Please Mind the Sheep

The Morrigan slid out of jumpspace like a particularly guilty-looking alibi and found itself staring at the Principality of Caledon - a proud, slightly grumpy patch of space where tradition was worn as a badge of honour and sometimes as actual armour.

It was the sort of place where duels still settled legal disputes, tartan was a state of mind, and every conversation risked ending in either a heartfelt oath of loyalty or a full-scale bar brawl. Often in that order.

Below, the main world of Caledon hung in space - a storm-swept jewel with an atmosphere rich in salt, peat, and long-nursed familial grudges. Sleek ships bustled through its lanes, many bristling with weapons. The Principality prized honour and chivalry, but also firmly believed in being the last one standing.

On the bridge of the Morrigan, Caitlin O’Neill, Rift-born, former Scout, and caffeine-based lifeform, leaned back in her chair, feet up on the control panel in a manner that would have sent an Imperial Naval officer into cardiac arrest.

“Well,” she said, stretching like someone who hadn’t decided whether the day was going to involve smuggling, diplomacy, or gunfire – or all three. “Let’s drop off the cargo and see what sort of trouble finds us.”

At which point Quinn the android, without looking up from his calculations, dryly noted, “You do realize this is a place where sword duels are still a form of negotiation?”

Caitlin grinned. "Sounds like a very me kind of place, doesn’t it?"

The Morrigan settled onto the landing pad with all the grace of a particularly arrogant drunk collapsing into a favourite chair - one that had been placed somewhere else entirely. There was a moment of silence as the engines powered down, and then a loud thunk as something fell off. This was ignored. The ship, now blindingly resplendent in its recent high-tech upgrades, sat there smugly, daring someone to comment on it.

Caitlin paused on the landing ramp, taking in the fresh - well, bracing - air of the Principality of Caledon. It smelled of peat smoke, hot coolant, ozone, and meat grilled in spices strong enough to dissolve a nav beacon. And always, everywhere, the warm, faintly judgemental presence of whisky - like the air itself might offer you a dram if you looked tired enough.

The place was a contradiction with a landing permit: fortress-like installations bristled with guns stood cheek-by-jowl with ancient stone towers full of blinking lights and too many antennas. Tartan-clad soldiers marched past gleaming starfighters like they were auditioning for a historical drama set in the future, while a deck officer in blue-and-gold waved a clipboard at mechanics locked in mortal combat with a fuel canister.

The sounds were a battle between efficiency and enthusiasm. Engines growled, clamps groaned, and the Caledonian accent rang out like every sentence was halfway to a drinking song.

Somewhere, bagpipes played. Because of course they did.

Caitlin took a deep, satisfied breath. “Ahhh. Smells like home.”

Maltz, the Vargr engineer, sniffed warily. “It smells like an old home. Like the home of someone who’s been very resistant to the idea of indoor plumbing.”

“That’s the scent of history, Maltz.” Caitlin grinned. “And defiance. And possibly a strong local liquor being brewed somewhere nearby.”

A flock of actual sheep trotted past in the background, reinforcing the moment. Somewhere, off in the misty hills, a man bellowed something that sounded like either a drinking toast or a declaration of blood feud.

Scarred-Snout, resident Aslan and chef, sniffed the air, ears flicking. “You are of the Irish, yes Captain? These must be your rival tribe. Loud, honourable. Fond of wool and shouting.”

He nodded, satisfied. “A noble heritage. Very damp.”

A suitably unimpressed official was waiting at the bottom of the ramp. His uniform was crisp, his expression was deeply sceptical, and his entire posture radiated the kind of weariness only possible in someone who had seen far too many people like the crew of the Morrigan before.

The official gave Caitlin a slow once-over, taking in the cropped tank top, faded cargo pants, battered Scout jacket, freckles, and the grin of someone who'd absolutely park a ship sideways just to prove a point.

“You the captain?”

Caitlin nodded brightly. “Unfortunately for some.”

He sighed again, as though bracing for impact. “Cargo declaration?”

“Just the usual,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the ship. “Trade goods, technical components, one android, one Aslan cook, one engineer with questionable ethics, a Sword Worlder running on spite and caffeine, and...”

She paused as a distant moo echoed from the cargo bay.

“…possibly a cow?”

The official pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. And your reason for visiting?”

“Culture,” she said. “And possibly whiskey.”

********************
The Stoat and Spanner was exactly the kind of pub Caitlin had been hoping for - dimly lit, questionably clean, and smelling of whisky, old leather, and the faint but ever-present musk of deeply ingrained bad decisions. It was the sort of place where patrons could sit in the same seat every night for thirty years and still look vaguely startled when someone new walked in.

The crew, naturally, strode in like they owned the place.

The barkeep, an older man who looked like he’d been hewn directly from the local rock formations, eyed them warily. “Aye?” he grunted, polishing a glass in a way that suggested he was merely moving the dirt around for sentimental reasons.

Caitlin planted herself the bar, smacked the counter with authority, and declared, “A bottle of your finest whiskey! And by ‘finest,’ I mean strong enough to dissolve hull plating."

The barkeep gave her a long, measured look. “We’ve got MacDoom’s Old Peculiar,” he said at length.

Maltz, settling in beside her, frowned. “That sounds... ominous.”

“It should,” the barkeep said grimly. “The last lad who drank three shots of it woke up legally dead.”

Caitlin’s grin widened. “That’ll do nicely.”

The bottle thudded onto the bar like an executioner’s axe. The label depicted a highland warrior scowling at the concept of mortality.

Caitlin uncorked it with her teeth, poured a round for the crew, then knocked back her own in one go.

Silence fell.

The room watched.

Caitlin set the glass down with the careful precision of someone violently suppressing the urge to breathe fire.

“Magnificent,” she rasped.

Scarred-Snout, after a pause, poked her arm. “Are you feeling well, Captain?”

“Never better,” she said, voice now seasoned like well-aged oak.

“That just uninstalled three of my lesser-used organs.” She poured another.

A poor, unsuspecting local had apparently made the dire mistake of sitting just close enough to be in Caitlin’s line of vision. He was nursing a pint, staring straight ahead, and desperately trying not to make eye contact.

Caitlin immediately latched onto this.

“You there!” she barked. The poor man flinched. “What’s your name?”

“…Hamish,” he said, as if apologizing for it.

Caitlin slammed a hand down on the bar. “Hamish!” she declared. “Let me tell you something about the universe.”

Maltz sighed, already reaching for another drink. This was going to be a long night.

“The universe, Hamish,” Caitlin continued, leaning in with the earnest solemnity of someone about to make a point she absolutely shouldn’t, “is a bloody awful place.”

Hamish, who had merely wanted a quiet drink, now looked like a man experiencing an out-of-body event. “Er… aye?”

“Aye! Full of bureaucrats, taxes, and…” she made a vague, disgusted hand motion, “…people who try to tell you how much skin you’re allowed to show in public.”

Morwen cleared her throat. “That last one might be a personal issue.”

Caitlin waved her off. “Not the point, Morwen. The point is…”

She slapped her glass on the bar, leaned back theatrically, and launched into a rant about the Imperial Navy that went on for all the time.

It began with pilot uniform codes, passed through insubordination (gross and otherwise), made several angry detours through naval bureaucracy, took a scenic route across seven official reprimands, and somehow ended with her declaring the concept of “acceptable degrees of compliance” a war crime.

Maltz, long since resigned to his role in these moments, ordered stew. The pub, unsure whether they were witnessing a political protest or a nervous breakdown, slowly began raising their glasses in solidarity.

“To noncompliance!” someone muttered.

Another glass lifted. Then another.

“To noncompliance!” the pub echoed.

Caitlin grinned wildly, downed her drink, and gestured at the room like a benevolent dictator addressing her people. “See? These people understand me.”

Maltz sighed into his beer. “Yes. That’s what worries me.”

And thus, the evening continued. Caitlin, perched precariously on a stool that had already protested its lot in life with an ominous creak, was in the middle of a heartfelt rendition of The Fields of Athenry, belting it out with such passion that even the surliest of Caledonian drinkers had stopped to listen and sob into their beer.

Maltz accompanied her with a series of enthusiastic howls that fell somewhere between folk harmony and engine failure. It would’ve been touching if he hadn’t been simultaneously trying to balance a bowl of porridge on his head.

Morwen, by contrast, had assumed the traditional Sword Worlder drinking stance: back to the wall, hands wrapped around a tankard of something that smelled like engine degreaser, eyes locked in a wordless contest of endurance with a particularly burly local who had, for reasons known only to himself, decided to challenge her to a staring contest. It had been going on for fifteen minutes now, and there was every chance that both would die before conceding.

Scarred-Snout was loudly instructing the chef on the sacred rites of meat preparation, which seemed to involve a lot of roaring and pointing at things with his claws. The chef, unfazed, nodded politely and ignored everything.

And Quinn, whose programming had long since given up trying to keep his crewmates out of trouble, was methodically stacking empty glasses in a mathematically improbable pyramid, occasionally glancing at Caitlin and muttering, "You are technically over your daily ethanol intake limit, Captain," which was met with the same level of respect and consideration one gives a particularly persistent houseplant.

By the time the pub’s owner - who had spent most of the evening staring wearily into the middle distance, contemplating the series of choices that had led him to this moment – called for last orders, the crew of the Morrigan had successfully befriended half the establishment, deeply insulted the other half, and somehow ended up in possession of a sheep, which was now dozing peacefully under Scarred-Snout’s chair.

As they stepped out into the crisp Caledonian night, Caitlin slung an arm around Morwen and smiled, the cool air sharpening her slightly theatrical swagger.

“Did I ever tell you about the old country?”

Morwen gave her a sidelong look. “Aye, Cait. About six times. Tonight.”

Caitlin chuckled. “Ah, the music! It can boil your brain, steal your boots, and have you singing along before you notice.” She thumped a fist against her chest. "You haven't lived until you've heard a room full of drunk bastards harmonizing about a lost war, a stolen cow, and the moral failings of a bloke named Fergus."

Scarred-Snout stood nearby, arms crossed, staring up at the Caledonian sky like it had personally insulted him. His tail gave a slow, irritated twitch.

“This Fergus,” he rumbled, “brings shame. His betrayal echoes through song and drunken argument. His cowardice is legendary. I do not admire him.”

He paused, solemn. “I shall name my next sauce The Infamy of Fergus. It will contain a great amount of paprika. And regret.”

Quinn blinked, tilted his head, and interjected with unsettling calm, “There appears to be a ruminant standing beside us.”

Morwen squinted. “That’s a sheep.”

“And it is wearing a ribbon,” Quinn added.

Scarred-Snout narrowed his eyes. “It followed us.”

Maltz stared at the creature. “Captain… did you acquire that sheep in the pub?”

Caitlin blinked. “Unclear. Possibly. Someone shouted something in Gheldaght and shoved it at me.”

Morwen crossed her arms. “We’re not keeping it!”

Scarred-Snout crouched down, eye to eye with the sheep. “It has spirit. I like it.”

The sheep bleated, unimpressed.