Chains.

[Scars]

((Closed to Smoker and Osato.))

* * *

Radasanth - the City of Heroes, or so it was said. A bustling metropolis so overwhelming in size and architectural distinction that to lay eyes upon it was to let ones jaw drop, time and time again with every visit. He suspected it to be one of humankind’s greatest triumphs, yet they could not manage it alone. The hearts of elves and dwarves, as well as humans, had poured into this place. Thousands of laboured souls, and was it all worth it? He believed so. Radasanth was a testament to the peace between races, and to the brilliance that man could achieve. Yet none of it could have been realized if not for the vision of one elf who shared the name of the great city – “Radasanth the Saviour; Radasanth the Starlight; Radasanth the Braveheart.” Those were the names he had earned, notched into the silver below a towering statue.

The brigand stood admiring the figure fixed in stone, the shadow of the hero looming over him, its open eyes kind, inspired as it looked out over the legacy it had created. Few men deserved such an honour as this, and standing there Ferael Finn had realised that he would never be one of those men. The path he had chosen so long ago had been tainted with murder, thievery and vile intent. He would never elude that fact, even if he convinced the entire world he had changed. It would still rest there, in his heart, in his memories. He was a lawbreaker, not of the laws of Radasanth or Corone, but of those held by men - decorum; Compassion; Generosity. Such was the way of the bandit. He could never give back what he had taken. But he would give back all he could - through compassion; by following the principles obeyed by any good man.

After walking the main street northward, Ferael found himself journeying along the bank of the Niema River as it broadened to meet the sea. The roads on both sides of the tributary were travelled by thousands of people each day on foot, by cart and on horseback, transporting goods to and from the city – woods; metals; cloth; food. The grasses that should have grown were trampled to dry dust that stirred in thick clouds upon the ground. The soothing sound of rushing water was drowned by voices, the clattering of wooden wheels and the clopping of hooves upon the hard earth.

The docks were busier. A dozen workers in white uniforms carried barrels back and forth between their ship and a nearby group of storage huts; a trio of aged fishermen gathered their daily catch in wooden buckets; a man in white robes stood preaching with his arms held wide; a queue of restless people snaked from one gangplank a hundred paces down a causeway to the shore and further. It was mayhem here. And that wasn’t a good thing, because Ferael Finn was looking for someone.

As he weaved among the workers and visitors, Ferael found himself smiling. It had been a long time since he’d been able to walk freely among others like this. He had been confined to everywhere other than where man had founded civilisation, never to venture from the company of his companions. He had not come to Radasanth in over a decade, and when he had finally walked below its gates mere hours ago, his jaw had dropped.

The roar of activity was constant, yet somehow the shouts of merchants beckoning people to their buy their goods rose over all other sound. The pirate made his way to a nearby market stall consisting of a red cloth draped over two tables. Upon these lay a selection of jewellery, mostly made from shells picked up on nearby beaches and simple string chains. As he approached, the portly middle aged man sitting behind the stall stood and grinned.

“Which one-a these you want, eh?” he said, passing one hand over the assortment in a sweeping motion. Ferael shook his head in answer.

“I just wish to ask a question,” he said, faking a commoner’s voice as best he could. It wasn’t very convincing, but it mattered little. The grin faded from the fat man’s face, the creases in his dark skin sagging a little. “I need to know if a certain boat has moored here, in Radasanth. A trader’s ship, named The Fable…?”

A smile returned to the merchant’s face, and he nodded many times before speaking. “Yes!” he proclaimed. “Under the guidance of Captain Grenadine, a fine man with a fine crew! Make your way down the leftmost causeway if you want The Fable, my friend! They’ve been a long time in returning but home they are! Wondrous homecoming! Celebrate with joy!”

With a small smile and a nod, he headed in the direction he had been told to.

[Scars]

True to the merchant’s word, The Fable was moored there, amongst ships half and twice its size. At its base were gathered a score of men, each sporting the same off-white shirts with their guild’s emblem stitched upon it. He recognised the majority of them, amongst whom were Logs and Boot.

Ferael stopped. Did he really want to trouble these good men with his shady presence a second time? He owed them one and all a thousand favours for bringing him from near death and showing him compassion that had changed him for the best, and he was coming to ask of them a favour that might demand of them their lives? It was just wicked. But then, who else did he have to turn to? He had done nothing to deserve friendship from anyone other than those who had abandoned him. No, he needed this more than anything. In return he would give… Ferael didn’t know. Something. All I can. He would have to ask.

The brigand moved slowly towards the group, and at least three of them spotted him before he was half way to where they stood. His blemished features drew attention from all sides, and he had received many surly looks on his walk through Radasanth. The first of the men looked upon him with one such gaze, but the second regarded him first with confusion, and after with a bright smile. The man turned made his way forward, offering the buccaneer an outstretched hand in greeting. Fisher - one of few of The Fable’s crew members that had truly accepted him as a friend; the man who had been designated with bringing him a meal each day during his long recovery, and had done so without fail or complaint. Ferael grasped the sailor’s hand in his own and shook it as he said: “Ahoy, matey! Thar be a wench in me stride and rum in me belly. Walk the plank, ye bilge rat. Yo ho ho, ho ho ho.” Fisher laughed, as Ferael had hoped he would.

“Scars, well, I never expected this!” the sailor said. “How’ve you been? What’ve you been doing? What brought you to Radasanth?”

“Slow down!” Ferael replied. “It’ll all be answered, I’m sure o’ that. Fer now, I be…”

“Hey! Logs! Get over here, you dim-witted ogre!” The burly man’s head popped out from the crowd, and a second later he burst from the throng and ran to where they stood. When he got there, he was nearly out of breath. “Look who came to town!”

“Scars! I… it’s great to see you!” He grabbed Ferael’s hand in both of his, and shook frantically for a few seconds. His hands were more like the paws of a bear, but his smile like that of an ecstatic child. “How are you?! Why’re you here?! I mean I ain’t complaining or nothing I just never expected –”

“It’s really good ta see ya, I swear,” Ferael cut in, “but there be more pressin’ matters I have ta sort first. There’ll be plenty o’ time to talk, but I gotta talk to Captain Grenadine first, ‘kay?” Logs was regarding him quizzically, though he still wore a smile. The hulking man nodded, releasing his grip with one hand and pointing up to the ship behind him.

“The captain’s on the ship, in his room,” Logs said. “Isn’t he Fisher? Isn’t he?”

“Aye,” the smaller man replied. “He’ll be there.”

“Thanks. I’ll catch up with the both of ya a bit later.”

Ferael walked past the two men and towards The Fable, both sailors’ eyes on his back. He made his way around the gathering of men, and took a few steps up the gangway before stopping abruptly. Looking down to one side as the waves rolled and splashed against the side of the ship, he took a deep breath. It had been a long time, he realised, and the brigand had forgotten how homely it felt to have the salty air rush into his lungs, the crashing of waves bringing back so many memories that he could not bring to mind any single one. An assembly of black gulls squawked as they flew high above the docks. His legs felt weak.

It felt homely, yet, at the same time, absolutely terrifying.

[Scars]

When Ferael slid through the gap in the doorway to Arveus Grenadine’s study, he found the captain of The Fable facing the large window at the back of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. The gaunt man, crimson robes draped around him to conceal every inch of skin from the neck down, was staring down at the docks where his crew worked in the searing heat. Scrolls were strewn upon the well-varnished desk behind him, a quill resting so that ink was spilling out onto one parchment. On each of the side walls were hung huge tapestries, one depicting a ship trapped in a field of ice and the other of a fleet of Coronian war ships. The magical hanging torch that Ferael had questioned the captain on when they had first spoken, twenty or thirty nights before, was aflame even in daylight.

The pirate coughed twice, and Arveus Grenadine span on the ball of one foot.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, stepping forward. He stared at the leaking plume before picking it up and dropping it back in its pot, and then returned his attention to the wandering bandit who had found his way back aboard the most renowned of trader ships. “What a surprise! A pleasant one, of course, friend; I mean not to be rude. Sit, sit!” Arveus took a seat himself, and Ferael moved forward and slumped in one of the two wooden chairs on his side of the table. “Tell me, how was your journey over land? That is, assuming you took it…?”

“Aye,” Ferael replied, shifting uneasily. The captain’s company was never comfortable, and he guessed it never would be. He seemed to study every slight movement, his expression always one of judgement. It was hard to meet his barrowing gaze at all. “I’d forgotten ‘ow nice it is to stroll through Concordia Forest. T’was fair, as journeys go. And your trip ‘round the isle?”

“Indeed, it was uneventful! And for that I am happy.” Seconds passed in which Arveus Grenadine tapped his jewel-adorned fingers upon the desk, and then his tone changed. “Now, Scars, tell me why you’re here. You want something from me – that I know. Otherwise, what reason would you have to return to The Fable? You are going to tell me a story. What really happened to you…?”

A deep breath was Ferael’s only hesitation before he began. He had known Arveus Grenadine would identify his intentions as soon as he arrived. “I need a ship an’ a crew. As we speak me old shipmates are sailin’ southwest to southern Raiaera, an’ I need to follow ‘em. See, the bastard that ‘as taken control of the ship after murderin’ Captain Karrius is plannin’ to unveil somethin’ nasty. ‘E –”

“Why would he wish to do such a thing?” Arveus cut in, one hand stroking his pointed beard.

“Captain Karrius was keen on readin’, see. He ‘ad plenty of books, but some of ‘em were more interestin’ than others. The one that took Dott’s fancy – Dott bein’ the bastard that killed ‘im – told of a ritual that’d ‘trapped a great power’ somewhere in Raiaera, and of ‘ow the only way to open the barrow to it was to use this key. Well, there was a picture of the key in the book an’ it sure enough matched the thing hangin’ from Captain Karrius’ neck. I guess greed was what drove ‘im to betray everyone and stab the good captain in ‘is back. I got blamed for it. Wrong place at the wrong time I guess. People make mistakes, is what they always say, right?”

Arveus Grenadine sat in thought for a short time, and then nodded, though his expression was still one of slight confusion. “Two things,” he said. “Firstly, how do you know so much, and do you know more of what this ‘great power’ actually is? Secondly, why is it so important that you catch up with your pirate friends?”

“Family,” the buccaneer corrected. “They’re me family, cap’n, and they’re in trouble. When family is in trouble, you do everythin’ you can to help, right? And I don’t know what this power is, but I know it ain’t pretty. I was close to Captain Karrius; closer than most o' the crew. He kept it so close 'cause he didn't want no-one else gettin' 'old of it. He would give his life again to stop Dott usin’ that key, o’ that I’m sure. There’s somethin’ bad locked away in Raiaera. Somethin’ really bad.”

[Scars]

“I’m sorry.”

Those were the words that gave answer to his plea. The buccaneer’s optimistic expression faded. There was no other way. His friends had all been resigned to death at the hands of some greater dark power, and his hopes of clearing his name of the terrible act that had been placed upon him, and taking vengeance in Captain Karrius’ name, were shattered. Bitterness washed over him, but could he really blame the man sitting across from him for his failures? Everyone had their responsibilities, and their price – especially the captain of a trader’s guild. He would have had nothing to offer in return. Arveus’ voice broke his thoughts.

“Do understand, my friend, that I would offer my ship and my crew if I could. But these men also have families. Each one of them has to earn a living to support those he loves, and each one does so aboard this vessel. We cannot accompany you.”

“I understand. I’ll leave you, then. In seriousness, though, thanks fer everythin’.” Ferael Finn stood abruptly, turned, and made his way to the exit.

“There is another solution.”

The pirate stopped, his hand an inch from the door knob, his head bowed.

“The ship that was claimed following the pirate raid - the one that was named The Truth - is docked farther along this causeway. It is crewless, yet it is undamaged and a match for The Fable in swiftness. You are welcome to borrow it, since it was you who helped vanquish its old crew. I know many a retired seafarer who would be thrilled at the prospect of adventure, and at the right price I think any man with nautical experience would be willing to join your entourage. I would be willing to advance you a sum of gold to hire a decent crew.”

Ferael lifted his head and turned back to face Captain Arveus Grenadine. He could not erase the smile from his face. “I would owe you more than you can ever imagine, cap’n. I…”

“With the aid of my own, I will spend tomorrow finding you a crew. Worry about nothing until then, when I will meet you here at midday. Right now, though, I have work to be doing.”

“Has anyone ever told you that yer a godsend? It’s true, I’m tellin’ ya - an absolute god-damned godsend.”

The pirate left with a quick nod, leaving Arveus Grenadine to stare thoughtfully into the flame that hung in the centre of the room. He smiled a little, and then said to himself: “It has been mentioned once or twice.”

[Scars]

Ferael Finn found it easy to sleep that night. He could not remember the last time he had slept without stones in his back or brittle straw scratching his skin through the split fabric of a thin mattress. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, bathed in torch light, a smile affixed to his face that he had worn all evening. A few drinks had made him all the more restful, the taste of fine Radasanthian ale washing any doubts he held away. He could finally relax, even if only for one night.

It was enough, for when he awoke - rays of sunlight streaked across his weathered torso - it felt like he had been born anew. The blisters he had collected on his long journey over Corone were fading, his burnt skin slowly turning more bronze than pink. His eyelids felt weightless and so too did his steps. As the bandit walked through the busy dockside market close to the twelfth bell, he held his head high. There was some commotion nearby, but Ferael was virtually ignorant of his surroundings, his mind wondering upon what wonderfully skilled crew members Arveus Grenadine had managed to conscript for his expedition. He was sure the man would not let him down. Explorers, across-continent merchants, fishermen and Coronian navy veterans – it was likely that Arveus had persuaded them all.

He made his way along the causeway, the commandeered pirate vessel sitting dormant at its end. The flag it had flown had been replaced with one bearing the insignia of the Gold Swords Trade Guild, the head of which stood with his back to the pirate. A line of around twenty men and women stood facing him, and though his voice was muffled Ferael could tell that Arveus was answering questions. As he arrived at the merchant’s side, one of the recruits asked of their captain’s identity. Ferael stepped forward, and addressed the motley crew with a single nod.

“I’ll be leadin’ this voyage. You’ll call me Scars. Do what I tell ya, but don’t be hesitatin’ should you disagree with what I say. I’m confident Capt’n Grenadine here ‘as found a capable bunch o’ sailors.” A hand was raised near the middle of the line, and Ferael met the short man’s troubled gaze. “I’m not a pirate,” he said, rolling his eyes. The arm returned to the recruit’s side.

“Can you tell us more about what we’re doing? We were told there’d be dangers, but what are they? Where are we going? How long will we be gone?”

Arveus Grenadine had employed women. Ferael had never had much luck with women. They were so difficult to understand and to talk to. Even at his age, he felt it was easier if he avoided them, and they did not pursue him. There had been no females in his old crew. There were at least five standing in the line before him, but the one who had spoken caught his eye in a way he’d forgotten existed. He swallowed his impure thoughts and answered before she could ask why he was staring at her. “Those questions will be answered in time, when ya need to know the answers. Fer now, get yer arses on board. We set sail for Raiaera in one bell.” He watched as the crew shuffled in single file up the gangplank, some looking slightly bewildered and others completely lost. Ferael turned to face Arveus Grenadine, who wore a smile.

“You’ll be impressed, I’m sure. Among that crew is decades of experience. Some of those men can sail a ship single-handedly and win a swordfight with a wooden cane.”

“What about the women?”

“I wouldn’t let you down, Scars.”

Ferael nodded, presumably satisfied with the captain’s response. His new crew were almost all on board The Truth. “Well,” the pirate said, “I guess I’ll see ya when we return. Again, thanks fer everything.” With a quick shake of hands, the buccaneer made his way aboard his ship.

[Smoker]

Dusk had an interesting way of complicating even the simplest of endeavors.

What did I do wrong this time? Dusk thought grimly. The heavy footsteps of several armed and armored guards came closer by the second. Unable to control the situation, Dusk bent into the task at hand, focusing on finishing as quickly as possible. But it was too late…

Three guards came down the stairs to be greeted by an unexpected sight. Amidst the boxes and barrels strewn throughout the room, a man in a black cloak was kneeling on the floor…cranking something. As the foul reek of the ship’s hold assaulted their senses and their eyes adjusted to the low light, realization slowly set in.

The man was cranking a hand drill. Drilling a hole.

In the bottom of the ship.

“Hey!” The guard shouted suddenly, aware of what exactly was happening. “Get him! Stop him before he sinks us!” The guards charged forward as a unit, the way they had been trained. Water was already seeping into the hold, and the guards splashed loudly as they ran, trying to maneuver through the maze of boxes. This was evidently not the first hole that was drilled.

In fact, unbeknownst to the guards, Dusk had been carefully drilling and sawing for hours, crafting the outline of a large circle in the center of the hold

Dusk continued drilling feverishly as the guards ran into the center of the circle. Dusk stood suddenly, freezing the guards in their tracks as they tried to figure out the best way to approach the criminal. With a small smile, he spoke for the first time.

“Good evening, friends. Glad you could come. You see, I was planning on using some of those stored goods, but if I did this properly, you gentlemen should work just fine. I hope you can swim.”

With a malevolent grin, he stomped inside the circle. It was like tearing paper along a perforation. The wood broke cleanly and water rushed in with a roar. The cut-out circle, as well as the three guards, were sucked out into the unforgiving ocean, sinking rapidly out of sight.

Things would have worked out just fine if Dusk hadn’t also been dragged into the shining depths. Gasping for a final breath before his head was plunged underwater, he struggled to reach the surface, free of the confines of the ship. It seemed so very far away, made even more so by the fact that Dusk had never learned to swim. Struggling with all his strength, he thrashed about wildly, in a blind panic.

Survival instinct alone began to buoy him to the surface. The small animalistic side of him, the primal instincts of the wild that still resides in all of us, began to manifest itself in him. Taking over as a new persona, the Cat that was his baser instincts struggled for control. In his panic Dusk gave himself over, allowing the inner feline to take control.

The Cat wasn’t an accomplished swimmer, but it instinctively knew to kick for the surface. Dusk could feel his lungs begin to burn from the bottled-up air trapped inside, and the surface didn’t seem any nearer even as the Cat strove towards it. Unable to withstand it any longer, darkness settled in and the Cat blacked out.

* * * * *

Dusk was awakened by a gentle nudging against his head. Something soft and furry…

His eyes began to focus and he wondered where he was, how he had got there, why was he in so much pain? As his vision cleared, one white spot refused to go away. It took him several seconds to realize what exactly that white spot was.

“Still!”

His albino familiar purred and nuzzled against him. But Dusk knew that now was not the right time for such displays of affection.

“Where are we?” He looked around, trying to answer his own question. He seemed to be…laying on a dock. Actually, he could see a ring of people around, all looking down intently as he recovered. But as he slowly regained his strength and his senses, they seemed to get angrier and angrier. Voices began to disassociate themselves from the general buzzing in his ears. And they sounded angry.

“He’s the one!” “Sunk the ship!” “Bastard!”

Why do I have a feeling they’re talking about me?

Without any further hesitation, Dusk grabbed Still and stood up quickly, running along the docks. The crowd began to give chase, so he tried to slip unnoticed into a large group of sailors boarding a ship.

Maybe I’ll have better luck reaching Radasanth on this ship…or at least, reaching Radasanth safely.

Dusk lowered his head, hoping no one could see his face, and helped move a large crate onto the ship.

“If this all goes well, I’ll find you a mouse,” He whispered to Still, safely hidden inside his cloak. She just purred.

[Osato]

When a captain of a rather well known ship comes and asks for assistance, especially bearing gold there is little hesitance to accept. Captain Grenadine had done just that, and the sell-sword had taken the offer almost instantly. After weeks of plodding around Corone, looking for work, looking for a little coin, something worthwhile had finally arrived.

“Your sword could be of much use to me,” he had said. “I'm asembling a crew and need a good strong-arm on the ship. Though I’ll be getting you a new weapon… that sword’ll kill your own men on a ship.”

The promise of a new weapon had not been empty handed, to say the least. In the hands of the pretty-boy mercenary was a light, delyn shortsword. The weapon, as the agreement had been settled on, was the payment for the job. A light grin lit the face of the sell-sword as he turned the blade over in the sunlight. It was lighter then anticipated, obviously made by elven hands, but with an uncharacteristically darker ore. Osato probably would have been engrossed in the make of the blade, being an apprentice weaponsmith, if the ‘leader of the voyage’ had not begun to speak.

The soulless being glanced up with the rest of the ambling, assembled crew. Murmurs and whispers worked their way through the ranks as the man called attention to himself. Scars was, in all, a rather unimpressive figure. The deep blue eyes of the sell-sword watched the man turn after his little speech.

Osato was first to board, quickly turning. He watched each person come onto the ship. He had been given a small document with names and numbers, and was matching names with faces. Until the one with the cat trailing him passed. As soon as he did the half-hearted guard turned. Osato had names, had seen faces earlier, but the one carrying the crate had not been among them.

"Whatever," he sighed as he turned again to make sure things were in proper order. The promised pay was not exceptional, especially not enough to make him bother about a single person he had not seen before. "Probably just missed him, or forgot him anyway..."

((Editted... btw))

[Letho]

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