A Brother No More. ((Solo.))

[Scars]

It was about four bells after midnight that Ferael woke from his slumber. His eyes snapped open to peer into total darkness, though he had collapsed upon the straw mattress fully dressed, and needed only to find his boots and slip them onto his feet before standing. He swayed for a second or two, and then placed his index fingers on his eyes and rubbed them a few times.

Finally feeling more awake than asleep, the pirate focused. Something had woken him. It took him some seconds to adjust to his conscious state, and when he did, he finally understood why he had roused so quickly. Noise - everywhere. Over the constant hissing of midnight tides Ferael could hear the slamming of doors and the nearby voices of The Fable’s crew. A little further distant, and harder to hear, were louder calls, and… screams? He would take no risks. Ferael quickly ventured out into the corridor.

The padding of close, reverberating footfalls filled his ears, yet the only light came from an inch-wide opening in the door that lead from the deck. Ferael’s cabin was one of the furthest from that door, and so he guessed anyone down the corridor was probably in his path. He began walking, and only after he had covered half of the ground between his cabin and the stairs did he hear anything more in close proximity. A door closed a short way behind him, and Ferael turned. Somebody approached, and only when they closed to around four paces from him did they speak.

“We’re searchin’ the wrong bloody places, Charlie. The loot is locked up somewhere else. All these spineless sailors keep with ‘em is clothes and worthless possessions, I says. Bloody worthless. And there ain’t no throats to cut down ‘ere. Get back. Get moving, you brainless fool.”

By the time he had finished speaking, there was only a pace between them. Ferael threw a fist, and the only sound to follow was a thump as the body fell to the ground.

He turned and ran, but stopped when he reached the door. Peering through the gap in the doorway, Ferael could make out the bodies that moved around the deck, and they did not carry themselves like sailors. He knew who they were. He knew his own kind. And he could see the sails of a parallel ship as they fluttered in the night breeze, catching the moonlight and throwing it this way and that. He could see the simple rope bridges that had been used to make the crossing, and the silhouetted heads of figured that remained upon the pirate vessel.

He would not risk trying to convince those who had sacked The Fable that he was one of them. He ran back down the stairs; down to where a body lay unconscious upon the floor, and he searched it for a weapon. When Ferael stood back up, he held an unsheathed knife in his hand. He had no time to search for anything larger or more practical. He returned to the door, and pushed it open slowly.

[Scars]

The lower deck was not as crowded as he had first estimated. There were six, maybe seven men, and they all seemed preoccupied with carrying something or finding something to carry. He slipped out and edged along the wall, thanking the Lord of the Seas that the torches above his head had been extinguished. He moved sideways until he came to stand next to the door to the right of that he had come from, yet he did not enter it immediately.

Instead he listened closely to the voices that came from… inside? No. They came from the upper deck. He could not walk out and view what was happening. Still, he could hear most things clearly.

A shriek, followed by a thud that Ferael knew was a body hitting the deck, and then the sound of sickening laughter. He ground his teeth together. They were being slaughtered. A gruff voice called ‘next’ on the deck above.

He knew the drill. They would be lined up and asked one by one whether they wished to die or adopt a life of piracy, and they would, on almost every occasion, choose to die. He had men upon that deck that he respected for their acceptance of his profession and their kindness towards him as strangers, and now they were learning how sick a life he had really lead, and how sick a man he probably was. Still, his was a crew that never took too kindly to slaughter. They would toss the sailors overboard, or sell them on as slaves. Ferael bit his lip at that thought. Maybe they would have been better off dead.

Whatever happened, he had to try to repay his debts. He pulled the door open, and slipped into the empty tavern… only to find four fierce sets of eyes and one singular one turn his way. For what seemed like a minute, they stood there, all unsure of the situation. Torch flames flickered, causing shadows to dance as each man stood in waiting. They knew he was not one of theirs. They knew that he had to die.

Two closed from the right, and two from the left, weaving between tables that were covered in a liquid that was not alcohol – a thick, red fluid – and kicking and tossing chairs from their path. The last of the five had just emerged from the door that Ferael aimed to enter, and he simply waited, for there was no way out but onto the deck, where his shipmates would tear the sailor limb from limb. He smiled a golden grin.

Ferael weighed his chances in combat. They weren’t good.

He sprang forward on quick feet, the adrenaline rush nearly causing him pain, for his muscles were truly out of practice. Those closing on him adjusted their route, and as the first came to swing his scimitar at Ferael’s head, the pirate dived forwards and into a roll. A second blade chopped down behind him as he moved, narrowly missing his feet as he went over and onto his back, rolling back up to a crouch and then falling onto hands and knees. He crawled forward, to the cover of the nearest table, and there he glanced behind him before continuing his crawl to the cover of a second table.

They did not hesitate to approach, weapons flailing wildly as they growled and cursed among themselves. Ferael turned as he reached the second table. They could not touch him if they could not approach. He took the closet leg in his left hand and rose to one knee, and then turned his body as quickly as he could, gripping a second leg with his right hand as he did so. Upon turning, he released the table from his grip and let it fly. Sure enough, they hesitated then, but it simply flew between them. The four sea robbers continued their advance, and Ferael rose to his feet and ran again. Only one stood in his way.

Arms dragging at his sides, he collected a chair with every few strides and launched it in front of him. The one in his path crumbled beneath a barrage of flying furniture, his arms held over his face in an effort to protect himself. As Ferael emerged into open space, he took the last two chairs and slammed them against the pirate’s sides before pushing past him and through the door. He ran the corridor, his breathing rapid and uncomfortable, until he reached the fifth door along. Inside, he found salvation in steel. Knifes lay on a crate next to the doorway, and he collected one in each gloved hand.

[Scars]

The first to follow through the tavern door had covered half the distance of the corridor before Ferael emerged from the storeroom. The first knife hit hilt first, bouncing from his thigh and landing point down in the floorboards. The second ricocheted on the pirate’s skull as it flew over him. Ferael held another two knives, and the first was enough. It buried itself deep into the pirate’s belly, nesting between two lower ribs and stabbing at his stomach with every movement. He fell to the ground, and did not rise again. Still, there were three to follow, though they had not emerged from the tavern. It was only when he found what he sought that he heard their savage barking, like wild dogs after a fox that just appeared so much smarter.

He had found a weapon of the midnight elves; shuriken - throwing stars that would not deflect and were easy to control, unlike knives. He held them in a leather belt that hung at his side; three already in his other hand. He tossed them at once. The first buried itself just above the right elbow, into the bicep, and the second just under the left collarbone. The pirates head dropped as he fell, and the third shuriken wedged itself into the top of his skull. He dropped to his knees, but was quickly pushed aside by the third of the brigands. He fell in a similar manner, leaving only one howling jackal running headlong into danger. Yet he would not fall.

He came into melee range with two steel stars buried into his flesh; one piercing his right lung and the other a little higher up. At least two more had nicked at his skin as they flew past, and Ferael was almost too unnerved to defend himself. The cutlass came down over his head, and he tossed himself against one wall to avoid it, dropping the belt and throwing a wild right hand that caught the remaining pirate in the side of the head. He stumbled to the opposite wall, his head rebounding against it before he came back again to stand before Ferael. A knee in the chest, followed by a well aimed uppercut sent the dazed man sprawling, and he tripped over the nearest of his fallen kin.

Ferael returned to the armory and swiped the nearest sword – a simple steel scimitar – and ventured back into the corridor. There, he stopped. He needed some form of guarantee – something with which he could buy his life should something go wrong. He fumbled his pockets, and felt the pouch that he had stolen earlier that day, its contents probably enough to coax the sea robbers into letting him live. He skipped over the bodies as he returned towards the deck.

[Scars]

Outside, it seemed little had changed. He could still hear the laughter of the invading pirates, and every now and again the thump of a body against the deck. It sickened Ferael, and for the first time he could see the poison in his blood. He was witnessing his own actions from a different point of view, and they were little short of grotesque. How had he gone on so blindly for so long? For the first time, he thanked the Lord of the Seas that he had been left to die, for it was an act of mercy upon his soul. Better still that he should learn of his past mistakes and be given the chance to correct his ways.

Ferael edged along the wall towards the starboard side of the ship, but took only one step before a door opened behind him. A figure emerged from the centre door, and Ferael turned.

“Charlie,” he whispered.

The pirate looked Ferael’s way. “Aye. Who’s ‘at?” A scimitar sliced at his throat, and he fell gargling to the deck. The noise on the deck above was enough to drown out the sound, and none of those in his line of vision turned his way.

Ferael passed the stairs in a stoop, and when he came to the side of the ship, he climbed over it and crouched down, angling his knees one way. Weapon and banister both held in one hand, Ferael began moving up the steep slope of the side of the ship, his head ducked behind the rail to keep him from sight. He managed to do this until he was positioned at the very stern, every body facing the opposite way. He climbed back over as silently as he could.

And he heard a voice that he would recognize over every other on that ship - Logs.

He could not control the battle cry that sounded from his soul as he charged forward, barging his enemies from his path as they turned. He finally came to the one who held a sword high above his head, and sliced horizontally for the spine. The executioner turned, already bringing his cutlass down in a diagonal slash that reached Ferael’s skin and drew a line down his left side. He stumbled and span anti-clockwise, falling to his knees after one rotation, his weapon clattering beside him.

Something stole the executioner’s attention when he brought his sword up to finish the reckless one’s life, and Ferael took a quick glance through watering eyes to see the racing javelin of fire that impaled his belly and threw him backwards and over the stern, out into deep water. Ferael heard a singular voice on the deck below, but he could not stand. Next to him, Logs knelt with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed.

Another burning spear passed over Ferael’s head, and it looked as if the weapon was made purely of flames, with no material shape to mould itself around. He heard agonized shouts behind him, and brought himself to one knee. It became obvious then what was happening.

A single figure commanded the lower deck, those who had inhospitably occupied it now fallen or nowhere to be seen. That figure wrought havoc with a staff of fire, unleashing magical intensity wherever he saw fit. And though it seemed the power he wielded was intense, Ferael had never seen such control over the elements. Lines of magical rage flew this way and that as the invading pirates poured down the stairs on each side to confront the challenger like termites to a probing branch. Arrows of fire tore the air, taking bandits in twos and threes like kebab meat and casting them overboard. For a few minutes chaos engulfed The Fable, and the only sounds to accompany it were the blend of anguished and challenging cries of the pirates, and the replies of Captain Arveus Grenadine, with words and with fury.

[Scars]

The victor was clear. The captain of The Fable stood only slightly exhausted upon the ship’s deck, his head held high and surveying the storm he had unleashed, and only a few thieves still writhed like grounded fish on the wooden floor. The fire that engulfed the magical cane died down, and it became apparent in that darkness that areas of the ship had caught aflame. Buckets of water were used to douse the burning wood, and every still body was tossed overboard, some with ceremony and others without. By morning the ship appeared normal, though it was apparent that the air had been tainted with the sorrow of loss. A crew missing members dwelled with tired, aching eyes. Ferael sat alone upon the stern as the sun rose behind him, looking out over the water as waves rolled in their wake. Many of the ship’s crew had crossed to the pirate vessel and taken it as their own. It had been christened The Truth, and the two sailed as sisters on the morning sea.

The day drifted as silently as the waves that carried the two ships, conversation breaking that sullen quiet infrequently, the tone kept low. They had lost eight crew members in the attack, and to each man aboard The Fable those lives belonged to an adopted family that was as strong as any bloodline. Ferael well knew that those one chose to spend their life with soon became brothers and sisters, and he had been severed from his own as these men had from their departed. In that aspect, he felt akin to those who, in reality, despised his very being. He could not even muster a smirk at such bitter irony, for it made him feel dirty; corrupt. What magnified that guilt was that he could not gather the strength to announce his true self to those who had placed trust in him. He dared not approach Logs, for fear of rejection or worse.

Two bells later The Fable began to slow, and then came to a halt upon Corone’s waters. It was another bell before the pirate was approached, and he could not turn his head, for shameful tears had gathered and run the creases of his weathered face.

“We’re docked,” Arveus announced from behind him. “We’ll be making repairs to her. We won’t be leaving for five days or more.”

Ferael nodded his head in reply. He stood, turning and climbing over the wooden railing. He could feel the captain’s eyes upon him, when he glanced up, Arveus Grenadine’s expression almost hinted at sympathy. Ferael dropped his head again, and made his way slowly past the captain. He stopped, then, ten paces from where Arveus stood surveying the ocean.

“Thank you,” Ferael said, and his words were filled with emotion.

“Aye,” Arveus replied, and sighed before silence engulfed the two. “You know,” he said finally, “I’ve known all along – about your profession, that is.”

Ferael bit his lip, and then risked a glanced behind him. Arveus still watched the horizon. “Sorry,” he said, and any man would have believed it.

“Aye,” came the reply, again. “But you showed decency where many men would display only cowardice. You saved a man’s life, and for that I chose to refrain from judging you as I would any other brigand. Take the scimitar, and the jewellery you took. You are free now… what did they call you? Ah, yes. Scars.”

“Thank you,” Ferael repeated. “Farewell.”

“Aye.”

Though he had many left to say in thanks, Ferael left The Fable without another word.

[Scars]

It was mid afternoon, and the sun had begun its crawling descent towards the flat horizon, every now and again ducking behind thin clouds as they drifted on a gentle breeze. Renovation to The Fable had begun almost immediately, those who were best trained in such endeavors lifting tools to begin restoration upon those parts of the ship that had suffered damage through fire. Others had accompanied the crew that sailed The Truth, and they had arranged to rendezvous with each other near the port town of Jadet on the south coast. Those who knew little of carpentry had either taken up other chores upon the ship or chosen to spend time alone. The remaining ten or so men stood upon the beach by the far cliff side, where one other worked with a chisel against the rock.

Ferael had chosen to stay, though only to wait for the next morning. He had been told by one of the crew members that the nearest town laid about a day’s travel North West, and he did not know the land well enough to feel confident traveling at night, or camping alone when the dangers were new to him. He still chose to distance himself, and had perched upon a boulder to one side of the bay in which they had anchored. He surveyed the tides, which were now lapping at the bottom of the rock. Stones crunched beneath heavy boots behind him, and a voice followed.

“I ‘ave to thank you,” Logs said. “I don’t care what kind o’ life you lead until now, see. You saved my life, an’ don’t deny it. You got good in you.” The whispers of waves filled the silence that followed.

“I can’t do it any more,” Ferael declared. “I can’t live that life any more. I saw truth last night, and I ‘ate myself fer doin’ what I’ve done with my life.” He paused, taking a deep breath of salty air. “I’m no thief no longer. Just…” He sighed.

“I brought you some stuff that you might need, see - a burlap sack for holdin’ stuff, and a knife. I guess you can use that fer a lot o’ things, really. Anyways, I figured you’ll need somethin’ to eat, so I got some fruit n’ put it in the sack. I’ll leave ‘em here for ya.” Logs placed the items on the boulder, positioning them so they did not slide off.

“Thanks, Logs,” Ferael said, though he did not look behind him.

“I got to help on the ship, so… I guess I might see you one day. Take care, brother.”

“Aye,” Ferael replied, as Logs turned and made his way back across the beach, his grinding footfalls slowly fading to nothing. “You too.”

Ferael sat upon that rock as the tide surrounded him and then retreated; until night fall, when his head slowly fell to one side and he slept.

He awoke early - earlier than any who'd slept upon The Fable - and gathered his possessions. One final glance at the ship that had rescued him and cleansed him of his sins, and the vagabond went upon his way, the sun slowly rising to give life to the world that lay before him.

[Scars]

((Spoils: Clothing, the weapons, the bag, the jewellery and the fruit. He started with nothing.))

[Sword-for-Hire]

Well, this was a truly enjoyable thread. Took me all of a couple hours to read, but I’ve been away all day, so just walked in and I am ready to give you the judgment!

Introduction: This was pretty well done. From the very beginning I was curious as to why a cross was floating in the middle of the ocean and then even more perplexed as to why a person was stuck to it. Very nice job hooking the reader with a shady background. (6.5)

Setting: The way you described every area of the ship was well done. Sometimes, things would get a little jumbled up, but for the most part, you gave very fluid and natural details from the small cabin he woke up in to the mess hall. However, when you came up to the deck, your fluidness was a little off and I had trouble picturing parts of it. (6)

Strategy: For a pirate, he was clever. I liked that. He didn’t try and fight off 5 guys by himself using brute force. His sneaky attacks and carefully chosen plans of action really brought this character to life as an ex-pirate. Very good job. (7)

Writing Style: Very well written. At times, you would give a little too much detail and sometimes confusing, but for the most part it was solid and enjoyable. The way you let information about Scars spill out little by little was well done and the mood of the thread had a definite tone set into it. You had a few typos, so make sure you double check for those. (7.5)

Rising Action: This wasn’t hard to find at all. This was a good way to show what Scars was made of and what he could do in the heat of battle. I was wondering the entire time if he would actually use the jewels to barter some way out or not, but his sudden rush onto the deck certainly surprised me. (6.5)

Dialogue: This was one of the best things about the thread. I loved how not ever sailor spoke the same, like Logs and Noble. The use of the accents from the ship’s captain to the sailors was well thought out and produced. I really got into it. (8.5)

Climax: This was good, but I was felt it could’ve been better. Something that didn’t make sense was where the captain was the entire time. I wondered if he might’ve been running for that magical staff, but I doubt it would’ve taken him that long to retrieve it. His odd sense of timing threw off the flow of the thread. But it was certainly a very pretty way to kill a whole mess of people! (6.5)

Character: Another great job. I’m really glad to be able to see Scars from the very beginning, from the point where he actually got the name. The growth he made from ex-pirate to ex-pirate with new hopes was predictable, but still well done. His reflection and shame really gave this thread a boost in feeling. Good job. (7.5)

Conclusion: I enjoyed the way this ended, instead of being cliché and ending with him staying on the ship. His inability to forgive himself for deceiving the trade ship crew really stood out as the captain confronted him about his profession. And the end with Logs was a nice touch. (7)

Wild Card: All in all, good job! I can’t wait to see more threads by Scars! (7)

Total Score: 70

Spoils: Scars is granted all the items he requested.

Scars gains 790 EXP and 50 GP!