[Jolly Roger] The Flowered Flag

The midday sun blazed over the port, gleaming off ship hulls and the fins of those who lived half in the water, half on land. Fleur stood near the end of the line, their styled tail drifting lazily in the sea-salt breeze, the faint shimmer of pollen still clinging to their fur from that morning’s work at the flower shop. The air smelled of brine and faintly of fried fish from the food stalls lining the pier.

Maestro was at the head of the queue. "...and as I was saying, the weaving of this thread is a delicate art! You’ll find no stronger or more beautiful material in all of Crederia!" Maestro flourished a length of fabric, sunlight shimmering across the silk like water over glass. The crederian’s long ears swayed as they leaned in toward a patient-looking dockhand. "The secret lies in the--"

"Maestro." The single word came like a dropped anchor. Taiburn’s voice was as gravelly as the seabed, and his narrow eyes flicked toward Maestro like the crack of a whip.

Maestro blinked, then cleared his throat, their smile faltering only slightly. "Ah, yes, of course. The important part is, we’ve brought you the fabric for your base, as well as paints, brushes, and, if you’d like to get fancy, gemstones. All of this will help us keep track of you. Think of it as a team logo."

Taiburn stepped forward, broad-shouldered and sharp-finned, his dark tail cutting the air in a slow warning sweep. "Or else we’ll down your vessel for trespassing in a quarantined area."

"TAIBURN!"

The two fell into bickering as the line shuffled forward. 

Fleur adjusted the strap of their satchel, their gaze tracing the folds of the fabric Maestro was showing off. To their eyes, it glittered like dew in the first light of morning. As Fleur reached the front of the line, Maestro smiled broadly and pressed a bundle into their paws. "For you. Make it into something beautiful."

Taiburn’s gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary, as though weighing Fleur’s worth at a glance before he turned to the next Crederian in line.

Fleur inclined their head, murmured their thanks, and stepped away, the fabric warm from Maestro’s paws.

Above the docks, a great flag of the same weave snapped in the wind. Bold letters read: No Flag, No Entry.

Patalum was quieter when they returned, the rolling gold of wheat fields and the dark green of pumpkin vines replacing the bustle of the port. Their small shop stood near the village square, its sign, a painted iris, swinging gently in the warm evening breeze.

Inside, the air was cool and filled with the faint mingling scents of a hundred blooms. Some flowers were for arrangements, others, like the bundles hanging upside down in the corner, were for drying. Fleur moved among them and set their satchel on the worktable.

The fabric shimmered even in the dim lamplight and he realized that it would take time to make something worthy. Time, and flowers.

Their gaze drifted to the "unsold" shelf. Blooms a bit too wilted for a customer’s vase, petals curling at the edges, but still rich in color. Ranunculus in gold and tangerine, violets deep as the twilit sky and wild roses with pink that blushed toward cream. Perfect for pressing.

The bell over the shop door rang sharply. "Fleur!"

Finn tumbled in like a thrown stone, hair in wild disarray. He was panting slightly, a drumstick clutched in one paw. No doubt from the band he’d been practicing with in someone’s barn.

"Did you hear about the sea thing?!" His voice was half excitement, half challenge.

"I did," Fleur said, smoothing the fabric. "I’m making a flag."

Finn’s eyes lit with a wild sort of mischief. "You’re gonna make it boring, aren’t you?"

Fleur didn’t rise to the bait set by their brother. "I’ll make it mine."

They began that night. They moved to the pounding table in the shop’s back room, away from the delicate hanging stems and jars of cut flowers. Fleur laid the cloth flat and placed their tools next to it. A small mallet, wooden blocks, brushes, and bowls of pigment. Beside those, the unsold flowers in a riot of color. Flower pounding was an art that demanded time and patience. Each bloom was arranged face-down on the fabric, covered with parchment, and struck carefully. Not enough to tear the fabric, but enough to drive the pigment deep into its fibers. The first strike released a faint scent, the rose’s rich aromas mingling with the cloth’s faint salt tang. Fleur worked steadily, pressing patterns into the fabric. An iris for the shop, vines that curled like waves, clusters of petals in gold and red that echoed Patalum’s fields at harvest.

From the doorway, Finn leaned in, chin propped on his arms. "Looks like you’re bleeding the flowers."

Fleur’s mouth quirked slightly. "That’s one way to describe it."

"You should add spikes," Finn said. "Or flames. Flames are cool."

"I’m not flying this flag to frighten anyone."

"So what are you going to do about a vessel?"

Fleur didn’t answer immediately. They pressed another violet into the fabric, its dark stain blooming outward like ink in water. "We’ll see when the time comes."

Finn made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh but didn’t push.

By midnight, half the flag was filled. The pressed flowers formed a landscape. The shoreline, fields, and a great iris at the center, its petals shaped by layers of different blooms. Around it, Fleur painted faint outlines in pale green, letting the natural pigments remain the focus.

They set their brush aside and flexed their paws. Finn had fallen asleep in the corner chair, jacket draped over his face. Fleur covered him with a light blanket before dousing the lamps.

The sea would wait a little longer.

Morning brought the steady flow of work. Regular customers for bouquets and herbs. But Fleur’s thoughts kept returning to the flag. Maestro’s cheerful insistence, Taiburn’s warning, the bold letters above the dock.

No Flag, No Entry.

In the afternoon, Finn returned, this time more subdued. He carried a small tin of metal studs. The kind he used for his jacket cuffs.

"You could put these around the edges," he said, almost shyly. "They’ll catch the light."

Fleur studied him for a moment, then nodded. "They would."

They worked together in the back room. Fleur pressed the last of the flowers. Daisies for cheer and holly for protection while Finn hammered the studs into place, the soft clink of metal a steady counterpoint to Fleur’s mallet.

By the time the sun slipped low over the fields, the flag was complete. It was not fierce in the way that a dragon blew fire or the way a skull and crossbones stuck fear into the hearts of Crederians, but it was striking. A tapestry of color, the shimmer of the fabric beneath pressed blooms making them look like they glowed, the iris standing proud at the center. The studs along the border caught light like little stars.

Fleur held it up, and even Finn’s smirk softened. It was theirs.

Two days later, Fleur stood at the docks again, the flag folded under their arm. Other crews were already raising their own banners, each one a splash of identity.

Maestro spotted them first. "Ah! Fleur, is it? Let’s see!"

Fleur unfolded the flag for Maestro to see. The shimmer of fabric caught the sun, the pressed flowers appearing to bloom anew in the light. The studs winked along the edges like little stars in the light. Maestro’s face split into a delighted grin. "Beautiful! Oh, this will stand out marvelously."

Taiburn stepped closer, eyes narrowed not in suspicion but in assessment. After a long pause, he gave a short nod. "It will do."

Fleur allowed themselves a small, quiet moment of satisfaction.

Now, they were almost ready. All that was left was a ship.