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was draped in sinewy muscle beneath the short fur, and at his sides hung a pair of cutlasses, which probably made him a dual-wielding skirmisher. His name, I caught: Skeetrix the Bold.
    They led me to an open pit where a small stove heated the room poorly, and someone thrust a mug of a foul-smelling liquid into my hand. It tasted like refined dog piss and probably was. The others drank it too, and lots of it, for the stove upon closer inspection was a distillery, cobbled together from scrounged parts; but the alcohol was strong and plentiful.
    “Blackjack here’s going to lead us in the fight, boys,” Zann beamed once everyone was gathered, and a loud cheer went up. “We can’t lose now!” he added.
    Someone brought me a stool and a strong arm sat me down. Skeetrix sat across from me, watching me with a feral grin. Beside him, the orc-lady took a spot, close enough to him to denote a more than passing friendship.
    “Is it true you destroyed the Mists by yourself?” she asked, and the raucous crew died down, all eager to hear my story. After a few seconds you could have heard a pin drop.
    I laughed. “Big deal, is it?”
    There was disbelief at first, then Zann exploded into laughter, joined by a few others, and moments later the whole deck was awash in it.
    “We can’t lose, boys!” Zann repeated, and I saw a few nodding in agreement.
    “What’s this mission you’re talking about?”
    “Oh, no,” spoke the fox fellow, with a soft voice that I was almost too low to be heard over the crowd. “First you must tell us about the Mist Army. We came to scavenge the battlefield two weeks after you had gone, but there was little left then.”
    “Just a wide scar on the land,” said Skeetrix, his speech difficult due to a mouthful of overgrown fangs. “As if a great god had wrought his vengeance upon the land.”
    I couldn’t help but smile at how the story was told, how my foolish ride atop a mechanical behemoth was now a legend for these people. Part of me didn’t want to burst their bubble, tell them the truth: that I had just been a passenger for the ride, barely able to control the huge monstrosity that did most of the damage.
    “Is it true you bested all of their lords in single combat?” asked the orc woman, whose intense demeanor would not break even as the others were awash in laughter.
    “If you mean Dethregas, Varshantas, and the other guy, yeah.”
    The crew laughed at my nonchalance, and I couldn’t help but find my spirits lifted in their company. We drank and ate and smoked until the machine could spit out the clear, noxious alcohol no longer. Few were still awake, and I told them the entire story, from the skirmishes approaching the village, to the grand battle against the entire army, to my capture and ultimate escape from the Lightbringers’ fortress. I told them the whole story, without leaving out any details, except one: I didn’t mention Apogee or the others.
    Once everyone was drunk or sleeping, I came aloft and roamed the quarterdeck. I regretted not giving Cool and Apogee and Haha their fair due for their part in the battles, to Haha for playing an integral role in building the machine to return us home, to Cool for always being there when things were most dire, to Apogee, whose warmth and kindness opened my eyes, helped me understand myself. I didn’t want them to know about my friends. The loss of Cool Hand still felt fresh, and Haha for all of his alien detachment had grown on me. Apogee, who was most likely alive and well, was just as lost to me. I felt those pains as acutely as any wound I’d taken. Strange enough, it was Zundergrub I’d wanted to talk about least. His betrayal had cost me everything, but that I understood. He was insane and a villain. It was something so fundamental: I didn’t want to remind myself that I could have associated with such a monster, called myself a member of his company. But in another way, I knew that Zundergrub represented the darkness that