A/N: More cameos are in this chapter in the form of Peril, Pic, and Nicola.

Already I have problems with the opening chapters. ARGH. No wonder no one reads my junk. Already I have a better idea for what I could have done. Anyway, I’m going to stick to my original plan. I’m going to actually write everything first before I start editing.

And if you know what Palmacosta is, sue me. Cameos are fun.

A new point of view, a walk in your shoes, I wish I could get inside your head to see what you see when you look at me cause I could have lived your life instead.

“Instead” –Stacie Orrico.

OoOoOo

Seagulls screamed. Squinting against the noon sun and trying her best not to hiss, Terr moodily clunked along the wooden docks of Palmacosta, the port where her ship was currently docked. People paid a hefty price to ride aboard the Horobod and carry their cargo on it. For the long stretches she found herself land side, Terr had also set up a small establishment. Honest sailors sought it, since Terr ran a tight ship there, pun intended. Bar fights were rare, and the rooms were all clean.

And though most didn't know it, her very presence in the city was enough to keep the more troublesome immortals on their toes. As far as the Palmacosta food chain went, most considered Terr to be at the top. Her, or her first mate Peril.

"Terri- Terri- Teresa!"

When Teresa Bonnie Winterton stooped inside the dim bar, she was immediately assaulted by a floating, ghost-like cat with jumbo-sized dragonfly wings. To the non-magical beings who witnessed it, it was only as if a stray wind had blown in her face, but in reality it was the cat that whisked her hat aside to perch on top of her head.

Hello, Pic, Terr sent via telepathy to the cat, not even trying to shoo him away. Being a wind aspect herself, she had less trouble learning how to transmit her thoughts to others. Where's Peril?

"Let’s strike a deal!” he said eagerly. “How much are you willing to pay for that information, Terri-Terri-Bo-Berry-Fo-Fairy-Mo-Mary-Hairy..."

He leaped off of her head with his paws stretched high above his head and his luminous blue eyes closed, screeching the last line of his impromptu song: "TERRY!!!!?"

Seeing that Pic wasn't going to answer her, she used the opportunity given her and moved over to the bar, resting her suitcase on top of the counter. "Hello, William," she said to the bartender. He was a young man with hair the color of thick honey and a decent helping of freckles splashed across his face. "I trust you've been well?"

"Well enough." William poured something toxic-looking into a glass and sliding it over to another customer. "Going to tell me where you've been, Boss?"

"Traveling is thirsty work. Give me something that won't leave me snoring."

William gave her a reproachful sigh and shake of his head before moving to the storage area behind the bar. Soon back with a bottle full of red liquid, he asked: "Tomato juice all right?"

"Tomato juice is fine, as long as it's nice and cold. Today is proving to be an unpleasant, cloudless, sunny day." Accepting the drink and clinking the ice cubes around in it for a moment, she took a long sip, her throat bobbing. Leaving it half-drained and resting her cheek against the soft-smelling wood, she asked: "Where's Peril? I need help with…"

Her eyes were drawn towards the suitcase, lying innocuous on the counter.

"Well, you know she doesn't like to stay still for too long," William said, refilling her drink. "I think your friend Nicola called her to help out with something. She’s been gone for almost as long as you."

"Ahhh," Terr said, though she sounded uninterested. The rim of her hat covered her eyes, and so all that could be seen were two fangs exposed in a small smile. "Nicky and her knack for getting into trouble strikes again. I'm too old for that kind of chaos."

Making himself visible for William's benefit, Pic crouched on the bar in between the two, his curious cat-face peering at Terr with his tail tickling William's face. “Ain't'cha younger than all of them other immortals, though?"

Teresa sat up, pressing one long, pale finger against her lips. "Shh."

“Why aren't you with Peril, by the way?” William asked the Sylph, cleaning a shot glass with a wet rag.

“Be-caaaaaaaaaaaaaaausseee,” Pic droned childishly, his whiskers twitching. “My mistress is already on her way here. I was supposed to go ahead of her and let you know to have her favorite drink ready by the time she-”

Further conversation was not forthcoming as a shot rang out through the bar. Glass shattered next to William's face. Teresa lunged forward and dragged William down, catching her suitcase by the toe of her boot as her lean form shot over the counter.

William saw stars as his head cracked against the floor and he stifled a groan. He was sprawled out in puddles of whiskey, Teresa kneeling over him. “Stay down, he's probably after me,” she hissed, pressing down on his shoulders as she looked up, her mismatched eyes narrowed and concentrating. Swift fingers unlatched the suitcase, loaded the guns and shoved extra clips into her belt before she leaped cat-like back over the counter. Rolling as she hit the floor, she came up with her guns blazing out the open door. The dark figure outside ducked out of the way; Terr followed him.

Feeling the pressure grow in her hands, Terr found that as she ran her guns became heavier until they were at exactly the weight they had been in their previous form- thick iron revolvers. She lifted her left hand up to her face, shocked to find that the slim, silver guns Ridver had given her were gone. Though the broad muzzle still read “Castor”, the gun was completely different. They were revolvers once more, though a far cry from the notched and grizzly grim machines of death they had once been. The wood was polished, smooth and new to her touch. Not sure what had happened but exhilarated to be holding her beloved guns once more, The Bloody Whirlwind of legend bared her fangs in a grin, chasing the man down with renewed energy until he turned around at the end of the pier, ready to make a stand.

Teresa Bonnie Winterton found herself squaring off with her assailant. The sun beat down on them, and her shadow shimmered on its own will, ignoring the figure that cast it standing stock still. He wore a silk black mask that stuck to his sweating face, a hollow forming every time he sucked in a breath from his wide-open mouth. She smirked, twirling Pollox in one hand while Castor's hand rested at her hip. The ocean crashed next to them, filling in the silence with the shrieks of the gulls.

“This is my area,” she called out to him, Pollux a blur in her hand. Terr was crouching like an animal ready to pounce. “I'm willing to share it if you follow my rules- but I have a feeling you're not here to join my group, are you?”

“I'm here to suppress opposition to the Iron Empire, halfling,” the figure spoke. Though his mask was black, the rest of his clothing was a dark, miserable gray. The clean, sharp cut of it and the strange markings on the chest and soldier gave it a distinctly military feel.

Terr laughed out loud at that. “Opposition? You need to actually have an empire to be able to oppose it. In case you haven't realized, the gates between these worlds and those under the thrall of the Emperor have been close for almost 200 years.” She stood straight, ceasing Pollux's movement with a jerk, so that the muzzle pointed straight at the sky. “So get the hell out of my town, and tell whoever thinks he's the Iron Emperor that if he wants me so badly, he'd better be willing to come after me himself.” As if she could care less, she turned her back on the immortal, flipping her long black curls over her shoulder. “It was what the real Emperor would do.”

Crack!

Terr's hat fell to the floor.

Though there were two bullets, it sounded as though only one shot was fired. Terr fell to one knee, crimson blossoming from a single black mark in between her shoulder blades. But the black silk mask was practically ripped from the immortal’s face as one of the bullets tore through his left temple, letting the red spill all over the dusty, thirsty earth.

“Well, I guess that explains it,” Terr said, turning halfway to smile at the military man. Her voice sounded hoarse.

“And so I come again,” said the Emperor, pulling the rest of his mask off, his rock-stern features awash with blood. Holding up his gun, mirror to Terr's own revolver, he aimed it at her. “To take revenge upon you who betrayed your Master.”

Facing him fully now, Terr pulled the hammer back on her revolver, hissing through sharp teeth, and the small port knew that a clash of the immortals was soon to take place. The smart ones hid; the daring ones peeked through holes in their windows, waiting with bated breath for someone to die or for the authorities to arrive.

Ducking to the side, Terr let fire. Pollox screamed for the Emperor's blood. Golden energy lashed out to whip the bullets aside and more explosions sounded- three black blurs were all she could see but Terr was no ordinary woman. She fell, rolling and bouncing back up to her feet, launching into the air in an impressive display of acrobatics. The Emperor's face twisted into a grimace and he whirled to let loose the rest of his bullets. Twisting in the air to land on her feet, she charged towards him, her body a black blur as she slid and slipped past every shot; dust kicked up into the air to dance with her in golden swirls.

“Olé!” She cried, her arms above her in a circle as she thrust one hip out, the last bullet whizzing safely past her to lodge itself in a brick building behind her. Leaping into the air again, she propelled herself forward with a strong gust of wind she summoned with her mind even as the Emperor rushed towards where she had been. A brilliant smile lit up her face as she passed him, the joy in it chilled only by the fangs that sprouted under her red lips.

Deitari's eyes met hers as she passed, gold fire burning with anger.

You're rusty, Dee. Terr sent him a message as she passed, reloading her guns midair with the ease of a master gunslinger. Too many years in your kingdom, you've forgotten the rules of our game!

The smile morphed into a savage snarl as she turned mid-flight, unloading Castor into his back. Two shots followed each other into his heart, one pierced his kidney. Two more popped the backs of his knees and he fell just in time to allow the last one to enter the back of his neck and explode out through his mouth, ripping out his lower jaw. He fell in a bloody, ruined mess as Terr landed light on the tips of her toes, Castor held victoriously in the air.

The gulls circled.

Her right hand dropped. She lowered Pollux, feeling somehow that Castor was better for the job today. Cautiously, she approached Deitari. The immortal was trying to get up, though his legs were useless unless he pulled some sort of magic out to motor them without muscle.

Sad, she realized that Deitari wasn't fighting her with his full strength. She wouldn't have won otherwise. Placing her guns gently on the ground, she knelt and pulled out a wicked hunting knife from inside her thigh-high muddy brown boots, so long it could have almost been a sword. Pulling his head back by his shining blond hair, she sawed through the vertebrae until his head was free from his body. She held it up to face her, the gold eyes still glaring as his body turned to dust.

“Well, well, well,” she told the head, tossing it from hand to hand. “You insult me by sending me this weakling, Dee. Did you really think I'd be the same little toy you played with?”

Defying the laws of nature, the cruel mouth lifted into a sneer, the lower jaw hanging loosely with teeth dangling from threads of meat. The bullet had punched right through him.

And then, the disembodied head in her hands began to speak.

“I'll not make the same mistake next time, wench,” a mangled voice sounded, imaginary vocal cords powered by magic. “On that you can count.”

“Maybe if you had asked nicely, I would have worked for you again. Too bad. For all your bullshit, you were strong, Dee. Maybe stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.” She tossed the head to the floor. Deitari gave a muffled grunt of pain as his nose smashed against the hard wooden dock and his head began to roll towards the edge. If there was any fear in his heart- or, well, metaphoric heart- it showed not on his face. His hawk-like visage was stern even as Terr picked up her guns, turned her back on him, and walked away.

Giving curious cries, the gulls descended on the head to peck experimentally at the tan flesh. When they found the meat was good, the pecks soon were turned on each other as they squabbled for the latest morsel the dock had offered them.