To expedite, explore and extract...

[Letho]

((Closed to Storm Veritas. All bunnies approved by both parties. Also, continues to The Ghosts of the Past))

It was a sweltering midsummer Corone day, but Letho didn’t mind. Heat of the sun and the beauty of the azure sea basked in the golden beams was a good memory for the days to come, an image he would gladly hold on to tight enough to last him at least a couple of months. At least until he had the Blade of the Judicator in his hands. Then all of Corone could go to hell for all he cared, together with the imprint in his head and the memories that lingered in the depths of his mind. Because compared to the Blade, Corone or any other part of Althanas including his home kingdom of Savion simply didn’t matter. None of them would allow him to live in two worlds at the same time. None would allow him to be with the two women he loved with his entire heart and soul. The Blade could. That’s why the Blade mattered and everything else failed miserably in comparison.

“How far is this Nyd, Letho?” Myrhia asked the bulky man behind her, not turning her face towards him, but rather keeping her eyes on the murky water below her feet. She was sitting on the edge of a large ship, her smooth scrawny milky white legs swaying below her playfully. The vessel wasn’t the grandest ship ever build, and judging by the creaking of the boards and the wooden moaning of the masts it had seen its share of storms during the many years, but it was a solid ship with a seemingly good crew and a suitable name. A hauntingly suitable name. “Intrepid”.

“I don’t know. Far.” the man replied, pausing his work on the main deck of the boat for a couple of seconds to look towards the teenage girl. Her innocent image warmed his heart more then thousand of suns combined. She was in her scarlet attire, the sleeves of her sifan shirt rolled up as her small scarlet skirt served nearly as a continuance of her shirt. Her hair was liquid fire enflamed by the fiery orb that relentlessly heated the countryside. Her pale skin was the most perfect skin complexion his eyes ever seen, freckled by a handful of small dark spots, creating countless maps of the constellations all over her body. He missed her, missed her in every way a man can miss a woman and missed her thrice as much as any man had ever missed a woman. And though he couldn’t say it back in Savion when she mesmerized him with her appearance, he could say it now without a shadow of a doubt in his mind. He still loved her. That was why he needed the Blade. That was why he needed the two lives. Some men fail to find true love during the course of their life. Letho found it twice.

“Far as in a land-far-away-far, or far as in at-the-end-of-the-world-far?” she inquired again, this time turning her head around and casting a smiling glance over her shoulder. It was a glance only she could muster, a glance that made her emerald eyes squint gently and smile with her perfect little lips. Letho repositioned the inhuman amount of rope he had stacked on his shoulder, smiling heartily at her question. She loved that smile, even though he found it awkward when it would appear on his bearded face. Her smile faded a little though at the sight of his scarred muscled chest that was bathed in fresh sweat. Because as much as his bulk was always intimidating and overwhelming for the tiny slave girl, she couldn’t stop thinking of the pain that went hand in hand with those scars. Pain that she carried as well for the scars on her back and on her face. Still, she managed a giggle at his rather spartan rugged look as he stood behind her shirtless and in nothing but a pair of tattered old brown pants.

“I think there is no way of telling for certain. But if we keep going south, we are bound to hit it sooner or later.” he finally replied, her giggle mellowing him down effortlessly.

“Oh. Alright.” she said timidly, turning her head back to the unsightly water below. Fearfully deep water was by no means the prettiest sight ever, but still, there was something in the gentle shimmer of the tiny waves that just calmed her down. “So what is Nyd like?” again a question. She always had an abundance of them, and while Letho could usually get annoyed by the constant enquiries, the diminutive redhead served them in a way that he could never reject; with a side dish of gentleness, gratefulness and innocent fear.

“Cold I reckon. Snowy. Something like Salvar.” and she shuddered even at the mention of the chilly plains of the northern lands. She nearly died in the Salvarian snow while the two of them protected a rather strange man that called himself a Showstopper, and the cold fingers of the bitter winds were not in her fondest memories.

“Bah. They couldn’t just put it somewhere nice, could they? Like Raiaera for example...” she spoke in a nearly childish tone and the man replied with a silent deep rumble of laughter rising from his throat. “I bet those elves would keep a good eye on that blade.”

“Yeah. It would shorten our journey as well.” he added, lowering the pile of ropes beside him before he stepped towards the ledge and joined Myrhia in an unfocused gaze towards the horizon. “But I think that blade is in Nyd for a reason.” he continued in a much more serious tone. She lifted her head upwards and looked at his face.

“What reason is that?” again a question and again not annoying Letho even the slightest. But he didn’t meet her loving eyes that glistened in the morning sun when he spoke. He feared she might decipher just how worried he was about this whole mission. Little did he know that she already knew that. He was like an open book to her, always was and always would be, and what weighed heavily on him, pressed her little heart as well.

“Because it’s too powerful to be put in the hands of a mortal.”

[Storm Veritas]

Never again on a small ship. F*ck this dinghy.

Escaping Corone hadn’t been a “good idea” so much as it had been a necessity. Storm Veritas knew that his time was up for now there, and that the authorities looking after him were starting to get close. The posters on the building walls started to bear a better likeness to him, and they knew a few of the aliases that he preferred. Their memories were short, however, and for petty theft in a town such as Radasanth, no degree of rampant burglary would linger long in their minds. A brief vacation of sorts would be necessary, which meant a trip to the docks for him. Jump on the biggest boat possible, hide in the back, and leave looking like hired help. A simple plan, one that had worked before, one that had gotten him to Corone in the first place.

Of course, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. The [iIntrepid[/i] was a sizable ship, but the rocking and heaving of the ship was incessant from his hiding spot. Tucked into an emptied wine-barrel, Storm and his supply rations should have lasted for nearly three weeks. With such considerable stock in sugars, fruits, and a large, soft, water-filled leather canteen, he could suffice for a good while. Short trips at night, pushing up his lid to get out, stretch his legs, relieve himself, and perhaps get some fresh air were all he planned on needing.

So much for that… urk.

The biting sour taste of vomit filled his mouth again, and he forced a swallow. Huddling in silence under the stairs, the stowaway had given up on his rations, as they would no longer do him any damned good. Vomit-covered apples and sugar cubes were not exactly up to his particular palatable standards, anyway. Leftovers of meat and cheese were often discarded to the underbelly of the ship, where he sat atop a large sack of something soft, be it coffee, sugar, or perhaps something more profitable. Were scraps not available, rats were never in short supply.

Then again, maybe some of the apples can be washed…

He had followed the captain onto this boat, figuring that such a man would travel in style. He was a large man, broad at the shoulder and joined closely by a stunning beauty. He would show her the world, no doubt, boasting all the way at his travels and prowess and glory. Overhearing a few conversations between the two, Storm assumed they were lovers. Such was the fortune for these warrior-type, men whom longed for nothing.

Bastards.

The trip had been long already, and the tedium was overwhelming. His journal was more than full, his thoughts filling the margins of pages and back and front covers. A less than upbeat tone dominated the flow of consciousness through his written diatribes. Now, his days were left to spinning his dagger atop the wood, balancing the hilt in his palm while the tip spun quickly, smoothly, effortlessly.

So I’m traveling with Magellan, apparently, and it seems he has spited Poseidon himself.

The ship lurched and heaved again, and Storm knew none would be coming downstairs. It was always quiet in the belly when the top was rocking. Claustrophobia did not mix well with sea-sickness, as he knew from experience. He longed for the bustling up top to cease, so that he may go to the deck and chum from the port side.

And then, as if by divine intervention, something to grab his interest. A conversation on the top deck, between that arrogant captain and someone else. A new voice; something he didn’t recognize.

[Letho]

“So let me get this straight.” a short scrawny man with a bandana said. He was the very epitome of a weathered sailor, a wretched creature with a gray tousled mop of a hair, terminally squinted eyes and a light brown shoe-shine tan. His clothes sufficed, that was the best description Letho managed to conjure in order to somehow describe the washed out blue jacket with faded fake golden buttons and the pair of pants that might have once been brown denim. Even his flintlock pistol that was stuck nonchalantly in the loose leather belt looked ancient despite the fact that it was probably the most advanced item on the “Intrepid” save for Letho’s gunblade. His voice was rough and raspy, result of the vocal cords constantly drowned down in rum, ale and cigar smoke. Needless to say, Aslan was not a sight for sore eyes. Not by a long shot. But he was a necessity, because regardless of the golden pieces offered, he was the one that gathered most of the crew back on the docks and in every way he was as much of a captain of this expedition as Letho was. “You don’t know where this Nyd is?”

“South.” Letho simply replied, his huge muscled arms crossed across his chest as he looked down at the pirate looking figure with a slightly annoyed glance. He didn’t trust Aslan, but then again, that was nothing new. Trust always came in short supply in swordsman’s mind, and hired help that worked for the jingle of the gold pieces was not going to dip into that supply any time soon.

“Right.” Aslan said with a touch of bitterness in his voice. His chewed cigar shifted restlessly in his graveyard of a mouth where yellow teeth stood like scattered tombstones. “And you can’t tell us what are you searching for there?”

“No.” again a short, uninterested reply in a tone that said that Letho had neither the patience or the intention to explain further. But the sailor was unscathed by this tone, his eyes gleaming up at the man with a keen look that silently insisted on elaboration. Letho sighed deeply, shifting a little bit. Hired help wasn’t as it used to be. There were times when you could throw a sack of gold in front of them and suddenly a throng of mercs would pop out, ready to follow your slightest whim. These were the new breed, the nosy kind that wanted insurance. But in such short time, they were the best the swordsman managed to find. “Look, you got five hundred gold pieces already. You get the other half when we return on top of anything that I find on Nyd that I don’t need. And since I look for only one item, there will be plenty riches for you and your vultures to feast upon.”

The righteous, uncaring tone stung Aslan slightly, making him launch a sharp eye towards the gallant man. But Letho seemed untouched by this, his stern ironclad face not even displaying that he noticed the aggravated look on the face of the sailor. “Well, there better be some fine riches there, boy. Nobody ever ventured that far south and I won’t endanger my boat and my crew for a lousy thousand gold pieces.”

“Look, old man. You and your men do your job and I’ll provide the payment at the end of this. It’s as simple as that.” Letho’s tone definite, making it known that this was not a matter he wanted to discuss any further. Aslan took this with a grim frown. “And speaking of doing your job, why are we keeping close to the Corone shoreline?” the swordsman asked, pointing towards the green line on the horizon that they’ve been keeping at their left for nearly a week now.

“It’s summertime. There is always a constant wind flowing from the shore during the summer. We’re making better time that way.” and with that said, the second half of the captain duo turned around and went away grunting something in his dark beard. Letho took a seat at the edge of the grated opening that went all the way down to the belly of the ship, joining Myrhia who already sat there, listening to the whole conversation.

“It’s hard to find decent help these days.” Letho commented silently, his eyes falling on the darkening sky in the east that slowly overtook the Corone landscape.

“You worry too much.” the redhead said softly, pushing him gently with her shoulder, making him crack a smile. “They are just... you know... jittery because they are taking orders from somebody they don’t know.” she paused, her smiling face cocked gently in an attempt to catch his eyes. “Well, that and they don’t like taking orders from a dark mysterious oak that frowns all the time.”

He couldn’t hold on to his strict visage at those words, but more importantly, that gleaming eyes and smiling scarred face that looked up at him with the emeralds worthy of an angel. “Is that a fact?” he replied, his frown wiped away instantly and his worried face transformed into an uncertain smile.

“Yes, it is. Now, cheer up. There’s no need to make this matter more dire then it already is. Come on, the night is coming. Let us go below.” she offered gently, wrapping both of her tender arms around his own. He looked down at her, at this divinely sweet creature that looked at him with the innocence of a child and a wisdom of a sage, and nodded minutely. She was right, what’s the point in drawing an even darker shadow on an already dark matter? He would gather the sailors tomorrow morning, get acquainted with them, it’s good for morale, good for taking off the pressure. But tomorrow. Tonight was the time for cheering up. The two went to their quarters just as the sun painted the west bloody red and covered the sea surface with shimmering gold.

***

“So, we’re making our move tonight?” one of the two figures spoke, both encased in a deep shadow in the captain’s quarters at the back of the ship that overlooked the main deck. She ship was asleep, the sun nothing but a memory for nearly five hours now, and the only thing that ripped through the darkness was the squealing of the high masts and the flutter of the tensed sails. It was ghost ship, sailing through the sea of ink with a sole figure standing on the front bow, peering into the night with his hands crossed in front of him.

“Yeah, tonight. You gather up our men down below, but silently. Send a couple of them to take his little slave and send the rest to the main deck. We’ll need all the help we can get. You’ve seen him, he’s as strong as a herd of bulls.” Aslan whispered to his first in command, a tall bulky man with a missing eye and a head as smooth as an eggshell and twice as shiny.

“What about the ones he recruited? They could cause us some trouble.” Samir asked, joining his captain in a surveying look fired towards the swordsman that stood solely on the main deck.

“I arranged them to work all day, so they will all be sleeping tonight. There is not a whole lot of them, so you take them out while they are asleep. Don’t kill them though. Just tie them down on throw them down into the litter area. Once you’re done with that we’ll take out Letho.” the captain said, his hand restless already at the handle of his worn pistol. “Look at the fool. He doesn’t even know where is he going, he has no maps of this Nyd and still he goes on. He deserves to become fish food for such stupidity.”

“What about the little girl? She could be useful to raise the morale.” Samir said with a sly grin. He eyed the young teenager ever since they started this journey, and he certainly wouldn’t mind to get a piece of that before this night was done.

“Do with her as you wish. Just don’t make too much noise. Now go, the night grows short and I want him at the bottom of the sea before the sun rises.”

***

Myrhia slept with a blissful placidity of a child, her tiny figure crumpled up in a little ball made out of rough canvas sheets and her slender body dressed in a white semi-transparent silky nightgown. The accommodations were poor to say the least, compiled out of the battered old mattress that smelled like an old potato sack and a hanging petroleum lamp that perpetually swung with the motion of the boat. On top of that, the entire room carried the scent of moist decay, the bittersweet smell of something decomposing agonizingly slow. But still, she slept so soundly that she didn’t even notice that Letho left her side and went on the main deck. It was the sun that drained her, the sun and the dry salty heat that reigned on the main deck during the day, drawing out every last ounce of energy from her. And after such a day, falling asleep in the arms of her beloved was like a well-earned reward after a gruesomely long race.

That was the main reason why the red haired girl failed to hear the four men enter her room carefully. Their feet moved slowly, creeping through the darkness as if they were walking on nails. Only when their hands fell on her relaxed body did she notice something was wrong. But by then it was too late. She opened her eyes to a grinning face of a bald man that reeked of liquor and sweat, his meaty hand pinning her shoulders down. Her body jerked violently, instinctively trying to squirm out of the unwanted grasp, but even as she recoiled, three pairs of hands grabbed a hold of her limbs with a muffled laughter. Myrhia’s face went pale as if somebody drew life right out of her, leaving only her ghost to linger in the belly of the “Intrepid”. The drunken reek, the malevolent sick grin, the unseen hands intruding all over her body, trying to rip her gown apart... It was Scara Brae all over again. “Wake up! Letho, wake me up!” her mind tried to force itself out of the nightmare as she tried to scream the name of her lover. But Samir’s hand grabbed her face recklessly, pushing her head deeper into the mattress as his hand started to go towards the zipper on his pants.

Up on the main deck, nearly three dozen men gathered on the bow of the ship, surrounding the bulky man with their swords drawn and their ghostly visages sending out a clear message what their intentions were.

[Storm Veritas]

The initial words uttered on the main deck sang to him, true music to his ears. The top deck held a conversation that truly enticed Storm, and added a new dimension to this escape. It could be profitable, he learned to travel to this “Nyd” place, wherever it may be. The large, quiet soldier type didn’t say much, but the promises made to his shipmates were enticing to say the least. The uncomfortable stoop beneath the stairs suddenly became much more appealing, and if he could smuggle down some water to wash out his vomit-riddled wine keg, his stay in the hull would be far more tolerable than it previously seemed.

Laying down behind the trash, in a dark, foul corner wretched with mold, standing water and rat feces, Storm was out of visible sight and quite comfortable snuggling in for a brief siesta.

~*~

The nap was short lived; a bumbling at the stairs woke Storm in a jolt. His head snapped back violently, his long, scraggled hair whipping the stagnant water in a thin wave about his head. The bright eyes gleamed beneath his scruff-ridden face, and he witnessed an occurrence that would be completely unbelievable on any other day.

A series of bodies, bound at the wrists and feet, gagged at the mouth, were rolled carelessly down the stairs, clumping at the base of the large trash heap. It was a completely inhumane act, the bodies curling up defensively to protect themselves from the predictable horrible impact. They bounced and rolled in horrible form, fired down from the top deck with an outrageous abandon. Wide eyes glared out in horror from the men, stifled screams of agony murmuring across the seemingly abandoned trash basin as they grumbled incoherently.

Holy sh*t….

The clamoring stopped, and Storm approached immediately. The men on the bottom of the ship were bound with simple cloth ties, but their binds were far too tight to simply unknot. As he reached the first man, a fiftyish fellow with a scraggled white beard and drawn, sun-reddened face, Storm took careful note of the blood slowly seeping into the makeshift handcuffs formed for the old man.

Staring deep into the eyes of the prisoner, the read was simple and unmistakable; unadulterated fear. He lurched forward, pursing his lips together and whispering gently to the ear of the haggard old sailor.

”Today can be your lucky day, old man. But you’d best listen up and listen good. If I save you, you work for me. Turn against me and I’ll take that as reason to tear you to pieces. A lifedebt, as it would be, or I leave your sorry carcass down here to rot.

“Blink twice to agree to terms, once if you refuse.”

Storm elevated his right hand as he spoke, tendrils of powder blue electricity dancing from his fingertips. The intimidation show was highly unnecessary, as the desperate old man was blinking madly at the conclusion of the offer. Pulling forth the freshly sharpened steel dagger from his hip, he sawed frantically at the cloth, allowing the blade to sever the ties. A second flick of the wrist freed the man’s legs, allowing him to scramble drunkenly to his feet, pulling at his gag and gasping for air.

”Thank you sir! Please free my friends, and I assure you they will fight by your side.”

A quick nod, and Storm tossed the steel dagger to the old codger, an exasperated look on his face as he scrambled to catch his own bearings. He understood his task, and got to work quickly freeing the other captives. Pulling a second dagger from his boot, Storm also went to work freeing six or seven more men, leaving roughly a dozen soldiers at his beck and call. Pointing to the rear of the hull, his whispers were quiet yet stern, a leader hidden behind the façade of a scoundrel.

”There, quickly, in the first crate. Rakes, scythes… a few other assorted nasties. Grab something, arm yourself, and prepare for war. Be quiet about things, so that we may attack from a surprise position.”

Within an instant, a watchman came to the top of the stairs, and began to stumble down, a confused stagger as he attempted to assess the situation. His head whirred in disbelief as he witnessed the crude arms gathering, and his mouth opened to sound the vocal alarm. Before his lips could utter a mere syllable, his lungs were punctured from behind, a pitchfork thrust from behind him under the ribs. A twist of his torso and down came the mutineer, his mouth agape and body crumbling to the floor.

Pulling the trident from his prey, a strong and proud sailor called across in joy to his new leader, proclaiming the victory.

Yet the war had not began, Storm estimated, as he led the troops to charge up the stairs. He wouldn’t know what waited on the top deck, but his chance to stop the uprising afoot and force a legitimate position amongst the shipmates was well worth the risk.

It was a pirate’s work, but a stronger share of the bounty would be worth it.

[Letho]

The nights weren’t particularly kind towards Letho lately. The two colliding pasts that fought for domination in his head caused a maddening racket that only got amplified by the placidity of the cabin and the perpetual creaky swing of the lamp. The day was different. During the day he kept himself busy, made sure to keep himself busy by working on the top deck just to keep his mind off the reason of this journey. But when the lights went out and the night watch took over the main deck, the memory of two lives returned with a vengeance, relentlessly assaulting what little sanity was left in the man. He stopped trying to make sense of the whole deal nearly five days ago, stopped caring about time and dimensions and temporal distortions because solving them was as doable as solving a puzzle by chewing a tobacco leaf. He stopped trying because in the world there were two kind of people; the doers and the thinkers. Letho was the former.

But even the doers needed a clear head and the swordsman came to the main deck in search for one. He hoped that the sound of the splashing waves that struck the side of the ship combined with the gentle midnight wind and the blank sea of darkness would grant him this even in some small measure. But the quietness of the windy night refused to play favorites with Letho, treating the man just like any other, granting him an empty sheet of paper on which his thoughts could be extrapolated. A relaxing moment of silence and assessment. For the dark man the silence was deafening and the thoughts that were put on the paper came in a writing of a madman that wrote with both hands at the same time.

That was why the mutiny that was gathering behind his back came like the hand of a savior for the swordsman. He heard them gathering behind him, heard their muffled murmurs, whispered curses and contained laughter, the sound of blades being pulled out of the scabbards and even what sounded like a rifle being cocked. His lips curled into a cynical grin at their attempt to be silent that failed miserably; a deaf man could hear nearly three dozen pirates regardless of how silent they wanted to be.

“I see I’m not the only one who thought it was a nice night for a walk.” Letho spoke with his back still turned towards Aslan and his mutineers that recoiled sharply at the sound of his voice. But the surprise came not from the fact that he noticed them, but rather from the tone with which he spoke. It was the righteous fearless tone, the tone of a man that had an army behind him and wasn’t afraid to use it. Everything stopped on the deck of the “Intrepid”. Everything save a scrawny hand that pulled out a flintlock pistol and pointed it towards the rugged looking man that stood on the edge of the ship, dressed in a pair of worn pants and a sleeveless whitewashed linen shirt. The metallic click of the cocked gun was as loud as a thunder strike in the silence of the stalemate.

“You’ll be walking alright, laddy, walking right off my ship. But since I’m such a nice man...” Aslan continued in a jovial, nearly playful tone, allowing a disgusting unsightly smile on his face that Letho didn’t see (and was glad that he didn’t). “...I’m giving you a choice. You can walk away alive and take your chances with the sea or take your chances with my gun and my boys and walk away dead.” and at the sound of the word “dead” the sailors that now formed a half circle around Letho bellowed a horrid ominous laughter, clearly stating which of the two would they prefer. But their premature gloat ended the second the unarmed man half turned towards the crowd.

“We had a deal.” he said to the captain not as a discussable matter, but rather a statement made to establish the facts.

“That’s right. We had a deal.” a bitter emphasis placed on “had”. “But deals change, especially if you make them with an insane person. Go to Nyd? What, do you think I lost my mind to travel so far south for a thousand gold pieces?”. Truth was when Letho first approached Aslan there was a desire, however superficial, to actually go to Nyd. But the more the captain of the “Intrepid” thought about it, the more he started to think what in the world was he thinking when he said yes to something all the other captains said no. And that only brought up the side of the coin that he tried to keep away from sight together with the attitude that it brought with it. But now, when the chips were on the table and it was time to reveal the cards, he was once again nothing more then a pirate. “So, what’s it going to be?” he fired in the end with a decisive tone, lining up his gun with Letho’s head. The swordsman was no more fazed by the weapon then he was by the thirty men that stood around him with gleaming eyes and brandished weapons.

“I guess you don’t leave me much of a choice.” Letho shrugged his shoulders, his eyes surveying the crowd once more with a look a bit too calculating then the captain would have expected. It was the look of a prizefighter that measured up his opponent, noticing more in a second that some would in a lifetime. But even as this realization struck Aslan and his index finger itched to pull the trigger, the dark man took a step backwards, slipping into the embrace of the darkness that reigned around the ship. The mutinous crowd stared dumbfoldedly at the spot that the swordsman stood mere seconds ago. Nobody expected him to jump, Aslan (who still held his gun up as if expecting that Letho would rise from the darkness like a ghost that came to haunt him) included. Because Letho didn’t seem like the kind that would go down without a fight. In fact, Letho looked like the kind that would go down with so much fighting that even thirty men tipped the balance only weakly to Aslan’s favor.

“Smart lad.” the captain finally managed to speak, following his words with an uncertain smile. But soon enough it broke into a rough cackle that sounded like a rusty machine missing a handful of cogs and a can of oil. The sailors around him, encouraged by the raspy laughter of the captain, started to sheathe their weapons with a relieved look on their faces. Nobody really wanted to fight Letho, not after seeing him lift more with one hand then they could do with six.

“Uhm, captain...” one of the sailors spoke, his beardless young face the only one still clenching to the worried look just as tightly as his hand clenched to the falchion. “Not to rain on your parade, but there was no splash.” he said a bit more boldly. His words wiped the grin off the face of the old man, but by that time a loud sonic boom rippled through the calm night, a harbinger of the doom yet to come mesmerizing the captain and his troupe.

“CHECK THE...!” but even before he managed to finish the order to check the side of the ship, a loud sound of cracking wood silenced his shout with ease. Aslan knew that sound and the fact that it had no place here only silenced him even further; it was the sound of the outer hull breaking. “He... He’s breaking in! THE BASTARD IS BREAKING THE HULL!!!” the words of the captain were frantic now, he himself not believing what he was saying. The sailors around him panicked, some of them slowly stepping away from Aslan and deciding that cowardice is a better option right about not, while others, mostly those that were left standing by the retreating bunch, looked at their captain for advice. The old man had none. If he would give them the advice that swam through his head at that point, he would tell them to run for their lives. Because it seemed he awoke something that wouldn’t be put down easily.

The cracking of the wood stopped and once again the silence took over the main deck. It was the heavy silence of expectation, the kind that left a man frozen with countless thoughts of his own demise. The kind that regardless of the duration lasted a life age. The sound of snapping wood once again broke it, only this time the sound was instantaneous, almost like a gunshot passing through a pine plank, spreading the countless splinters like an uncanny rain. Only the “bullet” was the size of a man, thrice as bulky and with a profoundly angered look on his face, blasting through the floor and onto the main deck. Letho, or rather a unhealthily bulky figure imbued in a completely white shimmering aura that resembled the swordsman, landed in front of Aslan with a loud dull thud and a grin of a sadistic murderer. The eyes that once carried the rich color of lacquered wood stared at the old man with the white blankness of a blind man. And that was the detail that made the captain make his move. His hand reached for the pistol, yanking it away from his belt, but even as he did so the beast in front of him moved with blistering haste. It grabbed the weapon with what sounded like a muffled growl and once it released it all that was left from the pistol was a disfigured heap of iron and wood.

“We had a deal...” Letho spoke, staring down at the man as his aura shone around him like a beacon in the deathly dark night, enlightening the deck as if the moon was a whole lot more then a faint crescent somewhere far in the north, shyly announcing his presence. Aslan stumbled back in disbelief, his hand still holding the remnants of his pistol, his mouth opening up and coming up dry with words. The young lad with a beardless face, an obvious pretender on the position of the captain of the “Intrepid”, shouted the order for his captain.

“Kill him! Kill the bastard!!!”

[Storm Veritas]

They were a rambunctious bunch, a throng of men left for dead, and they had no semblance of order or pretense of loyalty. Storm knew this band of infuriated madmen would not take his orders. There were too many; they were too strong. His intimidation could work on any of them, and he was confident he could take any single one down, but together they were an impressive band. To lead them, he would have to join them.

It wouldn’t be too difficult. No stranger to battle, no particular predisposition for governance or law. Hell, he even looked the part. The days at sea had grown his normally smooth face into a soft black scruff, a short but thick beard, the face of a man. He was to become lawless, an anarchist leader, the crème de la crème amongst miscreants.

They burst from the stairway, an eruption of knives and assorted weaponry awaiting whatever may lie before them, there was little, aside from a rally down the stairs before him. Whatever lay in the next section of the hull, it was loud and boisterous and wild. The men down below brandished oil lanterns, and there was some sort of rally, a fight, perhaps. There wasn’t a single head from the coven below that turned to inspect the noise behind them. They were engrossed.

And totally vulnerable. If a leader is only effective from the front, then let my blade find the throat of the first of them.

He turned back to his gang of captives, not bothering to mask his voice. There could be no hesitation in this rush. Adrenaline was their best ally; the element of surprise could be easily sacrificed for momentum and bloodlust. A sneer twisted across his face, his eyes wide and glowing an eerie hue of silver. His voice was manic, and his words few.

“To the hull, leave no prisoners!”

There was a man at the bottom of the stairs, and he would never see it coming. With his scabbard in hand, he pumped it high in the air, with raucous cheer in celebration of the event before him. His long, grey beard was matted haphazardly across his stomach, and his salt-strewn leather garments made him look entirely ordinary.

Which couldn’t be true; he was the launchpoint.

Storm bound down the stairs in a single leap, his dagger drawn. The man turned at the last second, arms down and mouth agape. It was far too late for him. The serpentine shape of Veritas’ kriss dagger slid smoothly through his throat, instantly quieting him as the slick-haired stowaway landed in a resounding thump. A smear of blood through his grey beard, and the crimson stain began to dye the fatally wounded man’s chest and stomach. His eyes leering up in a maniacal squint, Storm took in the sight before him. A single, large man was mounted atop the frail redhead, his pants around his knees and a pathetic, furry based member primed to enter her.

Oh, f*ck no. What is this, some sort of Roman orgy?

Bedlam broke loose about him, as the rest of his followers flew down the stairs with a tremendous speed. It was a torrential wave, and the clash of irons was about him quickly. Barbaric, animalistic yells, grunts, and moans filled him as the released captives charged past their emancipator, locking horns quickly with the pirates. Storm found himself slinking, moving back, retreating to the stairs, where he would not be ambushed himself. He had started the uprising, but had no desire to die there.

It was chaos; the bloodshed was terrible. Men were falling quickly, bodies piling and arms flailing. The deaths came fast, and furiously in the enclosure. In the center of the room, the girl remained, pulling herself up, too scared to get moving. She was terrified in the spot, but not frozen. Her eyes were moving rapidly, seeking out some possible escape route.

I’m your Huckleberry…

He grabbed the first scabbard he could find, a bronze-handled, crude thing from one of the felled pirates. He moved quickly, a low sprint, staying away from the small standoffs that remained. There were still well over a dozen people fighting, and the room was still horribly dangerous. Storm moved to her, taking her by the hand, a soft, smooth extension that grabbed his attention. Her soft eyes were striking, but they gazed upon Veritas with fear and distrust. His smooth, tactful diplomacy served him well.

“If you want to live, you’re gonna have to shake that ass. Let’s roll.”

She sighed, upset and fearful and frustrated, but moved with him. He had taken no more than four steps before a harrowing shriek came from behind him. She was grabbed by one of the spiteful buccaneers, a captive with a blade to her throat. Storm turned with fury, his eyes lighting up once more and fingertips buzzing with an electric heat. The pirate spoke, his three remaining yellow teeth ludicrous beneath a scraggled, salt-and pepper beard.

“Should ye want to leave, matey, you’d best give the missus to me.”

There was no hesitation, no discussion, no negotiation. Storm raised his right hand slowly, showing no weapon, and emanating an expressionless face. A single, thick rivulet of powder blue sparked from his forefinger, dancing rapidly at the kidnapper, a soft sizzle accompanying its travel. The man snapped back, lifeless, his shock-stricken body hitting the ground with a dull thud.

As if a record stopped playing, the fighting ceased, the previous captives largely overwhelming the bandit force. Hands were in the air, a quick demonstration of surrender. Storm smiled as he led the women to the stairs once more, an offer to take her hand promptly denied. His sneer to the crewmates he fought with was fast and unmistakable.

“No prisoners today.”

He would reach the stairs safely, a disturbed damsel in tow. The recently freed would join them soon enough, a small but defiant tribe. The salt air called to them, as the cuprous odors of blood and death were far from appetizing behind them.

[Letho]

In the Righteous Might form whose power Letho called upon, the world that the pearly white eyes gazed angrily at shifted to one of ghosts and shimmering auras. Scared men of flesh and bone that were uncertain whether they should storm this mesmerizing character that sprung out of the floor or turn around and mindlessly run for their life until they would reach the stern and they had nowhere to run anymore were nothing but a heap of shapes and figures for the man. Only their color differentiated them, ranging from anemic sickening yellow of those who retreated to the fiery dark color of blood of those whose minds were still enraged and whose hands still held the weapons with a profound intention to rid themselves of the big-strong-and-ugly.

So it was their intention that ranked them for Letho, lining them up for the execution that stood cocked, locked and ready to rock in the two fists that clenched at his sides. The eager and the cocky would come first as they always do, charging forward in order to elevate their rank amongst their comrades. Only tonight the only thing they would find was death, cold and merciless and unforgiving, inflicting the same final judgment to them as it would to the yellowbellies that ran for the life they were about to lose all the same.

Letho didn’t know if he could take them all on. He maybe held the power of thirty men in his hands, but unlike the restless crowd around him, he didn’t have thirty blades to back that power with. He didn’t even have one, and one blade was all that it took, a jab in the back, an unforeseen stab from the blindside that sunk below the ribs and all the strength in the world was as futile as a whisper in the midst of a raging storm. But no such thought drifted through his mind as he measured up the crowd around because Letho was a doer. Strike first, strike later, strike some more and then ponder about the odds that were stacked against you if you get the chance. It was a patented approach that kept the swordsman alive for years now. No reason for changing the horse that was winning the race.

The first one that came seeking for the very thing that awaits all men at the end of their road was the youngish lad that pulsated with vibrant reddish aura. But even as Letho wanted to make a move that would quite possibly end up in a disfigured face of a dead youth and a bloody smear on his fist, an arrow flashed from out of nowhere, impaling itself through the neck of the man. The young lad fell to his knees, his hand desperately reaching for the object that made his throat gurgle and his eyes bulge in disbelief. The enraged swordsman didn’t even look at him. Instead he traced the trajectory of the arrow back to its origin only to find an aura significantly different from the others. It was bright gray, distinguishing itself from the rest by the nearly white glow. And nearly white was good, because nearly white meant a possible ally, or at least somebody who, unlike the merry armed-to-the-teeth bunch, wouldn’t go at Letho’s throat. In the current environment a possible ally was a sight for sore eyes.

Using this moment of assessment that made the crowd stare at the figure of their bleeding would-be leader that now lay crumpled on the floor, Letho unleashed all the bedlam he had in store. The plan was crude and simple, the kind that left a great big hole between the beginning and the end that was usually filled with a whole lot of improvisation or a bitter failure. The beginning was to attack and throw as much of them overboard. The desirable end was he staying alive. Letho hoped his battle improvisation would fill the space in between. His fist came straight at the guy in front of him, catching the man by surprise and nearly caving in his chest. Still, the sheer power behind the punch sent his ribs crunching and stabbing themselves into his lungs as he slid backwards through the crowd, gasping for air like a fish thrown on a hot harbor stone dock.

But by the time his back struck the waist high wooden fence at the edge of the ship, both the unarmed swordsman and the throng of blood-thirsty pirates were on the move. They managed to close a circle around the man, but Letho knew better then to stay in such a tactical disadvantage. Again he moved, this time his bulk rifled through the mass like a wild boar, regardless of the injury it might pick on the way through the forest of swords, fists and rum-stinking sailors. He passed through them like a plow, knocking a handful of them down, trampling down a squealing old man whose old bones gave in to the power of the muscled legs and finally tackling a fleeing sailor, propelling him into the darkness. With a splash that confirmed the body count was plus one, Letho ended up with his back against the fence but the sailors reformed immediately, ganging up on the man almost instantly. This was no bar fight. These men knew each other and with each one that fell, the others were further instigated to fight more hardy. So instead of intimidation, the dark man needed a real weapon. His eyes moved with vehemence and haste, searching for something that might be usable, a pole, a large plank, anything that could be used for crowd control. His eyes fell on the massive chain that stood neatly in a round pile with an anchor in the middle.

“Even better...” he allowed a thought and a smirk as he wrapped his hands around the chain. The sailors decided not to give him the chance to put his plan into action, but even as the first three of them came within range to slice their blades at the man, three arrows, as if guided by some unseen force, mowed them down. A smirk appeared on Letho’s face. It was good to have an ally in dire times such as these, even if he (or she) was a mysterious figure hidden in the shadows. His arms moved sideways and the chain followed the motion with a slight delay, the massive makeshift flail sweeping through the crowd like a scythe through wild grass. Some were thrown off the deck by the swing. Some met their end at the spikes of the heavy iron anchor that swooshed through the air with a loud dull noise. Others managed to duck in time with a look in their eyes that wasn’t too keen on allowing Letho to do that again.

He maybe had the advantage of range, but they still needed just one strike to put a dent into the man. Once they manage to do that, once they tear one of his legs underneath him and wound his invincibility, they would simply have to lean onto him until he breaks. Instead of falchions and sabers, now knives and throwing daggers appeared in their hands. He could beat the crap out of them, the proof laid all around their feet, but now they were going to put him to the test of dodging. The test Letho was never too keen on taking. Being a bludgeoner never reflected well on finesse.

[Storm Veritas]

His own brigade of hodgepodge warriors had overwhelmed the forces under the cabin deck, and he smiled as he made his way up the stairs. Storm had slung the sexy redhead over his shoulder, and with her backside facing skyward and her arms dangling below, he happily clung to her hamstrings, taken aback with the soft, smooth skin. No romance could be had in the moment, however, as there was clearly some sort of problem afoot. Here on the open seas, stealth was a premium, and the low clangs and clashes from the end of the mighty Intrepid carried through the air easily and effortlessly. It was as if the battle were at his very feet, although it rang out from many yards ahead.

Another chance to strike and seize power; another chance to impress. F*cking beautiful; another set of men to win over.

He motioned to the men under the deck, a brave brigade that had already faced down death. Their numbers were scanter now, many of them injured or too fatigued to continue. Their clothes were sprayed with crimson streaks and stains, and long faces extended further still with dramatic, drooping beards. Arms hung low from tired shoulders, and the heads loomed up, many eyes laying on their leader, Veritas. Knowing that they had fought bravely, many died, and none wished to continue, he dragged forth his greatest bravado to lead them forth. The insanity of his ideas pained him to even mention.

”Gentlemen, you have fought bravely today, and earned your freedom. Yet there is more to be done. One more battle to fight.”

There were few that took kindly to such words. It was easy for them to listen to the leader speak, as his fighting had been minimal.

You can’t lead from the back...

“So follow me to war, and I shall show you freedom! I shall show you Power!”

At this a mild rush from the audience in the underbelly, and Storm laid the maiden down softly, handing her his secondary dagger. Leaving the scarlet haired beauty, he would charge the deck. By the time he had planted her and started his assault, some of his own buccaneers had joined the effort. They were with him.

He rushed forward, analyzing a very simple scene. One titanic ivory beast stood, a looming, hulking thing, against many. Yet the number of men standing and waiting to attack the cornered swordsmen was not much more than the number of men toppled about the ground around him. The eyes of the aura casting creature… they were the eyes of the captain.

A better ally to have than a few half-assed sailors.

It wasn’t a long run to the battle, and Storm ran forward with his dagger drawn. It was a twisted, curved thing, the emblem of the Brotherhood prominent upon the knife. He held it aloft before him, wrapped taut in his right hand, as the extremity began to flicker and glow. With a sneer, he charged, his hand sizzling, a powdery glow rain pouring forth from the weapon like a welder’s torch. The soft smell of ozone filled his lungs as the first of the mutineers turned to him.

You’ve gone and f*cked with the wrong bull today.

The doe-eyed pirate seemed barely old enough to sail; his frame still thin and weak. A long scabbard looked real enough, and the tall, awkward youth held the blade behind him, ready to make a hardy swing and take down this insolent refugee. His blue beacons widened further, recognizing the glow about Storm’s right hand was altogether unnatural. He tried to move, but it was too late. A single, twisting arc spun through the air, hitting the lad in the chest and sending him catapulting back into another one of them. His head fell, the arms dropping and sword falling, devoid of consciousness as a thick stream of black smoke quickly began to billow from his sternum’s fresh wound.

It wouldn’t stop Storm; the surprising magical attack had caught everyone by surprise. He ran headlong into the throng of attackers, dagger bared and ready to kill. By his side, a half dozen other of the newly freed, men charging forth to defend their leader. He was a man they believed in, a man they would die for, as his bravery had stunned them all.

And though it would have stunned Veritas on an ordinary day, this was certainly no ordinary day.

[Letho]

Hope for the best but expect the worst. That was the rule. In battles there were always variables, flaky unforeseeable things that could tip the scale one way of the other. And if there was one thing that Letho could outline as the most important lesson all his fighting taught him, it was that you should never count on the variables. The mysterious ally that reached for another arrow in the thick shadow of the third mast was a variable. The aim of tipsy mutineers was a variable. Luck that he would certainly need if he were to emerge victorious out of this battle was a variable. They could all make him or break him. In many ways they were like the wind that comes as go as it pleases, spreading your wings and lifting you at one moment only to shift around and make you piss right into your face. It was all about how much you are willing to put in the center of the table, how much are you willing to wager and risk in order to win. And right now Letho was down to a handful of chips, holding the weakest winning hand.

But on certain occasions it’s neither the variables nor the coherent facts that won the day. In those fate-shaping moments extraordinary events, factors unaccounted for, were the very thing that saved the day. And this was one of those moments.

A band of men charged from the underbelly of the ship, storming the main deck like a cohort as they blindsided the mutineers. They were a sorry bunch, their auras weak and frail, almost ghostlike, shimmering in a bleak azure hue. But they charged all the same, followed the man that darted forward like a bat out of hell, holding a curved dagger in one hand and the power of nature itself in the other. The unlikely lightning flashed from his fingertips, following the zigzag chaotic path through mid air that led to the closest of the remaining sailors. The flashy fireworks shocked the man to death and Letho allowed a smirk. Myrhia would be impressed by these magics for certain.

And then it hits like a cold shower, passing down his spine and spreading dread that nearly made him shiver. Myrhia. In this entire maelstrom filled with clashing blades and shattered bones his aggravated mind forgot about the frail redhead that slept down below. For all he knew she was dead already. But then again, these men came from down below. Perhaps...

But perhaps was a variable and it was the one that he was about to straighten out. What ifs were the games for the foolish. Dead or alive, it wouldn’t matter if he ends up impaled on a random sword in the mess that surrounded him. He had to win this battle first and hope for the best, hope that his recklessness hasn’t cost him the most valuable thing he ever had. Using the distraction (because that was pretty much what these men, save for their leader, were good for in this situation), the dark man moved again. His massive hands tugged on the anchor again, sending it whooshing through the air, only this time, once the uncanny weapon reached the halfway of its fateful flight, Letho let go of the chain. The heavy iron anchor darted through the air, taking two burly men with it as it separated the remaining men in two halves before falling overboard on the other side of the ship. With this new “fence” he successfully spread the mutineers to the ones focused on the new force of half-a-dozen and the one that still yearned to spill Letho’s guts.

A cutlass was certainly not the swordsman’s most favored weapon. It lacked range and weight, the armguard restricted the maneuverability and not to mention that it severely missed the perfect grace of a straight blade. But in the graveyard below his feet through which a river of blood coursed, a curved steel blade was the best he could conjure. Prying the blade from the lifeless fingers of a severed limb, Letho moved in for the kill. He had to strike fast, make every move count and take them down as soon as possible. Surprise was paramount while outnumbered, surprise and taking your shots. A landmass of muscles and flesh imbued by an ivory aura charging at some ten men was surprising enough. And taking his shots? That was the very thing his hands were taught ever since his legs found out how to keep the rest of the body up and standing.

The first two men barely managed to launch a sloppy jab at the man, but the parry was so powerful it bounced their blades right out of their hands. They had a fraction of a second to assess their current situation. And then they bodies collapsed to the deck, headless and twitching as their bulged eyes stared at the spinning world, but not seeing a damn thing. The third man was already at Letho’s side, firing his blade in a thrust with a heavily overextended arm. The swordsman moved his torso sideways just enough for the blade to tear through his shirt instead of his skin which made the man to stumble forwards unintentionally. The blue-eyed sailor managed to catch a glance of the pearly white eyes. They announced it was the last thing he would ever see, and Letho’s fist confirmed that fact, trashing the face of the hardy sailor with unnerving ease.

The next one aimed high, bellowing a shout as his saber came with a distinct intention to decapitate the dark man. A swift measured duck allowed Letho to bury his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him overboard. This time three came at the same time and they caught the swordsman with his pants down. But even as the calculated, battle-hardy mind decided to take the least dangerous hit and block the remaining two, high pitched swish passed inches away from his ears and even as the sound registered in his mind, two of the three fell down with arrows sticking out of their forehead. Severely lacking time to thank the benefactor that lurked in the shadows, Letho responded by taking the unlikely gift and parrying the one remaining blade upwards before bringing his falchion down to the shoulder of his foe. The blade sliced through tendon and bone alike, stopping only when it was well within the ribcage and the crimson liquid bathed the face of the swordsman.

With another unseen projectile downing a weary looking baldy with a two-day beard and a missing eye, only one mutineer was standing against the swordsman. He was a young lad, maybe only a handful of days over twenty, with his skin still only barely touched by the sunburns and salty air. He was somebody’s son, somebody’s brother, maybe even had a young lass waiting for his return from the sea, maybe just fell into some bad company that shoved a sword into his hands and told him the cliché you’re either with us or against us.

“Please... I give up.” he cried at the swordsman, throwing his blade away and reluctantly stepping backwards, away from the demon that decimated their numbers as if they were cornstalks. “Don’t kill me... I didn’t...” but even as he wanted to continue the meaty hand grabbed him by the neck and lifted him effortlessly, like a cat that just took a dump in the corner of the room. Sure, he was somebody’s son, somebody’s brother, had a pretty little lass waiting for him back in Corone. Sure, he gave up. But just as sure was a fact that he would ride the wagon all the way, joining in the feast at the end of the day, celebrating the death that seemed highly unlikely now, and then heading down below to take his turn at the young red haired girl that, by the time his turn came up, would be no more alive then a two-day corpse. “M... Mercy...” he squeezed through his windpipe in a faint raspy voice. Letho smashed his face against the main mast with such vehemence that the entire ship shook. He was barking at the wrong tree. Myrhia was the merciful one and she wasn't around.

[Storm Veritas]

His own bravery had surprised him, and Storm felt a swell of pride as he took down a few of the sailors which had risen up against this monstrosity before him. The sight that followed, however was something that he had never seen before; the likes of which he would never begin to fathom. The looming, beastly swordsman quickly dispatched nearly a dozen men, charging headlong and toppling heads, slicing, dicing, spinning and killing in a frenzy unmatched before the eyes of the wiry Veritas. In the end, there was one boy left, a pitiful young man who pleaded for mercy, a cry that would fall on deaf ears. The vicious swordsmen, previously outnumbered, fired the lad into the protective rim that lined the deck. The crash was thunderous, the bang silencing the masses.

Holy sweet mother of God. What the f*ck have I gotten myself into?

There was really no questioning the options that lay before Storm. Looking about, his fellow brigands had lay down their swords, many sitting and clutching at their chests, many others clasping hands and hugging each other in joy. It was a surreal moment, the celebration of victory, the lamentation of losses. Those that had fallen would be grieved, but first was the time for rest and relief. First was the time for joy.

They had aligned themselves with this savage swordsman, and their looming gazes carried an unmistakable wave of respect. He had earned it; the respect for the man matched only by fear, for his rush to judgment upon the lad previously scuttled was blind and horrible. How had he known if the boy was one of the mutineers or one of the previously enslaved? How could they know if he would not dispatch them all with the same haste and fury?

A great distancing was made between the crowd and the single conquering hero, the morphed captain. Storm knew that no such option was available; he had no such luxury. As a leader for this brief resistance, he was now the one to make peace with this considerable foe. Any confusion with the alignment of this rabble group would be suicide; while Storm had grown bold he was far from foolish. Thrusting his blade to its rightful home at his hip, his hands raised slowly, fingers open and visible at shoulder level. A smile was on his face as his chest heaved and came in short breaths; the fatigued warrior made no mistake of his non-violent intentions. His breath came in intermittent huffs, a resigned yet happy tone.

“Wow… It appears that we… we serve a good central cause. My name… my name is Storm Veritas. Together with this… this terrific band of brave warriors… we freed ourselves and came to the top deck. I do not know you, and do not expect blind trust, but…

“…But I tell you now we have fought with, and not against you.”

It was simple, a quick disclosure of fact, and Storm was satisfied with it. This man would not notice that Storm was not one of the hired hands, and the punishment he may have faced for being a stowaway was of little recourse anyway. This man, this captain, was one that he had no desire to upset. The final piece of news was the piece that he knew this titan would be most interested in. By the time he uttered it, his composure was largely regained, his hips returned to a more comfortable position on his hips.

“Also, the woman I believe you associate yourself with was down below. When we rushed the underbelly, she was on the brink of being… well… compromised.

“Fortunately, we were a bit too quick for those bastards. These sailors here, they are fine men. They pushed ahead into combat and kicked the sh*t out of those scoundrels, while I crept up and grabbed your lady. She’s back by the stairs, safely on deck, armed and alone and scared. I suppose there will be time for niceties later; I suppose you would probably have more important affairs to attend to.”

Smiling, he hoped that there was some shred of compassion and love within the incredible, frightening warrior. For were the man not to accept this olive branch, Storm would soon be swimming with sharks.

…or worse.