "Arrrr! Madame, ye best be handin' over ye per-shus jyoo-wels an' valyeeables! Arrr!"

The corsair nods grimly. "'At's right. An' insane pirates be th' best pirates. Iffen ye so much as bruise a kid or swear, I'll takes ye to th' Wench's brig, an' box yer ears 'till ye scream every curse ye know." Tossing back his head, in a louder voice he exclaims to the Gallees, "Awright, scrubs! Ye thought ye 'ad it bad wit' th' Scorned Khatta… well, ye weren't in 'alf th' trouble ye are now wit' th' Wench o' Babel! Let's see them riches in a pile, ye overfed noble ticks!"

In the following moments, as a third airship pulls up alongside, to the point where the raiders far outnumber the victims, things get progressively more … odd.

Soon, there are Khattas swinging from ropes that seem to be there for no other reason than to swing on for a bit of swash and buckle. And several Eeee are made to "walk the plank". Some come back for seconds.

Oh yes, and Rovert gets to help carry off some women-folk … with the promise of getting them back before nine o' clock, naturally.

Not quite part of the original plan, several of Kensington's crew raid the stocks in the hold, and soon half of the crew is smashed.

Through it all, Kensington makes a great show of being the ferocious buccaneer captain, "intimidating" his captives with sword tricks, and tossing off whatever nautical phrases come to mind… whether or not they make sense. A jug of rum sloshes in one of his wingclaws before long, but he manages to keep it away from the kids, mostly. Every so often, he checks with crewman "watchers" to be sure Garrote and her cohorts are behaving themselves.

As much as it costs Rovert some of his dignity … he comes back to hand out "genuine" pirate hats, eyepatches and a couple of stuffed Creens to the cubs and kits, making them honorary pirates.

Perhaps to Garrote's chagrin, and maybe spoiling a backup plan or two … it seems that her own crew helped out with the raid on the stocks, and is among the smashed.

There's a lot of really bad music, really bad songs, and really bad dancing. But the passengers on the Lady's Glove are probably having the best time any victims of piracy have ever had.

Some time later, Garrote can be seen giving a good kick to the hind-quarters to the last of her wayward crew, sending him staggering back onto the Scorned Khatta. She dusts off her hands. "Well … it's been special! We'll have to try it again, sometime, Cutlass!"

Despite the risk to life and limb, Kensington invites his Khatta "accomplice" to dance or revel during the pirate "victory celebration". "If yer stuck at a party… make th' most o' it."

Garrote gets a wicked gleam in her eye, stepping back from the boarding ropes. "All right … nobody's going to believe it anyway… "

Bidding farewell to the Lady's Glove as the night darkens past the bedtimes of Gallee children, lanterns are hung about the strange spidery ship under Kensington's command. The party begins in earnest, and lasts well into the night, with the Korv himself lurching around the deck to steadily more and more off-key music.

Memories get a bit hazy after that, and even more hazy about just how many drinks the Korv had, and whether Madame Garrote actually had any, or was just sloshing it around in her glass.

In any case, the Korv wakes up the next morning – oops, afternoon – back in his cabin.

There's a smudge of lipstick on his beak. And the cabin is a wreck. Must have been some night. Hmm. Funny … he must have thought to put away that bag of loot he'd gotten from the passengers the night before. Doesn't seem to be on him.

Oh yes, and there's a note tacked to his shirt with a hairpin. It smells of perfume.

Ignoring his migraine as best he can, the corsair tries to keep his bloodshot eyes from rolling back in his head long enough to unfold the note and read it, scratching himself as he does so. "Hrgmph… nyup… whzis… ?"

The note reads, "Dear Kenny. Had a lovely time. Thanks for the gifts. Best regards, M.G."

"P.S. I let you keep the swords. They look better on you."

The naked blades in question are sticking point-down in the floorboards, off to one side of the bed.

The Korv eyes his swords, then lets his head fall back on his pillow with a grunt. "Well… at least I 'ads a good time. Once I remember it, I'll prob'ly laugh." With that attitude in mind, he returns to dozing.