#imagine you just wanna play some ball and you gotta do it in thick wool dress and a high neck lace collar

[goldenstarprincesses]

From the photo album of Lord Arthur Kirkland- Amelia, Smith College, 1883

Historical Note: In 1866, the first all women-baseball team was formed at Vassar College. While this first team, and the many that followed, never lasted long due to outside pressures related to fears that such "manly" activities would harm the female reproductive system, many unofficial teams began to pop-up at the women's college of the Eastern United States. One such team was formed at Smith College in 1883. For many of these early sport pioneers, the uniform consisted of wool dresses that went from either the ankle to just above the knee. Often teams would personalize them with embroidery and other design choices.

Color drawing and references under cut

[balladserial]

Episode 1: Part 4

“Alright,” says Captain Warring, placing both hands firmly on the handrail that guards the ledge she’s standing on, above the rest of the crew.

It’s an unseasonably cold night, and the wind rushing by the ship doesn’t exactly help matters, but Captain Warring looks unfazed as always. The cold wind doesn’t even seem to rustle her hair as she speaks. Cold as ice.

I put down my bow and lower my fiddle to my side, and the rest of the crew assembles. Clairvoyance is here, in a hulking squarish body built for muscle over anything else, along with Gratitude (clutching his wool cape around him for warmth), Mikael, and Athens. It’s hardly the warmest place for a crew meeting, but hey. I can’t say I don’t appreciate the gravitas.

“Alright?” Athens echoes, her tail whipping just a bit from impatience.

Apparently, the captain has been no less cryptic to her first mate than to the rest of us.

“So,” Captain Warring continues, unfazed, “I’ve touched base with one of my contacts inside the Guard, and they confirmed, more or less, what was on the note Joane recovered during yesterday’s…hubbub. There is, indeed, a transport vessel by the name of the P.A.S. Condor docking in West Compassion at the end of the week. I wasn’t able to get a good report on what, exactly, the Condor is carrying, but it appears to be ammunition of some kind, headed for the capital. Whatever it is, the haul could be worth a killing. No word on what kind of security we’re looking at, but I know the Principality. The possibility that someone might intercept their secret shipment probably hasn’t even crossed their minds.”

Clairvoyance leans forward a bit, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

“You want this to be our next job,” she observes with a hint of a smile in her voice.

I don’t blame her. I trust the captain and all, but I think we can all tell we’re in desperate need of some profit.

“If it’s only munitions, I suppose it’s not so bad,” muses Gratitude out loud, his discomfort plain for all to see. I nudge him a bit, and he shoots me a glare.

“Well,” I chip in, “I, for one, think it’s a great plan. And Captain, if you’re open to it, I think this could be an excellent time for me to get in some real ground work-”

“Absolutely not,” says Captain Warring flatly, and I wince.

“Captain,” I say softly. “I know I’m still, uh…in trouble, but I was the one who got the intel in the first place, and I really think I’m ready-”

“You also got yourself hurt and got separated from the rest of the crew,” she points out, unmoved. “Joane, we’ve discussed this several times, and I still don’t think you actually understand why you’re in trouble.”

Despite my best efforts to keep my cool, I can feel hot blood rushing to my face. My grip on the neck of my fiddle tightens.

“With all due respect, Captain,” I say slowly, between clenched teeth, “I wouldn’t be such a liability in the field if you ever actually gave me the chance to hone my skills.”

“Tal,” Gratitude interjects with an air of detached politeness that makes me want to leap out of my skin, “I think perhaps what the captain is saying is that your problem is not your inexperience, but your abject recklessness in the face of danger and your complete inability to plan ahead.”

“Fuck off, Gratitude,” I snarl. “What do you know, you grew up in a convent.”

“A better upbringing, I’d say, than living amongst the gutter trash.”

My hand balls into a tight fist, but before I can slug Gratitude in the face, a firm grip closes around my wrist. I glance up.

Athens is standing there, her usual cocky grin replaced by an air of thick disappointment. One hand is restraining my punching arm, while the other maintains a tight grip on Gratitude’s shoulder. If looks could kill, hers would be drilling a coin-sized hole through the center of my skull.

“Actually, Captain,” she says sweetly, turning her attention up to where Captain Warring is standing, massaging her temples. “I have a much better idea of how to deal with this situation, if you’ll allow.”

Captain Warring looks up, and the dark circle under her eye is more visible than ever.

“I’m listening.”

“Fuck this,” I moan, pulling the brim of my Principality Navy regulation hat down over my face. If the other night was unseasonably chilly, midday at the docks of West Compassion is overbearingly muggy. If Arcadia V really does have a living spirit, as some claim, clearly She missed the memo that it’s supposed to be September.

“Language,” Gratitude mutters next to me.

Not that he’s in any place to judge. He’s doing no better than me, judging by the irritated way he keeps tapping his foot on the rough cobblestone of the harbor. His Navy uniform is a tad ill-fitting; the shoulders hang a bit loose and the double-breasted jacket doesn’t quite sit right. I imagine mine doesn’t look all that good either, if the tightness around my hips is anything to go by, but I suppose that’s what you get out of last-minute disguises.

West Compassion is a small city, only about a day’s trip from Greater Mercy. By and large, it’s a trading outpost, and few people aside from an odd collection of merchants, traders, and those who make money off travelers actually live here. But the view from the harbor is extraordinary. Even with the sunlight beating down in waves on both our heads, it looks just as lovely glinting off the clouds below the jutting, stone docks, making the sky below shine just like I imagine the real ocean might. And all along the way, rows and rows of airships line the docks, ranging from small birding vessels to enormous, hulking freighters. And in front of us, an iron-sided freight ship, held aloft by a large and unwieldy balloon, with its name stamped in regulation type on the side.

The P.A.S. Condor.

“Welp,” I say with as little enthusiasm as possible. “We better climb onboard. We’re going to miss orientation.”

Gratitude swallows and pauses to adjust his head covering (the ornate veil swapped out for a simple blue bandana) before stepping forward onto the dock. A long moment passes where there’s no conversation but the faint sound of feet on stone, the cries of cliff-dwelling birds and the whistling of the wind.

“I imagine you’re also mad at me over this Hellfire business,” Gratitude says finally.

I frown.

“No,” I reply. “Why would I be?”

Gratitude gestures vaguely in the air, as if grasping for the words he needs floating around his head.

“You...haven’t exactly made a secret of your disdain for me, and given our…incompatible faiths, it seemed pretty obvious that you would side with Athens on the matter.”

I roll my eyes.

“Gratitude, I don’t not get along with you because I’m Jewish.”

“That-” He stumbles over his words quickly. “Tal, that is not what I meant. I just thought that-”

I smirk a little and shove him, making him windmill a little to avoid falling into the guardrail. He exhales in a little puff of irritation.

“I understand,” I say. “You figured that because I don’t share your religious beliefs, I’d be totally gung-ho to jump in on ‘bash the Exodist’ hour. Rest assured, buddy. I don’t care even a little bit about Hellfire except that I’d prefer not to get killed by it. Hell, there are places where fire is really important to Jewish worship. So like. Keep your weird magic god fire, I really do not care.”

“It’s not my-” Gratitude mutters. “It’s not like I can summon it-”

He clamps his mouth shut as we finally approach the gangplank at the end of the dock. The Condor looms above us, and I find myself correcting my posture instinctually. There’s something about a ship like this that really makes you wanna play soldier. Luckily, that’s exactly what we’re here to do.

We stand at the foot of the plank for what feels like forever until we finally hear the unmistakable sound of heeled boots on metal approaching us. Out of the shadows, we can see a figure climb down the ramp and set foot, finally, in front of us.

The figure is a woman, seemingly, tall with light skin and amber eyes, and a spattering of freckles across her long, sharp nose. She looks in her early thirties if I had to hazard a guess, and her sandy brown hair is swept into a neat style at the back of her neck. Her clothes look...decidedly unlike the standard naval uniform of the Principality: a slightly open white button-down shirt with an unbuttoned brocade coat that sweeps behind her as she walks. Her trousers are high-waisted and adorned with brass buttons that look...pretty expensive.

“You two the ballast we’re picking up here?” she asks flatly, fiddling with a toothpick in one hand. “I gotta say, real weird that the Principality is sending its goons to babysit us, but as long as we get the paycheck…”

I glance sideways at Gratitude, who is already glancing at me. I shrug.

“Um,” I say eloquently. “Yes sir. I’m Ensign Lee Mirage, and this is Ensign Merriment Sign-Your-Agreement-Eternally-Binding.”

The woman raises one thin eyebrow.

“I’m, er, I’m a medical officer, sir,” says Gratitude. “Here are our papers, they should check out alright.”

Gratitude hands the woman a brand new set of fakes, which she scans quickly. She exhales, seemingly satisfied.

“Sir,” I venture. “I apologize, we were under the impression that this was a Principality naval vessel.”

She laughs out loud and hands our papers back to Gratitude. The sun glints off something shiny in her mouth- a single gold tooth.

“Aw, sweetheart,” she says with a hint of glee. “They really don’t teach y’all anything over there.”

She sticks out a hand, and I shake without thinking. The enthusiasm in her handshake nearly pulls my arm out of its socket.

“Mirage, Merry, it’s good to meet you. My name’s Adonis Fleetfoot, but that’s Captain Fleetfoot to you.” She grins. “Welcome aboard the Condor, and welcome to my privateering crew- the Last Stand of Dignity!”

Gratitude and I shoot each other another bewildered look.

This is gonna be a long mission, isn’t it.

[Episode 1 Part 3] - [Episode 1 Part 5]