View Full Version : A Brother No More. ((Solo.))
The sun’s shape was lost upon its descent, its circular outline blurred by the clouds that hung on the horizon before it, which were a collage of fiery colours. The sky that hung above the sea between the island of Corone and the mainland was clear, the moon lifting and letting tumble a steady flow of gentle waves heading eastward as it rose to greet dusk. Its reflection stained the waters an icy blue; a streak of pale light that stretched from one horizon to the other. What was left of the battle between light and dark was shadow, though little matter stood to cast silhouettes upon the water. Small islands – little more than the tips of underwater mountains – penetrated the surface here and there, but no boats ploughed the divide, and no gargantuan sea creatures – or smaller fish - broke the surface. Only the shadow of a cross, that danced like it was alive upon the water’s surface, was to be of note. The cross that cast that shadow stood at the height of three men, built of dark oak and mounted atop a well-constructed raft that seemed to be anchored down, or at least weighted, for it did not drift with the coming of waves. Its presence was a curious one, for there was no sign of its creator, and its form was constructed of a wood that could only be harvested in a place unknown to most away. Nothing had grown upon the crosses’ base, suggesting that the strange object had not been in the water for a long period of time. Still, it seemed differently for the silent figure whose limbs were bound to it.
His head would not lift, despite his wishing of it. A lack of food and water had drained all the strength from his body, the salty air still leaving a bitter taste that he lacked the energy to spit out. The wind was similarly bitter that far out to sea, though his body had numbed and he could not feel it – something that he could be thankful for, though it was the only thing that came to mind. Thoughts came few and far between, the most common of which being a question which he could not answer, and a part of him wanted not to know that answer: How long have I been here?
He had been slipping in and out of consciousness, he knew, and so had no clue as to how many nights he had spent tied to this floating… prison. They had left him far from any trader’s route on which he might have been discovered. Death was coming slowly; agonizingly. He wished for a knife to slide across his throat; to end the agony that gripped him more mentally than physically. It was absurd. At least that recognition stayed with him; the only thing that kept him confident that sanity had not wholly left his being.
A slight bump and a gull’s call alerted him to the fact that he was not alone, and prevented him from leaving consciousness once again. It sat above his head for a second, and then took flight once more. A sudden urge caused him to slowly lift his chin from his chest, and half-open eyes – crusted together so that any farther was painful - gazed out over a spectacular sunset that filled his vision completely.
The world was on fire.
He closed his eyelids, and a pained smile found its way to his parched lips. Then his head thudded back down, and Ferael Finn slept.
Darkness saw the coming of a storm.
For three bells the waves crashed upon the sea’s surface with a strength that would sink ships. Icy rain fell from clouds that seemed as black as the night itself, and lightning forked down to strike the waves as if the Gods themselves wished to tear the ocean apart. All the while, rolling thunder roared in approval. For three bells nature unleashed havoc upon one man, and through it all that cross stayed upright. Through it all, Ferael Finn was as silent and still as the morn that followed.
He should have been dead. He should have been swallowed by the seas rage, or by a great whale, or by the night itself. Pure mercy alone would wish that this man should perish from his nightmare. As Ferael Finn’s lids fluttered open like two defiant butterflies, Captain Arveus Grenadine was too astonished to smile.
“By the black sails.”
A trading boat that ran between Radasanth and Anebrilith, The Fable had been battered and beaten by a storm of such ferocity that its crew had never bore witness to. They had left in unusual circumstances from Corone’s shore, racing to make an urgent delivery that promised some fine rewards for captain and crew. Their haste had been a curse, for they rushed straight into a tempest, and were washed far south of the usual trading route, into fierce waters. From there, The Fable could do little but stay afloat, and last out until the squall subsided. Experienced as they were, The Fable’s crew had managed to survive the night, yet they roamed deep waters, where rumours of fabled beasts and pirates, live and undead, were plentiful.
They had found no one-hundred-man long creatures, and been confronted by no ghostly sea bandits - only a strange cross had stood in the path of The Fable. And its prize lay sprawled upon her deck, starved and broken with a dozen bewildered faces staring down at him. Ferael Finn heaved and threw up. He did so for a sixth of a bell, and then darkness swallowed him once more.
When he awoke, Ferael found himself within a small cabin, wrapped in thick blankets and upon a bed of packed straw. The air was damp and salty, and it made him want to vomit again. His stomach was empty, though, and he only heaved and choked upon bile before swallowing it down. He had not the strength to move. Instead, he stared upon what he guessed was the cabin’s ceiling, the movement of the sea making him feel doubly as ill. Time passed – he did not know how long – and then footsteps caused his half-shut eyes to open fully. A door opened, and he could feel the presence of another within the room.
A hand slid beneath his head; lifted him half upright.
“Drink.”
The voice came from a distance, or so it seemed. A clay pot found his lips, and the smell of herbal tea caused him discomfort. Still, he could not fight it, though his body might. Ferael let the warm liquid settle in his mouth, and then tried hard to swallow. It warmed his throat, and then found his stomach. At first he felt no change, and was not inclined to bring it back up, but some time after whoever had served him had left, he felt the slightest amount of energy hit his muscles. They began to spasm, and he fainted.
He awoke in the same place, unsure of how long had passed. Still, he felt slightly stronger. The air was cold, though he had been draped in more blankets than before. All was silent bar the constant hiss of calm waves. He managed to roll onto one side.
The cabin that had become his place of rest was small, the only furniture a square wooden chest and the bed upon which he lay. Upon the chest lay a steel tray, and upon that bread and a jug of water had been arranged for him to eat once he gained the strength to reach it.
It took Ferael a bell to get himself sitting upright upon the side of the bed, quivering with the weakness that claimed him physically and mentally. From there, he pushed himself forward and onto his knees. They bruised as he landed heavily upon the wooden floor, and he fell forward onto his palms. He managed to crawl forward on his hands and knees until he arrived before the wooden chest upon which awaited his reward. He righted himself again, taking the soft bread loaf in shaking, blistered hands, and bit into it. His jaw immediately ached, yet he kept chewing and then finally swallowed. Three bites later, he placed the bread down again and took the jug of water. He could not lift it, but tipped it until some spilled. He took a few gulps and then turned slowly. A few paces on his knees brought him to the bed, and he clambered up and wrapped himself within the blankets. Sleep quickly followed.
Every time he awoke, food had been placed upon the chest for him. Sometimes he would find fish still warm, and he ate it as if it was his favourite meal. For nine days Ferael Finn lived this way, never sure whether it was night or day, and waking to find his carer only once as he left.
After eight days, Ferael found he could stand and walk to the chest. After ten, he stood not to walk to the chest, but to the door. It was unlocked, and he ventured outside.
With every ten or so steps, as he wandered the narrow corridor with timber walls and evenly spaced doors on either side – probably leading to other sleeping quarters alike to his own – his legs trembled and he nearly fell. He almost turned and returned to the warmth of the wrapped blankets, but thought himself weak for considering it. A certain intelligence that he had lost as his strength deteriorated had returned to him. A will for knowledge and company that had seemed inferior to a need for food gave him reason to keep moving forwards. A sense of humanity clouded by the pain of near-death lead him to seek others, and suddenly a need for comfort took precedence over that of food and water. He needed someone to talk to. It felt like he had been alone for years.
At the end of the corridor a set of wooden stairs awaited him; leading up to a door that he guessed would take him onto the ships deck. He placed a blistered hand on each wall as he climbed the steps, his legs carrying him slowly. When he had scaled them, he rested both hands on the door and pushed forward. It did not move. He took the steel knob in one hand and twisted it slowly. It came open quickly, and he stumbled out into the open.
The brilliant sunlight that engulfed him caused Ferael to raise both arms to cover his eyes. It was midday, the sun positioned almost straight above, though that did not occur to him. He stayed motionless for a minute before dropping his arms to his sides, eyes squinting until they were nearly shut. Slowly, he let his sight adjust, and then examined his surroundings.
He stood about halfway down the deck of the ship, which he judged to be about the length of fifty, maybe sixty men. The only thing that stood between him and the door of the cabin close to the front of the ship was the main mast, its sails folded. Atop it, in the nest, he could see two figures, though they had yet to spot him. To the left and right, a little further forward, stood rectangular, flat roofed buildings that ran for about thirty paces. Doors ran adjacently along them, and he counted four on each side. What they were, he didn’t care. As far as he could tell, there was no-one upon the deck. Frowning at this, Ferael turned.
Stairs ran up to a higher deck to his left and right - the drop between the two platforms lined with a low wooden rail - and along the wall that he had emerged from were three doors. He had come from the centre door, though those on the left and right were both closed. The sound of one hundred conversations rang from behind that timber wall, and Ferael guessed that one, if not both, lead to a hall of some kind. He chose to avoid such a place, and scaled the stairs on his far left.
The raised deck was not so deserted. He immediately judged there to be ten men working with ropes and pulleys and other devices. Only a few took note of his arrival, and even those who did gave little-to-no response. He ignored them in turn, for he had found the one he sought for conversation. He approached the platform that stood to his right, taking the few steps on the nearest side, and arrived next to the man who held the ship’s wheel. After a long pause, Arveus Grenadine turned his way.
The Captain of The Fable was a gaunt, long-limbed man, with a shabby, pointed brown beard and inch long hair of the same colour. Cloths that looked like old curtains were draped around his gangly form, and if he held a weapon, it was neatly hidden beneath them. His belt buckle was either gold or gold plated, and from his torso hung gold loops that seemed to serve no purpose what-so-ever. As he looked upon the pirate with thick-lidded eyes, he made no apparent reaction, though he had stopped tapping his foot upon the planks of the deck, and his whistling had ceased. This alone caught the attention of the crew members present, and most now watched the conversation in silence.
“Good day, sir,” he said, his accent hinting at a Radasanthian upbringing. He turned again to face the ship’s bow. “Feeling replenished, at all?” His words bore no sarcasm. Ferael nodded, apparently unsure, though he expected that the captain did not notice.
“Very good!” the taller man said, shifting his weight onto his toes and then sinking back down. A minute or so passed before either spoke again.
“Where am I?” Ferael asked.
The Captain returned his straight-faced gaze to the bandit. “On a boat, my friend.” He turned away.
Another ten seconds passed. “What boat?”
“A trading boat.” The Captain began tapping his many-ringed fingers upon the ship’s wheel.
Ferael glanced around him. He had sacked many trading ships, though this one brought no recollection. “It’s name?” he asked.
A smile finally found Arveus’ lips, and when he spoke it came with a hint of pride. “The Fable!”
The pirate visibly shrugged. He had never heard of it. Then again, he did not know what sea they were sailing upon. He had been knocked unconscious well before they left him.
Another minute or so passed before Ferael decided he was better off conversing with another crew member. He did not wish to ask of the Captain’s name, for he guessed the answer would be of two or three words, and of little use or meaning. Plus, the man had resumed his whistling, his foot tapping along. He made his way down the steps to the back of the platform, and approached the nearest of the sailors on the deck.
He was acknowledged before he could announce his arrival; the bald, heavily built man crouched on one knee attempting to untie tiny knots with stout fingers ceasing his struggle and turning his attention to the foreigner.
“Yer awake, then,” he said, and Ferael nodded. “Thought we mighta lost ya over a week ago. Skin ‘n’ bone, y’were.” He examined the bandit. “Lookin’ better, now. Less pale ‘n’ all.”
Ferael made his way to the starboard rail, peering over to the calm water that The Fable drifted upon. He could see no land in the three directions he could see, and so he stood and checked the fourth. Only water stretched out to every horizon. Ferael sat upon the ship’s edge. All the while, the sailor watched him attentively.
“Where am I, then?” Ferael questioned. This time, he hoped for a worthwhile reply.
“We’re sailin’ off the coast of Corone. You know where Corone is, right?” Ferael nodded. “Well, we’re headin’ towards a dock point on the southwest coast since the storm took us that way. Dangerous to sail north again, with all the rocks ‘n’ stuff.”
“And you found me not far from here?” The bandit frowned as the burly man lifted his brow and a short, deep burst of laughter came from his chest.
“Not here, no! Much farther west, you were. We’ve made three trips across the divide since then. Capt’n says we’ll ‘ave to sail round the island to get back north, see, so we’ve been dealin’ with some of the coastal towns. Fish ‘n’ things, y’know. Well priced.”
“West?” Ferael paused to think. “Raiaera…?”
“Aye.” The burly man paused and looked to the rope he had been working with, then span to the right and sat upon the deck. “Y’know your maps, then.” He paused again. “What were ya doin’ tied to a post on the divide anyways? Someone not like ya?”
The stranger seemed to recall something there, and it made him flinch. “Something like that, aye,” he replied.
“Very well.”
A long pause gave Ferael time to reflect upon how he’d ended up upon that crucifix. He chose not to use it to do so, though. Instead, he wondered at what he would do once they found shore and he could leave. He knew a few people on Corone – mainly in Radasanth and the surrounding areas; at least a month’s travel away – and he had nowhere to return to. He bit his lip.
“Yer not speakin’ real, are ya?” the sailor enquired. “Yer a bandit.”
“Thought y’d never ask,” Ferael replied, shifting uneasily under a searching stare. “Didn’t think I could ‘ave ye fooled fer long.”
“Aye, I know a bandit when I see one. What’s yer name?” the big man asked.
“I won’t be riskin’ that one, I’m ‘fraid,” Ferael replied.
“Mine’s Logs. Like logs off trees. ‘Cause I lift ‘em lots.”
Ferael looked puzzled at the man’s explanation. “That’s yer real name?”
“No, see. We ‘ave other names. Sea names. We calls each other by ‘em ‘cause it’s easy, see. Easier than real names.” He looked up to the sky dreamily for a second, which was dotted with thin white clouds, then his gaze fell back to the pirate. “Seein’ as ye won’t tell me yer real name, how’s about I gives you a sea name…?”
Ferael shrugged and then nodded. “If it pleases ya.”
“Right.” Logs looked past Ferael, over the endless ocean to the horizon. He was locked in thought for a minute or so. Ferael was about to call him back from his dreamy state when he flinched, and then smiled. “Scars.”
It needed no explanation. His naked torso was etched like cracked rock with healed cuts and wounds. He saw no reason to argue. Scars. It suited him in more than one aspect.
Shortly after his conversation with Logs, Ferael felt his strength fading. He had left the man to his work, and retired to his quarters. He ate before he slept, yet when he awoke a few hours later he still felt unbelievable hunger. He finished what had been last left for him, and made his way to the deck.
The waves had grown uneven as the day grew late, and as Ferael emerged from the corridor he was surprised to find it was almost night outside. Torches had been lit at intervals along the walls of the buildings to either side of him, and on the wall behind him, bringing sufficient light to The Fable’s exterior. This time the lower of the two decks was occupied, if only by a few men. They sat upon crates at the base of the mast, talking amongst each other. No sound came from the upper deck, and so he approached those before him. Five paces from them, and one of the four looked his way.
“Aye, it’s the foreigner! Would ya look at that, boys; ‘e’s walkin’. Like seein’ a ghost, that is.”
A second laughed loudly, setting a tankard of what Ferael guessed to be ale upon an unoccupied crate. “Aye. When I sees ‘im lyin’ there on the deck I coulda sworn ‘e was dead.”
“Nonsense,” replied a third. “Ol’ Goldin’ washed up when ‘e was thrown overboard by thems pirates that took The Grenadine. Cap’n says he was in the water for close to three days and on a beach for near two weeks ‘fore ‘e was found. Cap’n says this one was there for a week or so. ‘E coulda lived for days more, or so the Cap’n says.”
“Aye, I’m sure ‘e does, Monk. I’m sure ‘e does,” the first replied, and tipped his tankard back against his lips.
Ferael looked around the four sailors, all of whom carried the same short swords and wore sigils on their breast that shimmered in the torchlight. The badge pictured a fish with a blade for a nose curled around the outside, and a solid diamond shape inside with a keyhole cut from its centre. Of the name of the trade guild, Ferael had no idea. Still, they would sell for twenty gold pieces each should he ‘find’ some.
“Could I ask of you the location of your shipmate, Logs?”
The sailor that had spoken second replied: “You’ll find ‘im where ‘e always is, mate. Inside, playin’ cards. Always with the cards.”
“Thank you.”
As Ferael walked away, he heard one of the four mumble something that sounded as ‘posh bastard’. A smirk found his lips as he approached the door to the right of that that led to the sleeping quarters of the crew, and the lone pirate that had found his way aboard their home.
Inside, the air was strangely scented and thick with smoke. As he had guessed, it was used as a dining hall for the entire crew, and then as a pub of sorts in the evening. The tables – square in shape – were arranged haphazardly around the room, the bar located on the left hand side and three doors along the back wall. It didn’t take him long to find Logs amongst the sea of heads, though it took some time to shuffle through the crowd to the table at which he sat. When he arrived, Ferael found that the burly man sat with three others, all of whom were holding a small selection of cards. He had seen none of the men before. Ferael stood for a short while, listening to their conversation and wondering how he should introduce himself when he heard Logs’ low voice address him over the constant roar of conversation.
“Lads, this is Scars!” he heard Logs say, and a big hand rested on his shoulder and pulled him down slightly. “Grab a chair, my friend!”
Ferael straightened and looked about him. All the visible seats were occupied, though he soon noticed a stack of such seats against the back wall. He made his way between chairs and bodies and then back again, holding the seat above his head. He placed it next to Logs’, and sat quietly. Immediately, Logs began talking again.
“Scars, this ‘ere is Boot,” he said, indicating the dark-skinned, slender man to his right. “Noble.” He nodded towards the sharp featured, straight-backed man opposite him. “And Fisher.”
The last of the three, seated to Ferael’s left, smiled with thin lips and placed his cards face down upon the table to soak in ale. “I’ll fetch you a drink. Pleasure.” Fisher rose and made his way from the table.
Ferael sat silently as Noble and Boot studied him, both seemingly unaware that he was returning their gaze. Still, he didn’t feel threatened. They looked upon him almost as if they were trying to understand him. Boots eyes wandered, apparently over his various scars. Logs broke the silence.
“Now Scars, I did let ye get away not tellin’ me yer story earlier, but this time me ‘n’ the boys’re ready fer it. I ain’t takin’ no fer an answer, see. Plus, I practically got this ‘ere game won.”
Noble’s brow stiffened, his nose scrunching. “Over-confident bastard.”
A short time passed before Fisher returned with a tankard in each hand, and placed one before Ferael as he sat. The bandit wasn’t sure how his body would react to alcohol, but he had never been one to refuse it. He picked the tankard up and took two gulps, and as he let it down all eyes were on him. It was sweet, if a little too watered down.
”It’s good,” he said, but still they all watched him. Ferael frowned, and looked to Logs for an answer.
The burly, almost overweight man was affixed with a dumb grin. “Weave us a tale, then.”
“We raided a ship – a Lord’s ship ‘eaded for a port I doubt any o’ you men have even ‘eard of –”
“Try me,” Boot challenged.
“Jerumilla…?”
The dark-skinned man shrugged a little. “Carry on.”
“We raided a ship, and met some strong resistance. We ‘ad ta be outnumbered nearly tree ta one, yet some’ow we were standin’ our ground. I realize now that it must ‘ave been the work of our Captain, whose skills with the sword were nothin’ short o’ pretty.”
“Were?” Boot interjected.
“Aye,” the bandit replied. “I saw ‘im enter a cabin, see – the Captain of the ship’s cabin - and then I saw this other bandit follow ‘im. I knew somethin’ no-one else did, but that’s a tale that I don’t fancy tellin’. Anyways, I followed ‘em in, ‘cause I coulda guessed what was gonna ‘appen.” Ferael paused. He felt uneasy under what he felt to be three scrutinizing glares. He had not told them of his… profession, and so was unsure of how they’d take the news. After all, he had no weapon with which to defend himself.
“Come on!” Fisher urged. “I’m intrigued now.”
“Right. Sos I entered the cabin, and I come just in time to see it all happen. The Captain of the ship is sittin’ in his comfy chair with a rapier in ‘is left eye, and Cap’n Granal is still ‘olding the thing. This other guy is swingin’ to take ‘is ‘ead with a cutlass, and see… there was nothin’ I could do. It cut into ‘is neck, and ‘e fell.”
“What happened then?” Boot asked, his mouth subconsciously open a little.
“I went for ‘im. Granal was as good a man as a pirate can be. I went for ‘im. I don’t know how long we were duellin’, just that it was long enough fer the rest o’ the crew to come lookin’ and find us like that. They restrained me, and I was just about to finish the job. He… told ‘em I did it. I killed the Captain. And as I was carried out by me limbs, I sees ‘im take what ‘e’d wanted the entire time. But again, I can’t really tell y’bout that.”
“So they tied you up for somethin’ you didn’t do, aye?” Boot said, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Seems like you got not much good luck. Still, a good tale. Woulda liked to hear more o’the fightin’. We don’t get to do much o’ that.”
“I always said, my good friend, that fighting is no answer.” Boot turned to find Captain Aveus Grenadine standing behind him, his arms tucked away beneath the robes that draped over him. He looked to each of the men with a smile, finishing with Ferael, and then he frowned. “Ah! The stranger. Come with me, chap, lest you freeze to death. I have a nice collection of garments that you can choose from.”
Ferael looked to each of the four sailors, who acted as if they were preoccupied with drinking, each picking up their cards when they noticed that Logs already had. The pirate rose, and followed the Captain to one of the back doors.
Ferael had been left to do as he pleased. Chest-high piles of fabric sat before him against one wall. Was he expected to dig through this collection of random garments to find the ones he preferred? He judged that there were possibly over a thousand articles of clothing he could rummage through and try on, so the pirate decided that he would try not to be too fastidious. The room smelt a lot cleaner than most other places aboard The Fable. The air was drier, too. He stepped forward, grabbed at a brightly coloured waistcoat, and tossed it aside.
A bell or so later Ferael stood practically dressed. It had taken him a while to find a second black sock, but he had succeeded in the end. He had found a pair of black pants and a green vest, as well as a trench coat of a darker green. His slowly healing hands were now covered with fingerless leather gloves, and he had found a few bandanas that he kept in the trench coat pocket, to keep the suspicions of captain and crew at bay as to his origins. After all, sailors did not wear bandanas, and neither did land lubbers. All of the garments were new – likely waiting to be traded – and so too were the black boots he had taken from the shelves to one side of the room.
Satisfied, Ferael left and carried on down the corridor – the door back to the tavern behind him – towards the room that he had been instructed to enter; the captain’s cabin. On the way, he stopped by those rooms that were not locked – three, in total. The first was home to cleaning apparatus, and so the pirate only took a quick glance before closing the door and continuing on. The second room held more items for trade, and Ferael explored inside. He found three necklaces and a few rings, all inside a small coin pouch, but could find no more of the same. He considered taking some items that looked almost magical, but he knew nothing of magic, and they would be of little use. The third room held a wide variety of weaponry that would probably also be sold. He could not carry such things around without being caught, but some of the swords took his fancy. He left reluctantly.
After he had knocked, Ferael was beckoned from behind the door. He entered slowly, his new boots sounding heavily on the wooden floor before being muted a little as his feet fell on a rich woven rug. At first his eyes did not meet those of Arveus Grenadine; instead they wandered over the tapestries that hung down each wall, and the two torches that swung from the ceiling, the flames somehow pointing downwards.
“Bought those from a mage in Alerar,” Arveus said, noting the pirate’s suspicious gaze. “Never really understood it, myself; crazy Elven tricks.”
Ferael nodded, their eyes meeting before he looked away uncomfortably, apparently returning his attention to the tapestry to his left. It pictured a ship locked in icy water, scores of bodies scrambling towards the vessel as a crack stretched from the bottom of the picture. The detail was incredible, and it looked almost new. The border caught the light of the flames, and Ferael realized there were crystals of some sort inset into the fabric.
“That,” Arveus said, sighing, “was expensive.”
The bandit admired the tapestry for a short while longer before he said: “You requested my presence…?” He looked to the Captain of The Fable, who was still staring at the woven picture that took up the majority of one wall.
“Aye,” Arveus replied. “That I did. I just want to ask a few questions.”
Ferael bit his lip, though the captain was clearly preoccupied observing the drapery, and did not notice.
“What do you plan to do once we reach shore?” Arveus asked.
It took a moment for Ferael to process his answer. “I’ll likely depart and head for the nearest village before making my way to Radasanth.”
“You could travel on The Fable, if you so wish,” the Captain offered. “We’ll be sailing around Corone after a few nights inland.”
“I could do no such thing. I wish only to put distance between myself and this damned ocean. I’ll take the land.” It was not so much true, though he did need a break from the seas. He had decided he would leave because he was a misfit among the sailors - a hidden nemesis. Pirates were vermin, The Fable's crew would say, and it was true. He couldn't stay among decent men, lying to keep himself alive. He would be better off alone; on land.
“That was expected. We’ll be docked by tomorrow evening, though.” Arveus paused. “You know how you came to be out there?”
The captain was clearly referring to his floating crucifix. Ferael shrugged. “I remember nothing of it.”
It seemed Arveus Grenadine was satisfied with his answer, for he spoke nothing more of it. “You look like you could use more sleep, you know,” he said. “I’ve asked what I wanted to. Make your way, then.”
Ferael nodded uncertainly, and then turned. He’d expected more interrogation, but no such thing had occurred. He did feel weary, though, and chose to return to his cabin instead of to the bar.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
((Spoils: Clothing, the weapons, the bag, the jewellery and the fruit. He started with nothing.))
Sword-for-Hire
05-01-06, 02:20 AM
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!
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